inkmonster21

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

24. The Hunt is On

For the first time since stepping into the room, Hank looked afraid. Really afraid. Not of Lucy's trembling pistol. Not of Maximus's bumbling loyalty. Not even of Cooper's revolver steady on his visor.

But of Clara.

She had pulled herself upright, swaying like she might collapse, her gun raised and cocked. Her eyes — glitching blue with static flickers — burned into him.

"You know," Clara rasped, voice breaking. "You know where she is."

Hank swallowed, his smirk gone. His power-armored gauntlet flexed, a twitch of calculation.

"Yeah," Clara hissed, hand tightening on the trigger. "That's the only reason you're still breathing."

Her finger trembled on the gun. One twitch and it would be over.

But Hank wasn't a man to let anyone else decide his fate.

In one fluid motion, he turned, hydraulics screaming as the power armor carried him toward the shattered edge of the observatory.

Clara's gun hand finally dropped. Her knees buckled. For a terrifying second she swayed — then crumpled.

"Clara!" Cooper was on her in a heartbeat, boots skidding across cracked tile. He dropped to his knees, sliding an arm beneath her shoulders. Her skin was pale, clammy, and the faint buzz of synthetic circuits hummed against his wrist where it touched her neck.

"Dammit," he whispered, voice raw, almost breaking. "Don't you do this to me. Not again."

Her eyelids fluttered, static bleeding through her veins like blue lightning. "C-Coop..."

He swallowed hard, thumb brushing her cheekbone the way he used to before the world ended. "I got you, doll. I've always got you."

She blinked up at him, glitching faintly, lips trembling. The intimacy of it cut deep — not survivor and ghoul, not synth and outlaw, but just Clara and Cooper. The way it had been before the bombs. Before everything.

Across the room, Lucy knelt beside Maximus, checking his pulse with frantic hands. "He's still breathing," she whispered to herself, more to keep the hope alive than anything. She didn't spare a glance for Cooper and Clara — she was too lost in her own storm.

Cooper held Clara tighter, shielding her against the broken light spilling in from the canyon. For the first time since the bombs, it felt like the past and present had collided in his arms.

Clara glitched hard, a static crackle rippling down her spine like a surge through broken wiring. Her body jerked once, twice — and then, with a guttural huff, she reached down and popped a sparking plate back into place along her ribs. "Son of a bitch," she muttered, jaw tight. "Not gonna keep me down that easy."

Cooper's hand hovered near her shoulder, protective, but she waved him off. Stubborn to the last.

He exhaled through his teeth and rose slowly to his feet. The observatory's shattered window framed the dead expanse of the Mojave beyond — endless night stretching over the Wasteland, dotted with fires that never went out. Cooper's silhouette filled the jagged frame as he stared outward, voice gravel rough but steady.

"War never changes," he said, almost to himself. "You look out at this Wasteland... looks like chaos. Random. Ugly. But there's always somebody behind the wheel. Always a hand steering the wheel into the ditch." His hand flexed around the grip of his gun, the knuckles pale. "And that's who I want to talk to."

Behind him, Clara pulled herself upright, still sparking, but fierce in her brokenness. She spat a bitter laugh and jerked her chin toward the canyon where Hank had vanished. "That's where your fucking daddy is going."

Lucy stiffened. Her wide eyes darted between them, brimming with raw betrayal. "But... but you let him go."

The words hit sharp, jagged.

Cooper turned back, the scarred half of his face lit by a slant of moonlight. A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he drawled, low and dangerous, "it's easier to track a stuck pig than to ask it where it's off to."

Silence fell. Thick. Heavy. The kind that meant the game wasn't over.

Lucy stood rooted to the cracked floor, her breath hitching as her gaze darted between them. Cooper — a ghoul straight out of another life, eyes carved with centuries of grit — and Clara, her jaw clenched, sparks still fizzing faintly from the seams in her skin. Neither looked like people Lucy should trust. And yet... something in their voices pulled her in.

She wanted answers. Needed them.

Her voice cracked when she finally asked, "I want to know. I want to know the whole story. Why you two... why you both look at him like that." Her hand lifted, trembling, pointing in the direction Hank had disappeared.

Cooper's low hum broke the silence, the sound like gravel dragged across steel. "Let's just say, everything about your whole little world was decided over two hundred years ago. Long before you were born. Long before you ever thought Vault life meant safety." His eyes narrowed, voice heavy with something bitter. "Now you can stay here with him... but when his tin can soldier friends take this place — and they will take this place — they'll kill you and everybody here."

The words dropped like lead. Lucy's heart pounded. She thought of the Vault. Her parents. Her brother. Janey. And the world above that never stopped breaking.

Clara shifted closer, her movements stiff, half-mechanical. She extended her arm, palm open, a scarred invitation. "Or..." Her voice softened, almost pitying, almost dangerous. "Or you could come meet your makers, Lucy. Your choice. But I'd make it fast."

Lucy's chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, her eyes flicking between Clara's outstretched arm and Cooper's steady, waiting silence.

Lucy's hand lingered on Maximus' cheek. His chest rose and fell, steady but unconscious, and it struck her that she couldn't carry him anymore. She wasn't strong enough. Not for him. Not for what was coming.

Her gaze drifted upward — to Clara, glitching faintly in the flicker of broken light, her jaw locked with effort. And to Cooper, already there at her side.

He didn't ask permission. He just slid one scarred arm around her waist, his ruined hand bracing her hip like it belonged there. "Easy now," he murmured, his voice low and rough, but startlingly tender. "Lean on me."

Clara's lips parted, glitch crackling through her throat as she tried to argue. "I can—"

"You can't," Cooper cut her off, but softer than the words deserved. His gaze held hers, molten and unflinching, like two centuries hadn't passed. "You don't have to. Not with me."

Something in her stilled. And slowly, Clara let her weight fall into him.

Lucy saw it — the way Cooper's shoulders lowered in something that looked a hell of a lot like relief, the way his jaw worked as if keeping words back that might break him open. His thumb moved, barely there, stroking once against her side. Reverent. Familiar.

When they stepped outside, the Wasteland opened before them — endless ruin beneath a bruised horizon. Wind tore at their clothes, dust biting skin, the kind of night that devoured hope.

And yet, Cooper only looked at Clara.

"World can burn," he rasped, his forehead tilting down toward hers. He didn't quite touch her — not yet — but close enough that the wind carried the ghost of it. "Long as I've still got you to carry."

Clara's breath caught. Her glitching hand twitched, then steadied, sliding across his chest as though testing if he was real. Sparks skittered down her wrist, but her eyes — those eyes — softened with something Lucy couldn't name.

Lucy froze, wide-eyed, feeling like an intruder.

A bark split the silence. Dogmeat bounded up from the rubble, tail wagging, tongue out, as though nothing about the world had changed. He skidded at their feet, circling once before planting himself protectively at Clara's side. A crawling hand followed, dropping a stick near Lucy's boots.

For a moment, impossibly, there was laughter — soft, shaken, pulled out of Clara's throat despite herself. Cooper's mouth quirked, the shadow of the movie star he used to be flickering back to life.

He shifted, guiding her forward, his arm still wrapped around her, holding her like she was the only thing left tethering him to this world. "C'mon," he said quietly, almost to her alone. "Vegas is waiting."

Clara didn't argue. She leaned closer, her cheek brushing against his jaw as they started walking.

Lucy followed behind, silent, her heart hammering. She didn't know who these two really were, or what they meant to her father — but in that moment, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

They weren't just survivors.

They were each other's.

And the Wasteland would have to pry them apart.

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

23. The Beginning

The road up to Griffith Observatory was choked with smoke and steel. The hulking shadow of Brotherhood airships cut across the ugly blue of the wasteland sky, blotting out what little light filtered through the haze. Every step felt heavier than the last, not because of the incline, but because Clara knew exactly who was waiting at the top.

Her servos whined in her spine when she tried to keep pace with Cooper. He didn't slow down—never did—but his shadow kept close to hers, like even when he wasn't looking at her, he was aware of every glitch, every stagger. He carried that damn rifle like it was an extension of himself, barrel sweeping low as the sounds of battle started to bleed into the air ahead: the crack of plasma fire, the guttural scream of dying men, the roar of Vertibird engines.

"Looks like the goddamn Alamo," Cooper muttered, spitting dust from his mouth. His jaw was tight, stubble catching the ash in the air, eyes scanning every ridge. "Brotherhood's got themselves a goddamn parade."

Clara didn't answer. She was too busy listening—to the static hissing beneath her ribs, to the flicker of her heart as it stuttered once and then caught again. Like an engine refusing to die.

They crested the last hill, and Griffith came into view: a white corpse of a building, its domes cracked and blackened, the earth around it scarred with trenches and bodies. The Brotherhood was swarming it—Power Armor glinting in the sun, thunderous footfalls shaking the ground as they marched forward. Against them, Moldaver's ragtag resistance fought tooth and nail, pinned down at the observatory steps.

Cooper slowed, eyes narrowing. "This ain't good."

Clara adjusted her grip on the pistol at her side. "Was it ever?"

Before he could answer, a Vertibird screamed overhead, rattling the bones of the building. Plasma streaked across the sky. Explosions shook the hillside. Cooper's instincts kicked in—he was gone in the chaos, charging down into the fray with a roar, rifle barking blue light into armored soldiers.

"Cooper—!" Clara shouted after him, but he was already swallowed by the fight, carving a path like he'd been waiting for it all his life. He belonged there. In the blood, in the smoke, in the sound of metal meeting bone.

She didn't.

Her path was different. Her path was one man.

Hank.

Her father. Her Overseer. Her executioner.

Clara's jaw locked as she slipped away from the battle, ducking into the smoke and shattered debris, her body moving with a predator's grace despite the stutter in her systems. Her processors hummed like a hive of bees, glitching in and out, flashes of static flickering in her vision. She pushed through it. She had to.

The observatory loomed above her, every step toward it feeling like a descent deeper into hell. She could hear Cooper behind her somewhere, his voice cutting through the chaos as he shouted at her to stay close. But she didn't turn back. Didn't listen.

She couldn't.

This was hers.

Her boots pounded up the cracked marble steps, blood slick beneath her soles. She slipped once, caught herself, pushed harder. By the time she reached the blown-out entrance, her breath was ragged, her systems sparking warnings across her nerves. But she didn't stop. Not when she could already feel him, like a shadow in her blood.

Hank MacLean.

Somewhere inside these walls.

She gripped her pistol tighter, the metal slick in her shaking hands, and stepped into the dark.

The observatory groaned like a dying beast. Its marble bones cracked under the weight of decades of ash and war. The domes above were shattered, open to the sky, letting in shafts of cold, gray light that cut through the smoke curling along the floor.

Clara slipped through the broken archway, every sense on edge. Her pistol was a weight in her hand, steady even though her fingers twitched with the glitch that wouldn't leave her bones. Her processors hummed, static clawing at the edges of her vision, but she forced herself forward.

Voices echoed up the grand hall. She followed them like a hound on a trail, every step dragging her deeper into a history she couldn't escape.

Lucy was there. Her Vault jumpsuit torn, face streaked with grime, eyes wide as she was dragged before Moldaver. The woman sat in the shattered remnants of an old console, her silver hair braided back, eyes sharp and hungry. Beside her, on a pedestal, sat Dr. Wilzig's head—wired into machinery, cold fusion research glowing faint blue in its glass cage.

"Vault-Tec always intended the war," Moldaver's voice carried like a sermon, bitter and commanding. "The vaults weren't built to save humanity. They were built to control it. To last long after the surface burned."

Lucy's face crumpled, her hands curling into fists. "That's not true—"

But it was. Clara could feel it in her marrow, in the circuits beneath her skin. Every word hit like a hammer against the glass she'd been living behind.

Hank MacLean stood in the shadows. Overseer's jacket clean despite the ruin, his face pale and sharp, like nothing in the world could ever touch him. He looked the same as he had in Vault 33—stern, unyielding, his eyes like stone when they landed on Lucy.

And when they shifted, briefly, past her—onto Clara.

Her heart stuttered so hard she almost dropped the pistol.

He saw her.

Recognition cracked across his features for half a breath before it vanished under that cold mask. He didn't move. Didn't call her name. Just looked.

Clara's knuckles whitened around her weapon. Every wire in her body screamed. Her processors flooded with old memories: his voice at her bedside, his hand on her shoulder, his orders, his lies.

She wanted to shoot him right there. Wanted to end it before another word left his mouth. But her body glitched, locking up like a puppet on tangled strings. The static screamed in her head until it was almost louder than Moldaver's speech.

"Your father," Moldaver told Lucy, with venom so thick it nearly choked her, "is Vault-Tec's blade. The rot at its core. Everything you've lost—Shady Sands, your brother, your people—it's because of him."

Lucy shook her head, tears burning tracks down her dirt-streaked cheeks. "No... he wouldn't—"

But Hank didn't deny it. He stood there, silent, as if the weight of the truth wasn't enough to crush the world already.

Clara's chest heaved. She took one step forward, pistol trembling in her hand. Her eyes locked on Hank like a predator finding its prey.

The stairwell shook with every boot, metal clanging against concrete, the sound of war machines built for conquest. Brotherhood of Steel. Their banners might've been left behind, but their arrogance filled every step.

Cooper leaned against the banister like he had all the time in the world. Shotgun slung lazy in his hands. His shoulders rolled loose, easy, like this wasn't a death march but a long-forgotten dance.

The first knight stepped into view, power armor groaning as servos whined. The yellow light of his visor cut through the dust.

Cooper tilted his head, a wry half-grin tugging the edge of his mouth. "I'll bet that outfit makes y'all feel like a big man, don't it?" His voice was smooth, calm, carrying across the stairwell like smoke curling through a barroom.

The knight paused, weapon humming.

Cooper's eyes narrowed. "I know, 'cause, well—I used to wear one. Back in the day."

A second knight clambered up behind the first, armor plates scraping the concrete rail. Cooper kept talking, casual as if they were drinking buddies instead of killers with Gatling lasers.

"There was only one problem with it," he said, straightening just slightly. The shotgun clicked open, and he slid in a massive screw scavenged from God knows where, the steel glinting in the stairwell's dull light.

His gaze sharpened, soldier steel cutting through the outlaw mask. "There was a flaw in the welding just below the chest plate."

The knights aimed, but Cooper was faster.

He snapped the shotgun shut, aimed, and fired. The shot hit dead-center—just beneath the breastplate. The armor screamed, a hiss of sparks and ruptured steel as the knight crumpled, the flaw as real as the day Cooper had worn it.

Smoke drifted from the barrel as Cooper exhaled slow. He cocked his head at the falling corpse, voice low and dry.

"I wonder if they fixed that in this new model?"

Silence. The second knight froze. Cooper smirked, tilted his weapon, and fired again. The body slammed into the rail, metal shrieking as it went over the edge.

Cooper let the smoke trail rise from his barrel, voice flat, final.

"I guess not."

And with that, he pushed off the banister, boots steady, as more armored giants thundered below. His shotgun hummed with another shell. His war wasn't over.

The scrape of her boots against marble made the whole chamber turn.

Lucy gasped, stumbling back when she saw the woman step out of the shadows—gun raised, eyes hollow and burning all at once.

"Clara?" Lucy whispered, disbelief cracking her voice.

Clara didn't look at her. Not yet. Her gaze was a rifle barrel trained on Hank, every step she took echoing sharp as a countdown.

But Moldaver—Moldaver's lips parted, recognition striking her like a ghost. The older woman leaned forward, those cutting eyes softening just slightly. Pity, genuine and heavy, flickered across her face.

"Oh," Moldaver murmured, her tone carrying something tragic. "Clara Monroe. I know this would happen eventually."

Clara's jaw clenched so hard her teeth hurt. The pistol never wavered.

She walked straight up to Hank's cell, pressing herself close to the bars, the muzzle aimed at the soft spot between his eyes.

Hank didn't flinch. Not once. His face, that unbreakable overseer mask, barely twitched. Only his eyes betrayed him—narrowing, searching her face, trying to reconcile the thing before him with the ghost of what he'd buried.

Clara's voice broke out of her, sharp and guttural. "You wanna know who made me this way, Lucy?" She finally turned, eyes finding the blonde across the room, her voice shattering into something between a scream and a sob. "Your fucking father."

Lucy's knees buckled, horror flooding her face.

Clara snapped back to Hank, words pouring out like bile, her body jerking with every glitch that shivered through her limbs.

"You built me. You made me. Your project. Your perfect little obedient wife. Then when you found Rose?" Her voice fractured into a laugh, sharp and ugly. "You tried to shut me off. Like I was a light switch you didn't need anymore. Just... throw me away in the fucking trash."

Her hand trembled violently, the barrel of her gun tapping against the steel bars. Her eyes filled, red-rimmed, raw. "But you didn't finish the job, Hank. You never finish the job. And now look at me." She slapped her free hand against her chest, against the heartbeat that wasn't supposed to still be there. "Still here. Still beating. And I'm not gonna fucking die until I kill you."

For the first time, Hank's mask slipped—just a flicker. Fear.

The static screamed so loud in Clara's skull she almost dropped the gun. Her knees wavered, but rage kept her upright. "Every memory I have... every scrap of who I was, who you let me be—it's tangled in your lies. I am what you made me, Hank. And I'm done living in your shadow."

