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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Butch remained where he was, trying to get his bearings back, trying not to hurl the contents of his stomach onto the floor before him, trying not to collapse and bawl like a little girl because it hurt so fucking much. He was sure he’d be bleeding out of his ass for a couple of days at least.

When he finally dared to look up he found the two men look down at him with a mildly amused expression while passing a flask of whiskey back and forth. Butch had a few moments to notice the difference between them: Flak was broad shouldered and heavily muscled, while Shrapnel was on the wiry side, his body covered in all kinds of scars that looked as if none of those wounds had ever received proper medical attention.

To his surprise, Flak suddenly extended a hand to him. Butch hesitated for a second, then took the hand and let Flak help him up. After laboriously pulling up his pants, he wiped the back of his hand across lips and nose and accepted the bottle Shrapnel wordlessly offered to him, rinsing his mouth of blood and spunk with a healthy swig of the burning, amber liquid.

“Just a couple of old queens, huh?”, Flak said after a moment, a audible trace of humour in his voice.
Butch shrugged and took another sip of whiskey before handing the bottle back.
“So what do we owe after that little bit of sports?” Shrapnel looked disgustingly pleased with himself, too.
“Four hundred caps and both your balls on a string to hang up on my wall”, Butch gave back testily.
Both men laughed coarsely and Shrapnel went over to a locker where he picked up a large bag.
“Here. It’s six hundred. About the balls, though...”
“You can always try to take’em”, Flak chuckled and lit himself a smoke.
Butch swallowed a remark that probably would’ve earned him a broken nose and grabbed the bag from Shrapnel. “Thanks.”

Then he picked up his jacket and slipped it on, but as he was about to leave, he heard Flak call out behind him. He was tempted to just go, but that would’ve been childish, so he slowly turned around again. “Yeah?”
“You ever want a gun, we could work out a deal for you. Just keep your mouth shut about it.”
“Got ya. Thanks.”

He left, his last sight of them, to his surprise, was them closing their arms around each other. He closed the door in haste, not wanting to see any more. Surely men like them didn’t kiss?
It wasn’t his business anyway, but as he looked at the bag in his hand he realised that he finally had made it: with that many caps and the offer of a discount, he would finally be able to buy himself the gear he needed. He could get out of this shithole again.

Butch made his way back to his cabin whistling under his breath, for the first time since he had left the Vault things looked good for him again. Just around the corner from his cabin he ran into a guy he knew faintly, and when he noticed the state of Butch’s wardrobe, he snickered. “The fuck happened to you, Butch?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Of course not.” Another coarse chuckle. “Fucking’s your business, not mine.”
Butch acted without thinking. His fist landed right in the bastard’s face and sent him sprawling on his ass. And god almighty, that felt good. “Not anymore, asshole.”
He slammed the door of his cabin shut behind him, grinning to himself while sucking at his bruised knuckles.

Life was good.

Hottttttttt stuff!

THAT was absolutely amazing. Please excuse me, I must go die of laughter now. :D

Other A!A: Oh god, anon, your fill had me in stitches! "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." That right there, that is brilliance. I’m in love with your courier, too. He’s so cute, with his ego. And you're absolutely right:

It’s multifill time~

Characters: M!Courier, Arcade Gannon, Cook-Cook, Violet, Driver Nephi, Random Fiends
Summary: There’s a new sheriff in Fiend Town, and he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

Duncan was never a big fan of politics. He was a bit of a wallflower, bookish and had a deep fondness for studying Mojave flora. He did not do well with large groups, he had no leadership qualities and he most certainly did not have any interest in leading a large group.

This was why, with his luck, he was surrounded by Fiends who were all staring at him with the same unbridled admiration in their eyes while he held the bleeding head of their previous leader. He had thought at first that they would attack him, and he and Arcade would die here, just for trying to get some extra caps.

But they all stood there and looked at the two of them. He was still holding Motor-Runner’s head, and Arcade was holding his plasma defender as if he was unsure of whether or not to actually start attacking the enemies in front of them.

And suddenly, one spoke up. A woman close to the front of the pack, pale skin, a mess of blue hair tied into a bun atop her head, and wearing nothing but a bikini that might have been made from the bumper of a Corvega. “So, uh, which one of you killed ‘im?”

Duncan looked to Arcade. It wasn’t as if he was going to pin the blame on the older man, he just really needed some counsel in this. Unfortunately, Arcade could only offer him a blank stare behind black-rimmed glasses, and Duncan sighed, deciding that at least the doctor could get out alive. “It was me. I killed Motor-Runner. I killed your leader!”

