falloutkinkmeme_backup | Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

Entry tags:

Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

Welcome to the Fallout Kink Meme, Part IV! Please assume the position.

GO TO THE LATEST PAGE TO POST NEW PROMPTS

PINBOARD ARCHIVE: Filled Prompts | Unfilled Prompts

Fallout Kink Meme posting guidelines

Read something? Love something? No matter how old the story is, please let our amazing authors and artists know that you enjoyed their work with a nice comment, and share the love by recommending your favorite fills!

Arcade waited impatiently for Boone to do something, anything of value. ‘I’m right here where you want me,’ he thought impatiently, though Boone was still reluctant to make the first move. Finally, Arcade lost all patience and grabbed Boone’s hand, then guided it down to his bottom. Boone got the hint, and taking his lube slicked fingers, entered Arcade in a tortuously slow fashion. It was cute to watch Boone’s face, as it was lost in concentration greater than what the situation at hand required. But then again, that was Boone; every task, no matter how small, required nothing less that careful consideration and a steady hand. ‘Um, no pun intended,’ Arcade amended. With a low murmur, Arcade encouraged his lover to add a second finger. Arcade allowed his eyes to roll shut and tried to relax. It had been a very long time since he’d been on the receiving end of a romantic evening.

Though he’d had many partners—many more, say, then he’d care to discuss in pleasant conversation—and been in more sexual situations then he could rightly remember, Arcade couldn’t help but feel like it was different, somehow all new with Boone. Though Arcade hadn’t been keen to bottom, he was enjoying himself. Not out of any particular desire to be fingered, no, Arcade actually disliked the invasive feeling, but out of the pleasure of making his partner happy. Is this what Daisy Whitman was talking about, all those years ago, when she spoke of the perfect woman—er, man—who would make every day on the Mojave magic, and who would make pleasure out of sacrifice? At the time, it seemed like sentiment better suited in past yore. Surely today, when everyone lived on the brink of annihilation and starvation in the indifferent bosom of the Mojave, there could be no room for such sentiment, only a quiet night here and there where you could pretend the Legion and the turf wars were nothing but a bad dream?

Suddenly unsure of what this all meant, Arcade pulled Boone down for a languid kiss to wipe away these troubling thoughts. Boone returned the embrace obligingly, and then continued to slick up his achingly erect penis in preparation to enter Arcade. Once that was done to his satisfaction, and he couldn’t delay any longer, Boone met Arcade’s eyes silently, asking permission. Arcade responded by letting his legs fall open wider and wrapping his arms lightly around Boone’s shoulders. That was enough for Boone, who entered his lover as carefully as he could, and started thrusting shallowly. This shallow thrusting wasn’t enough for Arcade, no, not at all. “You’re not going to break me,” Arcade chided quietly. “If you want me to be quiet then you better ride me like a pony.” Boone actually had the courtesy to blush clear to the tips of his ears. Arcade looked on, pleasantly pleased with himself. He had found out long ago that any sort of dirt talk sent Boone into a delightfully unmanly scarlet bloom without fail. In response, Boone ducked his head a little to hide the blush, and obliged to move his hips a little faster.

Arcade was still not satisfied with the friction, even when he moved his hips in response, lifting off the pool table to meet the thrusts. “Faster, deeper,” he coached with a low purr into Boone’s ear. “I’m—trying,” Boone puffed. “If we can still hold a conversation, then you’re not trying hard enough,” Arcade quipped back. This finally sent Boone into the next gear, probably more motivated to get Arcade to shut up than anything else. Arcade felt the solid table swaying beneath them with a little worry, but was finally too involved to express any concern. Arcade soon lost himself in the rhythm and sensation of being filled with Boone’s aching cock and the sound of their panting breath filling the room. Arcade’s hands wandered down to his own erection, and he wrapped his long fingers around it. Boone supported himself above Arcade on shaky arms, enjoying the thrill of being encased in the warm, tight insides of his lover for a change. Determined to not make Arcade regret his decision, Boone kept up the powerful roll of his hips as best he could, no longer afraid that he was hurting the other man, as his lover’s face was awash with pleasure.

hngffffff sexy times with my two favorite men? yum yum!

