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

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

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beautiful

Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! Can Cass go back and try the other robotic appendages?

Summary: Time for a lesson in structural functionalism.

"Just... just give me a moment to wrap my head around this." Arcade pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked at Six. "You're their leader."

"Ayup." The Courier grinned through a mouthful of meat. "Whaddya think?"

"I think..." said Arcade, for once in his life completely lost for words. "I think they may have made a mistake."

If he'd thought that he'd be spending the night sitting around a bonfire eating chunks of molerat meat from improvised barbecue forks, Arcade would've said no to Six's invitation of a night out. He was expecting... oh, he didn't know. An evening in the Westside Co-Op shooting the breeze with Clayton and trying not to start a fight with Anderson. Maybe swinging by the Casa Madrid and standing awkwardly outside the closed door as Six blew all his caps on a ten minute trembler from Sweetie. Eating freshly slaughtered meat, refusing a variety of drugs and making small talk with a pack of Fiends hadn't even popped onto his radar as a possible option for tonight's entertainment.

Six leaned back and tapped the bleached bone snout of his garish new hat, a baby Bighorner skull somehow lashed on to an old leather football helmet. The keys and feathers tied liberally all over it, thought Arcade, suited Six perfectly – impractical, flighty, and distracted by shiny things.

"Aww, c'mon man," said Six, pointing a well-chewed bone at him. "Why you gotta bring me down?"

"I'm just a little... a little surprised. Surprised that you've, uh, opted to become the leader of, err, a--"

"Tribe."

Arcade offered a watery grin at the hulking bear of a man who interrupted him, and in return was offered a sunny grin full of teeth suffering chronic Slasher-tooth. "A tribe. Sure. Why not."

"A collective group with defined social stratification, at any rate. Technically a tribe, more or less." The huge man ended his sentence with a lavish belch.

"I earned it." Six chewed the gristle from the bone then tossed it over his shoulder. "I bested their mightiest warrior and now I'm their god."

The huge brute cleared his throat. "Actually you're more of a chieftain. We mostly maintain a meritocracy where leadership is earned through successfully passing challenges and tests and not by embodying a living god. Vis-à-vis you and the late Motor-Runner, you happened to best him by cutting his head off." He pressed a Nuka-Cola bottle to the crook of his elbow and wrenched the cap off with a flex of his arm. "You right there, blondie?"

Arcade snapped his mouth shut.

"I mean," the brute continued, "One could also argue that we are a stratocratic society, particularly with those NCR fuckers parked so close that they're almost up our collective asses and forcing us into the untenable position of maintaining a warlike state, but it's probably neither here nor there." He paused to drain his bottle of pop in one messy swallow and put the bottle on the concrete, giving it a spin.

"Like a god," said Six again.

The bottle slowed and span once, twice, and stopped. The open end pointed at Arcade, and the brute pointed at him. "You agree, right?"

"I, uh." Arcade cautiously reached out to take the last molerat skewer, holding the fatty meat in front of him like a protective shield. "If you aligned with the Powder Gangers in Vault 19 you would technically have a junta."

The huge man laughed. "I like the way you think, blondie. Good to see the Followers haven't stopped teaching political neologisms since my day. Want some jet?"

Arcade blinked, and tried to say no thank you and how do you know what Followers teach and were you a Follower and what all at the same time, and ended up saying, "Hguarf."

"A god with a skull hat," said Six proudly, and threw a molerat shank into the dark.

sjfhsjkdfhsdjklfhsjk I messed up the formatting, sorry. Also I'm a different anon than above so I know you're gonna get an awesome multifill!

This is wonderful. I'd almost like to see Caesar join the conversation, hehe :O

Jet is a hell of a drug. Heh, but being a drugged out fiend doesn't mean you can't be intelligent! You just occasionally go through withdrawal and get shot at..! All of which means I LOVED this fill, so awesome a!a!

all my feelings, A!A ;_;

hnng i love this fic and i love charlie. hope you finish this someday, a!a c':

This is everything I wanted to read today. <3

Characters: Vulpes Inculta, F!Courier
Kink: Fluff, I guess
Description: She bathed in private because she had become ashamed of who she was. Part 3 in the Troop Morale series.

Baths were luxuries in the Mojave. There was common rule among many people—if there was no running water and no natural water, you would go without bathing for days.

Valence was fond of being clean and had found great comfort in living next to Lake Mead. Even though she had to take a bit of a walk to get closer to the water she couldn’t ever complain about being dirty.