He had only been so dramatic about it because he figured they would make some pretty famous last words, but the drugged out crowd didn’t shoot him down afterwards. It was awkward. He and Arcade stood cornered, nowhere to run, and all the Fiends did was look at them. “So is this guy a friend of yours or something?” The woman spoke again, and when she moved her head, the light flickered over her eyes in a way so that he could see just how small her pupils were.

How was she still standing? She looked like she was blasted off her ass.

“Yeah…” Duncan answered, not too sure if he had just signed a death wish for Arcade as well. He’d feel pretty bad if he did, but hey, not much that could be done now anyways. The older man didn’t seem too troubled by it, so he assumed that the crew would be going down with the ship on this one.

More unfortunate silence, and then suddenly someone shrieked.

Duncan closed his eyes and waited patiently for someone to stab him in the face, but nothing. The shriek turned into many shrieks, and it took him some time to piece together that they were actually cheers. (It was difficult to tell, since at least half of the people in the room probably didn’t know what they sounded like.)

He endured it for another minute and promptly lost his shit when they started singing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow”. Since when did Fiends sing? And for that matter, since when did Fiends sing well? Today, apparently.

Duncan turned back to look at his companion. The doctor was in worse shape than he was. The man stood eyes wide and mouth slightly opened, just staring at the drugged raiders as if they had just told him that the Enclave was back and kicking, and that he was going to be the new leader.

“You’re our new leader now!” The woman had made her way over to Duncan to clap a hand on his shoulder.

Oh, well speaking of leaders…

Duncan was pretty sure he had a small heart attack at that moment, which wasn’t healthy, especially since these people would only try to fix him with chems. “And since the new boss said you’re his friend, I guess that makes you second in command, doesn’t it Specs?” Arcade, or ‘Specs’ as he was now being called, had completely given up on trying to not look like a fish, and was now openly gaping at her.

The woman didn’t think too much of it, and looped her wiry arms through his and Arcades and led them through the still cheering Fiends, who had parted like the sea just to let them through.

The majority of them stayed behind to continue cheering, but two in particular had left the crowd to follow them to wherever the woman was leading them. These two were men, one almost as small as Duncan was and the other was roughly the size of the Lucky 38.

Okay, so he was exaggerating. But the guy was huge.

They walked down a few hallways without conversation, before they were led to a room that was… surprisingly neat, considering who lived in this vault.

“This used to be Motor’s place, but I guess it’s yours now, boss-man. I hope you guys don’t mind sharing a bed until Brick here gets lucid enough to pull another one in. I bet you’re tired after all that work!” The woman was cheery now, and in the brighter lights of the room he could actually see her pupils. They were still terrifyingly small in comparison to the large, ice blue color of her irises.

The woman noticed him staring and laughed. “Don’t even bother. I was born with ‘em this small. My dad always said it was because my eyes were so light. It’s why I stay down here—I can’t handle the Mojave sun.”

So wait, she wasn't on drugs then?

“Um, sorry to break up the party, but who exactly are you?” Arcade finally spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours. The man was done gaping, and his plasma defender was safely back on his hip. If he thought the Fiends were safe enough for that then they were probably in for one hell of a day.

The woman gasped sharply and smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh, I’m an idiot! I’m so sorry, my name is Quick-Pin; I’m the head scout here! You can just call me Quick, or Pin, or just by my full name if you’d like.” Quick-Pin gave a bright smile, and surprisingly clean teeth beamed back at them. She turned to face the other men. “Brick is the big guy, by the way. He’s our doctor. And that is Tomahawk. He’s the scribe.” The men nodded at them, Brick with a serious face. Tomahawk with a mischievous grin.

Seriously? They had a scribe? A scribe? He tried very hard not to laugh at the thought when Tomahawk spoke up. “What is your name, brunette, so I can document you as the new leader?”

Duncan didn’t like being referred to as ‘brunette’ so he mumbled his name quietly, and after thinking about it, introduced Arcade as well.

“Ah. Alright then. Duncan and Arcade. Well, please relax for now; we’ll get to work on preparing your position, Duncan.” He and Quick-Pin left together, and Brick surveyed them for another moment before leaving as well.

As soon as everyone was gone, they spoke. “What the hell did you do?” Arcade whispered harshly, and Duncan gasped, a little surprised that he would immediately get the blame for this.

“I have no clue, Arc, I just killed their leader and now they’re all like ‘Hey, you’re with us now!’ I don’t like this any more than you do! I just want to go home…” Duncan tried very hard not to get teary eyed over the situation. He could only subject Arcade to so much of his awkward companionship, and he was sure that he had reached the tears quota when they had found those dead NCR members that were on their way with supplies to Forlorn Hope.

Arcade sighed and sat on the bed. “Okay. It’s no big deal. We’ve just become the de-facto leaders of a chem abusing raiding party. There a plenty of things that can go right with this. Plenty.”

