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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Thank you, nonnie :3

Ohhhhh. Ohhhhhh, Arcade. I love these two so much SO MUCH OMG.

James Hsu wasn't one for the Vegas strip. When he was younger and sill in basic, he dreamed of seeing the bright lights of New Vegas. Now that Hsu was older, he could see the strip for what it really was, a fake glow of hope. All he needed to do was drop off some paper work for the Ambassador. When Hue walked into the Embassy he saw the Courier sitting in the waiting room. She looked up at him and her dark green eyes met his own brown eyes.

"It's good to see you Colonel."

Hsu couldn't help but smile. It was always nice to run into the Courier. Without her help, The NCR would have never been able to hold the Dam. He tried not to think about the way he got nervous when she was around and the way his heart pounded when he saw her. He was much to old to play games and any kind of relationship was out of the question.

"It's good to see you as well, Sam."

She played with the ends of her short brown hair and then looked back up at Hsu.

"So, is Crocker moving you to the strip?

"No, I'm just here to drop off some paper work."

The Courier sat up and watched Hsu walk over to Receptionist. He handed her a large pile of Paper. As Hsu was laving, he saw the Courier standing by the doors.

"Colonel, would you like to get a drink with me?"

Hsu looked at her and she had a smile on her face. The smile that he loved but almost never saw. He felt his cheeks heat up and he knew he was looking to deep into things. It was normal for two people to go out and get a drink, two friends at that.

"I would like that. Consider it an NCR thank you, because I'm paying."

I love this series so much! The way you write Arcade feels like the true canon Arcade, not the headcanon Arcade that's taken over lately. Can't wait to read more with these two!

Thank you and YAY I'm so glad you're enjoying them. :) I have plenty more planned for these two.

Thank you for commenting! I'm pretty certain there will be more, since these two are camped out in my head 24/7.

I think all any of us can write is our own headcanon version of the characters and I wouldn't say my Arcade is any more 'true' than anyone else's. I write him in the way that feels right to me, just as other authors do and I personally love the different interpretations on the meme and the way each writer brings out slightly different aspects of the characters. :)

I LOVE THIS FILL

Don't do this, thanks. If you can't praise someone's interpretation without simultaneously tearing down other works, then you're really not giving praise at all.

Sorry for butting in on your story thread, A!A.

Not quite an epic beard...but hopefully it'll do.

Title: Reckless Games
Characters: Butch (m!Courier), m!LW
Kinks: oral, dirty talk
Series: Unbelievers

"Woah, hey now. Easy there!"

Unfamiliar voice. Unfamiliar smells. A coppery taste in his mouth, but not quite that of blood. Stronger, like a penny. Like literal metal shoved down his gullet.

"Wasn't sure when you were gonna wake up." An older man with a white mustache and very little hair came into focus. His hands rested on his knees and his head was cocked to one side, appraising his patient. “Good to see you awake.”

Patient. Doctor.

Butch pressed his hand against the side of his head. Bandages wound tightly all the way around. Fuck. Fuck. The package and the man in the checkered coat. Looked Butch right in the eye before shooting him, because he was no fink. But why? The package, what the fuck was it?

"How about we start with your name?"

The package. No. Fucking trap.

Sitting up in the bed, Butch pulled up his arm, but it was too light. His left wrist was naked, the Pipboy gone. He could feel it though, like a phantom limb.

"Where the fuck is my Pipboy?" Butch swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head still felt light, but he could fight a fucking old as shit man. That was for fucking sure. Might have had to do it on his hands and knees, but he would fucking do it.

"Woah there fella. I got it over here." He stood and crossed the room to an oversized metal desk covered in little experiments and thick stacks of paper, pair of eyeglasses.

The windows were open. It was bright outside. Butch needed his Pipboy.

"So about that name. I'm Mitchell, Doc Mitchell is quite fine with me."

Not until the old man passed his Pipboy over did Butch even consider his request. "Butch DeLoria."

He winched slightly, partly from the bioseal cinching around his wrist and partly because it occurred to him too late that maybe he should have lied. Anyone really could have been with them, The Brotherhood. But this man and presumably pulled him out of that grave and showing him the slightest hint of decency was probably warranted. And they hadn’t seen a damn sign of the Brotherhood of Steel since they passed through Chicago.

"Well, Butch DeLoria, what's your number?"

"What?"

With the Pipboy sealed to him, the lights flickered back on, drawing power. Streams of messages came across the screen. Dozens, maybe hundreds. All from one address.

130758.

Angry messages, scared ones, desperation and fear.

"Where am I?" Fuck did his head hurt. More than hurt, felt weirdly empty.

"Goodsprings, son. And I was asking after your vault number. Haven't seen a Pipboy like that one, though." Before then Butch hadn’t noticed that Mitchell wore one as well. Different model, same concept.

271257 > 130758: im ok. in goodsprings
271257 > 130758: you need to come to me

"How you know that, old man?" Butch kept his eyes trained on the screen, waiting for Tate's acknowledgement. Besides, Butch could guess at the old man’s answer.

"I crawled out of 21 few years back. You sort of recognize that in folks. And you know, the Pipboy and all."

He scanned through eight days of messages as fast as he could manage. Lots of repeats, some that looked like Tate had just smashed his fingers into random streams of letter and numbers and symbols.

130758 > 271257: Fuck, I'm coming. If I run straight through I'll be there by tomorrow morning
130758 > 271257: I love you

"And how the fuck did my Pipboy come off in the first damn place." Knowing Tate was enroute, Butch hazarded to look away from the screen, appraising the doctor. He was still itching to get out of bed, but also smart enough to know he couldn't handle it yet, at least not without assistance.

271257 > 130758: be careful. they got you too? i love you

"Bioseal auto-releases when the wearer dies," Mitchell's tone dropped.

"I ain't dumb, I know that. Why does everyone think I'm stupid? That's the only way they come off." It did take Butch a moment. "Oh." He sank back against the thin pillow.

"Well, you're back among the living now, Butch DeLoria. Though in my professional opinion you've got a few days before you're back on your feet. Patched you up best I could though after that robot dug you up."

