#ㅡmine.

[grandlinedreams]

|| i regret nothing I need Cooper Howard viscerally both pre and post Ghoulification

|| notes: semi Canon compliant, spoiler-ish for end of s1, semi-shifting pov, Lucy is adorable but baby girl you will be chewed up and spat out pls grow more spine, Dogmeat has never done anything wrong ever, godbless Cooper having a southern accent bc that's my accent, yeah, gonna do a sequel to this and a prequel on Coop and reader's first meeting, ok bye

|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, couple of allusions to cannibalism, reader is not specifically gendered, NSFW ㅡ fingering/touching

“Where are we going?”

Not for the first time today, or even the last week, Cooper questions why he's letting the Vaultie (“Lucy,” she informs him primly, “my name is Lucy.”) tag along. The dog, at least, is a good, reliable companion. Dogmeat trots dutifully at his side, her tail wagging as he stops to glare at Lucy.

“Supplies, Vaultie,” he tells her, relishes the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Need supplies or we'll both be knee deep in shit.” He pauses. “More than we already are.” 

She mumbles something he doesn't care to catch as he resumes walking, rolling his eyes as he adjusts his hat. He knows he could stand to be a little more sympathetic with the bombshell she's still dealing with, but he can't bring himself to ㅡ not when his daughter might still be alive out there, somewhere. (And his ex-wife, who he's pointedly trying to not think about too much.) 

Lucy is blessedly quiet for a good while, all the way until they get closer to where they're going. Cooper doesn't need that piece of shit vault-tec device on her arm to know where he is, but Lucy says it anyways.

“It's a town,” she mumbles at the cluster of ramshackle buildings, surrounded by the clustering of trees so much like Filly ㅡ but isn't. “Is thisㅡ”

“Yes,” he answers, “now shut it and walk.”

Lucy huffs. “I don't know if you've realized neither of us have means to pay for anything,” she protests, “but the general rule ofㅡ” 

“Vaultie.” If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under. He's never had much patience, but she’s already reached the bottom of it and keeps digging. “Shut the fuck up about your goddamn rules. If you haven't noticed, nobody up here gives a damn about playing by what's wrong and what's right.” He gives her a meaningful look. “Now if you don't want me to leave your ass to whatever comes along next, you'll be quiet and let me handle it.” 

Lucy's mouth shuts with an audible click, and Cooper turns on his heel to resume walking, Dogmeat at his heels. 

Like Filly, the center of buildings bustle with the day to day of so many others, the cacophony of animal sounds along with chatter ㅡ Cooper spares Lucy a brief glance to watch her struggle to keep up and scoffs to himself, shaking his head as he continues.

He knows where he's going, a little shop shoved between two others, narrow but deeper than the other two, because he's been here before. Several times, actually. Which accounts for the familiarity with which he strolls over the threshold and leaves Lucy and Dogmeat to follow. 

There's the jingle of what might be a bell over Lucy's head when she follows, blinking at the interior. Neat and tidy, or at least as much as can pass for such things on the surface ㅡ rows of weapons and other assorted things on shelves and stands. 

Lucy watches The Ghoul rap his fist on the counter. “I know you're here,” he calls, “you never leave this damn place!”

She expects whoever it is to come scuttling out with the tone of voice he uses and being as accustomed to his rougher attitude, and she listens to the clatter of something further in the shop.

“If that's your greeting nowadays,” comes the answer, “you can fuck off.” 

To Lucy’s surprise, The Ghoul husks a laugh instead of offering another threat. Footsteps approach, and Lucy blinks at the person who rounds the corner. 

“You,” you accuse, finger almost into his chest, “thought I told you I was done dealing with you if you couldn't work on your manners.” 

Lucy stares, and watches as you turn towards her and raise an eyebrow, eyeing her with unrestrained curiosity, then at Dogmeat. “A vaultie and a dog,” you say, then glance back at The Ghoul. “So, taking in strays, huh?”

The Ghoul grimaces. “Guess so.” He clears his throat. “Need supplies again, sweetheart.”

“Figured as much,” you say, arms folding across your chest. Lucy decides she likes you, because you're standing up to him ㅡ and he's letting you. “Take it you have no way of paying, again.”

Lucy wants to tell The Ghoul I told you so, because he can shit on all her little rules all he likes but the surface still deals in keeping the scales balanced. You have to eat too, so it's fair that you're expecting payment in the nonexistent caps they have. The Ghoul, on the other hand, tries a different route. 

“Oh come on now sugar,” The Ghoul wheedles, tone almost what could be considered as sweet. Playing at a gentleman for the way he leans against the cobbled together counter, even goes as far as to take his hat off and place it down. “Don't be like that.”

“Don't you sugar me,” you counter with an attitude that honestly startles Lucy for both the lack of genuine bite or answering hostility from The Ghoul. This isn't the first time you've met, she realizes, and is also quietly a little horrified to register that this almost sounds like flirting. “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

The Ghoul almost grins. “At least I'm consistent. Besides, you know you miss me when I'm gone.” 

You snort, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. Lucy feels a tiny bit uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like she's watching something she shouldn't be privy to. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you answer, bustling around to shove several fabric wrapped packs into his chest and giving him a meaningful look. “You owe me.” 

It's definitely flirting now, Lucy notes as The Ghoul's face lights up in a way that's still entirely human, tracking your movements with something far softer than anything she's ever seen from him. 

The turn towards her and head jerk to her and Dogmeat is as clear as dismissal as she's ever seen, to make herself scarce ㅡ so she does, but not before she catches the peripheral glimpse of the way you let him reach for you, almost melting into him for the way he moves to undoubtedly murmur something. 

That something is not the sweet words of a long time lover, but it's probably about as close as you're going to get with things the way they are.

 

“Anyone causin’ you trouble lately?” 

You roll your eyes. “Besides you?” He gives you a look, and you shake your head. “No, and even if there was, you know I can handle myself.” You turn to throw him a teasing look over your shoulder. “Don't tell me you're getting soft on me, old man.” 

It's Cooper's turn to snort, even as he moves to follow you. There's a sort of peace to watching you sort through boxes of shell casings and bottles of powder, letting his gaze drift over your body. 

When you turn, he doesn't even bother to hide the way he's watching you, and you arch an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he returns. “Can't I admire you?”

You roll your eyes. “I'm too expensive for you, Cooper.” It's a playful taunt, one that incites a little flare of something in his eyes as he approaches, the jingle of his spurs as he comes to loom over you, cages you in against the shelves of “inventory”. 

“Really now,” he drawls, leans in, eyes predatory dark. A lifetime ago, you might have been scared. But the wastelands made no qualms about beating fear out of people just as quick as it snuffed out life all together. “Here I was thinkin’ I might get a discount.” He reaches, thumbs at your bottom lip with his gloved digit. “What's the askin’ price, sweetheart?” 

This close, he smells like the wastelands and sunbaked leather, with a little bit of blood ㅡ but you don't mind. Never have, not sure you ever will. Not when it comes to him, anyways.

He's a dangerous man. A man with a reputation that's well-earned, spoken in hushed whispers and anything but nice. But you let him slot a leg between yours, lean in, press his lips to your hair. You smell like gunpowder and hot metal, grease stained fingertips and more than a couple bruises and scars for your efforts. 

Sometimes Cooper contends with the idea he might need you just as much as he needs that chem that keeps him sane. Admits it here and there, quietly to himself when he wanders in, squashes it down that he makes the trips sometimes just to make sure you're still alive. Not like he'd know if you were, till he sees you. Not sure what he'd do if he someday came up and found you gone. No note, no goodbye ㅡ quick and quiet, the cruelty of the wastelands.  

“Didn't answer my question, darlin’.” He mumbles, lips to your cheeks now. Soft skin, kept carefully with rationed doses of radaway and a healthy heap of keeping your cute little self out of business that doesn't involve you. “Come on, I asked you real nicely.” 

You hook your fingers in the loops of his belt, pull him closer. He can feel the jump of your heartbeat under his lips, now at your jawline. A soft, shaky inhale. Selfishly, he wants to keep you. Steal you away, greedy to keep you for himself. Hates the idea of whatever scum that rolls in that you have to deal with on your own. You can handle yourself, he knows that. 

Doesn't stop that little piece of him that's still truly Cooper Howard from worrying. But he knows better than to think he can protect you, because he can't. So he does what he can.

Your skin is soft under his teeth, forgiving to the nip of them, the blooming blossom of pink that reminds him of strawberries. The noise you make is just as sweet, and he wonders if you'd taste like that, too. 