Sooner than he would have liked, Arcade became overcome with the sensation of Boone’s thrusting and his own stroking. He came messily in between them, back arching and reckless moans falling from his lips. If nothing, Arcade was a dramatic sort of bastard. Boone, too, was soon overcome by the sensuous moans of his arching lover, and by the tightening of Arcade’s insides around him as he came. Unlike his lover, though, Boone was more reserved, only permitting low sighs and deep breaths to signal his orgasm. He released deep inside his lover with a final thrust, then lay still a moment, hoping he was crushing Arcade underneath his weight. He need not have worried, as Arcade found the nearness pleasant, and even kissed Boone’s neck lightly in response. They laid there a moment longer, Arcade relaxing as best he could, trapped between the hard felt pool table and Boone’s weight. Arcade reflected on the sensation of his lover going soft inside of him as they lay there, and found that he didn’t mind so much.

Boone finally had enough strength in his arms to pick himself up again and detangle his limbs from Arcade’s. Next, he carefully removed his flaccid penis from his lover, going scarlet again at the simply obscene sound it made. Boone slid off of the pool table, inwardly groaning as his knees shouted painfully at him for kneeling on that blasted pool table. Next, he held a hand out to help Gannon off of the pool table. Arcade stretched languidly, and Boone averted his eyes, under the pretext of gathering their clothes. This didn’t escape Arcade, however, who smirked inwardly and made it a point to walk over to where Boone was bent over. “So, come here often,” Arcade inquired in a burlesque smooth talking cadence, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that his junk was in Boone’s face. Boone straightened up, unsurprisingly flushed and sporting a stern visage. “You’re incorrigible,” he grunted back, slinging the mess of clothes onto the table.

“That’s why you love me,” Arcade said back, with more ease than he felt. He hadn’t meant to say those words; they just kind of slipped out. Three months ago, they wouldn’t have mattered. They would have just been another of Gannon’s World Famous Witty Jaunts. Now, however, they gave Arcade pause. Because just what, exactly, was their relationship? Arcade could now grudgingly admit to himself that he felt quite fond of Boone, but what if the other man didn’t feel the same way? Suddenly very in danger of going red in the face himself, Arcade busied himself with sorting the clothing into piles, not giving Boone the chance to respond. They dressed in silence.

Arcade, however, was not very good at silence. “Hey, Boone,” he started softly. Boone looked up from buttoning his pants to show that he had his attention. “Did you ever think about telling people about, um, us?” Judging by the shocked look on Boone’s face, that was a definite no. “Well,” continued Arcade nervously, “I certainly don’t mean the whole Mojave. I don’t even mean acquaintances. Just the people close to us.” Arcade finished flatly, wishing he had never even brought it up.

“I just—um, our relationship is, uh, well I just feel like it’s our business,” Boone responded, clearly uncomfortable. Without meaning to, Arcade felt himself becoming angry with Boone—and angry with himself. ‘This is what happens when you care about people…’ he thought bitterly. “I just don’t like the thought of other people in our business,” Boone continued, reading Arcade’s lack of comment as dangerous. “I mean, even the Courier doesn’t know…”

“Of course the Courier knows,” Arcade said stiffly, acting like he was quite engaged in getting the buttons of his shirt done up correctly. When he was finished he glanced up at Boone’s face, which was incredulous. “Boone, she knows. Trust me. Why do you think she always pairs us up on recon missions? Hell, she even gave us a tent to share.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Boone said gruffly, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Besides, why do you want to tell people about us,” Boone said, trying to change the conversation.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t be saying this aloud, but I care about you, Boone. I care a lot. Hell, I’ll say it. I might even love you. So there,” Arcade said, trying to act like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t confessing feelings he was sure were one sided. Boone didn’t say anything, and Arcade didn’t care to meet his eyes. He strode across the kitchen to the door frame, and picked up his holster. With shaking fingers, Arcade was so focused on fastening the buckles that he didn’t notice Boone had crossed the floor until the other man’s arms were around him. Boone buried his face in Arcade’s neck and kissed it softly. “I care about you a whole lot, too. And I love you too.” Arcade couldn’t stop his fingers from losing grip on the holster, and he let it fall to the floor, forgotten. He turned around and hugged Boone hard, not feeling the need to say aloud how much those words had meant to him.

