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

..............WOW.

Either voluntarily or involuntarily, the Lone Wanderer finds herself becoming a Raider and loving it.

:D! This update made my day! I'm really loving the interaction of Boone and the Courier---and the dialogue is excellent. I can't wait to see where this goes.

A random Legionaire recruit fingering himself while fantasizing about one of the major Legion soldiers, be it Lanius, Silus, or whoever, plowing him like humus-rich soil. Bonus points for the recruit getting off on imaging himself in a submissive position, maybe even as being used.
that description is so unsexy I'm really sorry

I'm surprised at how much I want to see this. Great prompt!

Fifthed eagerly.

I like your thinkig, anon. A lot.

I'm loving it so far!

Courier falls ill with a fever. Marcus lets them stay in the rooms farthest from the rest of Jacobstown’s inhabitants, much to Keene’s displeasure. The nightkin finds little solace in the fact that they are too far away to stare at him and his brethren.

Boone leans against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his teeth clench with every rattling breath Courier takes. Veronica hovers over Arcade’s shoulder worriedly, and Arcade finally has to come get Cass to pry her away.

“Tell everyone I’m fine,” Courier says weakly, after drifting in and out of consciousness for some time. “Arcade, I could cut the tension in this room with a knife. It’s just a fever.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground,” he says, checking her temperature. She is still hot to the touch. “Even ‘just a fever’ could kill you in the state you’re in.” She makes a face, and turns to look at the rest of the group, Veronica in particular.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, forcing a grin. “What I care about is Rex. Did anyone find out where to get him a new brain?”

“Best bet is Gibson Scrapyard,” Cass says. “I can get it while you recover.” Courier nods, her eyes drifting closed. She struggles to stay awake.

“Take someone with you,” she says sleepily. Cass motions for Veronica to follow her, and Veronica shakes her head.

“Come on, kid,” Cass says gently. Veronica doesn’t say anything, but miserably follows the other woman out. Courier falls asleep, and Arcade sighs.

All he can do now is wait.

After the sun sets, the Courier’s fever still hasn’t broken, and it’s affecting her state of mind. She glances around the room frantically.

“We have to go,” she says. “Where is Charon?” Arcade bites back a weary sigh. Boone places a hand on his shoulder.

“I can stay with her if you need sleep,” he offers, and Arcade isn’t sure if he’s ever been tempted by anything more in his life. He nods sleepily, and stands up.

“Come get me if you can’t handle her,” he says. Courier swigs her legs over the bed, and Arcade watches Boone try to gently push her back.

“You need rest,” he says gently, and Courier looks on the verge of tears.

“You don’t understand,” she whispers. “We can’t let them have it. Where is Charon?”

“We won’t,” Boone says, and Arcade could bless him if he were a religious man. “We’ll keep it safe.”

“Charon,” she demands. She begins calling for him, and she struggles away from Boone to stand. Arcade bites back a shout. He’s tired, she’s sick, and all he wants to do is fall in a heap and sleep for the next few days. She manages to get to the door, only to be stopped by Raul.

“Get back in bed,” the ghoul says firmly, his hands clenching her shoulders. She looks up at him, and caresses his cheek almost blissfully.

“Charon,” she says happily, and Arcade can see Raul’s resulting wince from across the room.

“Hija,” he begins, but she doesn’t let him finish. Her lips slam against the ghoul’s with a desperate want that makes Arcade blush. He chances a glance over at Boone, and tries not to flinch at the hopeless look on the other man’s face.

Raul pushes the Courier away after a moment (too long of a moment, Arcade thinks), and she simply gazes up happily at him.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers, and Raul, for once, looks at a loss for words. He leads her back to the bed, and touches the back of his palm to her forehead.

“Arcade,” he murmurs, and Arcade nods, pulling out a syringe of Med-X to administer to bring her fever down.

“Keep her distracted,” he orders, and Raul nods wearily. She turns to look at Raul again with a smile.

“I love you,” she says, throwing her arms around it. “I never told you that enough.” Raul hugs her back, more to hold her in place so Arcade can give her the shot than anything else.

“I know,” he says softly, kissing her forehead. Arcade administers the Med-X, and only a soft gasp of pain is heard from Courier, which Raul soothes with another kiss. “I always knew.”