"A robot?" He didn’t recall any robot.

"Victor. Strange contraption. Never took much of an interest in anyone before. But right saved your life."

"Do you know anything about the men who shot me?"

"Can't say I do. But you could try asking Victor. Maybe Trudy too up at the saloon. She'd know all the gossip. Now, why don't we see if we can get you on your feet a little? Nothing too strenuous.”

Mitchell offered his hand to help Butch up. He accepted, despite reservations. Hurt his pride, though, to need the help.

"One-oh-one," Butch drawled. Out of habit he reached for his pocket looking for smokes. But, of course, he wasn’t in his armor, just a tshirt and boxershorts that sure as hell weren’t his. Great.

"Can’t say I know that one." The old man smiled.

"Good." Damn he needed that cigarette.

Over the course of the afternoon Butch managed a small circle of the house, at least to the kitchen for a light meal and back. Smoked half a pack while the doctor ambled around. Warned him ‘those things’ll kill you.’ Like Butch didn’t know. Like he hadn’t already been dead once.

Good enough to be able to piss on his own. Made the fucking mistake of looking in the mirror. But he wasn’t some dumb kid anymore. Let the sob choke up in his throat and die there. Lots worse had happened to him than getting his damn head shaved. He’d known it when he’d touched the bandage, could feel it without his hands too, how his head was lighter. How he couldn’t feel the strands settling around like they did before he styled it, the way it used to move as he tossed his head back and forth. But seeing it was another matter. Lucky enough his skull was back in one piece. Still, he ran his fingers along his bandaged temple, up to the crown of his head. Short bristles of barely-there growth and nothing more. Swallowed again and again until his hands finally held steady.

Course, had to be that the hair on his face grew faster than that on his head. So while there was only the barest hint of dark fuzz on his scalp, his facial hair had already started growing in jet black and thick. It had only been eight days since he and Tate split up outside of Primm with their assignments from the Mojave Express. A day of travel and seven days out cold because of some asshole taking shit that wasn’t his. Didn’t look at all like himself, bald head and a fucking beard. Wasn’t his look, that was for sure.

Butch’s shave kit was back by the sickbed with the rest of his belongings. Fuckers only took the package. Getting back to bed alone felt too distant and his head too cloudy. Might have ended up cutting himself in the process had he tried to shave. And that was the best case scenario if he actually managed to make it back to the bathroom. All he managed in the end was to splash his face with water and amble back to bed. Tried to blot out his own reflection from his mind. It wouldn’t go though.

Doc told him it should be fine to sleep if that was what felt right. The worst of it should have been over.

He dreamt about that pile of ash. Sweet and powdery. The one he made back in the Capital. Before it was ash it was that hot-shot rookie from the Brotherhood with not enough sense in him. Fucker thought he was gonna be the one to convince Tate to join up when all the others had failed. Was gonna do it by force when Tate spat in his face. Butch wasn’t about to let that happen. Wasn’t going to let anyone lay a hand on Tate. Never again. Irony, right? Killing that fuck with a weapon taken from the Brotherhood’s own requisitions. They’d lost his rifle somewhere in the midwest. Thing was practically coming apart at the seams.

Another gun, this time pointed at him, on his knees in the dirt. Gripped by a checkered coat. Hands bound. He should have fought harder. Had he screamed?

A heavy weight beside him woke Butch with a start.

“Butch,” Tate. “Fuck, Butch.”

This time the room was dark. No light through the blinds other than the neon from the saloon. Tate must have traveled faster than he thought, or the distance wasn’t as far. Even in the low light Butch could make out the sweat clinging to Tate’s skin in a thin sheen. Telling Tate’s irises apart from his pupils was hard enough in the light, impossible in the dark. Just black wells that still looked rattled in any case.

“What..”

Butch didn’t let Tate finish his question. Didn’t care. Pulled him down sharply by the front of his armor and kissed him with too much teeth. Always something too hard. Something reassuring that Tate felt the same, tasted the same. After Tate's coma, he said nothing tasted the same. Told Butch he tasted sweeter than ever and beer was shitty.

It took some maneuvering to fit both of them in the single bed. They'd had worse, though. Tate slotted his legs around Butch's, pressing their bodies together and resting his head against Butch's shoulder and chest.

"Butch, your hair."

Not Butch, why you got that bandage on your head? Why couldn't we meet half way, Butch? What kind of fuckery did you get yourself into now, Butch? Once you’re better I’m gonna kill you, Butch! Those statements would have been expected. But not the sad way Tate asked after his hair.

Tate's armor was ripped at the shoulder, jagged and uneven. The whole sleeve was barely holding on. There was no mistaking the work of a ripper. They'd seen plenty of the Legion's handiwork crossing through on their way West. Under the armor he was bandaged up, crudely. Butch knew the signs that Tate had "doctored" himself..

Butch touched the hole in the armor, right down to the bandage. Poked it until Tate outwardly expressed pain, hissing in response.

"Wake the doctor. He'll fix you."

"Not yet." Tate settled back down.

Tate's armor smelled like blood. His hair too. Butch curled his arm around him and put his fingers in his hair, gripping onto it and holding the blond in place.

"Someone shot you, not Legion, then?" Tate questioned.

"No. Maybe, I don't know."

"Never saw one with a gun in Arizona." Tate's words were half-buried in Butch's chest. But they had spoken enough like this for Butch to make out the syllables.

"But they got you too?"

"Barely. But this shit is fucked."

Butch laughed at that, "I agree. I wonder what happened to the others on that job?"

:”I don’t give a fuck,” Tate growled.

Using both hands to roll Butch over onto his back, Tate’s intent was clear enough. He shifted his legs around Butch’s torso until he straddled the brunet. Totally unfair since he was still in his leather armor and Butch was outright vulnerable. With his weight shifted onto his legs, Tate’s hands were free to run over Butch’s body, first his chest, his arms. Didn’t touch his face at first. Seemed to be avoiding it. Just ran his hands everywhere else and kept his eyes locked with Butch’s.