When they loosened their embrace, Boone said “I’m sorry I’m such an ass. I’m not good with this touchy-feely stuff. But I want to make you happy. And if that means telling some people about us, then I trust you. But can we go slow? It takes me a little time to get used to stuff.”

Arcade nodded emphatically, not trusting himself to speak. ‘I’m acting like a woman right now. Better not cry, though. No telling how far we can push Boone’s emotional growth,’ he thought sarcastically. “We can just start with the Courier and go from there, ok?” Boone nodded. Arcade reached down to snag Boone’s beret, and felt incredibly happy as he put it back on his lover’s head.

XxXxX

Two days later, Arcade awoke late as usual, and scrambled to get dressed. Poking his head out of the tent, he could see the Courier and Boone sitting on logs around the campfire, eating breakfast off of tin plates. After he had his shoes on, Arcade shuffled out of the tent. Midstride, Arcade paused, a devious plan forming. Should he?

‘Never suppress an urge’, Arcade thought, grinning deviously.

Arcade stepped over the log and plopped himself down next to Boone, slinging his arms around the shorter man before he had time to react. “Hey, baby,” Arcade said, popping a kiss on Boone’s neck. “Sleep ok last night?” Boone gaped at him, giving him a look that was part ‘have you lost your mind’ and part ‘what the hell are you doing’. Arcade pretended not to notice. He also didn’t let his arm drop from Boone’s shoulders. The Courier was looking them both levelly. “Want some squirrel bits,” she asked Arcade. “They’re actually not half bad this morning.”

“Nah, I’ll just have some fruit,” Arcade replied. The Courier swung her gaze to Boone pointedly, who still wore a look of utter shock and embarrassment. “Oh,” Arcade said, as if just noticing. “He thinks you didn’t know about us,” he explained.

The Courier only snorted. “Really?? I though you guys just really got a kick out of sneaking around. It’s not really any of my business. You’ve been going out, what, three months?”

“A little over four,” Arcade corrected. The Courier nodded then turned her attention back to her meal. Arcade looked at Boone with a Cheshire grin. “You’re completely incorrigible,” Boone mumbled.

“But that’s why you love me,” Arcade quipped back, pleased that Boone was taking this so well.

“….Yeah, you’re right,” Boone affirmed before pulling his beret lower on his forehead and taking another bite of breakfast.

END!

Same Charlie-loving anon from before. Keep checking this every day or so, and hope it's not too intrusive to keep giving you a massive thumbs up and egging you on! I loved Cass in these bits, she is such a wondergirl. Her reaction to the whole thing is this wonderful, shrewd, semi-detective stuff and it's perfect. Can't wait for the next parts!

Aah perfect! You have a great touch for writing these two. Moar A/B, please!

Aw! You think I'm good at A/B?? Thanks!! I plan on writing a lot more of these two!

original a!a would like to say yes, but will probably busy for quite some time, unfortunately.

I know it's been a while since this was posted, but here's a quick fill for the OP or any other Dean Domino fans around :3 First attempt at femslash, hope it rolls ok.

x

Deanna Domino is a woman not used to being denied. So when that courier swings in, hips wrapped tight in a grey jumpsuit, the zipper pulled just far enough down to leave something to the imagination, she’s made up her mind. She’s been here two hundred fucking years, and it’s about time she spoilt herself.

She deserves it, after all. She is a star.

The girl is coy, the first time they speak. Her eyes rake Deanna’s mottled skin and she wants to grab the little brat. Do you know who I am? Who I was? What I did here, what I so nearly accomplished -?

But the girl is all distant smiles and focus-on-the-finish stares, and it gets under her skin. It’s worse, it’s worse when she sees her link fingers with the girl from the Auto-Doc, with Christine, and sees her brush a hand against her shaved head.

But Deanna is clever, clever. She doesn’t let her anger out, doesn’t let her frustration show. She had Vera wrapped around her finger all her years ago, and it isn’t going to be different now, with this messenger girl.