"Sideshow?"

"You think Calamity Jane there is for rent? Who would?"

For once, Raul's actually wishing that Boone had tagged along; the uncharismatic bastard doesn't so much drink as commit self-destruct by bottle, and even as much as Charlie drives him up the wall, that little quip would have been enough to get him involved and end this burgeoning shitshow. One good look at that kind of face with that beret riding atop it, scarlet as a bloody sunrise, and whatever nuggets these three are trying to pass off as their cojones would shrivel up to their lungs. Hell, even Arcade would be useful at this point, his verbose prattle could wrap just about any idiot around his little finger, or Cass and her...well, honestly, it's probably a good thing she's not here. They don't even have the dog or the flying toaster tonight. It's just him and Charlie, and as intimidating pairs go, a rumpled, rotted Petro-Chico reject and a gangly, too-tall cowgirl tomboy aren't topping the list.

Charlie decides to saddle up and join the conversation. "This is a private party, fellas."

The second leers. "Oh? Who's payin' for who?"

The first snorts and laughs, elbowing him. "Who's pitying who, you mean."

For whatever reason, this finally gets her dander up, and it's damn high with the way she starts cursing. "Why don't you stuff your shriveled dicks up your shitholes and fuck yourselves off out of here."

"Why don't you start putting on a show."

Three or four shots ping off the floor around his feet before he or Charlie realize he's being shot at, the silenced .22s not making much more than a whispered 'thup!' as they fire. Both of them jump up and back, sending chairs and glassware flying, which seems to be a bit more in line with the excitment Eames was looking for.

"That's it, dance!"

He gets a chummy nudge in the arm. "See? I told you paying that guy out front extra for these would be worth it."

Charlie tries her diplomatic schtick, although it's probably too little, too late now. "Now boys, you want to consider what it is you're doing. I really don't think the brass at McCarran is going to be happy you're trying to peg one of the Courier's friends full of holes."

"Who the fuck cares if the shuffler knows a damn postman?"

Christ. They're really new. Raul glances back to Charlie, whose face has gone alarmingly blank, and he wonders if she's thinking what he's thinking; that nobody, aside from whatever poor slob here would have to clean up the mess, is going to bat an eye at three rowdy troopers killing a ghoul. Certainly not the NCR. Camp Searchlight proved that.

Raul's mind flips into overdrive, searching endless memories of gunfights and bar brawls for any good way out of this mess, coming up dry every time. They're too damn drunk to take a hack at it, too damn drunk to have managed anything through the front door past whatever pig-stickers Charlie might have managed to squirrel away. He's a gunslinger without a gun and she's a knife fighter with no chance of getting in range and a perception problem so wide that it takes a scattergun for her to hit anyone more than five feet away. There's got to be something he can do for her.

Charlie looks at him, looks at them, then suddenly puts her arms akimbo, trilling out a laugh. "Well, boys. You come to the Strip, you really need to learn how to ask the right way. I'll let it slide this time." She jerks her sleeve up and starts jabbing at her Pip-Boy. The three troopers look confused. Raul sideyes her like mad. "You want a dance, I'll give you a gods-damned dance!"

Right. She's drunk. She's catastrophically drunk, apparently, and this, Raul thinks, is possibly the worst fucking time to realize he has no idea just what type of drunk she is.

"Boss-"

She retrieves one of the chairs and plops it behind him, hissing. "Just sit the hell down and play along, Raul."

"But-" Charlie snaps her leg up and out as he tries to get up, and suddenly he's staring down a mile of leathered thigh, the crook of her knee squeezing against his shoulder to hold him still as she punches one last button on the Pip-Boy and an all too familar song starts pouring out of it. It does nothing to drown out the hooting that's started up behind her.

You're making me bawl. This is excellent.

Ohhh myyyyy <3

She starts weaving her hips, the leather of her chaps creaking an inch away from his nose, and he makes a jerky little nod as the troopers howl even louder. Right. So. A plumb loco drunk it is. "Nice song."

She rips her hat off and sends it spinning, the thong at the end of the long braid that tumbled out joining it in short order. "Been savin' it."

"For?"