Duncan didn’t want to rain on the parade, so instead of pointing out that, no, there wasn’t much that could go right at all, he sat next to him. “They have a scribe, Arcade…”

“Yes. Nothing could possibly go wrong since they have a scribe.”

(A!A apologizes for her horrible habit of turning oneshots into multi-chapter fills. @_@ I was aiming for your instant gratification, I swear!)

Random passerby is dumbstruck by how incredible this is.

"Yes. Nothing could possibly go wrong since they have a scribe."

Perfect. I love it!

"You're sick."

"I'm fine."

"You're sick and you can barely move."

"I'm fine."

Jonah sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face and knocking his glasses askew to rub at his eyes. "You've got three layers of clothing on, plus all the duvets in the suite, and you're still shivering. You're sick." He leans heavily against the large oak desk of the Lucky 38's main bedroom, crossing his arms and addressing the feverish pile of blankets swaddled in the center of his double bed. "I swear to god, Boone, if you don't drop it and just let me treat you-"

"I'm not sick," Boone insists from beneath the layers of thick cashmere blankets. His ever-present beret blends almost indistinguishably into the scarlet pillows propped under his head, and his eyes are closed as he talks. "'M just tired. So you and Gannon can fuck off with your needles." He sniffles wetly and grotesquely, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Jonah blinks owlishly. "Needles?"

"He's scared of needles," a helpful voice pipes up, and Jonah turns just in time to watch Arcade stroll casually into the bedroom, a snack cake clutched in his hand. It was around breakfast time, but Jonah hadn't noticed, too busy trying to goad Boone into at least injecting a stimpak to help him through whatever fever the sniper was sweating out.

"I'm NOT scared of needles," Boone says, turning his back to the two bespectacled men. "I just don't like 'em."

Arcade takes a generous bite from the snack cake and chews thoughtfully as he contemplates Boone's huddled form. "You look like hell," he decides, swallowing. "Still planning on fighting off this virus through testosterone and denial alone, I see. How's that going for you?"

"You can't seriously be scared of needles," Jonah insists, walking around the room and retrieving his doctor's bag from the cabinet next to his bed. He plops the bag on to the ground and bends over to take out an empty syringe and a small vial of blended broc flower and xander root extract- his own homemade concoction.

Jonah straightens up and pauses, empty syringe posed purposefully above the vial he intended to fill it with.

"You must have used stimpaks before... with the NCR, at least?"

Boone shifts beneath the blankets, propping himself up on bent elbows.

"Yeah. Sometimes. Mostly didn't have a choice. If you're bad enough off that a field medic's running after you, you don't really care what they're sticking you with-"

He coughs deeply, a choking wheeze that rattles his entire frame, and Jonah makes a mental note to be sure and clean the blankets very thoroughly later on.

Or perhaps burn them.

"-and anyway, most of the time they just hopped us up on med-x. One jolt and you're basically running into combat. Two jolts and you're running into combat with a broken arm, two fractured ankles, and a head wound that you forgot about, 'cause you can't feel a damn thing."

Arcade snorts derisively, grabbing an old pre-war book from the courier's desk and sitting down on a nearby couch. He starts to thumb through the pages.

"Fun times. Three 'jolts', and you risk respiratory depression. That's when the party really gets started."

Jonah looks up sharply from where he hovered over Boone at the foot of the bed.

"Really?" He asks. "Hypoventilation?"

He had been contemplating whether or not to just stick the other man and run. Boone was bigger, but Jonah was much faster- all gangly limbs and nervous energy. He figured that if he had a decent head start he could make it safely out of the room and flee into the bathroom, or some other room with a lock. Preferably a sturdy one. Somewhere he could run to before Boone had a chance to punch him in the face.

Arcade nods, not looking up from the book now cradled in his lap between crossed legs, but Jonah catches the tiny smile the doctor sometimes gets when he's exceptionally proud of the courier's medical knowledge.

"You bet. Something about analgesic drugs and human lungs just doesn't jive correct when administered in the ridiculous doses NCR loves to pump into their troops. Strange, I know. The Followers have certainly treated enough of them, though. Did you know the differences between a Freeside junkie's liver and a veteran Ranger's liver are nearly indistinguishable?"

Boone chokes out a noise somewhere between a cough and indignant scoff, letting his arms fall to his sides and flopping back down on the bed. "Yeah, whatever. Sure made you feel like a million caps, though, but I guess that's- Jonah."

The sudden shift in tone makes Jonah stand straight up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed. He had been distracted by the conversation and sat down to face Arcade, back turned to Boone, and he quickly spins around to face the other man, alarmed. "What? What is it?"

Boone is staring at him with a strange expression on his face, but his eyes are cast downwards, toward Jonah's belt.