She waits until they’re in the Madre. Even after all this time, even after two hundred years of only old memories and her own decayed fingers to give her any kind of rush, the possibility of sex has got nothing on the Madre. This place has been just out of reach – just inches from her grasp for so long – and now she’s inside, now she’s here and ready and victorious – absolutely nothing is going to stand in her way.

She corners the courier backstage, after letting her run around, turning off the holograms, fixing the place up. She’s cracked open the casino for her, and now Deanna’s going to make sure she cracks open a little something else. She folds her sunglasses and tucks them in her pocket, shrugging off the ragged blazer that, once upon a time, had been the best money can buy. Remnants, only remnants. But here, in the Sierra Madre, tonight, Deanna Domino is going to reclaim the stardom that’s rightfully hers.

She expects the girl to resist. She expects her to struggle, to writhe, to shout and bitch and moan. What she doesn’t expect is for the her hands to wind into the thinning material of her blouse, for her leg to rise up between Deanna’s own, for their lips and teeth to clash as she kisses with a smile. It occurs to her that the girl has been expecting this, that she – Deanna – has been outplayed, and the idea doesn’t go down well.

She bites down hard on the girl’s lip, and to her pleasure, she yelps. She pulls away and slaps Deanna, hard, across the face, before pulling her back into a kiss. But Deanna isn’t having any of that. She’s stronger, she’s got centuries of rage and passion and arrogance stacked up within her and this smirking slip of a girl is nothing, nothing but a piece of ass compared to her. She pins her down, and tears at the jumpsuit. She’s going to have to find something else to wear after this, because Deanna isn’t letting her leave here with anything – not her clothes, not her pride, not her dignity.

The girl runs her hands over Deanna’s ruined and broken skin, trailing soft fingers over exposed muscles and tracing scarred patterns down her arms. She laughs. Deanna drives her hips down against her and she laughs again. She is unbroken. She is unbelievable. She is awful.

When she reaches up to tug at Deanna’s blouse, Deanna slaps her down. She, and she alone, will decide when it comes off. She brings her uneven lips down to the girl’s breasts, and takes first one nipple, and then the other, into her mouth. She bites and licks and teases, and it’s gratifying to hear the girl moan underneath her. Less so when she seems to enjoy the biting, though, but Deanna’s own nipples are hard beneath her blouse and heat is gathering between her legs in a way it hasn’t in far too long. She’s rough, clawing at the girl’s too-smooth skin, shredding her jumpsuit, leaving dark, heavy bite marks up her sides. She still just moans and grinds and laughs, and Deanna can feel a sick, rugged anger rising in her throat.

“Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up!”

The girl looks up at her with devil eyes, and they’re the kind of eyes that have seen so much more than her age lets on. They’re angled like a cat’s, and Deanna doesn’t even know if there’s such a thing as animals like that anymore. Her lower lip is swollen a little from Deanna’s earlier attack, but the smile she wears is indulgent and confident and infuriating. Deanna slaps her, hard, and then again. Her head jerks, she hisses in pain, but the smile is back in seconds and the eyes, her damned eyes, are still fixed in that challenging stare.

“What’s wrong with you?” She can hear the clip of her accent becoming more forced, and it’s a response to these damned Americans, always has been. If there’s one thing that hits them all in the same place, it’s a powerful, angry woman with a British accent. But the damn girl beneath her doesn’t know enough to react, and she laughs again, she laughs, she laughs, she laughs.

“Poor Madame Domino,” she purrs, and Deanna wants to rip her tongue out. “Bet you got so lonely out here, all on your own.”

Deanna doesn’t let her say another word. She wriggles downwards, stripping her out of the jumpsuit completely, and not hesitating before she brings her face up to the other woman’s cunt. She smells fresh and young, even if the scent’s a little stale, and this is where Deanna knows she can shine because she had a lot of experience before the bombs fell, and two hundred years to ruminate and ponder has only given her new ideas.

The bitch bucks and moans beneath her, and finally, finally, she can feel her caving in. Her hands find Deanna’s head, pressing her down, and Deanna swipes at her hands, grabbing her wrists, pinning her down. She arches her hips then instead, and Deanna gets a face full of flesh she wasn’t expecting. She nips at the sensitive skin, rolling the girl’s clit between her teeth harshly. The girl hisses, yelps, groans, but Deanna doesn’t stop. Beg, she thinks, beg, you wilful bitch.

