Hi! I’m DJ (they/them), and this is my 18+ writing blog! I’m very open to requests right now, so you can send one over here!
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Call of Duty Fic Masterlist
Fandoms:
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (reboots)
Turn: Washington’s Spies
Persona 3 (P3P), 4, 5
Subnautica
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974/2003/2006)
Halloween (OG/RZ)
Friday the 13th
House of Wax
The Boy (2016)
Thir13en Ghosts
Black Christmas
Far Cry 5
Red Dead Redemption 1 & 2
The Terror
Hannibal
Hades and Hades II (Supergiant)
Fallout (3, NV, 4, TV)
Twister & Twisters
Some classics (Moby-Dick, Wuthering Heights, and so on)
Monsters and cryptids (e.g. werewolves, vampires, Mothman, etc.)
Original spooky stuff
I usually default to a gender neutral reader, so if you’d like anything else, please specify!
I don’t write any NSFW content that includes minors, nothing involving animal abuse, and I generally don’t write noncon (dubcon and roleplay scenarios are fine). There may be times that I won’t fulfill a request if I don’t feel comfortable with it, or it’s not something in my wheelhouse!
If there’s anything you want but you’re not sure about, feel free to ask or send a DM and I’ll let you know if it’s cool!
Opening up my askbox for requests again! I have a bunch of days off in a row and I'm Feeling the Inspiration this week. (And check the updated fandoms list!)
Hi, hello, I decided to be stupidly self-indulgent and write my Courier/Cooper Howard. I guess it's an AU in the sense that I'm writing this under the No Gods, No Masters ending of FNV? Mr. House whomst.
---
All these years on, Cooper still hates Vegas.
He did some work in there—movie scenes, photo ops, theater releases. Casinos used to pay people like him just to show up, to draw in big crowds eager to gamble alongside the stars. He'd throw down a couple dollars on a blackjack table or at the roulette wheel, then make a beeline for the buffet when his time was up. He never had time to go sightseeing in the Mojave, to gaze down the long concrete throat of Hoover Dam, to catch all the sunset colors at Red Rock Canyon.
He flew in and out, and felt dirty all the while.
Knowing what he does about fellas like Robert House, he feels a particular kind of dirty again as New Vegas wavers like a mirage on the horizon. He's passed through before, following bounties through NCR checkpoints and around Legion patrols back when those bastards still crawled like red mites through the canyons and gullies.
This time is no different. A bounty on a would-be gunslinger who put a bullet into a brahmin baron's son during a bar fight. His trail's easy to follow, as all Cooper has to do is the world's longest bar crawl and ask after a shaken-up little shit in a mouse-colored duster. Same color as his coward hide, Cooper says.
His route takes him to a little outpost called Goodsprings. It's quaint in the way that Wasteland towns usually are—just people trying to keep their heads down and still attached to their necks. They must see ghouls aplenty, as everyone from the bighorner rancher to the bartender doesn't so much as bat an eye at the sight of him.
The bartender in particular is his favorite kind of person. The only question she asks is what he'll be drinking, and then she slides him a shot of whiskey and the rest of the bottle.
"Good for the caps?" she asks.
He nods, knuckles the brim of his hat as extra confirmation. "Much obliged, ma'am."
She scoffs with a smile. "Heavens to betsy, but you're polite. Oughta teach some of our other menfolk 'round here to mind their manners."
"It's a dyin' art," he agrees.
She goes back to wiping out chipped glasses with a rag that probably gets them dirtier than not. As she does, the saloon door opens with a low, throaty creak, getting both of their attentions.
The bartender coughs out a laugh. "Been a minute since you darkened our doorway, honey," she says.
Cooper glances over his shoulder to the visitor, burned-up brows rising in surprise. On one hand, she's a Wasteland special—.308 rifle slung over her shoulder, tan face windburnt on the cheeks, aged brahmin leather rucksack over her shoulder practically busting at the seams with supplies. At a glance, he can't tell if she's a scavver, caravaneer, or mercenary—maybe all three.
