[Once they open the floodgates, there's no going back. Which is peculiar, since it was certainly a one time thing in the Ghoul's view. He has a measure of regret about it, a small one. He's very familiar with the feeling of guilt so, as with other things in his life, it's a drop in the bucket.
Somehow, Lucy manages to be the most annoying, stubborn and simple-minded idiot he's ever met. She's also other adjectives, ones he hasn't attributed to most anything in the last two-hundred years. She's kind, she's brave and surprisingly loyal, all things considered. It's the warmth that keeps drawing him in. He's not a stupid fucking moth though, so he's not going to ping off her like she's some radiant lamp.
He tries to go back to business as usual, she doesn't. She leans in closer when they're talking, she brushes their fingers together and touches his arm. He's lost considerable will to pull away, because like with anything that feels even a little good, it's addictive.
So no matter what intentions he starts the day with, more often than not he ends up with her splayed on his chest. Snoring. Damn near the only thing that settles her when she's wired, so maybe he's doing them both a favour.
This evening, it seems like he's more in need of a little pick me up. It's hard for him to look pale, but he somehow looks a little more gaunt. He looks troubled despite their miraculous survival. It won't happen twice. Lighting doesn't strike twice.
While she fidgets behind him, he gets them a room. Some looks between him, her and the clerk are exchanged. He's pretty sure he knows what their thinking-- and they're probably right, to some extent. He is taking advantage of her, because he can't get both of them over the line. He was always prepared to use her as a bargaining tool, though he's increasingly aware that simply giving her back is not going to get him what he needs.
Then they started fucking. Then she started waking dormant parts of him up and filling his gaps. Digging her claws in. Makes her sound terribly predatory when he's the monster fucking her before he turns her over to her dirtbag father.
It's not a topic he's willing to broach with her tonight, he's not tired but he wants to be off his feet. When they make it upstairs, he lets her go about her business while he goes about looking for something to drink.]
[ Something changed out there, in between the gusts of sand and the Ghoul's body braced over hers.
Something irrevocably altered.
It shouldn't change anything. Lucy doesn't attach much to sex. It's just bodies on bodies doing what they do. A perfectly natural human activity which she really, really enjoys. Really. Especially with him.
He's still the Ghoul, but his prickles have softened, his voice doesn't carry the same jagged edge of cruelty. He opens up. Lucy doesn't take it for granted; she wonders how long it's been since he shared these parts of himself with anybody. Selfishly, she likes that it is with her.
Most of the time, she doesn't realize how close she's attracted to him. Her body brushing against his, hips bumping while they traverse the treacherous terrain to New Vegas. How she turns to him for advice, even approval now.
They manage to make it out alive from the ambush. They always do. It's why she's confident they can take the Deathclaws. Her father is so close. They just need to regroup, so she doesn't argue when he elects to get them a room for the night.
First time in a long while she's gotten to sleep in a real bed, out of the elements. Sounds nice.
The desk clerk is alarmed when she steps up beside her companion and clarifies they need a bed to accommodate two, swinging back and forth on her feet. The silent condemnation goes over her head.
The Ghoul is moody. Withdrawn. Lucy is restless, but decides to channel that energy on a more mundane task. No use in worrying. Everything always works out.
The room they get is not ... clean, exactly, but it is orderly. Tidy. Doable. And there are a few water reserves in the hotel, which she helps herself to. It may be the only time for a long stretch that she'll get the opportunity to wipe the grime, sweat, and sand off of her skin. Refresh herself and her uniform. Depending on what happens when they get to her dad.
Which is why she's standing in front of the Ghoul naked, again, sponge in hand. ]
Are you sure you don't have any drugs? Can you check again?
[More than anywhere else in the Wasteland, you can count on people leaving rooms in a hurry. Clean room is a luxury, especially when hotel management is so lazy, they don't even clear out the cupboards for abandoned items. That's where Ghoul finds a bottle of something.
He uncaps it and sniffs it. It smells more like alcohol than stank, so it'll do nicely. He's already taking a pull from the bottle when he hears her step out of the bathroom. Now, he may have sex with her. And that sex isn't solely initiated by her. And he's far from a gentleman. But something about her impropriety really fucking catches him off-guard.
The drink almost goes down the wrong pipe, but through sheer force of will he does not choke or splutter. He's seen it all before, it shouldn't make him bashful of all things.]
Didn't take you long to start taking your clothes off and asking for drugs. [Flatly, then he feels guilty for acting like anything she's doing is shameful. He shakes his head.]
You chewed your way through 'em, faster than a cow in a cornfield. [Oof, that one was rough.