“You missed me?” One hand settled on the top of Butch’s left thigh. Tate’s thumb moved in little circular motions, almost there.

“Nah, of course not,” Butch smiled.

With his other hand, Tate finally touched Butch’s face. Not the bandage, though. Nor where his hair used to be. But his chin, his cheeks. Spaces where Butch’s facial hair had grown in.

“Prickly.”

Butch turned his head to the side to kiss Tate’s palm, scraping it in the process.

“Yeah, yeah, I look like shit.”

“Didn’t say that, you ass.” He smeared the saliva on his palm against Butch’s face as retribution.

“Thought it, though. You shallow bitch. Or maybe you’re just jealous cause you can’t grow a beard?”

“Shut the fuck up or I won’t suck your dick.” Promises, promises.

The old man was probably still asleep. And down the hall. Probably closed his door too. Even if none of those things were true, they’d probably still go through with this. Also, they had practiced being quiet. Still a work in progress, though.

Tate didn’t even bother to get him out of his borrowed boxers, just pulled the waistband down over Butch’s erection. Room was warm, getting warmer even though the sun was long gone. Never really seemed to get cold in the Mojave. Getting to the end of October and still felt as warm as August.

Didn’t really waste much time after that. Tate got all curled up between Butch’s spread legs and swallowed him down. Bobbed his head and dug in his fingers against Butch’s hips, trying to keep him pinned against the mattress. With the angle all Butch could really see was his husband’s blond head and the tops of his shoulders as he worked the fly on his armor. Too much work holding his head up, as nice as the view was, and Butch settled back and closed his eyes.

Maybe he should have forced Tate to talk. To acknowledge that he had died, would have stayed dead. Not that he just that he’d lost his hair. They’d run across the country to get out of the never-ending bullshit of the Capital and instead Tate’d got torn up by Legion fucks and he’d taken a bullet to the brain.

But he had been complicit in changing the subject too. Used Tate’s clever mouth for kissing instead of explaining. Now was letting him use it on his cock in sure sucking motions, making the knot of un-expelled anxiety curl and release in his stomach.

Butch tried to forget about piles of ash and laser rifles. Tried to forget about checkered coats and a 9mm.

Almost could with those wet lips working him and that damn purring noise Tate made in the back of his throat just against the head of his cock. Focused instead on that and the rhythm of Tate’s left hand as he mastrubated himself, squeezing and pulling and holding off on cumming until Butch got off too. Didn’t have to see it to know what was happening. Put his own hand in Tate’s damaged hair and pulled hard enough that he’d feel it, trying to make the blond come first so he could talk shit about it later.

“Yeah, like that, Tate. Gonna cum down your throat. And yer gonna swallow it.”

A little hissing whine from Tate and Butch knew he got him good. More squeezing now than stroking. Tate must have overestimated his endurance. He’d lost, messily, Butch could feel it against his leg. Fucker almost bit him too as he came.

Good, so blindingly good that Butch almost forgot to breathe. Tilted his head up again, got a little dizzy, but also got an eyeful of Tate between his legs. Tried to keep his groan back, but really, too much and not enough mental resources to keep everything in check. Mouth that hot that slick, too much.

Thought he wouldn't stop cumming, even after Tate pulled back and started coughing. Had been something like ten days since he'd gotten off. Wasn't 18 anymore but 23 wasn't all that different.

The dizziness didn't fade. Felt seasick in the bed until he fell back asleep.

"Well, I figure it's safe to assume you know this fellow?"

Light outside and inside both. Butch cracked one eye open, then the other. Doctor Mitchell was sitting in that chair again. Only this time, a still asleep Tate was pressed against his chest. Must have cleaned them both up before taking off his armor last night. Blood had seeped through the crappy bandage on his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah." Words go stuck in his throat. "Wake up, Nosebleed." He avoided the ripper wound but shook the blond awake.

"Not fair," Tate murmured. "I ran all through the night."

"Yeah well we ain't alone."

Forgetting his injury, Tate went to roll over before realizing the error of his ways. Cursed under his breath and didn't bother to face the Doc.

"Well now, looks like you could use some work too. Let's see to that shoulder of yours." Mitchell rose and crossed the room, fishing out supplies to treat Tate's injury.

The privacy was momentary, but Butch took advantage of it. "There ain't no where else for us to run, Tate."

"I know." His hands were at Butch's face again, tracing the lines where his unwanted beard met smooth skin. Brown eyes open in the daylight, resignation clear enough. "Don't know why it's always gotta be us though."

"So," the doctor returned. "Let's get you seen to. I'm Mitchell. Folks round here call me Doc. Let's start with your name."

"I'm a nobody," Tate pulled himself up so he was seated on the edge of the bed. "I'm this one's sidekick."

Butch thought about laughing, but knew better.

I love reading about these two in the NV world!

Also, UNF to Butch with a beard.

*nudges story gently with nose, hoping it will wake up and tell her more*

Character: F!courier, various Legion, OCs
Tags: Violence, noncon
Summary: Couriers aren’t born old and mean. It takes a hard road to get them there.
Series: Mean Old Woman
Ready for another self-indulgent background piece? No? OK!

“What’s wrong with geckos?”

Ches fidgeted, turning his knife over in his hands. He stuck his lip out, muttering something about a “little dumb blue gecko.”

Lying prone in the grass next to him, Adal put her chin on her hand. “Sun’s shining, weather’s fine. I can wait all day, boyo.”

He frowned, looking very like her. His hair curled where hers was straight, maybe, and he freckled rather than tanned, but that little scowl was the mirror image of his ma. “Babies could skin geckos,” he said, with every ounce of wisdom he could muster.

“Hold on, now.” Adal tugged at the leather of her hood. “Calling your old lady a sissy?”

Mumble mumble “mebbe not fire geckos” mumble mumble.

“That’s right, you’re not.” She parted the grass with a hand. The geckos in the meadow below were still milling about, unaware of them. “No shame in it. They’re plentiful, we hunt ‘em all the time. Half of us hunters are wearing gecko hoods now.”

“I wanna night stalker.”