“I'm waiting,” he prompts between little nips, mouth curving against your flesh when you grip at him tighter. There's a lot he could do to you, and not a lot you wouldn't let him. “Don't tell me this big ol’ cat’s got your tongue, little songbird.” 

Your lips part, and he expects either a sparky response or a soft plea for what this is tilting towards, partaking of something far softer than anything he's used to nowadays ㅡ  but you’ve always had a taste for throwing him for a loop, and you do it now. 

“Take me with you.” 

That snaps him out of his little hazy, touch-greedy daze, enough that he pulls away to look at you properly. “Repeat that?”

“You heard me.” You tug at the loops of his belt, eyes steely, expression firm. “Take me with you. Tired of this shitty little outpost. Figure it's time to move before I get myself into trouble I can't get out of.”

Cooper laughs. “Think you're runnin’ straight into that fire by askin’ what you're askin’, sweet thing.” A warning and a plea, mixed mish-mash in his words. Part of him wants you to stay here. Concrete, much as it can be, where he knows where you are. Other part says it'd be easier to watch your back if he saw it all the time. 

“That's not an answer, Cooper.” 

He snorts, softens at the edges again, a little sadder as he reaches to stroke your jawline, leans to bump his forehead to yours ㅡ radiation warm against radaway cold. “Wanna make sure you know what you're asking for, darlin’. I ain't your babysitter. Got my own shit to do.”

“I know.” There's that fire in your voice, the kind he loves and hates at the same time. “Wasn't asking for you to babysit me.” 

He swallows roughly. Lets his hands drift up your sides, tug at the tuck of your shirt, underneath to drag sun-worn leather against the soft skin of your abdomen. Relishes the way you shiver, leaning into his touch. “Can't promise nothin’, you know that.” 

Your smile promises the same kind of heartbreak his own words do, the kind rooted in the reality that the world doesn't deal in any absolute but death, and sure as shit won't give happy endings. Not anymore. “I know.” 

Cooper can't think of what to say to that, at least anything he's ready to, so he kisses you. Your lips are too soft against his, the warmth of your mouth reigniting that greedy, needy, human thing inside him. He pulls, digs his fingers into your soft, pliant skin, and he takes.

Takes what you willingly give him, hand over hand with nothing but that pretty little smile of yours. He muffles your gasp as he wedges his leg a little firmer, coaxes the part of your legs with a rough husk of, “just like that, dollface,” and delights too much in the sound of you moaning for him.

Hushed, quiet enough that there's no reason for Dogmeat or Lucy to come back yet (he doesn't know what they're up to nor does he really fuckin’ care at the moment), he lets himself indulge in the pleasure of your body against his. The sweet little sounds, half-gasped as he mouths at your neck, hitched to something almost like music as his hands wander. 

Pauses long enough to bite at the tip of his glove and tug, one then two, the bare, radiation scarred wander of his fingers over your body. It's selfish, the way he covets every little twitch and jump of your muscles, the choked gasp as he guides you into rocking against his leg. 

“You're so sweet for me, sugar,” he coos, syrupy as he picks you apart meticulously, piece by piece. Fingers still far too good at what they do when he replaces his leg with the press of them against you, remnants of a past life for how well he gets you to whimper his name. “Like ambrosia.” 

His fingers stroke, deceptively gentle, working over your slick, too-hot, achy skin until you’re panting and gripping at him, pleading for a relief only he can give you. And that’s exactly how he wants you, where all you can see and think of is him. 

The expression you make when he finally lets you come might truly be the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very long time. Headier than the Jet, dizzying and making him swear as he jerks his clothed hips against yours, breath sharp in his chest. 

“Gonna be the death of me, I swear.” He bites at your neck, digs a little harder, scrapes his canines into your sweet, yielding flesh. He could devour you, take bite after sweet, sweet bite and actually test that theory about the strawberries. Crack the cage of your rib, feast on that beating yolk of heart that thumps so hard in your chest. 

“Gonna let me do it, sweet thing?” He rumbles against your ear. “Let me have it all?” 

Your eyes flash, lips pretty and swollen as they part to answer ㅡ and the bark of that damn mutt ruins it all. At least it's a warning for you both, because he's stepping back and letting you fix yourself with surprising speed as Lucy and Dogmeat return, an expectant look on the fuckin’ vaultie's face. 

“Well? Got what you need?"

Cooper snorts, tracks you instead of answering as you press your hand to his for a second, gone around the corner. Lucy frowns when you return, pistol strapped at your hip and a bandolier slung over your shoulder like his, broad pack strapped to your back. Like you planned for this.

And you did, he notes, but it hadn't been contingent on his agreement. Idly, he notes he never did answer you, not really. But he just hums, then turns towards Lucy, who looks between the two of you, confused. 

“Yeah,” he finally answers, “got what I need.”

[grandlinedreams]

|| welcome fellow Ghoul fuckers ily

|| notes: sequel to [this], got nothin' to really say beyond reader and Cooper make the most fucked up implied pseudo parents for Lucy lmao, Canon somewhat compliant, post s1, gonna have to wait for the prequel meeting dic to know why reader knows Coop's whole name

|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, Canon typical gore/violence, something something save a horse ride a cowboy, NSFW ㅡ fingering, edging (i had to take a lap around my house), irradiated cream pie, unprotected sex (supposedly those swimmers are FRIED but I can dream),

The low croak of a crow echoes over the barren stretch of sunbaked, irradiated earth ㅡ and the creature itself lands on the bent, rusted post of a long gone sign. Tilts its head this way and that, blinks liquid black eyes ㅡ three of them. Then squawks indignantly when a bullet narrowly misses it, jet black wings flaring as it takes to the sky to complain in that low, creaking voice.

"Get lost," you tell the bird, glancing at the way Dogmeat tracks the creature. Then she whines, licks at her muzzle like she wants to go catch and eat the damn thing.

"Don't even think about it, pup." You inform her, soothing the disappointment with rough scratches to her head that have her nudging for more before you walk away, sharp whistle summoning her to your side. You don't know why, but she's taken a shine to you over your companions, and you're not about to push her away.

The set up for tonight isn't far off, but it's the skitter of some other creature off in the distance paired with the ominous rumble from above that gets your attention ㅡ and you click your tongue at the foreboding, electric green that rolls in the clouds, cracking with lightning. It isn't nightfall yet, but it's growing closer with that mess on the horizon.

There's a pitiful attempt at a fire being made by Lucy when you return, and she offers a smile that you echo briefly before moving to Cooper's side, nudging him with your boot. "Storm's rollin' in."

He grunts, tugs his hat from where he'd been shading his face ㅡ pretending to sleep to ignore Lucy's still-attempting-to-be-friendly rambles, you suppose. "How far out?"

You shrug, slinging your pack back onto your shoulders. "About an hour, give or take."

Lucy flicks a confused look to both of you as Cooper gets to his feet as well, and her head tilts. "Why're we moving?"

You raise an eyebrow. "You want radiation sickness, vaultie?" It's worth it for the way she bristles, and you snicker. "Come on. There's something of a building not far from here."

You're kind enough to wait for her unlike Cooper, who heads off with Dogmeat while you trail with Lucy.

The building was probably an apartment complex at one point for the squared off, honeycomb like interior, the sections that remain halfway decent.

The presence of scattered, long empty supply packaging ranging from stimpacks to tins of cram says that you aren't the first to be here though, and you split off with Cooper to scout out the place, leaving Lucy with Dogmeat.

You're just as quick with tongue and trigger as Cooper ㅡ Lucy has learned that the hard way over the last week or so. But there's still a softness to you that Lucy likes, gravitates towards ㅡ and figure that Cooper likes it too, for the way she spots him watching you sometimes, pretends not to notice when he looks up and glares at her.

"Clear," you report, pulling her from her thoughts as you toss her a bedroll and a spare blanket. Where you got them, she doesn't know. And the dark stains of what absolutely is most likely blood tells her she doesn't want to know.

What she does know is that she's allowed what constitutes as a room to herself ㅡ three walls and a roof that won't cave in are enough for her to take it without complaint. Dogmeat goes with her, and when she looks up, she knows why with the unspoken way you and Cooper split off for the same little room a couple broken spaces down from hers.

"Get some rest, Lucy," you tell her, offer a small smile that makes her beam as she settles down for the night, deciding that she is far, far better off not thinking about just how close you and Cooper actually are.

"Cute kid," you remark as you finally trail into the room after Cooper, earning an amused scoff.