She cocked the hammer back.

Lucy sobbed, shaking her head violently. "No, stop—please, don't! Clara, he's my dad—"

But Clara's finger curled against the trigger.

That's when something slammed into her from the side.

The world exploded into white as her head cracked against marble. Her pistol skittered across the floor with a clatter. She tried to fight, tried to rise, but the weight of a body crashed down over her, armored and furious.

Maximus.

His gauntleted fist drew back once, twice, slamming into her temple with enough force to snap the world out from under her.

"She had a gun on him!" he shouted, voice raw, frantic, ringing through the chamber. "She was gonna kill him!"

Lucy's sobs echoed as Clara's body went slack, the glitching static fizzing into silence.

Moldaver bad stepped forward, eyes burning with righteous fire, her voice rising over the chaos.

"You think this world belongs to you? You think Vault-Tec gets to choose who lives and dies? You've stolen everything from them—"

The crack of gunfire split her words in two.

Maximus's rifle bucked against his shoulder, the shot echoing like thunder in the observatory. Moldaver staggered, her chest blooming red. She looked down in disbelief, then up again—straight at Lucy, then at Clara's broken body.

Her lips curled into the faintest trace of pity before she collapsed, the weight of her body hitting the floor with a final, lifeless thud.

Lucy screamed, dropping to her knees. Tears streaked her face as the enormity of it crashed down on her—Moldaver, the truth, the shattered hope of everything she'd been promised.

And then Hank's voice cut through the chaos.

"I'm her father."

The Overseer's calm was chilling. He turned his eyes on Maximus, his tone sharp, commanding. "Can you get us out of here?"

Maximus swallowed, still breathing hard, eyes darting between Moldaver's corpse, Lucy's sobs, and Hank's unflinching stare. He nodded once, then reached for Lucy's arm.

"Lucy, let's go. Come on, we got to get out of here."

But Lucy tore her arm from his grasp, staggering back. Her whole body shook as she choked on her own words.

"No. Not with him."

Hank's jaw twitched.

Maximus froze, confused, his rifle slack at his side. "What? Why not?"

Lucy's voice cracked, her hands curling into fists, tears blinding her. "Because it was him. He..."

Maximus blinked, trying to piece her meaning together, but Hank was already moving—his hulking frame sliding into the T-60 power armor suit like he was born for it. Metal locked into place with a hiss and a slam, the Overseer towering, monstrous now in steel.

Maximus backed up a step, his voice sharp, desperate. "What was him? Lucy, what are you saying?"

Lucy's sobs broke into a single, jagged word: "Shady Sands."

The name rang like a gunshot.

Maximus's eyes widened. His chest rose and fell with the weight of realization, of betrayal. His home. His people. Hi a mother.

Behind them, Clara stirred faintly, her body twitching in unconscious protest, static buzzing louder—as if even in the dark, she knew the truth being spoken aloud.

The hydraulics of Hank's power armor groaned as he stomped across the observatory floor, each step sending tremors through the cracked marble. His shadow fell over Lucy and Maximus, a towering vault of steel and menace.

His modulated voice rumbled through the helmet, calm but absolute. "Lucy. You're coming with me."

Lucy staggered back, shaking her head violently. "No. No, I'm not—"

Maximus shoved himself between them, rifle clutched tight, jaw clenched. "No! She's not going anywhere with you."

Hank tilted his head, amused. "You think you can stop me, boy?"

Max's finger hovered at the trigger, but his hands trembled. Still, he stood firm, planting himself in front of Lucy like a wall. "I don't care who the hell you are. You don't get to decide for her. Not anymore."

Hank didn't hesitate. His gauntleted hand swung with brutal speed, a backhand of steel slamming into Maximus's chest. The force sent him flying across the floor, his rifle clattering away in a shower of sparks.

Lucy screamed, rushing toward Maximus's crumpled form, but Hank caught her arm in a grip that could crush bone.

"Enough of this." His voice was flat, mechanical. "You're my daughter. You're coming with me. That's all there is."

Clara stirred again, groaning faintly, a glitching spark popping in her temple as if her very body rejected Hank's words.

The chamber was taut with standoff tension. Lucy's hands quivered around her pistol, Hank loomed over her in hulking steel, Clara staggered closer like a glitching ghost, Maximus was still unmoving.

And then the crack of a revolver split the air.

The slug skimmed past Hank's cheek, forcing him to turn.

From the shadows at the edge of the observatory, a gravel-rough voice cut through.

"Oh, you want another autograph, young Henry?"

Cooper stepped into the light, revolver steady, hat brim shadowing his scorched face. His words dropped like lead.

"Feo, fuerte y formal."

Lucy blinked in shock, her aim faltering for just a heartbeat. Hank froze, recognizing the voice, the tone, the ghost.

Cooper kept walking, slow and deliberate, gun never wavering.

"When your daughter said her last name was MacLean..." He spat the word like poison. "...I just couldn't believe it was the MacLean. Hell, this kid used to pick up my ex-wife's dry cleaning. Used to ogle my songbird for hours."

He was close now, revolver aimed dead center at Hank's visor. His eyes were fire, his mouth a snarl.

"Now I've waited over two hundred years to ask somebody one question..."

The chamber went dead quiet. Even Clara, breathing ragged, froze in her steps, the words snagging in her chest.

"Where's my fucking daughter?"

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

22. Months. Maybe More

Her pulse still hadn't settled. She could feel it hammering in her throat, too human to be mistaken for anything else — proof of what she was, proof of what was killing her.

Carrington adjusted a dial, murmuring to himself, already reaching for the next instrument. Like she was a project, not a person.

"Hey." Her voice cracked, but it cut through the room anyway. "Look at me."

His hands stilled. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his gaze.

"How long do I have?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Hancock leaned back in his chair, the smile sliding from his mouth. Even he didn't have a quip for this. The smoke curling from his cigarette looked out of place — too casual in the face of something sharp and final.

Cooper's grip on her hand tightened. "Don't—" He swallowed. "Don't go there, Clara."

"I need to know." Her eyes stayed locked on Carrington, steady despite the tremor running through her body. "No bullshit. No riddles. Just tell me."

Carrington sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before answering. His voice was clinical, but softer than before. "Without intervention? Months. Maybe less. Depends how fast the system continues to destabilize. Your biology is strong, stronger than what I believe most would be having been through... what you have. But the integration is failing. The human side and the synthetic architecture aren't designed to share control forever."

Her breath hitched. Months. Maybe less.

Cooper's thumb rubbed over her knuckles like he could will that answer away. "We'll fix it," he said, fierce now. "Don't care what it takes. Don't care who I have to break. You hear me? We ain't letting you go."

Hancock exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes glinting dark. "That's the problem with you cowboy types. Always think you can muscle fate into playing nice." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping lower. "But she's right to ask. You don't fight a war without knowing the clock you're fighting against."

Clara sat very still, her own words echoing back at her.

How long do I have?

Now she knew.

And somehow, the certainty was worse than the silence had ever been.

Carrington adjusted the final dial on the monitor, the steady green line flattening into something calmer, steadier. The room felt quieter for it, even with the machines still humming. He stepped back, peeling off his gloves with a snap.

"That's it," he said. "I've rerouted the failing connections and reinforced the coolant system. You're... stable." He paused, then added with a precision that cut sharper than blunt honesty, "For now."

Clara blinked against the haze, her body heavy and wrung out. "How long?"

He pressed his lips together, as though he'd already measured the words and knew they wouldn't land softly. "Six months. Maybe a little more if you take it easy, a little less if you don't. But the degradation will return. This was a patch, not a cure."

Cooper's hand was already at her shoulder, grounding her like he could will permanence into her skin. "Six months is six months more than she had this morning," he muttered, almost like a prayer.

Hancock leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, smoke curling from his lips. "Well, sugar, guess that's your warranty extension. Don't go wastin' it."

Clara exhaled slow, shaky, her gaze lifting to Carrington. "So I'm on borrowed time."

He didn't look away. "Aren't we all?"

But Cooper did — his eyes burned on Carrington for even saying it aloud, before softening again when he looked back at her.

"Borrowed or not," Cooper said, voice rough but steady, "we're spendin' it together."

Clara smiled faintly, though exhaustion dragged her lids heavy. "Then let's make it worth it."

She forced herself upright, ignoring the warning twinge along her spine. The cot creaked as she shifted, her bare feet brushing the cold floor.

"Whoa there." Cooper's arm was under hers before she even got halfway. His hand was warm, steady, fingers spread across her ribs like he could hold her together by force alone. "Doc just said six months, not six minutes. You ain't walkin' outta here yet."

Clara tried to roll her eyes but it came out softer than she meant — more plea than sass. "I don't plan on dying sitting down."

From the corner, Hancock let out a low whistle, smoke curling around his grin. "That's my girl. Always springin' outta bed before the party's even started. Last time I saw you do that, you still had my caps in your pocket."

Clara shot him a sideways look, shaky smile tugging at her mouth. "Correction: I still have your caps."

"Yeah, yeah." He smirked, tapping ash to the floor. "And my dignity. Don't forget that part."

Cooper's jaw flexed, but he said nothing — just tightened his hold as Clara's knees threatened to give.

"Easy," he murmured, his voice pitched low, meant only for her. His thumb brushed her side in a rhythm that almost matched his breathing — grounding, protective. "Ain't no rush. You move when you're ready."

Clara drew in a slow breath, leaning into him for just a heartbeat longer before straightening on her own. Her head swam, vision tilting, but she steadied herself with a hand on his chest.

"See?" she whispered, stubborn pride laced with exhaustion. "Still standing."

Carrington adjusted a readout without looking up. "For now. Don't push your luck."

"Luck ran out for me a long time ago," she said softly. Then, glancing at Cooper, "But I've still got him."

For a second, even Hancock went quiet — though the smirk never fully left his face.

Cooper didn't answer. He didn't need to. The way he held her — solid, immovable, as if letting go wasn't even an option — said enough.

The streets of Goodneighbor were loud in that way only the end of the world could manage. Traders haggled over piles of scrap, voices sharp and desperate; someone's half-working radio spit static and swing music in uneven bursts; a brawl broke out near the market stalls, but no one stopped to watch.

Cooper adjusted the brim of his hat and kept moving, long strides cutting through the chaos. Clara followed a step behind, steady but slower, shoulders tight with that kind of pain you don't name.

"You walkin' out already?" Hancock's voice carried lazy and amused from the doorway of the Old State House. He leaned there like he had all the time in the world, one hand resting on the grip of his pistol, the other smoothing back his coat. His grin split his ruined face. "Didn't even stay long enough for me to throw a party."

"Not my kind of party," Cooper muttered, not breaking stride.

Clara hesitated, just enough for Hancock to catch it. His grin widened, sharpened. "Careful, doll. You walk out with him, you don't get to walk back the same. That cowboy? He chews up anything that sticks too close."

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't look at him. Didn't give him the satisfaction. Cooper's hand hovered at the small of her back—gentle, almost protective—but he never touched her. Not here. Not under Hancock's gaze.

They pushed through the last stretch of market stalls until the walls of Goodneighbor faded into the wreckage of Boston.

The road opened, wide and empty except for the echo of their boots on broken pavement.

For a while, silence. Just the wind cutting through hollow buildings.

Then Clara spoke, voice low but sharp. "We're going after Hank."

Cooper's eyes flicked her way. The set of his jaw was already an answer. "We're goin' after answers. Hank might be one of 'em. Might not."

Her steps faltered. "Might not? Cooper—"

"Don't," he cut in, tone dry but firm. "Don't start talkin' like the world's still the way it was. It ain't about one man anymore. Hank's a piece of it, sure. But there's a whole board out there, and you keep lookin' at one square."

She stopped walking. Just stopped. "You don't understand. He's the reason I am what I am. He's the reason I—" Her voice broke, static humming in her chest like it might shake her apart. "He has to die, or none of this means anything."

Cooper turned then, slow, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. His voice dropped to that rasping growl, low and edged. "And what if I say he don't? What if I say Hank ain't my target?"

The words landed between them like a live grenade.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then Cooper exhaled, heavy. "I ain't sayin' no. I'm sayin' not yet. We chase him blind, we end up corpses on the side of the road. You got six months, Clara. You really wanna spend 'em chasin' your ghosts instead of buyin' yourself a little more time?"

Her breath came sharp, but she swallowed the argument down. Too tired. Too raw.

She stepped past him, boots crunching glass underfoot. "Then you'd better hope your answers lead us to him. Because if they don't... we'll have a problem."

Cooper watched her back for a beat longer, then followed.

The road stretched on, endless and broken. Whatever lay at the end—Hank, Vault-Tec, salvation, or just more ruin—they were heading there together.

For now.

The Red Rocket station loomed ahead, its rusted sign jutting into the horizon like a cracked tooth. The place had the kind of silence that didn't feel empty—more like it was holding its breath. Clara slowed as they approached, boots crunching over gravel, eyes sweeping the sagging roofline and broken windows.

"Abandoned," she murmured.

Cooper grunted. "Looks that way. But abandoned don't always mean empty."

He kept his rifle loose in his grip, gaze sharp as they stepped inside. The air was stale, thick with old oil, rot, and something metallic underneath. Shelves were overturned, the counter stripped bare. A few scavver bootprints trailed through the dust but looked weeks old.

Then came the sound. A faint, muffled scrabbling. Weak. Fragile.

Clara froze. "You hear that?"

Cooper tilted his head, listening. Another scratch, then a whine—thin and desperate, like it had clawed its way up through layers of silence. His jaw tightened. "Back room."

They moved quick, weaving through the wreckage until they found it: an old chest freezer shoved against the wall. The lid rattled weakly, just once, then went still.

Clara's breath hitched. She dropped to her knees and yanked the lid open.

Inside, a pair of wide, too-bright eyes blinked up at her. A mangy German Shepherd, ribs showing sharp under his hide, paws raw from scratching. He gave one sharp bark—half-defiant, half-pleading—before collapsing against the frost-stained metal.

"Oh my god," Clara whispered, reaching in without hesitation. The dog flinched, then sniffed, then pressed into her hand like it was the first kindness he'd felt in months.

Cooper crouched beside her, staring. "Well, I'll be damned. Poor bastard's tougher than most men I knew."

Clara was already hauling the dog out, ignoring the way her arms shook from the weight. She wrapped him against her chest, static humming faint under her synth ribs. "Hey, hey, you're okay. You're okay now."

The dog licked her chin, weak but insistent.

Cooper smirked faintly, though his eyes softened. "Looks like you just got yourself a shadow."

Clara glanced up at him, her face softer than she meant it to be. "Not just me." She lowered the dog carefully to the ground, where he sat between them, tail thumping once against the floor. "Us."

Cooper huffed a laugh, reaching down to scratch the mutt's ear. "Guess the world ain't done handin' us strays."

The dog pressed into both of them like he'd decided then and there they were his.

The road stretched out ahead, cracked blacktop cutting through scrub and rusted husks of cars. The late sun bled orange over the horizon, throwing long shadows that seemed to follow them no matter how far they walked.

Dogmeat padded along at Clara's side, his gait stiff but steady, tail swishing every so often like he still couldn't believe he was free. Every few steps he'd look up at her, tongue lolling, as if to check she was still there.

Cooper walked a pace ahead, rifle slung across his shoulder, his silhouette jagged against the setting sky. He hadn't said much since Red Rocket, but Clara could feel the weight of his silence.

It broke eventually, sharp and inevitable.

"So you're really set on this," he said, not turning his head. His voice was rougher than the gravel under their boots. "Killin' him."

Clara's jaw tightened. "Yes."

"That's all I get? Yes?"

"What else is there to say?"

He stopped then, pivoting on his heel to face her. Dust rose between them, catching the light like ash. "Plenty. Like how it won't bring back your ma. Or your daddy. Or whoever else that son of a bitch hurt. You think one bullet makes it square? That you get to sleep easier after?"

Her fists curled, static snapping faint across her spine. "Don't you dare tell me what I get to live with. You didn't see what he did. You didn't lose what I lost."

His laugh was hollow. "You think I ain't lost? Christ, Clara—I been losin' since the day the bombs fell. That's all this life is. One long string of losin'."

Dogmeat whined softly, pacing between them like he felt the crackling tension.

Clara's voice broke, softer now. "Then why shouldn't he? Why does Hank get to keep walking this world when he took everything from me?"

Cooper studied her, his face unreadable under the brim of his hat. The ghoul's eyes—still too human for how ruined the rest of him was—burned like coals. "Because you kill him, you best make damn sure you don't go with him. Revenge don't leave much behind."

She swallowed hard. Her throat felt like it was full of glass. "I already went down once without you. I'm not doing it again. Hank dies. That's not up for debate."

For a moment, it looked like he might argue again. But then his shoulders dropped, the fight leaking out of him. He dragged a hand over his face, muttering something low and broken.

Finally: "Alright. But if you're goin' through with this... then you ain't doin' it alone."

Dogmeat sat down between them, tail thumping once, like he'd just decided the matter was settled.

The three of them stood there in the dying light, the road stretching on, heavy with promises and ghosts.

[inkmonster21]

Two Left Feet, One Right Man

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x DanceTeacherReader

Series Masterlist

Out of uniform, out of line—Soap turns your girls’ night into something else entirely.

