Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter was admitted to Riviera Psychiatric Institute following the accidental death of his baseball coach, Michael “Mike” Bradley, on November 14, 1997. While the incident was ruled accidental, the child’s unusual affect, flat emotional response, and history of trauma exposure warranted psychiatric evaluation and observation.
The referral notes describe Benjamin, Dex, as emotionally blunted, hyper-controlled, and exhibiting inappropriate calm following a fatal event. Concerns were also raised regarding his long-term emotional development, behavioral rigidity, and potential for reactive outbursts under stress.
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II. Background Information:
Dex is the only child of Leonard and Esther Poindexter, both deceased. He was placed at Lyndhurst Home for Boys in 1995 following the discovery of his parents’ deaths in their home. Reports indicate that Dex found both bodies after returning from school. The official investigation concluded a murder-suicide, with his father, Leonard, stabbing his wife to death before committing suicide by hanging.
Dex’s early life history reveals significant psychosocial neglect and potential abuse. Interviews conducted by state social services describe a household marked by instability, isolation, and emotional deprivation.
• Father (Leonard): Known to be volatile, controlling, and prone to obsessive behaviors. Described by neighbors as “paranoid” and “always watching.” Employment records indicate multiple terminations for anger-related incidents.
• Mother (Esther): Reported by relatives to have struggled with depression and self-isolation. Sparse documentation suggests she was the family’s primary income earner, employed in administrative work. Neighbors noted her as “quiet” and “unresponsive,” often seen alone.
After the deaths, Dex exhibited no acute emotional breakdown. School records note that he returned to class within a week, silent but compliant, and continued to perform at an exceptional level in structured activities, particularly baseball. Staff at Lyndhurst described him as “disciplined to an unnatural degree,” showing early signs of perfectionism and self-punishment behaviors (e.g., rehearsing mechanical tasks until exhaustion, repeating phrases verbatim when corrected).
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III. Presenting Symptoms:
Upon arrival at Riviera Psychiatric Institute, Dex presented as quiet, polite, and notably withdrawn. He complied with intake procedures but displayed flat affect, minimal eye contact, and restricted range of emotion. His speech was monotone, highly literal, and devoid of inflection.
During the initial psychiatric interview, Dex stated:
“I don’t need to be here. I just threw the ball wrong. It hit the wrong thing.”
He denied intent to harm his coach and expressed confusion at others’ reactions to the event. When asked about his parents, Dex initially said, “They’re gone. It doesn’t matter now.” Later, he added, “I should have been home that day. Maybe then it wouldn’t have happened.”
Staff observed several behaviors consistent with trauma-related dissociation:
• Extended periods of silent staring at the wall or floor.
• Repetitive rhythmic tapping or counting under his breath (possible grounding behavior).
• Discomfort with eye contact or touch; recoils from physical proximity.
• Inflexibility around daily routines (insistence on eating meals at the same table and time each day).
• Heightened startle response to raised voices or sudden noises.
Dex showed particular fixation on rules and performance expectations. When told to participate in recreational therapy, he requested specific instructions and asked, “What happens if I do it wrong?” Staff noted his visible distress when uncertain about correct procedures, often freezing mid-activity.
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IV. Psychological Observations:
Psychometric assessments (projective and verbal) suggest elevated levels of anxiety, hypervigilance, and emotional constriction. His cognitive testing falls in the superior range, with an exceptional capacity for spatial reasoning, pattern recognition, and imitation of complex motor sequences.
However, Dex’s interpersonal comprehension appears underdeveloped. He struggles to interpret emotional cues in others and frequently misreads facial expressions as anger or rejection. When shown images of neutral or sad faces, he identified most as “mad.”
Clinical Impression: Dex displays signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) with dissociative features, complicated by a personality structure leaning toward obsessive-compulsive and perfectionistic traits. The absence of emotional regulation and his rigid adherence to structure may serve as defensive mechanisms against underlying feelings of fear, guilt, and abandonment.