"Were you....are you wearing.... is that lace?"

Horrified realization dawns on Jonah's features, and he feels his stomach drop as he looks down to where Boone is staring.

He doesn't have to look, he knows immediately what Boone is talking about, but he drops his head anyway. His clothes had been fitting a bit too loose lately (he blamed all the courier work running around in the hot, Mojave desert) and sitting down had caused his denim trousers to shift a little too low, hanging a little too slack off of his narrow hips.... and a thin strip of black, lace-trimmed elastic peeked out just above the waistband.

Flushing red, Jonah reaches down and yanks up his trousers, fumbling awkwardly to adjust his belt. "Um... uh... it's not... it's not like..."

He hears a cough. Not Boone's deep, chest-rattling cough- a more delicate, polite cough. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Arcade looking at him with wide eyes, now thoroughly distracted from his book.

Arcade looks just as bewildered as Jonah feels, and that only makes Jonah blush harder. His face is so hot, he thinks it might melt away and slosh right off of his skull.

Flustered, he drops the stimpak on to his bed and mumbles some excuse about having to go take Rex outside. As the red-faced courier hurriedly retreats from the bedroom, neither Arcade nor Boone has the heart to remind Jonah that Rex is already outside. The courier had let him out earlier that morning.

There is a beat of silence. Arcade uncrosses his legs and lowers them to the ground.

He dog ears the page of his book and carefully closes it, placing it gently on the couch next to him.

He turns to Boone.

Boone stares back at him wordlessly, nothing but eyes and a beret peering over plush red blankets drawn up to his nose.

"That was-" Arcade starts, and Boone cuts him off.

"Fucking weird?"

"Well, yes, unexpected, but also-"

"Fucking hot?"

"Exactly."

Boone turns his head away, wrought with another wave of coughs. He hacks so powerfully into the blankets that he nearly dry heaves. Arcade wrinkles his nose in disgust and covertly snatches up the stimpak Jonah had carelessly discarded.

Striding purposefully up to Boone's side, he grabs the sniper's wrist and wrestles a sweaty arm above the covers. Before Boone has a chance to protest, he jams the stimpak into his upper shoulder, depressing the plunger.

"Sonofabitch!" Boone actually whimpers, voice cracking comically high. He jerks his arm away from Arcade, but the damage was already done.

"There you go, you giant man-child. I wish I could say I was sorry, but you were being totally unreasonable. And disgusting."

Boone withdraws his arm back under the duvets, glaring. "You didn't have to do it like that."

Arcade rolls his eyes, tossing the empty syringe onto the bedside cabinet. He'd dispose of it properly later.

"There's time for pouting later. Right now, we need to figure out what we're going to do about.... Jonah." And his ridiculously sexy, lacy underwear, he mentally adds.

Boone agrees with the unspoken implication. "Yeah, right. But... what if he just goes and takes them off?"

"Well," Arcade answers, pushing up the sleeve of his doctor's coat and glancing at the watch strapped around his wrist. "We have about sixty seconds before the stimpak kicks in and suppresses that hell-cough of yours. Assuming he realizes that the cyberdog is still outside- probably happily licking its own butt- we should have enough time to catch him on the elevator ride back up." Arcade lowers his sleeve, meeting Boone's gaze. "And then we can make sure he doesn't take them off."

Boone coughs again, but much less harshly- more akin to clearing his throat.

"Or... we could take them off."

"Yes," Arcade agrees with a wicked grin, already making his way towards the door. "We certainly could."

So I'm just gonna stalk the hell out of this prompt, okay? Okay. *hides in bushes and waits for sexy, sexy updates*

*cackles gleefully* Oh yes, why don't you two keep on scheming against poor Jonah and his sexy undies. I'll just be over here...leering. ;) Awesome job, author!anon - I'll be waiting for more with baited breath.

AU wherein Butches father never disappeared and his mother is a Saint in the Vault. I would love it if he's the nerdiest kid in the vault with barley a friend to buddy up with and the LW feels terrible for him and they spend a study session together getting 'friendly' ;D

Two of the companions have a dire conflict. Hate, disrespect, distrust, there's plenty of possibilities with the companions having so different backgrounds.

At one point the LW or courier have to make a decision because having both of them around is going to get them all killed, so one of them has to leave. But which one?
Cue: Hurt, Angst, Drama, maybe even Comfort and a little Smut if possible?

sorry for the wait D:**

She cracked the door open, much like she did with Underworld to be greeted by a lovely old ghoul. Within moments, they had become fast friends, sitting down and talking about everything.