5. Out of Uniform

Johnny wasn’t the type to crash a girls’ night.

At least… not normally.

But he wasn’t normal when it came to you.

And technically, he wasn’t crashing—Maggie had casually mentioned it, the way sisters do when they know you’re too stubborn to ask directly. She even waved her phone at him with the name of the bar on it and said, “I mean, she probably won’t be mad. Just don’t be a weirdo.”

Which, honestly, was asking a lot.

⸻

The bar was downtown—just loud enough to count as nightlife but not obnoxious enough to require cover at the door. A moody kind of place, with exposed brick, Edison bulbs, and overpriced cocktails served in tiny jars.

Johnny walked in wearing dark jeans, a fitted black button-down (unbuttoned just enough), and the cologne Maggie had bought him three birthdays ago that she swore “made women weak.” His tattoos peeked out from his cuffs, his hair was styled a little too deliberately, and he looked—by all accounts—criminally good.

He spotted you immediately.

You were standing near the bar with two friends—one in pink leather and the other in leopard print—laughing over a round of drinks. Your hair was down, a bit curled, swaying as you moved. You were wearing black high-waisted pants and a cropped champagne-colored tank top that shimmered every time the light hit.

Johnny froze.

Jesus Christ.

He didn’t think you could get prettier. He didn’t think you could make his stomach knot up more than you already had in pink leggings and a ballet bun. But now? With glitter on your collarbones and your lips wrapped around the straw of a tequila drink?

He was a goner.

⸻

You didn’t notice him at first. Not until one of your friends—Ashley—nudged you with her elbow, eyes locked behind you.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” she murmured, “but your boot boy is here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Tall. Scottish. Arms for days. He’s over by the high-top.”

You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Standing with casual confidence, drink in hand, one eyebrow lifted like he’d planned this whole dramatic entrance. He gave you a small wave.

You turned back to your friends, blinking hard. “Oh my God, he’s real.”

“Do you want him here?” Sarah asked, already sipping her drink like this was a telenovela.

“I mean… not not want. But also—this is my night.”

Ashley hummed. “So go say hi. Or make him squirm.”

You exhaled. Smiled. “Squirm it is.”

⸻

Johnny was halfway through his whiskey when you walked up to him, arms crossed, hip cocked.

“Is this your usual Thursday haunt?”

He grinned. “Only when I’m chasing a dream.”

You snorted. “That’s a terrible line.”

“Didn’t say it was a good one.”

You eyed him up and down. “You clean up alright.”

“So do you,” he said, gaze trailing over you just long enough to make you squirm. “Although I gotta admit… this whole setup? Bit unfair.”

You raised a brow. “Unfair how?”

He stepped closer. “You show up dressed like a goddess, glowing like a disco ball, and expect me to act normal?”

“Disco ball?”

“Sexy disco ball.”

You laughed, leaning in slightly. “You’re lucky I didn’t kick you out.”

“You could. But then I’d never recover.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, tilting his head.

You paused, then held up your glass. “Already taken care of. But you can come sit.”

His grin returned full force. “That’s a yes, then?”

“For now.”

⸻

The next hour was a blur of laughter and flirtation.

You’d migrated to a table with your friends, and Johnny, somehow, seamlessly worked his way into the group. He was charming, funny, self-deprecating in just the right amount, and absurdly protective when Sarah tried to order a round of shots and the bartender made a rude comment.

By the time the music picked up and the lights dimmed, you were feeling buzzed, relaxed, and a little too aware of how close his knee was to yours.

And then the opening chords of a slow song kicked on.

Something low and swaying. Jazzy. Unexpected.

Your friends hooted, already dragging each other to the floor.

You started to rise, half-teasing, when Johnny caught your wrist.

“Dance with me.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He stood, holding out his hand. “C’mon. One song.”

You hesitated—then nodded.

⸻

The floor wasn’t packed, just a few scattered couples, but the music wrapped around you like warm silk as Johnny led you out.

You weren’t used to letting someone else lead.

But his hand found your waist easily. His other wrapped around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles, and suddenly, your entire world tilted.

He smelled like whiskey and spice. Felt warm and steady under your palms. His movements were confident but unhurried, like this wasn’t just a dance—it was a statement.

You looked up at him, teasing. “So when did you learn this?”

“Military secret,” he murmured, spinning you slowly. “We train in close quarters.”

You laughed, flushed. “And here I thought you were just muscle and chaos.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

He pulled you just a little closer. “You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

You should’ve pulled back.

But you didn’t.

His eyes locked on yours, steady, hot, like he’d been waiting to do this from the moment he walked into that studio. Your breath hitched.

He didn’t kiss you.

But he could have.

And you would’ve let him.

⸻

When the song ended, you both stood still for a beat too long.

Then someone bumped into you and the moment broke.

You stepped back, smoothing your shirt.

Johnny smiled softly. “Told you I could behave.”

You looked up at him, cheeks warm. “That wasn’t behaving.”

“No?”

“That was dangerous.”

He smirked. “Then what happens when I stop playing nice?”

🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷

@peepawpriceshat

[inkmonster21]

Sweet on You

Simon “Ghost” Riley x BakerReader

Series Masterlist

Not Ghost. Not the soldier. Just Simon—finally letting you hold the pieces he hides.

6. Let Me Stay a While

The flat was too quiet.

Simon sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced against his knees, palms pressed hard into his eyes. He’d showered after a long day, pulled on a hoodie, tried to tell himself he was tired enough to sleep—but his body wasn’t listening. His chest felt too tight, his pulse too fast, the familiar burn of adrenaline humming under his skin with nowhere to go.

He dragged in a breath.

Held it.

It didn’t help.

The walls felt close, like they were leaning in. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall was a roar in his ears. Every creak of the building made his shoulders snap up like a shot had gone off.

It was the memories again.

Flashes. Quick and cruel. A door blown open. Screams. The crunch of bone. His own hands steady on a trigger, and then blood. Always blood.

Simon shot to his feet, pacing the length of the room in three long strides, then back again. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting his palms. He yanked the hood of his sweatshirt over his head like it could shut the images out.

“Stop,” he muttered under his breath. “Stop.”

But it wouldn’t.

The panic crested sharp and hot in his ribs, like he couldn’t draw a full breath no matter how he tried. His throat ached. His hands shook. He wanted to smash something, scream, run—but he just stood there, stuck inside himself, every nerve screaming.

His eyes landed on the wall.

On the other side—your apartment.

He didn’t even know why his mind went there. He just knew that lately, whenever the nights got bad, his thoughts drifted toward you. Your laughter spilling across the hall, the scent of sugar and cinnamon when your window was open, the quiet way you always looked him in the eye without flinching.

Safe.

The word came unbidden. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself. But his body was already moving—grabbing his keys, shoving his feet into trainers, yanking the door open before he could change his mind.

The hallway light was too bright, stabbing into his eyes. His breaths came sharp and shallow, but his feet carried him to your door anyway.

He stood there, shaking, staring at the wood grain like it might swallow him whole. His hand hovered near the frame, too unsteady to knock.

It took him three tries before his knuckles tapped against the wood. Weak. Uneven.

The sound of it terrified him.

But not as much as the silence that followed.

He almost turned to go. Almost fled back to the safety of four walls and the noise in his own head.

And then he heard you moving inside. The soft thud of your steps, the whisper of your blanket being pushed aside.

His chest still felt like it might crack open. But for the first time all night, he hoped.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when the knock came.

You were half-asleep on the couch, an old movie humming softly from the TV. Your favorite blanket was pulled to your chin, half a bowl of popcorn forgotten beside you.

At first, you thought you’d imagined it.

But then it came again.

Quieter. Uneven.

You pushed the blanket off and padded barefoot to the door.

Peered through the peephole.

Your heart twisted.

It was Simon.

He stood there, hoodie clinging to him like armor, shoulders hunched, breathing hard through his nose. His hand hovered at his side, like he didn’t trust it to knock again.

You opened the door slowly.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice still thick with sleep. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at you.

No mask. No gloves. Eyes shadowed. Haunted. A wildness in them you’d never seen before.

“Can I—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I didn’t know who else to go to.”

You stepped back immediately, holding the door open wider. “Come in. Please.”

He moved past you without a word.

You shut the door behind him, locking it out of habit, and turned.

Simon stood in the middle of your living room, like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stand or run.

You stepped closer, careful. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

So you didn’t ask again.

You just reached out and took his hand.

It was trembling.

⸻

You guided him to the couch, sat beside him, pulled the blanket over both your laps like it was nothing.

The TV flickered softly. The sound of rain on tin, soft piano. The dance of a blueberry candle.

Simon sat stiff as a board.

His hands fisted in his lap. Jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

You tucked your legs under yourself and turned to face him.

“I can make popcorn,” you offered gently.

He gave a hollow sound—maybe a laugh, maybe not.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t.”

“I shouldn’t’ve come.”

“I’m glad you did.”

He looked at you.

You looked back.

And slowly—achingly—he seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding for years.

⸻

It came out in pieces.

Not all at once. Never all at once.

But slowly, as the night unfolded and the movie flickered on, Simon began to talk.

Not about what exactly had happened that night to make him knock on your door, but about everything that made him carry it.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said at one point, his voice raw. “Even when I’m home. Especially when I’m home.”

You nodded.

“It gets worse when it’s quiet. When the job slows down. That’s when the memories come loud.”

Your hand found his again.

He didn’t let go.

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I had to do. Things I’d do again, even though they tear me up inside.”

You didn’t flinch.

He noticed that. And he kept going.

“My head’s… not right sometimes. There are days I don’t feel like a person, just a weapon someone forgot to put away.”

You turned, leaned your cheek against his shoulder. Let the silence say what words couldn’t.

“I see them. My team. The boys. They pull me out of it, sometimes. But other times it feels like I’m too far gone. Like I’m pretending at normal.”

He looked down at you then.

And his voice cracked.

“But when I’m with you… I don’t feel like a ghost.”

You didn’t speak right away.

Just squeezed his hand.

“I don’t think you’re a ghost, Simon.”

He closed his eyes.

“I think you’re a regular human who is trying. Every day. And I think that counts.”

⸻

Eventually, his shoulders slumped.

The tension left him inch by inch.

And when you reached up and tugged the blanket higher, he didn’t resist.

You laid your head on his chest. His arm came around you, uncertain at first, then firmer.

His hoodie smelled like cold air and worn cotton and a hint of cinnamon sugar.

The movie ended, the credits rolling in a soft piano lullaby.

But neither of you moved.

⸻

Sometime later, you felt his breath even out.

His hand had curled gently over your waist, fingers twitching now and then, like he wasn’t quite convinced you were real.

You stayed awake.

Not because you weren’t tired.

But because you knew—you knew—how rare this was.

Simon Riley, asleep on your couch, in your arms.

Not as Ghost.

Not as the soldier.

Just him.

Raw and real and quiet.

You reached up and brushed a bit of hair from his brow, careful not to wake him.

His nose twitched.

Your heart pulled.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it:

You were falling for him.

Not the version that showed up in your doorway covered in flour. Not even the one that teased you with sarcastic quips and stubborn silences.

But the one who knocked in the middle of the night, trembling, and let you hold the broken pieces without trying to hide them.

You didn’t know what it meant. Not yet.

But you knew this much:

You weren’t going anywhere.

⸻

When the sun rose, soft and golden, Simon stirred beside you.

You were still curled into his side, his hoodie stretched over your frame, blanket tangled around your legs.

He blinked slowly.

Looked down at you.

“…Morning.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

A pause.

Then: “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I know.”

“I… haven’t done that in years. With someone next to me.”

Your smile softened.

“I’m glad you did.”

His hand brushed over your arm. Hesitant. Careful.

“Thanks for… letting me stay.”

“Anytime, Simon.”

You meant it.

And he knew you did.

💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰

@lavenderloss

@galactict3a

@noeeeeeeel

@englishstudentteacher

@foxstar08

@dustbuniesworld

@your-internet-tenshi

@fictionalmen4eva

@sanctifiedcanines

@succulambb

@mxxnechos

@weallhaveadestiny

@pompomnoodle

@brkenartt

@anonymouse1807

@jlordsangel

@funky0ne

@moon-on-the-crest

@galactict3a

[inkmonster21]

I’m Just Next Door

Captain John Price x SingleMomReader

Series Masterlist

An unexpected call from your ex shakes everything. While you keep moving, John fights through missions with one thought: survive, and get back to you.

14. The Ex-Husband

The day had started well.

Your worktable was covered in glimmering, half-cured resin keychains and polymer clay earrings shaped like tiny autumn pies. The late morning sun poured in through the kitchen window, catching the shimmer of glitter and mica powder across your workspace. Your daughter sat a few feet away at her little art table, scribbling with crayons and humming along to Encanto.

Your Etsy notifications had been pinging nonstop for three days straight, and it finally looked like you’d need to consider opening a waitlist. Orders were coming in faster than you could fulfill them—bad for your wrists, great for your pride.

You smiled, holding up a strawberry-shaped tray to the light. It was nearly perfect.

Then your phone rang.

At first, you thought it might be John. You dropped everything, hands sticky with clay, and snatched the phone off the counter with hopeful urgency.

But it wasn’t him.

“Unknown Caller.”

Your stomach dropped. A flash of dread before you even answered.

You shouldn’t have picked up.

“Hey, sunshine.”

Your throat closed.

It was him.

Your ex-husband.

The artist. The addict. The charming, talented, emotionally manipulative mess that had once made you believe he was a genius—and then made you feel like trash for not being part of his “vision.”

“What do you want?” you asked flatly, stepping away from your daughter’s earshot.

A soft laugh filtered through the receiver. “Can’t a man check in on his beautiful ex-wife and his baby girl?”

You grit your teeth. “We haven’t heard from you in over a year.”

He sighed dramatically. “I’ve been traveling. Paris, Berlin, Marrakech. You wouldn’t believe the installations I’ve been working on.”

“I don’t care,” you said simply.

That made him pause.

Then, casually: “Well, I’m in town. Just for a few days. Thought I’d see my daughter while I’m here.”

You went still.

“…Excuse me?”

“I miss her,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I respect your little… domestic routine. The whole Etsy craft thing is very cute—very grounded—but I think she deserves to know who her father is. I’ve grown, you know. I’ve made peace with everything.”

You nearly dropped your phone.

“You’ve grown?”

“I mean, yeah,” he said breezily. “I’ve been microdosing. Really clears the artistic channels.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “So, you’re still using.”

“It’s not using,” he said smugly. “It’s creative clarity. And don’t get self-righteous—some of us make art, others make… trinkets.”

That hit like a slap.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Well,” you snapped, “this trinket-making mom’s about to hang up. You want to see her? Get a lawyer. I don’t have time for your performance piece of a life.”

He sighed again, more annoyed this time. “You know I still pay that alimony, babe. The least you could do is let me see her.”

You swallowed your fury. Legally, he wasn’t wrong. You couldn’t stop him unless he showed up high or made a scene.

Which he very well might.

“I’ll think about it,” you lied.

Then you hung up and locked your phone before you threw it through the window.

Your hands shook as you walked back to the kitchen.

“Mama?” your daughter asked sweetly. “Can we finish painting the frogs?”

You smiled tightly. “Yeah, baby. Of course.”

That night, you didn’t even think. You just called him.

John answered on the third ring, and the sound of his voice nearly broke you. Even when you knew you weren’t necessarily supposed to.

“Hey, love,” he said, voice low and steady. “Everything alright?”

“No,” you breathed.

You told him everything. From the moment the phone rang to the second you hung up. The way your stomach turned at hearing your ex’s voice. The way your hands trembled for hours afterward. How he’d belittled your work. How he always had.

John didn’t interrupt once.

When you finished, there was a long silence.

Then, a single, cold sentence:

“If I were there, I’d break his fucking jaw.”

You exhaled shakily. “I figured that’d be your reaction.”

“He shows up high, you call the cops. You hear me?”

“I know. It’s just… I know she doesn’t remember him. It’s been a year, and I don’t want him screwing with her head.”

“I won’t let that happen,” John said firmly. “Not ever.”

“But what if he shows up clean? What if he plays nice for a day? I can’t stop him if he pulls the legal card—”

“I know,” he interrupted, tone tight. “And I hate that. Hate being out here while you’re dealin’ with that bastard alone.”

You swallowed thickly. “How much longer?”

He hesitated. Then: “Weeks, love.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet now. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, John,” you whispered. “I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too.”

There was a pause. The silence stretched, full of things neither of you could fix.

Then he said, “Tell me what you need from me. I’ll do it. Anything.”

You took a breath. “Just… keep calling. Keep being you. That’s enough.”

You heard him sigh. Then softly: “You’re stronger than you know.”

It took him twenty minutes to cool off after your call.

His fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. His mind replayed every word you told him—especially the ones that made your voice tremble. The ones where you tried to laugh it off but couldn’t quite.

He’d kill that bastard if he ever hurt you again. Emotionally or otherwise.

Price sat outside the barracks that night, crouched near the edge of the training lot, chain-smoking and brooding.

Soap eventually found him.

“Alright, Captain,” he said, easing down beside him. “Spill it. You’re one glare away from exploding.”

John exhaled smoke and shook his head. “Her ex husband. Showed up in town. Fucking addict. Artist. Arrogant prick.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

John didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Not sure yet. But she’s scared. And I’m out here halfway across the world.”