“Hey now,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You better be able to back that one up, brave hunter. I’m not letting any son-of-mine go hunting night stalkers with a knife.” He avoided her eyes. “You’re young, my boy. You have another eight years, maybe, before you’re expected to do your Trial. I was that old, anyway. Don’t set your heart. We might not even be in night stalker territory then.”

Ches stared down at the knife, the handle made of a hooked antler, just like hers. She remembered leaving him in the deers’ territory earlier that year, returning to camp to wait for him to either prove himself a hunter or a disgrace. Two agonizing days ended with him returning, triumphant, and her near bursting with pride that her boy, her shadow, her little Ches was going to be as much a hunter as she.

She reached out to tuck a lick of hair behind his ear. “What’s bothering you, dearling?”

He scowled and scratched at it, making it stand up again. “They say I’m not really Walker because I’m a by-blow.”

“Wha—who says?” The geckos below jerked to attention.

“The others,” he said, peeling apart a bit of grass to not look at her. “Alam. ‘Cause my dad’s just some Circle Junction trader you don’t even know the name of and not a Walker man.”

“Oh, I’ll whip your brother’s feet,” she said, scowling. “No shame in it, Ches.”

“Say m’soft,” he mumbled. “Can’t keep up.”

“Only because you mope about it and drag along,” she said. “We’re small, us Walker, but that means a half-blood’s still miles ahead of any townie. Bit too small; you start marrying cousins if you don’t get new blood in sometimes, and you heard the tales about the people in Box Canyon.”

“Those are just scary stories,” he said.

“Oh, that they aren’t, boyo. I saw a man with his eyes where his ears ought to be,” she said, voice hushed.

“Don’t be silly, ma.”

“Arm growing out of his nose…” She touched the back of her wrist to her face and wriggled her fingers.

Ches giggled, then tried to frown. “I mean it, ma,” he said. “I gotta prove I can.”

“You’re set on this?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, solemn.

“I teach you how, you’ll listen and heed me, no matter what I say?”

“Yup.”

“Even if it’s no?”

He stuck his tongue out. “Sure.”

Adal smiled. She reached out to tousle his hair. “We’ll bag you a night stalker.”

He sat up, eyes going bright. “Really?”

“Really truly,” she said, nodding. “We’re walking to Crossroads, boyo. I might die of pride to see you lined up with the other new hunters, young as you are and in a skin like that. I can teach you tricks to sneak up on them.” She pointed down into the meadow. “But we start with geckos. You can walk in the middle of a pack and not upset them, it’s near the same trick you use on night stalkers. Learn to cut one out, isolate it. You kill one where the others see, the rest want your blood, and you ain’t walking out alive. Hear me, my boy?”

He nodded like his head was on springs. She smiled. “It’s all in the eyes. Animals don’t like being stared at, right…”

“…so then, when he’s doubled over from the gut punch, you can grab him by the ears and bash his face on your knee,” Adal said, demonstrating as she walked.

Ches nodded, fascinated. “I heard Trevi say you could kill someone, if you did that hard enough.”

“Well, I busted plenty of noses, boyo, and haven’t managed to yet,” she said, hiking the gecko carcass higher on her shoulders. “Takes the fight right out of ‘em, though.”

The day was ending as they picked up the trail back to camp. The massive bluffs gave way to low meadows between, and lazily winding rivers. Everything was deep in shadow as they neared the lush area the Walker had claimed, the only light coming from modest fires. Between them, the adults had gathered, and Adal could hear raised voices between them. She dropped the carcass at the edge of the camp and waved a hand at her son. “Go find your brother and get started on this.”

Adal pushed into the crowd, trying to hear. They made room, cousins and further relations. All shared the same dark, hooded eyes and near-black hair, skin tan and weathered. She found Jeth midway through the pack and took his hand, twisting her fingers through his. “What’s happened?”

He pulled his hand away, expression grim. “Peda and Sen found more of the Red men near the roads. They killed some of them.”

“We’ve seen what they do!” Adal stood on her toes. Peda, one of the older hunters, stood in the center of the ring. Her apprentice, Sen, held a strange rifle, the stock blank, missing the carving and paintings of a Walker weapon. Both wore scarred hunter’s hides, a mirror of Adal’s own. “Bodies tied up to rot! People stolen from their homes!” She gestured at the people around her, voice hoarse from yelling. “We can’t kill them all, no, but we can make their march painful as we can.”

“It’s not our fight!” one of the men shouted, wearing the rough cloth of a forager. “And it’s not our way. We’re Walker. We don’t have our feet nailed down like the townies, we can move on when things get dark. It’s served us long enough.”

“So we abandon the whole region?” Sen said, a little shrill with so many eyes on him. He clutched the foreign rifle tighter. “Walker move on when we can’t hold, but that doesn’t mean we don’t fight to keep what’s ours.”

“What happens if we leave?” Adal pushed her way into the center. Jeth tugged at her hood, trying to stop her. “Huh? These aren’t raids. These bastards don’t take what they need and go back to ground. The towns they take, they mean to keep. They break the people there. We leave, what the hell are we going to come back to?”

“So we find new land!”

“It might not be our problem, but other bands?” Peda said, giving Adal an approving nod. “Our children, when they Walk? What will they find? World’s gotten smaller. Land’s getting carved up. We’re running out of places to go to.

She looked around at the group. The rest of the Walker shifted where they stood, uncertain. Adal ground her teeth. “We have to fight. We show them the world isn’t theirs to take, make them hurt, maybe drive them off. But we can’t just let them trample us down.”

“No.”

The voice was old and papery, but there was steel in it yet. The crowd sidled away from a short, wizened figure. His clothes were finer than finer than the Walker who bowed to him, a mix of mender’s salvage and hide and woven cloth. He was old, maybe, but not frail, pared down to bone and sinew and muscle. He looked out over the group. “When our ancestors started their Long Walk, they sought shelter from those in a Vault. They were refused. What did our ancestors do?” he asked.

Adal shared a grudging look with the other hunters. “They walked on,” Peda said.

