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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oh wow. you're hitting so close to home for me, A!A. and i like it.

Inspired by a line of the new Three Dog/ FLW story (which is great).

Butch gets bad sunburn and what happens with sunburn.
He peels. Badly.

Butch with his vanity believes he's tuning into a ghoul.
Thing is nobody corrects him they let him believe cause it's hilarious.

Does he spend some 'last days' with his beautiful hair or get drunk out of his face and scream about the masterpiece of his face.

You decide

:D

_{EACH FILL I POST IS A NEW ADVENTURE IN EMBARRASSING ERRORS. This time it was the classic 'sudden un-anon mid-fill' which is actually a rule breaker to boot but completely unintended, honest. Sorry, mods.

SIGH.}

-----

He's not ready for it when it happens. Well, the visit, yes. He's prepared for that. All inner turmoil aside, all hope he won't be put in a position to test his willpower aside, he still has willpower he can trust, because Three Dog's a man of restraint when he wants to be and he really does want to be. Despite the anxiety it's not like he can't make light conversation with a girl he's madly in love with without tackling her onto the nearest stable surface and having his way with her; not like he can't do it without letting on that he's got it that bad for her, even.

Conversation, yeah, he's ready for that.

He damn sure isn't ready for the outfit, though. Or the shock of the rest of her.

Three Dog gave the report on her return a little before noon yesterday, and figured when he woke up from his five hour coma of dead-dog exhausted sleep early this morning (it's true, he basically doesn't punch out until someone in power armor takes pity on him or maybe just gets sick of him and takes it upon themselves to punch him out) she probably made it to Megaton late last night and should still be there resting up. If she's not immediately busy (which she always is). If she has any sense of self-preservation (which history has proven she doesn't).

The day's wound on and on with the same old shit since then, playing, not that he's complaining, the same old music over and over punctuated by news stories that only too rarely have endings as happy as the Lamplight one from yesterday, at least when 101's not involved. He's giving another such news report near midnight when he hears the door downstairs open and shut -- a group of Brotherhood with a supply of Aqua Pura went missing en route to Andale. His money's on raiders who don't realize they can get the stuff for free without gunning down good people. Or do realize it and don't care. But he knows in his gut already it's gonna be a sad tale either way if it finds its resolution. Almost undoubtedly on the Lone Wanderer's to-do list, he figures, because he can't fail to notice that the resolution to any problem that makes its way into his inbox usually happens very shortly after he's gotten around to bringing the problem up on the air. By now it's well and thoroughly confirmed, The Lone Wanderer is an avid fan.

Three Dog keeps talking as the visitor proceeds to the stairs, but it takes him all of five seconds to determine who it is. The pitter patter of bare feet on concrete paired with the double-time rhythm of four padded paws comes distinctly without the sound of clanking metal and whirring servos, and furthermore without the cracking, popping, and grumbling that accompanies Margaret's slow, shuffling strides. He lights another cigarette on habit, a minor wave of stress rising up, and takes a quick, deep drag between sentences, then rambles on, letting the smoke claw its way back out of his lungs on its own and twist around his face as he continues his report. In his peripheral, he can see a head of inky black hair appear over the edge of floor obscuring part of the stairs. "So keep an eye out in that area, kiddies -- no need to go charging into any danger the guys in power armor couldn't handle, but if you catch wind of where our paladin pals might have vanished to, pass the word along.

"Now with that sad mess dealt with, heeeere--"

He makes the mistake of glancing up at her, and chokes on his words.

The getup is... racy to say the least, moreso even than some of what he's seen raiders pass for clothes. It really doesn't look like something any wastelander dons on purpose, either -- the criss-crossing leather straps and meager stretch of cloth wrapped tight around her chest (would barely qualify as a proper shirtsleeve on any other set of clothing), paired with nothing but a scant, dangerously short fringe of dirty fabric hanging off her hips, is most definitely not protecting her from the elements, let alone an assault. The unique axe he's heard-tell of is strapped to her back, blood dried on it still, but even with such a huge and intimidating weapon, she still looks small and fragile, dressed either for hard and humiliating labor or... maybe dressed for someone's sick fetish.

It strikes him again that she's utterly stunning, but what hits even harder is that at the same time she looks terrible. Smeared with soot and dirt, bare feet scratched and smeared with dried blood from a long walk without protection, she probably never even went through the gates at Megaton, else she'd likely have cleaned up and changed. If not slept, as she's obviously elected not to. On her rare stops through GNR her backpack is usually stuffed with more rations, medical supplies, weapons and ammo than even her suicidal schedule requires, gifts from grateful townsfolk that she by all accounts usually pays forward to the needy if they so much as cough in her presence. Right now, it looks mostly empty, but as she sets it down he can hear the all-too-familiar rattle of pills and syringes among (or maybe solely comprising) its few contents. Which explains the look of her, the unprecedented amount of visible skin blanched despite the tan she's developed since those first awful weeks of sun, the only distinct color left at the moment being an unhealthy darkness around her eyes so deep they look more bruised than anything. Her limbs tremble, slightly but visibly, either weak or wired.

Her smile is exhausted, as it should be, and she looks to be operating solely on a chem-assisted second wind. Her hound barks accusingly at him, and does a small circuit around 101's legs, hackles raised.

Three Dog is halfway out of his chair already, and realizes he just cut off mid-sentence. He pauses long enough to consider apologizing and finishing what he was saying, but can't remember off hand exactly where he was and figures they probably got the gist anyway, so he hurriedly mashes the keys to get the music going. Another button press quiets the speakers here in the studio, and he's satisfied enough having done that to finish bolting to his feet.