In time, she does. Then, Deanna slows, sated with control, as the girl’s laugh and wiles and superiority slip into whimpers and supplications. Her tongue curls and flicks against her, and it’s only when she can feel her breath speeding up that she pulls away.
The girl’s eyes are hazed with lust, disorientated. Deanna takes the opportunity to slip out of her clothes and straddle the girl’s neck, forcing herself downwards. She’s pleasantly eager now, and noisy with it, and she’s not bad for someone so young. Deanna expects a lot of her goodwill comes from the ridiculous dry spell she’s been enduring, but she doesn’t care. It’s better than nothing. Hearing the girl splutter when she grinds too hard against her face, she knows it’s better than nothing.

It takes her mere minutes to come, but she doesn’t stop there. She forces the girl to clean her up juices with her tongue, cooing to her as she starts on round two. Deanna can feel her vigour fading, and she wriggles round, bringing her face back down against the girl’s cunt. She works on her with long, slow licks, making it clear with the gyrations of her body that another good turn will earn her one back. The girl renews her efforts, her hands now freed and running over the uneven cheeks of Deanna’s ass.

It takes her longer this time. Every time the girl slows down, Deanna reinvigorates her with another nip to the clit. To Deanna’s surprise (and her great pleasure), she never tries the same. Broken, she thinks, well and truly broken. Gagging for it, like Deanna knew she would be by the end of this.

She feels herself rising to her second climax and works a hand down to the girl’s cunt. She spares no time in working two fingers inside her wetness, thrusting raggedly as she grinds back into the girl’s face. The girl comes with a cry, and Deanna finds her final gasp of pleasure in the unchained obedience of that moan. She comes down slowly, out of a haze, and the girl is still gasping beneath her.

Deanna pulls the naked, sweaty thing to her feet. “Experience and treachery,” she whispers, “will always win out over youth and vigour. Don’t fucking forget that. Now, go get me my treasure.”
She propels her from the stairwell, bolting the door behind her. It’s a long time before she feels modest enough to put her clothes back on.

Not even nuclear war can stop Deanna Domino from getting what she wants.

It’s been a long day.

There is sand under the remnants of his skin and there is sweat clinging to him, a sheen across his body, under his clothes. There is dirt in every crease and fold of the battered joke of his jacket and it has been a long, long day.

For Raul Tejada, it has been a long year.

He’s already a dozen lifetimes past where he figured he’d end up, and the blistering Mojave sun is less forgiving these days than it’s ever been before. It’s his age, he thinks, and age isn’t just about how old your body gets and whether your eyes are still good and how fast you can run. Age comes to you in weariness, in days after days after days, in an endlessness and a scope of infinity laid out behind you. It comes to you in dreams about stuff that happened a hundred, two hundred years ago; when you look down at your hands and see skin that hasn’t been there for longer than anyone around you has been alive.

He is old and he is tired and there isn’t much left in the world he’s interested in and the Mojave isn’t what it used to be.
The redhead sitting at the bar a few seats down from him is giving him eyes, and it’s a minute or two before he recognises her. It’s harder these days, keeping memories straight. God, it has been a long, long life.

Rose of Sharon Cassidy has let her hair grow out. It flicks at her shoulders, unruly and curled by dirt and grease and desert air. Her hat still shades her eyes and her necklace still hangs against her chest. Her skin is still smooth and whisky is still her drink, and she looks older.

Everyone is older these days, and age doesn’t have much to do with it.

The first thing she says to him is, “It’s been a long, hard war for our old friend, hasn’t it?”

He waves to the bartender, getting them both another drink, and says, “It’s been a long, hard war for all of us, senorita.”
He switches to whisky in her honour, and Cass raises a bottle to both of their health. They were there at Hoover Dam and they saw this new era rung in, and they are among the precious few who can lay claim to such a glory. There are battle scars on both of them from these past five years, across their bodies and scored deep into their souls. It’s not the world they fought for, and though they know the hero they followed is busting their ass keeping shit together, it isn’t enough.