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V. Treatment Plan:
1. Therapeutic Focus:
• Trauma processing through guided play therapy and structured conversation.
• Gradual desensitization to perceived authority and raised voices.
• Emotional labeling exercises to improve recognition and expression of internal states.
• Introduction of regulated physical activity to channel compulsive behaviors safely.
2. Medication Management:
• Continuation of low-dose SSRI (initiated by Dr. Mercer).
• Evaluation for possible adjunctive medication for sleep regulation.
3. Behavioral Goals:
• Reduce reliance on rigid routines.
• Encourage spontaneous interaction with peers.
• Increase tolerance for emotional uncertainty and perceived failure.
4. Observation:
• Nightly check-ins due to frequent nighttime wakefulness.
• Staff instructed to avoid sudden physical contact and to maintain consistent, calm communication.
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VI. Initial Prognosis:
While highly intelligent and responsive to structure, Dex demonstrates severe emotional compartmentalization. His sense of safety is rooted in control and repetition. He interprets affection or leniency as instability, preferring order to comfort. His trauma response is embedded in a learned belief that mistakes equal punishment.
Early indicators suggest that his emotional capacity remains intact but deeply buried beneath cognitive rationalization. The primary clinical challenge will be accessing that suppressed empathy without triggering defensive rigidity or self-blame.
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Attending Psychiatrist:
Dr. Samuel H. Lin, M.D.
Riviera Psychiatric Institute – Child and Adolescent Trauma Unit
Victor loves when you bake him something (he is a sucker for pastries, cakes, and other sweet treats)
He will steal your food
He will appear in your apartment without warning (occasionally with one of the zsaszettes)
God help anyone who tries to harm you
He gives love bites (like a cat) as a form of affection
This man gives the most unserious answers to your questions
He thinks you'd look hot covered in blood
Victor loves any scars you have (he subconsciously traces them with his finger sometimes)
His kinks include knifeplay, leaving marks on the reader, bondage+leashing the reader, choking, bloodplay, and sadomasochism
^ Despite being an assassin, he does believe in consent and safe sex. Your safe word is 'funkytown'.
He can't feel empathy in the traditional sense, but he does his best to understand your struggles and help you through them
You two sometimes mess with Jim and Harvey
He pretends not to care about you, and acts cold and distant, but deep down he is scared of losing you and he doesn't know what he'd do without you
Most of the time, Zsasz is the voice of reason and compromise in the relationship
He is the big spoon when cuddling
If you ever got hurt, he can patch you up, as he has good medical skills
The love languages he gives include words of affirmation, acts of service, and quality time. Love languages he'd like to recieve include quality time and receiving gifts.
Victor enjoys taking you to disco-related events.
If you're short, he teases you about it. Your primarily nickname is 'shortcake' (he loves baked desserts and you're short, perfect combo :D)
You are the primary planner in the relationship (if you ask Zsasz to plan, he WILL procrastinate until date night and improvise on the spot)(I mean he is a great planner overall, he is just terrible at planning dates in particular).
If you two get in an argument, it doesn't really bother him. He will just sarcastically say "ouch" and leave to give you some time to cool off.
When choosing a movie for date night, he will choose the most obscure media known to mankind
CREDIT FOR DIVIDER: @thecutestgrotto
this is the third fic i've worked on today and my backspace key is already driving me insane (see: the update)
I have been obsessed with this man lately 🙏 Demisexual panromantic/pansexual assassin my beloved 🫶
༻ ⊱The Ghoul x John Hancock x F!Reader - Fallout Fandom
༻ ⊱ 3k words
༻ ⊱ Some drug use mentioned & jealous men
༻ ⊱ I genuinely had no plan for this fic other than 'jealous ghouls' and a whole lot of self-indulgent day-dreaming. I'm just a sucker for the idea of these two fighting over you that I had to write it. So, excuse the lack of world-building and character development.
I might continue this, but let me know if you'd like a part 2 of some kind.
Hancock liked to pride himself on his people skills.
