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Pairings: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x OC

Notes: Practically songfic. To fully immerse yourself, I advise you to turn on the song Mackeson - Falling apart.

"Falling apart"

Once, Sam walked alone, like so many others in this renewed world.

The Wasteland taught her not to wait and not to believe. Not to linger in one place, not to ask unnecessary questions, and to always keep her weapon closer than people. She grew used to nights under the open sky, to the wind tugging at her jacket, to the silence where any sound could mean death. Loneliness didn’t burden her — it felt honest and reliable.

Then she met Cooper.

He appeared the way trouble always does in the Wasteland: suddenly, with a wary squint. And with him was Lucy — too bright for this world, too alive, too willing to believe that people could be better than they truly were. At first, Sam was certain she wouldn’t last long in such company. She was used to people around her either breaking morally or dying first.

But time passed, and they kept going together.

Step by step, Sam found herself walking beside them, almost without noticing when it happened. She wasn’t deliberately seeking company — it just turned out that way. Their paths aligned. Then it became natural to share food, caps, ammo, and the silence by the campfire. She didn’t call it a team, and certainly not a family, but she caught herself more and more often glancing back if someone fell behind.

Sam’s personality was sharp. Straightforward, prickly, intolerant of authority. She rarely agreed right away and almost always argued. Especially with Cooper. Even though their views of the Wasteland were surprisingly similar: the world was broken, trust had become a luxury, and only those willing to shoot first survived.

But where Cooper spoke of it calmly, with the tired irony of a man who had seen too much, Sam argued fiercely, stubbornly, as if every conversation were a fight she could not afford to lose. She didn’t like compromises, didn’t like being taught how to live, and especially didn’t like it when Cooper was right.

“You talk too much, cowboy,” she would snap at him.

“And you take on too much, girl,” he would reply.

And they would argue again.

Lucy usually just sighed and pretended not to notice how their arguments became something familiar, almost necessary — like a morning weapons check or inspecting their gear. Sometimes it felt as though if they ever stopped arguing, something important between them would break for good.

Sam wasn’t soft. She didn’t know how to talk about feelings and preferred to act instead. She would stand up for Lucy without hesitation, even if afterward she joked that she’d just gotten lucky. She irritated Cooper — and perhaps that was exactly why he liked her more than he was willing to admit.

She walked with them not because she sought protection. And not because she wanted to be part of something bigger. At some point, loneliness simply stopped being the only option.

And so, when in the bar of yet another town Cooper suddenly held out his hand and asked her to dance, it wasn’t an accident or a whim. It was the result of a long road, hundreds of steps taken side by side, thousands of words spoken and left unsaid, and that strange, fragile trust that can only be born between those who have survived together.

The dance didn’t come from nowhere.

It grew out of the Wasteland.

And it was this moment that Sam and Cooper would later love to remember, in the silence of the night Wasteland.

***

The bar in yet another town along their path was loud and alive, as always. The music hit hard and simple, people laughed too loudly, as if trying to drown out something greater than mere fatigue. Sam stood near the counter, leaning her shoulder against the cold wood, watching the room with her usual wariness.

Cooper was nearby. She felt his presence as naturally as the weight of the weapon on her back. They weren’t talking — and there was no awkwardness in that. Over the long road, they had learned how to be silent together.

He didn’t look at her right away. First his gaze swept the room, then dropped to the glass in his hand, and only then settled on Sam. There was no familiar smirk in his eyes, no sharpness he usually used to shield anything personal. He seemed to be deciding something.

The music changed — slower now, drawn out, with sadness in its notes, as if the song knew more about the world than it should.

I never thought you'd love me

I never thought you'd care

You make me feel so lovely

Don't go nowhere

Cooper took a step forward and held out his hand.

“Dance?”

Sam blinked. For a moment, she thought she’d misheard him. Dancing wasn’t on her survival list. It belonged to another life — not to the Wasteland, and not to people like her. And hearing such an invitation from Cooper was unexpected, though somewhere deep down… pleasant.

“I can’t,” she said almost immediately, as if apologizing. “At all.”

“I’ll lead,” he replied calmly.

She looked at his hand — the same hand that had held weapons, pulled her from rubble, covered her back in firefights. Sam snorted softly, but still placed her hand in his.

“If I step on your foot, that’s on you.”

Cooper smiled gently, without a trace of mockery.

He drew her closer carefully, almost tenderly. The music was simple, not meant for ballrooms or crystal chandeliers, but he moved as if he heard a different rhythm — deeper, steadier. His steps were confident, and to her own surprise, Sam began to follow. At first awkwardly, shoulders tense, then more freely.