She had a spot she liked very much—it was easily reached from the far end of camp, just follow the rocks along the edges of the cliff until they dipped into a weather-made staircase, trailing down, down to the lake. Go right and there would be the area the other legionaries bathed in. Go left and there was a small cave, and if you went through it you would end up on the other side of the lake, away from prying eyes.

This was the first place she had found to bathe in since arriving at the camp, and the only one she intended to visit. It was fairly well known that she was a woman, very few people wouldn’t know. But nobody needed to see that it was true. Nobody but her. She took her time in getting undressed, leaving her towel on one of the dewed rocks of the cave mouth. She took the binding from her chest and rubbed the red flesh under her breasts, irritated from being kept under wraps for so long. She wasn’t necessarily well endowed when it came to her chest but she was always a very cautious person.

She dove into the lake, ignoring the chill of the water. When she resurfaced, she swam over to the rock she had left her soap on and began the slow process of bathing. The moon reflected upon the surface of the lake. From where she stood now the water was a little bit over waist high. Eventually she would move back to where she had first been to swim around for a while, but it was more important to be clean for now.

Her day had been relatively simple, wonderful in fact, but it didn’t take away from the stress of the situations she’d been in. She had been assigned her Decanii, ten of them, all recently promoted from veteran status like she herself had been. Among them was Laelius, who was to be her star warrior, Caesar had said, and he was placed in charge of a group of the most exceptional veterans, unlike the others who were tasked with watching over ordinary veterans, recruits and primes.

The Decanii weren’t exactly jumping for joy at being assigned to have her as their Centurion. Most of them didn’t mind, no, but a couple of them had spat their clearly misogynistic views at her after leaving Caesar’s tent. She simply scowled at them; it was something that would be remedied with time, she decided. She would not be weak and she would not be a pushover. She intended to let her men know exactly who was calling the shots around here.

Laelius himself didn’t seem to have an opinion on her gender, but he did seem a bit weary at being placed directly under her in rank. Understandable—he had been working at this goal for far longer than she had been, she assumed.

Caesar had left it up to her once more to find an appropriate bunkmate, and she had settled on keeping Vulpes around. The man had originally had a tent of his own, since he was head of the Frumentarii, but had been spending time with her, showing her the ropes and directing her in the proper path to becoming an invaluable asset to the Legion. She figured the least she could do for him was offer him a comfortable place to sleep again. Besides, he already knew where her tent was.

There was a loud splash to her right, near the deeper part of the water and she inhaled sharply, turning to face what could possibly be a threat. She had left her weapons back in the camp, but she was good with hand to hand combat and not above punching a lakelurk in the nose, if need be. But come to think of it, lakelurks didn’t wander this close to the Fort…

She scowled, letting out an indignant huff. She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes at Vulpes, who had resurfaced and was swimming over to where she was. “You startled me. What are you doing here?”

Vulpes raised an eyebrow, holding up his own bar of soap. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Valence rolled her eyes, not moving. “But this is where I take a bath.” It probably sounded childish, but there was a fear that more people would find her one day. She had become rather protective of this spot.

Vulpes didn’t look too sorry. “This is where I’ve been bathing for 15 years now. You’ve come a bit too late to claim territory, Valence.” He began washing himself in front of her, unabashedly, and she averted her eyes from the scene. She kept quiet and held her tight position, arms locked tight around her breasts, legs closed despite the fact that her lower body was under water and it was dark out. “What’s wrong?”

She looked back up to his face quickly and tilted her head. “What? Nothing’s wrong, why even ask?” Perhaps it was suspicious that she hadn’t moved yet. She tried to loosen her position but only ended up locking herself away tighter.

Vulpes was not convinced. “It doesn’t appear to be nothing,” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What exactly are you doing?”

“What? I’m not doing anything. I don’t understand.” She was honest in that statement. She had no idea what he was talking about until he took her arms and forced them away from her body. She gasped, taking a step back.

“You’re hiding yourself.” And at that point she realized that he knew, because it was his job to pinpoint things like this. He laughed quietly, a small smirk spreading across his lips. “You don’t have to be ashamed, you know.”

Her lips pulled themselves into a tight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vulpes didn’t leave the matter alone; it was never in his nature to do that. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on hers, fixing her with a knowing smirk. “Do not think that I haven’t noticed, courier,” He only called her that when he meant business, and she swallowed hard. “It’s in plain sight for me to see right now. You’ve become ashamed of your own body. I’d advise you to get over it—there’s nothing that can be done.”