Soap was quiet for a moment. “She knows you’ve got her back.”

“Knowing and having aren’t the same.”

Soap clapped him on the shoulder. “She’ll be alright. She’s yours, yeah?”

John nodded.

“Then she’s tougher than she looks.”

You didn’t bother telling your daughter about the call.

You didn’t know if he’d follow through. And you weren’t going to let that kind of chaos back into your carefully built life without warning.

You kept your head down and poured yourself into your work.

You stayed up late sanding edges, trimming clay, triple-checking shipping labels. You dropped off orders in the morning, picked up groceries, answered customer messages, and managed to homeschool your daughter with the energy of someone desperately avoiding something else.

You made good coffee. You played princess games. You kept going.

But still… you missed John.

You missed John’s voice in the kitchen. Missed his arm slung over the back of the couch. Missed him brushing your daughter’s hair while she talked about cartoons. Missed how he always kissed your shoulder before leaving the room.

You missed being his in the everyday sense.

You missed his presence.

On day thirty-nine, a skirmish turned into an all-out firefight.

John took a round to the vest. Bruised ribs. Wind knocked out of him.

But all he thought—laying flat against the dirt, coughing, ears ringing—was don’t die.

Because he hadn’t said goodbye.

Not properly.

He hadn’t told you he wanted forever. That he already knew it.

He hadn’t promised her he’d walk her down the aisle one day. That he’d be there for every birthday, every skinned knee, every question about the world.

He hadn’t come home.

And if he died here?

That would break both your hearts.

🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪

Tagged:

@leahnicole1219

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@hatxua-q

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[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

17. 30 Years Later

The sun baked down on the desert, merciless as always.

Wilzig's hands shook, his skin gone gray and clammy, eyes watering from the cyanide burning its way through his veins. The missing foot didn't help; the phantom pain made him shudder like a leaf in the wind. His voice rasped, each word dragging itself out like it might be the last��because it was.

"People... people will come after you," he croaked, his good hand clutching at Lucy's sleeve. "I have... a contact. A friend if you're will. She will assist you. She's mostly good-hearted, and... strong. Ask for Clara. Clara Monroe. Show her... show her my head, and she will help you."

Lucy froze, her mouth parting in disbelief. The thought of wandering the wasteland with a severed head like some grotesque calling card made her stomach churn. She shook her head, a tight little motion, doubt pinching her features. A contact? A friend? Who the hell could help now?

Wilzig's lips worked soundlessly for a moment, and then the fight went out of him. His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering closed. His chest rose one final time—and then stilled.

The silence pressed in heavy.

Lucy swallowed, stiffening her spine like she always did when the world tried to crush her. The dread, the grief, the horror of it all—it crowded in fast. But she shoved it down, clouding her thoughts, burying it under that stubborn cheer she wore like armor.

She reached for the saw.

"Okie dokie," she muttered, her voice too bright in the still desert air.

"Uh, Miss Clara?"

Clara turned, irritation flaring as her eyes landed on the ghoul assigned to her door — and notably, not standing at the damn door. Arms crossed, brows knit, she let her voice slice like a whip.

"Why the fuck are you not at your post?"

The poor kid couldn't have been more than seventeen. His thumbs twiddled nervously, yellowed eyes darting anywhere but her face. "I– I'm sorry, Miss, it's just... there's a girl here, she's asking for you."

Clara's scowl deepened. "And you know I only take visitors after the show is done."

He winced, shoulders hunched. "I– I know, Miss. It's just... she's really—"

The stammering apology cut short as a new voice slipped through the crack in the door. Soft, polite, almost musical.

"Clara Monroe."

The sound of her name — her real name — hit Clara like a bullet to the chest. Her blood went cold.

The Vault Dweller stepped forward, framed in the glow of the hall. Blue jumpsuit, gold trim, and those big, hopeful eyes that had no right existing in a place like this.

"I need to speak with you immediately. Please."

Clara's stare sharpened to a razor's edge. "Leave us."

The ghoul kid scrambled to obey, pushing the girl inside and shutting the door quick behind her.

Silence dropped, heavy and taut. Clara reached across the table, fingers curling around the hilt of her knife. She let a smile stretch slow across her lips as she stalked forward.

The girl's breath hitched, rocking on her heels as Clara circled her, the predator inspecting prey. With one hand she flipped a lock of the girl's hair, let her blade trace the delicate line of her cheek.

"Pretty," Clara murmured.

Then she slid in close, eyes burning into the stranger's as the knife tip pressed cold against the soft skin of her throat.

"Now," Clara drawled, voice low and dangerous, "how the fuck do you know that name?

Lucy froze, wide eyes blinking at the knife point. Her throat bobbed against the steel as she stuttered, voice trembling but stubbornly clear.

"M–My name is Lucy MacLean. I'm looking for my dad. The Doctor, Wilzig—he told me you would help. Please. You're my only hope."

Clara studied her, silent, weighing every twitch, every flicker in those wide blue eyes. Fear, yes. Desperation, yes. But not a lie.

MacLean?

Well, fuck. Maybe there was a god after all. And maybe He'd finally decided to toss her a gift.

Clara pulled the blade away slow, deliberate, letting the Vault Dweller feel every second of reprieve. Then she laughed under her breath, low and bitter, and turned toward the door. Cracking it open, she found Connor lurking outside like a half-worried pup.

"I'm gonna be a few," she told him, voice slick with command. "Hold them over for me."

He nodded, no questions asked, and the door shut again with a dull thud.

Clara faced Lucy once more, flashing a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Lucy, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lucy said, hands still half raised in some desperate show of innocence.

That word made Clara freeze. Then scoff. "Don't call me ma'am."

Lucy blinked. "Uh—okay. Ms. Monroe, then—"

"Nope." Clara wagged a finger, grin twisting. "You can't call me that either."

Lucy's hands dropped, exasperated. "Then what can I call you?"

Clara turned to the cracked mirror hanging crooked on the wall. She smoothed her wild hair with one hand, batting her lashes mockingly at her own reflection.

"Nothing right now," she said, voice casual as a knife sliding between ribs. "Because I'm not too sure about you, Lucy. Not a lot of people know that name. Not anymore. I've gotta make sure you're a good one."

"PLEASE!" Lucy's voice cracked sharp, panic and anger spilling over. "He said you could help me!"

Clara turned her head, narrowing her eyes, letting the silence stretch until Lucy squirmed. Then she cut it off with a glare that could peel paint.

"I don't like your fucking tone, Lucy."

Her gaze lingered, hungry and dangerous, before drifting lazily back to the mirror. She straightened her hair again, tilting her chin, like the girl in the Vault suit was no more than an interruption in her vanity.

A knock rattled against the warped wood.

"They're getting impatient," Conor's muffled voice called.

Clara rolled her eyes, muttering, "I'm coming! Goddamn it. Never slows down." She crooked a finger at Lucy. "Come with me."

Lucy hesitated but obeyed, trailing after Clara through the door and into the narrow, dim hallway. The air smelled of sweat, whiskey, and dust kicked up from boots on old floorboards. At the end of the hall, warm light spilled from behind the curtains.

Clara shoved her down into a chair. "Sit here. Don't move. And most of all—" she leaned close enough for Lucy to feel the heat of her breath "—enjoy the show."

Spinning away, Clara caught Conor's eye. "Don't let her out of your sight."

He gave a tight nod, falling into position against the wall. Silent. Watchful.

Lucy shifted uncomfortably under his stare. Forcing a small smile, she whispered, "Hi there."

Conor didn't reply. His face stayed flat, eyes hard as stone, like he was weighing whether she belonged here at all.

The scratch of the record player filled the room, a swell of static before the music kicked in. Clara slipped one leg through the curtain first, teasing the audience with just the silhouette of her calf and the shimmer of an old beaded dress. A ripple of cheers rose from the crowd, eager and hungry.

Then she stepped out.

The makeshift spotlight hit her in a halo of gold, casting the years away and turning her into something eternal. She knew it. She owned it. Clara Monroe, broken mirror or not, had never needed much to shine.

The crowd roared. They always did. They always would.

Behind the curtain, Lucy watched in stunned silence, her heart pounding in time with the music.

The curtain fell behind her, applause rattling the walls like gunfire. Clara smiled, savoring it—her name on their lips, their hunger in the sound.

"That was amazing!" Lucy shot to her feet, clapping like a child at her first carnival. Her wide eyes sparkled with sincerity. "I never expected to see anything like this up here. You're phenomenal!"

Clara brushed past her, laughter low and satisfied. Lucy hurried to keep up.

"And you never will anywhere else," Clara said, throwing a glance over her shoulder. "Unless you crawl to Goodneighbor. They tried to replace me with some washup. She's no good."

Lucy tilted her head, curiosity brightening her expression. "How long have you been out here?"

Clara's smile was sharp, nostalgic in a way that cut. "Thirty years."

The narrow hall spat them back into the cramped dressing room. Conor closed the door with a heavy thud and leaned against it, his broad frame a silent sentinel. Clara sank onto her stool, legs crossed, watching herself in the cracked mirror.

Without a word, Conor stepped behind her, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. His hands were gentle but deliberate, revealing the faint seam at the base of her neck.

Lucy gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes went wide, trembling as she leaned closer. "You're not... human."

Clara's lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. She let the words hang heavy before answering, her voice velvet and venom.

"Good insight, Lucy MacLean. You're correct. I'm what you'll come to learn is called a synth." She tapped her chest lightly, a hollow echo under her fingers. "Synthetic humanoid. No blood pumping through me—just wires."

Conor fastened the panel shut with practiced precision. Clara rolled her shoulders back, stretching as if her body were an instrument freshly tuned.

"I still have a beating heart," she added, placing a hand over her chest. "And a working brain. Call me special. They were the only two organs they thought were worth a shit."

Lucy stared, sorrow softening her features. "Who would... who would do this to you?"

Clara smirked, the expression biting and amused. Poor little Vaultie. She really had no idea what kind of world she'd stumbled into.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Clara drawled, eyes glinting in the mirror. "Vaultie."

Clara slipped behind the privacy shade, fabric whispering shut as she stripped out of sequins and stage-glamour. Her voice drifted out, flat and biting.

"So, tell me why Wilzig pawned me off on some random girl."

Lucy's voice trembled but carried conviction. "He told me you could help find my dad. He said you were good-hearted."

Clara barked out a laugh, rolling her eyes even though Lucy couldn't see it. "Good-hearted." The words were sour in her mouth. "Dumbass Wilzig. He always knew exactly how to get my ass in trouble." They've were no strangers, he did plenty of hardware work when Conor was at a loss. But a good hearted friend? Yeah fuckin y right.

She tugged on her traveling clothes, fabric rougher, realer. When she stepped out, Clara was herself again—not the goddess of the stage but something leaner, sharper.

"Well," she said, smoothing her sleeves, "he might've been exaggerating a little." Her gaze cut back to Lucy. "So where's Wilzig now?"

Lucy hesitated, lip caught between her teeth. Then she fumbled with her pack, pulling free a lumpy cloth bundle. She peeled it back to reveal the pale, lifeless face of Dr. Wilzig. His head.

"Oh, wow," Clara muttered. She crouched, pressing her thumb to the socket behind his ear until she felt the faint buzz of circuitry. "Well, what do you know?" She smirked up at Lucy. "You've got some kick to you, don't you, Lucy?"

While Clara inspected the head, Lucy's eyes wandered the cramped room, catching on the photos tacked to the wall—faded scraps of another life. She stepped closer, tilting her head at one in particular.

"Is this your husband?" she asked softly, pointing to a photograph. A younger Clara and Cooper, huddled by a Christmas tree, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Their smiles bright, the moment immortalized the day they got engaged.

For a heartbeat, Clara couldn't breathe. Her throat burned. She blinked hard, forcing the sting in her eyes back where it belonged. She yanked the picture down and pinned Lucy with a glare.

"Enough snooping through my shit." She tossed a worn canvas bag at her. "Go to that cabinet. Fill it with food, water, and those boxes. After that, you can take a shower and get some sleep."

Lucy caught the bag, confusion pinching her brow. "Why?"

Clara gawked at her, incredulous. "Because we're hitting the road in the morning to find your dad."

The girl lit up like a lamp, rushing forward and throwing her arms around Clara's neck. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I knew he was telling the truth about you. I could feel it."

Clara froze, hands hovering in the air before she gave Lucy a stiff pat on the back. "Okay, you're welcome. That's enough touching." She peeled herself free, brushing past to flop onto the couch.

Lucy bustled happily, raiding shelves and drawers, humming to herself with a dopey smile. Clara leaned back, dragging a hand over her face. Her gaze drifted left, catching the edge of the old photograph again—Cooper's smile frozen in time.

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, fragile and fleeting. She let it stay only for a moment before shoving it back into the vault where it belonged.

Clara's eyes flickered open to the low hum of electricity. The lights overhead buzzed dimly, casting a pale glow across the dressing room's peeling wallpaper. She raised her head, catching the faint vibration in her chest as her heart-unit synced back into rhythm.

Behind her, Conor worked in silence, hands steady as he adjusted the neural ports at the base of her neck. A careful twist of wire, a fresh smear of coolant paste across a servo. Routine maintenance—without it, she'd burn out before long. Clara sat still, letting the familiar sting of contact prickle across her spine.

"You're really going to help her?" Conor's voice was low, almost lost beneath the hum.

Clara exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening. Lucy snored softly from the couch, oblivious.

"Seems like fate," Clara said, her voice husky with disuse. "How can I turn that down? A shot at the bastard. I'll die fucking trying."

Conor didn't reply, only slipped her worn leather jacket over her shoulders once he was done. He adjusted the collar and stepped back. "What will you do?"

Clara reached for the shotgun propped by her stool, slinging it across her back with a practiced motion. A steel whisper cut through her words. "I'm going to gut that motherfucker and string him up with his own intestine."

She crossed the room, nudging Lucy's leg with the toe of her boot. "Rise and shine, Vaultie."

Lucy stirred with a sleepy grin, rubbing her eyes as though it were Christmas morning. Her eagerness almost made Clara's circuits seize. "That was fast," Lucy said, swinging her backpack into place. "Let's get going. Sun'll be kissing the horizon soon."

Conor followed without a sound, a shadow at Clara's shoulder. Lucy blinked at him, brows furrowing.

"I thought it was just me and you," she said.

Clara didn't slow. "He goes with me everywhere. No exceptions."

Lucy smiled like she'd stumbled on some big secret. "Oh, that's nice—knowing marriage is still valued out here."

Clara barked a laugh so sharp it echoed off the cracked plaster. She glanced back at Conor, then shook her head. "Oh, shit. No. He's not my husband. I am never getting married again."

Lucy hesitated, her voice softer now. "Did he... did he die?"

Clara froze mid-step. The question lodged in her throat like shrapnel. For a moment, she wanted to whirl on the girl—wanted to rip the words out of her mouth and shove them down her throat. But killing her wouldn't feel half as good as keeping her alive and reminding her of every stupid question.

Her lips curled into a humorless smile. "Nope. That demon's still slithering around somewhere."

Lucy seemed to understand the boundary then, retreating into silence until she piped up again. Friendly fucking vault dwellers, Clara thought bitterly. Always had to talk.

"I'd really like to be able to call you something," Lucy pressed.

Clara considered ignoring her. But after a long beat, she gave a shrug. "If you have to, you can call me Clara."

Lucy's face lit up at the offering. Clara ignored it, checking the weight of her shotgun and the pack on her shoulder. The long road lay ahead—and if her servos didn't lock up, if her coolant didn't run dry, if her patched-up skin didn't peel from radiation burns—maybe she'd finally get to look Cooper's ghost in the eye.

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

6. What’s Left Unsaid

The studio lot buzzed with its usual noise—lights being rigged, scripts shuffled, the hum of conversation between actors and crew. Cooper and Clara had tucked themselves into a quiet corner between trailers, just far enough out of sight to get away with a little recklessness.

"Your hair's gonna drive the cameras crazy," Cooper murmured, reaching out as though he were fixing a strand, though his fingers lingered far longer than necessary.

Clara swatted at his hand, laughing softly. "You're gonna smudge my lipstick."

"Maybe I want to," he teased, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw. His grin had that boyish tilt to it—the one that made her stomach flip and forget entirely that they were in public.

She leaned closer, lips parting to whisper something wicked, when Cooper's gaze suddenly shifted over her shoulder. His whole expression tightened.

Clara followed his eyes—then froze.

Barb.

Standing at the edge of the lot with her handbag tucked neatly against her side, surveying the scene like a woman who had walked in on the punchline of a joke she wasn't supposed to hear.

She never came to set during the day. Never.

Clara's pulse kicked hard in her throat. She stepped back, quick as if burned, and smoothed her dress with frantic fingers. Cooper straightened too, forcing a casual smile onto his face as though they'd simply been rehearsing lines.

"Barb," he called out, his voice just a little too cheerful. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Her eyes flicked from him to Clara, sharp and unreadable, before softening into the polite curve of a practiced smile. "Lunch hour," she said simply. "Thought I'd surprise you."

Clara swallowed, suddenly aware of every camera, every crew member bustling around. She could almost feel Barb's suspicion, even in that calm tone.