“And you said you weren’t interesting!” She smiled widely, leaning over and rubbing the old ghoulette’s shoulder. Carol batted her eyes, smoothing in thick black eyeliner, and pulling it off with tremendous nerve. The Lone Wanderer wished that, if she would ever turn out to be a ghoul, she would look like Carol. She pulled it off rather nicely.

“Oh, tell the same stories over and over again! You’ll see. So you went to the Ninth Circle first? It’s always a mistake. He likes to flirt with all the pretty young smoothskins and try to tempt them in to bed. Only few have been so… uh…”

“Stupid?” The young girl interjected, laughing slightly.

“Yes! But with Greta and my lovely son here, Ahzrukhal’s costumers always have a place to rebound from his propositions. I got to gabbing, dear, I’m so sorry. Would you like something to eat? My wife is on a well needed break tonight, my son will be over!”

“Fantastic!” The Lone Wanderer smiled softly, tapping her broken finger nails against the table. A timid voice came from behind her, turning and smiling at a shy looking ghoul. His muscles bulged through his dirty t-shirt, but he still seemed awfully uncomfortable with himself.

“What can I get you?” He shot a half smile, pulling out a notepad and pencil.

“Any Blamo Mac ‘N Cheese available?” She leaned her chin into the palm of her hand with a smile, batting those eyelashes that could stop men dead in their tracks. She scribbled and nodded to her, turning to walk away.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a waiter who hasn’t told me their name.” She chuckled when he turned, scratching the back of his head.

“I… uh, sorry. I just get so carried away with helping my mom I forget how to do this. I’m Gob.”

“I’m Symphony. Don’t worry about it, I really just wanted an excuse to get your name.” She smiled, turning her back to him and pulling out a book. He blinked at her for a few seconds, turning and giving the paper to his adoptive mother. Carol kissed his cheek, pointing at the girl she had been watching so closely.

“I think she thinks you’re cute, Gobbie. Go chat with her!” She pushed her son, giving him no option, with a small smile. Gob turned back to Carol, who simply waved him off and started cooking. He stood for a moment, taking a step every minute or so. He wasn’t used to girls… well, pretty Smoothskin girls, giving him the time of day. Let alone think he was cute.

“Trying to find a way to sit and talk with me, Gob? Just sit down.” She sighed, lifting her head form her book and dog earing the page. He sat, avoiding her eyes.

“Sorry about Ahzrukhal, not all ghouls are like that…” He trailed off, earning a laugh from Symphony.

“I figured that when you came over here with that shy half smile of yours. Ghouls and guys are all alike. Just because one’s a whore doesn’t mean the majority is. You dig what I mean?” She crossed her legs upon her chair, leaning over to get closer to Gob. He nodded in reply, avoiding her eyes with the upmost awkwardness.

“So, City of Ghouls huh? You live here your whole life?” Symphony asked, nodding to Carol who set her food in front of her, then a second bowl for Gob. He looked up at his mother who simply smiled and kissed him on the head. The boy couldn’t help but blush, looking down from the girl’s giggling.

“That’s so cute! Don’t be embarrassed of your mom!” The Lone Wanderer encourage, taking his chin within her hand and raising his gaze.

You're request is my pleasure! I did the best I could, as a dancer! I don't know a lick of spanish... I tried... I TRIED***

“Mistress Sevana, please do not make me do this.” Charon grumbled, the stunningly beautiful woman flicking on a switch in her hotel room within the heart of New Vegas. An old Spanish tune, a slow sensual noise, rented the room on repeat.

“Come on, Charon, it will be fun! I found these while out in that old shack a few miles from here. Must’ve belonged to some repair man with good musical tastes.” She flipped her long onyx waves over one shoulder, tan leg jutting from the peek-a-boo dress. A rose made of a few old playing cards jutted from the left breast of her black dress. She took his town hands within hers, placing a soft kiss upon his knuckles.

“This is out final night before you’re sent to D.C. For me, Mi amor?”

“Why am I being sent there, Mistress Sevana?” He looked down into her milk chocolate eyes, her red painted lips forming into a tight frown.

“Shh,” She covered his lips with a pair of fingers “, just dance with me. Okay?” Charon agreed, unable to deny his mistress of anything. She placed his right hand on her hip, left in her own.

“Okay, walk like this and drag,” Sevana rolled her ‘r’s with an elegance no one in New Vegas could match “, then stop. And push your chest against mine. Very good, Charon! Very good!” He wallowed in her praising voice, the urge to dance well growing within him to hear his own name with that perfectly rolled ‘r’ once more.

“You see, mi amor, this tango… is an artform. It’s more beautiful than the finest painting, sexier than a perfectly tailored dress.” Sevana had moved his hand from her waist to her back, chest touching in a tight embrace. The leg free of material, thanks to her dress, came up and wrapped around his waist. He lifted and turned a one-eighty, placing her back down.