"Fuckin' annoying is what she is," he grouses, and it's your turn to laugh as you shrug off your pack and kneel, digging for your own bedroll.

"Considering that's what you called me when we first metㅡ"

"No, I called you an annoying bitch."

"Potayto, potahto." You tug the bedroll free and roll it out, blinking as Cooper settles himself over it with a groan and then a sigh. "Excuse me."

He peers up at you. "What now?"

"This is my bed." You snip, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. "Up, Cooper."

"Nah." He folds his arms behind his head. "You like the vaultie so much, go cuddle up with her."

You stare. "Cooper Howard," you say, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of the kid." He's silent, and you raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"No." The words is sharp, and he lifts his head to eye you. "Don't need to be jealous when I know what's mine," he rasps, "now quit bitchin' and c'mere."

You don't know what it says that you do so without fuss, settling yourself to straddle his hips as he sits up, draping your arms over his shoulders.

"There," you snip, adjusting to flick at the rim of his hat. "Better?"

He watches you with eyes as dark as an oil spill, and you don't miss the flick to your mouth and back up. "Gettin' there."

You snort. "You know," you murmur, tone dropping lower, "if you wanted to kiss me, all you gotta do is ask."

He smirks, the flash of his teeth. "Where's the fun in that, sugar? I like the chase. Besides," he lowers his tone, leans in further, "you're the one bitchin' when we can share this sad excuse for a bed. And the way I see it, you're gettin' the better deal anyways."

You roll your eyes, act like you're annoyed ㅡ but the way you don't tell him to shove it or get off of him speaks volumes enough.

Poetically, it starts raining just as you kiss him. The fingertip drum of it on the roof, sour-sweet smell of it that still reaches you because this isn't a real bedroom, just some shitty excuse for it. Doesn't matter, because this is far better than the kisses you've stolen over the last few days when you're absolutely certain Lucy isn't watching either of you.

Cooper seems to think so too for the way he deepens the kiss, cups your face as he nips at your lower lip and licks into your mouth when they part.

He squeezes at your hips, snakes his fingers back under your shirt, pinches and tugs and maps until you're squirming in his lap as he shoves your shirt off completely. He pulls, coaxes you into an arch that lets him mouth at your ribs, nip and sow sparks of pleasure in your veins as he leaves little patches of bruised pink skin in his wake.

He likes marking you, he realizes, the subtle claim without him having to say it. Mine.

He welcomes the grind of your hips against his, your body soft in all the ways that his isn't, filling in the cracks and rounding out all his sharp edges until he can't think of anything but getting his hands on you properly.

The pop of the button on your jeans is easy, the slip of his hand deliberate ㅡ you're louder this time, covered by the storm above as you whine and moan and buck into his hand and the sinful, clever work of his fingers.

And then just as you're about to crest that wave of pleasure, he stops. Smirks at the way you glare, taps your nose with his other hand. "You know you don't get nothin' for free around here, sugar."

He's teasing though, pushes you back to work his belt open, pants down ㅡ then dragging you back over him. Groans, tips his head back at the teasing glide of you before he's adjusting to line himself up and guiding you down.

The gasp he gets is music to his ears, nearly lost to the gutteral, hissed noise he makes himself at the tight, warm squeeze of you around his length. His eyes roll, and he bucks his hips up.

"C'mon sweet thing," he rasps, "don't make me do all the work. Ride for me."

The rhythm is stilted for the way he grips your hips anyways, reluctant to let you pull off of him too much ㅡ but it still feels good. Your breath matches the staccato movement, hands splayed on his chest for balance and head thrown back, looking for all the world like some sort of dedication to a long gone diety that he'd gladly worship to the end.

And he does still, reverence to the way he touches, kisses, bites ㅡ throbbing vitality in your veins calling to him, sweet siren song wrapped in those plush lips of yours. Soft skin squeezed under his fingers, forgiving for all the ways he can't be gentle, desperate as he is.

It's the throttled clamp of your warmth that says you're coming undone, gooey and wet and warm in all the right ways that has him clutching at you, cursing as his hips jerk and he fills you, mouthing at your pulse point as he does.

Heavy breathing sets the undertone of the roll of thunder outside crumbling walls, rapid beat of two hearts, and there's something dangerously soft, romantic in the way he lets you melt into him.

You drape over him, whisper soft kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his mouth until he kisses you back, slowly, selfishly, dangerously sweet.

"You," he tells you, "are absolutely no good for me." He slings an arm over your waist, softens the bite until it's nonexistent.

After all, what's one more vice?

ㅡ

In the morning, the four of you leave ㅡ there's a lot of ground to cover, after all. Lucy walks beside you, Dogmeat and Cooper just a few feet ahead.

"So," she begins conversationally, "what're those marks on your neck from?"

To your credit, you neither flinch nor blush, busy yourself with fussing with something at your hip. "Mosquitos."

Lucy hums. "That's funny, didn't realize mosquitos got so big. Best be careful then, huh?"

[grandlinedreams]

|| this man is an exposed live wire in my brain ok

|| notes: uhh prequel to [this] and [this], semi Canon compliant, pre-s1 but mentions of pre-war Cooper, I love the dynamic 😔👌✨️

|| warnings: hopefully IC Cooper, asshole x asshole dynamic we love to see it, weapons/supply dealer!reader, Canon typical violence, mention of blood/reader is injured kinda, spoilers? Abt Cooper's backstory, kinda enemies to friends/lovers

He doesn't know why he's here.

No, that's a lie ㅡ he does know why he's here, he just doesn't want to admit it. To himself, or to anyone else, for that matter. That he needs help.

Those fancy little bullets for his gun are hard to come by, few and far between when he can't get them by looting and places like Ma June's enjoy extorting as much as they can for so very little.

There's a difference between business transactions and highway robbery, even now. Which is why he's here ㅡ he'd gotten talk about a place that sold weapons and weapon-related supplies at a fair rate, and necessity had made him swallow his pride to go and find out for himself.

Which is why he's not just turning around and fuckin' leaving.

The building is crammed between two others, as ramshackle as the rest being made of recycled tin and wood that's rotted by time and rain in places, but still suggests a stability that won't crumble if somebody breathes too hard on it.

Cooper's spurs jingle as he walks, lost momentarily to the chime of something over his head when he pushes the door open. He looks up, forehead creasing.

Is that a bell?

Rusted but still in working order, it clatters again when he shuts the door, looking around. It's about as put together as any other kind of shop, an eclectic organization to it ㅡ a couple of rifles, a pistol or two, along with an admittedly impressive assortment of knives ㅡ but it's the shine of something on the floor that makes Cooper stop.

His head cocks as he studies the stain, the still-slick shimmer to it that makes him crouch and drag two gloved fingers against it, studying the residue. Coppery, with a hefty dose of some kind of chem to clean it, but still unmistakable ㅡ blood.

Well damn. He doesn't know what's happened here and he's pretty sure he doesn't care to, much beyond the fact that if the runner of this place is dead, that puts a damper on things. Or maybe not ㅡ if nobody's here, what's to stop him from taking what he wants?

"If you're thinkin' of stealing," comes a call that snaps his head up as it echoes from further back in the building, "I'd advise you not to. Less you wanna meet your maker, then I'd be happy to assist."

It's a flat bravado that both amuses him and piques his interest, and he leans against the counter to rap his knuckles. "Not stealin'," he drawls, "just wonderin' what kind of business model you've got if you make customers wait."

"The kind where patience is still a virtue, that's what." Foosteps, unhurried ㅡ and then Cooper is staring at you as you round the corner. You've got a jumpsuit of some indistinguishable color opened to rest around your hips, dingy tank-top underneath ㅡ and a stimpak in your hand. No doubt for the mess of your other arm, bicep wrapped with gauze that's already seeped into a bloom of bright red.

Well now. Cooper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but you still manage to surprise him. Enough that he's staring, which makes you scowl.

"I know that look," you challenge, "if you think I'm easy picking, you'll get a new place to breathe from, courtesy of the hole I'll put in your head."

Cooper's head cocks. "Well now sugar," he says, "that's not very nice now, is it? Wasn't even thinkin' of that." He turns, jerks a thumb at the half-assed cleaning of the mess on the floor. "That's your doin', I reckon."

You nod. "Don't get trouble much," you say, "but when I do, I make sure to prove a point." You jam the stimpak into your arm, and he watches the tension melt from your shoulders. "Now, what can I do for you besides point out the exit?"