"Uh--hey, don't get up on my account," she says with a casuality that completely flies in the face of her beaten appearance, holding out a placating hand. "Really, sit back down. I'll pull up a chair, too. I could use a sit."

"No offense, kid, but you could definitely use more than that."

Her expression turns defensive, uncharacteristically angry for one heated moment. "Since when do you care if I--"

She stops and shakes her head, apparently realizing that particular uncharacteristic jab was the chems and the exhaustion talking. That bruised and battered and hyped up, he'd probably be pretty cranky too, but the unbidden memory of her return from the Museum of Technology freezes him in place for a moment.

When it passes, he's got the presence of mind not to lash out right back at her. Since when do I care my ass.

He's got long legs, so they've always told him, so it's only a few strides across the cramped room to get him close enough to grab her arm, try to lead her to--

Hell he doesn't know what he should do first. Shove food and water down her throat? Toss her bodily into a hot bath? Wrap her in every passable blanket he's got and make her sleep and detox on his bed, even if that means tying her up with the blankets to make her stay there? Pardoning his own pun, 'Rudimentary Field Medicine 101' is one thing, but he's far from the qualified doctor she should have stopped to see long before dragging her carcass here.

Her flinch stops him short of completing the grab, before the warning growl from the mutt ever reaches his ears.

101 recovers quickly from whatever instinct caused it, and offers another tired smile. "Look, you won't believe me and I won't believe me if I say I'm fine, but can we not make a big deal out of it just yet? You know, sit and talk like I came here for?"

He's about to protest, but she pushes past him and drops the axe unceremoniously to the floor before proceeding to, as she suggested, drag a chair over next to his desk and drop herself bonelessly onto it. The dog is never more than a foot away from her in this process, and once she's sitting he plops his head pitifully in her lap, whimpering. Even the mutt knows she's falling apart here.

Three Dog stands there, grimacing at her over his shades for a moment, but her expression brooks no argument -- when did she get so assertive? -- and he swears. Well, she's sitting down at least. It's not the ideal but it's a start.

He walks around her and lowers himself tentatively back into his own chair, taking a drag off his cigarette and passing it unthinkingly to her.

The questions come to mind in a veritable flood, and he spends a moment unconsciously tapping the rhythm of the present song on his knee as he sorts through them. "What are you on right now?" he asks slowly, at last.

She raises an eyebrow at him, trying to look amused, and presses his cigarette primly between her red lips, savoring a long, slow drag. "Hello to you, too," she answers flippantly, blowing smoke out on the words.

"I'm serious, LW."

She blinks - at what in particular he can't say - and glances at her pack. "Buffout, med-x, and mentat cocktail. Vodka to get it down."

"Shit."

She laughs a little, passing the cig back. "You're telling me."

"What happened?"

Her almond-shaped eyes tilt downward, the movement jerky. They're not even tracking quite right, and even he knows that's a bad sign. Of what, he's not so sure, aside from the fact that detoxing is going to be a hell of headaches, chills, and nausea. He's familiar with that much from his own iffy history. But she seems to handle herself like a pro, leaving him to wonder how long exactly she's been experimenting with this blend. She hasn't been away long enough to have built up a tolerance to this kind of chemical abuse -- this has to be a slightly older affair. Her small fingers pick absently at some frayed strings on the edge of her... skirt, for lack of a better word beyond 'rag', which encompasses basically the entire outfit.

Three Dog watches the movement for a moment, deciding now is an awfully inappropriate time to notice her killer legs. He's not some sex-driven fiend; the fact that she has a great body isn't in and of itself distracting so much as his own disgust with the observation's timing.

_{Obvs I have given up on taking out these "Re:"s. Just kill me.}

-----

Eventually, she seems to gather up the words. "Had to do a bit of under-cover infiltration."

"Dressed like that?" He keeps his cool mostly due to long practice, but he can see where the implications are going.

"Big slaving operation." She waves a slightly lethargic, shaking hand, brushing it off as nothing. "Paradise Falls was just the proverbial spring feeding a river. The river, incidentally, flows north and dumps into a cesspool called the Pitt."

No amount of chems could strip her vocabulary from her, it seems. It's a good sign she's so lucid. Or maybe an awful one.

He watches her for a moment, willing her to go on without his having to ask again, 'what happened to you,' or more pointed and specific questions. All the possibilities that his mind is filling in, the ones no mane could prevent with her dressed like that and wearing those bruises on her skin and neck.

She glances at his face, then back down, and slumps a little, maintaining as best she can that worn-out quirk of a smile on her full lips. He takes in the pale frosting of dead skin across her lower lip for a moment, eyes drifting down to an angry black and purple bruise across the right side of her jaw. A small cut near her hairline. "We staged a revolution," she goes on.

"We?" Or you?

"Me, Wernher, Midea. The slavers are out of power. The Pitt belongs to the free slaves now. It took... a lot of work." She leans her head across the back of her chair and closes her eyes a moment, sighing, but as languid as she is closing her eyes seems be a chore. Keeping them closed. One moment she seems she'll pass out on the next breath, the next she's shaking with an unnatural energy that only seems to drain her more. "I have to go back, now and then. See how things are going. There's still so much to do to get everything stable... But we'll get there."

The note of hope sounds much more in character, and he's relieved to hear it.

"Did you miss me?"