His intuition rarely let him down when it came to picking out the good apples amongst the burly, prickly sort that wandered in and out of Goodneighbor.
John had been right about you, after all. A right diamond in the rough, you had been. And the others he kept around him, those in the Neighborhood Watch and the locals that made a home in his town - they were were all good people. Just lost or discarded, needing a safe place to sort things out.
So, when you returned to Goodneighbor with a tag-along, John tried to keep a rather unbiased opinion about him. But there was…something. The stranger was like all the others that walked through Goodneighbor's gates. Guarded, on edge - a hand on his weapon while the other hung loosely by his side, nothing more than a feigned sign of calm. But with you by his side, there was no nonchalance or carefree body language. This stranger wasn't just guarded because of a new town but because he was guarding you.
It took John all of five seconds to notice how this stranger moved with you rather than trailing you like some lackey. He was step behind you, close enough that his hand brushed against your arm if you shifted an inch towards him but his attention was everywhere else.
A scowl would soften around the edges when he turned to you or his posture would shift to shield you from a loud noise from down the street.
It all seemed to be happening on instinct. Because you and this stranger were deep in conversation while passing through the gates. Unaware that Hancock - and he'll admit it sounded a little psychotic - had heard your voice amongst the daily racket and his attention snapped towards the gates as if Heaven had started calling him.
John saw you first. Travel dirty and fatigued, but grinning ear to ear. You had different armor on than when he last saw you. The old and worn leather gear had been replaced with something sturdier - you still wore the same old outfit underneath but were clearly better protected. The holes had been patched up, at least too. Your weapons looked new. At least new in the sense that Hancock didn't recall a rifle on your back and two pistols strapped to your hips part of your possessions when you left.
You looked like a proper Wastelander. Almost an ideal companion to the rugged, cruel looking cowboy at your side.
And it grated Hancock something fierce.
The stranger locked onto John first. And, oh boy, did something sharp fly between them. Two ghouls sizing each other up, eyes dark and stormy beneath the brims of their hats - the tension grew like a maelstrom. Churning and raging - until you found Hancock amongst the crowd and the Mayor's heart fluttered under the beaming light of your smile. A shaft of pure, warm sunlight broke through the dark clouds brewing between the two and suddenly the tension fell away to make room for you.
You left the cowboy's side and all but ran towards Hancock. His arms opened on instinct and the embrace knocked the wind out of him - both with the force of your arms squeezing around his middle and the sudden flood of relief of having you home again.
"Well, look what the wasteland spat out. I was starting to think you up and abandoned me, Sunshine." John said, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. Enveloping himself in you, around you, just for a moment before letting you go.
"I took a detour. A very long and unintentional detour, but I'm back." You laughed in return, picking lint and stray threads off of Hancock's coat as you looked him over. He didn't realize how much he missed whatever this was between you until your fingers fixed his coat where the exchange had ruffled it.
The shadow of the stranger darkened the sweet reunion and Hancock was forced to acknowledge the other ghoul when you bounced back to his side. John knew his voice had a little more ice, but he didn't care. "And you brought home a stray, I see. Welcome to Goodneighbor. I hope our little firework here didn't give you too much trouble."
This ghoul wasn't a simple mercenary, that much was certain. He didn't hold the same type of arrogance as those that believed themselves invincible because of their numbers or hired weapons. No, this was a ghoul who had a reason to walk like he owned the road paved in front of him. He was dangerous. Calculating.
John could see the dark weight that pressed down on this ghoul's shoulders - similar to his own. Exhaustion wrapped in spite - a reluctant, but stubborn, willingness to keep moving forward. To escape something in the past. Or maybe search for something in the future.
A purpose. That was a rarity nowadays. A purpose outside of ensuring the next meal or bed for the night. Something bigger than simply surviving.
The cowboy tipped his hat in greeting. Speaking with voice as gruff and grating as John's, a ghoul's voice roughened by radiation. "Pleasure. She's troublesome, that's for sure." The amber gaze slid to you and the sharp dagger of suspicion softened around the edges, but then returned when the cowboy looked past you and surveyed the town. "Got a store round 'ere?"