I can hear all the people talking

Paranoia is on the rise

Some people can be so foolish

We've got to be wise

She was used to controlling space, keeping her distance — but now she allowed herself to trust. His hand on her back was warm and steady, not demanding, not pressing. Just there.

The noise of the bar began to fade. People dissolved into motion, turning into blurred silhouettes. Only the steps, the breathing, and the music remained, slowly sinking beneath her skin.

And suddenly, the man caught himself thinking that the bar’s noise had vanished, the laughter distant and muted. The floor beneath his feet felt smooth, polished to a mirror-like shine. Cooper blinked — and instead of worn walls, he saw a tall hall bathed in warm light. Chandeliers softly scattered their glow, and the music was live, deep, enveloping.

Well baby we are, we are, living in ecstasy

We are, we are, straight from the heart

We are, we are, living in ecstasy

While the world is falling apart

He felt the fabric of a suit on his shoulders — alien to this world, yet painfully familiar.

And before him was Sam.

Not in a jacket that smelled of dust and gunpowder, not with the tension of someone always bracing for a blow. She was wearing a dress — simple, but elegant, accentuating her shoulders, the movement of her hips, that same stubborn grace that couldn’t be hidden even in the Wasteland. Her hair caught the light, her eyes laughed with a hint of daring, and there was no wariness in her gaze — only life.

Cry all you want, but life goes on

Any second now it could all be gone

Let's make love until they drop the bomb

Don't mind them either way

And he was not a ghoul.

His skin wasn’t shriveled by radiation, his thoughts weren’t broken by time. He held her confidently and calmly, unafraid of glances or the future. They spun lightly, freely, as if the world ahead were whole, not cracked.

And suddenly it became clear to him: if they had met back then, he still wouldn’t have been able to look away.

Cooper looked at her differently than usual. Not appraising, not with his familiar tired irony. His gaze was soft, almost distant, as if he were seeing not only her — but who she could have been in another world.

Sam noticed.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked quietly.

“About how this could have been,” he replied. “If the world hadn’t broken. If I were… different. And you could look at me without disgust or pity.”

She squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“I’ve never looked at you that way, Cooper,” Sam said with a smirk. “I’m fine with you. I’m mostly fine with this world. I’ve learned to accept it the way it is.”

He smirked, but said nothing. And in that silence, there was more than in a hundred of their past arguments.

Beautiful world inside your eyes

Hanging by a thread, the last sunrise

Give me some love before they drop the bomb

Don't mind them either way

They spun among strangers who had no interest in them. And for those few minutes, the Wasteland ceased to exist. There was no past pulling them back, no future frightening them. There was only the present — warm, fragile, alive.

We are, we are, living in ecstasy

While the world is falling apart

When the music faded, Cooper didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered in her palm, as if he didn’t want to destroy what had just formed between them, as if the images in his mind were already dissolving.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Sam smirked, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks.

“If you tell anyone I danced — I’ll shoot you.”

He laughed softly, genuinely.

And suddenly Sam realized: no matter how harsh the road ahead might be, this moment would stay with her. Like rare proof that even in a broken world, you can allow yourself — for a few minutes — to be not a fighter, not a loner, but simply a human being.

While the world is falling apart...

#cooper howard#cooper howard x oc#howard cooper x oc#the ghoul x oc#howard cooper x you#cooper howard x you#the ghoul x reader#the ghoul x you#fallout the ghoul#fallout cooper howard#howard cooper#the ghoul
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warnings: OC x jabber. toxic relationships. Smut. Jabber maybe a little is ooc.

"Touch"