Valence felt her shoulders slump, and she sighed. It was difficult not to give in when Vulpes had you pinned into a corner, literally or figuratively, and she simply lost care in fighting to hide the truth from him. When it came down to the bottom line, he would always know the truth. “I just… the tactical advantages of this military—this society—don’t have any room for me. Women who take care of the domestic necessities and men who deal in war and hunting; I’m a woman but I’m better suited for combat than anything else. So where am I left in this? I wish I could change.”

It felt good to have her feelings off her chest, but the look on Vulpes’ face told her that she’d be receiving a lecture on this. “Ignoring the fact that you could fit into both roles properly, do you think there have not been others like you? Men who were better healers, women with strong backs? And what happened to them? They were all eventually turned into slaves.”

“This isn’t making me feel any better about the situation, Vulpes.”

He held up a hand for silence. She shut her mouth and listened. “But I found you. I reported you to Caesar and he was fascinated with the idea of a woman so interested in his empire. I told him of your exploits and due to your own strength you were able to overcome a barrier that most assumed would have you killed. Wear your armor with pride—you’re a Centurion now, and not many are in the position to question you.”

She almost objected when she remembered the two Decanii from earlier, but she decided to keep that to herself. “I just feel strange, thinking of the differences.”

Vulpes shrugged. “I see very few. Physically I can name a couple. But even putting that aside, all I can think of is the fact that you’re much shapelier than I.” He smiled at her, which was more disturbing than comforting, and she instinctively went to cover her chest again.

“Thanks so much for that…” She didn’t complain when he smacked her arms down a second time.

“Mentally, however, I believe that we lie on the same page. It’s been a very long time since I’ve met a woman worth conversing with.”

Valence snorted, rolling her eyes. “And look at this; you aren’t only speaking to me, you’re bunking with me as well.”

Vulpes raised an eyebrow. “Oh. That is to be me? I wasn’t aware.”

“Well who am I supposed to share a room with, one of my Decanii? I hardly know them.”

He nodded. “I suppose you’re right. In fact, I’ve taken the liberty of sleeping under a piece of fabric for you—I might as well reap the benefits of the actual tent I deserve.”

Valence let out a dry laugh. “Yes. Exactly.”

They were quiet, and Vulpes resumed cleaning himself. Valence was just beginning to work up the nerve to do so as well when he spoke. “You only do this because you believe that I’m the only one who doesn’t care that you’re a woman. You do realize that many people around the camp have come to accept your presence, correct? Especially after that stunt you pulled with the cookies…” The last part was muttered more to himself, but she heard him anyway.

“I think it may have started like that; staying around you, I mean,” She began washing her arms, the chorded muscles tensing under flesh as the bar of soap came into contact with her skin. “But also because it was a learning experience that you offered to me. You were and still are my mentor in all of this. You are the one who told me of the Legion after I woke up without a clue of who I was. I wanted to take something from knowing you, something good, something I could use to become someone here. But after a while it became more than that, and I started to like you very much.”

Vulpes gazed at her with cool eyes. “How touching.” The statement was said with blatant sarcasm, but he didn’t stop her.

“I… enjoy your presence, Vulpes. It’s appreciated.” It was the closest she could bring herself to outright saying that she thought of him as a good friend. Vulpes seemed to understand this, and he rolled his eyes, throwing his soap onto the rocks of the cave.

“As I enjoy yours, Valence. Frequently remind yourself that you are fortunate enough to have piqued my interest and fallen into my good graces. I do not like many, but I’ve taken to you.” And without another word he dove to the right, into the deeper side of the lake.

Anon hates the stupid character limit. :(

As she finished soaping herself up she watched him swim in the moonlit water. As odd as it was to think of it, she had been lucky that it was Vulpes who found her that day in Nipton. She would never know why he had decided to groom her into an instrument of the Legion; his motivation for all of his actions would forever remain locked tightly away in his own mind. For the time being she was content to believe that he had seen something in her, potential, even though she was a woman.

She sighed, frowning, and placing her soap in a small niche in the rocks, she swam off to join him.

When she neared him he surfaced, shaking off the water from his hair. He wasn’t one to be stared at for long so eventually he asked her what her problem was.

“You… you’ll still call me Valence, right? Even though I’m Faustus now?” It was a strange question, which was probably why he took so long to reply. She felt her skin grow hot with embarrassment, and was thankful that the water was so cool and the sun wasn’t out to expose her.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t if that’s what you wish. Although it would only be in private—it wouldn’t do well for anyone else to hear me address you so informally now that you have a proper title.”