Hancock easily pointed the stranger in the direction of one. Eager to separate you from him with how much oogling you were doing towards this guy as he sauntered off. Giving you a wink and a murmured, "Be a minute."
You turned back to John and he had a second to compose the scowl into something you wouldn't clock right away. "I could use a drink." You groaned heavily, feigning to collapse into Hancock as if passing out. "I've wandered for weeks without a drop of liquor, John. I'm so very parched." He grinned at your dramatics, rolling his eyes as he tilted you towards The Third Rail.
"Your return home has been long overdue. A celebration with booze and a warm meal is in order I think." Hancock draped his arm over your shoulders, guiding you towards the bar, The Third Rail, practically pushing his way through the gathering crowd that started to form to welcome you home. You stalled by the jukebox to greet some old friends and John left you for a second to order two very stiff drinks. Returning to your side with a very obvious nudge to the crowd to give you space and leave you all to himself.
"Now, who the fuck did you bring into my town?" Hancock asked as nonchalantly as he could. Layering his voice in harmless scorn - something you would perceive as him being curious and cautious, rather than probing. "You leave for a few months and come back with some wash-down version of me? I'd be flattered if he wasn't so ugly."
You were halfway through a tentative sip of your drink when he said this and his words made you choke on the harsh liquor. You coughed and spluttered, laughing through the burn of alcohol that ran down the wrong side of your throat. "Oh fuck, that hurt - John, you're adorable. And I love everything about you but I did not go out there and pick up the first ghoul I saw because I missed you." Hancock placed a hand over his chest as if he was insulted by your words. You ignored him, looping your arm through his to tug him towards one of the couches by the back of the establishment. "We met not long after I left and then kept running into each other. We were heading in the same direction, so we decided to travel together."
Uh-huh, I remember using that excuse multiple times with you too. Hancock thought to himself. It was on the tip of his tongue to say but something in him held back the quip.
"I was lucky to have him out there. You're getting slack, John. We spotted Raiders on the way here. Left us alone for the most part but I hate to think what would have happened if I was alone on my way home." You seated yourself on the red lounge and Hancock took up the space beside you. His arm slid across the back of the seat, relaxing against the nook of the lounge's arm, all attention turned to you.
He looked you over, already knowing that you weren't injured but after hearing that, he needed to be doubly sure. You caught his wandering gaze right away. "I'm fine! Just some old cuts."
You must have thought he spotted something you were hiding. He didn't show any surprise but now Hancock was more attentive of how you were sitting. You weren't leaning against the back of the chair and you were carrying the glass in your non-dominant hand. The more John looked, the more he realized the grime and dirt wasn't just markings from your travels - but old bruises peppering your face and neck.
You were injured. He wasn't sure the extent of it, but regardless - you were hurt.
The hand behind your head curled into a fist. But Hancock kept the facade of collected calm for now. "It wouldn't have anything to do with your dusty cowboy, right?"
Hancock gauged your reaction over the lip of his glass. Masking his growing dislike for the man behind a sip of his drink when you didn't meet his eye. "I think he'd give me a run for the title as 'trouble magnet'." You chuckled. "I brought him here to get him out of the Wastes for a bit. There won't be any trouble, promise. I'll make sure he stays out of trouble."
Hancock very much doubted that this stranger was anything but a peace-keeping citizen. The man just didn't have the aura of someone who would sit pretty on a porch or count stock in a store.
"Well, who am I to turn away another ghoul from a safe place to sleep?" He smiled and you gave one in return, relief sparkling in your eyes as if you expected Hancock to turn this stranger away.
He had half the mind to do so, but not because of the danger the cowboy posed. But because of how adoringly you talked about him while recollecting your time out in the Wasteland.
