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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This ticks all my boxes. Hot like fire!

So hot in so few words. This is great, A!A.

Fun fact: I'm the OP and I never saw this fill even though you posted it two years ago, and it's great and I love it.

Is it wrong that I read his response as unease and that makes me love it more?

Nice!

Characters: Butch, the King, Julie Farkas
Summary: Butch meets up with the King in Freeside, magic happens.

The kid isn't one of theirs, that much is apparent. His jacket's all wrong, real leather and covered in patches for a gang that the King's never heard of. He's just some drifter, an out-of-towner with the misfortune to cross paths with a gang of NCR thugs on leave in Freeside. He's guessing that the Troopers took one look at the jacket and the slicked-back hair and decided that he was a King and they oughta rearrange his face for him, maybe teach him some manners. Kid's all puffy and swollen, a broken nose and two black eyes. The Followers found him unconscious in the alley behind the Wrangler, bruised and battered and covered in blood. They took him back to the Fort, and Julie sent someone over to the King's, assuming he was one of theirs.

He ain't.

The kid's asleep in one of the Follower's cots, breathing wheezy like he's got a couple broken ribs. And hell, he probably does, knowing the NCR. The King guesses his age at 29 or 30, guesses he might be handsome, underneath the bruises. He's maybe 6 feet tall, dark hair, skin burned brown by the sun. Julie's standing next to the King, clipboard in hand, eager to put a name to her John Doe, find someone to take him home, and get him out of her hair.

"He briefly regained consciousness after we brought him in," she says, tapping a pen against the clipboard. "He propositioned two of my doctors and groped a third. He had a BAC of .33 and refused treatment, but I couldn't, in good faith, let him go. We had to restrain him, pump his stomach, and administer Med-X and Stims intravenously." She relays this information in a sorry-not-sorry tone, barely bothering to suppress her irritation. It's been a long day in the Follower's compound, that much is apparent.

"He's ain't a King," he says.

Julie sighs. "You sure?"

The King shrugs. "I don't know him from Adam."

Julie moves to mark something down on her clipboard, but the King stops her. "Wait. Said he wasn't one of mine, didn't say I wouldn't take him off your hands."

She raises an eyebrow, and the King presses on. "I can't leave him here. Tomorrow morning, he'll be back on the street, and what if those goons come back to finish him off? I don't take him in, he's dead by sunrise."

A frown creases her forehead and she continues drumming the pen against her clipboard, thinking. "If he's a stranger, protocol dictates I can't release him to you," she says, thoughtfully. "But there's nothing that says I can't send him your way once he wakes up. You send one of your boys around tomorrow morning, I'll make sure he leaves with a King."

"When will he wake up?"

"Hard to say. We didn't administer a sedative, but I don't know what else he was on before he was brought in. If he hasn't regained consciousness by 10AM--" she checks her watch "--this morning, we'll wake him. But he could wake up at any point before that."

The King nods. "I'll just wait, if you don't mind."

"Here?" She sounds surprised.

"I don't want to leave him without a guard--not that I don't trust your men, it's a matter of principle--and all my boys are out drinking. It's Saturday night in Freesie, Dr. Farkas, and I don't have anywhere to be, so I'd just as soon stay with him until he wakes up. Night he's had, first face he sees oughta be a friendly one."

Julie sighs again. "Fine. Unorthodox, but fine. I'll have someone bring you a chair. If you'll excuse me, I need to return to my rounds." Her lips twitch, and for a moment, the King thinks he sees something like a sardonic grin on sweet, patient Julie Farkas' lips. "It is a Saturday night in Freeside, as you said." She disappears through the tent flaps, and the King's alone with the kid for the first time that evening, and he takes the opportunity to really study him.

His face is almost completely unlined, his hair is still thick and full. The King shaves a few years off his earlier estimate. The kid isn't older than 25. Younger, probably. And he ishandsome, underneath the bruises. High cheekbones, full lips. The King catches himself wondering what color his eyes are, if he's got a girl back home. He coughs, crosses his arms over his chest. He shouldn't be thinking like this about some poor kid got his face smashed in. It ain't right.