He pushes the bottle toward her. The contents of it are extremely valuable to him, but a little booze ought to settle her. She's in for a rough night of hot flashes, itching and sweating. He should distract her before she asks him to check again. His eyes flick down to the safe zone, her midsection. He reaches out, tracing a gloved finger over the line of her scar.]
[ Totally unfazed by her own state of undress, Lucy stands expectantly before the Ghoul. Hopeful, because the alternative (no drugs) is scary. Her skin feels tight. Is that possible? That shouldn't be possible.
Her mouth opens, summoning a retort to her lips, when he hands her over his booze. Now, she knows he's very stingy when it comes to his booze. Makes her instantly forgive the insult, not that she's like to hold grudges over it. His punches don't land half the time.
She sniffs the opening, face wrinkling. This isn't her vice of choice. Vault 33 brought out the good stuff for very rare -- special -- occasions, but she had never consumed past the point of a pleasant buzz. ]
What?
[ She had been ready to bat his hand away. She doesn't want sex right now, thank you; she wants mind altering substances!
Her eyes cast downward where his attention landed. The frown between her eyebrows deepens. Somehow, between all the ... sexual activity, it had never come up. Then again, she rarely thinks about it. There are so many other things to occupy one's time with in the wasteland. ]
Oh, that? My husband gave me that.
[ She shrugs, irreverent about the scar. The existing scar tissue shows it was quite deep. If not for the stimpak, it might have been fatal.
She takes a swig, only to sputter, bringing a hand up to wipe her mouth with the back of it. ]
[It is genuinely hard for Cooper to tell if she's soliciting sex because she is thus far unable to be flirtatious or sensual in a way that isn't bizarre to him. Oddly, it's got a kind of charm to it that he does find sexy. Some sort of reverse psychology.
His hand drops away and he creases his forehead, looking confused.]
Husband? [He's been in plenty of vaults, he's never been in them long enough to know the particulars of their mating rituals.]
Hard to imagine someone managed to domesticate you. 'Spose that's where the knife came in? [He starts to walk forward, urging her to walk backward and back to the bathroom. He prises the bottle from her fingers, muttering:]
You're not drinking it for the flavour. It's for the feeling. [Or lack thereof.]
I'm not a feral animal, [ she vehemently objects to his chosen rhetoric. She's from a vault. If anyone is undomesticated here, it's him.
Not that being vault-grown is a trophy any longer in her eyes. The glamor has faded. Her entire world ideology had been rocked, shattered, after the discovery of her father's betrayal.
She doesn't know what to believe about her world anymore. About this one. Everything used to be easy, packed into neat boxes. Not anymore. ]
No. He was part of a group of raiders that was working with that woman, Moldaver. Paid by her, or something. I'm not sure. Anyways. We were only married for, like -- four hours? Five? I'm not sure. We had sex. I liked that part. And then ...
[ Trailing off, fingers passing over the raised skin. Not angry, but beginning to fade.
Whilst yapping, she had walked back into the hotel bathroom, resting a hand on the vanity. ]
[Somehow, without eyebrows, he manages to convey a flat, unconvinced expression in a scathing way. He just watched her murder-spree. She needs a leash more than Dogmeat.
The story tugs at him in a way it wouldn't have before she wormed her way in. She's used been used by plenty of people for her father before. She was born in the wrong vault to the wrong asshole. It can't be helped, which is why he swigs the drink again.]
Feel more. [He pushes it back in her hand while she's stable. He pulls back to lean against the doorframe, clearly not planning on bathing. Just enjoying the view.]
[ Lucy ignores The Look. She takes the proffered bottle, skeptically, but doesn't drink from it again yet. She's returned to sudsing herself back up in a sink shaped like a swan (she's only seen them in books), the gold gilding chipping away from age. The faucet doesn't work, but it does drain. ]
The killing was self defense. Furthermore, I didn't kill him. He almost --
[ The rest dies on her tongue. At once, she quietens, sober, lingering on the nape of her neck with the sponge. ]
[As a result of the matter-of-fact manner she approaches sex, it's impossible not to sexualise her on a good day. Now she's doing something that is plainly attractive to him and he's all fucking crossed up with guilt and arousal.
Other than supplying her with alcohol, the least he can do is help her out. Right? When her hand stills, he reaches out and takes the sponge from her. He drags it down her spine, firm but not rough.]
Might be the only smart choice he ever made. [If there's one thing he and Hank can align on, it's being desperately protective of their daughters.
He doesn't allow his mind to wander past the brief thought of Hank treating Janey like this-- no. His brows furrow, unaware his gentle, concerned expression is visible in the mirror in front of her.]