Well damn, Cooper thinks again. You've got a pretty face, but it's at odds with the attitude coming from that nice little mouth of yours. About as welcoming as a rattlesnake and probably just as quick to anger, from the way you bristle as he eyes you.

"Need supplies," he says, and you snort.

"What a wellspring of information you are. What kind of supplies?" You eye him, brow furrowing. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you? Get your kind in here all the time." You tap a worn boot against the floor, hands now on your hips. "Hope you got means to pay for shit, because I don't do tab and I sure as fuck don't do charity work."

Cooper isn't sure if he likes you or he hates you. Bit of both, he guesses. The like is tentative and the hate is more solid ground, because he hates just about everybody. Makes it easier to do what needs to be done.

"Well, sweetheart," he leans into the counter, tips his hat, "depends on what you got to show me that's worth buyin'."

You stare, unimpressed by whatever angle he's going for. He's handsome, you'll give him that ㅡ but not much else. He also reminds you of somebody, with that hat of his and the way he talks ㅡ the low, drawn out drawl that you've only seen in those movies you manage to scrounge up here and there for your amusement.

Rolling your eyes, you hold up a finger and shrug your arms back into the jumpsuit, though you don't bother to zip it up. "Gimme a sec."

You don't know why you're doing this. Entertaining the notion that if you show him good enough product, he'll become a regular. You like regulars, but most of what you get seem to run on about six months worth of visits and then vanish.

Probably dead. Such is the way of the world, and it's still enough to get by. But you like new faces.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch when you slap the first pack onto the counter, followed by a second, and then a third.

"This is baseline stuff," you explain. "Your usual grade of bullet. Black powder, the standard kick." You shove the first pack at him, let him inspect the bullets. "Then you've got these."

The second pack shoved over, thin fabric parted so he can eye the neat little row of what would be hollow-point bullets if they didn't end with a tiny, pointed bulb of red glass.

"Explosive rounds." Your expression is unreadable. "They do the job, but they need special packing. Unless you wanna be blown up before the damn things even get loaded into the gun."

Cooper hums, eyes the bullet he holds up, the barely there shift of powder in the glass. He watches as you push the third over. "And these?"

"Same, but they pack even more of a punch. I'd recommend only shooting them at shit you want up in smoke." You shrug. "Or people, deathclaws, whatever the fuck you do out there."

Cooper studies you. "Where did you get this stuff? Thought bullets were hard to come by."

You give him a flat look of annoyance. "I make 'em myself."

Cooper stares, then smirks. Another little tip to his head. "Really now," he says, watches you bristle like a viper, ready to strike. Wonders if those fangs of yours pack a punch, what he'd need to do to get you to spit at him. "How 'bout you show me, darlin'? Wanna make sure what I buy is good quality."

You should tell him to shove it. Tell him to get the absolute fuck out of your shop, take his fuckin' yeehaw personality to someone else in the mood to deal with it ㅡ but you don't.

Instead, you sigh and tug the packages back, moving away from the counter. "Well c'mon then," you prompt, irritated. "Don't have all goddamn day."

The back of your shop is half a home and half a workshop, sprawled mess of equipment rusted with time but otherwise well maintained, smell of grease and hot metal and gunpowder that clings to everything.

You don't have to look back to know he's followed you, the jingle of his spurs as he takes his time, eyes missing nothing. The boxes of empty casings and empty glass bulbs ㅡ and the Mister Handy that's slumped in the corner, sparks spitting from it.

"Poor thing got shot first with that...situation earlier." Your voice is quiet. "Gotta fix 'im if I can."

Kind of funny, you sound sadder about the damn machine than the fact you'd killed someone over it. Then again, they'd been trying to kill you, so...eh. Justified, in your book.

The rest of the room is a haphazard attempt at something like a house ㅡ a couch with blankets on it, a short stack of books gone yellow at the edges, a coffee table ㅡ and sitting on it is a shitty little television, staticy and without color ㅡ but that doesn't matter. What matters to Cooper is that he knows what it's playing.

Your flitting around fades a little as he watches himself on screen ㅡ forever ago, a lifetime ago. Before the bombs, before vault-tec ㅡ when he'd been happy.

He'd loved his life, his family ㅡ and they'd loved him too.

"I've got enough stuff to make another round of flash-baㅡ" You stop, blinking at the way he's staring at the television. "Somethin' wrong? I know this isn't much, but it's my way of living, soㅡ"

"Stop your yappin'," Cooper rasps, and you glare as he shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was lost in. You scowl.

"Look, I know this doesn't seem like much of anything, but this is my business, and my shop." Your eyes narrow. "So try to be a little fuckin' nicer if you want me to sell you anything."

Whatever patience he'd had left promptly snaps like a bowstring as he snatches your arm, grips it tighter than he should. "Listen, sweetheart," he hisses, "what exactly is stopping me from just takin' what I want and leaving?"

Something whirrs behind him, distracts him just enough for the cool, sharp kiss of metal at his throat.

"Do it," you taunt, expression unreadable, grip tight on the blade you hold to his neck. "You're not the first one to try, and you won't be the last."

And there, Cooper notes, are your fangs, ready to sink into his skin. The two of you stare at each other for a good, long minute while the Mister Handy spits and sputters. And then Cooper huffs something like a laugh. "Glad to see you've got some bite to you, darlin', but I still think I could handle you."

A threat and something a little less hostile all in one, even as you yank your arm out of his grasp. "You couldn't handle me even if I came with a fuckin' manual," you snap back, but there's a playful gleam to your eyes. "You gonna buy anything or just lookin' to be a pain in my ass?"

A crooked grin tugs at Cooper's mouth. "Both."

ㅡ

The truce between the two of you is tentative. An understanding in the barest sense, because neither of you are dumb enough to pass up a lucrative, beneficial deal. He gets his supplies, you get caps. Simple.

You won't go as far as to say you're even friends, up until the point that you greet him on a visit with, "You know, you remind me of somebody."

He eyes you. "Really now. And who would that be, sweetheart? You workin' with more ghouls than just me?"

You snort. "Careful," you tease, "you almost sound jealous." Your tone quiets as you drum your fingers on the counter. "Nah, you remind me of that one actor, Cooper Howard."

Cooper stills. Watches you warily, turning a spent bullet casing over and over between gloved fingers.

"He played a cowboy," you say, nodding to yourself. "Talked like you do, too. Good movies, at least the ones I've gotten my hands on." You eye him, playful light to your eyes. "Wouldn't happen to be a fan of him too, would you?"

Cooper debates. He's not sure if you've put the pieces together and if you have, you're polite enough not to say it. He appreciates that, makes that fleeting temptation of putting a bullet in your head all the more temporary. He likes you. Be a shame if he had to cut ties.

"No," he answers. "I can safely say he and I are nothin' alike." Not anymore. He lets himself lean over the counter, too close to your face. Intimidation, maybe, or perhaps just because he likes being able to look at you like this. "Got anythin' else to tell me?"

Your eyes flick over his face, down to his lips as you lean a little closer, the suggestion of your mouth just shy of his. "Yeah," you murmur, quiet. "Next time you come by, work on your fuckin' manners."

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: literally inspired by the fact I got cut twice shredding carrots for carrot cake 😭

|| warnings: mentions of blood, blood eating(?), unsanitary bc ew, injury, can be read as either pre or during s1, mentions of cannibalism, Canon typical gore/violence

Looting is always a gamble. A messy gamble this time, as you eye the remains of the raider, the spew of blood and bone into the sand ㅡ and then sigh and crouch to begin patting the corpse down.

"Don't know why you act like you feel bad for 'em," comes the rough voice of your companion behind you, chastising the way you always hesitate. "Them or us, sweetheart. Remember that."

"I know," you mumble. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Cooper stares at you. You can feel the weight of his gaze, weighing before he scoffs and moves off with the jingle of his spurs. He loves to mock you for all the softness the wastelands has yet to beat out of you ㅡ but does what he can to preserve it, in his own way.

He does most of the killing, but you do most of the looting. Your hands are smaller than his, still radaway smooth and nimble. But it's as you're digging around in the raider's backpack (that horribly smells of rotten meat) that something sharp bites into your fingertips, makes you hiss a curse as you tug your hand free.

Bright red blood wells from two fingertips and spills down your skin, warm and smelling of copper ㅡ and you shrug and wipe it off on your jeans before dumping the pack out. Broken glass scatters ㅡ a vial of either radaway or some sort of alcohol, sharp smelling and unsalvagable.

