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voidsdamned · 8 days

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Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Three

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: a mild chapter. Swearing. Drinking. Mentions of prostitution. Unwanted attention. More dirty talk.

Enjoy.

Chapter Three: Mighty Need

“Warner says he’s gonna marry me.”

“He the… um….” Rue bites her bottom lip thoughtfully, grasping for the face to match the name, and her hands briefly still in the mess she’s making of Lara’s corset laces. “The real muscley one, right? Clean boots? Blushes a lot?”

Lara –petite, brunette, and honey-eyed– smiles bashfully. Rue can see her face flushing in the mirror they sit before. “Yeah.”

“He seems alright in my book, so I guess I don’t mind him sweepin’ ya off your feet.” Rue braids a length of the laces, then interlaces the braid with the crazy criss-crossing going down Lara’s back. “Think he’s serious?”

“I think so. I hope so…. I can… I can dream ‘bout it, at least.” Lara picks at her nails. Twists at her fingertips. “He’s supposed to be joinin’ up with a caravan and says we can travel together. I… I want that badly.”

Rue smiles, heart twisting sadly but hopefully for Lara. She’s Rue’s favourite person that works at Mulholland’s –Hal second and everyone else is… well, everyone else is a bit of a dick– and she deserves so much more than life as a courtesan. She deserves more than Dust.

“I want that for you. This place doesn’t suit ya.”

“It don’t… it don’t suit you either,” Lara’s voice is hushed, nervous, as if she worries someone listens. “Maybe we could bring you with us?”

Rue’s throat goes tight; her heart flutters and breaks. “All I’d do is bring you trouble.” She looks to the monstrous snare she’s concocted and changes the subject. “I like to dream about havin’ robot parts. Wouldn’t it be neat to have metal legs? They wouldn’t break or get tired. Suppose I’d have to worry ‘bout rust, but I think the perks outweigh the bad.”

Lara is quiet for a moment, her shoulders tense. Rue doesn’t look up. She doesn’t want to see the face the honey-eyed girl might be making.

“Y’know… that does sound kind of fun,” the brunette finally humours her. “I think I’d get me some fancy eyes that can see in the dark.”

Rue looks up, beaming brightly to find Lara smiling right back. “And through walls! Catch people in all kinds of shit.”

Lara’s grin goes devilish. “Ooh. There’re several people I’d like to get some dirt o-.”

The door to Lara’s room bangs open, causing the brunette to jump and for Rue’s hands to still in the catastrophe of corset laces. Both girls look over their shoulders, to the glowering figure of Adel puffing a cigarette in the doorway.

“Deck’s here for ya, Rue. Finish up what you’re doin-.” The viper’s face goes red. “Rue. Rue, ya know how to lace a fuckin’ corset. What the fuck are you doin’? Get the fuck up –get the fuck outta here!”

Rue untangles her fingers and pops to her feet, smiling innocently. “I was just tryin’ somethin’ new!”

“Only thing you’re tryin’ is my goddamn nerves,” Adel snaps, aggravated arm motions ushering Rue to skedaddle. “Lara, you sort yourself or get Molly to.”

Rue shoots Lara a small, apologetic smile, and then yelps when the viper seizes her by the arm. Her grip is harsh and pinching as she hauls Rue from the room.

Adel grumbles all the way down the hall, dragging Rue to the staircase and giving her a prompt push to get her moving. Just a little bit harder, and Rue probably would have tripped and tumbled all the way to the ground floor. But she keeps her balance, and her pace is reluctant. The man she hates most in the world is here, standing in the midst of Mulholland’s main floor and surveying his currently empty kingdom with his hands propped on his waist.

Deck Craven is a barrel-chested man with sandy hair, green-eyed and well kept. He wears a tan, pinch-front cowboy hat and ranching clothes: button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, jeans, and boots. Not a spot or stain on them; no holes or fraying edges. It’s all part of his brand, but that magnum on his hip is more than just for show. It’s the only part of his ensemble that looks as if it’s seen some use. Rue knows it has.

