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

Thank you! I'm glad it came off well. :)

I cannot with this fill a!a. I love it, love it, love it!

Thank you so much! :D

So sexy. I wish we got to see them doing it over the kitchen counter now.

Sexy and sweet. Lovely fill a!a it really made my night.

Thank you! I'm glad. :)

Gosh, I need more! I'd read any of your fics if you could link to them or something.

Oh my god haven't laughed this much from a fill in AGES. Thank you A!A!

Late, but my God this is one of my favorites. I've never seen anyone pull off a romantic-but-asexual relationship before, and you write it perfectly. Your Courier is fun, intelligent and flavorful without being overdone, and your Arcade is smart and witty while containing a rich inner self that we don't see in the game but doesn't come off as out of character. Bravo damn it, and never stop writing.

freaking amazing. and oh so hot too :)

Characters: Charon, F!LW, Moira Brown
Pairings: Charon/F!LW, Charon/Moira Brown
Kinks: Massage, dub-con, ghoul
Summary: F!LW orders Charon to give her a massage. He can't disobey her.

From the balcony, Charon can see the crater that used to be Megaton. He tries to focus on the copy of Dean's Electronics he's got laid across his lap, tries not to look at the crater too often, because the sight of it still hurts his eyes, weeks after Rita detonated the bomb. He tries not to look at her too often, either, because he can't look at her without thinking about how to kill her.

It'd be easy-she's small and frail. He could crush her windpipe or slit her throat or unload his shotgun into her back. He could abandon her in the Wastes, leave her at the mercy of the Raiders and Super Mutants. He could drown her in the Potomac or push her off a cliff, leave her body for the dogs. He could turn her over to the escaped slaves in the Temple of the Union. He could contact the Regulators, let them know she'd moved into Tenpenny Towers, tell them how to get past the guards and into her suite.

There are a hundred things he could do. But he won't do any of them, not while she holds his contact.

Rita deserves to die. Three Dog calls her the Scourge of Humanity. Charon would amend the statement only slightly, add in ghouls, mutants, and dogs. She's a selfish bitch, and any goodness in her died along with her dad. And he can't even bring himself to feel sorry for her loss. Whenever she feels his judgment, she'll sound off with some weak justification. She's just a kid. She can never go back to her childhood home. She's all alone in the world.

It's all bullshit. She's not a good person, and he's not interested in hearing her excuses. She's got a heart of stone, and the entire Wasteland will be better off once she's gone.

He turns a page in Dean's Electronics, counts how many left until the end of the chapter. The text is dense, esoteric. He can't focus on the words, not with the ruins of Megaton looming on the horizon. A town of some 200 souls, exactly one survivor. Moira Brown, eccentric at large, now ghoulified and living in the Underworld. According to Dr. Barrows, she's doing about as well as could be expected. She doesn't sleep much, and when she does, she mutters and cries out in her sleep.

She's still writing her Wasteland Survival Guide. Rita's researching for her, and Charon doesn't know why. Anyone else, and he'd say it was guilt. Rita, he's not so sure. Seems to him that it's another way for her to be cruel, to protract her unkindness and draw it out, like needles across flesh.

Last time they stopped it, Moira gave him a copy his copy of Dean's Electronics. She was in the process of rebuilding her book collection, and she somehow ended up with two copies. She gave him his spare and bookmarked a few chapters for him, highlighted diagrams of vacuum tubes and transistors. He couldn't make sense of is (the book or her kindness), but he was determined to finish it before Rita took him back to the Underworld.

"Charon."

Her voice drifts through the air like a dandelion seed on the breeze. It's August, and she commanded him to leave the door open when he went out to sit on the balcony.

"Charon." The second time she says his name, he has no option but to respond. He can't disobey her, so he takes as long as he can, marking his place in the book and setting it gently on the ground besides the chair, pausing to rub at a spot on the tattered dust jacket.

The suite is dim, even in the middle of the afternoon. Rita's stretched out on her heart-shaped bed, naked from the waist up. Charon looks at her for an instant, just long enough to get an impression of her full breasts and big, dark nipples. He looks away to preserve her modesty and his dignity, but she won't let him off the hook so easily.