The question is so candid and off-topic, he's taken aback for a moment. But the answer seems obvious, and comes easily. "Of course. Didn't you hear me say? The place is just shit without you."

She opens one eye and gives him a wry look. "Needed a hero?"

Three Dog snorts. "There's always someone to play hero. No one does it quite like you, though."

"That the only reason?"

He can't be bothered with being offended. "No."

She watches him a moment, maybe waiting for more, waiting for a list of reasons he'd miss her that aren't selfish, aren't things he needed done, people he wanted saved. He could give them to her, but he's not sure how to word it. So he doesn't. "Why didn't you stop to rest somewhere? Get yourself back in order. Why charge all the way here without even changing out of..." He gestures vaguely and helplessly at the slave outfit. She looks down at it again and shrugs.

"Had to stop at the Citadel anyway, see what's what, what needs doing now I'm back. Too much on my mind to stop, anyway."

"That doesn't make sense," he counters, brow knitting in confusion. "What, you've got a lot to think about, so you don't?"

"Ever notice how it's easier to not get dragged down by your problems if you throw yourself at someone else's instead?"

That... That right there, that says a lot about her. Makes him think of his concern when she'd left, possibly for good -- and prior to that, when she'd disappeared down into the Vault almost immediately after he caught wind of James' passing. He'd thought 'well, that's it, Wasteland. We ruined the best thing we had going for us.' She'd crawled out of that hole and started saving lives the instant she set foot on the dry cracked desert, and gotten nothing but shit in return that'd make anyone want to crawl back down into the earth and never face the world again.

The finer details of her deeds sometimes take a while to reach him, but he always gets them. By then it's too late to say anything, even if he could cover all of it. He'd heard she'd saved Megaton as a whole, and reported it. Then later he'd heard how she'd helped one resident clean up his drug addiction, fixed the water purifier, freed residents from indentured service. He'd heard she'd ended the fighting between Arefu and the local gang, and reported it. Then later, how she'd done so by forming a treaty between the two groups, saved both of them from some of the worst of the wasteland by getting them to work together. He'd heard how she'd rescued Big Town, and reported it. Then later, how she'd healed their injured, rescued their lost, improved their defenses, and refused payment. It's not like he needs to necessarily recite every minor good deed along with the major ones, but the stories just get more impressive, more complex, more moving when those little things come along.

She's done all of these things for people she owes nothing to, and only ever asked for her father. No sooner did she find him than the wasteland snatched him away again, this time for good.

He'd figured she'd had enough. Enough of the pain and torment that she gets as a reward for all of her hard work.

The way she sees it, though, he realizes now... the work is a balm for the pain.

That and a belly full of chems.

"Yeah," he says slowly. "Good way to kill yourself, too."

She laughs. "That's inevitable, isn't it? Dying, I mean. But Dad saw something in this place worth dying for. How can I go to my grave peacefully having done any less?"

"I'd rather you didn't at all."

The look on her face is unreadable. Maybe it's the drugs, or maybe he just doesn't have anything to compare it to. He searches, and the best he can come up with is 'pleasant surprise.' Even that doesn't really fit, but she's smiling that smile that nothing can take away from her, whatever the thoughts behind it may be.

"Sweet sentiment, I guess."

"I mean it, 101."

"You don't even know my real name."

He runs his fingers through the coarse hair under the front of his headwrap, leaning back. "Hey now, I take offense to that one, Miss Hana. Assuming I don't even know your name? Assuming that if I didn't then that would mean shit about what I think? Either way, I know who you are." For the first time he manages to smile back. "Besides, you call me 'Three Dog.' I think we're even there."

"Fff. It's how you introduce yourself. You saying that's not your real name?"

"I'm not saying anything, except that there's not much in a name except what you happen to call someone."

She nods, slowly. Then whatever tension she's been holding in her muscles seems to unwind all at once, and she's practically falling asleep in the chair. "I'm so tired." She says it like she's admitting a shameful secret, a fatal flaw.

"No matter what they say, the righteous do need their beauty sleep, kiddo. Am I allowed to fuss over you now?"

She sighs, and nods.

What's terrible but strangely impressive is how intimately she knows the ups and downs of the chems at work, and how efficiently she uses that knowledge, riding different highs as needed to keep herself on a functional level until a medic can arrive to flush them out of her system entirely. That medical background at work, he figures.

The withdrawal makes her too hurt and too tired to bathe, so she takes jet to balance out the lethargy (at his skeptical look, she tells him it's the only one she hasn't been using religiously) long enough to get her cuts rinsed out and the filth and stink of the Pitt off her skin. Without clothes of her own -- as soon as he hears her step into water on the other side of the door, he's handing off the slave getup to an embarrassed Paladin to throw in the nearest trashcan fire, and it's been a long time since Three Dog's even had time for the kind of dalliances that leave him with spare ladies' clothes lying around his pad -- she winds up dressed in one of his too-wide-for-her shirts, which for him is a barely-suppressed heart attack all its own. Getting proper food into her stomach requires a dose of psycho to put her metabolism on an overdrive that can counteract the debilitating nausea, and an hour later when the twitch of the psycho is ebbing off and the food has settled a few quick shots of whiskey taken with the straightest face he's ever seen help her finally conk out on his bed.

Three Dog spends part of the next day shooing Brotherhood messengers out of his studio. They know she's back, they know she's here, and they're anxious to get their team mascot, the face of good the wastes know and love, out on the front lines and fighting their battles for them again. Short of kiting them back to his room to show them the shivering, sweating, whimpering pile of raw nerves under a tall pile of blankets (which she tells him with surprising force through chittering teeth and a yawning, muddled grumble that as few people as possible need to see, lest she be forced to kill him the next time he sleeps) he does his level best to tell them to go fuck themselves for the day. As charmingly as he can manage.