One of the doctors-in-training, a noseless ghoul woman with thick glasses, appears suddenly with a folding chair. The King startles, glares at her to let her know not to try anything like that again. "You need anything else?" she says hoarsely, plainly uninterested.

"No," he says. "Thanks."

She nods and disappears, and he's alone again, except for the kid and his shallow, pained breaths. The King imagines the chems running through his bloodstream, bouncing off his ribs and repairing the damage. Kid's going to be sore tomorrow, breathing shallow like that for a few days. In a week, he'll be good as new, maybe have a few new scars to show off, stories to impress the girls at bars. Handsome kid like that, he won't have any trouble with the ladies.

The King's breath catches in his throat, and he's disgusted with himself again.

At some point during the night, the King dozes off in the stiff metal chair, lulled to sleep by the kid's ragged breathing and the ambient noises of a busy Saturday night in the Follower's compound. He wakes at dawn, cold and stiff with a crick in his neck. He's getting too old for this.

He stands, stretches. Something in his back pops and he winces. It's a good pain, and he fools looser and more relaxed after. The kid's still asleep. He's rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up to his chest. He's cold, too, shivering despite the thin, starchy blanket. His jacket's hanging from the bedpost, and the King drapes it over him, feeling gallant and more than a little foolish.

It's light enough in the tent to see the patch on the back: a green snake coiled under a banner reading 'Tunnel Snakes.' The King's never heard of them, but it's a nice jacket, heavy and well-constructed. It's real leather, not the cheap, imitation vinyl that cracks and peels at the elbows and collar. It's got a few rips and tears, nothing major, patched with dark thread that doesn't quite match the black leather. There's a lot of care evident in the jacket, in the mending and the patches, sewn on by hand in big, child-like stitches. Whoever he is, wherever he's from, someone cares about this kid. The King's willing to bet that they miss him, assuming they're not already dead.

There's a hotplate with coffee somewhere in the compound; the King can smell it over the medicinal, sickbay stench of the dingy little tent. He steps through the flaps into the watery, early-morning sunshine and nods to Beatrix Russel, who's sitting with her feet up on the sandbag wall at the front of the compound. It's mostly too early for any major crises, and the doctors are milling about, yawning and swapping horror stories from the night before. One or two catch sight of him and nod deferentially, the rest ignore him. The King and his John Doe are old news, but hey, have you heard about the guy came in last night, puked a rainbow after drinking Abraxo mixed with paint? No shit.

This is Sunday morning in Freeside, and the King smiles to himself. He locates the coffee in the back tent, the one that was supposed to be for research before the doctor in charge ran off to play hero with the Courier. Now it's mostly storage, disused stretchers and mismatched crutches, but with a few chairs in the corner, it can pass as a ready room. It's empty except for the ghoul doctor from the night before, dozing on a chair in the corner, glasses askew. The King pours himself a cup of coffee (it's just tobacco and mesquite, strengthened with chicory and bitter as death itself) and wanders back out into the courtyard.

He's half a mind to find Julie, apologize on behalf of the kid, ask how she's been holding up. She's a sweet lady, Julie, deserves more thanks than she gets. He can't count the number of times she's patched him and his boys up. She won't take sides in the dispute between the Kings and the NCR, says the Followers have to remain apolitical, but in his heart of hearts, the King knows she'd take his side if only she could. It's the voice, he thinks. Drives women wild.

That's when the kid bursts out of the tent, eyes wild. "Where are they?" he shouts. "I'll fight every last one of 'em, so help me God!"

Beatrix is on him in an instant, knocks his feet out from under him and loops an arm around his neck, putting him into one of those restraint holds, easy-as-you-please. The kid's cussing and spitting and clawing at her, but she's got him good, the expression on her face almost serene as she casually applies pressure to his windpipe, which shuts him up good.