"Charon, refill my glass."

There's a pitcher of sweet tea on the dresser, what she calls a 'traditional Southern beverage.' Rita likes it with grenadine (she pinched a bottle from the Federalist Lounge), so sweet it makes Charon's teeth ache. The pitcher is slick with condensation, resting on a silver platter to spare the dresser's dark finish. Charon refills her glass and moves automatically towards the balcony door, but she's not finished with him yet.

"Rub my back."

Charon's mouth goes dry. This isn't the first time she's done this, drawn him into her room, confronted him with her nakedness. Her power over him goes deeper than the contract, and she knows it.

"I've got a little bottle of baby oil in my lingerie drawer." Rita props herself up on her elbows, pats the a spot on the bed next to her, her breasts jiggling with the motion.

The baby oil is nestled amongst her panties and bras, half-hidden by filmy scraps of lace and silk. She collects these things; negligees and silk stockings, keeps them clean and sweet smelling with sachets and potpourri. Charon isn't sure if she had these things in the Vault, or if she just felt as though she deserves them-either way, she's ruined lingerie for him. He can't enjoy pin-ups any more, because he can't look at pictures of pretty girls in lacy bras and satin panties without seeing Rita's face.

He dots his palms with baby oil, and massages it into her shoulders. She's tense, but she melts like butter beneath his hands, and his dick perks up at the little moan she gives when he starts working at the knots in her lower back.

She's beautiful and he's aching for her and he doesn't want to want her as bad as he does.

He thinks about blowing her head off and settling down in the Underworld. He thinks about Moira, about the book he left out on the balcony and the chapter on diodes. He fills his mind with currents and voltages, tries to block out every thought of the woman stretched out beneath his hands.

Rita rolls over. He pulls his hands away like he's been burned, but she catches him by the wrists and puts his hands on her breasts. "Charon."

It's not a command, but he obeys anyway, hating himself for it. He massages her and her dark nipples stiffen beneath his touch, and she moans, ever so slightly, tipping her head back and exposing her throat.

He has a straight razor tucked in his boot. He could end it, right now-

"Kiss me."

He can't disobey her.

END

A/N: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VvZWjPSY80

Awesome, just awesome. I don't normally read Charon/FLW because it can be a bit creepy, but this is creepy in the best way.

I hated everything that happened, but loved every minute of it. You have magnificent skill!

This doesn't exactly fit in with the prompt at all, and since this is a looong time after the fact, I don't even know if anyone is still interested, but figured what the heck, I'll post anyway!

A series of experiments. Haven’t written in ages, so I hope this collection of drabbles work well.

Daniel Bigsley’s thoughts on the Lone Wanderer.

He didn't know her then, when she was fresh from the vault, all smiles and enthusiasm. He didn't know her when the death of her father was still fresh, how much of the innocence she possessed left her, and the harder edge started to take hold. He knows her now, leaner, tanned from the nuclear sun but skin still smooth, the freckles a little less apparent than they used to be. Her hands are swift with a number of killing implements, he's heard the stories, and now having met her, can almost see her in the midst of battle, dark eyes gleaming at the sight of spilt blood.
The Battle Goddess, Kali made flesh.
The thought terrifies him, but it makes him hard at the same time. The confusion of the sleep deprived, he rationalizes.
Her hair is cut short, a stark style that highlights the angles of her face. When she smiles, it's world-weary, a little cruelty etched behind her eyes-she's seen way too much for a vault dweller, done things that even Three Dog doesn't know about, or perhaps is just too polite to mention over the airwaves. Can't tarnish the Last, Best, Hope for Humanity's image, now can he?
He asks her to investigate the missing caravan, not realizing how much he misses her until hours later, when the thought of what she might face causes him to lose even more precious sleep.
The moment she returns, looking a little exhausted, and battle weary, a Valkyrie in flesh and blood, heaving her steel-toed clad feet on his desk, staring him right in the eye, he discovers that there's a part of him that shut down, a little partition of Daniel that wanted/feared/needed to see her again. Even if she was less than pleased.
Daniel has learned that life holds many disappointments, doesn't play fair, and most times, while nice guys finish last, snarky acerbic ones finish DEAD last. So when he screws up the courage to ask if she'd join him for dinner, the last thing he expects to hear from her is a yes, followed by a smile that makes him think maybe she was waiting for him to do just that. Hard to tell with women.