Much as he loves the good fight, much as he knows she'd be down for it if she weren't such a mess, he's not having any of it. Still, he has a station to run and a trembling teenage girl to constantly check on, and precious little time between to brow-beat men twice his size and with military training to boot. Luckily the dog, clever mutt that he is, picks up on the idea and takes up a guard position at the bottom of the steps. No amount of steel and wires between the Pallies' skin and his teeth can make them feel better about about the way he growls and glares them down.

It's almost noon when the medic Three Dog had sent for arrives and asks him direct and uncomfortable questions in clipped tones the whole way from the studio door to the bedroom door, then pointedly closes that one behind her so she can privately stick 101 with every kind of needle and dump about a half dozen colorful IV bags of mystery fluid into her abused veins. When she leaves, he peeks in to find the girl looking magically more worse for wear, but sleeping more peacefully than she'd managed the whole night before. And he hasn't slept at all, but that's nothing new.

A dozen cups of coffee, half so many beers, and a mind-numbingly slow newsday later, he's glaring at his watch to find it's 1 AM and he's as beat as he can remember ever being. He can't help feeling a little emasculated at how easily a day and a half of sitting on his ass has done him in like the week or more of torment and trauma it took to get 101 even halfway as run-down. He tries his best not to think of it as him getting old.

After he says an apologetic goodbye to whomever might still be up and paying attention and sets the recorded tapes to while he catches some Z's, he heads back to his room to find the little Lone Wanderer is still out cold, but with some color returning to her skin at last. At least from what he can see, with the blankets pulled up to her nose. He stretches out on the couch, and later can't say when he actually fell asleep, though somewhere in there - seemingly days after he laid down and a few days yet more before he actually slips off without noticing - he checks his watch again and to his frustration finds out it's 4 in the morning.

When he wakes up again it's to the smell of coffee and the instinctive alarm at the way his internal clock is telling him it's well after 8 and he should already be on the air.

He groans as he sits up, the movement eliciting a series of embarrassing cracks in his bones, and scrubs a hand over his face. Someone's removed his shades and headwrap, and he's in the kind of just-woke-up-hating-life grump that he'd love to go on a rampage over it, but that's also the exact opposite of what he wants to do, and requires energy and conviction he doesn't actually have. When he manages to crack an eye open, the kid is sitting on the edge of the couch next to him with a steaming mug between her bandaged palms, still dressed in just his shirt.

The moment is somewhat surreal. Through the haze of fresh consciousness, he takes in how refreshed she looks compared to her initial arrival, though she's still definitely looked better. The circles under her eyes aren't completely gone, and her normally pin-straight long hair is a mess, but the eyes are themselves clear and the old familiar lopsided smile finally reaches them properly. Her hands are steady as a surgeon's when she holds out the mug of coffee in offering - this he notices less because he's awake and aware enough to be looking for it, and more because it's a hell of a lot easier than letting himself think about on the way that shirt only falls over the first few inches of thigh past her hips.

He clears his throat and accepts the coffee with a mumbled thanks, looking down into it for a moment. It's as black as the night itself, and at a sip he finds it more sugary than he likes. Maybe she's just a black-as-night-sweet-as-sin kind of girl, or assumes he's that kind of guy. But the way she's looking at him, all bright and awake and... whole, happy, comfortable, the way the tingle of brushing his fingers to hers when he took the cup lingers, he figures he could be any kind of coffee drinker she wants.

He can give a fuck about a lot of things, but at the moment over-sweet coffee isn't one of them.

Three Dog finally gets himself into a proper sitting position, and Hana, 101, whichever, scoots back farther on the couch to sit properly, knees drawn up and shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He considers trying to make light conversation, but his head's still a little too cloudy for it, and she doesn't seem to be gunning for a chat anyway, so he just slings one arm over the back of the couch behind her head and sips his coffee, staring into the corner of the room and thinking. The quiet that settles over them is a contented sort that doesn't beg any sound breaking it, in fact revels in itself in a warm and cozy way, interrupted only when she occasionally hums a note or two - slightly off key - of something from Billy Holiday.

Crazy He Calls Me, he identifies numbly.

When he finishes the coffee, he places the mug on the floor by his feet, then stretches his arms over his head, grunting a little as he works out the stiffness in his muscles. He leans back again, and turns his head to look at her. She's watching, corners of her mouth upturned in a way that's almost coy. "Morning," she offers at last.

He smiles, and ruffles her messy hair. "Mornin', kiddo. How you feelin'?"

"Probably a lot better than you will when you look at your desk."

He laughs, and gives a grimace that's only half for show. "That bad?"

"Pretty bad. In terms of volume, not content."

"You flipped through it?"

"How could I not? The news is always relevant to my interests."

"Fair enough." His look turns serious. "Hope that doesn't mean you plan to go out and get a head start on the heroics before you're back in peak condition."

She shakes her head, her smile turning mischievous, and tugs the hem of the shirt. "In what armor, I ask you?"

"Good. Operation: Three Dog Monopoly is a success."

"What are you monopolizing, ratty tee-shirts?"

"Naw. Over-ambitious teenage girls."