Hancock had never felt such emotion towards you before than right here. His chest ached and longed for this conversation to continue until you were both too drunk too speak. But something hot and barbed was beginning to coil inside him the more he listened to you tell tales of adventure with this new friend of yours. He didn't want to listen to you talk about this stranger.
He wanted to fill the hole in his chest with your presence.
And yes, Hancock was beginning to see through the lines. That this wasn't a time together out of convenience but one out of mutual companionship. Whether you knew that or not was still unknown to Hancock. You talked about this ghoul like he was a byproduct of some of your stories. But then you would bring him in as the center detail and the thorns in John's chest would grow sharper.
He also noticed that you didn't call the cowboy by any certain name. It was either 'The Ghoul' or 'him', in your stories. You did start calling him 'cowboy' after Hancock pointed it out, but there was still no name. Which intrigued John greatly.
Drinks flowed like purified water between you two. Charlie kept your glasses filled and had food brought to you both while you answered John's questions and told him all sorts of wild stories.
He had the comfort that you didn't meet this stranger as soon as you left Goodneighor. And that the entire time you seemed to have talked about nothing else to the cowboy but about home and how much you wanted to come back.
Your detour home had been a job the two of you had taken to fill your pockets with caps for the journey. However, it had become more complicated and John put your unspoken details together that it had been the reason for your stiffness and bruising.
You were home at least. Finally, you were home.
"He heard so much about it I guess he had to come see it all for himself." You said at some point, half slurring your words as the liquor loosened your lips and relaxed your mind.
Hancock was in no better condition. Head back against the couch, legs kicked up on the short table in front of you both - staring up at the ceiling with Jet buzzing through his veins - making every breath and shift of your clothing twice as loud in his ears.
He was very aware of how close the two of you were currently sitting after so many hours of talking. His knee against yours. His arm half draped over your shoulders, he was careful not to bump whatever you were hiding beneath your clothing. A bruise or stitched wound on your shoulder somewhere, he wasn't sure but he was hyper-aware of the fact that you had finally relaxed enough to sit back against the couch.
It felt like old times. Just you and him wasting away the afternoon while talking about nothing and everything.
Hancock had almost forgotten that there was an intruder in his midst and that you weren't just talking about a specter you left behind in the Wasteland. His good mood was soiled when the click of spurs announced the stranger's approach. And Hancock hated how much he burned with something sour when you grinned up at the approaching shadow.
"Hey! Did you find everything ok?" You asked and Hancock dragged his eyes off the cracked ceiling to the ghoul in front of him.
"For a little town, there sure is a lot to get lost in." The Ghoul replied and from his pocket, he threw you something. You managed to catch it, remarkably even in your drunken state, and smiled even wider.
"Ah! You remembered!"
It was bundle of stimpacks. Wrapped together in cloth.
"As if you would let me forget." The cowboy mumbled and then dropped a pack - your pack - by your side, right between you and Hancock.
Black, near pupilless, eyes snapped up to clash with a deep amber scowl. No words were spoken, but the exchange was vicious and serrated. You were too busy muttering about The Ghoul owing you stimpacks and putting the new ones away to see what was happening right in front of you.
The Ghoul's gloved hand twitched and Hancock's lips curled into a cruel smirk - his eyes slid past this stranger to the few armed persons sitting at the bar. They were subtle, nursing drinks and chatting idly, but the tension in the room doubled when their Mayor's hat tilted and the Neighborhood Watch noticed the exchange.
Vigilant as expected, The Ghoul glimpsed the rising hackles in the Mayor's attack dogs. From your stories and his poking around town, this wasn't a fight he was going to win if things escalated. This whole town orbited this ghoul like he was the sun - there would be no allies found here.
But Cooper couldn't help it. Hancock's fingers played with a strand of your hair by the nape of your neck…and you let him. The comfortable familiarity between you two stung like a radscorpian needle.
And the poison of the sting was spreading through Cooper at a rapid pace. "From what she told me about this town, it sounded almost too good to be true. Not unheard of. But still quite the achievement."