"You about done, honeybunch? We gotta keep movin'." Cooper prompts and you sigh as you gather what you'd been able to (three cans of cram, two metal bottles of water, and a medkit) and shove it into your own pack before you stand.

"Ready," you say, blinking when he stares at you, and your brow furrows. "What?"

He gestures. "You're bleedin'," he says, and you bring your hand up to find it still dripping freely ㅡ the cuts are apparently deeper than you'd thought. "C'mere."

"I've got a medkit, I canㅡ"

"Darlin'." Cooper's expression is unreadable. "I said come here." The 'now' implicit in the edge to his tone and the way he stares you down. You roll your eyes, annoyed as you approach. Cooper doesn't even bat an eye, ignoring your yelp of protest as he snatched your hand.

"Heyㅡ"

He squeezes your hand, folds your fingers so that the bleeding two are still extended, then brings them to his mouth.

The press of his lips around them is strange, and the work of his tongue even more so ㅡ he rolls the muscle over both slowly, dark eyes never leaving yours as he sucks on your fingers.

You're not sure how to feel about it, knowing that he's partaken in eating human flesh, that he could easily bite down and take your fingers with the snap of his teeth ㅡ but he doesn't.

His tongue rolls over them a couple more times before he lets them slip from his mouth, eyeing the now slick digits and humming.

"Satisfied?" You're proud your voice doesn't waver, doesn't give a hint of the heat the action has ignited somewhere in your veins, and uncomfortable stir of ache you don't feel like contending with right now.

"Not really," he answers, voice husky. He still hasn't let go of your hand. "But it's a start."

[grandlinedreams]

“We should get married.” 

The question in and of itself is a strange one, made more so for the fact that it’s coming from Zoro of all people – and the fact that he’s asking you in the middle of a fight. Your back is pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping into your clothes – and you wonder if he’s gotten hit in the head too many times. Or thrown through too many things – too much of something. 

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your tone is incredulous as you swing your weapon, scowling as you watch another enemy drop with a cry and a splatter of blood. “We’re a little busy right now, aren’t we?”

Zoro grins, expression manic with the deepened shadows of his face from his bandana, adjusting to place the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji in his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

You have the brief moment of considering knocking Zoro out for your opponent – clearly his daily naps out in the sun have baked his brain more than you previously thought. “No!”

–

The question doesn’t turn out to be borne from a brain-based injury flaring up, because Zoro doesn’t let the subject go. He bides his time, waiting about two weeks from when he first asked before he tries again.

This time, the stars are a witness to his buffoonery – now fueled by the bottles of sake he seems to have squirreled away everywhere on the Thousand Sunny. You watch as he tips the bottle to his lips, the brief shimmer of liquid that beads at his lips before it disappears as he swallows. 

“We should get married,” he says, and this time, you scoff. It isn’t one of disdain, rather of amusement as you wait for the alcohol induced flush to rise to his cheeks. “‘m serious, you know.”

“No,” you counter softly as you scoot closer to him, reaching up to wipe a drop of sake from the corner of his lips and bring it to your own for a taste. As ever, his own choices in alcohol seem to be tailored for him and him alone – sake still isn’t your thing. “You’re drunk.”

Zoro hums, eye flicking from the night sky above to you. “Is that a yes?”

You press your lips to his warm cheek. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

–

The third time that he asks, he’s waited so long that you’ve almost forgotten that he ever asked in the first place. After all, Roronoa Zoro has never seemed like someone interested in the intimate entanglement of marriage – you have absolutely no clue what has possessed him to suddenly ask you with this kind of tenacity. 

“We should get married,” he says, and you resist the urge to sigh as you stare at him, his head pillowed against your thigh. Below the shade of Nami’s tangerine trees, you can hear Luffy’s bright laughter intermingled with Usopp and Franky’s. 

This time you aren’t in the middle of a fight, nor is he drunk. This time, you take a moment to study his face, the dapple of sunlight through waxy green leaves, the scent of citrus in the air. You love him, you’re sure of that – as sure as you’ve been of anything in your life. 

“We’re pirates,” you answer, tapping your fingers against his cheek in an echoed rhythm of one of Brooke’s songs from the night before. “Pirates don’t get married.”

“Sure they do.” He’s watching you now, with the kind of intensity he usually only reserves for battle, and you look away. “Captains can officiate marriages. I asked Robin about it.”

You blink and let your attention shift to Luffy for a minute – you love your captain, you do. But the idea of him being serious about much of anything beyond what matters to him (food, his crew’s safety, finding the One Piece – in that order) makes you giggle. You can’t imagine him officiating something like a marriage. 

“What if I want a ceremony?” Your fingers find his cropped green hair, stroking gently across his scalp. “Those are expensive.”

He shrugs. “We’d find a way. I’m sure Nami would help.”

Your lips curve in an amused smile for a moment before it dims at the edges. “It’d be dangerous,” you point out, and he answers with a short bark of laughter.

“Not any more than shit we’ve already faced.”

“Rings?”

“We don’t need that fancy stuff.” 

Your smile fades completely, hand stilling in his hair. “Why do you think we should get married?”

There must be an edge to your tone now, because Zoro refocuses on you, all signs of mirth gone. “Because we love each other, right? Sounds like the next logical step.” 

Your gaze hardens. “So you’re asking because you think we should? Or because you want to marry me?” He sits up, and you get to your feet. 

“Is that a no?” he asks, and you pause.

“Ask me again when you figure things out, Zoro.” 

–

“Marry me.” 

This time, his voice is quiet. Soft and vulnerable – for the late hour or the intimacy of his bare skin against yours, you aren’t sure. His hand drifts up and down your back, counting the bumps of your spine over and over. 

You shift against him, face nestled to rest against his chest. “Zoro–” 

“I’ve thought about it,” he cuts you off. “So just be quiet and listen, okay?” You don’t say a word, waiting for him to continue on his own. “I don’t want to marry you just because I think that I should, I want us to get married because you...you mean a lot to me. You’re important to me, and I –” He pauses, struggling. This kind of thing is not Zoro’s forte, you both know that – but after a moment, he resumes. “I don’t see myself being like this with anyone but you. I don’t want to be like this with anyone but you. Just want you.” A moment of silence, hearts beating in tandem. 

You move, adjusting enough that you can look at him properly, the gleam of moonlight against his face. And you kiss him. Slow and sweet, eyes sliding shut as you linger for as long as you can before you pull away. 

“Marry me,” he repeats. 

This time, you don’t squawk at him like he’s crazy. You don’t accuse him of being drunk, don’t deflect him for fear that he’s doing it because he thinks he should, not that he wants to. This time, you smile.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll marry you.”

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: because I think this trope is always hilarious and also very cute

|| warnings: the Inner Circle (Mor and Cass) being nosy, fluff, Az and reader being silly and cute, alcohol mention

"You've been spending an awful lot of time with Azriel lately."

Looking up from the book you've been reading, you meet Mor's questioning look with one of confusion. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," Mor protests, "I was just wondering."

You raise an eyebrow, eyeing her. There's an edge to her tone that you're not sure that you like, as if she's trying to get you to admit to something. "He's my friend," you say slowly, "and I like spending time with my friends."

Mor hums. "That's fair," she says, then drums her fingers on the table. "Speaking of friends, we're friends, right?"

"Of course," you agree. Where is she going with this? Had you done something to make her doubt your friendship?

Mor watches you carefully, weighing her words before she says them. "And you'd tell me if you were interested in anyone, right? Romantically, I mean."

The look you give her is equal parts suspicion and befuddlement. "Probably? Mor, what is this about?"

"Nothing, nothing," she reassures you hurriedly. "Listen, we're going to Rita's tonight. As in me, Cass, Nes, and Azriel." She pauses. "I think he'd like it if you went with us."

You close your book. "I'll go," you say, and Mor beams. "But what does Az wanting me there have to do with—"

"Great!" Mor chirps, pulling away. "We'll be leaving at eight!"

And then she's gone, leaving you more bewildered than you've ever been.

Your friends are up to something. You know that they are, considering Mor's behavior from earlier, and now their (Mor, and now Cassian) insistence that you sit next to Azriel in the booth.

"I can't pick my seat?" You ask, and Cassian shakes his head.

"Nope," he grins, and you throw Nesta a pleading look that she answers with one of quiet amusement.

"Okay..." Not that you truly mind sitting next to the spymaster, but it's made strange for the way Mor and Cassian are watching the two of you and sharing looks you're sure they think are subtle.