“When the raiders came to our forebears’ camp in Black Hills, killed many and left more injured and starving, what did they do?”

She joined in the next, grudgingly. “They walked on.”

“And when the floods took half of our band in Pueblo?”

The rest of the gathering spoke as one, We walked on. They were looking to each other, nodding. They walked on. So it had always been, when things got hard. There was always somewhere better, safer over the horizon, for those willing to Walk.

Adal sighed through her nose, frowning. “Santi, this isn’t the same,” she said. “These men aren’t one city or town or tribe. We’ve been seeing them for weeks, as we go. I don’t think we can just outrun this one.”

The elder shook his head. “We have endured this way for long enough, outlasted weather and warlords, hard road and armies greater than these.” He looked them over again, the other Walker dropping their eyes. “We will continue to.”

The group relaxed, let out a collective breath. Taking this as the final word, they began to go back to their tasks. Adal gave them a disgusted look and stomped back the way she had come. Jeth caught her arm, whispering to her, “You have to stop doing things like this.”

“What? Trying to keep us from killing ourselves?” she said, shaking him off.

“Arguing with everyone, especially people who know better than you!” He followed her to where she had left the gecko carcass. “I know you shoot at them. What happens if they follow you back? The boys—”

She shot him a thin-lipped look, nodding at them toiling over the meat. “Whatever your problem is this time, they don’t need to hear it.”

“Then don’t—” He sighed as she walked away.

No announcements were made among the Walker band, with rumor and word-of-mouth all that was needed in such a small group. Santi and the other elders forbade contact with the Red men. Any who sought them out were to be shunned.

So Peda, after Adal’s own heart, began leaving in the dead of night. She returned with foreign coins and a swatch of red and black feathers tied to her pack as trophies. When Adal asked, she just said, Clearing the road, a phrase reserved for dangerous animals on the trail ahead. Peda said nothing more, not asking the other hunters to risk their status. Yet soon, she was followed out by a throng of them, only a handful staying to protect the camp.

On her third night out, Adal paused, looking back at where she and Jeth had laid out their bedrolls. He stared past her, pretending not to see as he re-bound the grip on a spear, but there was a scowl on his face. Beside him, Alam was clumsily sewing up a rip in his shirt, pretending nothing was happening. Ches looked from one adult to the other, clutching his own spear.

Archly, as though addressing no one, Jeth said, “It would be very hard to teach you to be a man if I were not allowed to speak to you.”

Ches looked at him, then to his mother. “But I want to be a hunter.” He stood slowly. “I… I can have Sen teach me.”

She hugged him with one arm as they left. “Good boy. You know you’re doing something right, never let anyone stop you.”

“Is it right? They’ll shun us,” he said. “They only do that for the real bad troublemakers…”

“They can’t very well shun every hunter we have,” Adal said. “It needs to be all of us, all the way down to the apprentices. Only way to make a dent in the Red men, only way to get through to Santi.”

Ches gave her a worried look. She ruffled his hair. “Tracking men’s easier than tracking beasties. You’ll learn quick.”

Nearly every one of them, menders and foragers, gave them standoffish looks as they left on their hunts, but by Santi’s order said nothing. Ches stayed in her shadow, watching, learning, staying out of sight. She found a pistol on one of the strangers, gave it to him to practice. The other hunters indulged him, letting him lead as they tracked the Red men, falling back to stay in the dark of night while the adults went on with guns and spears.

Mostly. She felt him poke her leg. “Ma? Is that one a woman?”

Adal poked her head over the rock, looking at the group in the gully below. It was hard to tell in the dark, but one of the figures was slighter, rounder, wearing tattered clothes instead of armor. She sat, tending the fire rather than sleeping. “You see her, Sen?”

“Sure as,” he said. “They’ve all been men so far. What do you think? She’s not armed.”

“Leave her.” Adal raised herself higher, signaling to the other side of the camp. A quick wave told her the others were in position, the sentries on that side dealt with. She settled the butt of her rifle on her shoulder. “I’ve got the one with the feathers on.”

The shot turned his head into a messy paste, and the rest of the men leapt to their feet. They didn’t panic—they were disciplined, give them that—but had to fire blindly into the hills. One stopped firing, throwing what looked like a stone towards them. “Adal—look out!” Sen grabbed her, rolling her away from the object. She heard it clatter off a rock above them, and was dazzled by a sudden flash.

She shook her head, trying to clear it from the blast. “Ches?” She could barely hear her own voice. “Are you alright?” She stayed low, scrabbling back the way she had come. “Ches?”

He gave her a wide-eyed look, wedged between two boulders. He pointed and shouted something inaudible, and Adal felt a hot pain dig into her back. Staggering as she turned, she managed to get her rifle trained on the stranger as he raised a heavy knife. He flinched, bleeding from his shoulder, but the wild swing nicked her raised arm. Adal shouted, the sound flat and faint. The stranger readied himself for a final swing, and with a muted blast collapsed, a hole through the front of his armor.

She turned back to her son, crawling on all fours to reach him. He was climbing out of his den, unharmed, and she felt a pressure in her chest let go. Downhill, the hunters were converging on the camp. She ruffled her son’s hair, the ringing in her ears fading. Sen helped her stand, and she felt him touch her back. “You’re hurt.”

“Got some powder in my pack,” she said, feeling it.

He rummaged through for her, and waved downhill. “Come on, let’s get some light.”

The other hunters were gathering around the fire. The woman cowered between them, hands held up over her head. She was stick-thin, hair cut close and hidden under a filthy rag. Her legs and feet were bare, bruised.

Peda knelt next to her, carefully pulling her arms down. “We won’t hurt you, woman. You offered us none.”

She jerked away, landing on her rear and sliding back in the dirt. She was talking, the words accented, slurred. Adal looked over her shoulder at Sen and pointed to her neck. A metal band was fastened around it. “Our Red men are slave-takers, too?”

“It would fit, with the things we heard,” he said, and she winced when he packed the healing powder into her cuts. Adal watched the slave woman back into the legs of another hunter.