But on the other hand, he doesn't see women like her all that often. She's probably in her late 30s or so, although he's absolutely shit at guessing ages these days. A pair of aviator sunglasses rest on top of her head—hair blue-black and tied back—like she's a movie star at poolside. And, hell, the rest of her looks that way, too. If it weren't for all the hallmarks of a life lived out in the wastes, she'd fit right in to his best Hollywood memories. Boxed at the edges, sure, but pretty as all get out.
He doesn't often bitch about being a ghoul, but seeing girls like her out in the wastes really makes him kick himself over getting irradiated.
"Trudy," she greets, sliding onto the stool beside him easy as pie. Like the rest of the town, she doesn't so much as blink at him. "How're things?"
"Just dandy," the bartender replies, sliding a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla, of all things, across the bar top. "How's Vegas?"
The woman snorts as she opens the bottle, sliding the cap into one of her many pockets. "Same as always. Loud. Full of people with more money than brains. I needed a vacation."
"Well, you know you're always welcome," Trudy says, reaching across the bar to pat the woman on the arm. "Now, Sunny'd kill me right dead if I didn't tell her you were in town. I'm gonna hop out back an' let her know, if that's alright."
"Sure," the woman replies. She grins, a little pinch appearing at the bridge of her nose. "Me an' tall, dark, and ghoulish'll keep an eye out for any ruffians."
And just like they've been friends for decades, the woman gently elbows him in the bicep. If it were anyone else, or anywhere else, he might take a little offense. But it's not often that any gal quite like her even touches him, and this town is nice. So he just smiles and nods, good as anything.
"Of course, ma'am," he says, touching the brim of his hat again. "Do what you gotta do."
"Much obliged," she says, echoing him. She looks back to the woman. "Lizzie, you be nice to this fella."
"Always!"
Trudy heads out from behind the bar, leaving Cooper with her—Lizzie. He watches her take a long drink of her sarsaparilla, following the line of her throat, the faint bob as she swallows. She's still got sweat clinging to her skin from the desert heat, but he can also see freckles on her bare shoulders and her cheeks. If he still had the network of blood vessels to get warm in the face, he thinks he might just.
Lizzie sets her drink down and turns to look right back at him. Not at all put off by his stares. She's all smiles, eyes crinkling with crow's feet at the corners. "See somethin' you like, cowboy?" she asks.
Flirting right out the goddamn gate. It doesn't sound like a joke coming from her, which takes him by surprise.
But it's just as easy to fall into a role.
"Suppose'n I do," he replies. "If you're into irradiated fellas, that is."
She breaks into a laugh, which he almost thinks is at his expense until she follows it up. "Cariño, I'm mostly into people who click the Geiger counter," she says, all matter of fact.
Color him surprised again. "S' that so?"
Lizzie leans over the top of the bar, elbow on the top, chin resting in her palm. Her grin's as wide and content as a cat. "I got a track record, won't lie," she says. "Y'know there's a dominatrix ghoul in Freeside?"
He didn't, but that's a fact he's going to be rolling around in the ol' decrepit gray matter for a while. "Huh," is all he says before taking a shot.
"If you tell her Lizzie Holliday sent you, she might give you a discount."
"I'll keep that in mind, sweetheart."
The nickname seems to make her preen, and she takes another drink like she's fortifying herself. She sets it back down, then gives him a long once-over that almost makes him self-conscious.
Almost.
"Wanna get out of here?" she asks.
"Ain't you got a friend wantin' to visit?"
This time, her smile shows some teeth. One of her top incisors is chipped, and some deep-set part of Cooper that still wants supplies the thought that he ought to test how that tooth feels on his own tongue.
"She knows my priorities," Lizzie says.
And that's all the invitation Cooper needs.
---
Holy-good-goddamn, but he missed this.
Lizzie's riding him like he's the last train out of Yuma, rolling her hips over his, hands braced on his shoulders with a grip that would hurt someone with more nerve endings. Her hair's out of its ponytail, messed up one one side where he raked his hand through it while she was sucking his cock earlier.
And holy shit did she have some technique. He doesn't have a reason to doubt that she's fucked ghouls before, since she put just enough pressure on all the right parts so that he could feel it. And not once did she shy away from him once his clothes were on the floor and he was sprawled out on her bed.