"Lovely surprise," Clara managed, forcing her own smile, though it faltered at the corners. She clutched her music binder a little tighter, grasping at the excuse she'd been waiting to use.

"I'll leave you two alone to enjoy. I should find Louis," she blurted. "We've got to run through some new songs before rehearsal."

Barb's gaze lingered, but she didn't stop her. Clara dipped her head quickly, turning on her heel, heels clicking briskly against the pavement as she escaped down the lot in search of the pianist.

Behind her, she could feel Cooper's eyes on her back, the weight of Barb's stare between them like a loaded gun left on the table.

Clara found Louis in one of the rehearsal rooms tucked behind the soundstage, hunched over the piano with a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. The sight of him—tie loosened, fingers already tapping out scales—was a relief. Music was safe. Music didn't ask questions.

"There you are," he said, flashing her that easy grin. "Thought you'd gone and ditched me for the camera folk."

"Never," Clara answered quickly, setting her binder down on the piano top. Her voice carried more breath than usual, like she'd just run a mile. She busied herself with flipping pages, anything to keep her hands moving. "Got some new songs. Want to give them a go?"

Louis cocked his head, studying her. "You alright, doll?"

Clara forced a smile. "I'm fine." Then softer, almost to herself, "Just... needed to sing."

The piano filled the room a moment later, rich and grounding, and Clara let the melody wrap around her like armor. Each note she sang was a shield—something to drown out the memory of Barb's eyes cutting across the lot like a knife.

Meanwhile, in the commissary, Cooper sat across from his wife. Barb had chosen a corner booth, away from the crew and extras. She never did anything without intent.

She sipped her iced tea, her posture impeccable. "You and Clara seem awfully close these days," she said, offhand, like commenting on the weather.

Cooper's fork paused midair. He recovered quickly, setting it down with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's talented. Vault-Tec likes us seen together—makes the campaign shine brighter, don't it?"

Barb hummed, stirring her tea with a straw. "Talented, yes. Photogenic, certainly. But you spend a great deal of time with her off camera, too, don't you? Dinners... studio sessions..." Her eyes flicked up, sharp as glass. "Jewelry receipts, even."

Cooper leaned back, keeping his voice smooth, the practiced charm of a man who'd been in the spotlight too long to show cracks. "She's part of the job, Barb. They want a storybook picture, I give it to 'em. Don't mean anything beyond that."

Barb's lips curved faintly, though her eyes betrayed nothing. "Mm. If you say so."

She picked at her salad, calm and composed, while Cooper's stomach tightened beneath the weight of her suspicion.

The trailer door clicked shut behind them, and before Clara could even take a breath, Cooper had her pressed to the wall. His mouth was hot and greedy, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her dress like he'd been waiting all his life to touch her.

"Christ, Clara..." he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at her—her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, her eyes gone soft with want. "You got no idea what you do to me."

She shivered, gripping his tie and yanking him down to kiss her again. "Then show me."

"Oh, I'll show you," he promised, his voice dark and ragged. He kissed her jaw, her throat, biting softly until she gasped. "Can't think straight when you're around. Can't eat, can't sleep—just want you. All of you."

His hands cupped her thighs, hitching her legs around his waist. The world narrowed to his body pinning hers, to the way his hips pressed insistently against her heat.

"You're mine, Clara," he whispered against her lips, kissing her hard between each word. "All mine. I want every inch of you—your voice, your laugh, the way you look at me like I'm still a man worth something."

Her breath caught. No one talked to her like this—like she was salvation. She dragged her nails down his back, pulling him closer. "Then take me."

Cooper groaned like the words undid him. His belt clattered to the floor, and when he slid into her, it was deep, claiming, like he wanted to mark her from the inside out.

"Goddamn," he gritted, forehead pressed to hers as he moved within her, slow at first, savoring the way she clung to him. "You feel like heaven, darlin'. Like you were made just for me."

Her moans spilled into his ear, urging him faster. He obeyed, his thrusts growing rough, urgent, the trailer walls shaking with each snap of his hips.

"I don't want half of you," he growled, biting at her shoulder, leaving a mark. "Don't want borrowed hours, or stolen nights—I want you. Every breath. Every bit of you. Tell me you're mine, Clara."

"You know I am," she gasped, her body trembling against his. "I'm yours, Coop. Always."

He kissed her like a man starved, devouring her cry as she shattered around him, her body tightening in ecstasy. He followed her with a guttural moan, spilling into her, holding her tight like he'd never let go.

Even when the rush passed, he didn't loosen his grip. He kept her pinned there, his face buried in her neck, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

"You'll be the death of me, sweetheart," he murmured hoarsely, pressing tender kisses to her skin. "And I'd go smiling."

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

5. Polished Lies

The receipts were folded neat as a soldier's pocket square, tucked inside Cooper's jacket like they belonged there. Barb didn't even mean to find them. She'd been pulling his coat off the back of the dining chair, shaking crumbs from the shoulders before hanging it up, when they slipped free and fluttered onto the tile.

Pearls. Dinner for two at a restaurant she hadn't been to in years.

Barb Howard wasn't stupid, far from it. She knew her husband had a way with charm, knew women still smiled at him even when he wore that tired war hero frown. But she also knew the bills, the mortgage, the calendar of community meetings pinned to the fridge. Jewelry didn't fit into that picture.

So at breakfast the next morning, with Cooper working on his eggs and coffee, she slipped the question in lightly.

"Been shopping for me lately?" she asked, her voice lilting, casual.

Cooper didn't flinch. He barely looked up. Just dabbed his mouth with a napkin and said, "Just playing my card a right for this new director. They wanted extra props for the shoot. Pearls, diamonds, perfume—things." His voice was smooth as butter, easy as a practiced line.

Barb smiled, but her eyes lingered on him too long. "Things, huh? Guess I'll have to wait my turn, then."

"Guess so," Cooper said, and kissed her cheek before he left for work.

The lipstick mark stayed on his skin all the way to the Vault-Tec building, where Clara Monroe was already waiting, pearls fastened at her throat.

The studio lights were bright, hot enough to sting if you stood too close. Cooper hated them. Too artificial. Too clean. Like the Vault-Tec people wanted to bleach the life right out of everything they touched.

But then Clara walked out of wardrobe.

The dress was crisp and pressed, blue as a summer sky with gold piping that hugged her waist. The pearls—his pearls—glowed soft against her throat, a quiet defiance hidden under all that glossy marketing polish. And despite the powder on her cheeks and the careful curl in her hair, she still looked like herself. Real. Warm. Alive.

The photographer clapped his hands together. "Perfect! Clara, chin up—give us that housewife smile. Imagine you're welcoming your husband home after a long day's work."

Clara's lips curved, hesitant at first, then settling into a softer smile. Cooper felt something sharp twist in his chest. He knew that smile. He'd seen it bent against his mouth in the dark, felt it burn against his skin. And here she was, giving it away for free.

He swallowed it down, forced his jaw to stay set. Vault-Tec was paying him to stand here and look like the good soldier, the war hero they could polish into a mascot. But his eyes never left Clara.

That's when Henry MacClaine shuffled up beside him. Clipboard in hand, tie crooked, eyes shining wide as saucers. Barely out of college, from the look of him—green enough to still believe in everything Vault-Tec promised.

The photographer barked for a reset, lights shifting, the set buzzing with movement. Clara stepped aside to catch her breath, smoothing the skirt of the Vault-Tec dress.

That's when Henry MacClaine appeared at her elbow, all wide eyes and nervous energy. His clipboard trembled slightly in his grip.

"You're...you're incredible, Ms. Monroe," he blurted, voice too loud, too eager. "I mean—the way you hold yourself, it's—it's perfect. Like you are the future Vault-Tec keeps talking about. People'll follow you anywhere."

Clara blinked, startled, and gave a polite little smile. "That's very kind of you to say."

Henry flushed crimson, gaze flicking to the pearls at her throat. "Those suit you. Timeless. Classic. Just like you."

From across the set, Cooper's jaw tightened. His hand flexed once at his side. He didn't say a word, not with half the Vault-Tec brass watching, but his eyes never left Clara.

Henry, oblivious, leaned just a little closer. "I hope they keep you in the ads. Honestly, they don't need any of those machines. Not when they've got you."

Clara's polite smile wavered, something nervous fluttering behind her eyes.

Vault-Tec only saw a perfect picture.

Henry saw a dream.

And Cooper—he saw a storm building that he wasn't sure he could hold back.

The shoot wound down with polite applause, the Vault-Tec men congratulating themselves more than the models. Clara was still adjusting the hem of the blue dress when Barb's voice cut through the chatter.

"Clara."

She turned, surprised to find Barbara Howard standing closer than she realized, arms folded, eyes cool but curious.

"Those are lovely," Barb said, nodding toward the pearls at Clara's throat. "Where did you get them?"

The question landed soft, but it carried weight. Too much weight.

Clara's hand rose automatically, fingers brushing the necklace. For a moment she thought she might choke on her own breath. "They were a gift," she said finally. Her voice came out steady enough, but the words felt thin, flimsy.

Barb's brows lifted just slightly, as if she'd been waiting for that answer. "A gift?"

"Yes." Clara forced a smile, her throat dry. "So thoughtful."

Barb's gaze lingered on her, long enough to make the silence bite. Then, with the faintest curl of her lip, she turned away, gathering her coat as if the matter were closed.

But Clara knew better.

Cooper had seen the whole exchange from across the room. His stomach sank. Barb's suspicion wasn't just in the air anymore—it had teeth.

And Clara...

Clara was beginning to feel the bite.

The Vault-Tec team broke down the set, laughter and back-pats echoing as the photographer rattled off praise for the day's "success." Clara stepped aside to unpin her hair, letting the waves fall back into place. Cooper was there almost immediately, jacket slung over one shoulder, that easy movie-star smile trained only on her.

"You were perfect in there," he murmured low, meant only for her ears. "Better than they deserve."

Clara laughed softly, adjusting her coat. "You're biased."

"Damn right I am."

They slipped toward the side exit together, his hand brushing hers in a way no camera caught. Outside, the night was cool, the parking lot mostly empty. Cooper reached for her then, no hesitation, pulling her in close, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and defiance. Clara melted into it, her hand pressed firm against his chest, the world falling away like it always did when it was just him.

Neither of them saw the figure standing a short distance away, half-hidden in the glow of the streetlamp.

Barb.

Her arms were crossed, her posture still, her eyes narrowed not in anger—but in certainty. She didn't call out, didn't storm over. She only watched.

Watched the kiss linger too long, watched Clara's hand trace along her husband's lapel, watched the smile Cooper gave her—soft, private, guilty.

When Barb finally turned, slipping back into the shadows, her silence was heavier than any scream could've been.

And inside the car, with Clara's laughter still caught against his lips, Cooper had no idea the storm waiting for him had already begun.

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

3. More Than A Machine

The sheriff loomed over the writhing outlaw, his revolver steady, eyes cold. The man bled into the dirt, groaning, his hand scrabbling uselessly at the ground. A few yards away, the damsel thrashed against the ropes that bound her to the fence, gag muffling her cries. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

"Help me!" she sobbed, voice breaking through the cloth.

The sheriff tipped his hat, his gaze firm. "Now you just stay calm, honey."

He returned his attention to the outlaw sprawled at his boots. His voice lowered into a grave cadence, rich with drawl. "There's an old Mexican eulogy... feo, fuerte y formal. Means a man was ugly, strong, and carried himself with dignity. Well, Joey—" he cocked back the hammer, "—I'll give you two outta three."

The damsel squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the shot.

But Cooper's voice cracked through the moment, sharp and uneasy. "Do I really have to kill him?" His tone wasn't the sheriff's anymore—it was Cooper's, and he sounded genuinely troubled.

"Cut!"

An assistant rushed over to untie Clara from the fence, tugging the rope loose. Cooper strode to her side at once, offering a hand. His palm was warm, steadying, a faint tremor in his grip betraying his discomfort.

"You were amazing, sweetheart. Just like always."

Clara smiled faintly, letting him pull her up. His eyes, though, stayed clouded with unease. He had been open with her about his reservations on this picture. Cooper Howard guarded the men he played on screen—protectors, good men with unshakable morals. He hated the idea of tarnishing that image.

The director, Emil, shuffled over, script pages in hand. Cooper turned, jaw tight.

"Listen, I gotta talk to you about these new pages, Emil. I mean, I'm the sheriff, right? Why can't I just arrest the guy? That's what I do. That's what people expect."

Emil raised his hands in placation. "The audience already knows you're a good man, Coop. They love you for it. But they want to see—hell, need to see—that even a good man can be driven too far sometimes."

Cooper frowned, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, I get that. But it ain't really my thing, Emil. That's not who I am. Where's Bob? Bob'd know how to handle this."

Clara glanced up from her chair as an assistant dusted powder across her cheeks. "Bob's been fired, Coop."

Cooper's head snapped toward her. "What?"

"The studio let him go."

"Why?"

Emil sighed. "Turns out Bob's a communist."

Cooper blinked. "A communist? Cadillac Bob?"

Emil nodded solemnly. "The very same. Cadillac Bob."

Cooper let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Well, hell. What a damn shame. He was a hell of a writer. One of the best."

Emil spread his hands. "One of the best, sure. But he had to go. Which is why this movie's important. It's a new kind of western, Coop. Power of the individual when the chips are down. The new America. That's why it'd be real great if you'd just... shoot Jorge in the damn head, yeah?"

Cooper lowered his eyes, his shoulders heavy. The fight had drained right out of him. "Right," he muttered.

From her chair, Clara watched silently. To her, Cooper would always be the good man—whether Hollywood wanted blood on his sheriff's hands or not.

Barb had a way of lighting up every room she walked into. She breezed onto the set with that bright smile and polished charm, her heels clicking against the studio floor. On her arm, a Vault-Tec representative trailed dutifully, hands full of wardrobe samples and glittering jewelry cases.

"Coop," Barb greeted warmly, adjusting the pearls at her throat. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You're looking handsome, as always. Clara—darling—you too. Lord, don't you both clean up nice under these hot lights?"

Clara forced a polite smile. Barb always meant well, but there was an edge to her sweetness, a sharpness that made Clara's stomach twist. She couldn't forget the way Barb had invited her into their home, how easily she had folded Clara into their family dinners. How easily she had smiled at her, like they weren't both living inside the same lie.

The Vault-Tec man snapped open a velvet case, laying it out for Cooper's inspection. Gleaming necklaces, brooches, and pins caught the light like trophies.

"For the new campaign," the man explained. "Vault-Tec is partnering with the studio. Family values, safety, security—the face of America's future."

Barb's smile widened. She plucked up a delicate gold chain with a miniature vault door pendant. "Isn't it darling? Imagine the picture, Coop—me in one of these dresses, Clara too. All-American women, standing right behind their All-American sheriff."

Cooper chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, you two could sell snow to Eskimos. You're already prettier than any billboard."

Barb beamed. Clara's cheeks burned.

The representative laid out dresses next—fitted waists, pastel silks, and hems that floated just below the knee. Vault-Tec blue, trimmed in gold piping.

"Clean lines," the rep said with a salesman's grin. "Domestic but modern. Mrs. Howard, Miss Monroe—we'd like you both front and center in the family campaign."

Clara's throat tightened as Barb touched her shoulder, guiding her toward the rack of dresses.

"Isn't this exciting?" Barb whispered. "We'll be side by side. Like sisters."

Clara swallowed the knot in her throat. Sisters. She couldn't bring herself to answer.

Cooper, standing a few paces off, caught Clara's eyes briefly. His expression flickered—something unreadable passing across it before he glanced away.

To the cameras, they would all look like the perfect picture of America. Husband. Wife. Family friend. Vault-Tec's shining future.

But Clara knew better.

The dining room was staged to perfection, just like the advertisements. A long oak table, white linens pressed flat, crystal glasses catching the chandelier's glow. Vault-Tec banners framed the room—bright blue with that golden vault door smiling down like a watchful eye.

Barb sat at Cooper's side, posture flawless, her pearls catching the light as she laughed politely at Emil's jokes. Clara sat opposite, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her nails dug crescents into her skin beneath the tablecloth.

Vault-Tec men in dark suits filled the seats around them. Their voices carried the polished cadence of salesmen, each word sharp and rehearsed.

"Mr. Howard," one began, raising his glass, "you are the face of this nation's strength. Sheriff, soldier, family man. That's why Vault-Tec is proud to have you lead the charge in our newest campaign. The vault isn't just a shelter. It's the future. Safety, security, continuity of values—even when the world outside may falter."

The men chuckled, as if nuclear fire were a clever turn of phrase.

Cooper gave a small, uneasy smile, his fork idle against his plate. "Well, I just play the sheriff, fellas. Folks oughta know the difference between make-believe and the real thing."

Barb squeezed his hand under the table, her laugh bright, almost too bright. "Oh, Cooper's just being modest. You boys couldn't have picked a better man."

Clara lowered her eyes to her glass of wine, unable to stomach the picture they painted. She knew why they wanted him—because Cooper Howard was steady, noble, good. Because people trusted him.

The man across from her leaned in. "And you too, Miss Monroe. You've got a quality the camera loves. We'll need you in the spreads alongside Mrs. Howard. Women all over the country will see you both and know Vault-Tec means home."

Clara forced a smile. "That's very kind."