The Legion approaches; the NCR falters. New Vegas is this lonely beacon in the middle of a tempest, the eye of some wild and vicious storm brewing around them. But one day the storm will shift, and the eye will move, and havoc and chaos will be come again.
“What have you been up to?”

“The usual. Killing bad guys. Protecting traders. Making a living wherever there’s a living to be made. Fixing shit up. Getting by.”
It’s the same for both of them. The same endless plain stretches off in every direction outside, and the sky is too high above for either of them to reach for. He remembers better days and Cass does too, but not the same days he does. It’s a lonely life, and he tells her that, a lonely life when the places you called home and the things that tied you to this old land are gone and no one remembers them. Cass listens to him talk with a frown, like the words he’s saying don’t mean anything to her, can’t mean anything to her, and before he knows it, he’s telling her about his childhood.

“Horses,” he says, doodling in the dust on the bar. “You could ride ‘em. Ain’t nothing like them around now. Ain’t nothing like a lot of stuff from back then.”

“It’s a new world,” Cass says. There is regret in her tone, and he fancies it’s a kind of mourning that comes from knowing there was a better time and you can never be part of it.

“It’s a new world,” Raul agrees, and something in his heart stings. He thinks of Rafaela, of Claudia, of the bright eyed kid who opened that door on Black Mountain and set him free again. He thinks of blood and war and bad governance and how time never stops, not for him, not for Cass, not for anyone. “It’s an old world.”

“The oldest there is.” She raises her bottle again. “Nowhere to go but tomorrow.”

He chinks glass with her. Cass is worn behind the eyes and beautiful, beautiful like cactus flowers and canyons and the rains after drought.

“You’re so goddamn young,” he says. It comes from nowhere, from everywhere, from two hundred years ago and from the moment last week when he noticed his hand shaking without his say-so. It comes from regret and loss, from the old world and the new deserts around them. Cass gives him this look like she knows, and really, they’re both so drunk it’s a wonder they remember who they are.

“Doesn’t feel that way,” she admits. “That’s the worst fucking thing, you know. Never felt young in my life. Don’t think such a thing exists anymore. It’s from books and stories, and it went out with the bombs.”

“So did a lot of things.”

Cass tosses her head back and laughs. Her hair is a mess of fire and blood and dirt, and she is vibrant and alive. “Listen to us,” she says. “Listen to us. We have our health. We have food, water. Listen to us.”

“There used to be more to life,” he tells her.

She shakes her head. “Not for me. It’s been this since the damned day I was born, so why does it feel like I’m missing something that used to be here?”

Raul thinks on that. Maybe it’s some deep, primal part of humanity, some old genetic memory that’s clinging to the idea that survival and day-to-day isn’t all there isn’t. Maybe it’s the dreamscape, clawing at consciousness, no longer happy to be banished behind the walls of danger and fatigue and the fight to live.

Cass takes his hand. Her fingers land right on the line between camaraderie and more, and the look in her eyes is this thing of understanding and familiarity and friendship. She knows him, and he knows her. It’s been five years but that’s five more years of history than he’s got with anyone else in this desert.

“Travelling alone ain’t so much fun anymore.”

“Always good to have an extra pair of eyes when you’re on the road,” he agrees.

They order another round and drink on through the night. It’s a new world, an old world, a cruel world and an empty world, but there is more out there than survival. They drink and celebrate a newfound partnership, a new flickering of somethingness, a chance for something different.

He doesn’t know where they’ll go, and he would bet everything down to the clothes on his back that Cass doesn’t, either. Maybe they’ll travel East, and keep going until there’s no more desert. Maybe they’ll run to the coast and strike out, sailing through irradiated waters on whatever craft they can find. Maybe they’ll hit Vegas with guns and glory and go out in a blaze of fire and fury. Maybe they’ll die, anonymous, in the desert, and maybe they’ll live forever.

Raul doesn’t know. But there’s more to life than survival, and if it’s still out there, they are going to find it.

OMG I role play as Jericho, I should so fill this, when I get the time.

What if the Courier... possessed the Thu'um?

Sooo... I think about this a lot. Well, mostly day dream about it, so sue me, meme, SUE ME.

