* Cooper and Y/N *
Cooper Howard has wondered the Mojave wasteland for over 200 years becoming as wild and hardened as the land itself... He never expected regain his humanity when he meets Y/N or to feel the softness and warmth of skin under his f...
Cooper prowls towards the workbench in his home. 'Home' is a term he isn't familiar with anymore, but this place has been his residence for the last 60 years. He grabs an empty vial of chems before dropping it into an overflowing waste bucket of similarly shaped and empty vials. The vial bounces out and smashes on the weathered floorboards.
"Fuck," he growls as he turns and heads to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
The house he is occupying was once a grand manor home tucked into a valley in the sprawling Mojave desert. The wooden timbers, now bleached white, creak in the wind, and the remaining glass in the window frames gently rattles. The contents are largely the same as before the blast, with the addition of a number of artifacts acquired through Cooper's unnaturally long life in this place.
Cooper chose this place because it's so far beyond where raiders or factions bother to wander that even when he leaves for weeks and months at a time, his dwelling has never been occupied or found. He has grown accustomed to his solitude, resigned to the wind as the only neighbor he has.
A record player plays Nat King Cole as he opens the weathered mirrored cabinet door. A final stash of chems. These won't last more than a week.
It's time to go hunting.
Cooper strips the linen shirt from over his head and pulls off the striped linen trousers.
He catches a glimpse of his naked form as he slams the cabinet door. Its hinges scratch, exhausted and dry.
He still stands at 6'2", his skin weathered, hardened, and darkened by years of relentless heat and radiation exposure. Sinewed lines cover his body, scars litter him from top to bottom. He's died a hundred times. That would be if he could die like a human. His body regenerates but never perfectly. The uneven texture of his skin is evidence of that. He is as lean as he was on his 40th birthday, only his muscles are now calcified, giving more definition and edges through his skin.
There is no fat left to give any soft lines to his face, and his cheekbones are high and angular. His jaw is tight and squared. His nose lost to a radroach that crept up on him in the first 50 years after the bombs dropped.
He could probably kill some fucking raider and take theirs and use chems to reattach it... but it's been so long, and who really gives a fuck what he looks like.
He steps into the shower; although he isn't human anymore and he has no nose to smell himself, the civilized part of him that has survived so long relies on suppressing any kind of feral ghoul desires, and the key to that is order and routine, which has become his pleasure... his only pleasure anymore.
He allows himself a small shower of mildly radiated water, every week or so, enough to get rid of the dust and dirt accumulated, as although the house is still standing, the fucking wasteland gets everywhere. As he steps into the shower and allows the tepid water to hit his skin, he looks down at his stomach and the rippling skin and muscle. His legs are firm and strong, and his dick throbs at the sensation of the water slowly creeping down the channels in his body.
He stares at his semi-hardened state, takes a mouthful of the radiated water, and spits it out all over his front. He watches as the sandy-colored water drains away as the water runs out.
Dressing in faded black trousers, a collared shirt with a waistcoat that brings everything tight to his body, he slips over his leather harness with ammunition and space for his pipe gun. A long weathered black trench coat with concealed daggers, knives, and grenades on the inside. He pulls on his boots with glinting spurs that click as he moves through the house.
He picks up his belt from the top of the gallery stairs and clinks one spur at a time down each stair, threading the belt through the loops on his trousers. Arriving at the bottom, he clicks the belt buckle closed.
Cooper strides towards the large double-height wooden front door and pauses by a circular table in the hallway. Two 10mm pistols lay on the tabletop with ammunition in a large trunk underneath. He slides both pistols into holsters on either side of his hips.
He picks up the last item and opens the door into the wasteland. He strides off, laying the cowboy hat onto his head, shielding his eyes from the orange-colored sky.
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