I appreciate that this is a year old, but this is honestly one of my very favorite pieces on the KMeme. If you came back around and updated, I would shit my pants with joy.

This is awesome.

Why does Cass always have to be the bad guy? This would've been an awesome fill without making her into a bitch. Just my 2 cents.

Well, I think this is an awesome fill. I love it! And I love the way you wrote Cass.

this is so good! one of my favourites on the meme, great job a!a

Title: Last Seconds of Old Years
Characters: Quinn, Willow, Charon, FLW, Gob, Carol
Relationship: Het
Pairings: Quinn/Willow, Charon/FLW
Series: And Wolves Beneath Their Seams
Summary: With the old year counting down, Quinn muses on how much everything's changed.
Note: Not quite exactly what OP wanted, but old prompt is old and this anon hopes you don't mind.

--

About a hundred fifty years, give or take—Quinn’s seen pretty much everything, and it’s all shit. Maybe not the worst, sure. Not like Carol, born into shine and hope, and watching all that burn up in mushrooms.

Or maybe it is worse. Some days he thinks so. At least Carol has a memory of the Mall, all the buildings still standing and only humans in the streets. What’s he got? His first memory is his own two feet, blistered in his older brother’s boots, spots of blood blooming on the heel as he struggled to keep up with the caravan. Gunfire as common as birdsong, back then. More common. Until the birds went—south, west, wherever the hell birds go—and nothing. Just gunfire. Raiders and slavers and Brotherhood shits.

Mostly shit, period.

Until now. A hundred and twenty years since his own mother wouldn’t know his face, and Quinn thinks maybe he doesn’t know every goddamn thing about every goddamn thing after all. And a year ago, if somebody’d told him a story about a vault girl with old world morals, pretty enough to make even fucking Charon smile, he’d have called it a hell of a joke.

But there they are.

Quinn sits at a table in the corner of Carol’s, Willow at his elbow and several bottles of beer between them. At the other end of the room, V sits at the bar with Charon and Gob—Gob brought back special for the occasion—talking and laughing with both of them and Carol, too, easy like breathing in a room full of ghouls.

And maybe if you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t see it. But Quinn’s looking. And the man sitting at V’s side is not the man he’s known for fifteen years. Even from here, Quinn can see the way they reach for each other. So smooth it’s practiced—obviously habit—their hands tangling, untangling, searching out new places to map. V taps a rhythm on Charon’s knuckles, sketches something on his arm. Charon’s fingers find her pulse, her back. His knee bumps hers.

“Like a couple of kids,” Willow says beside him, following his eyes. She’s smiling, too, like a secret.

Quinn shakes his head. And he’s staring—never a good idea in Ninth Circle, probably a worse idea now—but he’s never seen a saint before V walked in, never even figured they could exist. And yet, there he goes—Charon’s smiling again. Not much. Nothing to see, hardly—just a twitch at the corner of his ragged mouth—but it’s not a glare, it’s not a blank stare, and Quinn knows the look. Hasn’t seen it in a hundred years, but he knows it.

Had a wife too, once.

“Kind of gives you hope, doesn’t it?” he says. Finally, finally looking away, he pulls a pack of smokes from his coat, abandoned beside him.

Willow grins over the lip of her beer. “What, you hoping for a smoothskin, too?”

She laughs and Quinn laughs with her, lets it drop. A hundred years and you get good at that—letting things go. But maybe he’s out of practice, because his thoughts keep circling back.

He doesn’t know really how to explain it. From the outside, it looks simple enough. Two mercs doing some freelance work. Happens all the time. Nothing there to name.

But it’s bigger than that. Bigger than all of them. So big a person can’t quite touch it—can’t even put words to it.

So big a person can only string spent shells on an old chain, worry them like beads when nights get too dark and too slow.

They have days—weeks, now—without gunfire in the distance.

They have streets full of caravans and the warped bones of dead monsters.

They have clean water, even though they don’t need it.

And they have respect.