"[Name] looks nice," Mor prompts after a while, "right, Az?"

You blink as Azriel turns towards you, and the slow sweep of his eyes over you makes your cheeks warm more than the alcohol does.

"Yes," he says quietly, and your lips quirk when you catch his eye before you turn back towards your drink. Whatever it is that Cassian and Mor are looking for or trying to incite, you're not sure, but you don't miss the look of frustrated confusion the pair share.

Cassian rallies himself for another attempt at whatever it is they're up to, and you cut him off. "I think I'm going to head back," you say, apologetic smile tugging at your lips. "I'm tired."

Mor looks like she's going to protest, only to stop when Azriel moves to follow you when you slip from the booth. "I'll come with you."

You don't protest, but you also catch the pleased look Cassian and Mor share before you step out of Rita's. The night air is a little cooler than expected and when you shiver, Azriel steps closer. "Cold?"

"A little," you admit, and you don't protest the wrap of his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer.

Once you're far enough away from Rita's, Azriel speaks again. "Cassian is convinced that I have feelings for you."

You look up at him, finding him watching you already, coming to a halt. "And?" You prompt, raising an eyebrow, "do you?"

Azriel's eyes gleam with amusement as he leans down, meeting the answering upward tip of your head so he can kiss you. It's sweet and familiar, and you press to make it linger a little longer before he pulls away. "I think you know the answer to that."

"I do," you grin. "How long do you think it'll take them to realize that we're already together?"

Azriel snorts. "Longer than you think, honestly." He tugs you to him, enveloping you in his arms to ward off the chill of night. "I take it that you have feelings for me too?"

You huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I think you know the answer to that," you answer.

Azriel's lips meet the top of your head. "I do."

[grandlinedreams]

“What,” Mihawk begins, “is that.”

It’s not so much a question as a demand for an answer and even with as mild as his tone is, you still have to take a moment to find your confidence again, adjusting your grip on the object in question. 

“A kitten,” you answer. The kitten in question is little more than a mess of jet black fur and a pair of small, pointed ears that dangles limply in your hold, mewing as Mihawk stares at it. “He kind of looks like you, doesn’t he?”

Mihawk’s eyes narrow a fraction. True, the kitten is black like his hair, and the pair of eyes that peer at him are round and the same shade of gold as his own – but that, in his opinion, is where the similarities stop. “Hardly.” 

“Hardly,” you echo, pitching your tone deeper in playful mockery as you bring the kitten closer to your chest, scratching underneath his chin until he starts purring. “Don’t be so grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy.”

You kiss the top of the kitten’s head, humming at the tickle of soft fur against your lips. “Says you.” The kitten mews in agreement – not so much at your words, but at the attention you’re currently giving him. 

“Where did you find it?”

“Him,” you correct.

Mihawk stares at you and were it not undoubtedly beneath him, he’d roll his eyes at your persistence. “Where did you find him,” he amends, and you grin. Mihawk looks less than amused. “I hope you weren’t wandering around again. The humandrills–”

“Are friendly,” you cut in, “and I can handle myself. You know that. And besides, it gets lonely when you’re off doing who knows what.” You really don’t know what he gets up to when he leaves Kuraigana, only that he’s unscathed every time and recounts (undoubtedly heavily edited) events with an ever present air of boredom in his voice when you ask. “But to answer your question, I don’t know how he even survived long enough to end up here, but he was out near the shore.” You snuggle the little kitten to your face again. “Poor thing almost died.”

For a moment, Mihawk wonders if he should fancy himself jealous of how much attention the cat is getting from you, but that’s beneath him too – besides, he’s the one that you sleep next to at night. 

“I’m keeping him,” you say and Mihawk watches you, head tilting as he arches an eyebrow in question. 

“You are?”

“Yes,” you answer firmly, and the kitten offers his own opinion in the form of an indignant mewl, followed by a yawn of tiny, sharp white teeth and brief glimpse of a pink tongue before he tucks himself against you. 

Mihawk sighs. “Very well. But he is not sleeping in the bedroom with us.”

(The kitten does, in fact, end up sleeping in your shared bedroom. And Mihawk decides that yes, even if it’s just a little bit, he is indeed jealous of that tiny kitten.)

[grandlinedreams]

"Come here, pretty boy!"

Mihawk stops, turning at the sound of your voice floating through the open door of one the rooms. Were you talking to him? Terms of endearment aren't entirely new between the two of you, but pretty boy is entirely new.

Curious, he strides towards the door, intent on seeing what you need ㅡ and freezing when he finds that your attention is on that damn feline.

Eyes narrowing, Mihawk slips away quietly, leaving you oblivious to his presence. He knows he wouldn't be jealous of Kurai, swears that he isn't ㅡ but what has that creature done to deserve such sweet names from you?

Though he most definitely is not sulking, he dwells on it until after dinner when he looks up from his book to look at where you're curled up with your own propped open in your lap, one hand on the book and the other on Kurai.

"Darling," he begins, waiting until you look up. "I overheard you talking to..." He falters, eyes narrowing on the pleased cat next to you, "Kurai earlier, and you called him 'pretty boy'."

You blink. "I did," you answer, "because he is my pretty boy." You scratch under Kurai's chin.

"I see." He pauses, debating. "....am I not also your pretty boy?"

Your head tilts, brow furrowing. "Of course you are. What is this about?" You glance at Kurai, then back at Mihawk. "Are you jealous of the cat?"

He glares. "No. Jealousy of a creature like that is beneath me."

You nod, amused and wholly unconvinced as you return your attention to your book. "Whatever you say," you intone with a smirk, "pretty boy."

Mihawk scoffs, returning to his own book and sneaking glances at you when you don't notice, all but glaring at the cat.

Okay, so maybe he's a little jealous.

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: nothing, just fluff and we all know Az wouldn't just shove his kids like he did w Feyre (sorry Feyre) [AS!reader masterlist]

|| warnings: dad!Az being cute, reader being a worried mother, fluff, the kids are definitely alright

"No."

Azriel blinks at the vehemence in your tone, brow furrowing at the way you stare back. You've gone a little pale, and worry colors his tone as he approaches. "They're going to have to learn sometime."

You take a step back, determined to stand your ground. "They're fine how they are now," you protest. "I know they have wings, but..."

Something clicks in Azriel's head, overriding his instinct to protest. To him, the notion of teaching your children how to fly is second nature — all three of them have wings, so why wouldn't they want to? But for you, it has to be absolutely terrifying.

Azriel takes another step to you, reaching for you. "They'll be okay," he murmurs as he presses you to him, pressing kisses into your hair. "I'll be with them."

"Feyre told me how you taught her how to fly," you counter softly, and he snorts.

"She learned, didn't she?" He softens his tone further. "I promise, they'll be just fine."

You exhale softly. "Okay."

You're not sure you've ever been more terrified as you are watching your children leave the ground with their father. You know that Azriel is watching every movement they make, eyes sharp and bright — but you still worry.

Aria is the first to get the hang of it, the slow stretch of her wings that look so much like her father's, beating gently to carry her further. Then Ivy, then River.

You've never been so terrified, but you've also never been so proud. You can hear them laughing, the little sounds of eager excitement — your chest feels like it may burst.

The sound of wings makes you blink and look over, Azriel just a few feet away, your children just past him. "Something wrong?"

Azriel shakes his head and reaches for you, lifting you into his arms. "The kids said they wanted you to be with them too," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "And I agree. We do this as a family."

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: soft screaming I accidentally posted this one before it was done. Was going to just make this two parts but hey i like pain and pining. Sequel to this

|| warnings: angst, mention of nightmares, I like putting reader Through It, pining

"You're avoiding me."

Azriel watches the way you still, the tension in your shoulders before you turn towards him. You'd been busy with target practice, the soft rhythmic sink of sharp edged blades into the dummy keeping your mind blissfully blank. Until Azriel had approached.

"I'm not avoiding you," you tell him, plucking a rag from your belt and making to polish the dagger in your hand. "I've been busy."

Azriel's eyes narrow. "Rhysand doesn't send you out as often as you've been gone."

You shrug, wiping at already spotless metal. "I'm proactive," you answer as you move to walk away, halted by the black wrap of shadow around your wrist. "What do you want, Azriel?"

"Talk to me," he presses, and your chest aches at the look on his face, the uncertainty that glimmers in his eyes. "Did I do something?"

It would be easy to end things here and now. To confess how you feel, to rip the bandaid off and allow yourself that rejection. But the idea of losing him entirely hurts more, and you swallow hard.