"What can I say? Shoot for the stars or sink." Hancock purred with an overly sweet tone layering his words. "We ghouls don't have much going for us out there. So, I made a place for people like me right here. A safe haven. A place to call home. And I ain't gonna let it go anytime soon."
The sly curl of John's lips portrayed what he wasn't saying and The Ghoul's scowl deepened in response.
Oh, if you could see the look in these fellas' eyes. A radiation storm would have less of a burn to it. But you were still too busy trying to make room for the chems in your pack.
And then a hairline fracture split through Cooper's mask as the Mayor's hand brushed down along the side of your neck, all innocent in his drunken state - moving his arm from around your shoulders to rest in his lap - and you shivered from the contact. No comment or sigh answered the brush of rough fingers to your smooth skin, but Cooper hated it all the same.
The ease and casualness of the two of you.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, cowboy." John said, picking up something from your pile of discarded possessions. Making the whole ordeal between him and Cooper seem as casual as any normal conversation. "We got everything a guy like you could want. Just keep your hands to yourself, you hear?"
The heaviness of his words was a threat sweetened in your ears. You looked up when Cooper grunted, nodding. Eyes glancing at you before switching back to John again. You didn't notice a thing. "Then I guess a room isn't too much of a request, then?"
"On the house." Hancock purred, breathing in a lungful of Jet from the inhaler he found from your stash. Ignoring your protests about taking his gift from you without you presenting it first.
Cooper left you with the other ghoul to retrieve keys to the room. He snatched a bottle from the counter, ignoring the Mayor's dogs watching his every move, and retreated into the depths of the bar. Your laugh followed him all the way. And as he kicked the rented room door closed, locking him away from the storm brewing outside, he downed half the bottle of alcohol to stave the burn of whatever was clawing at his chest.
Roman would be incredibly jealous of Mickey. He hears about how he effortlessly works his way into Sid’s little found family and became one of them. Why does all the families Roman finds crumble around him? Why can Mickey do that?
Mickey is jealous of Roman because Roman has fame. He’s in the movie industry, if you said ‘Roman Bridger’ someone would say “hey I know that guy.” Why can’t Mickey ever get his fame? How come everytime he gets close it’s just out of reach?
Roman who gives Mickey his fame, he sets up the kill for Mickey, makes it easy. And then when Mickey is caught—As planned—Roman testifies for him. Says he watched Mickey go crazy from the movies. That he should be able to plead insanity and go to a mental hospital, not get the chair. Mickey wins and he gets his fame, and gets his easy way out. Now Roman is officially secured in his mind as useful, and the ‘love’ starts.
Once Mickey gets out, him and Roman meet again. Mickey gives Roman family, a sense of belonging. He knows damn well Mickey doesn’t truly love him and this could end at any time, but it doesn’t. Mickey sticks. He likes that.
Mickey starts going to events with Roman. It’s not common to see a normie going to high class events, but he was with Roman, so it’s fine. Roman’s career takes a temporary dive bomb because of his public friendship with Mickey, but all Mickey has to do is act all charming and silly like always. He quickly regains trust, and now Roman is officially protected. Nobody is going after him with his guard hound right there.
Roman and Mickey start a joint account on the dark web (basically marriage to Mickey), and they do kills together. Take videos on that fuckass camcorder together. Roman directs, Mickey videos. They both act. They think they compliment eachother well.
Their relationship is fueled by an obsession. Mickey knows Roman is useful, but also fun. He needs to keep Roman around. Roman feels good for once. Like he effortlessly belongs. They love eachother like it’s breathing.
They both have a combined kill count of forty-nine. Impressive. On the fiftieth kill (which was a big event for them), they get caught. In a last fit of passion, they escape, make it to Mexico, then melt back into the shadows. There’s tons of conspiracy surrounding it. Some say they’re gang leaders, some say they came back to America and still operate in their home country, some say they died, some say they settled down. Nobody ever finds out the truth.
But, for the remainder of their life, they love eachother like it’s breathing.
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