Getting into a relationship with someone like Jabber was, for Mira, more a way of stepping over herself than anything else. One could say she had already done that when she joined the raiders, but the softness she had clearly inherited from her father stubbornly refused to let her become who she felt she truly was somewhere deep inside.
As long as she could remember, very few people believed in her. Even despite the fact that she had her own jinki. Or that she occasionally crossed paths with the Cleaners and helped them, without wanting to officially join their ranks—mainly because the group’s leader, Akuta’s Enjin, was far too fond of lecturing her about what was right and what was wrong. On top of that, he had a habit of protecting her, sometimes excessively—not the way he did with his other wards. Because of that, a cheerful slaughter of a trash beast often turned into yet another rescue mission. At times, it seemed to her that Enjin wasn’t so much afraid for her as he was afraid of what would come flying at him later from her father, Bars.
Now, having run from rules and joined those who knew no mercy, Mira was awakening exactly what others had never allowed her to fully reveal. And it was her relationship with Jabber that helped her do so. He became a real discovery for her. A man who loved inflicting pain and feeling it. A man who, at first, laughed at her desire to feel compassion for someone—but unlike others, actually tried to root it out, helping her cross that very line where there was no place for decency. And surprisingly, the most frightening thing about him wasn’t his passion for twisted notions of pain, but the fact that he supported her in becoming more cruel. Support—that was exactly what Mira had always lacked. And that was what hooked her so painfully.
Mornings in the so-called raider den always began the same way—echoing footsteps in the corridor, someone’s laughter, the smell of cheap coffee and burning wood in a fire hose. But Mira didn’t wake up because of that.
She woke up from the sensation of being watched.
Very close.
Very intrusive.
She blinked, focusing her vision, and saw Jabber’s grin stretched ear to ear. He was sitting right over her, almost looming, thick dreadlocks gathered into heavy curls falling into his eyes, and both of his hands were raised… with his poisonous claws fully extended.
The way he looked at her was as if he were about to start begging.
Mira wearily rolled her eyes and, without even sitting up, said:
“No.”
Jabber immediately deflated miserably: his shoulders slumped, his claws twitched slightly, and he looked at her like an offended puppy, puffing out his cheeks.
“But why?!” he whined. “Please! Just once! Hurt me—at least a little!”
“Jabber,” Mira yawned so hard her eyes nearly watered, “it’s eight in the morning. Eight. Damn. A.M. What pain are you even talking about?”
He lowered one hand; the other still hung there pitifully, bent at the elbow with claws out. In moments like this, he transformed from a psychopath into something so cute it was impossible to look at him without heart-shaped eyes.
“My little one,” he purred, tilting his head. “Just a tiny bit. I’ve been behaving myself for almost ten hours!” He poked the air with a claw as if that were a solid argument.
Mira pulled the blanket higher around herself and grumbled:
“Before sleep, you were extremely ill-behaved. And stop waking me up with your… violent passion attacks. Let me at least wash my face and drink some coffee first.”
He sighed heavily, dramatically, and collapsed beside her, retracting his claws in one smooth motion.
“Fine… but afterward you’ll do something to me, right?”
Mira shoved a pillow into his face.
“We’ll see.”
Jabber purred contentedly, as if she’d already agreed, wrapped an arm around her waist, and buried his nose in her neck.
“Today’s going to be a good day,” he announced happily.
She only groaned something unintelligible—but apparently, he heard agreement in it.
Restless Jabber followed her around all day, even though he hadn’t gotten a clear answer—only a hint of consent. Judging by everything, that only fueled him more.
He didn’t just trail after her—he circled like a hungry predator promised a treat but forced to wait until dinner. He peeked over her shoulder, appeared from behind doorframes, materialized at her back every time she tried to do anything other than what he wanted.
“Miraaa…” he whined.
“Later,” she replied automatically.
Half an hour later.
“Mira, please…” he appeared again as if out of nowhere while she sat on a battered couch, talking about something with Chtoni.
“Later,” she answered without breaking the conversation.
Ten minutes later.
“At least a little…” he dragged a claw through the air like a child showing how much ice cream he wanted.
“No.”
Three hours later.
“Mira, I’ll die if you don’t do anything to me!”
“Is it really that unbearable?” she asked tiredly, sewing up her jacket.
“YES!” he assured her far too sincerely.
By evening, she finally gave in. She glanced at the ceiling as if begging all available higher powers for patience… and turned to him.
“Fine.”
Jabber froze. Mira was certain that if he had a tail, it would be wagging like that of the most loyal dog.
“Really?” he whispered reverently.
“Yes,” Mira raised a finger. “But on one condition.”
He straightened, ready to hear his sentence.
“Say it.”
“After that, you go take a shower.”
He blinked in confusion.
“…Right away?”
“No” she drawled sarcastically. “We’ll wait until the mattress is fully soaked through with blood and the smell of sweat… Of course right away!”
He thought for about five seconds, then nodded as seriously as if she’d ordered him to destroy an enemy headquarters.
“Alright. Deal.”
Mira approached him, took his wrist, turned his palm upward. Jabber held his breath, his gaze almost reverent.
She took out her knife. The cold, sharp blade immediately touched coffee-colored skin. A light press drew a bloody line of scarlet beads that slowly ran down his arm. Jabber melted into bliss, throwing his head back. It wasn’t so much the pain itself that gave him pleasure, but the fact that it was she who was causing it. Mira didn’t even notice how, looking at him, her lips stretched into a strange smile, warmth pleasantly coiling low in her stomach. But the desire to keep her sanity proved stronger, and she quickly pulled herself together.