“Of course not.” She nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly.

They swam there for a while longer, silent, not looking at each other, but out onto the surface of the water, the stars barely seeping into its reflective surface, and the mirror image of a large, full moon painted on the deep side of the lake.

This is my first fill. I admit, this certainly wasn't written exactly as the OP asked, but I wanted to start off with something easy. I hope somebody else fills this, because it has a lot of potential for a creative person.
--------------------------------------------

Arcade was confused.

From what Arcade had heard, Courier Six rose from the grave Jacob Marley-style to seek retribution. He was a hulking behemoth of a man -- a simmering sack of testosterone and muscle that pissed on fire ants for sport.
He sent Powder Gangers running for refuge in NCR territory. He wrestled Deathclaws. He rode Securitrons like Old World rodeo bulls, and that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Needless to say, when a slight, young man walked into the Old Mormon Fort claiming he was Courier Six, Arcade was surprised.

"Huh. I see the Freeside gangs have turned to practical jokes." Arcade mumbled as the alleged courier unbuckled his Vault 21 fanny-pack and sat on a dirty lawn chair. The courier didn't respond in the following seconds. He just sat there, staring dumbly at Arcade. The kid was probably performing some absurd gang-initiation rite where he had to make an ass of himself in front of the stuffy doctors. Arcade was sure he'd throw a gang sign and leave to rejoin some crowd of snickering kids outside.

Arcade was wrong.

"Are you talking to me?" asked the courier, looking genuinely surprised.

Arcade opened his mouth to deliver a witty one-liner, only to have it shot down in a hail of frightened half-sentences by the courier.

"Nobody ever talks to me. I try to talk to them, but they scream. They scream and run away. I'm not that scary, am I? I'm practically a cripple! I was shot in the he--"

"Hold up. Wait. Wait, just a second." Arcade cut the rambling youth off. "You're not telling me that you're the actual courier, right? The six-foot-ten lunatic roving the wasteland on a quest for vengeance?"

The courier somberly lifted his bangs, revealing a whitish scar sitting against his brown hair. The gesture made it look like the wound was the source of all his earthly woes. The courier then laid his hands in his lap and looked back to Arcade expectantly. "Yeah. That'd be me." he sighed.

Arcade felt his shock at the discovery dull into intrigue, followed by sympathy, and then shame. He could have prevented this. If he stopped the rumors earlier, then maybe the kid wouldn't have been hassled as much in Freeside. Arcade sighed heavily and reached out to give the courier a handshake. He owed him that much.

"Your reputation precedes you. I'm Arcade Gannon."

The courier eyed Arcade's hand suspiciously for a moment before eagerly shaking it. Arcade noted that the courier had a firm handshake. It was so firm, in fact, that his knuckles took a minute to regain their hue after the courier dropped it. Well, some rumors were true, at least.

"I came here because I need help." said the courier as Arcade recovered.

"I'm not that kind of doctor. You should probably talk to Julie." Arcade replied as he nursed his sore hand.

The courier pointed through the tent towards a pile of Med-X crates in the corner. Something pointy, brown, and quivering was protruding from behind them. "I already tried!" he sighed.

Arcade flexed his jaw limply. Julie Farkas, crouched in a corner and shaking, wasn't something he saw every day. He turned back to the courier. "If you're contagious, then I will personally have us both quarantined." he said critically.

The courier shrugged. "At least then I'd have some company. It isn't a medical problem, anyway. It's-...different." He drummed his fingers against his chair. "Nobody can stand me. Like, I tapped Julie on the shoulder and she went off running. Is that normal?"

Arcade pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. No, it certainly wasn't normal, but it was probably treatable. "I think you might have some aggression issues. You don't seem to know your own strength, I mean."
The courier looked at him quizzically, "Is there any way to fix that? Can't I just get weaker or something?"

Arcade adjusted the collar of his blue button-up and leaned forwards. He was bored, and nobody would mind him dealing with the courier in Julie's stead. "Yes. Just sit in that corner for a few decades and muscular atrophy will set in. No, no you can't. Look -- let's just try an exercise."

Arcade held out his hand. The courier immediately grabbed at it and held on for dear life. Shaking the nervous kid loose, Arcade explained succinctly, "There's your first problem. Not so rough. Lightly."
The exercise was repeated. This time, instead of practically ripping Arcade's hand off, the courier calmly clutched it.

"That's it. You're not choking a supermutant. There you go."