"No, Az. You didn't do anything."

Azriel stares, expression unreadable. And when you try to tug your wrist free of his shadows, Azriel lets you go.

You don't know why you're here.

That's a lie — you do know, because it's the only reason you would ever be standing in front of Azriel's door at this hour. You shift from one foot to the other, sighing softly before looking up as the door opens.

Having been prepared to knock, it takes you a minute to register that he's in front of you, though you don't know why you're surprised. His shadows must have alerted him that you were out here.

"Nightmare?" His voice is low and far from unkind, hazel eyes probing. When you nod, he steps back.

Though your nightmares are nowhere near as frequent as they'd been when you first came to Velaris, they're still often enough that the two of you have found a routine since the first time they'd sent you scrambling for the shadowsinger's room.

Azriel's bed is far wider than your own to accommodate his wings, extended space of soft sheets and blankets that envelop you in his scent. He smells of pine and something murkier but all together familiar, soothing the frayed edge of your nerves.

He joins you once you've settled, tendrils of incorporeal black slinking over your wrists, your cheeks, your hair. Assessing you silently, then reporting their findings back to Azriel.

You wonder what they tell him. That your nightmare had been about him? About losing him, of having to shift your entire existence to his absence? It feels impossible, as intertwined as your life has become with his.

Fingers skim your skin as Azriel reaches for you, and you let him. You close the gap between you, fling one leg over his, feel his hand settle at the back of your head. It's as if nothing has changed between the two of you. "Want to talk about it?"

You study the barely visible curl of ink against his neck, let your eyes drift up to the curl of black hair that frames his face, then back down to his lips. "Not really."

You don't have to look at him to know he's watching you, can feel the weight of his gaze on your face. Probing, just as his shadows did. You wonder what answers he finds there, if he finds any at all.

"What's going on with you?" He asks instead. As if you're a misbehaving child rather than fae. And you know he means well, Mother above, you know — and it still rubs you the wrong way.

"Why do you insist on being like this?" He'd asked in your bathroom, now two weeks ago. Two weeks of skirting around him, trying to distance yourself from that ache, the words on the tip of your tongue.

"Talk to me," Azriel insists. Fingers, gentle despite their scars, graze your cheek. Your heart (wretched, selfish thing) lurches in your chest, off kilter tempo that you've gotten so used to when Azriel is involved.

This was a mistake. To think you could seek his comfort the way you always have, pretend that you aren't as helplessly in love with him as you are — that you haven't watched him look at everyone but you.

That he'll always look at anyone but you.

"I love you." The words slip clean from your mouth, a soft whisper — the way Azriel stiffens says he still heard you. You keep going, digging invisible claws in the festering wound of your chest, ripping it into something fresh and bleeding. "I've been in love with you for the last two hundred and fifty years, Azriel."

It's cathartic in a way, though it's tempered by the way Azriel is simply staring at you. You pull away from him, sliding off the bed before he speaks. "[Name]—"

"It's okay, Az." He doesn't have to say it, because you already know. You move towards the door, pausing just enough to look at him and offer him a soft smile, at odds with the mangled pulp you've made of your heart. "Good night, Azriel."

[grandlinedreams]

It's rare that Law falls asleep before you.

Even rarer still that he's even in bed before you ㅡ because when you trudge into his room (which is yours too now, you suppose), you fully expect him to be awake and at his desk, working on something.

The room is in the usual disarray, stacks of books everywhere ㅡ but still comfortable in the dim luminescence of the porthole. And Law is not at his desk ㅡ he's already in bed, jeans and cap shucked to the spare chair you often curl up in, Kikoku propped up against it.

You stare at the sight before you, wondering if you should be concerned ㅡ after all, it isn't every day that you don't have to wrestle your boyfriend into going to bed. You glance at the clock on his desk, then wince.

For once, you're the one who's lost track of time.

You sigh softly, scrubbing at your eyes before you move towards the bed to join him. Law doesn't stir at the dip of the bed or tug of the blankets, breathing still an even cadence as you settle beside him.

Law's face is made softer in sleep, no furrow to his brow or irritated pull of his mouth, and you reach to thumb at the shadows underneath his eyes. They're not as dark as you've seen them, but their presence still makes your heart ache. You know that he has a lot on his plate as a captain, but you also know he struggles to share the workload.

Your touch drifts over the bridge of his nose to his cheek, then to his jaw, stroking gently. In sleep, he offers a soft sigh and the subtle shift to your touch, subconscious movement sending butterflies through your stomach.

You love him. You know that you do, as certain of it as you've ever been of anything ㅡ you love him with every fibre of your being. And you know that he loves you, too. How else would you be privy to this, the softer, unguarded sides of him? It's an honor to be trusted this much, especially when you know how much effort it's taken to get to this point.

Law shifts in his sleep again, reaching ㅡ and you squirm closer carefully, feel the drift of his arm over your waist, the tuck of your head beneath his chin. Comfortable, easy ㅡ and oh so very welcome in this wee hour of the morning.

You snuggle as close as you can, pressing your lips to his shoulder in a soft kiss before you close your eyes, content to let yourself follow him into sleep.

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: hi it's been a minute but inspired by the sticker I now have that says 'Illyrians and their wingspans" lmao

|| warnings: nothing, fluff, a little suggestive

Lazy days were rare for Azriel. Perhaps it was the lull of the sun outside or his own exhaustion catching up to him, but he found himself sprawled over you on your shared bed. Not unlike a large cat, you mused, for the way he draped himself, face tucked into your neck and breathing soft.

It was the slow glide of your fingers through his hair that relaxed him further, leaning into your touch as his wings relaxed, stretching out across the bed with a quiet rustle of movement.

You'd always liked his wings. They were beautiful, just like the rest of him. Reaching out, you set a fingertip against the top, running it along towards where they met his back.

Azriel froze against you, and you withdrew your hand immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Azriel answered, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice. "They're sensitive, that's all."

"Oh." You sighed softly. "I should have asked, I'm sorry."

Your mate shook his head, tucking himself tighter against you. He was quiet for a few moments before he murmured softly, "I want you to touch me."

You swallowed, reaching out slowly to graze your fingers over the edge of his wing again, noting the full body shudder that went through him. You kept your touch gentle, barely there — but it still evoked a reaction, the twitch and squirm of him over you.

Azriel was pretty, but he also made pretty noises. The soft hitch in his breath as you traced the junction of his wing to his back was definitely one you could get used to hearing, truthfully.

"You're teasing me," he finally huffed when he'd had enough of your gentle touches, nipping at your neck when you laughed. "You know exactly what you're doing to me."

You hummed, mischief in your tone as you shifted underneath him, shiver of pleasure sliding down your spine at the hard press of him against your inner thigh. "Do I? Maybe I need you to tell me."

Azriel pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark as he eyed your lips, then smirked. "With pleasure."

[grandlinedreams]

would you ever consider doing AS!reader with azriel about them having their first child? just all the angst and fear of it and poor azriel worrying? luv luv luv your writing!

Hiya!! I actually had been playing around w the idea of it so I hope this is to your liking!!

|| [AS!reader masterlist]

|| warnings: pregnant!reader, Azriel being rightfully worried, brief description of childbirth

You don't feel right.

Part of you wants to blame it on the fact that your mate hasn't been home the last couple of days. Away to perform his duties as Spymaster for Rhysand, you've felt Azriel's absence more intensely with the emptiness of the bed and nothing to soothe you but the answering tug on the bond.

But it isn't just him being away that has you unsettled ㅡ it's also the scent that's joined yours. Softer and sweeter, it's just an undertone ㅡ but it's enough to have you seeking out Madja for a proper answer, worried that you've caught some strange illness. But part of you knows the answer before she even confirms it ㅡ you're pregnant.

Part of you is over the moon, elated to be carrying your mate's child ㅡ but the fact that you still have to tell him tempers some of your excitement. Given that the two of you are recently mated, the conversation of children hadn't come up yet ㅡ and now it needs to.

Azriel is tired.

You can tell from the set of his shoulders, the way his wings are held just enough to keep them from dragging on the floor ㅡ so when he quietly sinks onto the bed and pulls you to him, you let him.

Azriel splays you over him, arms wound around you as his face meets your neck, sighing as you drag your fingers through his hair. "You can go to sleep, you know."

His grip tightens on you. "Want to spend time with you," he mumbles, pressing further against your neck. "You smell good."