Her bed, in a converted ranch home that she's made positively cozy. He feels like a teenager sneaking in through the window, out of place amongst the artwork and Christmas lights and tchotchkes. He could almost put himself two centuries back, in some college girl's over-decorated dorm room.
But sorority girls don't have deathclaw skulls mounted over their dressers.
Lizzie suddenly catches him on an upward thrust that makes both of them hiss. Then she seats herself flush against him, and it's the closest to heaven he's probably going to get for the kind of bastard he is. She's warm, slick-wet around him and for him. Hazel eyes blown wide and cheeks dark with arousal. It's the first time in years he's felt wanted like this; like he's something worth wanting rather than the irradiated husk of a man.
Another thrust and she shudders, muttering in Spanish and squeezing her eyes shut.
He doesn't catch what she says, but he can't help a little self-deprecation for the road. "If you gotta pretend I'm someone else, by all means."
She swears—and that doesn't need a translation—before her eyes are open and fixed on him. "Give me a name to start moanin' and there won't be any confusion," she says, rolling her hips to punctuate it.
"Jesus Christ," he says through his teeth.
"I'm not callin' you that."
He wouldn't normally offer up his name to anyone not worth knowing he was a human once, but she's something different. He knows that the way the wind blows, he'll likely never see her again, but he'll keep the memory of her tucked nice and close for those lonely, long nights.
"Cooper," he says at last.
She smiles, eyes reflecting those ridiculous rainbow lights strung up around her bedroom. Something about her feels otherworldly, powerful. Either he's already in some weird endorphin-induced haze, or he's more into her than he thought.
"Cooper," she repeats. It's easy and warm as sunshine in her mouth, and he wants to hear it again. He bucks his hips for her, driving up into that heat, eager to get a gasp, a whisper—anything.
And she delivers. Leaning over, tits pressed to his chest, mouth by one of his scarred-up ears, she says his name over and over. Follows the rhythm of his thrusts, loses the syllables as he pushes her over the edge. His name is unstrung, a thread caught in her moans and keens. Then she's pushed to open-mouthed silence, riding it out in desperate asyncopation.
When she finally comes down, he's on the way up. She's clinging to his shoulders still, their chests pressed together, her heartbeat a riot of rhythm rushing through his chest.
Then her mouth goes back to his ear.
"It's Adelita," she says, sighs. "Lizzie to everyone else. Adelita to you."
It's a hell of a trade—a name for a name, a release for a god-fucking-blessed release. He comes harder than he has in years, her name warm on his tongue. He fucks into her, pulsing, filling her, earning another gasp and moan wrapped around his name.
When it's all done, she rolls off him onto her back, chest heaving for breath. He's wheezing for his through rotten lungs. But he watches her, the colors of the lights on her freckled skin and in her eyes, the tresses of her hair falling across her sweat-damp forehead, the scar—
His eyes catch on it. Two interlinked starbursts of scar tissue on the right side of her forehead.
Bullet wounds.
He reaches up to push her hair away from it, pads of his fingers brushing over her skin so that he can almost fool himself into thinking he can feel it. "Looks like there's a story up here," he says. Maybe jokes.
She's still smiling. A little weary, a little amused. "That's my hard reset," she says.
"Oh?"
His hand's still on the scar, and she reaches up to tap the back of his hand twice. Tap-tap, in hard sequence. "Two little 9mm bites," she explains. "Sent me into an early grave."
Cooper frowns, looks at her hand now resting on his, both pressed to her forehead. Now that he's looking, he can also see a faint, hair-thin scar that follows her scalp line all the way across. This girl's got some history.
"I gather that it didn't take," he replies.
Lizzie—Adelita—hums to herself, then sings, "There ain't no grave can hold my body down," before looking up at him. "I did get better."
"I see that. So, either you're the prettiest ghoul that done walked the wastes, or the Mojave's got better doctors than I thought."
"The latter," she confirms. "Myself included."
"No shit?"
Her dark brows rise, grin plain on her face. "Doc Holliday. Get it?"