Rue used to think him handsome and his green eyes kind, but he’s not much more than an acid blob in human skin to her now. She wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire –unless she had a mouthful of gasoline. But she makes her face light up, her smile so bright, and waves.

“Afternoon, Deck!”

Green eyes find her, and his smile widens. “Hey there, little bird. How ya doin’ this afternoon?”

“Pretty good!" Rue doesn't quite skip up to him, but she makes sure there is a good deal of pep to her step. "Lara and I were talkin’ about havin’ robot bodies. I want fancy legs, and she’d like a new set of eyes.”

Amused, brassy laughter fills the air. "Fancy legs, huh?" He shakes his head. “I never know what’s about to come out your mouth…. But I’m glad you’re havin’ fun.”

Rue only knows to smile. She rocks back and forth on her heels, hands held behind her back. “You in house tonight?”

Another shake of the head. “Not tonight –not for a few nights, actually. Got business outta town. It’ll probably be two weeks ‘fore I’m back in Dust. I just wanted to pop in and see ya before I headed out. Let ya know what’s goin’ on if you get to lookin’ for me.” Pure joy floods through Rue, instantly doused when the sheriff’s hands find her shoulders. He adopts a serious look, a fatherly cadence that burns her up. “I got a few of the boys keepin’ eyes out for ya, okay? You need anything, you get with Lucky. And I’ve already told Adel not to mess with ya.”

The last bit of his spiel is actually good news, bringing back a smidge of her stomped-on joy. Adel’s always trying to whore Rue out or strip her down. She needs constant reminders, warnings, to not try anything funny.

Rue dips her head, genuinely appreciative. “I’ll be good so she won’t have a reason to.”

“Oh, I know you will.” He ruffles her hair, seriousness given way to a smile. “You’re always good.”

Bleh.

“I gotta get on the road now, Rue.” A gentle touch to her chin, fingers trailing and not quite grabbing. “Have you a good shift and a good night.”

Rue grins wider, waving with both hands. “Safe travels, Deck!”

The sheriff winks and tips his hat. The double doors part around him, swinging even after he’s gone. Rue watches them until they’ve gone still, and then for a moment longer, not quite trusting that he’s gone. Not quite believing that he’s going to be gone for a whole two weeks. It’s too good to be true.

Two weeks without all his little, lingering caresses. Two weeks without hearing his voice say her name. Two weeks of not having him show up on her –well, his– front porch and ruin breakfast. Two weeks of his eyes not following her every move. She knows his posse will be filling in for him, but they’re lazy about it. They’ll maybe follow Deck’s orders to the letter for the first night or two, but they always end up getting tired of watching the ditzy server girl go to work and go home. Then she’ll have some real breathing room. A break.

Rue looses a long, long sigh. Grin genuine when those double doors stay closed.

Goddamnit, does she need a break.

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“I know I ask ya to do this too much, but will you please, please close up for me?”

Rue, leaned into the bar and watching the night-dark world out the window, blinks and looks towards the beseeching voice –Hal’s. She hadn’t heard him approach, but he’s draped over the bar beside her, looking up at her with wide, puppy eyes the colour of coal.

“Those last two tables of yours are lingerin’, and I got a pretty fella waitin’ out back for me to get off.”

She mimics his dramatic pose, already leaning torso lying flat on the counter and her head propping upon her arm. She tries to match the look he gives her, but Hal’s too, damn good at pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

“Only if you make me those fancy muffins.” Rue might not be able to hold a candle to his eye expressions, but she nails the sad, entreating tone of voice.

Those begging eyes brighten with the smile that takes his mouth, and Hal’s upright quick as lightning. “That’s a done deal. Thank you so, so, so, so much.”

Rue returns the smile. “Not a problem.” She’s just happy one of them can get some action… and then she’s very jealous. Hal can just meet people and take a roll in the hay. Rue’s been working on the object of her affections for well over a year, and she still hasn’t managed so much as an ass grab or tit squeeze.