She just laughs, like the tired thing that had come in dressed a slave had never existed, sounding nearly the same as she did on their few previous encounters when she was a little more new and naive and he told her tall tales (always with that grain of truth) of his childhood in a commune of 'free spirits' and his youthful adventures in the wastes. He feels like there's some badly veiled flirtation being passed between them here, but he tries not to linger on it or it'll drive him crazy.

He settles in for the long haul at the combination paradise/prison that is his desk, leaving her in the company of a dog that expresses relief by pile-driving his master in a blur of fur and furiously wagging tail as soon as the door is open. The combination of feminine and canine laughter fills the studio from ceiling to floor. The scene is so close to what he imagines a normal home should feel like he thinks he could almost become a morning person if all his mornings could just go like this, but much like the repressed ruminations over the Wanderer's legs he finds the pleasantness of the thought a little uncomfortable to consider, and throws himself instead into making up to the public for his late arrival on the airwaves.

Between segments he calls back to her to inform her, just in case it wasn't obvious, that she has free reign of the place while she's crashing here. Around ten he finds out that she takes that to mean she gets to exercise her need to dote on someone when she deposits a bottle of water and a steaming bowl of noodles on the desk in front of him, then goes about tidying up the ashes and papers around him despite protests that eventually only earn him a surprisingly sharp punch in the shoulder and a "deal with it." The whole time, he makes a valiant effort to keep his eyes on his work, and not the pale curves just above the junction of thigh and torso that the shirt fails to fully cover.

She floats in and out of the rooms, too restless to stay still but still too exhausted to do too much, occasionally seating herself near his desk to listen to him talk into the microphone, and then quietly continue to listen to him talk when it's off. His few attempts at tricking bits and pieces of stories out of her go largely unrewarded, but eventually he manages to coax a few juicy details out of her -- for lack of a better way to put it.

"So, wait, they're--"

"Vampires, yeah."

"... Did you tell them that vampires don't--?"

"Hey, until I left the Vault I didn't know ghouls existed. Or supermutants, or deathclaws. I take what I'm told with a grain of salt, but I'm willing to try believing anything at this point."

He shrugs. "Fair enough," he concedes. "I always figured the stockpile of blood packs was for tending to patients, not feeding the unusually-hungry."

"Well, and for myself."

He blinks, not sure what to make of that, or if he should be concerned. The Wanderer grins mischievously, and doesn't address the issue any further no matter how he asks the question.

She avoids anything that even edges toward the events at the Pitt, and he decides not to push his luck on it, difficult as the restraint may be. What becomes even more difficult, though, is ignoring the increasingly overt flirtation she offers him and, with shame weighing on him but failing utterly to stop him, he inevitably finds himself reciprocating. Throughout the day, when she manages to calm down her drive to fix things long enough to sit and chat with him on his down time, looks and smiles and playful, innocent comments pass between them. To his discomfort he begins to pick up on a slightly predatory look in her eye. It's as playful as everything else, but there's an edge of seriousness to it, and at times he wonders if this comment or that off-handed compliment is her testing the waters. He's not sure how to deny her though, even if he's sure he should.

Three Dog expects, maybe hopes, that this process will be drawn-out enough to give him time to figure that out, but somewhere in the mid-afternoon, as she's sitting almost right next to him - since when did her chair get so close? - and he's right in the middle of going off the air from a news segment and back to the music, the whole thing comes to a head in the form of her grabbing him gently but firmly by the shirt collar and dragging him into a kiss.

His brain short-circuits from the shock, his hand hovering over the forgotten switches. It's only due to five years of familiarity that he's able to complete the transition, music filling the room smoothly as he fumbles unconsciously, blindly for what he knows he should be doing. His hesitance, he thinks dimly, could easily be a deterrant in and of itself for any other woman.

Evidently, not the Lone Wanderer.

Because he's already given that machine-mind of hers too much data, all the evidence that he's as into this idea as she is. He's already dug his grave.

She continues kissing him, undeterred, and he can't help noticing she's not the best kisser. Not terrible, but not great. Not too inexperienced, but lacking the years he's got under his belt, so to speak.

It shouldn't be a turn-on, but it is, as is the dim awareness that she's somehow wound up in his lap, all soft, warm, pliant curves under the flimsy fabric of his own shirt hanging off her, and the smell of his own cologne on her hair. His hands at her waist and the nape of her neck attest to the possibility that he might have had something to do with this shift of position, and that's as terrifying as anything else, but--

For now though, unthinking, tired of worrying about it and definitely tired of being a celibate DJ cooped up alone in a stronghold he can't leave without fear of having his head smashed in...

For now he just throws himself into it more readily than he would have thought he was able, and resigns himself to improving that technique of hers.

_{Authornon here. I get so flustered at myself I can't do anything right. The above is 3d/3, not 1a/3.}

_{Forgot to take the "Re:" out of the title line for 1b. Blah.}

-----

No, 'a bit sleazy' isn't right. In fact, after she'd left he'd felt like just about the biggest ass in the Capital, and the little Behemoth ambush in the plaza down below had shown him just how big the wasteland could grow its asses for comparison's sake. Not that it matters much, because he'd only got halfway into his little show of playing hard to get when she'd sweet-talked him into forking over the info anyway. And then she'd still gone out to fix his relay, coming back before she'd even headed to Rivet City to check his story and continue her search. More holes in her than he'd remembered and still with stars in her eyes like he was the greatest thing since Johnny Cash (still doesn't make sense to him, Cash of all people being her favorite; a kid that bright and sunny getting her musical kicks from the solitary man in black is a novelty all its own). She'd marched - okay, limped, and he winces guiltily at the memory - right in to tell him she'd finished his insane errand with this hopeful look like she needed his approval.