The courier severed the handshake. He looked at Arcade with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. "I ca-...I can't believe that worked." he said.

Arcade felt a smidgen of pride. He stood up, dusting off his stained lab-coat and fixing the stethoscope in his breastpocket. "I -am- a doctor, after all. Come on. Let's go make you sociable."

The courier followed Arcade out of the tent, into the bustling center of the Old Mormon Fort. The hysteria over the courier's arrival had died down, and the pace of things was fast enough for the courier to slip by unnoticed.

Arcade pointed at a female ghoul sitting by the entrance -- Beatrix the bodyguard. The courier seemed a bit disinclined to the idea at first, bringing up the perfectly valid point that the woman was armed with an assault rifle. Not to mention, she was scowling, and scowling made the courier nervous, which made him raise his voice. And that would be bad.

"She's thick-skinned, figuratively and literally." he reassured the courier.
The courier gulped. He went out into the open and stood beside Beatrix. He pointed to her rawhide hat and made the leap. "You've got some nice leather on you. I could use that to patch up my vault suit."
Arcade guffawed. Beatrix is a ghoul, dammit! What was the courier thinking?!

Not OP, but I think this is just AWESOME! Maybe its just cross fandom contamination, but this Six reminds me of Peter Parker (I'm currently hip-deep in Avengers fandom and Superfamily in particular), all bluster from nerves and in dire need of hugs. Careful hugs. Maybe with the other person in power armor...

So please, keep writing! I need to read more of "terrifying" Courier Six!

:D :D :D Glad you liked it!

a/n: whew. sorry this too so long, op. original a!a here, by the way.
____________________________________________________________________________

Blair stands with her hands on her hips, staring down at the weird little contraption in front of her. She knows what it is, but she's never seen one in such good condition. The shiny chrome of the front bumper hasn't chipped at all, and the paint is still a deep blood-red.

"It's a car?" Butch asks incredulously, staring at the car as well. Blair just shrugs and crosses her arms, in deep thought. She was one of the best - if not the best - mechanics in D.C., skilled in engineering and unafraid to get down and dirty with all sorts of robotics and machinery in the Wasteland.

She's fixed up little buggies and makeshift cars for the Brotherhood, in hopes that the water distribution would be more efficient, but she's never gotten her hands on an actual car. Only parts.

Blair turns to Butch, eyes flashing mischievously. "If you help me fix it up, you can drive first," she promises. To her surprise and disapproval, Butch shakes his head like a madman.

"No fuckin' way, B. That looks dangerous as shit. What if it...explodes or somethin'?" he whines. Blair rolls her eyes and steps closer, running her index finger along the zipper of his jumpsuit. Immediately a cocky grin spreads across the greaser's mouth, and Blair smirks back at him. "I said, I'll let you drive, baby."

Blair ends up finishing the car's repairs in a new record. Butch stops watching Pip-Boy's clock when she throws her hands in the air triumphantly, stained with centuries-old oil, grease, and other disgusting by-products of the car's makeover. She wipes her forehead and motions for Butch to throw her some water. She drinks generously and her lips slip into a slight smile when she feels him come up behind her, pressing his chest against her back.

"Not now, Butch." she says, giving his arm a pinch when the palm snakes under the front of her tank top towards her ratty sports bra. Butch groans in her ear, a rough sound that almost reels her in. "Why not? You got the fuckin' thing working." he mutters, placing a few open-mouthed kisses on her neck, and kneading the tight muscle of her trapezius with his lips. It feels damn good, so Blair drops her head back onto his shoulder, tilting her neck and moaning at his ministrations. When things get a little too heated, though, she pulls away.

Blair slides into the passenger's side, twirling her thumbs sweetly and staring innocently up at her boyfriend, who glares back down at her with equal parts arousal and annoyance. Eventually he relents, plopping down on the driver's seat and crossing his arms childishly. "How're you planning on gettin' this thing to go? Don't you need...dunno, a key or something?"

The Lone Wanderer says nothing, but leans across the space between their seats, reaching under the steering wheel to jump-start the car's wires. Butch groans enthusiastically when her chest presses against his thigh, and he threads a shaking hand in her sandy blonde hair and tugging insistently. "Come on, baby. Stop teasin'." he pants when she pulls back with a deliberate laziness. Blair says nothing, but gestures towards the wheel. When he doesn't move, the blonde presses her hand against the bulge of his jumpsuit, kneading firmly and smirking all the while.