Hal’s out the back door in seconds, his departure accompanied by another round of profuse thanks. When he’s gone, the saloon goes near-quiet, the only sounds left that of the hushed chatter of her tables, the usual perversion from upstairs, and the soft, guitar plucking in Johnny Guitar filtering from the jukebox. Rue calls to her tables, telling them they can hang around as long as they please, but she’d like to go ahead and take care of their tabs unless they’re wanting another round of drinks. One table allows her to close out; the other wants another round of beers, and then they pay up. Both stay.

Rue resumes her ritual of window gazing, thinking about rope burns and hair tugging.

She’s unbelievably jealous of Hal. She’d ask him for tips if he wasn’t so blabbermouthy.

Rue doesn’t know how long passes, but she’s eventually pulled from her horny spacing out by two, harsh knocks against the bar –enough to shake the wood and her vision. She turns, her heart doing cartwheels in her chest and smile blooming fully.

The Ghoul sits across from her, dusty and impatient. His ensemble seems to have a few more patches to it, and almost his entirety is stained with rust smears. His hat is tipped back a touch, enough to allow her to admire the way Mulholland’s dim lighting paints the valleys and plains of his face. Deeper shadows. Bright, whiskey eyes. The no-nonsense set of his mouth.

Rue could swoon. She really could.

“Hey you.”

Hands gloved in leather, he taps at the bar twice with his pointer finger.

Rue gets him his whiskey, filling the stout tumbler to the brim and sliding it into his waiting hand. He drinks deep and slow, which could mean he’s in a good enough mood to savour or that it has been a long, long day. Not infuriating but exhausting. She'll find out soon enough which of the two it is.

In the meantime, she shamelessly watches his throat bob. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he pretends not to.

“I was startin’ to wonder if I’d see ya again.”

He sets the whiskey glass down; Rue tops it off.

“’There’s money to be made in Dust. I’ll keep comin’ ‘round ‘til it’s dried up.” He takes another slow pull, shorter this time. “And it will one day. Deck’s got himself some trouble brewin’ with a weapons manufacturer, and the hits he keeps puttin’ on ‘em ain’t doin’ nothin’ but pissin’ ‘em off.”

The Ghoul must be in a grand mood to tell her all that. Something so useful. So delightful –absolute music to her ears that inspires vivid imaginations of Deck being pumped full of holes while he's out. The grin Rue already wears stretches, and a contented sigh passes through her lips. “Gun Runners?”

“Smaller.” A quick sip of whiskey. “Think they’re callin’ themselves the Nightstalkers.”

“Cute.” Rue reaches into her pockets, feeling around for the Vials she keeps and placing seven onto the bar –along with a tied-off bundle of caps that have been junking up her pockets for over a month.

The gunslinger reaches for the cloth pouch before the Vials, browless brows netted curiously. He unties it and simply stares at the caps for a long moment before his eyes tick to her wordlessly.

“I didn’t want ‘em,” she tells him firmly, voice pitched soft just in case her tables aren't as lost in their own worlds as they appear to be. “That’s not what that was to me. I like ya. Plain and simple.”

He doesn’t say a word as he rakes the caps into his gloved hand and drops them in a duster pocket. The Vials follow. He goes back to sipping his whiskey.

And Rue goes back to smiling sweetness. “Oh! Someone told me what olives are the other day –they said they’re these little, oval fruits that are kinda salty. Really salty if they’ve gone black. But I’ve been keepin’ an eye out for ‘em since. Maybe one day a caravan’ll pass through with ‘em, and I can fix ya that fancy drink you want so bad. It’s mostly just gin, huh? Do ya want some gin next? You kinda look like you want gin tonight.”

The Ghoul sighs and shakes his head, polishing off his whiskey with a last, slow draw. “You’ve got somethin’ wrong in your heady, honey.” But the corner of his mouth curls slightly, and he doesn’t sound so aggravated or done with her when he says, “Get me the gin.”