Mear, one of the men, pulled something out of a pocket, and stepped up slowly. “Here. Woman, take this. A gift.”

She pulled away, as though the bit of jerky might bite. The other hunter drew her to her feet, making her cringe. She looked between them all, eyes wide. It turned to a puzzled frown when she spotted Adal.

She felt Ches take her hand. “Is she okay, ma?”

“Shh.” She flinched away from Mear as he approached.

“Hell, Mear. The camp was all men.” She took it from him, and gently pushed him aside.

The woman looked uncertainly at them all again. Slowly, she took the lump of dried meat. ”T’ankyou?” Adal smiled at her. ”Huare yew?”

“Walker tribe,” Adal said, slow and clear. Her accent was south, more Arizona than anything. “What’s your name?”

She shook her head, babbling something incoherent, and sidled a little ways along the trail. The hunters looked to each other and shrugged. “Come on, woman,” Peda said, reaching out. “To camp. Safety.”

The slave began to run. Mear grabbed her, and she screamed, beating at him. He let go, not wanting to hurt her, and she swept up a spear, shaking it at them as she backed away. “Quiet down, woman, do you want—” Cala dodged when she swiped at her, and the slave turned to run, shouting.

“Shut her up!” Sen hissed. A few of the hunters started to follow, wincing at how her voice bounced off the hills.

“No. Let her go,” Peda called, and they slowed.

“Is she headed—?” Adal jumped at the crack of the older hunter’s rifle. The woman crumpled. “Peda! She was running!”

“She might have warned them,” Peda said, cold.

The others looked to each other, too shocked to comment. Adal put Ches behind her. “She was helpless! We could have caught her, taken her back—”

“Kidnapped her, kicking and screaming? Slow us on the way back to camp? There’s more in the hills for her to alert,” she said, heading towards the body. “We need to go, now. The collar’s enough. See if Santi can shun that away.”

The sun was high before the Walker broke camp the next day, every one of them restless, muttering to one another. They watched the low tent Santi and Peda had disappeared into, the rest of the elders following soon after. By the time they finally emerged, and Santi called cadence, rumors had already run wild through the band.

No announcement was made, no orders or instructions, but word rippled through them: The Red men, the Legion, were enemies of the Walker. The shunning was to be forgotten, but no aid was to be given to the hunters. Gradually, the nightly hunts became part of life, another step of the cycle of walking, camping, and walking again. Things became mostly normal as they followed the old trails back to Crossroads.

Mostly.

Adal sat with Alam on her lap. Her rifle was laid out on a hide, carefully stripped for cleaning. “Hunters keep up their own gear,” she said. Across from her, Ches had broken down his pistol, following along. “Their guns, at least. Menders are well and good, but when you range away, you need to be independent.” She tapped the stock, carved and painted through generations. “These weapons were carried since the first of us started the Long Walk. No one touches them but the hunter who’s earned one, and the elder who keeps them and gifts them.”

“But da wants me to be a mender,” Alam said, looking up. “Teach Ches.”

“You’re five, dearling,” she said, kissing his forehead. “You don’t have to choose yet. And he doesn’t have to spell out your whole life.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because. Shush,” she said, carefully wiping grit out of a mechanism.

“He says it’s better to be a mender because we aren’t silly,” Alam said, picking at the edge of the hide. “We Walk like we should, not chase things.”

“Well, menders are boring,” Ches said. “Sit at camp and glue things up all day. I want to run around and explore!”

“Break your neck on a cliff!” Alam stuck his tongue out.

“Boys.” Ches was up on his knees, hands fisted, and Alam slid back against her to hide. “Walker needs both of them, and they do it better without fighting.”

“Da told Bern you like to fight with everyone, and are making Ches a terror.”

“Well, we’re doing good things, and your da’s too scared to fight!”

“Don’t know yours, townie!”

”Boys!” Adal stood and grabbed them each by the arms, keeping them from each other’s throats. “Stop that right now!” Others were looking up from their tasks, turning away from their fires. She knelt between them, still holding on. “Both of you apologize. Now,” she said, quieter.

“No! He’s more a terror than me!”

“Not even a Walker!”

“What’s going on?” She looked over her shoulder at Jeth, his jaw clenched. “What are you doing to my son?”

”Our son, and nothing.” She let the younger boy go, and he ran to hide behind his father’s legs. Ches pulled away and folded his arms. “Teaching them, if it’s allowed.”

He gave her a warning look. “You want to talk about it, we aren’t doing it here.”

“Says the man poisoning my own son against me!”

“Our son,” he said, vicious. “We need to talk. Privately.”

“Just realized?” She looked at Ches. His lips were pressed tight in a frown, trying not to let them shake. “Go see if Sen needs help,” she said, and reached out to brush his hair back. He pulled away and ran before she could touch him. Adal felt a little sting in her chest.

Alam had already left at Jeth’s command. He waited for her to gather up the the guns, folding them into the hide. She stood as she finished, and dodged as he tried to take her arm. “Don’t you dare.”

He threw his hands up and walked away. She followed, noticing the glances of the other Walker who quickly looked away, hiding their annoyance and resignation, Here they go again. They passed the guards at the edge of the camp, the pack brahmin watching them as they grazed. They both were silent, seething, until the sounds of the Walker behind them were lost. “I can’t believe you,” he said, turning to her. “You and the rest of them! Walker have no business getting involved with these men, and here you are antagonizing them.”

“That’s not what this is about,” she said. “You can’t stand the idea that you can’t order me however you like, that I’m not some cringing girl—”

“It’s exactly what it’s about! All of us are being put in danger—”

“We’ll be in worse if we don’t fight!”

“You don’t need to fight everyone! Even Alam’s picked it up, you taught him to prod Ches like a brahmin—”

Their faces were inches away, and she shoved him hard in the chest. “You be real careful, mender, about what you say about my boys.”

“Don’t you lay a hand on me,” he said, teeth gritted. He recovered his balance on the hill. “They’re not just yours. You said Ches needed a man to look up to, and here you are—”

“Didn’t realize I’d picked such a coward,” she said. “Where’s your spine gone?”