Butch gasps and lifts his hips towards her palm in desperation, reaching out to sneak a kiss. Blair stops her hand and sits back in her seat, ignoring his pleas. She simply gestures at the workshop's open garage door, and then looks at him expectantly.

"Drive, Butch."

For a second he looks defiant, but then he thinks better of it, and hits the gas.

They practically fly across the Wasteland at the speed he's going. He takes the turns too quickly, skids the tires to make her squeal. Blair clutches onto his shoulder and the open window next to her as they go, grinning like a maniac and enjoying the adrenaline rush. Hills and withered trees are indistinct blurs as they drive past.

Inspired by Butch's reckless driving and her heart's pounding, Blair grips the top of the windshield, pulling herself into the air and raising her arms. Butch gets a little nervous because he wraps one arm around her waist, flicking from her face to the obstacles in front of him with a grin.

They eventually pull up in front of the RobCo factory, and Butch drifts the car with an amazing dexterity that sends a strange wave of heat to the apex of her legs. He slams his hands down on the wheel, shouting with excited triumph, and turns his head to Blair expectantly. She flashes him a meaningful smirk.

Butch blinks at her, eyes blank and confused for a second, before groaning. "Seriously? You are so goddamn needy, woman."

Blair reaches over to the stick, parking the car before climbing into Butch's lap. His hands immediately float up to her waist and he begins drawing slow circles with his thumbs until Blair has enough. She presses closer, melting into the contours of his body in the seat, and catches him in a rough kiss.

It doesn't take long before they're both out of breath. Blair whimpers when he skates his fingers up the back of her shirt, fingering the catch of her bra excitedly. He tilts his head into the kiss, and she nods her approval, rocking her hips into his as she raises her arms so her tank top can be removed. Butch kisses the vulnerable, thin skin of her upper arms, nipping and sucking while lifting her shirt up.

She's tired of foreplay suddenly, lust fueled by the throbbing heat pressed against her hip and the things he's doing with his tongue, fuck. She arches away from his mouth and pinches at the fabric of his undershirt, having already unzipped the Vault jumpsuit. "Off." she commands, and Butch releases her nipple with a deliciously wet pop, grinning lazily at her when she lets out a garbled mewl. He complies though, tugging his shirt off by the collar. Blair sinks lower into his form, rocking insistently and letting him know that she's not going to play the patience game this time.

Butch shrugs and reaches down to the side of the seat. Blair suddenly flies forward, hair whipping into her face. She lands on top of her boyfriend at an incline. She scoots back on his thighs, using the strong muscles of her upper legs to hold herself upright. She pulls him our of his boxers, stroking lightly and watching his face. Butch bucks against her, sending her into the air, and wraps his arms around her back, pulling her flush against his chest and nipping at her ear.

She wiggles out of his grip only to lower herself onto him, digging her short fingernails into his shoulders as she eases them together. "Christ, Blair!" he suddenly splutters, and she has to bite back a legitimate scream when he begins snapping his hips up, burying himself deeper with each jerk. Blair pants, pressing kisses into his neck as she bounces against him. The mix of dust and grit and the noises he's making bring her to the edge almost immediately.

Suddenly his biceps squeeze tight against her, trapping her against his chest as he flips them. Blair's sweaty back presses into the seat and she arches when he slips back in. Butch surprises her by threading their fingers together and pulling her arms up, trapping them above her head. Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens when he lifts his gaze up to hers, piercing blue irises darkened with lust. He holds her arms there, wrenching his hips back and then forward, pounding her into the seat.

Blair loses it in no time, crying out and shuddering as her climax rolls through, digging her heels into his back and jerking wildly. Butch reaches down and grabs her hip, gripping her thigh as closer as possible when he finishes. The slack grip on her wrists allows her to slip her hand from his, reaching up to stroke his cheek as he came. Butch slumps against her, curling around her uselessly and tucking his head into her shoulder as he catches his breath. Blair runs her hand through his dark hair, down his back, across his shoulders, content.

"B." he mutters, mouth slack against her collarbone.

"Hmm?"

"I fuckin' love driving." he breathes, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her on top of him. Blair smirks and presses a quick kiss to his cheeks before reaching for her tank top.

I thought I commented on this the other day but it looks like I goofed. I love this. I'm really loving the courier. And Arcade? Hell yes. <3

That was crazy beautiful.