"It was my pleasure," she says, managing a distinct blush even under the aching sunburn, "I mean, now I can hear you at my house in Megaton!"

If he were in her position, just about the last thing he'd have wanted on his down-time licking his wounds would be the ramblings of the very man who'd sent him out to get pummeled and shot at, but a girl who walks into Paradise Falls with just a shotgun, a dog, and a big, dour ghoul is obviously crazy. Crazy in an effective way, as evidenced by the stampede of freed slaves and the eerie silence she left behind, but still crazy.

Crazy in a way that suits him just fine.

Sometimes he curses James for not telling him what she's like, somewhere in the midst of shooting the shit together over a bottle of scotch. Just in case she ever did climb out of that hole, he could have warned Three Dog. Kindness, generosity, courage, and justice incarnate -- he's always just been doomed to fall head-over-heels for a girl like that, a girl who embodies all of the values he's been trying to hammer into his fellow wastelanders' heads for the past half a decade.

Realizing that and doing something about it are obviously two very different things, when it comes down to it. For one thing, although a single (admittedly long) conversation with James does not exactly his best friend make, the good doctor was still a respectable man who did have a lot of heartfelt reminiscing to do during that chat about how beautiful and intelligent his daughter is. Wanting her and acting on it feels like it'd be a betrayal. Then there's the age difference, which granted doesn't count for shit to most people in the wastes and, granted, even if they were still going by Old World rules she's legal, but she's still so young.

He's not even halfway through his thirties yet but he still feels like a dirty old pervert.

He tries looking at her like a goddaughter or something instead, but honesty has always been his only policy, and the way his heart broke when she left and leapt when he heard she'd come back definitely wasn't very familial in nature.

With any luck, she won't acquiesce to his request for a visit. Remove temptation from his path. She's a busy girl.

Doesn't really stop him hoping she'll show anyway.

-----

_{Attempting to re-post this segment so I can remove the one where I accidentally un-anon'd.}

Her lips are roughly chapped in places and silk-soft in others, a fact he revels in when it sinks into his brain properly. He slides the hand he'd placed unconsciously at her neck around to her chin, gently tilting her head just so and taking control of the kiss, lips moving against hers in a new pattern that sends a spark through his head and draws a small, desperate noise out against his mouth. He drinks it down like water, and pulls her deceptively slender frame against him, satisfied in the way both of her hands fist into the fabric over his chest.

They continue like that for what seems like ages, just enjoying the contact and the slow, tender, hungry kiss.

When the Wanderer opens her mouth against his, he doesn't even think about it, obliging her all too happily. She tastes like whiskey-laced black coffee - bad girl's been sneaking some of her chemical dependence past his watchful eye.

There's an animal whimper somewhere that draws his attention briefly, and he flicks his eyes past the tangle of soft hair in his view to his bedroom door. It's closed, and the noise is coming from the other side.

Poor mutt.

His master's more devious than either of them gave her credit for.

Making a mental note to shower the animal with treats and affection later to try to mend that bridge - the mutt's smart, protective, and from what he hears can hold grudges like no one's business - he shifts his attention all-too-easily back to the girl in his lap, whose warm, smooth legs have moved to straddle his thighs on the chair. This might be alarming if he weren't well past the point of listening to those alarms. Instead the realization just draws a groan out of him, and almost of their own volition, his hands find their way under that shirt.

The skin he finds there is maddeningly soft; he slides a calloused palm from her knee to her hip, then up her side, up and up, twisting around to trail fingertips down the line of her spine. She shivers, and it's just another thrill, just another layer to the haze filling his head. That hand slides up her back again, the other locked onto her right hip, and he's hiking the shirt up. He leans her back over the desk, still pressed chest-to-chest and exploring her mouth, then finally draws back to get a better look at her and the skin usually hidden by her normally modest clothes, much of which he saw for the first time last night but... He opts not to think about the slave outfit, lest it piss him off and ruin the moment, or worse, manage to stoke the flames higher and make him sick with himself for that fact.

As it is, Three Dog's having difficulty reconciling the vicious bruises he finds on her hips, her side, her breast, but even with them she's gorgeous, and for all that she was shy once, maybe sometimes still is, the look he glimpses on her face as he leans down to kiss lightly at those marks says she definitely knows what she wants from him and even better--

Maybe she's just grown up this much since last he saw her, or maybe - and this is a unique turn-on - maybe it's just because it's him but her face speaks volumes of confidence, arousal, and not a single iota of fear or self-doubt. She looks like for right now at least she feels every bit as beautiful as he thinks she is, feeding off his obvious adoration, and the whole scenario is doing awful, wonderful things to him.
It's been entirely too long since he's had a girl, a woman, anyone straddling him, making those pleading little sounds and soft-spoken words of praise. Three Dog leans up, attaching his mouth to the column of her throat.

"I uh," he chuckles against her skin, nipping and licking and kissing between the words, "hope this isn't--"

"What, 'too much, too fast'?" she asks, and the confidence in the way she's openly teasing him about his concern is sexy in ways the heart-rendingly shy girl he fell for never was.

He laughs at the challenge in her voice, and smiles, pausing a moment to follow the line of her neck from the hollow of her collarbone all the way up to just under her ear, nipping only slightly harder than before, just enough he can call it 'punishment' in his head while 101's still writhing beneath him in anticipation.