You gonna marry again? When it's all said and done?
[ Lucy should be used to it now, she should. The Ghoul doing things she doesn't expect. He does them all the time. Mostly when it's crude or aggressive, but it's the gentle that surprises her the most — not because she thinks him incapable of it — because she knows he doesn't like showing this side of himself to anyone.
And yet. He shows it to her. Over and over these days.
Soapy water seeps down her back, running down and between her legs. Her eyes light on his reflection, the hazel of her own soft with questioning.
What she can't help is the awkward laugh that jolts out of her, coming somewhere from below her ribcage. ]
I think I'm past husbands. I mean, maybe. I haven't really thought that far ahead.
[ Because for all her sense of justice seeking, she can't get past what she's supposed to do with her dad. Drag him back to the vault. Bring him to justice with ... what? How? Were there others complicit with his actions? There must be. How would the other vault dwellers like herself handle everything she now knew?
BRB time to take another swig of that gross stuff he found. She cringes, shaking her head vigorously. ]
How do you even drink that stuff? Rhetorical question. Don't answer.
Well that's 'cause marriage is a lot like drinking apocalypse hooch. Don't always go down smooth. [A beat.] But you will get drunk.
[Cryptic as ever, rubbing firm circles over her back to exfoliate her properly. Skin like this doesn't stay this nice for long out here. Not without a little TLC, anyway. She still might be the softest thing he's ever touched, though.]
I am curious, though. Do you walk around like this back in your vault or were you trying anything to get my stash?
[Now he does realise she can see his face in the mirror and his expression returns to something scathing.]
[ Cryptic? Absolutely. Makes her wonder, not for the first time, about his marriage. The state of it before he lost his family.
Her eyes drop. She liked it better when he didn't realize she was watching him, when she had the advantage of seeing him without pretenses.
She knows him better now than when they first met, or when he dangled her as mutated fish bait. Suspicions made into confirmations. He's not as impenetrable as he wants her, and everybody else, to think.
She rolls her eyes. ]
No. I'm afraid only you get to see me walk around naked. [ Sarcasm-laden, even though his hands are moving to her side, beneath her breast. ] I mean ... until we find my dad and your wife. [ Left to linger in the humid air, half-question, half-statement. ]
[He may have a wife, but he reckons letting the world know she allowed a ghoul fuck her raw nightly might make trouble for her. It will make trouble for her.
Eager to deviate away from that, he skims the sponge down the curve of her ass. He nudges her legs apart, teasing the sponge over the lips of her cunt so it just barely touches her.]
[ The air feels heavy, weighted down by booze and the words she uttered. Factoring in his marriage, their tryst. She hadn't quite thought of it as a tryst until now.
He is a married man.
It's the first time either of them has put an expiration date on this dance they've been doing, an air of finality. Can't last forever. The thought cinches in her chest. She'll miss his cock. She'll even miss him, now that they've become allies, friends (?).
Her body responds: a small jolt, teased awake. ]
Yeah?
[ Slightly breathy. She shouldn't be encouraging this. Really shouldn't. But they're so far past notions of guilt and fidelity, all of that was sealed when he kissed her cunt the first time. Besides, is a man supposed to stay celibate for 200 years? She can't be the first one he fucked. Just the last.
Wow. The wasteland has really fudged up her morale compass. ]
[And unfortunately, he has an emotional reaction to her bravado that he doesn't expect. It's cute. She's cute. Embarrassing to be the kind of man a line like that works on. Makes him act gruff.
It may be because he has no choice but to feel like she doesn't realise that he gets far more out of this than she ever will. She's been a very persistent and active part of it all the same. There's way more wrong with her than there is with him.
Which is why he grabs her shoulder and twists her around so they're both facing the front of the basin.]
Look at yourself.
[He grabs her under the jaw from behind, before she can move. Half his hand is on her throat and his fingers turn her face. So she can stare back at her reflection.]
Little 'ole Lucy.
[She is objectively beautiful. He doesn't need to reality check her in this regard. Or rather, he needs her to realise it more than he wants her to float along without valuing her assets. Knowing your value is the most important lesson you can learn out here.]
[ He's quicker on his feet than she is right now. Which is how she ends up facing the mirror, tall as it is, both of their reflections peering back at them from within.
She opens her mouth, but nothing but hot air escapes. She's aware of what she has to offer, or rather, what can be taken. Smooth, (mostly) unblemished skin. All her teeth. All of her fingers and toes — save for one. His doing. She's very happy, and grateful, that she hasn't lost more. Part of that has to do with him, she knows.