Her throat felt tight, the lie heavy on her tongue. She wasn't family. She wasn't home.

Cooper's eyes flicked toward her for just a second—soft, apologetic—before he looked back to his untouched steak.

The Vault-Tec man raised his glass again. "To the Howards, and to Vault-Tec. May our future be as bright as our present."

Crystal clinked all around. Clara lifted her glass with the rest, her smile steady, her hand trembling.

The champagne fizzed against her tongue, sweet and bitter all at once.

The dining room gleamed like something out of a magazine spread. White linens, polished crystal, chandeliers casting a golden glow over plates of steak and potatoes. But the real feast was the conversation—Vault-Tec men in dark suits circling Cooper like hounds with a bone.

"Mr. Howard," one of them said, lifting his glass, "you are the face of America. A soldier, a sheriff, a family man. That's why Vault-Tec is proud to have you lead our newest campaign. We want people to see your smile and know their future is safe behind a vault door."

Cooper gave his practiced half-smile, steady and polite. "I'm just an actor, gentlemen. Folks oughta know the difference between make-believe and the real thing."

Polite laughter circled the table. Barb's hand squeezed his under the cloth, her voice bright as champagne bubbles. "Oh, don't be so modest, Coop. You're exactly what families need to believe in."

Then the pitch shifted. One of the men leaned forward, his eyes shining in the candlelight as he turned toward Clara.

"And Miss Monroe," he said smoothly. "You're more than just camera-ready. You have... presence. Grace. Something both modern and timeless. Vault-Tec has been considering a new initiative for the vaults. Not just shelters, but homes. Environments that feel safe, familiar, even... domestic."

Clara's brow furrowed slightly. "I'm not sure I follow."

The man smiled like a magician about to reveal a trick. "We've begun developing a line of household bots. Artificially intelligent, lifelike in speech and behavior. And we believe you'd make the perfect model. Imagine it—every vault across America with a friendly Clara Monroe in the kitchen. A perfect homemaker, tireless, always smiling, always ready to lend a hand."

The words hit her like ice water. Clara froze, her wine glass trembling in her fingers.

Beside her, Barb clapped her hands together, delighted. "Well, isn't that marvelous? Clara, you'd be in every household. Why, you'd be... immortal."

Cooper's jaw tightened, his fork stilled against the plate. "She's not a gadget," he said, quiet but firm. "She's a person."

The men chuckled dismissively. "Of course, of course. But think of the opportunity. Your likeness preserved forever, Miss Monroe. A model of American femininity. Who wouldn't want a Clara in their home?"

Clara forced a smile, her stomach twisting. She wanted to speak, to tell them how wrong it felt, but the weight of their gazes pinned her in place. Across the table, Cooper's eyes flicked toward her, soft with something like apology before he turned back to the men.

"To the future," the Vault-Tec man declared, raising his glass. "To the Howards, and to Clara Monroe—the face of tomorrow's home."

Crystal clinked all around her. Clara raised her glass too, hand shaking.

The champagne fizzed bitter and sweet against her tongue. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be erased while still breathing.

The air outside the Vault-Tec dining hall was cooler, cleaner. The doors shut behind them with a hollow echo, muffling the laughter and clinking glasses still rolling on inside. Clara exhaled slowly, as if she'd been holding her breath through the whole meal.

Cooper walked beside her, shoulders squared, jaw tight, his silence heavier than any words. When they reached the car, he finally spoke.

"They talked about you like you were a goddamn appliance." His voice was low, edged in steel.

Clara blinked, startled by the sharpness in his tone. "Coop, it was just business. A pitch. You know how these dinners go."

He turned, his eyes catching the faint glow of the streetlamps. "No, Clara. They want to stamp you into tin and wires. Sell you to every poor family crammed underground while the world burns. That ain't business. That's..." He shook his head, searching for the word. "That's dehumanizing."

Clara smoothed her skirt, keeping her hands busy, her pulse rattling in her chest. "You're overthinking it. They said a lot of things in there—they probably won't even follow through."

He leaned against the car door, arms crossed, watching her with that steady look that made her feel seen in a way no one else did. "Doesn't matter if they follow through. They said it. Like you were an idea. A thing they could package and ship."

His anger wasn't loud—it never was—but it burned hotter for being quiet.

Clara looked away, staring at the neon glow of a diner sign down the street. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that she was fine, that she'd learned long ago how to smile through the ugly parts of this business. But the truth was lodged somewhere deep, heavy and cold.

"I'm used to it," she said finally, forcing a thin smile. "Men saying things they shouldn't. Treating me like something I'm not. Doesn't mean it'll happen."

Cooper stepped closer, his hand brushing against her arm, gentle but firm. "Doesn't mean you gotta put up with it either."

For a moment, her throat went tight. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to lean into the warmth of his voice, into the steady certainty he carried like armor. But Barb's laughter still echoed in her head, and Vault-Tec's men still wore their polished smiles behind her eyelids.

Clara took a step back, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "You're making it bigger than it is, Cooper. Don't."

The words stung the air between them, and she hated herself for saying them.

But Cooper only nodded once, jaw clenched, his hand falling back to his side. "Alright," he said quietly. "If that's how you see it."

They climbed into the car in silence. The city lights flashed across the windshield as they pulled away, two people sitting close, but with a chasm between them.

The ride back was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional sweep of headlights across their faces. Clara kept her eyes fixed on the city rolling past, neon signs and polished storefronts blurring into streaks of color. She tried to tell herself that Cooper's silence was good—that it meant the dinner was behind them. But the weight of his quiet pressed heavier than any argument.

Every so often she caught him glancing her way, his jaw set, fingers tapping against the wheel. He didn't need to say what was already written across his face. He'd been raised to believe a woman deserved respect, not contracts to have her smile reproduced in steel and circuitry.

By the time he turned down her street, Clara's chest was tight. She wanted to thank him for the ride, to break the silence with something light, but the words caught in her throat.

The car rolled to a stop outside her little house, its porch light spilling a soft glow across the steps. For a heartbeat she thought he might just nod goodnight and drive away. But Cooper killed the engine, slid out, and came around to her side.

He opened her door like he always did—gentle, steady, no fanfare. His hand was warm when it closed over hers to help her out.

Neither of them spoke as he walked her up the path. The night air smelled faintly of lilacs from her neighbor's yard. Crickets sang in the distance, a sound that made the city feel far away.

At the door, she fumbled for her keys, the silence stretching between them like a thread about to snap. Finally she looked up, meeting his eyes. They were softer now, the fire from earlier banked but still glowing.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For caring. Even when I tell you not to."

His hand brushed her cheek, rough palm against soft skin. "Can't help it, Clara."

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't hurried or tentative—it was steady, unshakable, like everything else about him. His mouth warm against hers, his hand cradling the back of her neck as though he meant to anchor her there. For a moment the world went still: no Vault-Tec, no contracts, no barbed laughter. Just him.

Clara melted into it before she realized she was doing it. Her hand found the lapel of his jacket, gripping it like she might fall without him.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath slow and even. "Goodnight, Clara."

Her lips still tingled as she whispered back, "Goodnight, Cooper."

He didn't leave until she'd stepped inside and shut the door. She leaned against it, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling too fast.

She told herself he was overthinking. That it was just a kiss, just a moment.

But deep down, she knew it was more.

[inkmonster21]

Sing for Me

Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Fem!OC

Series Masterlist

4. Room for Two

The vacancy sign blinked in tired red, throwing its pulse across the chrome of Cooper's car. A neon martini glass fizzed a block over; a radio behind the motel office window murmured some crooner about stars and second chances. Out here, the city felt distant—no studio lot, no handlers, no Vault-Tec banners smiling down. Just a two-story strip of doors and a promise written in light: Room for Two.

Cooper parked beneath a buzzing lamp and cut the engine. The silence after the motor died felt private. He glanced sideways; Clara was already smiling at him, lipstick perfect, eyes bright as if the night itself had dressed her. He leaned across the gearshift and kissed her before either of them said a word—slow first, then deeper when she laughed against his mouth.

"False names," he said, that warm drawl turned conspirator. "I'm partial to 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith.'"

"Too on the nose," she teased, brushing her thumb over his lower lip. "Mr. and Mrs. Winter. We're visiting from out of town."

"Snowbirds in June," he murmured, amused. "Yes, ma'am."

They checked in with matching grins and the kind of eye contact that made the clerk fumble the keys. Room 207. Second floor, end of the walkway. Cooper's hand settled at the small of Clara's back as they climbed. She could feel the heat of him through silk, the surety of the way he touched her when he didn't have to pretend for anyone.

The door clicked open; the room met them with the faint tang of cleanser over cigarette smoke. Beige wallpaper, a round lamp with a crooked shade, a heavy bedspread patterned with abstract leaves. It might've been a palace the way he kicked it shut and caught her mouth again, laughing into the kiss when she tugged him by his tie.

"Been thinkin' about you all day," he said, words brushing her bottom lip. "Damn near drove off the road once."

"Eyes on the highway, cowboy," she breathed, already working the knot loose. "You can look now."

He did. Oh, he did—like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had the good fortune to be holding it. Her dress slid off one shoulder, then the other, pooling at her heels in a soft sigh of fabric. Pearls winked at her throat; he touched them like they were holy and she was the altar.

"Keep 'em on," he said, gentler than the hunger in his voice. "Please."

"Bossy," she teased, and he grinned like he'd take the word as a compliment.

He backed her into the door and kissed her until her knees softened. His hands learned her again—waist, hip, the inside of a thigh—thumb skimming the silk of her stocking before finding garter clasp and tracing the little bite of elastic against skin. She shivered, shameless and happy, and dragged his jacket off his shoulders. The starched line of his shirt, the quiet strength under it—she loved undoing him, loved how he let her.

"Bed?" he asked, breath warm at her ear.

"Not yet," she said, and guided his hand between her legs.

His eyes went heavy, his smile different now. He sank to his knees like it was a prayer and kissed her through the thin lace of her panties, the heat of his mouth making her gasp. He tugged the fabric aside, slow only to watch her come undone. His tongue found her, patient and greedy, and the room's cheap lamp might as well have been chandelier light for how she moaned and threaded her fingers into his hair.

"Cooper," she warned, already breathless.

"Mm," he answered against her, satisfied, and did it again.

She came hard, a bright, easy crest that left her laughing as she sagged against the door. He stood, mouth glossy with her, and kissed her like he wanted her to taste the proof. She pulled at his belt; he let her. When she freed him, he hissed and swore softly—"Christ, Clara"—and she smiled, wicked and soft in the same breath.

"Bed," she said now, dizzy with want. "Or I'll ruin my stockings."

He tossed her, playful and sure, and the mattress bounced under the weight of both of them. She sprawled with a showgirl's flourish; he crawled over her slowly like a man enjoying the view. For a beat they just looked: she at the cut of his mouth, he at the curve of her smile. Then she hooked him with her calves and dragged him home.

He pressed into her in one long, claiming stroke, and they both went quiet the way people do when the thing they wanted turns out to be even better than they imagined. He didn't rush. Cooper never rushed—he set a rhythm he could keep, each thrust deliberate, his palm flattening over her belly to feel the way she took him.

"Mine tonight," he said, voice low and sure. "Just mine."

"Yours," she answered, no coyness in it at all.

They moved together like they'd been practicing for years. She arched, he followed; she dug nails into his shoulders, he changed his angle until her breath caught and broke on his name. When he leaned back on his knees and pulled her hips into his lap, she laughed—"show-off"—and then forgot the joke entirely as he gripped her and gave her exactly what she asked for without having to hear the words.

"Look at me," he said when she tried to hide in the crook of his neck.

She did. God, she did—eyes wide, lips open, her pleasure so pretty it made him cuss. He thumbed her clit, steady and sweet, and she fell apart under his hands, pearls flashing at her throat when she threw her head back. He followed with a groan, spilling deep, the heat of it dragging another little cry from her.

They laughed, messy and breathless, and stayed tangled while their hearts climbed down from the rafters. Cooper pressed slow kisses to her shoulder, the underside of her jaw, the hollow at her collarbone where the pearls rested.

"Round two," she murmured into his hair.

"In a minute," he said, indulgent, and rolled to the side only because she nudged him. She climbed over him like a cat claiming a warm windowsill, palms smoothing up his chest. When she sank onto him this time, she did it with a grin, taking her time, rocking to her own rhythm until he couldn't keep his hands off her, until his drawl fell apart altogether.

"Darlin'. Clara. Sweetheart—"

"That's it," she whispered, riding him down, the bed knocking gently against the wall in a metronome of scandal. "Talk pretty to me."

"Prettiest thing I ever saw," he managed, both hands on her waist, guiding and giving in equal measure. "Gonna remember you like this when I'm old and useless."

"Shut up," she laughed, and then broke into a curse that made him grin because he'd hit that angle again and she was gone, shaking around him, pulling him after her.

They dozed sometime later with the radio on low—tinny saxophone, a woman's voice promising she'd still be true come Sunday. Cooper smoked by the cracked window, shirtless, shoulder lit in ash-tray glow. Clara propped herself on an elbow and watched like a critic assessing a perfect final frame.

"Cliché," she said, amused.

"Guess I'm just missin' the hat," he drawled without turning, then did turn because he loved the way she lit up when he played the line just right.

She padded over, bare and unembarrassed, and plucked the cigarette from his fingers. One drag, a wrinkle of her nose, a laugh. She set it in the tray and pressed him back onto the mattress.

"Round three," she declared.

"Yes, ma'am."

They took their time—lazy kisses, hands mapping every old familiarity like it was new again. He went to his stomach and let her kiss the lines of his back, the small scar on his shoulder he always forgot about. She went to her knees and let him taste her again because he liked it and she liked that he liked it. When he finally slid inside from behind, both of them already soft with pleasure, it felt less like a conquest and more like a secret handshake only two people in the world knew.

"No neighbors," he murmured, lips at her ear. "No reason to be quiet."

She answered with a sound that made him groan and hold her tighter. The headboard tapped the wall in a rhythm that would've earned complaints anywhere respectable; here, it only scored a song they were making up as they went. She reached back and grabbed his forearm, anchoring him, and he swore again—happy, gone.

They finished tangled and grinning, the kind of grin shared by accomplices who got away with it. The room smelled like sweat and cheap soap, like their perfume and cologne nudging elbows. Clara sprawled across his chest and traced his jaw with a fingertip.

"What are we not thinking about?" she asked, eyes bright.

"Everything," he said, kissing her fingertip. "That all right with you?"

"Tonight?" She kissed him, slow and certain. "Perfect."

They dozed in turns, waking each other for kisses and sips of water and one last laugh about the clerk downstairs who couldn't stop staring at Clara's legs. When the horizon went from navy to gray and the vacancy sign started to look tired instead of seductive, they dressed with the kind of competence that only comes from practice.

He buttoned her into her dress and fixed the necklace clasp; she straightened his tie and stole one more kiss for the road. They slipped out, shoes quiet on the walkway, and he walked her all the way to the car because of course he did.

"Same time, next never?" she quipped, mischief in her smile.

"Soon as you say the word," he answered, thumb brushing her lower lip like he couldn't help himself.

Then he kissed her deep, unhurried, like the entire night condensed into one goodbye. No guilt, no future, just the undeniable fact of wanting and being wanted. When he finally let her go, the morning had fully arrived; the neon buzz died to a soft hum behind them.

"See you," she said, slipping behind the wheel.

"Count on it." He tapped the roof, stepped back, and watched her pull away, the taillights catching the last blink of the motel's sign.

Room for Two. Again, soon.

[inkmonster21]

[inkmonster21]

Bounty and Bloodlines

The Mandalorian x OC Aria Solo

Series Masterlist

Frog in the Crest

The rhythmic hum of the speeder bike was almost soothing—if not for the sharp desert wind cutting across their faces and the sense of dread lingering in the air. Aria's eyes drooped despite herself, the horizon a blurred smear of sand and motion. She leaned closer, wrapping her arms around Din's torso, resting her cheek against the cold durasteel of his armor.

"You can rest, love," he said, voice low beneath his helmet, a rare softness bleeding through the modulated tone. "We have a ways to go."

She hummed in response, eyes fluttering shut. "You'll need to lay off for a few days," she murmured sleepily. "I don't want you getting hurt."

A pause.

"Have you ever... done that much before?" he asked, voice cautious. "The... Force lightning?"

Aria's eyes opened slightly. "Whatever you want to call it," she said with a sigh. "No. I haven't. I can control it—usually—but in that moment..." Her voice cracked. "I went blind. I couldn't stop it. I think I need to—AH!"

They never saw it coming.

The speeder bike exploded out from under them, sent tumbling like thrown toys. Din, Aria, and the Child were thrown hard onto the sand. Aria landed with a grunt, her shoulder scraping against jagged rock. Before she could recover, a rough hand fisted in her hair, yanking her up to her feet.

"Grab the kid!" someone shouted. "I've got the—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Aria's saber snapped into her hand and ignited with a crackling hum, driving up into his abdomen. The light in his eyes flickered out before he hit the ground.

Chaos erupted.

She spun into the next attacker without hesitation, her saber carving clean through cloth and flesh. Blaster fire hissed past her ears. A sharp sting on her thigh, but she didn't falter. Din was backed up near a rock outcrop, two thugs cornering him.