The King is there in a heartbeat, hands raised in a placating gesture. In the same moment, Julie emerges from one of tents, unflappable as ever. She strides across the courtyard calmly.

"That's enough, Beatrix," she says musically, and the King knows her well enough to hear the laughter concealed in her voice. Beatrix eases off, just enough so the kid can breathe, if not talk. He's red-faced and spluttering, madder 'n a wet hen. He stopped to put his jacket on before he stormed out of the tent, and that little detail immediately endears him to the King, even before he manages to get another word out. "Let him go," Julie says, and Beatrix complies.

The kid jerks away from her, straightens his jacket and smooths his hair before he glares around the compound, still looking for someone to fight. "Where am I? Who the fuck are you?"

The King steps in, introducing himself before Julie has a chance to do it for him. "You're in the Followers Compound in Freeside, outside of New Vegas. That's Doctor Julie Farkas and Beatrix Russel. I," he says, perhaps a little grandly, "am the King."

The kid narrows his eyes. "The what?"

"The King."

"That's your name? The King?"

"That's what they call me."

"What who calls you? Your fanclub?" The kid snickers, plainly amused at his own joke.

"Pretty much," says Beatrix, and the kid whirls around to face her.

"Wait, seriously? This pompous asshole's got a fanclub?"

"I can't believe it, either," she says, dryly.

"Now now, there's no need to call names," the King says, frowning. The kid's accent is unlike anything he's ever heard. He's not from the Mojave, possibly not even from California, unless he's a Vaultie. "What about you, son? What's your name."

The kid puffs out his chest. "Butch DeLoria," he says. "My gang's called the Tunnel Snakes. We rule." Beatrix snorts. "Hey, fuck you, rotface. I don't need some shuffler telling me what to do."

Beatrix breaks into a wide, lazy smile, but her posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "You want to say that again," she says, her tone light and dangerous. She's spoiling for a fight, and it seems like Butch is going to get himself killed before the Troopers have a chance to finish him off.

"Get him out of here," Julie says, her voice strained. They've attracted spectators, a loose ring of doctors and guards, eager for a little entertainment on their Sunday morning, as if the previous night hadn't given them their fill of fistfights and bad decisions.

The King reaches out, grabs the kid's arm. "C'mon Butch," he mutters. "You're with me." He leads him away from the crowd, out the front gate, and away from the Fort, into Freeside.

Butch follows gamely, stumbling as the King pulls him over broken pavement and uneven curbs. The kid's looking around, eyes wide, and the King has no idea how much he remembers from the night before. Freeside looks different by daylight, and the King isn't sure if it's the squalor or the neons drawing his attention. They're attracting stares, and the King does his best to ignore them, but he's getting nervous. He doesn't leave the School of Impersonation too often any more, prefers to maintain the air of mystery that isolation affords him. Truth is, he's past middle age and he doesn't have the energy to make the rounds any more. He trusts Pacer with the day-to-day business of running Freeside, his lieutenants with keeping the peace. The King figures that he's old enough now to enjoy his semi-retirement, spend his days boozing with his gals.

Any more, it's news whenever he leaves the School. People are going to talk. They're going to hear about this on the other side of the wall, in the NCR embassy, going to spend days or even weeks dissecting this move. Why was he out? Who was it, with him? Another King, or a stranger, a drifter? What did it all mean?

It was irritating and embarrassing, and all it meant was that Julie had called him over because of a mix-up with a handsome young stranger. His bruises were starting to fade, though his face was still plenty swollen, and the King's earlier assessment had been right: Butch was young, strong jaw and dark brows. He was handsome, and it had the King all twisted up inside. He'd had plenty of male lovers over the years (hell, he and Pacer had been an item for a couple years until they realized that they were better friends than lovers), but it had been a while since he'd been with a man, longer since he'd met anyone who had this kind of effect on him. The King's only real weakness was a pretty face, and Pacer swore up and down that one of these days, some sweet young thing was going to be his downfall.