"--the whiskey talking," he finishes, pulling back just enough to meet her eye, managing a serious look despite the grin he can't shake.

The Wanderer laughs. "The whiskey'll start talking for you long before it does me."

"Oh?"

"I'd drink you under your desk."

Three Dog chuckles despite himself at her audacity, and is warmed to his core and straight down past the pit of his stomach by the way the sound makes her shiver beneath his roaming hands again. "I'm serious though."

"So am I. You think I wouldn't want to be sober for this? I've waited way too long."

Before he can protest again - not that he has any further arguments against that logic - she drags him down into another kiss, and just in case he was still trying to think coherently, she arches up against his chest in one bonelessly fluid movement, and then grinds back down onto his hips. He moans against her mouth, and rewards her by slipping a hand between them, sliding splayed fingers over her flat belly, then down and down to his goal.

She's soaking wet already, her her inner thighs nearest her sex slick as Three Dog runs his fingertips teasingly around her outer folds, drawing desperate whimpers out of her. He's not sure when her hands got under his shirt, running over muscles he's kept in shape all this time more out of that hidden fear of 'what ifs' than anything, and there's something about having a girl... shit, any girl, but especially this girl worshipping the dark expanse of skin like this. She tugs urgently at the hem, and he unwinds his arms from her just long enough to let her shuck his jacket and shirt from his body before returning to that heated embrace, her hands back to his bared skin and his between her spread thighs.

He flicks his thumb lightly against her clit, drawing a gasp, and goes back to trailing too-light touches around her, earning himself a slow drag of her nails along his shoulderblades and another hard grind down onto the erection still trapped in his jeans.

Three Dog groans, louder this time, and acquiesces, slipping a finger into her - both of them shuddering at the smooth, slick slide - while he returns his thumb to her clit and begins to work it in earnest. His kisses trail from her gasping mouth down her cheek and jaw, and as he slides a second finger in, she presses her palms to his chest and pushes him back again, against the back of his chair. He drags her with him, finding a solid rhythm in the press of his fingers and the slow, torturous circling of his thumb, each touch earning him a new, beautifully desperate noise and a slow rock of her hips. Those curious hands have found their way to his belt, and after a few moments of distracted fumbling she manages to unclasp it, then with increasing confidence in her movements she pops the button of his jeans and slides one hand under his waistband.

It's been way too long, he thinks again, nipping and sucking a line of bright little welts down her neck, since he's gotten to touch a woman like this, and be touched in return. Her small hand wraps easily around his throbbing cock, the other curling its devious fingers around the waistband. He lifts his hips to assist her, one arm wrapped loosely around her waist and the other still doing its damnedest - so far successfully - to drive her completely insane. She pulls him free of the too-tight jeans, the hand wrapped around his staff sliding up enough to rub her thumb firmly over the slick head.

"Fuck," Three Dog grunts against her neck.

"E-ex--" 101 shudders and moans when his experienced fingers strike just so, and she grinds down onto his hand, "--exactly." It comes out as a plea, and that does more for him than leather straps and short skirts ever could.

She strokes up and down his shaft, slowly and firmly, once, twice, then returns to lavish attention on his tip once more with nimble fingers. He leans back, eyes closing, mouth open in a choked groan.

Three Dog manages, after a minute or two of just letting her explore him, letting her go at it, to close his free hand around her wrist (the one not working her cunt to the point of drawing rivulets of fluid down her smooth thighs), and slows her, opening his eyes again.

"Last chance," he murmurs, and she's smiling when she leans down to kiss him between the syllables, already knowing where he's going with this. "You sure?"

The Lone Wanderer meets Three Dog's eyes, and the glint he finds there has his cock twitching in her smooth hand. "Am I ever not?" She pushes past the grip holding her hand in place and pumps him one more time, then it's her turn to push his hands away.

Three Dog transfers them obediently to her hips, steadying her as she lowers herself enough to press his head against her entrance. He draws a deep breath, caught up in the press of warmth and wet before she, satisfied with the positioning, slides herself down his length in one heart-stoppingly smooth movement.

A beat goes by, then two, then three. They stay locked like that, neither daring to breathe as the new connection hits and washes over.

She adjusts more quickly than him, and before he's even managed to fully resurface from that one moment of drowing in sensation, he's being pulled back under by the sudden rocking slide of her rising up almost to his tip and grinding back down again. No sooner do her hips settle against his, sheathing him to the hilt, than she's up again, repeating the movement. It takes a minute for her loud cries to hit his ears, mingled with sounds he hadn't realized he was making, low groans, crooning variants of the names he's given her - "One-Ooooh-One," he gasps, "ah, fuck, kiddo, I--ah!"

Three Dog grips her hips, still determined to improve upon this where he can. She's done this before, that much is obvious, but there's still a jerkiness, an unrefined and inexperienced desperation to her movements and while he's not sure he can hold on long enough to make this the quite luxurious affair he'd love it to be, fuck no not after all this time, he can definitely show her a thing or two.

He slows her pace, angles his hips, and meets her halfway on the next thrust, ripping something nearing a scream out of her that's shaped like his name, and, encouraged, he repeats the movement. They settle into the new rhythm, rocking into each other, her cries rising sharply and his low utterances of encouragement and a dozen variant names growing increasingly incomprehensible.

Three Dog's worried he'll finish first, ruin it, but then her mouth descends on his desperately and he drinks down the sudden scream as she slams her hips down with a force to rattle his bones -- once, twice, three times, and she seizes up, whole body tightening like a string and trembling as her orgasm crashes through her, his continued thrusting helping her along. When it's over, she slumps against him, panting, and he settles and stills, holding her close and running a hand distractedly through her sweat-damp hair.