"Hey!" she shouted, tossing the saber.

It spun through the air, gleaming, and landed in his gloved hand as if it had always belonged there. He sliced through the two men cleanly, then turned just in time to see Aria trip, her knee giving out. A small alien—barely taller than the Child—scrambled up her body, jamming a blaster to her temple and a knife to Grogu's neck.

Everything stilled.

"Wait!" Din barked, lowering his weapon with visible reluctance. "Don't hurt them."

Aria froze, blood thudding in her ears.

"If you put one mark on her," Din growled, "there's no place in the galaxy you'll be able to hide from me."

The hunter hesitated, watching Din carefully.

"We can strike a bargain," Din continued. "There's value in this wreckage. Take your pick."

The alien jabbed the knife toward Din, then pointed at the Mandalorian's jetpack.

Din's voice sharpened. "But leave my wife and the Child."

Aria felt the tension break as the creature finally backed off. The knife lowered. The baby ran into Din's arms, cooing, and Aria collapsed onto her back, panting, every nerve lit with fatigue and fury.

She watched the little alien struggle into the jetpack, fumble with the controls—and then launch into the air like a screaming rocket.

He didn't get far.

A distant BOOM echoed as the pack sputtered and sent the hunter crashing down in the distance, smoke and dust billowing around his now-limp body.

Aria burst into laughter, unable to stop herself. The absurdity, the exhaustion—it all cracked open in one ridiculous moment.

"Does Mommy think that's funny?" Din asked, lifting the baby into the crook of his arm. His voice, though modulated, carried that wry smile she'd learned to recognize.

He extended his hand to her. She took it, letting him pull her up with ease.

"When you need me to carry you, just say the word."

She smiled, brushing dirt from her tunic. "I'll let you know when I'm done being proud."

Later, back on Tatooine...

"Wake up, Aria, love."

Din's voice reached her in that half-sweet, half-commanding tone he used when she was just too damn stubborn to move.

Her eyes opened blearily. He was already lifting her from the speeder, carrying her with practiced ease through the cantina doors and into the warm, smoky light.

"Hey, beautiful. We're here. I'm gonna let you down, alright?"

She nodded groggily, boots hitting the ground as he guided her toward Peli Motto. The ever-chaotic mechanic barely looked up from her game before offering her usual quip.

"Well look at you, Ms. Sleepy. You finally found a Mandalorian and ya killed him?"

"He wasn't Mandalorian," Din replied, handing over a heavy sack. "I bought the armor off him."

Peli raised an eyebrow. "What'd that set you back?"

"He killed the krayt dragon," Aria mumbled into Peli's shoulder as she flopped beside her on the bench.

"Oh. Is that all?"

Din sighed, dropping into the seat across from them. "He was my last lead."

The massive insectoid creature beside Peli—Dr. Mandible—chittered something indecipherable.

Peli nodded. "Okay. Might be in luck. He says he can connect you with someone, if you pay for his call this round."

Din's helmet turned toward the poker table. "How much?"

"Five hundred."

"What? That's a high-stakes game."

"He's on a hot streak," she said smugly, gesturing at the bug's antennae.

A beat later:

"Ha! Idiot's Array! Pay up, thorax!" Peli slammed her cards down.

Din groaned. "You said he was on a hot streak."

She shrugged. "Oh stop your cryin'. You'll rust."

Dr. Mandible chirped again.

"All right. He says the contact will meet you at the hangar. They'll lead you to the Mandalorians."

Din sat up straighter. "That's what I wanted."

"Mm-hm. Well, you bring any of that dragon meat back? Better not have any maggots on it. I don't like maggots."

The meat sizzled on the fire, its scent wafting through the hangar. Aria tore off a piece, crouching beside Grogu.

"You hungry, sugar bug?" she cooed, handing him a tiny bite. "Don't tell daddy."

Behind her, Peli barked orders and half-truths. "All right, here's the deal," she said, walking over to Din. "The covert's in this sector, one system trailing. Your contact can take you."

"Cost?"

"Free," she said, far too quickly. "Aside from the finder's fee."

Din sighed. "What's the catch?"

Peli grinned. "There's one teeny skank in the scud pie."

Aria groaned. "Called it."

"The contact wants passage to the system," Peli explained.

Din crossed his arms. "Do you vouch for them?"

"On my life."

Din turned to Aria. She gave a small shrug. "If it gets us closer to your people, I don't mind."

He nodded. "Fine."

"And..." Peli winced. "No hyperdrive."

"What?" Din barked. "You realize we're wanted?"

"It's just one system."

"Moving fast is what's keeping us alive," Aria added firmly.

"These are... mitigating circumstances."

"What the hell does that mean?" Aria folded her arms.

Then came the croak.

They both turned to see a frog-like humanoid waddling toward them with a large canister strapped to her back.

"She needs passage to the estuary moon of Trask," Peli explained. "Her eggs need to be fertilized by equinox. Hyperspace would kill them. Her husband's settled there, and—"

"She said all that?" Din interrupted.

"I paraphrased."

Aria looked at the Frog Lady, her expression softening. "Do you know her husband?"

"Nope. Met her ten minutes ago."

"I thought you said you'd bet your life on her."

"I'm an excellent judge of character," Peli said, smug.

"You're evil," Aria muttered.

The Razor Crest was dimly lit, the engines humming at a quieter frequency than usual. Aria sat with the Child curled in her lap, watching the stars pass slowly through the viewport.

Din turned to the Frog Lady. "I'm gonna hit the rack. My wife's already resting. Course is set. If you need anything, she can help."

The alien gave a blank stare.

Din sighed. "You speak Huttese?"

No answer.

He looked to Aria.

She held up her hands. "Only Wookiee, darling. And somehow, I don't think that'll help."

He nodded and turned toward the sleeping quarters. Aria gave the Frog Lady a reassuring smile. "We'll get you to your husband, I promise."

"You know louder doesn't help if she doesn't understand you," Din said over his shoulder, but his voice held a quiet chuckle.

Aria eventually gave in to the pull of exhaustion, curling on the bunk. Her body throbbed in protest, every muscle begging for stillness. She barely noticed the Child toddling off her lap.

Din, meanwhile, was flipping switches in the cockpit, letting the ship drift.

A splash of water caught his attention.

"Kid?" he called, turning.

Grogu had climbed up the canister. He knocked gently on the glass, then—before Din could react—plucked one of the glimmering eggs out and popped it into his mouth.

"No, no, no!" Din scrambled over and scooped him up. "That is not food!"

Grogu burped and cooed innocently.

Din groaned, carrying him back.

He found Aria still asleep, snoring softly with one arm draped over the blanket. He laid Grogu gently on her stomach, then climbed in beside them. His arm settled around both her and the Child.

In that moment—soft, quiet, fleeting—Din let himself breathe.

The galaxy was falling apart.

But here, in this tiny pocket of stillness, he had a reason to keep going.

[inkmonster21]

A Cowboy’s Love

Ryan x OC Hattie Mae Dutton

Series Masterlist

Chapter 13

Hattie was sprinting across the front yard boot heels digging, wrenching open the truck door like it had personally offended her.

"Keys—where the hell are the damn keys—" she muttered, half to herself, panic lacing her voice.

"Hattie!" Ryan's voice cut through the chaos, boots thudding behind her as he jogged up, chest rising hard with each breath. "Hattie, stop. Stop for a second."

She turned on him like a wildfire, eyes wide, breathing shallow. "Don't tell me to stop, Ryan—he's bleeding out. They said it was bad. They said—" Her voice cracked, and she slapped the side of the truck. "Goddammit."

Ryan didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, hands out like he was approaching a spooked horse. "I know. I know, okay? I'm goin' with you. Just—let me drive."

"I'm fine."

"You're shakin'," he said, voice low but firm. "You ain't drivin'."

She froze for half a second. Just long enough for him to reach past her and unlock the truck. She didn't argue—just stomped around to the passenger side and yanked the door open.

Once inside, she pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to still the trembling. "If he dies—"

"He's not gonna die," Ryan cut in quickly, starting the engine. His jaw was tight, but his hand found hers without hesitation, fingers wrapping warm and strong around her cold ones. "You hear me? He's too damn mean to die."

That earned the faintest snort from her—wet, miserable, but real. "You sound like Beth."

He smirked, backing out of the drive fast. "She rubbed off on me. We've all been stuck on this ranch long enough to start talkin' like each other."

The tires kicked up gravel as they sped down the road. Hattie kept her gaze ahead, but her fingers tightened in his. It was instinct now—holding him. Not hiding.

"I don't care who sees," she whispered after a mile of silence. "You, me... this. I don't wanna pretend anymore."

Ryan glanced at her, surprised. Then softened. "Good. 'Cause I already told Colby and Lloyd. And if you think Rip don't know, you're dumber than you look."

She shot him a sideways glare. "Thanks."

He grinned. "You're welcome."

And then—silence again. Heavy. Thick with fear and grief and everything unsaid. Ryan's thumb brushed hers, grounding her.

"Just hold on, daddy," Hattie whispered to herself, staring out at the endless stretch of road. "Don't you dare leave us."

The ER doors slid open with that cold mechanical whisper, too slow for how fast Hattie's boots hit the tile. Ryan kept pace beside her, one hand steady on the small of her back. He didn't speak now—just stayed close, his presence like an anchor.

Kayce stood near the front desk, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. Blood stained the sleeve of his shirt. Not his. Their father's.

Hattie's breath caught.

"Where is he?" she rasped out, barely stopping before she was on top of her brother.

Kayce turned, eyes already softening when they landed on her. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "They've got him back in surgery. Vet did all she could."

She swayed just slightly. Ryan was there immediately, easing her down onto one of the waiting room chairs before her knees could give.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered, pressing her palms to her face.

"Doctor said it's gonna be hours," Kayce added, rubbing a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through.

And then—

A whirlwind of perfume, boot stomps, and rage burst through the ER entrance.

Beth.

Hair wild, sunglasses shoved up into her blonde waves, and fire burning in her eyes.

"Where the fuck is he?" she barked at the nurse behind the desk.

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to calm down—"

"Calm down? I'll calm down when someone tells me why the hell my father is in a goddamn hospital bed and I'm finding out through a fucking ranch hand!"

"Beth—" Kayce stepped in, but she rounded on him like a rattlesnake.

"You couldn't pick up the phone?"

"I did." He pointed to Hattie. "She answered."

Beth's head snapped to her younger sister, eyes wild. "You knew and didn't call me?"

"I was on my way here," Hattie shot back, standing on shaky legs. "You want me to FaceTime you from the damn truck while our father's bleeding out?!"

"Enough," Kayce cut in, sharp. "He's in surgery. You wanna fight, you can do it later. Right now, we wait."

Beth scoffed and ran a shaking hand through her hair. Her voice dropped. "I wanna see him."

"They won't let us back yet," Ryan said calmly from behind Hattie, voice the only one without sharp edges. "They're doin' everything they can."

Beth's eyes flicked to him, then down to his hand, still resting gently against Hattie's back.

Her gaze narrowed—but she didn't comment.

Instead, she sat down two chairs over, pulled out a cigarette she couldn't light, and stared dead ahead.

The waiting room fell into silence. Just the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant whir of hospital machines.

Hattie leaned into Ryan without thinking, head against his shoulder, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. He shifted his arm and wrapped it around her fully, tugging her into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No hiding. Not anymore.

It felt like a lifetime.

Hattie had stopped watching the clock after the first thirty minutes. She sat half-curled into Ryan's side on one of those godawful vinyl hospital chairs, legs tucked up, eyes red but dry. Kayce hadn't moved much, just paced now and then. Beth was somewhere in the corner with her head leaned back and one knee bouncing wildly, like if she stopped moving she might combust.

When the surgeon finally walked through the double doors, every head snapped up like a pack of bloodhounds.

"Dutton family?"

They all stood at once.

The doctor looked startled for a second—probably hadn't expected the full Yellowstone cavalry. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"John's stable. We removed the necrotic tissue, repaired the rupture. No sign of sepsis, but we're watching him closely."

"Is he awake?" Beth asked, voice clipped and urgent.

"Not yet. He's heavily sedated. But he made it through surgery, and that's what matters right now."

Hattie's knees nearly gave again.

Ryan tightened his grip on her.

"You can go back, two at a time," the doctor added, gesturing toward the corridor. "Room 208."

Beth moved like a bullet.

"I'm going."

"No shit," Kayce muttered, then glanced back at Hattie. "You okay?"

She nodded, though her throat felt tight as wire. "Go ahead. I'll wait."

Beth shot a look at Ryan—one of those quick, calculating Beth glances—and then disappeared down the hall with Kayce at her side.

Hattie stayed quiet for a moment. Then:

"I thought we were gonna lose him."

Ryan didn't say anything. Just took her hand and led her to a quieter corner of the room, guiding her into one of those ridiculous fabric chairs with the wooden arms. Once she was seated, he dropped to a knee in front of her.

"You didn't," he said. "He's still here."

"Barely," she whispered. "That's the thing, Ry. He's not invincible. I... I forget that sometimes. I think we all do."

Ryan looked up at her like she was the only woman in the world. "Ain't a thing wrong with wantin' more time with the people you love."

She blinked. "You just said the L-word."

He smirked. "I was talkin' about your dad."

"Mm-hmm."

He stood and helped her up, brushing his thumb gently along the back of her hand. "You ready?"

"No."

"You wanna wait longer?"

"No," she said, voice firm now. "I need to see him."

They made their way down the hall together, past nurses and machines and sterile white walls. The door to room 208 stood slightly ajar.

Inside, the air was still.

John Dutton lay in the hospital bed—too pale, too still, too small. Machines beeped beside him in calm rhythm. His hand lay limp against the blanket.

Kayce sat at the far end of the room, arms crossed but eyes soft. Beth stood next to the bed, gripping the rail like it had personally offended her.

When she saw Hattie, she moved aside. No snide comment. No raised eyebrow. Just... moved.

Hattie stepped in slowly, legs stiff, chest full.

She reached out, brushing the back of her fingers along her daddy's hand. "Hey, daddy," she whispered. "You're not done yet. Not even close."

Ryan lingered near the doorway, silent. Watching.

She didn't let go.

The beeping was steady now.

Slow, regular. Comforting in its own twisted way.

The clock on the wall had ticked well past midnight, and the rest of the world had gone still. Beth had finally relented around ten—grumbling something about bourbon and cigarettes. Kayce left not long after, promising he'd check in at the crack of dawn. Ryan pressed a kiss to her forehead and silently left.

But Hattie hadn't moved.

She sat curled up in the corner chair with her knees hugged to her chest and a hospital blanket pulled up over her boots. Every now and then she'd drift off, only to startle awake and glance at the monitors like something might've changed.

It hadn't.

Not until—

"...Hattie."

Her name was rasped like gravel. Barely a whisper.

Her head snapped up so fast it almost made her dizzy. "Daddy?"

John blinked slowly. His skin was still pale, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with sedation, but he was there. Conscious.

"Hey," she breathed, standing so quickly the blanket fell off her lap. She moved to his side, taking his hand gently between both of hers. "Hi. You're okay."

He let out a sound that might've been a grunt or a groan. "Define okay."

She smiled, wet and relieved. "Alive."

"That vet better be retired by now."

"You're in the hospital. Big one. Bozeman," she said gently. "They fixed you up. We've been here all day."

His brows twitched, like he was trying to sift through a fog. "You were cryin'."

"I was... worried."

"You don't cry," he muttered. "You punch walls. Kick tires."

"I do both," she said, and a tear slipped down her cheek as she laughed softly. "Beth did plenty of yellin' for both of us."

He gave the ghost of a smile. "She always does."

There was a pause. The air settled.

Then John shifted just slightly, enough to glance at the door and then back at her.

"So how long has it been going on?"

Hattie blinked. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, girl. Ryan."

Her cheeks flushed. "Oh."

John's voice was slow and slurred but clear. "I saw the way he held you. Back at the ranch. Not just how. Why. Like he meant it."

Hattie swallowed hard. Her voice was soft. "He does."

More silence.

"I figured that dumb bastard was sweet on you," John continued, his hand barely curling in hers. "But I didn't know you let him be."

"I didn't," she said. "Not really. Not until recently."

"Hmm."

John closed his eyes for a second. Just long enough for her heart to skip a beat. But then he spoke again.

"You know I'll have to kick his ass."

Hattie grinned through another tear. "You're welcome to try. He'd probably let you."

"I'll do it anyway."

"Of course you will."

They both chuckled softly. And then he gave her that look — the one only a father could give. The one that saw every inch of her, even the parts she tried to guard.

"You're my youngest," he said. "Always my soft spot."

"I hate when you call me that. I'm like a baby."

"But you are," he whispered. "And if that man ever makes you cry for the wrong reasons... I'll bury him myself."

She didn't argue.

She just leaned in, pressed her forehead to the back of his hand, and whispered, "I know."

And in the quiet hum of machines and hallway light, John Dutton fell back asleep.

Still stubborn.

Still dangerous.

Still Hattie Mae's daddy.

[inkmonster21]

ive got something on my mind… here

teasing hugh jackman by texting “baby it’s so lonely here without you, i miss you.🥺” while using the one that lingerie set he was obsessed. (he was on other countries for filming) and he ruined you both in facetime and when he gets home

Bestie you’re EVIL for this one 😏🔥 Hugh didn’t stand a chance against that lingerie + pout combo. facetime was just the warm-up 👀

The Text

It started with one photo.