She's also aware of her own breaths, how they alter when his hand grips her jaw. Like he's evaluating her. Like she's prized cattle. (She is.) Demeaning, and somehow extremely desirable.
She watches the length of her throat, how it moves as she swallows. The buds of her nipples tighten to peaks. ]
[He is also not engaging with that comment further, because he doesn't like the way it feels. Faint excitement that makes him furious at himself. Embarrassment for feeling it at all. He doesn't deserve the softness from her, not when he's selling her like she's cattle.
He keeps his hand on her throat, thumb rubbing circles against her jaw.]
And this ain't about me. It's about you. [He insists, tracing his fingers from his other hand down the curve of her spine.]
Plenty o'things aside from booze to get your mind off drugs.
[ Something about his hand on her throat — it brings her back to another time, another place. Monty's hands. His gored face. Her breath hitches, discomfort noticeable, fear tightening and bunching in her muscles.
Her eyes shut, forcing it away. Focusing on the weathered leather, the familiar scent. His breathing.
It's not Monty.
It's Him.
And he's trying to show her something. Tell her something. She nods, calm if not certain, and decides, as she has time and time again, to trust him.
[He feels her tense under his hand, it gives him pause. He wasn't being rough, but he finds himself gentling his touch anyway. His fingers slip from her throat to her hair, gathering it in hand.
The hand behind her moves between her shoulders, firmly pushing her down over the basin so that she needs to bend. He keeps himself close, so she can feel his erection against the back of her thigh.]
I don't think there's anything I can show you. [There's tease in his voice. She's naive in a lot of ways but she's surprisingly adept at sex. The hand in her hair tugs her head back up, so she can still see herself.]
But if you keep looking forward you might learn a thing or two. [Namely, the face she makes when she's close.]
[ Lucy's throat audibly clicks, her mouth falls ajar. She would have never expected a ghoul to have a dick the size of his. At the beginning of their overlapping journeys, she certainly would not have anticipated how she now starts to salivate feeling him pressed against her.
Most of the time, he's not particularly gentle with her. She repays the favor, more from enthusiasm than the urge to get back at him. She likes when he's rough. It's probably the first time anyone has met her toe to toe in bed. Aggressively needy, perhaps. Passionate. He probably wouldn't care to hear himself described either way.
She exhales, rocking her ass back against the outline of his cock. Her hands brace against the countertop, wet dirt and dust beneath her fingers. When she nods, she goes limp against the hand holding her head up – giving herself over. ]
[Typically, The Ghoul is not in the business of escorting wayward princesses on quests. Typically, he likes to mind his business. Unfortunately for him and this particular princess, she's got some powerful fucking leverage where her father is concerned.
Now at first he hadn't known this. He'd simply wrangled her for sale like any self-respecting man in need of funds. She can't have expected anything else, travelling into the darker parts of the forest. The creatures here don't have courtly manners, they get by the only way they know how. By dragging others down, mostly.
Ironically, even after changing his tune from captor to willing guide and travel partner, they're were both getting dragged down by creatures. By a troll, specifically. Stuck in it's net, slung over it's shoulder. Limbs tangled and faces pressed against intimate parts. But they've grown a bit of unspoken communication and a good understanding of one another. It only takes a few glances for Lucy to pick up on what the Ghoul is signalling her to do and she's still floating on a shrooms cloud, so she's more than willing. Might be the first time she's taken direction.
She bites the troll hard. He drops them, yelping. The Ghoul pulls his knife out of it's sheath with his fingertips and rips through the netting and his bindings. He seems to weigh options before he cuts hers open too. Both armed with knives, a bloody troll massacre ensues. They make a good team, and she's still stabbing long after he's sheathed his knife.
He takes her by the forearm, guiding her into a run away from the main road and into the forest. They find a quiet corner in giant roots of a mossy tree, their surroundings illuminated by fireflies.]
Not bad. [As big a compliment as she'll ever get, followed by a light hand on her back that drops into a fist at his side. He ought to stop that.]
Did you get got?
I hope this doesn't lead to any FALLOUT between us
A woman speaks from the barstool beside Cooper Howard's, biting at her own lower lip as she snuffs out a cigarette. If she wasn't wearing sunglasses, he may have actually seen her wink. A force of habit, on her end. She's smiling as she turns to face the bartender for a moment, pushing the ashtray aside.
"Vodka. The cheap stuff."
After years of research, years of planning and thinking of what's best to say to the target to get him on board, this wasn't part of the script. Deacon had skimmed it for the important parts, but she also liked to improvise; put her own personal flair on things. Cheap vodka wasn't even a preference, but the good stuff made it easier to go overboard, and she had a mission.