Rue gets the gin; she fills the glass too full and leans into the bar, watching him drink and smiling lazily. She talks about nonsense. He doesn’t stop her. In fact, the Ghoul humours her a little bit when she starts talking about robot body parts by tossing in his two-caps about all that fancy metal not being worth shit. The right kind of gun and ammunition or know-how can make it useless –a hindrance. Deadly, even.

“Suppose, you’re right, but I don’t know that it much matters. Those things can kill me no matter if I’m fleshy or metal. …I’d probably be a lil’ harder to catch if I had robot legs. Think I’d be a bit harder to kill. Catch a bullet down there, and I wouldn’t have to worry about bleedin’ out or infections.”

“You ever end up goin’ Ghoul one of these days, and that’ll make ya harder to kill without all that other shit. I get shot, and I heal up quick.”

“Already have gone Ghoul,” Rue mutters, a faux-frustration to her voice as she traces patterns on the bar. Her eyes tick up to his, and with the mild confusion on his brow, she knows he hasn’t caught her drift yet. She sighs and props her cheek upon her fist. “But he thinks I’m tryin’ to trick him somehow.”

Confusion dissipates with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “You’re so full of shit.”

Rue leans further into the bar and bats her eyes all pretty-like up at him. “I’m tryin’ to be full of you.”

The Ghoul snorts behind the rim of his glass, the grin that takes his mouth a wicked thing. His drawl is dismissive and mean when he says, “Ya couldn’t handle me, sweetheart. Dick suckin’s one thing, but anything more, and I’d wreck you.”

The delight of the challenge, the prospect, curves Rue's lips. “Then wreck me, sweetheart.”

He pauses in what is likely to be the last sip from his glass, eyes flicking to her lips. Back to her eyes. It’s like she watches something spark to life in his, a building burn and heat. He tips his gin back slow.

Rue is pulled from his gaze when the doors to Mulholland’s part, a group of three she well recognizes walking in: Lucky, tall and broad; Yannis, shifty-eyed and jumpy; and Gus, droopy-faced and pale. All three are part of Deck’s posse, Lucky being his right-hand man while the other two are just goons. But they’re all effective, and she knows they’re here for her.

She takes a few steps back as nonchalantly as she can. She changes her smile and tone. She waves, greeting the three as old friends. “Hey boys! You here for a drink?”

Lucky sidles up to the bar, propping an elbow on it and offering her a kind smile. Truly, it is. Out of Deck’s whole posse, he’s the only one that seems truly decent and like he has half a conscience rattling in his skull. If she has to deal with any of them, she prefers it to be him. Especially when he's drunk and that conscience gets to gnawing at him -then his lips get loose, and he spills information Deck would kill him for sharing. Information that turned Rue's world upside down.

“No ma’am. Just to check in on ya." He lets her know, "It’s way past time you shoulda been home.”

She cocks her head. “Is it?”

Lucky's grin stretches. “Rue, it’s about four in the mornin’.”

Rue blinks. She didn’t notice it was that late herself. She was too wrapped up in the Ghoul silently observing the conversation as he polishes off that last bit of gin.

“Oh! Shoot. Sorry. Y'know time gets away from me.”

“I know. It’s alright. I was just a little worried.”

Rue smiles bright, but then her eyes dart to the tables still lingering. She’s so grateful that they are. If it were just her and the Ghoul, this would be a different conversation and confrontation. “Um. Could ya help me shoo out the tables? I don’t wanna be mean to ‘em.”

Lucky nods and makes a motion for Yannis and Gus to handle it. “’Course, but that’s somethin’ Hal shoulda done an hour or more ago. Where’d he get off to?”

“Stomach ache,” Rue lies easily. “I told him I could wrap up, so he could get himself home.”

The right-hand man nods at that, and then turns his personable smile on the Ghoul. “Sorry, sir. It’s time to mosey, but come back and see us again.”