When War and Death walked out to clean the wastes—they came from here.

Yesterday, a trader shook Quinn’s hand. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look twice. And last week, a Brotherhood squad passed through, guns all holstered—even with Willow leaning on the subway railing, catcalling, “Aw, don’t you love me anymore?”

Quinn hasn’t seen a raider in weeks, not on any of his runs. Every day, more ex-slaves pass through, headed for the Lincoln Memorial. Even Talon Company’s just a bad memory, sticking far and away from downtown DC.

Yet, just last year, Charon spent his days breaking legs at Ahzrukhal’s word. But now Charon sits at Carol’s bar, his hand like a hubcap on V’s knee. Until, a minute later, she pulls his arm up and around her shoulders, leans into him like practice, like patience, singing along to Christmas songs still playing on the radio, ten minutes to New Year’s midnight.

V changed everything. Changed things Quinn would have sworn couldn’t be changed. They call the two of them War and Death, but Quinn’s seen war and he’s seen death and these two are something altogether bigger. Things are better. The world fucking ended, but things are getting better.

Quinn lowers his gaze. Drinks his beer. Thinks about the way his caravan looked at him when he started losing pieces of his face—people he’d been walking with his whole life, recoiling like he’d started spitting plague.

At his side, Willow smiles. She sees through him like a window—always had—nudges his shoulder.

“Cheer-up,” she says. “You’re too damn pretty to look so sad.”

And Quinn laughs—unexpected, nearly snorts beer through his nose—ends up coughing through the rest of song on the radio until Three-dog croons, “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. The last seconds of an old year, but would look at that baby shine? Fresh waters, no slavers—my, oh my, whatever will the new year bring?”

“Shut up, Three-dog,” V snaps, but smiling, sleepy, her head tucked under Charon’s chin.

“Let’s count her down, shall we? 10… 9… 8…”

Quinn finds himself thinking about the oncoming year, fresh water and people getting their feet under them again. Thinks about clearing out the feral-corridors of the museum. Might be more ghouls coming, what with the roads easier.

“7… 6… 5… 4…”

At the bar, V grins, sits upright. “We had a tradition in the vault,” she starts.

But Three-dog finishes, “3… 2… 1! Happy New Year, Wasteland!” and Quinn doesn’t get to see what her vault tradition might be, because Underworld has tradition, too, and tradition leaves him with a mouthful of Willow, warm like smoke, leather beneath his hands.

Quinn leans into her, smiling against her lips, presses his forehead to hers when they finally part for air. And judging by the cheers—by the singing and laughing and clanking bottles found from Wasteland-wide—judging by Willow’s fingers tugging the smear of her red lipstick from his skin—

It’s going to be a hell of a new year.

(The End)

This is fantastic. I loved Wolves, and it's sweet to read a long-term happy ending to that epic wringer.

Uhnnn seconded so hard.

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

A!A here!

Re: The Question, Part 3/3

A!A here!

Re: Arcade/M!Courier - Better Things To Do [1/1]

Re: The Question, Part 3/3

A!A here!

Re: Keep Your Composure 22/?

Re: Veronica + F!Courier, "Sacred Rituals" 2/2

Re: Doors Unlocked and Open (1e/1)

Re: Vroom, Vroom 3/3

Charon/F!LW, "About to Burn Down," 1/2

Charon/F!LW, "About to Burn Down," 2/2

Re: Charon/F!LW, "About to Burn Down," 2/2

Re: Charon/F!LW, "About to Burn Down," 2/2

Re: FLW/Scribe Bigsley -- "Let me make it up to you."

Re: F!LW/Three Dog, 'Sound the Alarms, Lock the Doors' 2/?

Re: Arcade/Jimmy, 'Latin' 1/1

Re: What's a Girl Gotta do to Get A Gannon Cannon Around Here? (pt9/9)

Re: What's a Girl Gotta do to Get A Gannon Cannon Around Here? (pt9/9)

Re: Gaslighting 5/5

Last Seconds of Old Years 1a/1

Last Seconds of Old Years 1b/1

Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

Re: Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

Re: M!Courier/Joshua Graham and Caeser+Joshua Graham - I Know What You've Been Doing This Summer...