“How perfect, Charon. You see, you know how to do this. It’s in everyone’s blood. You just need to… let go. Now, dip me far. I know you won’t drop me, Mi amor.” Charon leaned, dipping his Mistress so her the tips of her toes barely touched the ground. Her hand caressed his face, foreheads touching for a brief moment. He came back up, Sevana taking the wheel, tearing herself form the warmth of his body and spinning with the support of his grip on her hand. She span back in, pulling his hands and arms around her, engulfing his Mistress in his warmth. She took Charon’s hands, running them up her body before turning and performing the walking drag step once more.

“Do you want to dance more, Charon?”

“Your wish is my-“

“No… Mi amor,” she took his face into her hands “, tell me what you want.” Her voice was filled with seduction almost as thick as the tango offered. In response, Charon gently twirled his Mistress, tightly pulling her to his body.

“That’s my chico guapo.”

I ship these two harder than I've shipped any other Courier/whatever.

Humbly requesting more, please!

I ship these two harder than I've shipped any Courier/whatever.

Humbly requesting more, please!

The first time Marla speaks to Cherry, it's only in passing. The dark-haired woman barges right into Dukov's place, fresh out of the Tepid Sewers, trying to avoid the mirelurks that are just across the way, outside the Anchorage War Memorial. She's alone, and covered in gore from the numerous mole rats that exploded thanks to Moira's stupid repellant stick, but she's alive, and she's grateful for that much. Honestly, she isn't expecting anyone to even be in the building – sure, it looks fortified, but she's run across a lot of places that look similar, expecting to find someone willing to help her, only to find that they're abandoned. To say she's a little bit surprised to be met by a drunken, leering Russian and a couple of women who don't really look all that happy to be there. She chats with Cherry and Fantasia for a while before Dukov ever says anything to her, and not long after he does, she hightails it out of there (can you get any creepier than calling someone you've just met 'sweetcheeks', really?).

The second time Marla speaks to Cherry, she doesn't think anything of it. She's running errands for that creep Crowley, fetching keys off people from every goddamn edge of the wasteland. After trying several times to get Dukov to give her his key and failing, she begins drinking from the flask she keeps with her, feeling her frustrations melt away with each swallow of whiskey. It only take a few minutes to convince Cherry to snag the key from that drunken idiot, and it only takes one thing – she just has to get Cherry to Rivet City. Not an issue; Marla knows the way there like the back of her hand. With the key tucked safely into her pocket, she takes the redhead to Rivet City, taking the long way to ensure her safety. They're quiet for the whole walk there, aside from the occasional “go hide” that Marla barks at the other woman when a threat rears its ugly head.

It's the third time that Marla speaks to Cherry that really matters. She's come back to Rivet City for the first time in months because she just needs to get away. She's practically run herself ragged doing things for people all over the wasteland by now: getting the ghouls into Tenpenny Tower; bringing that freak Sierra Petrovita Quantums for caps; getting the slaves at the Temple of Our Union or whatever it was called to a new base at the Lincoln Memorial. It's time for a well-earned vacation, so far as she's concerned. Sure, the vacation ends up with her spending a good portion of her time drinking down at the Muddy Rudder with Butch, but she always slinks off once Butch's words start slurring together – it's best for both of them that way.

One night, when she leaves Butch and is hauling herself up the stairs, stumbling as she heads for her room, she runs into Cherry. She grins broadly at the redhead, tells her that she'll see her tomorrow, and heads to bed. The only problem with that is, once she's in bed, the door to the room she's rented carefully locked behind her, she can't get the other woman out of her head; she sees her smile, sees her look up at her demurely from beneath thick lashes, sees her lick her lips. The woman groans then, shifts beneath the covers to massage her breasts. They're heavy in her hands as she touches them, as she rolls her sensitive nipples between nimble fingers. Her left hand shifts, drifts down over her stomach, brushes against her inner thighs for a few moments before she lets it slip between her legs, brushing against the damp fabric of her panties before slipping inside. When she rubs her thumb over her clit, her hips jerk upward and she whimpers softly. Her fingers move lower, and, god, she's almost embarrassed to find how wet she is already, two fingers easily sliding home.

“Fuck,” she moans out low, curling her fingers to brush that place inside her that leaves her writhing. She continues working her thumb over her clit in tight circles, alternately pumping her fingers and curling them in a come hither motion. “God, yes.” For a moment, she has to stop herself, she's so overwhelmed by the sensation, but then she starts again with renewed vigor. The heel of her hand is pressing against her clit now, the perfect amount of pressure as she bucks her hips upward. She can feel a coil inside of her, winding tighter and tighter with each thrust of her fingers; that coil unwinds rapidly with one, two, three more thrusts of her fingers, leaving her jerking her hips and writhing as she thumbs her clit. She screams Cherry's name.