“I’m standing up to you, O great hunter,” he said, bowing. “What’s that count for?”

“Nothing, in that tone,” she said. “Mockery won’t make me listen any better.”

“What does?” Jeth said, holding out his hands. “What does, Adal? You turn everything into an argument, never listen to anyone, just follow your own hard head. What does it take to get through to you?”

“A little damn respect!” she shouted. “What do you see when you look at me? Huh? Still just a struggling girl, trying to manage a babe on her own and carry her weight still, needs to be saved? Someone to fawn and call you hero?”

“That’s what you think of me?” He was face to face again, red and angry. “That this is some, some power trip that—”

“You can’t stand the fact that I—”

“Let me fucking talk! You put your own son in danger—”

“Whole damn world’s got dangerous, Jeth, better he learns—”

“Hoy!”

They both looked down the road. A group was approaching, all in the distinctive hoods of another Walker band. The hunter at their fore waved at them. “Hoy, Walker! Gabrel’s band, and Taner’s.”

“Santi’s!” she shouted back, and he pumped a fist in the air. She looked back at Jeth. “Done here.”

“Like hell.” He followed her as she greeted the newcomers, forcing a smile as she welcomed them to camp.

“Ches?” Adal stood on her toes, looking over the heads of the other Walker as they packed up camp. “Alam?” It was hard to see in the gloomy, predawn light, and their number had tripled to nearly a hundred. She tugged the sleeve of one of her band. “You seen my boys?”

He pushed up his hood, the salvaged cloth of a mender. “Have not,” he said, bundling up his tools. “Your man was looking for them, too. Probably playing with the new kids.”

They wouldn’t have gone far; sulking or not, they both knew better than to leave camp alone. The sun rose, and the joint band set off down the road, leaving her weaving between them as she hunted for her sons. A female voice called cadence, and she caught sight of an old woman walking beside Santi, probably Gabrel herself. Adal hummed along, half-listening, hearing giggling in the crowd. She snagged the shirt of a girl as she ran past, playing keep-away with a bottle. “Hold on, there. You seen my boys?”

She pointed back behind her and wiggled free. Adal glanced up to see two figures dodge back behind one of the pack brahmin, one taller, one shorter. She saw a figure beyond them take note, and set her teeth at the sight of Jeth. He strode towards her, grim. She kept time with the group, letting him approach. “Adal. We didn’t finish talking.”

“I was done. I don’t know about you.” They slowed a little, dropping back until most of the Walker had overtaken them. When they had a little space, she said, “This has gone too wrong.”

“It has. It’s hurting them, now,” he said. He glared as one of the Taner strangers glanced back at them. “We need to either mend this or part ways.”

They walked in silence. She watched her feet, kicking up a little dust as she went. “We used to have something good.”

He looked away, thinking. “You laughed more.”

“You were funnier.”

“We talked.”

“Argued less.” She looked over at him, considering, as he did the same. “We were younger.”

“Y…we changed,” he said. Adal saw him stroke the soft leather of his shirt, the wedding gift she had made him. I will protect you. She rubbed a thumb on the strap of her rifle, salvaged cloth with animal tracks stitched onto it, his gift to her. I will support you.

“We’re walking to Crossroads,” she said. “All the bands are converging. We can…”

“My uncle was named Elder, recently,” Jeth said. “He’ll be forming his own band here. He’s a good man, would be a good example for the boys. Either of them.”

A little stab went through her heart. “Alam’s more yours than mine,” she said, and couldn’t look at him. “Wants to be a mender.”

“He’ll need his mother,” he said.

“I can’t look after them both alone,” she said.

“So find some other man,” he said.

“What’s that—” Adal took a deep breath rather than rise to it. “Take him with you, or he and Ches might kill each other.”

“That’s a reasonable fear,” he said. They kept time with the group, listening to them recite the jody about the first splitting of the Bands. “It’s better, that we Walk different roads.”

“Yeah. End this, before we kill each other.” He didn’t smile, and neither did she. “There’s a lot of mouths to feed now. Gabrel’s folk are planning a hunt. I’ll take Ches, see if I can break it to him out there.”

“Maybe…” he said. She hesitated as she tried to walk away. “Next Crossroads, we’ll be older still. Three years is a long time.”

They looked at each other, and he tried to smile, a grimace that didn’t reach his eyes. She shook her head and lengthened her stride, leaving him behind.

Adal puffed, adjusting the pole on her shoulder. “I remember now,” she said, “why I hate hunting bighorner.”

“Sure,” the hunter behind her said. “Your band is all geckos, huh? Can’t work together?”

“Walk right off a cliff,” she told him. The hunters carrying the other half of the carcass laughed.

“Hers is a fire gecko, anyway,” Ches said, arms wrapped around the hide. “Have you hunted one of them with a knife?”

“No, ‘cause I’m sane,” one of them said.

He stuck his tongue out at the Gabrel man. “And mine’s gonna be a night stalker, don’t care if it’s sane.”

The hunter laughed again. “Feisty! I’ll give you Santi people that.”

They navigated the hills with the halves of the bighorner hanging between them, spear poles bending under the weight. The sun was past peak, the air starting to cool. Adal squinted at the grass ahead of them. “Was there another party headed north?”

“No. Most all of us are hunting, but none this way,” Sen said, manning the other pole. He followed her gaze to where the grass had been trampled. “Noisy sort of trail for hunters. Real big group.”

They lay the carcass down, inspecting the ground. One of the newcomers plucked something from the trail. “None of ours use casings like this,” she said, and handed it to the Gabrel, who shook his head.

Adal took it from him, a plastic tube the size of her thumb. “Shotgun. Not ours, either,” she said, a cold fear settling in her guts. “Leave the meat. We have to get back.”

“What’s wrong?” The others were passing it between them, curious.

“You know the Red men? The Legion?” she said, turning back towards camp.

“They tried to take a town we were trading with. Sent them running,” he said, following as she started to run. “They’re not…?”

“Been trading shots for weeks,” Sen said, grim.