Pacer was maybe a little bit bitter (their breakup, while not acrimonious, had been less than mutual), but his words rang true. He was a romantic at heart, and Butch had him all shook up. The King felt himself flushing, was certain that everyone could see it on his face, in his body language. He had a crush on Butch, like he was some schoolgirl and not a grown man. It was unseemly.

They reached the King's School of Impersonation, and not a moment too soon. The King could practically feel the eyes of Freeside on him, could hear the rumors swirling in their wake. He was eager to get inside and out of the public eye, but he was gratified when Butch let out a low whistle at the sight of the building.

"Ol' What's-her-face wasn't kidding, huh?" he said, a note of awe in his voice. "What's a guy gotta do to get a fan club like that?"

The King laughed, perhaps a little harder than the situation warranted. "It wasn't easy," he said, grinning lazily as the door snapped shut behind them "Only had to form the greatest gang the Mojave's ever seen."

Butch shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Did you not hear me? Tunnel Snakes; we rule. Get with the program old man."

The lobby was mostly empty at 8AM on a Sunday, but the handful of men milling around the counter sucked in a collective whoosh of breath. The Kings had few rules, but number one was: you don't talk to the King like that.

To everyone's surprise, the King laughed again, plainly amused. "You've got a thing or two to learn," he said, almost fondly.

"What, you going to teach me?"

The King couldn't tell if it was scorn or skepticism or flirtation in the younger man's tone, but his heart skipped a beat. "Only if you want me to," he said evenly, leading Butch across the room, towards the back hall. He snapped, and the assembled men snapped to attention.

"You," he said, pointing to someone at random. "Go find Sergio. Tell him we've got a guest, needs a bath and a change of clothes. We'll be upstairs" The man nodded, practically ran from the room.

The King could tell that Butch was watching him, assessing his treatment of his men. Judging, but not in an unfriendly way, he hoped. Inspired, he pointed to a different King, flipped him a cap. "Go to Mick and Ralph's. Get us something to eat, something fresh. None of that canned stuff."

He was showing off, but he thought he saw approval written across Butch's face, and he flushed with pride. He lead the way through the winding halls to the back stairs, explaining a bit of the Kings' history in Freeside. Butch listened, nodding along, asking the occasional question. He seemed impressed, moreso when they reached the King's suite and he saw the heart-shaped bed and the girls draped across it, dressed in nothing but red, satiny nightgowns.

"Pretty nice set-up you've got here," Butch drawled. His tone was casual, but deliberately so, someone determined not to be impressed.

This is absolutely magical. I didn't even know I wanted this pairing until I read this.

Love the King's assessment of Butch and the way he reads Julie. My heart always melts to see Beatrix mentioned too!

One of the groupies, a blonde, rolled over in bed, propped herself up on her elbows. "Who's this?" she said, flirtatiously. "Hey Katie, wake up. There's a man here."

Butch puffed up with pride, grinning roguishly. "Sorry ladies," he said, preening, "I'm all booked up for the day." He shot a sidelong glance at the King, and his heart very nearly stopped. "But call me sometime, I'll treat you real nice."

The girls pouted, and the King dismissed them before Butch could change his mind. "Thanks, ladies, but we got this one handled. Run along now, the men are talking."

The blonde rolled her eyes and prodded the other, Katie, awake. They left the room, glancing back over their shoulders at Butch and the King, giggling the whole while. Butch winked exaggeratedly at them, and they shrieked with laughter and slammed the door behind them. Butch dropped his bag on the ground and turned to face the King, hands on his hips.

"So were you serious about the bath, or we doing this raw?" He stepped forward, set his hands on the King's waist.

Before he answered, the King reached down and kissed him. He'd only meant to test his boundaries, get a feel for the younger man's body, but he felt Butch's tongue pressing against his lips, and he opened his mouth agreeably, welcoming the intrusion. Butch kissed fiercely and expertly, one hand running up to tangle in the King's hair, the other snaking south the grope his ass. He pressed their bodies together, insistent, demanding. He was already hard, and the pressure of his erection send a shiver down the King's spine.