This got rougher than I initially expected. Which means, it’s really rough and bloody and without lubrication. You’ve been warned.
=======================================

Eight thirty.
Butch had checked his Pip Boy ten times already since he had finished his shower, wondering briefly how the fuck people measured time on this hulk of a ship without sunlight or watches anyway. How would they even know if it was nine or not?
Not that he planned on taking a chance with those guys, though.

He stared critically at the mirror and his own reflection, frowning at his own appearance. But experience had taught him that a mixture of spunk and pomade was one hell of a mess to get rid of again, so he left the pomade and did what he could with water and his comb. It wasn’t the same, but he doubted any of the two would be interested in his hair.

Butch left his cabin, ran a hand through his hair, tweaking the forelock in a practised move, yet without any aid it didn’t stay properly where it was, hanging teasingly over one eye. With a shrug, Butch hopped up the stairwell and headed for the clinic. Just around the corner left only one option.

Eight fifty-eight.
There was a door, and Butch took a deep breath, smoothed down his jacket, ran his hand through his hair again and, after making sure no one saw him – he had learned from experience, too, and not a pleasant one, that discretion was vital if he didn’t want to lose customers and/or his teeth – he knocked.

The door opened and a hand shot out and dragged him in. When it slammed shut behind him, Butch had a second to look around, discovering to his mild disappointment that the cabin looked pretty much like any other on the ship he had seen from the inside. For some reason he had expected something more... roughed up, maybe? Ashtrays that spilled over, plates with leftovers, empty bottles, dirty clothing strewn around... none of that was the case.

The hand that had dragged him in now took his shoulder and Butch turned to look at Shrapnel. “Anyone seen you coming in?”
“No. I’m not doing this for the first time, man.”
“Good.” The former raider seemed honestly pleased. “Just making sure. We got a reputation to lose.”
Butch said nothing, but noticed that Flak, sitting behind Shrapnel on the cot, shook his head while taking a drag of his smoke.
Shrapnel held out a pack of cigarettes to Butch. “Want a smoke?”
“Sure.” Butch took one, let Shrapnel light it up and cast another cautious look around.
Flak noticed his look and stood up, offering him a flask of whiskey. “Drink?”
“What is this, a party?”
Shrapnel paused, smoke half-way to his lips. “You in a hurry to get the job done, huh?”
Butch swallowed a snarky remark because he sure as fuck could use those caps and shrugged.

They smoked a few moments in awkward silence.

Finally Shrapnel clamped the smoke in the corner of his mouth and held out a hand to Flak who took it and let himself be helped up.
“Told you this wasn’t a good idea”, Flak said.
“Why?”
“Why.” Flak exhaled a heavy cloud. “He doesn’t know fuck what to do.”
“What?” Arms akimbo, Butch almost lost the smoke. “I’ve been doing this for...”
“What do I care?” Flak narrowed his eyes. “You’re as green as a molerat pub.”
“Fine. If that’s how it is...” Butch dropped his arms and made for the door. “I could’ve had two other appointments, and this is what I get? Fuck.”
“Get out of here, munchkin.”
“Should’ve known I’d better find something else than a couple of old queens”, Butch muttered on his way to the door.

He probably shouldn’t have said that.

Within a split second, Shrapnel had him by the coattails and jerked him around. “What was that?” His voice was a low, dangerous hiss.
“I...” Butch tried to think of a snarky remark, but without warning, Shrapnel buried his fist into Butch’s abdomen and he doubled over with a groan.
“You little fuckwit.” Shrapnel still had the smoke clamped in the corner of his mouth, his facial expression bordering on rather bored. It was only his voice that was flat with fury. Before Butch could retaliate Shrapnel had gotten a good grip on his hair and jerked. Brought off balance Butch lost his footing and slammed into the ground. For a few seconds, he saw stars.

As Butch was just about to sit up again and frantically tried to think of something reconciliatory to say someone else stepped behind him. Flak got a good grip of his hair as well now and dragged him onto his feet again. Stumbling and bent in an awkward angle due to Flak’s grip, Butch fought for his balance. “Hey now...”
“Shut the fuck up, you disgusting little runt.” Shrapnel undid the buckle of Butch’s belt while Flak, without losing either his grip or the smoke between his lips, managed to get Butch’s jacket off his shoulders. He didn’t lose any time in fineries when it came to his shirt, though. With one hand he just tore the thing apart. The shirt was practically new; neither worn nor threadbare, and the implication of this, what it told him about the strength of Flak’s hands and arms, made Butch suddenly slightly afraid. “Jesus, will you...”
“I told you to shut up”, Shrapnel hissed and planted his fist into Butch’s face.