“Shut up and run!” Adal said. Her heart was in her throat, each stride seeming to take hours. Alam. Jeth. Peda. Santi. Everyone. She ran fast and reckless until her foot slid, making her slow. She lifted it to find blood, the sole sliced on some debris, unable to feel it in her panic. The others caught up, chivvying her on, and Ches even grabbed her hand to drag her forward. Each footfall sent a stab of pain through her. Each footfall had a name, chanted in a too-slow rhythm, a prayer to find them as she had left them. Alam. Jeth. Peda. Santi. Silva. Mear. Cala...

The wind shifted, tainted by smoke. They came to a halt, breathing hard. “Sen, with me. You two, sweep east, see what you can,” Adal said. “Ches, stay put. Don’t get into trouble.”

“I’m coming with you, ma,” he wheezed, doubled over, barely able to stand after pacing the adults.

“You are not, boy. This is no game.” He flinched at the tone of her voice. “No argument. You stay.” She waved to Sen, rifle low and ready, trying to slow her breathing. They ghosted through the tall grass, circling towards the camp. Sen nudged her arm, steering them towards an overlook.

Adal had to put a hand to her mouth. The camp had been at a crossroads on the Seventy, a few shacks still standing. They burned now, along with the tents. The pavement was red with blood, one of the pack brahmin laying in pieces. Bodies were scattered the road, many hacked apart, limbs strewn like leaves. The surviving Walker cowered in the center of the crossroads. They were ringed by men in red skirts, armored, some with elaborate plumed helmets. All bore weapons, bloody blades or guns that dwarfed those of the Walker. She watched as they wove through their prisoners, splitting and sorting them into men, women and children.

Sen had slid back from the ledge, hands pressed to his face, looking ready to vomit. “Sen.” Adal grabbed him by the shoulders and made him look up. “Sen. We have to do something. We have to fight them.”

He shook his head, rocking on his heels. “My sister,” he whispered. “My father. Dead. There, in the dirt…”

“But the rest are alive!” she hissed. ”They still need our help!”

“No, no…” he moaned, pulling his hood over his eyes, tears on his face.

She slapped him hard. “Do you want to watch?” she said, and he cringed. She pushed his rifle at his chest. “I’m going to help them. I don’t care if you—”

“Hold there,” said a voice behind them in the grass, the words clipped and sharp.

One of the Legion men raised a gun towards them, gesturing. Adal started to raise her hands, not touching her gun. The stranger came closer, sweeping the barrel of his weapon downhill, towards the others. “Move,” he said, the word intelligible, but accented. “Go to the other captures.”

“Move?” she asked, and he repeated, gesturing again and frowning. “Yes. I’ll move.” She shifted her weight to stand, and turned it into a lunge, punching him hard in the gut. He folded, and she grabbed his head, bashing his face on her knee. He fell, and she followed him down, clamping a hand over his mouth and drawing her knife over his throat. She held him there, muffling the gurgling, waiting for him to stop struggling. “They’ll have more patrolling,” she said to Sen, not bothering to wipe the blood from her. “We start with them. Knives if we can, guns if things go bad.”

He nodded, hands still over his mouth. She led him back towards the other hunters, trying to regroup and plan. If they could thin out the guards, start luring out the ones in the camp, there might be a chance. Get them to break up, give the rest of the Walker a chance to take arms.

One of the Legion men was staring towards the camp, watching the scene below. She dealt with him as she had the other, slowing his fall, grimacing at the flow of blood on her arms and hands. She heard a shout from uphill, one of the strangers leveling a gun at her. Adal sidestepped the first shot, taking aim herself and sending him reeling, and a round from Sen beside her took him down. There were more voices from the camp, one raised above the others, giving orders. She cried out as a bullet sank into her arm, moving away from the ledge.

There was a quick whistle ahead. One of the other hunters ducked back behind a rock, shooting a glance towards the road. Footsteps pounded up, an armored man charging towards her. He spotted Sen in the grass, and snapped off a blast with his shotgun before the hunter could move. He screamed, and the Red man shouted, calling his allies.

Adal tried to rush his side, but the gash in her foot slowed her. He turned to face her, the butt of his gun catching her chest and sending her sprawling. Her rifle fell out of reach, and she rolled up, slicing at his legs. He danced back, and she lunged again, the knife sinking through the thin leather of his armor and into his belly. She grabbed the shotgun and left him writhing, turning to face the others.

She fired the shotgun at her attacker, the kick of it unfamiliar, and scrambled to figure out how to cycle it. There was a lever under the stock like her own rifle, and she worked it frantically, staggering as a shot took her in the leg. She bit down on the pain and sighted on the next Legion man to try and approach. The other hunters were circling, flanking the newcomers and drawing them off. She managed to score one kill with the shotgun, another with the knife when one of the men charged, reckless.

They were too few, more Legion coming to aid. She did not see the other Walker fall, but their enemies turned to her. Adal tried to retreat, wound in her leg slowing her, terror blunting the pain as rounds bit into her shoulder, her legs. She stumbled on Sen’s body, and turned to run. Adal screamed as buckshot tore into her side, her pack taking the brunt but the pain pushing her past the breaking point. She rolled onto her back, still firing as they drew close. The shotgun ran dry, and she struggled to stand.

“Leave her alone!” a shrill voice shouted.

“Ches!” she screamed, whipping around to face him. “Run! Get out of here!”

He had her rifle on his shoulder, far too large and heavy. He fired wildly, the recoil nearly throwing it from his hands. One of the Legion men was laughing as he struggled with the stiff lever, walking up to him calmly. Adal surged up, teeth bared, lurching towards him with her knife. “Leave him! Leave him alone! Don’t—”

Ches swung it like a bludgeon, the stock cracking against the Red man’s knee. He fell, and another grabbed him, pressing the muzzle of his gun against his head. “Stop, woman,” he said. “Or the boy dies.”

Adal froze, swaying. One of the men grabbed her, twisting her arm behind her back and holding her own knife to her throat. “Take them to the road,” he said, voice cold.

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

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Crossroads (1/9)

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Crossroads (4b/9)

Crossroads (5/9)

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