Butch caught the King's bottom lip between his teeth, and they broke apart, connected by a trail of saliva. He was breathless, could still taste Butch's tongue, but he pushed the younger man away, held him at arm's length. There was no need to rush.

"Go on in, take a bath," he said. "I can wait."

Butch seemed surprised, but he took the new development in stride. "Alright," he said. "Bath, then."

"It's just back there," the King said, pointing. "Take your time."

Butch left the room, but didn't close the door behind him. The King knew that he was hoping that he'd get impatient, come in and fuck him in the tub, but he was determined to savor the moment. He wanted Butch spread-eagle on his red satin sheets, moaning and glistening with sweat. He heard the tap squeaking in the bathroom, the rush of running water, a low, impressed sound. The King smirked. The hair drove women wild, the running water drove everybody wild.

He crossed the room to the mirror. His hair was mussed, his jacket wrinkled from a night on the Followers' folding chair. He had time to change, certainly, but he didn't want to come across as too eager, too desperate. Instead, he opened a tin of pomade and ran a comb through his hair. Satisfied that everything was in place, he straightens his jacket and gets out his shaving kit. It was a genuine antique; Pacer had found it in an old barbershop and given it to him for his birthday years ago. He poured water from the pitcher on his vanity into the cup, then worked up a lather with the brush. He hummed to himself as he shaved, an old song from one of the now-defunct holotapes that they'd found when they first moved into the building.

The shaving lather is Pre-War, exquisitely thick and rich. The King orders it special from Mick and Ralph, and they know better than to sell it to anyone but him. He pays through the nose for the luxury, but it's worth every cap. It is good to be King.

In the other room, the tap turns off, the rushing water stops. The King smooths a flyaway hair, applies a little cologne, still humming to himself. There's splashing in other room, a curse as the soap slips from Butch's fingers. "You wanna shave after you're done in there," the King calls out, "I've got extra stuff in the basin under the sink."

A pause. "'Kay. I'll be a few minutes."

The King hmmm's in assent and turns his attention to the Kid's pack. It's heavy, but if he's a drifter, there's no reason for it not to be. He decides it isn't nosy to open it up, just to see what he's carrying with him, and a photograph flutters to the ground. Heart pounding, the King stoops and picks it up, turns it over in his hands. It's a poloraid of Butch, arms draped around another kid, a handsome black man with thick glasses and a dopey grin. They're posing in front of some sort of enormous ship, and the sky behind them is a steely grey to match. They look teenagerish and young, not more than 20 years old. The King turns the picture over again, it's undated, nothing written on the back.

"That's Gene," Butch says. He's standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, a pained expression on his face.

The King startles for the second time in 12 hours, and the picture drops from his fingers and flutters noiselessly to the ground.

"I didn't mean--" the King says, but Butch cuts him off.

"We ran together, out east. Then he got himself killed saving everyone." He speaks emotionlessly, a simple recitation of fact.

"I'm sorry," the King says. "You must have been good friends."

"More than," Butch says hoarsely, and the King's stomach twists again. "He died a' radiation poisoning, and before he went, he told me that his only regret was not getting to see the Atlantic. So I promised him I'd take his ashes west, spread 'em on the sea."

"I'm sorry," the King repeated. There's nothing else to say.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Butch crosses the room, sits next to the King on the heart-shaped bed. "So," he says, "You gonna fuck me, or we gonna sit here and cry like a couple of girls?"

"If you still want me to," the King says, returning the photo to Butch's pack.

"I do," and he laughs at the formality of it. The King leans over, kisses him gently, tugs at the towel around his waist. Stripped bare, Butch leans into the kiss, pressing his naked chest against him. He's warm and still a little damp from his bath, and he shudders when the King draws his fingers down his spine, coming to rest at the small of his back.