The joke catches him by surprise, again. A lot of shit about this girl is a surprise. It pries a laugh out of him, then earns a few strokes through her hair. "That's good," he says. "That's real good."
"Gracias."
They lay there in a shockingly comfortable silence. His hand in her hair, combing the strands back and away from that scar. She leans up against him, eyes half-lidded, a dreamy expression on her face.
Then, she sighs, "This is already a damn good vacation."
"Glad I could contribute," Cooper says. "High-stress job?"
She sighs, blinks slow, then reaches up and rests an arm across his waist. "You have no idea," she says.
Curiosity gets the best of him. He's a man who appreciates people keeping their noses—or lack thereof—out of his business. However, he's also a bounty hunter, a man making his too-long living on asking the right questions and using those answers to his benefit down the road. It might be good to know something about her, to make connections, to network as some assholes in his past life might say.
"Merc work? Or somethin' worse?"
"Jack of all trades," she says. She raises up her gaze to him, and for one brief, strange moment, her eyes catch that unearthly light again that he can't entirely blame on the Christmas lights. "Mostly courier. An' mostly ruler of New Vegas."
---
Years down the line, Cooper Howard goes back to Vegas.
It's with company now—a vault girl he's tolerating a little more by the day, and a dog. They cross the Mojave, following the silhouette of Vegas by day and its glow by night, drawing in closer and closer like irradiated moths to Vegas' big ol' flame.
Just shy of Goodsprings, as the foothills lean forward like they're drawn in by the city, too, Lucy asks, "What kind of place is New Vegas, anyhow?"
Cooper shrugs and adjusts his pack as Dogmeat trots alongside him, tongue lolling out of her mouth. "Sleazy, dirty, bright," he says. Then, his eyes catch the tallest building in the row of casinos—the top a massive roulette wheel with its spire pointing to heaven. He has to amend his opinion, for the first time since he stepped foot in Vegas as a healthy human. "Ain't the worst watering hole, though."
"We're not going to get shot at right through the gate?"
Despite himself, Cooper smiles. He draws down the brim of his hat as low as he can without losing vision.
"Nah," he says. "All we gotta say is that Lizzie Holliday put in a good word for us."
Psssst I'm taking Fallout prompts. Like 3, NV, 4, and the TV show. I just rewatched the series again and I'm working on my vaultghoul fic but this is an itch I'm gnawing on.
hi hi!! i just wanted to start of by saying how much i adore your writing. there’s so so many things i love about it, but your prose is beautiful and the smut is otherworldly. the way you make connections in the language and metaphors from beginning to end in each fic is so smooth i have to stop reading and take a second to appreciate it! it’s obvious you are very, very talented and i’m so glad i get to read some of your “early” writing before you most likely publish some insane NYT bestseller later in life (if you want that is). you truly paint a picture. i notice certain words or phrases you use/your general style across all of your different fics, and i bet if i read something not knowing who wrote it i could tell just by how you write! i’m sure you have such a busy schedule outside of this app and writing so pls know how much i appreciate you taking the time to share your vision with us :)
in no way do i mean this to pry or bother you for an update, but i was curious if you updated/plan on updating the Ao3 fic “the gales of novembern” at any point? just curious bc i am so excited to read it and couldn’t find the rest of the chapters anywhere/something indicating where they were. either way, pls know how much i love ur writing :) i’m perfectly content to continue reading ur ghost fics over and over again.
all my love 🩵
S C R E A M S this is such a sweet message! I've reread it a few times and I'm just a huge blushing mess rn. Thank you sososososo much!
I absolutely do plan on updating that fic somewhat soon-ish. Actually, one of my New Years resolutions is to update at least five fics this year rather than leaving them dead in the water. That one's on the list! :D
hi yes hello i made some quick ghost & dancer for my enjoyment because mw3's got me down
---
Ghost and Dancer meet in Brecon, like always. Manchester's too crowded, has too many memories. Something about Brecon feels good—nostalgic. They're not too far from Pen y Fan, and they can joke about the selection trials over tall, foaming pints. It's comfortable, and even in the months and sometimes years between their meetings, they pick up old banter like it's been no time at all.