The Ghoul says nothing. He sets his glass down bottom-side-up on the bar and slides off the stool. He reaches into a duster pocket, pulls out a fistful of caps, and leaves them. The spurs of his boots jingle-jangle as he breezes out.

Rue sneakily watches him go as she moves to tidy things, plucking up his caps to tuck away in the till so Lucky can take it to the office for storage. So, she notices when his head turns as he parts the double doors. His gaze is shaded by the rim of his weathered, old hat, but Rue knows he’s looking her way when the corner of his mouth quirks –pulls into enough of a half-grin to show a bit of teeth.

Then he's gone, leaving Rue there with a brain going absolutely wild in her head and a mighty need to kiss that ruined mouth of his.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout the series #fallout tv series #fallout 2024

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youremyheaven · 8 months

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Hi I hope this isn’t rude I just want to understand your approach to kibbe is all but what determines a type for you ultimately comes down to their energy then? Like the sort of image they present? Or temperament ig

that does play a role for sure but its important to consider their face and body together, not separate from each other. the word "image" you used is correct but let me explain.

let's compare Angelina Jolie & Alicia Vikander who both played Lara Croft

Angie has something to her that makes her very convincing in action roles. Like you genuinely believe she could kick your ass. She's slim but still very tough looking.

Alicia is more delicate, dainty, soft and petite looking. She looks like someone you need to protect.

Any body who looks convincing in an action role is easily a Natural type (Jolie is a verified FN)

I suspect Alicia to be a Soft Classic

these 3 women are all verified Flamboyant Naturals

(L to R, Angelina Jolie, Cindy Crawford & Shirley McClaine)

Its hard to say they all project the same "image". Imo Naturals are the most common type as well as the most diverse, if you look at the list of verified FNs & SNs you see people who look very different from each other. This is not so much the case for Rs, TRs & SDs.

AJ has Romantic, Dramatic & Ethereal Essence

Cindy has Romantic, Natural & Classic Essence

Shirley has Romantic, Gamine & Classic Essence

Nobody would ever cast them for the same role. They do not project the same image.

Naturals are the most common because MOST people don't look good in heavy makeup & styling, or have waspish waist definition. MOST people have wider torsos and a Natural like build. The reason why lesser common IDs dominated the entertainment industry in the 20th century is because you had to be truly unique and distinct from others in order to be a "star". From the 90s onwards with the rise of supermodels, who are almost always FNs btw, Naturals became far more represented in the media but since this type can facially look very different from each other, its not always understood in terms of "image identity". Diet & exercise culture promoted the Natural ideal because they are the ones who can have a lean yet athletic built and suit the kind of clothes that fast fashion companies sell. There is a reason why jeans and tshirts are the most common articles of clothing in this world. They are most flattering on Natural types.

Most VS Angels are FNs

Fashion houses hire models who have a "rectangular build" (their words not mine) because of the way they carry the clothes; the focus remains on the clothes not on their body or silhouette. They don't need clothes tailored to fit them because they're frame dominant.

with someone like Liz Taylor (verified R) or Salma Hayek (verified TR) the focus will always be on their body and not the clothes themselves. This makes curve dominant women unsuitable for high fashion where they have to sell clothes not themselves.

Anyways, coming back to my point. Certain people are extreme caricaturish examples of their ID. Some are less so. Individual essences can also make typing more complicated. At the end of the day, every individual is unique and its important to consider their individuality (vibes, body, face, mannerisms) before settling on an ID.

If you read Metamorphosis by David Kibbe, he speaks of yin-yang & IDs in an almost spiritual, metaphysical way. Its very interesting. Maybe I'll post some excerpts from his book one of these days. But I highly recommend reading it!! The whole concept of Kibbe is about using styling to accurately project who you are as a person and like Claire Nakti makes connections regarding how different nakshatras manifest physically in a person, there is a correlation between one's appearance and one's inward nature.

I hope this clarified some things.

#kibbe #kibbe body types

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