"What? You look miserable. I don't think it's unreasonable to assume you've already lost it all at the craps table."
Nothing sobers a man up like finding out his wife is complicit in what could be the end of the world as we know it. He's so far from where he was when he was rocking back and forth on the stupid fucking bomb. Away from House, Hank, Barb.. In another casino, across town. Nowhere near the level of sophistication of Lucky 38. This is a lucky buck 80.
But there's a lot of the cheap stuff here, the cheap stuff makes it easy to go overboard. It might seem like he's got some chips or some dollars burning a hole in his pocket. Certainly nobody would imagine he has cold fusion buried down in his trousers, but somehow it feels like everyone is watching him. It makes him glance suspiciously at everyone-- and when someone notices and he doesn't want them to ask questions, he buys himself an excuse. Gets her a drink.
He huffs a laugh into his glass when she speaks to him. He's not sure what prompted it, actually. Generosity? Maybe he just wanted someone to smile at him. Really smile.
But he can't bring himself to lock eyes with her. He's just looking down at his drink.
Lack of eye contact is just fine with Deacon, who gleams down at the $50 glass of vodka-soda with self-satisfaction, but Cooper isn't off the hook, yet.
"Hn. I'm not usually the betting type," she starts, taking a small sip from her glass, "But something tells me that you have a lot more to give than just cheap drinks..."
The tone is almost comically flirtatious. Deacon isn't usually the type to take this sort of thing too far to gather intel; the ethics of the whole thing don't sit too well with her if she thinks about it too hard, but this is the world we're talking about saving, here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
closed to ungloomy;
Somehow, Lucy manages to be the most annoying, stubborn and simple-minded idiot he's ever met. She's also other adjectives, ones he hasn't attributed to most anything in the last two-hundred years. She's kind, she's brave and surprisingly loyal, all things considered. It's the warmth that keeps drawing him in. He's not a stupid fucking moth though, so he's not going to ping off her like she's some radiant lamp.
He tries to go back to business as usual, she doesn't. She leans in closer when they're talking, she brushes their fingers together and touches his arm. He's lost considerable will to pull away, because like with anything that feels even a little good, it's addictive.
So no matter what intentions he starts the day with, more often than not he ends up with her splayed on his chest. Snoring. Damn near the only thing that settles her when she's wired, so maybe he's doing them both a favour.
This evening, it seems like he's more in need of a little pick me up. It's hard for him to look pale, but he somehow looks a little more gaunt. He looks troubled despite their miraculous survival. It won't happen twice. Lighting doesn't strike twice.
While she fidgets behind him, he gets them a room. Some looks between him, her and the clerk are exchanged. He's pretty sure he knows what their thinking-- and they're probably right, to some extent. He is taking advantage of her, because he can't get both of them over the line. He was always prepared to use her as a bargaining tool, though he's increasingly aware that simply giving her back is not going to get him what he needs.
Then they started fucking. Then she started waking dormant parts of him up and filling his gaps. Digging her claws in. Makes her sound terribly predatory when he's the monster fucking her before he turns her over to her dirtbag father.
It's not a topic he's willing to broach with her tonight, he's not tired but he wants to be off his feet. When they make it upstairs, he lets her go about her business while he goes about looking for something to drink.]
no subject
Something irrevocably altered.
It shouldn't change anything. Lucy doesn't attach much to sex. It's just bodies on bodies doing what they do. A perfectly natural human activity which she really, really enjoys. Really. Especially with him.
He's still the Ghoul, but his prickles have softened, his voice doesn't carry the same jagged edge of cruelty. He opens up. Lucy doesn't take it for granted; she wonders how long it's been since he shared these parts of himself with anybody. Selfishly, she likes that it is with her.
Most of the time, she doesn't realize how close she's attracted to him. Her body brushing against his, hips bumping while they traverse the treacherous terrain to New Vegas. How she turns to him for advice, even approval now.
They manage to make it out alive from the ambush. They always do. It's why she's confident they can take the Deathclaws. Her father is so close. They just need to regroup, so she doesn't argue when he elects to get them a room for the night.
First time in a long while she's gotten to sleep in a real bed, out of the elements. Sounds nice.
The desk clerk is alarmed when she steps up beside her companion and clarifies they need a bed to accommodate two, swinging back and forth on her feet. The silent condemnation goes over her head.
The Ghoul is moody. Withdrawn. Lucy is restless, but decides to channel that energy on a more mundane task. No use in worrying. Everything always works out.