The next day, she's hungover until long after breakfast – a shot of whiskey, a bowl of noodles and a shot of Med-X. She runs into Cherry again just after dinner, feels her face heat up as she thinks of the night before, but smiles and offers to buy the woman a drink. Instead of staying in the Muddy Rudder, they end up with a bottle of whiskey each, drinking in her hotel room. The door is shut, locked, and Marla's more than grateful for it, because she knows she's been eying Cherry since they got here. There's colour high in Cherry's cheeks now, thanks to the drink, and, fuck, Marla thinks, she looks great. She leans in to kiss her, and she's half-surprised to find that the redhead doesn't seem put off by it – in fact, she returns the kiss with enthusiasm, swiping her tongue over the seam of Marla's lips and slipping a hand into dark, wavy hair. Marla moans out loud, mouth openly, and surges forward, eases Cherry back on the bed, running her hands over the line of her curves.

Marla wedges a knee between Cherry's legs; Cherry responds by grinding her hips against the younger woman's leg, moaning into the kiss at the friction. The younger of the two manages to divest the both of them with some difficulty – Cherry is consistently reluctant to break the kiss, and fuck, she keeps grinding her hips against Marla's leg and making it hard for the dark-haired woman to concentrate. Marla breaks away from the kiss again, begins peppering Cherry's neck with kisses, moving slowly downwards. She bites down at the place where the redhead's neck and shoulder meet, soothing over the angry skin with her tongue and delighting in the breathy moans coming from her mouth. On the other side of her neck, Marla sucks a rather large hickey into existence, feeling guilty for only a moment before Cherry starts demanding more attention. She continues with her kisses, slows them when she reaches Cherry's breasts. She takes one nipple into her mouth, sucks at first, then bites lightly; she rolls the nipple of the other between her fingers. Cherry is moaning loudly now, her hand fisted in Marla's hair and her hips attempting to grind against Marla's leg as the woman moves away.

“Ah, ah ah,” Marla scolds, holding the redhead's hips down as she moves lower, planting kisses over the flat plane of her belly. “Behave.”

“Fuck you,” Cherry manages half-heartedly; Marla grins.

Marla kisses over Cherry's hipbones, nips at her inner thighs, always avoiding exactly where she knows the older woman wants her. When Cherry lets out a frustrated groan, she grins and leans in, allowing the woman one long, slow lick over her labia. Cherry's hips are wriggling against the hands holding them down, and Marla is nothing but amused by it as she lets go over of those hips to spread the woman's lips with one hand.

“You're so fucking wet,” she groans out, dragging her tongue over Cherry's clit, an action that nearly makes the other woman jump. With one finger, she circles Cherry's entrance, marveling at the moisture collecting on her finger for a moment. Slowly, she eases her finger inside of the other woman, curling it towards herself and thrusting shallowly. When Cherry lets out a long, drawn-out moan, Marla swears she almost cums right there. She continues thrusting her fingers into the other woman, slowly easing in another finger and then another at her request.

Cherry is shaking as Marla licks her clit; she's full and right on the edge, and god, if Marla would just – “Oh, fuck.” She doesn't finish her thought before she goes crashing over the edge, orgasm washing over her, leaving her in a state of something like delirium for several minutes, chest heaving. When she finally sits up, cheeks flushed, she's greeted by a hell of a sight: Marla's beside her, leaning back on one elbow, fingers working between her legs as her head hangs back, jaw slack and eyes closed. Cherry moves slowly, placing a hand on Marla's to pause her as she slips behind her, legs bracketing the woman's hips.

“Let me,” she purrs into Marla's ear, slipping her fingers in to take the place of Marla's. With her other hand, she cups one of Marla's breasts, and fuck, if that long, low groan that her dark-haired companion lets out isn't the hottest thing she's ever heard, she doesn't know what is. Now it's her fingers working between Marla's legs, moving inside her slick warmth, her thumb rolling over her clit. She bites down on Marla's shoulder gently, moving on to nip at her neck; she can feel Marla's walls beginning to clench around her as she thrusts her fingers inside of her. “Cum for me, baby.” Marla doesn't need to seem much more incentive than that and another bite on the shoulder – she's panting, toppling over the edge and moaning Cherry's name a moment later.

Marla doesn't stir for a while – not until after Cherry is already up and dressing again, expecting the woman to want her gone. “Where're you goin'? Get back in bed.”

Cherry listens.

Wowza, you guys are amazing. I was expecting a quiet fill-a-thon due to end of semester exams but you guys knocked it out of the park with 16 completed fills and 9 started/updated fills. Now I'm kinda embarrassed I didn't get around to filling any prompts myself!