Butch felt his lip split and fought back for a second, but Flak let go of his hair and twisted his left arm onto his back. With one swift move, the former slaver slipped his left arm under Butch’s and closed his fingers around Butch’s right shoulders. And Butch had to discover to his dismay that there was no escaping that grip. There were obviously a few things you learned as a slaver.
Having succeeded with his belt Shrapnel unceremoniously tore down Butch’s pants, and Flak finally let go of his arm, only to give him a rough push. Due to the fact his pants pooled around his ankles, Butch lost his balance again and landed on his hands and knees, but this was quite obviously just where the two wanted him.

Butch fought for breath a couple of seconds, his hair hanging messed up and tousled into his face and blood dripping down his chin, and had just time to look up when Shrapnel knelt down in front of him, fly undone, before the former raider shoved a dick the size of a police baton, by the feel of it, into Butch’s open mouth in mid-gasp.
Shrapnel buried his hand into Butch’s hair again. Fuck, those guys really seemed to have an issue with that. “Good thing you left the snot outta your hair, kid”, Shrapnel snarled, breathing heavily. “Some people like a good grip, you know. That’s why I didn’t want you to cut my hair any shorter.” He emitted a dirty chuckle and looked up at Flak who had just undone his pants and now knelt between Butch’s legs.

Their eyes met over Butch’s half-naked back where the tattered remains of his shirt still hung down left and right and when Butch dared to shoot a glance at Shrapnel’s face he realised the former raider was looking at his partner under lowered eyelids. Behind him, he could feel Flak close both hands around his buttocks in a surprisingly gentle move.

“You were right, buddy”, Flak said hoarsely. “He’s got one damn fine piece of ass.”
Shrapnel chuckled raggedly. “You said that to me first time you fucked me.”
Now Flak chuckled as well. “That’s gotta be more than a decade ago and you still remember what I said?”

Not daring to make a move Butch was forced to remain as he was, breathing deeply through his nose around the sizeable dick in his mouth. He could hear the rustle of clothes behind him and finally, Shrapnel released his hair, only to undo the buttons of his vest, though. He shed it and got rid of his shirt as well, not taking his eyes off Flak, before digging his hand into Butch’s hair again.
“Come one, kid”, he rasped. “Do your job.”
So Butch curled his tongue around Shrapnel’s dick and began to suck, feeling Flak behind him run a finger over the crack of his ass. Butch would have liked to tell him he had a bottle of lube in his jacket, but there was no getting Shrapnel’s dick out of his mouth. A spittle-slicked finger dug into his asshole.

“I’d relax if I was you, kid”, Shrapnel whispered raggedly. “I keep calling my buddy’s dick ‘The Fat Man’, you know. He can make you explode.” His expression and his voice turned a little dreamy as he looked down, and for a split-second, Butch was suddenly afraid of him. His lip was still bleeding and when he squinted down his nose he could see that the former raider’s dick was already smeared in blood, and when he noticed the look in Shrapnel’s eyes he could suddenly see him, the raider, the crazed bloodlust fuelled by drugs and madness, and was sure that he wouldn’t get out of here alive.

Butch closed his eyes again, intent on getting these guys off as soon as possible to get out of here again, but even as he tried to relax, Flak’s dick was almost more than his practically dry asshole could handle. He would’ve screamed if he hadn’t had his mouth full. As it was, it was only a hoarse, suffocated moan that escaped him and with a crack, Flak’s hand connected with his backside. “Shut the fuck up, kid, and do your job.”

Both men began to move then, and Butch closed his eyes, focussing only on breathing. His ass hurt like fire, his buttocks stung, his split lip was throbbing with pain and he was constantly on the verge of suffocating when the men inside him moved, harder, faster, and more erratic. Both were breathing hard and fast, and as Shrapnel now buried both hands into Butch’s hair Flak dug his fingers into Butch’s buttocks. It was all Butch could do to suppress the urge to retch and thrust up his ass.
It seemed like a small eternity before Flak finally picked up speed again and with a few last, deep thrusts that felt as if he meant to split Butch along the spine, spent himself into Butch’s ass with a hoarse bellow.
Moments later, Shrapnel came, too, filling Butch’s mouth with a load of hot and salty liquid that he was unable to handle in full.

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Flak was the first to withdraw, but at least he was cautious about it on the way out. Butch sagged, and when Shrapnel now finally pulled his dick out, Butch couldn’t suppress a single retch, a disgusting mixture of snot, blood and spunk dripping down his chin.

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

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