What if YOU woke up in your Courier's body. Like, you knew what had happened in the Fallout world up till that point because duh, you were playing the game. But you were still YOU consciously, and were aware of the fact that you FUCKING TRAVELED ACROSS ALTERNATE UNIVERSES.

This prompt could be a cracky, A!A-centric fic wherein the author can describe what they personally would do: maybe you are appalled by your in-game choices, maybe you defy the game rules and try to romance someone, maybe you make the Mojave an absolute fuckery-factory and troll everyone into the ground?

OR this could be a serious fic where the author can make themselves (or the character they created to represent themselves) try to seriously figure out how to get the fuck out of that world. Maybe it could be kind of a horror fic, where you're STUCK there and everything is dramatic like LOST or something.

Maybe you come to consciousness in your Courier's body in the middle of the battle for the dam? Maybe you wake up in the middle of a meeting with Caesar or Colonel Hsu? Maybe you wake up in the midst of a deathclaw attack?

Whatever, take this however you want to take it: satire, cracky, dramatic, scary. I'm just curious to see how the meme would handle this.

AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

What if the Lone Wanderer... possessed the Thu'um?

Heck no! Encouragement is ace. ;)

Raul finds the rest of the afternoon and early evening a thoroughly nerve-racking affair. He's more or less positive that he's gone through Nightkin attacks that were easier.

He's swept the yard and neatened the junk and spare parts away but the junk still looks like junk and the parts really are just more junk and no matter how much he sweeps the yard is still just dirt and his mattress has holes so big there are springs poking out and he doesn't even own any sheets.

A water vendor on his way to lazily walking along about a half mile away on his way down to the Grub n' Gulp suddenly hears a throaty tenor bellow of pure frustration cutting through the warm evening air, and decides to put on a little more speed.

Raul sets his broom by the door, goes into his shack and looks around. He pulls the tatty blue muslin he hung on the walls for a bit of colour down and snaps them in the air outside to clear any dust before draping them over the banana yuccas growing in the yard to try and give them a scent that isn't machine oil or stale ghoul. That done, he rubs a hand over his mouth and heaves a great sigh.

It's at this point that he notices that those smells aren't only coming from the fabric.

The water vendor finds a reason to start jogging. Briskly.

It's another hour of cursing and cleaning, this time his jumpsuit and the body he stuffs into it, and while he ends up a whole lot fresher, he's not in any more of a settled state of mind. Somehow, he's gone from being gifted with a simple, lusty affair to...to...being responsible for whatever this is going to be, aside from most likely a grand case of him ruining things for good.

The jumpsuit goes back on, the impromptu sheets get tucked around the now flipped over mattress, two beat-up lawnchairs and a crate filled with food and drink go outside to sit in and by respectively, and then all of a sudden he's left with nothing to do but wait. And pace. And berate himself some more.

"It's not like you've never wooed or made love to a woman before. You've been with a few of them. Two hundred and four years ago."

The last had been Carmen Consuelo Alonzo, who had had the alarming habit of praying for forgiveness for their sins directly afterwards, and kept a rather large poster of the Lord and Saviour tacked directly over her bed. In retrospect, he thinks it has either been the best or the worst memory to live through enforced celibacy upon, until he realizes that now it could be replaced by a worse one of Charlie. At least he had left Carmen happy.

"Why did you want more. Why did you think you could get it? Every time you want it it gets taken away. Who are you to decide what somebody needs? You could feel lucky with what God decides to give you, but no. You have to open your big mouth." He claps a hand over his eyes and yells up at the sky. "Callate el hocico, pendejo!"

"Being a mite hard on yourself, ain'tcha?"

Raul freezes up at the prickly voice behind him and beats down the urge to bury his face in both hands. He's not sure what is more humiliating; that Charlie managed to hear all that, or that she was able to sneak close enough to do so without him noticing. "Hi, boss."

"Howdy, Raul."

He lets go of his face and turns.

She's standing there in a buttery yellow shirt that has crisply pointed lapels and the first few buttons undone. It makes the creamy, untanned skin of her chest glow, and he's reminded of the dahlias his mother loved to line the windowboxes with. The coat and hat are gone, her hair a riotous pile of curls bundled at the back of her neck, but the jeans and chaps have stayed, the former new and the latter freshly wiped down. The conchas at the base shine so brightly they look like new dimes. Raul looks at her, and feels time slip back in his mind.