A couple of quick housekeeping points:
- Please number (2/?) or (14b/17) your fills. If you don't number the chapters, you run a good risk of me eyeballing the last sentence and guessing whether the story is completed or not.
- Thank you to everyone who is including character/kink tags and a brief summary on their stories. For everyone else who is starting a new story soon, please remember to add a list of tags and a summary either in your first post or in the update thread (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2253.html).
- If you have any questions you want to ask privately or you've seen something on the meme that sets off your hinky-o-meter, you can PM us via LJ or email us at falloutkinkmeme@gmail.com. We generally see messages within a day or two and can deal with any weirdness as it arises.
- If you know an author or artist who creates Fallout fanworks, invite them on to the meme! The more you guys pimp out this Wasteland oasis of post-apoc porn (and gen!), the busier it'll stay. I want to see this place alive and kickin' past Fallout 4, and I want you guys to be with us all the way.

Any questions or comments? Just leave 'em here and I'll do my best to answer them.

COMPLETE

M!Courier + Cachino, 'Party Rock' 1/1 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=8240395&#t8240395)
F!LW/Butch, 'A Few Things Come To Mind' 5/5 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9226763#t9226763)
Ringo/Trudy, 'Stay With Me' 2/2 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=7176715&#t7176715)
Arcade/Boone, 'Lost and Found' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9058315&#t9058315)
Cass/FISTO, 'Assume the Position' 2/2 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9120267&#t9120267)
Ulysses/Courier, 'Weary Hearts' 2/2 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=7423243&#t7423243)
Boone/F!Courier, 'Shut Up & Dance' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=8961803&#t8961803)
F!LW/Leo Stahl, 'To Fix or Not To Fix' 4/4 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9190411&#t9190411)
M!Courier + Arcade, 'Basic Forms of Government' 1/1 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9210123&#t9210123)
F!Courier/Vulpes, 'The Deep Side of the Lake' 4/4 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9253899#t9253899)
Flak/Shrapnel, 'Trapped' 2/2 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=9259917#t9259917)
F!Courier + Arcade, 'Sunset' 1/1 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=9258893#t9258893)
FLW/Butch, 'Vroom Vroom' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=9258893#t9258893)
F!LW/Butch, 'Catalyst' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=9257357#t9257357)
F!Courier/Boone, 'Bleeding Hearts' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=9260685#t9260685)
F!LW/Cherry, 'That's My Desire' 3/3 (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=8841483&#t8841483)

STARTED/UPDATED

M!LW, 'Constricting' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9068299&#t9068299)
Butch/Flak/Shrapnel, 'The Taming of the Shrew' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=8016651&#t8016651)
F!Courier/Vulpes, 'Pictures of You' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=4500109&#t4500109)
M!Courier + Arcade, 'Untitled' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9186315&#t9186315)
F!Courier/Vulpes, 'Synthesis' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=8542475&#t8542475)
F!Courier + companions, 'Canticle of the Broken' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2868.html?thread=4031540)
M!Courier/Arcade, 'Follow the Leader' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9264907#t9264907)
M!Courier/Arcade/Boone, 'Anything Goes' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9179147&#t9179147)
F!LW/Gob, 'Impress Me' (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9103627&#t9103627) (http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=9103627&#t9103627)

Please show our amazing authors lots of comment love! Remember: something as small as 'I read this, thanks for posting' can mean the difference between a finished fill and no fill at all.

Edited 2012-06-09 12:14 (UTC)

Glorious! Why haven't I found this earlier?! I was laughing and "aww"-ing, the thought of daddy Boone is epic!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 173 of 257

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

The Taming of the Shrew 3/3

Re: The Taming of the Shrew 3/3

Re: Destiny, 2/2

Follow The Leader (1a/?)

Follow The Leader (1b/?)

Follow The Leader (1c/?)

Re: Follow The Leader (1c/?)

Anything Goes 1/? [M!Courier/Arcade/Boone] kink: crossdressing

Anything Goes 2/?

Anything Goes 3/?

Re: Anything Goes 3/?

Re: Anything Goes 3/? - OP Here

AU Butch/LW

LW or Courier / Companions: Conflicts

Re: Impress Me (prt 2/ ?)

Re: Impress Me (prt 3/ ?)

Re: El Lenguaje Del Tango

Re: The Deep Side of The Lake (1d/1d)

Re: The Deep Side of The Lake (1d/1d)

FLW/Cherry: That's My Desire 1a/1

FLW/Cherry: That's My Desire 1b/1

FLW/Cherry: That's My Desire 1c/1

FALLOUT KINK MEME JUNE FILL-A-THON

FALLOUT KINK MEME JUNE FILL-A-THON: fic list

Re: I hate you, Daddy. 2/2