The room they get is not ... clean, exactly, but it is orderly. Tidy. Doable. And there are a few water reserves in the hotel, which she helps herself to. It may be the only time for a long stretch that she'll get the opportunity to wipe the grime, sweat, and sand off of her skin. Refresh herself and her uniform. Depending on what happens when they get to her dad.
Which is why she's standing in front of the Ghoul naked, again, sponge in hand. ]
Are you sure you don't have any drugs? Can you check again?
[ #priorities ]
no subject
He uncaps it and sniffs it. It smells more like alcohol than stank, so it'll do nicely. He's already taking a pull from the bottle when he hears her step out of the bathroom. Now, he may have sex with her. And that sex isn't solely initiated by her. And he's far from a gentleman. But something about her impropriety really fucking catches him off-guard.
The drink almost goes down the wrong pipe, but through sheer force of will he does not choke or splutter. He's seen it all before, it shouldn't make him bashful of all things.]
Didn't take you long to start taking your clothes off and asking for drugs. [Flatly, then he feels guilty for acting like anything she's doing is shameful. He shakes his head.]
You chewed your way through 'em, faster than a cow in a cornfield. [Oof, that one was rough.
He pushes the bottle toward her. The contents of it are extremely valuable to him, but a little booze ought to settle her. She's in for a rough night of hot flashes, itching and sweating. He should distract her before she asks him to check again. His eyes flick down to the safe zone, her midsection. He reaches out, tracing a gloved finger over the line of her scar.]
Someone got you real good there, Miss Lucy.
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Her mouth opens, summoning a retort to her lips, when he hands her over his booze. Now, she knows he's very stingy when it comes to his booze. Makes her instantly forgive the insult, not that she's like to hold grudges over it. His punches don't land half the time.
She sniffs the opening, face wrinkling. This isn't her vice of choice. Vault 33 brought out the good stuff for very rare -- special -- occasions, but she had never consumed past the point of a pleasant buzz. ]
What?
[ She had been ready to bat his hand away. She doesn't want sex right now, thank you; she wants mind altering substances!
Her eyes cast downward where his attention landed. The frown between her eyebrows deepens. Somehow, between all the ... sexual activity, it had never come up. Then again, she rarely thinks about it. There are so many other things to occupy one's time with in the wasteland. ]
Oh, that? My husband gave me that.
[ She shrugs, irreverent about the scar. The existing scar tissue shows it was quite deep. If not for the stimpak, it might have been fatal.
She takes a swig, only to sputter, bringing a hand up to wipe her mouth with the back of it. ]
That is -- disgusting.
no subject
His hand drops away and he creases his forehead, looking confused.]
Husband? [He's been in plenty of vaults, he's never been in them long enough to know the particulars of their mating rituals.]
Hard to imagine someone managed to domesticate you. 'Spose that's where the knife came in? [He starts to walk forward, urging her to walk backward and back to the bathroom. He prises the bottle from her fingers, muttering:]
You're not drinking it for the flavour. It's for the feeling. [Or lack thereof.]
no subject
Not that being vault-grown is a trophy any longer in her eyes. The glamor has faded. Her entire world ideology had been rocked, shattered, after the discovery of her father's betrayal.
She doesn't know what to believe about her world anymore. About this one. Everything used to be easy, packed into neat boxes. Not anymore. ]
No. He was part of a group of raiders that was working with that woman, Moldaver. Paid by her, or something. I'm not sure. Anyways. We were only married for, like -- four hours? Five? I'm not sure. We had sex. I liked that part. And then ...
[ Trailing off, fingers passing over the raised skin. Not angry, but beginning to fade.
Whilst yapping, she had walked back into the hotel bathroom, resting a hand on the vanity. ]
-- oh, whoa. I can feel the alcohol now.
no subject
The story tugs at him in a way it wouldn't have before she wormed her way in. She's used been used by plenty of people for her father before. She was born in the wrong vault to the wrong asshole. It can't be helped, which is why he swigs the drink again.]
Feel more. [He pushes it back in her hand while she's stable. He pulls back to lean against the doorframe, clearly not planning on bathing. Just enjoying the view.]
Did you like fucking him or killing him more?
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The killing was self defense. Furthermore, I didn't kill him. He almost --
[ The rest dies on her tongue. At once, she quietens, sober, lingering on the nape of her neck with the sponge. ]
He almost killed me. My dad stopped him.
no subject
Other than supplying her with alcohol, the least he can do is help her out. Right? When her hand stills, he reaches out and takes the sponge from her. He drags it down her spine, firm but not rough.]
Might be the only smart choice he ever made. [If there's one thing he and Hank can align on, it's being desperately protective of their daughters.