"Sian's married now. I told you that, right?" Dancer asks. He's carried most of the conversation, which Ghost is perfectly fine with.
"No," Ghost lies.
"Right. Married, new house, new job, new car, new—" He stops, flashing his left hand open like a firework. "New everything, mate. It's like she's not even the same lady. Mum's afraid she's not gonna want to come home since we're out in the country. Maybe too provincial." The word comes out with a hilarious sneer, and Ghost smiles despite himself.
Dancer goes into his wordy observation about his sister's new husband, and Ghost just relaxes into the ride of his voice. He's probably spent more time with the Owens family than he has his own, tallying up Sunday roasts and Christmases and more than one raucous Saint David's Days. They welcome him back like the prodigal son every time he visits, and it gives him the same feeling as when he sees Dancer again. It's something like coming home. After everything's he's been through in the last few years, it feels really damn good.
Without thinking, without sparing an extra thought as to how he might sound, Ghost interjects with a quick, "I missed you."
Dancer brakes to a stop mid-rant, dark eyes wide, foam from his pint clinging to the hairs on his upper lip. "Huh?"
It'd be easy to pass it off as something else, but it's even easier—somehow—to double down. "Missed you," Ghost repeats. He chases it with a quick drink for fortitude. Good things come so rarely, with gaping abysses between them. He needs this. "World's gone to shit. Life's gone to shit. You've been the first good thing I've run into in a while."
Either the pub lighting is warmer than Ghost remembers, or Dancer's coloring's gone high in his already ruddy cheeks. But, always and reliably, he breaks into a wide grin and uses his free hand to gently nudge Ghost in the shoulder. "Ysbryd," he says, all affection. "Missed you, too."
Visit Notes: Mr. MacTavish was hesitant to attend his appointment this afternoon and repeatedly asked for sedatives or alcoholic beverages in order to, quote, "cope". I informed Mr. MacTavish that sedation was not required and further illustrated the detrimental effects of alcohol on the body and brain, especially given his role in dealing with explosives and heavy machinery. Mr. MacTavish tried several excuses to leave the appointment, all of which could easily be proven false.
Given the gap between Mr. MacTavish's medical examinations, I've ordered blood work and a urine specimen lab. Despite a perfectly average blood pressure reading, I believe Mr. MacTavish may have high sodium levels given the amount of salted snacks I've personally witnessed him consuming. He agreed to the lab work, albeit with more hesitation. I have assured him several times that I have ample training in phlebotomy, but this did not seem to boost his confidence.
For his personal history questionnaire, Mr. MacTavish has family history of hypertension on his mother's side and heart disease on his father's side. His surgical history is noted in the attached file. He described his sexual activity as, "constant" and "mindblowing", to which I replied that I simply needed to know if he was sexually active and if he had several partners. He replied, after some goading, that he only had one partner as of the current date. He appeared distressed while I explained to him the importance of safe sexual activity and the potential risks of fluid exchange. After the explanation, he pleaded, quote, "Please never say any of those words to me, in that order, ever again." I told him that I trusted that, as a healthy adult, he would make good choices.
I informed Mr. MacTavish that, given his age, we would need to schedule a colonoscopy as part of routine health screenings consistent with the demands of the task force's medical plan. After some protest on Mr. MacTavish's part, I gave him a copy of Form 1723 which outlines the expectations of medical staff and the responsibilities of all personnel. However, after explaining that he would be given anaesthesia, and, quote, "the really good drugs", Mr. MacTavish seemed far more accepting of the procedure. I have added his appointment time to the calendar, and have made a note to ask other personnel for assistance in assuring that Mr. MacTavish attends the appointment.
Reblog if it’s okay for your followers to leave you an ask telling you what the one thing is they remember you for as a writer. Is it a scene or a detail or a specific line? Is it something like style or characterization? Is it that one weird kink they never thought they’d be into, but oh my god wow self-discovery time?
Also!! I'm going to try working on a few old prompts just to get back into form. Like doing stretches before doing cross country (I have never done cross country).
Also!! I'm going to try working on a few old prompts just to get back into form. Like doing stretches before doing cross country (I have never done cross country).