He breaks the kiss, pushes Butch down on the mattress. He doesn't resist, laying back and tucking his hands behind his head. He grins like a pin-up, and the King runs his hands over the younger man's body, tracing scars and lines of muscle. He's fit and trim, not an ounce of fat on him, muscular but not overtly so. This is a body accustomed to hard living.

He wraps one hand around Butch's cock and presses a kiss to his collarbone, another to his sternum. He works his way down until he reaches the dark tangle of hair at the junction of Butch's legs. He hesitates there, running his fingers up and down Butch's thighs, never quite reaching his crotch. He keeps one hand on the younger man's cock, but he doesn't stroke or squeeze, simply holds it.

Butch shifts underneath him, works his hands free and places them on the King's shoulders. The King runs his tongue along the underside of Butch's dick, but doesn't take him into his mouth. Butch groans. "You're killing me," he mutters.

In response, the King grins and releases his erect cock, kisses the tip, and turns his attention to Butch's asshole. He brushes his thumb gently over the pucker of muscle, and Butch shudders. "Chrst," he says. "Just do it already."

He pushes his thumb into Butch, pausing to give him a moment to adjust to the intrusion. Butch's muscles clench around him, and the King pushes in a little further, testing the waters. "You ain't going in dry, are you?" Butch asks, a little nervously.

"'Course not," the King says. "Hold your horses, I wanna enjoy this."

He pulls his thumb out of Butch's ass and leaves him there on the bed. He keeps condoms and lube (more pre-war finds, courtesy of Mick and Ralph) in the top drawer of his vanity for easy access. He chooses a few, and returns his attention to Butch.

He gets a few fingers full of the lube, slides them, one at a time, into Butch's ass. He clenches and shudders and sighs, but he's done this before and the process is smooth and easy. The king wriggles his fingers, stretching him out, getting him nice and loose, searching for his prostate. When he finds it, the barest brush of fingers against the sensitive organ, Butch squeaks and his muscles clamp down on the King's fingers, squeezing deliciously. "God," he rasped. "Christ almighty, I forgot how good that feels."

"You're so pretty like this," the King mutters, repeating the motion. "All spread out and rosy. Jerk yourself off. I wanna see you come."

Butch obeys, spitting into his hand and wrapping a fist around his rock-hard dick. He screws his eyes shit and pumps while the King massages his prostrate, and when he comes, he squeals and groans and hits himself in the chin with ejaculate.

"Oh god," he says hoarsely.

"I'm gonna fuck you," the King mutters, unzipping his pants. He's hard as a rock, ready and eager. Butch sits up a little, watches the King press the head of his cock against his readied asshole, bites his lip and shudders when he pushes into him.

The King goes slow, inch by inch, letting Butch acclimate to his dick. He keeps his hands on Butch's hips, holding him steady while he fucks his ass. Butch's hands fist in the sheets, chest heaving. He keeps up a litany of curses and pleas, and his needy gasps are music to the King's ears. Satisfied that Butch has adjusted to his cock, he starts thrusting, delving deep into Butch's eager ass with each motion. He can get in to the hilt, but it's not enough for Butch, who begs for more no matter how much of the King's cock he's already got in him.

"You feel so good," he moans. "Fuck me, fuck me please. More!"

The King obliges, increasing his tempo, pounding into Butch, his balls smacking his ass with each thrust. Sweat pours down his brow, and the hands on Butch's hips turn to fists. The kid's so eager and pliant, so needy and hungry for cock. And he moans so beautifully, tangled in the sheets and mewling, crying out for more, more, more.

The King gives it to him, pounding into him until he feels a tug in his gut that means he's ready to come. He pulls out and finishes on Butch's belly, painting his abdomen with streaks of white. He's soaked with come, his and the King's, pretty and flushed and messy.

"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes," the King says, hoarsely. He runs a hand down the length of Butch's torso, marveling at him. He left bruises on his hips, bright blue compares to the faded brown on his face. "I didn't hurt ya, did I sweetheart?"