She looks like a sweet little vaquera, spoiling for a trip into town.

Charlie sighs and slumps, standing hipshot with her hands resting again on the holsters that will probably take a lot of work for him to get off. "Go on, get it over with and stare your eyes out."

Raul gladly takes the invitation. It's the first time he's seen her so uncovered without being drunk or Legionaries trying to break her.

She's obviously a mix, like so many tribals are. Her colouring says someone like him is in there somewhere recent. Her height, the high cheekbones and patrician nose could be from a number of places, but with the few words of her original bastard language that she's spoken within earshot, which sound like a coyote being throttled by a Viking berserker, he could hazard a guess at the northern reaches of Europe and be happy about it.

It's a hard, unlined face that's just barely on the high side of pretty, which tends to get rather lovely when she smiles, and very beautiful when she's mad.

Raul thinks that tonight she is heart-stopping.

Rex barks, and his reverie is broken.

Raul looks from her to the dog, momentarily distracted and immediately puzzled. Charlie can't stand to be around Rex if she can help it, only tolerating him because of her deal with the King and for the fact that the animal really is extremely good at taking down whatever they sicc him on. Since he already does what he can to keep the furball running, Raul thinks the chances of him being here for the Elvis loonies is disturbingly low. "Uh. You brought the pup?"

She glances down at where Rex sits, panting happily and seemingly oblivious to the vitriol directed towards him. "No, the pup came along on his own, just like he always does when I don't have my dang hat."

Great. So she's definitely still going into this in a fantastic mood.

"So what are we doing here, Raul."

Charlie sounds completely detached, but her eyes are flicking around, and the fingers encased in the Pip-Boy's glove are doing a jittery little flutter against the hatchet they rest upon. Seeing all this, his own anxiety just slips away. Tonight he has the chance to fix something worthwhile; to build something new, if he can find enough spine to go after it. "We have something to eat, we sit, we talk, we enjoy ourselves. That's all, boss."

"We do that all the time."

Raul hooks the nearest chair with one hand and turns it out just so, patting the seat and leaning closer when Charlie grudgingly walks over and sits, murmuring into the little secret space behind her ear when she's settled all the way down. "Not like this."

"I hearc there are dragons out here- you ever seen one?"

Just letting any potential author!anons know that I will gift my soul to you if you fill this.

"Family values; fuck yeah!"

Rolling around on the floor omfg this is diamond.

Dear A!A, that was beautiful. This could be the start of an epic story... but then again, it's enthrallingly beautiful just there on its own. Thank you.

That was wonderful, wow, wow. I love your writing style. I got so drawn into it that my friends over Skype were wondering why I, the chatty one, was so quiet.
I hope to see more from you, AuthorAnon <333

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 137 of 257

Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

Bison Steve Blues (4a/5)

Re: Bison Steve Blues (4a/5)

Bison Steve Blues (4b/5)

Bison Steve Blues (5/5)

Re: Hacer El Amor - 3a/?

Re: Bison Steve Blues (5/5)

Re: Bison Steve Blues (5/5)

Re: M!Courier/Veronica - Voyeurism/Mutal Masturbation - ATTN: A!A

Experience and Treachery 1/3

Experience and Treachery 2/3

Experience and Treachery 3/3

But Tomorrow - Raul + Cass 1/2

But Tomorrow - Raul + Cass 2/2

Re: Jericho : Past tellings

Courier with... a weird talent... (Crack, okay? Its CRACK)

Oh shit, you're the Courier!

Re: Courier with... a weird talent... (Crack, okay? Its CRACK)

Re: Hacer El Amor - 3a/?

Re: Hacer El Amor - 4/?

Re: Hacer El Amor - 4a/?

Re: Courier with... a weird talent... (Crack, okay? Its CRACK)

Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - the longest fucking dry spell

Re: Adventures of a Wasteland Goddess (3/?)

Re: But Tomorrow - Raul + Cass 2/2

Re: No School Like Old School 7/7