He doesn't allow his mind to wander past the brief thought of Hank treating Janey like this-- no. His brows furrow, unaware his gentle, concerned expression is visible in the mirror in front of her.]
You gonna marry again? When it's all said and done?
no subject
And yet. He shows it to her. Over and over these days.
Soapy water seeps down her back, running down and between her legs. Her eyes light on his reflection, the hazel of her own soft with questioning.
What she can't help is the awkward laugh that jolts out of her, coming somewhere from below her ribcage. ]
I think I'm past husbands. I mean, maybe. I haven't really thought that far ahead.
[ Because for all her sense of justice seeking, she can't get past what she's supposed to do with her dad. Drag him back to the vault. Bring him to justice with ... what? How? Were there others complicit with his actions? There must be. How would the other vault dwellers like herself handle everything she now knew?
BRB time to take another swig of that gross stuff he found. She cringes, shaking her head vigorously. ]
How do you even drink that stuff? Rhetorical question. Don't answer.
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[Cryptic as ever, rubbing firm circles over her back to exfoliate her properly. Skin like this doesn't stay this nice for long out here. Not without a little TLC, anyway. She still might be the softest thing he's ever touched, though.]
I am curious, though. Do you walk around like this back in your vault or were you trying anything to get my stash?
[Now he does realise she can see his face in the mirror and his expression returns to something scathing.]
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Her eyes drop. She liked it better when he didn't realize she was watching him, when she had the advantage of seeing him without pretenses.
She knows him better now than when they first met, or when he dangled her as mutated fish bait. Suspicions made into confirmations. He's not as impenetrable as he wants her, and everybody else, to think.
She rolls her eyes. ]
No. I'm afraid only you get to see me walk around naked. [ Sarcasm-laden, even though his hands are moving to her side, beneath her breast. ] I mean ... until we find my dad and your wife. [ Left to linger in the humid air, half-question, half-statement. ]
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[A long, heavy pause follows.]
Maybe this ought to stay our little secret.
[He may have a wife, but he reckons letting the world know she allowed a ghoul fuck her raw nightly might make trouble for her. It will make trouble for her.
Eager to deviate away from that, he skims the sponge down the curve of her ass. He nudges her legs apart, teasing the sponge over the lips of her cunt so it just barely touches her.]
Might find myself missing it all the same.
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He is a married man.
It's the first time either of them has put an expiration date on this dance they've been doing, an air of finality. Can't last forever. The thought cinches in her chest. She'll miss his cock. She'll even miss him, now that they've become allies, friends (?).
Her body responds: a small jolt, teased awake. ]
Yeah?
[ Slightly breathy. She shouldn't be encouraging this. Really shouldn't. But they're so far past notions of guilt and fidelity, all of that was sealed when he kissed her cunt the first time. Besides, is a man supposed to stay celibate for 200 years? She can't be the first one he fucked. Just the last.
Wow. The wasteland has really fudged up her morale compass. ]
Little 'ole Lucy?
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[And unfortunately, he has an emotional reaction to her bravado that he doesn't expect. It's cute. She's cute. Embarrassing to be the kind of man a line like that works on. Makes him act gruff.
It may be because he has no choice but to feel like she doesn't realise that he gets far more out of this than she ever will. She's been a very persistent and active part of it all the same. There's way more wrong with her than there is with him.
Which is why he grabs her shoulder and twists her around so they're both facing the front of the basin.]
Look at yourself.
[He grabs her under the jaw from behind, before she can move. Half his hand is on her throat and his fingers turn her face. So she can stare back at her reflection.]
Little 'ole Lucy.
[She is objectively beautiful. He doesn't need to reality check her in this regard. Or rather, he needs her to realise it more than he wants her to float along without valuing her assets. Knowing your value is the most important lesson you can learn out here.]
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She opens her mouth, but nothing but hot air escapes. She's aware of what she has to offer, or rather, what can be taken. Smooth, (mostly) unblemished skin. All her teeth. All of her fingers and toes — save for one. His doing. She's very happy, and grateful, that she hasn't lost more. Part of that has to do with him, she knows.
She's also aware of her own breaths, how they alter when his hand grips her jaw. Like he's evaluating her. Like she's prized cattle. (She is.) Demeaning, and somehow extremely desirable.
She watches the length of her throat, how it moves as she swallows. The buds of her nipples tighten to peaks. ]
And you.
[ Quietly. ]
I see you.
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[He is also not engaging with that comment further, because he doesn't like the way it feels. Faint excitement that makes him furious at himself. Embarrassment for feeling it at all. He doesn't deserve the softness from her, not when he's selling her like she's cattle.
He keeps his hand on her throat, thumb rubbing circles against her jaw.]