You hum as he inhales, letting your scent sweep over him ㅡ and when he stills, you know he's noticed the change to it. Your heart hammers, but you keep combing your fingers through his hair. "You'reㅡ"

"I am." You play with a dark curl. "Madja confirmed it. I know we hadn't talked about having kids, and I don't even know if you want themㅡ"

"I want them." Azriel's voice is quiet, lips brushing against your skin. "I want them with you, but..." His grip tightens again, unspoken worry igniting ㅡ for both you and the baby growing in your womb.

Because he's Illyrian, and you're not. And with the way Feyre had struggled with Nyx, if your baby has wings...

Your lips meet the top of his head, trying to soothe the fizz of worry that ignites on his side of the bond. "We'll figure it out," you say softly. "Just take it one day at a time, okay?"

Azriel exhales. "Okay."

Azriel watches your body change. The scent that grows stronger as your stomach swells with the growth of the baby inside you. Paranoia has him adamant that he accompany you to every check in with Madja ㅡ even more so when you learn that the baby does indeed have wings.

Azriel had been protective before, but it's in overdrive now. If he can't physically be with you, one of his shadows is ㅡ curling against your stomach in a gentle caress before looping around your arm as a band of inky black.

He's gentle when he touches you, afraid that you'll break ㅡ and all you do is watch as he monitors the way the baby kicks against his hand.

"I hope our daughter knows how loved she already is," you murmur, and it takes Azriel a minute to register your words before he looks up at you.

"Daughter?" He echoes hoarsely. "We're having a girl?"

You nod. "I hope that's okay," you say, and then Azriel is moving up so that he can kiss you, the intensity of his mouth against yours and protective hand against your belly letting you know that it's more than okay.

Your daughter is born early.

It makes him worry something is wrong ㅡ but she's a fighter, and Azriel thinks that his heart might truly shatter as he listens to the pained noises that you make in the throes of labor.

Sweat plasters your hair to your face, turns your skin blotchy with the effort of pushing the baby out ㅡ but you're still the most beautiful thing in the world to Azriel.

Even more so for the way your face lights up as the newborn is placed against your chest. Tiny but all together perfect even for arriving weeks before she should have, he watches as you kiss the head of fine, dark hair and stroke a finger against her cheek, evoking the barely there twitch of those little wings folded against her back.

It hits him all at once. Azriel is a father now. You're a mother. You have a child. Half you, half him ㅡ your daughter, who watches him with little eyes the color of yours as he murmurs softly, "Welcome to the world, little one. I'm your dad."

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: smthing also very sweet and cute ft Aria bc now I'm thinking abt Az having kids send help [AS!reader masterlist]

|| warnings: nothing, Aria being a lil cutie, dad!Az

Little fingers curl around the edge of the door, pulling it open slowly to peer inside. The room is quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing from the bed.

With your back to the door you can't see the way your daughter stares at you, her wings twitching in anticipation as she creeps forward, intent on pouncing on you ㅡ

And then there's an arm being slung around her middle, lifting her up and away. "Daddy," Aria whines in protest as Azriel adjusts his hold on her. "Put me down, I wanna see mommy."

"Mommy is sleeping," Azriel tells her, watching the miniature version of a very familiar pout pull at Aria's features. For all the ways she looks like him, Aria also looks and acts like you. Adjusting his hold on her, Azriel sweeps hair from her face as she stares at you.

"Is mommy sick?" Aria's voice is quiet, concerned ㅡ and Azriel would be too, if he hadn't caught that soft, sweet scent on you again a couple of days ago.

"Mommy's okay, baby." Your voice gets the attention of them both as you sit up, and Aria makes a noise of delight as Azriel lowers her into your waiting arms. "We have a question for you, though." Your eyes flick to Azriel and then back to your daughter. "Which do you want, a little brother or a little sister?"

Nestled in your arms, Aria seems to take the question very seriously, her little features scrunching in thought before she throws her arms around you and snuggles into your chest. "Both!"

Azriel chokes, and you laugh. "I don't know about that, baby," you say as you sweep your fingers through her curls.

"Both," Aria huffs, sounding so adamant that all you do is snuggle her to you.

(When Madja tells you weeks later that you're pregnant with not one half-Illyrian baby but two, you have to wonder just how perceptive your daughter is.)

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: can't have things be too angsty w the kids, but,,, [AS!reader Masterlist]

|| warnings: very worried dad!az, mention of blood, childbirth

He's trying not to lose his mind.

But it's hard not to when all he can smell is your blood from behind the door Madja had ordered him through, a pale-faced nursemaid guiding him out. "You don't want to see this," she'd told him. "We're doing what we can."

He knows. He knows that they are ㅡ but he can hear your groans and cries of pain with each contraction that rips through you, so much worse than it'd been when you'd given birth to Aria.

Because there's not just one winged babe fighting to be born, but two. It adds a whole new level of fear to it, given how rare twins are for fae to begin with ㅡ let alone the fact that yours are half-Illyrian.

"She'll be okay, Az," Cassian tells him, but he's gone pale too ㅡ and Azriel can't bring himself to look at Nesta, who's too still and quiet beside her mate, eyes on the door.

You're not just Azriel's mate and Aria's mother ㅡ you're Nesta's sister too, her own twin.

Feyre and Elain had left with Aria when you'd gone into labor, silent offer to distract your daughter with her cousin Nyx ㅡ and perhaps to keep themselves distracted as well.

Azriel doesn't want to think about the worst possible outcome, won't let himself ㅡ and he feels sick when the screaming stops.

The air is still, too still ㅡ and then there's the soft crying of a newborn, followed by a second. Tentative relief floods him, tempered by his rush of concern down the bond that eases when he gets your response of pained exhaustion.

You're okay. Tired, and in pain ㅡ but you're okay, and so are your newborn children.

And then the door opens, and he's finally allowed to see you. They've cleaned you up, but Azriel still hates how weak you look, dark shadows beneath your eyes as you blink up at him.

"Hey," you rasp quietly, and it's a struggle not to cry as he reaches to card his fingers through your sweat-damp hair.

"Hey," he returns, leaning to kiss your cheek and then your temple before following your wordless bid for a kiss to your lips. It's only once he's settled the jagged edge of worry in his veins that he allows himself to look at the two little shapes in your arms.

One has the same dark curls as him and Aria, the other with hair the same color as yours. A boy and a girl, respectively.

When Aria is brought in to see them, she squirms from her father's arms to nestle against you, arms thrown around your neck with a murmured 'mommy' that breaks Azriel's heart.

"Aria," you say, waiting for the little girl to turn her attention to the sleeping babes, "you're a big sister now. What do you think?"

Aria peers at them, taking in her little brother first, then her little sister. "I think they're perfect."

You look over at Azriel, a soft, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah," you answer. "I think so too."

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: who the fuck would want to get up if Azriel was in their bed? I sure wouldn't

|| warnings: fluff, suggestive

Given the absolute hell that you've been through the last couple of days, you can hardly be blamed for being slow to accept the spill of sunlight into your bedroom, the distant call of birdsong that accompanies it.

Beside you, Azriel seems just as reluctant, welcoming the nestle of your face into his neck with a sleepy hum. "We should get up," he rasps, and you squirm closer in protest.

"Don't want to."

Azriel makes a soft noise of sympathy, pairing it with the slide of his hand up and down your back. "We have things to do."

"Like get my ass handed to me by Cassian again?" You snort. "No, thanks. I think I hit the ground so hard yesterday my bones bruised."

Another noise of sympathy, followed by the knead of his fingers against your skin. You're not sure if he's actually trying to help, but the work of his fingers is soothing all the same as you sigh. You almost think you could fall back asleep ㅡ until Azriel's hand moves lower, treading into the dangerous territory of your inner thigh.

"That's not where I'm sore," you scold, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

"I'm being thorough," he murmurs. "Are you complaining?"

You're really not, not when he's touching you like that and igniting the familiar thrum of want in your veins ㅡ but you can't help but antagonize him a little more.

"At least kiss me first," you whine, and Azriel is all too happy to do so, capturing your lips to muffle your soft moan as he rolls you beneath him. You can feel him stiffening against your inner thigh, and you delight in the groan you get when you roll your hips upward. "Thought you said we should get up."

Azriel grunts, nipping at your jawline and taking in the way you shiver with lust-darkened eyes. "I changed my mind. We're staying in bed."

You smirk. "But Cassianㅡ" You cut yourself off with a gasp, courtesy of the fingers your mate slides down to tease between your legs.

"Hush," he growls. "The only name I should hear from you right now is mine."