A few more slow, searing touches followed, sending icy shivers and delicious goosebumps down the guy’s spine, and then the knife was put away.
Mira exhaled as if she hadn’t been breathing at all and gestured toward the shower.
“That’s it. Now go wash.”
Jabber sat on the bed a little longer with his eyes closed, swaying contentedly from side to side, as if replaying every sensation again. Blood slowly trickled from the wounds, dripping onto his black-polished nails and his dirty-gray clothes.
Then he obediently headed for the shower, staring at the wounds as though they were the best gift of his life.
Mira rubbed her face with her palm.
“Who am I even living with…” she muttered, though the corners of her lips still twitched, and a pleasant warmth spread through her belly.
Things like this happened between them quite often. Mira, who was ready to kill people displeasing Zodil, for some reason still tried to maintain a balance of sanity—at least in her relationship with Jabber. But over time, each time she left scars on his skin, she caught herself biting her lip to a pleasantly painful degree, mentally switching their places. And she no longer saw much point in fighting it.
So when, one evening, the guy once again begged for his favorite pastime, she didn’t resist and agreed fairly quickly, which pleasantly surprised Jabber. He sat down opposite her, pulled off his shirt, and, as if by instinct, extended his arm. Mira took out the knife, shot him a playful glance, and instead of touching his skin with the blade, unexpectedly ran her tongue along its entire length, making his breath hitch.
To be honest, Mira became a kind of revelation for him too. At first, he didn’t take her attempts to become a raider seriously. Especially after she befriended Fu, whom she protected from attacks and took punishments for. To Jabber, it all seemed funny, stupid, and pathetic. But over time—when Fu switched to the Cleaners’ side (surely not without Mira’s help, as he believed), when she decided to devote herself fully to her chosen goal, when she allowed him to show her how to truly become who she was trying to be—it was as if he’d flipped past the dullest page of a book and found a forgotten banknote. Unexpected and pleasant. So pleasant that he now couldn’t fall asleep without her beside him, nose buried in her neck, soaking in the scent of her skin. So pleasant that he was ready to gut anyone who dared touch her. So pleasant that their first kiss blew his mind just from the realization that he was doing it with this unpredictable girl. They were tangled up in each other so deeply that neither wanted to get out.
Jabber sharply exhaled, as if struck by lightning.
“Shit” he said.
Mira tilted her head, smiling playfully.
“What?” she asked softly. “You teased me all day yourself.”
The purple gleam of his eyes brightened with the lust settling in them. Everything he’d been striving for all day faded into the background—it had just become far more interesting. Before, Mira hadn’t taken much part in his games. A few cuts, then back to her own business. But now, judging by her smile and her gaze, she seemed willing to try it herself. Turns out, madness is contagious.
Smirking at his own thoughts, Jabber pulled her closer by the waist until there was no air left between them.
“Does the little one want to play?” he whispered against her lips, his voice lower, more dangerous.
Mira didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, and replied just as quietly:
“Just a little.”
In the morning, Mira woke to a chill drifting into the room. Though calling their space a room was difficult. More like a cave, with an old creaky bed, a mattress of unknown origin, and once-white sheets now decorated with ingrained bloodstains.
Cold ran over her skin at first, then warmth from someone else’s breathing. She opened her eyes and saw the rumpled bed beneath them, flasks scattered on the floor, a toppled chair—in short, the traces of last night’s chaos.
She carefully lifted herself and brushed her lips against his cheek—almost weightlessly, not to wake him. There was no play or challenge in the gesture. Only quiet affection.
Then her gaze dropped to her own hands, legs, thighs, stomach…
Thin scratches were visible on her skin—shallow, not dangerous yet, but still sensitive. The traces of the neurotoxin had long since stopped burning, leaving behind a strange, warm aftertaste in her body. She traced them with her fingers, slowly, thoughtfully, replaying last night’s flashes: laughter, heavy breathing, the loss of boundaries, that sweet euphoria where fear and pleasure fused into one.
Mira smiled.
Suddenly, she was genuinely curious.
How long could she keep the balance? And did she even need to? Certainly not with him. Still, Jabber sometimes needed a cold hand to bring him back to his senses. Usually that person was Chtoni—but given their relationship, Mira could easily take her place.
Her thoughts broke off abruptly.
An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. Jabber didn’t open his eyes, but his movements were too confident to doubt. He pressed against her from behind, nuzzled his lips into her neck, and whispered softly, almost lazily:
“Don’t doubt…”
Warm breath slid across her skin.
“You’re incredible when you do things like that,” he said, biting her earlobe. “Let yourself be you more often, beauty.”
Mira closed her eyes and, for a moment, simply dissolved in the instant. In this man, who evoked unimaginable feelings in her just by being near.
Because thanks to his peculiar therapy, she could now fall asleep with the feeling that, at least for now, she was exactly where she belonged. And she didn’t want to go anywhere anymore. Unless it was with him.
#jabber wonger x reader#jabber wonger x you#gachiakuta x reader#gachiakuta x you#jabber wonger#gachiakuta jabber#jabber wonger x smut#drabbles#jabber x oc

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