"Of course not," Butch says, trying for braggadocio and devil-may-care, but there's still that needy quaver in his voice, sex-drunk and desperate. The King chuckles and bends down to kiss him, and Butch's arms slip 'round his shoulders. They hold one another for a moment, a return to the gentleness that preceded the sex.

"You alright?" the King says, quietly.

Butch nods, then says, "Maybe I need a moment."

"S'alright," the King says, sitting up and giving him breathing room. He crosses his legs and watches Butch, who closes his eyes and catches his breath. His chest rises and falls, dusted with purple bruises left by the NCR Troopers, and there's a catch in his breathing that has nothing to do, the King thinks, with the fucking or with the mending ribs.

Butch sits up, steadying himself. "Thanks," he says, quietly. "I needed that."

"Happy to oblige," the King says, going in for another kiss. "You need anything else, you let me know."

"Will do."

The King climbs off the bed, walks over to the bathroom. Butch's clothes are in a heap on the floor, he carries them back out and dumps them on the bed, then returns to the bathroom to clean himself up. His hair is mussed again, his shirt rumpled and damp with sweat. He strips and wipes himself clean with the washrag hanging over the edge of the sink, then changes into one of the suits hanging on the rack. He looks good, feels good, confident and self-assured, not the lovesick fool he'd been earlier.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Butch is already dressed, pulling his boots on.

"You're leaving already?" The King says, not bothering to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Butch looks startled, a little guilty. "Yeah man. I got a promise to keep."

The King sighs. "You need anything for the road?"

"Hey, hey." Butch stands, shoulders the pack, walks across the room to the King. "I gotta go, doesn't mean I won't come back. The Butchman's a free bird, can't stay in one place too long. But I'll be back, promise."

The King's lips quirk in a smile. "You do keep your promises, don't you?"

"Always have," Butch says, standing on his tiptoes and stealing one final kiss.

Okay, so I posted this as I wrote it, so I didn't include any kink tags or anything in the header because I didn't know where I was headed with it. Tags should be: age, anal, masturbation

He's such a handsome gent.

And I must say so is Vulpes - though gent he most definitely is NOT.

Well done, A!A. LOL @ captcha ... 'love-hate.' Ya think?

LOVE Butch being experienced and the little ' to be continued ' feel of the ending. Plus the FO3 references melted me. Thank you for writing and posting.

Ahhh my god I love this! And I love how you explained how Follows-Chalk has a war club with bullet casings on even though he isn't a full scout yet! Such beautiful attention to detail. Wonderful fill!

Ahh, this is perfect!

*explodes*

Oh my. That was hot.

Both the "he's old hat at this" and the "she has no clue what she's doing" were incredibly palpable the whole way through, in dozens of little details about their interactions, to a level I don't think I've ever read elsewhere. I TIP MY HAT TO YOU, A!A.

That might have been the best King I've ever read. Thank you, he is such a lovely person! And Butch was so Butchy it hurts :)
Awesome fill!

Oh author anon you did really well, I could feel Hannah's confusion and sick turmoil... this was a difficult read emotionally and that really speaks to your talent. Thank you for the fill!

Perfection!!!

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

Re: "Restraint" 2/? Ranger Ghost/Cass femslash

Re: Twenty-Two -- Boone/F!Courier -- 1/1

Re: "Scribes" 1/1 femslash

Re: MiniFill - 'Whore' (1/1)

Re: Family Man - F!Courier/Benny - 4/4

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 1a/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 1b/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 2a/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 2b/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 2c/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 3a/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 3b/?

Re: Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 3b/?

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 4/5

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5a/5

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5b/5

Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5c/5, END

ROFL! Poor Arcade.

Re: Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5c/5, END

Re: Stitched [1/1]

Re: Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5c/5, END

Re: Ain't You a Little Young to Be a Widow? Part 7/7

Re: Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5c/5, END

Re: Gaslighting 5/5

Re: Mini Fill!