If they keep going, he won't last much longer anyway -- he's just about there -- but she looks tuckered out, so he figures--

With a huff of breath for the effort 101 grips his shoulders and drags herself up his cock again, startling a yelp out of him. When her head leans back enough to look him in the eye again there's a ferocity hiding somewhere in the satisfied afterglow haze, a determination that all but floors him, and that's all she needs to take control again, going back to her own punishing rhythm from before but using what she's picked up regarding the angle of the thrust--

It really doesn't take much longer before he's pawing at her hips, warning her brokenly. She concedes, pulling herself off him and settling her bare ass on his jeanclad thighs, then reaches down between them and finishes him off manually. His jaw clenches, hips rising off the chair, then his head's tossing back and she's pulling a sort of open-mouthed howl out of him not quite like the one he's prone to use on the radio.

Distantly, numbly, coming down from that high, Three Dog hears but fails to process the sound of his own voice echoing back to him from the radio equipment, the music still running under it. It comes through retroactively after he's had a moment to slump and pant raggedly, dark chest streaked with his own semen and an olive-skinned Venus still sitting in his lap, though the expression on her blushing face isn't what he hoped to see.

He follows her eyes, and they both stare at the button he forgot to press.

LW's hand slams down on it, producing an audible click on the air when the microphone feed cuts out, and a beat later they can hear the rumble of booming laughter filtered through power helmets below, exploding all at once.

They look back at each other. She's as red in the face as the day he met her, that primal sexuality and calm, assertive confidence gone for a moment and replaced with something more similar to her old high-strung self-consciousness, and from how hot he feels above the collar he's willing to believe skin-tone aside she can probably see him blushing too.

They sit like that a moment, horrified with the error and not sure what to do.

She's the one who breaks and laughs first, the sound coming out of her more brightly and clearly than he's heard from her in a long while as she slumps and drops her head onto his shoulder. Soon he's chuckling breathlessly with her, and it becomes hard to stop, both of them laughing deliriously.

When they settle down he puts on another tape of his ramblings to fill in the segments between music, still feeling a bit too embarrassed to face the Wasteland even through a microphone, and she settles into a more comfortable position in his lap, leaning against his chest. He's carding his fingers through her hair, sorting out the knots, when she finally speaks up again.

"So, I think I'll crash a little longer, but when I leave... Yeah I'm just gonna go ahead and take the long way out."

---[Fin]---

_{Okay so.

A couple of quick notes:
1) Anyone know how old Three Dog is? I don't. Don't care either. Early thirties is a good, sexy age. Argue with me. [/dare]
2) Pitt slavers keep track of what loot they confiscate from which slave AND give it all back after the arena? I REFUSE TO SUSPEND MY DISBELIEF kthxbai.
3) First time writing pronz. Ever. ENJOY POPPING MY CHERRY, OP.

-Authornon collapses. Then begins eyeing this M!LW/sub!Three Dog prompt...-

>_ >;;;}

Ooh. This is great as it is, but it's also meaty enough to make a good long fic, anon.

I... I don't... what is this I don't even...

I love you. I'm incredibly in love with you A!A. You are the best.

I have been inspired. You win. I can't do Graham either, I always write him wrong, but I can do Vulpes or something. But for now, I'll be in my bunk.

With dat ass.

This is absolutely amazing. Well written, beautiful, and I'm a sucker for a sad ending, honestly. I loved it A!A. :D

This prompt grabbed me and your fill did it justice. When I got to the end I wanted more, but where you ended it worked. I loved it and I would love to see you write more!

Authornon: OH OH OH SHIT CRED WHERE CRED IS DUE. There's a bit in there that says something about Three Dog not punching out 'til he's punched out, and that line was a deliberate reference to an adorable thing I stumbled across on FFN, The GNR Transcripts (http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5393811/1/The_bGNR_b_Transcripts) where his voice is muy bueno.

I AM NOT A CROOK.

_{"Pingpso deliciously"? Ilu Captcha.}

_{"P"? What is "P"? And HOW DID MY LINK FAIL ARGHARGHARGH.

Whatever I give up on my life.

-Hangs himself off the meme-}

IS THAT A PUN DO I SMELL A PUN.

COULD YOU TELL THAT A!A LOVES PUNS.

A!A LOVES PUNS.

A!A LOVES YOU.

Sydney notices that M!LW keeps staring at her ass during the 'Stealing Independence' quest and afterwards to thank him she gets naked and lets him bend her over and fuck right there in the National Archives.

Bonus points if you manage to wiggle in the following somehow:

"But I poop from there!"
"Not today you don't"

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Page 180 of 257

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

Re: Lot's Wife, 1/1

Butch Freaks

Since When, 2a/3

Re: Since When, 2b/3

Re: Since When, 2c/3

Since When, 2d/3

Since When, 2e/3

Since When, 3a/3

Since When, 3b/3

Since When, 3c/3

Re: Since When, 1a/3

Re: Since When, 1a/3

Since When, 1c/3

Since When, 3e/3

Re: Since When, 3f/3

Since When, 3g/3

Re: Since When, 3h/3, COMPLETE

Re: Lot's Wife, 1/1

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: An Exercise in Futility, 4/4

Re: An Exercise in Futility, 4/4

p

Re: p

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

M!LW/Sydney - Anal