And this ain't about me. It's about you. [He insists, tracing his fingers from his other hand down the curve of her spine.]
Plenty o'things aside from booze to get your mind off drugs.
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Her eyes shut, forcing it away. Focusing on the weathered leather, the familiar scent. His breathing.
It's not Monty.
It's Him.
And he's trying to show her something. Tell her something. She nods, calm if not certain, and decides, as she has time and time again, to trust him.
Her head turns, incremental, toward him. ]
Gonna show me?
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The hand behind her moves between her shoulders, firmly pushing her down over the basin so that she needs to bend. He keeps himself close, so she can feel his erection against the back of her thigh.]
I don't think there's anything I can show you. [There's tease in his voice. She's naive in a lot of ways but she's surprisingly adept at sex. The hand in her hair tugs her head back up, so she can still see herself.]
But if you keep looking forward you might learn a thing or two. [Namely, the face she makes when she's close.]
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Most of the time, he's not particularly gentle with her. She repays the favor, more from enthusiasm than the urge to get back at him. She likes when he's rough. It's probably the first time anyone has met her toe to toe in bed. Aggressively needy, perhaps. Passionate. He probably wouldn't care to hear himself described either way.
She exhales, rocking her ass back against the outline of his cock. Her hands brace against the countertop, wet dirt and dust beneath her fingers. When she nods, she goes limp against the hand holding her head up – giving herself over. ]
Okay.
closed to sunnygoose;
Now at first he hadn't known this. He'd simply wrangled her for sale like any self-respecting man in need of funds. She can't have expected anything else, travelling into the darker parts of the forest. The creatures here don't have courtly manners, they get by the only way they know how. By dragging others down, mostly.
Ironically, even after changing his tune from captor to willing guide and travel partner, they're were both getting dragged down by creatures. By a troll, specifically. Stuck in it's net, slung over it's shoulder. Limbs tangled and faces pressed against intimate parts. But they've grown a bit of unspoken communication and a good understanding of one another. It only takes a few glances for Lucy to pick up on what the Ghoul is signalling her to do and she's still floating on a shrooms cloud, so she's more than willing. Might be the first time she's taken direction.
She bites the troll hard. He drops them, yelping. The Ghoul pulls his knife out of it's sheath with his fingertips and rips through the netting and his bindings. He seems to weigh options before he cuts hers open too. Both armed with knives, a bloody troll massacre ensues. They make a good team, and she's still stabbing long after he's sheathed his knife.
He takes her by the forearm, guiding her into a run away from the main road and into the forest. They find a quiet corner in giant roots of a mossy tree, their surroundings illuminated by fireflies.]
Not bad. [As big a compliment as she'll ever get, followed by a light hand on her back that drops into a fist at his side. He ought to stop that.]
Did you get got?
I hope this doesn't lead to any FALLOUT between us
A woman speaks from the barstool beside Cooper Howard's, biting at her own lower lip as she snuffs out a cigarette. If she wasn't wearing sunglasses, he may have actually seen her wink. A force of habit, on her end. She's smiling as she turns to face the bartender for a moment, pushing the ashtray aside.
"Vodka. The cheap stuff."
After years of research, years of planning and thinking of what's best to say to the target to get him on board, this wasn't part of the script. Deacon had skimmed it for the important parts, but she also liked to improvise; put her own personal flair on things. Cheap vodka wasn't even a preference, but the good stuff made it easier to go overboard, and she had a mission.
"What? You look miserable. I don't think it's unreasonable to assume you've already lost it all at the craps table."
pls lord don't let this tag bomb
But there's a lot of the cheap stuff here, the cheap stuff makes it easy to go overboard. It might seem like he's got some chips or some dollars burning a hole in his pocket. Certainly nobody would imagine he has cold fusion buried down in his trousers, but somehow it feels like everyone is watching him. It makes him glance suspiciously at everyone-- and when someone notices and he doesn't want them to ask questions, he buys himself an excuse. Gets her a drink.
He huffs a laugh into his glass when she speaks to him. He's not sure what prompted it, actually. Generosity? Maybe he just wanted someone to smile at him. Really smile.
But he can't bring himself to lock eyes with her. He's just looking down at his drink.
"I wouldn't be buying if I had nothing to give."
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"Hn. I'm not usually the betting type," she starts, taking a small sip from her glass, "But something tells me that you have a lot more to give than just cheap drinks..."
The tone is almost comically flirtatious. Deacon isn't usually the type to take this sort of thing too far to gather intel; the ethics of the whole thing don't sit too well with her if she thinks about it too hard, but this is the world we're talking about saving, here.