The lighting was soft and warm, your phone angled just right to catch the curve of your body in the black lace lingerie Hugh had gone wild over last month.

You sent it with the caption:

“Baby it’s so lonely here without you, I miss you 🥺”

You could practically hear the sharp inhale he’d make when he saw it.

It didn’t take long—your phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime request. When you answered, Hugh’s face filled the screen, hair tousled from his hotel bed, jaw tight.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was low, dangerous. “You tryin’ to kill me? I’m on the other side of the damn world.”

You shifted on your bed, letting the lace slip a little lower on your shoulder. “Just thought you might want some company.”

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “Stand up. Let me see all of it.”

You obeyed, stepping back so the camera caught every inch. His eyes darkened immediately. “Turn around… slow.”

You did, hearing his breathing change through the speaker. “Christ, I’m gonna wreck you when I get home.”

FaceTime Ruin

“Touch yourself for me,” he ordered, voice gravelly now. “Right there, on the bed. I wanna see.”

Your pulse spiked as you lay back, spreading your legs for him. His gaze never wavered from the screen as you slid a hand down your body, fingers brushing over lace and skin.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured. You could hear the faint shuffle of him moving, the low curse when you dipped your fingers under the lace. “God, I wish I was there—wish it was my cock filling you instead of your hand.”

The sound of his voice alone had you grinding into your own touch, breath coming faster.

“Say my name when you come,” he demanded, working himself just out of view.

It didn’t take long—you cried out for him, hips arching as heat rushed through you, and the guttural groan he let out told you he’d finished right along with you.

The second you opened the door, Hugh’s hands were on you. Not a word of greeting, no small talk—just a hot, desperate kiss that had you pressed into the wall before you could even kick your slippers off.

“You,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from travel and want, “are in so much trouble.”

“Trouble?” you teased, but your voice was already shaking.

His mouth crashed back into yours. “Trouble. Big trouble. Teasing me from halfway across the globe, makin’ me watch you come without me there? Not forgivin’ that easily, sweetheart.”

Round One – The Bedroom

He carried you—actually carried you—down the hall, tossing his bag somewhere along the way. By the time he reached the bed, you were half-naked, your shirt abandoned on the floor and your bra hanging off his wrist like he’d forgotten to drop it.

“Where’s that lingerie?” he demanded, tossing you onto the mattress.

“In the drawer—”

He didn’t let you finish before retrieving it and holding it up, smirking. “Put it on.”

The hunger in his eyes as you slipped it back on made your knees weak. He climbed onto the bed, settling between your thighs and running his fingers over the lace, just like he’d imagined on the plane.

“God, I missed this,” he murmured before tearing the set off you entirely, lips dragging down your stomach. His mouth was on you a second later, tongue slow and deliberate until you were already shaking, and he didn’t stop until you were gasping his name, your orgasm hitting hard and fast.

Round Two – The Desk

You barely had time to breathe before he flipped you over, guiding you off the bed and toward the desk in the corner. “Hands here,” he ordered, pressing your palms to the wood.

The sound of his zipper coming down made your heart pound.

He slid into you in one long, deep thrust that made you cry out. His hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“This is what I wanted on that call,” he growled, pounding into you. “You, takin’ me deep, hearin’ you scream for me instead of holdin’ back ‘cause of a damn phone.”

The desk creaked under the force of his thrusts, and when you came again, he groaned so deep it rattled your bones, spilling into you and keeping you pinned until every last shudder passed.

Round Three – The Shower

You thought maybe that would be it—he had to be tired from travel—but no.

He dragged you into the bathroom, stripping the rest of his clothes and pulling you under the spray with him. Warm water cascaded over both of you, but Hugh’s mouth on yours was still hotter.

His hands roamed everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing your breasts, pressing you back against the tile as he slid into you again.

This time was slower, more deliberate, each roll of his hips making you cling to his shoulders. He kissed you through the rising heat, whispering filth and praise against your lips until you came, shuddering, holding onto him like you’d drown without his body against yours.

Round Four – The Floor

After the shower, you both barely made it to the bedroom before he dropped down onto the rug, pulling you into his lap.

“You think I can stop now?” he asked, cock already hard again. “Not after waitin’ this long.”

You sank down onto him, the both of you groaning at the stretch. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you rode him.

It was messy, unrestrained—his teeth on your neck, your nails raking down his back, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. You came together this time, his head falling to your shoulder as he groaned through his release, holding you close even after the last tremor passed.

Aftercare & Clinginess

Finally, finally, he let you collapse into bed. Hugh wrapped himself around you like he wasn’t going to let go for a week—one arm tight around your waist, his face buried in your hair.

“You’re never allowed to pull that again when I’m away,” he murmured. “Or maybe you are… but only if you’re ready for this every damn time I get home.”

You smiled sleepily against his chest. “Guess I’ll have to think about that.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “No thinkin’. I’m keeping you like this all night.”

And he did—holding you close, still tracing his fingers over your skin as though reminding himself you were really there, until you both fell asleep tangled together.

[inkmonster21]

Two Left Feet, One Right Man

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x DanceTeacherReader

Series Masterlist

Johnny discovers your duet partner is gay, but that doesn’t stop him from sulking like a kicked puppy. Then he finds out you wear short dresses and drink margaritas outside the studio… and he absolutely loses it.

4. Don’t Be Jealous, Soldier

Two months.

That’s how close you were to the dance recital. Sixty days from chaos. You were already dreaming in sequins and glitter-induced nightmares. Every year it was the same: long nights, costume mishaps, backstage tears, and, somehow, the most magical damn performance the studio could muster.

Your own lineup was locked:

* Solo (your moment—raw, grounded, usually to something dark and emotional)

* Duet (with Rhys, the senior company’s strongest male dancer, lyrical contemporary, always dramatic)

* Group Number with your youngest class: classic ballet fluff, swan arms and glitter crowns and Disney music—this year it was a Frozen medley.

You’d already begun running sections during class.

And, as expected, Johnny “Boots Again” MacTavish had made himself comfortably at home on the volunteer crew.

He showed up early every Monday and Thursday, feigning confusion every time you gave him instructions like he didn’t understand basic spatial orientation. You caught him flexing when lifting props more than once. Somehow, he’d become the unofficial “backstage muscle” and the dance moms were starting to request him by name.

But today?

Today was duet day.

You were rehearsing in the smaller studio with Rhys—who was already sweating in his tank top, hair flopping in his eyes, ready to jump into a lift that ended with you wrapped around his back.

You didn’t even hear Johnny walk in.

Didn’t see him watching from the doorway with narrowed eyes and a paper coffee cup slowly crumpling in his fist.

It wasn’t until Rhys caught you mid-air, spinning you into a slow descent where your bodies brushed close, that Johnny finally spoke.

“Well. Isn’t this cozy.”

You whipped your head around mid-turn. “Jesus—MacTavish, do you live here?”

Rhys snorted. “Is this the boot guy?”

“Boot guy?” Johnny echoed, offended.

You sighed. “Johnny, this is Rhys, my duet partner. Rhys, this is Johnny, volunteer, uncle of the twins, professional flirt.”

Johnny stuck his hand out stiffly. “Nice to meet you.”

Rhys grinned, completely oblivious to the tension. “Hey, man. Love your tattoos. You ever think of doing partner work? You’ve got great arms for lifting.”

Johnny blinked. “… Lifting who?”

“Oh—anyone. You could toss me. I’d trust you.”

Johnny stared at him.

You stifled a laugh. “Rhys is very secure in himself.”

“I’m literally gay,” Rhys added, as if he could hear the thoughts scrambling behind Johnny’s wide blue eyes.

“Oh.” Johnny relaxed. “Aye. That’s… good to know.”

Rhys winked. “I like yours better.”

You shoved his shoulder. “Out. Break’s over.”

Later, Johnny found you in the hallway, clipboard in hand, earbuds slung around your neck. You didn’t even look up when he fell into step beside you.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” you said.

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Sure.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You crushed a coffee cup like it owed you money.”

Johnny made a face. “He was touching you.”

“It’s partner work. That’s how duets work.”

“Still.”

You looked up at him finally. “You know, for someone who’s not my boyfriend, you’re awfully possessive.”

He stopped walking. “I could be.”

You blinked.

He grinned. “Your boyfriend. I mean.”

Your face twitched into a smile. “And ruin all this delightful tension between us?”

He leaned in, voice low. “You’d miss me too much if I backed off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue.

That night, back at Maggie’s house, Johnny flopped onto the couch like a man defeated. His head tilted back. He exhaled dramatically.

Maggie looked up from her laptop. “What’s wrong with you now?”

“I watched my future wife get thrown around by a bendy little dancer with better hair than me.”

She blinked. “That sentence needs so much unpacking.”

He waved a hand. “Nevermind.”

But she already knew.

She clicked her tongue. “You know she goes out, right?”

He sat up. “Goes out?”

“Yeah. With her girlfriends. To bars. Restaurants. Dance clubs, sometimes. She has a life outside the studio.”

That shouldn’t have made his chest feel weird. But it did.

“I’m just saying,” Maggie continued, smug now. “She’s not all tutus and glitter. I’ve been invited out once or twice. It’s very clear she has… layers.”

Johnny blinked. “Wait—you’ve been invited?”

“Mom friends talk, Johnny.”

He looked betrayed.

Maggie grinned. “You wanna see her Instagram?”

He snatched the phone before she could finish unlocking it.

And then… he spiraled.

Your private account was now public—or maybe you’d accepted his silent follow request from a week ago, oh God—and suddenly he was scrolling through a grid of you in casual clothes, no bun, no clipboard, just soft lighting and unfiltered moments.

You in a short dress and cowboy boots, laughing into a margarita.

You on a rooftop in black leather pants and a crop top, middle finger up.

You with your girlfriends, blowing kisses at the camera, cheeks flushed.

Johnny stared, eyes wide, like he’d stumbled into a forbidden archive.

“She posts this?”

Maggie sipped her tea. “She’s an adult woman, Johnny. Not a nun.”

He kept scrolling.

“She’s got a tattoo? Since when?”

“She’s always had it. It’s on her ribcage.”

He made a strangled noise. “You’ve seen her ribcage?”

“She wears a bathing suit. Chill.”

He threw the phone down like it betrayed him. “This is torture.”

“Or maybe,” Maggie said sweetly, “you could ask her out like a normal person instead of fake volunteering for preschool ballet shifts.”

He groaned.

But the truth was… he might.

🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷🧼🩰🩷

Tagged:

@famouspoetrydinosaur

[inkmonster21]

I’m Just Next Door

Series Masterlist

Captain John Price x SingleMomReader

The morning goodbye lingers as John deploys, and you’re left to navigate the quiet days with your daughter. Across the world, he clings to reminders of you both—because survival means getting back home.

13. Morning Light & Last Touches

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Maybe for an hour or two—half-dozing with your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand resting on your hip like it always did. But even in the dark, even in the silence, your mind kept counting down the minutes. Until dawn. Until goodbye.

When the sun finally crept in through the window, you were still curled around each other. He was warm and solid and steady—like he always was—and you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to give the morning permission to start.

But it did anyway.

John stirred beneath you, blinking slowly as the golden light hit his face. His arms tightened around your waist.

“Still awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You nodded against his chest. “Didn’t wanna miss a second.”

His hand drifted along your bare back, slow and grounding. “Wish I could stay, love. Know that.”

You pulled back just far enough to see his face—his messy hair, his beard rougher than usual, his eyes heavy but soft. You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, like it could delay time. Like you could hold him here a little longer.

When you pulled away, your nose brushed his. “Don’t forget this.”

“I won’t,” he said quietly. “Not a bloody chance.”

You lay there in silence for a long time. Eventually, your daughter’s soft voice echoed from down the hall.

“Momma?”

John smiled faintly. “She’s up.”

“Yep,” you whispered. “Reality starts now.”

You both got dressed slowly. He sat at the edge of the bed pulling on his boots while you stood at the mirror brushing your hair. He kept glancing at you in the reflection—like he was trying to memorize you one last time.

Downstairs, the scent of coffee brewed while your daughter sat cross-legged on the floor in her fuzzy pajamas, eating cereal and watching cartoons. She lit up the moment she saw him.

“John!”

He knelt immediately and scooped her up, holding her close. “Mornin’, Peach.”

She clung to him like she knew, even if she didn’t understand.

“You leavin’ now?”

He kissed the side of her head. “Yeah, baby girl. Gotta go for a little while.”

“But I don’t want you to go.”

He smiled sadly. “I don’t want to either.”

She reached out and touched his beard, her little fingers brushing his face. “Don’t forget your Buzz,” she said seriously, pointing to the toy on the counter.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stood by the front door while he hugged her one last time. She didn’t cry, but her arms stayed wrapped around his neck longer than usual.

When he finally stood up and turned to you, your throat tightened.

“I’ll call when I can,” he said.

You nodded. “Be safe.”

He kissed you again—slow and grounding. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

And then he was gone.

The first few hours were the worst.

You made yourself busy. Laundry, dishes, cleaning out the fridge. Anything to avoid sitting still. Anything to avoid the echo of his voice in your kitchen or the feel of his hands still lingering on your skin.

Your daughter asked for him before lunch.

“Is my John coming over after dinner?”

You paused, heart aching. “Not tonight, baby. Remember? He had to go help some people.”

She nodded slowly. “But he said he’d come back.”

“He will,” you promised. “He always keeps his promises.”

That night, after she was asleep, you sat on the couch holding his hoodie, listening to his old voicemails like some kind of ritual. You didn’t cry. Not that night. You were still holding it together.

The second day was harder.

Everything reminded you of him. His toothbrush in your bathroom. His socks in the hamper. The half-read book by the bed.

You went to the grocery store, and your daughter asked if you were buying stuff for “My John’s pancakes.”

You had to step into the freezer aisle and pretend to be comparing peas just to wipe your eyes.

On day three, your friend came over.

She brought wine and cookies and gave you a tight hug the moment she walked in. “Thought I’d come be a distraction.”

You smiled faintly. “Please. I need one.”

The two of you sat on the couch while your daughter played nearby.

“So this is serious, huh?” She said gently.

“Yeah.”

“And he’s military?”

“Captain,” you nodded. “Special forces.”

She gave a low whistle. “Damn. No wonder he walks like he owns the ground.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“He loves her,” you said quietly, watching your daughter giggle at her toys. “He treats her like his own.”

Her voice softened. “You alright?”

You shrugged. “I will be.”

On day five, your daughter cried for the first time.

She had a nightmare and ran into your room sobbing. “Where’s my John? I want him to tell me a story.”

You held her close and tried not to break. “I know, baby. I miss him too.”

Meanwhile

The chopper ride was loud and cold, but John didn’t hear it.

He sat with his gear tight against his chest, Buzz Lightyear strapped inside the webbing of his pack, and your voice echoing in his ears.

I love you.

The words had unraveled him. The good kind of unraveling—the kind he didn’t think he’d ever know again. Not like this. Not with a woman who fit into his life like she’d been made for it. And a little girl who’d claimed him as hers without question.

Now all he had were memories.

By day two, the boys had clocked something was off.

“Alright, Captain,” Soap said, sipping coffee in their temporary base. “You’ve been starin’ at the same wall for ten minutes. You thinking of your neighbor?”

John didn’t answer.

Gaz grinned. “Oh, it’s like that?”

John side-eyed them both, unimpressed. “You two really need hobbies.”

Ghost sipped his tea. “You got quiet. Not broody. Quiet.”

John leaned back in his chair. “Just missin’ home.”

Soap raised a brow. “The house? Or the girls?”

John’s silence was answer enough.

On day three, he sat alone cleaning his sidearm when Kate Laswell walked in.

“Captain,” she greeted. “Mission briefing in ten.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

She paused, assessing him like she always did. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar,” she replied flatly.

He smirked faintly. “Still a good one, though.”

She sat on the edge of the desk, crossing her arms. “You’re different this time. You’ve got something—someone—you don’t want to leave behind.”

He didn’t answer.

“Who is she?” Kate asked, more curious than accusatory.

He looked up. “Someone who makes leaving a hell of a lot harder.”

Kate’s expression softened. “Then maybe that’s someone you don’t let go of.”

The last two days were a blur of routine.

You made it through the days without breaking, but it was like a piece of you had been carved out. You kept it together for your daughter, who now asked about John at least three times a day.

“When is my John coming home?”

“Does my John miss me?”

“Is my John eating dinner?”

Every time you promised her, “He’ll come home. He’s thinking about us. He misses you so much.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but you missed him even more.

The Mission

They were pinned down behind a rusted truck, dust kicking up around them as bullets struck the concrete.

“Smoke out!” Ghost shouted, lobbing a canister.

John ducked low, breath steady. Focus locked in.

Stay alive. Go home.

He moved with purpose, clearing the building, checking every corner. His mind sharp. His pulse calm. Until it was over.

Only then—only after the dust had settled—did he allow himself a second to breathe.

He looked at the cracked photo in his vest pocket—your daughter’s little Buzz Lightyear figure he wasn’t allowed to leave.

He touched the paper gently.

“I’m comin’ home,” he whispered.

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