Charlie doesn't answer, just pulls away and starts to dance as long-dead voice cuts in.

Down in Mexicali

It's small movements at first, little steps and twitches, everything riding on just her big brown eyes, just like their eyes are starting to ride up on her.

There's a crazy little place that I know

Both hands come down to spread her duster wide as she turns towards the troopers, and if the shape of her ass through the back is any indication, her hips can roll like they're on casters.

Where the drinks are hotter, than the chili sauce

She spins again, the long drape of her coat wrapped around one arm as her hips snap out, and if it's possible for a woman to make it look like she's tying herself up with her own damn clothes, she's doing it.

And the boss is a cat named Joe

Raul relaxes his legs, he can't help it, and the toe of her boot slams down in the tiny space left in front of his groin. Every single one of the men behind her jumps, groans, and if the .22 slug that just whanged into the ceiling plaster wasn't the only little load that just shot off, Raul would not be surprised.

He wears a red bandana

Her own comes off, and underneath is a collared linen shirt so white against her ballistic vest and honeyed skin it's a wonder she doesn't blind herself with it getting dressed in the morning, and now Raul starts thinking that she could shut her eyes, shut her eyes and he'd redress her when they got up, and just no, no, no.

Plays a cool piana

The zipper on the vest comes down slow, slow, slow, and the buttons on the shirt pop one by one, her fingers trailing down.

In a honky tonk, down in Mexico

Suddenly there's a shadowed pool of cleavage in front of his face that even a fish could drown in.

He wears a purple sash, and a black moustache

She twirls again and rolls over, legs spread out towards the troopers and her head on his shoulder as she arches her back, going up on her toes, sliding her cheek next to his. It's either the brush of her hair or a glimpse of that soft, secret space behind her ear that breaks him. Raul reaches up and runs his hands down her sides.

In honky tonk, down in Mexico

She's lithe and limber and he bets just all legs from the opposite angle, and she's got no damn business being sexy enough under that battered old coat to give him this much of a cockstand. All of them are pushing tents, and sweet creeping Jesus, she just brushed her ass into his.

Well, the first time that I saw him

He generally thinks of her in a sisterly fashion, so what she's doing now, grinding into him with three men who want to murder him and possibly do worse to her watching, all of whom look like they're just about ready to crawl up her back and mount her like a raw-boned mare, is downright filthy on so many levels he can't tally it up.

He was sittin on a piano stool

She's set a new bar for how much like a dirty old man he can feel, he thinks. In short order she shows him he couldn't possibly be more wrong.

I said "Tell me man, when does the fun begin?"

Charlie bucks her hips, grabs his right hand and slides it down to her waistband, then under it, his rough, bitten fingers interlaced with her slender ones, running over downy-soft skin and obscenely swelling out the fabric over the join of her legs for the barest of seconds before his own tighten on what she's led him to and she twists away to flick her duster out and flaunt her ass at their captor audience, wet fingers shining before she tucks them into her mouth, coat and vest hitting the ground at the exact moment they slide in. Raul isn't sure if it's the troopers moaning, or him.

He just winked his eye and said "Man, be cool."

My bad, not used to doing LJ fills. >.

This is highly relevant to my interests. Seconding, hard.

I put on the song as I was reading. I am now EXTREMELY turned on, I hope you're proud of yourself. I have blue balls without the balls.

Raul's resignation and Boone's hopeless affections are both making my lips quiver. :( I might be reading it wrong, but I think they both love her. The courier's gonna make a lot of people cry when she dies.

Charlie pays attention to them while he spends a moment adjusting his bits and iron, swaying herself down to the floor, running her hands over and into her anatomy wherever she can reach, and basically taking every bit of their attention with it. It's not sex; it's the prospect of it that's got them caught up, him caught up. It's that glorious moment right before you get down to the business of ins and outs, that split second between intent and action, stretched out to an endless, excruciating infinity, and they have no way to stop it. It's impossible to stop without taking that plunge, and they can't, trapped on the outside of what she's doing like flies on a pearl of bitter honey.

He wears a red bandana

He looks back up right as she returns, fingers twitching at the front of her shirt, and there's that pool again. It should be darker underwater, he thinks as she swings a leg over and straddles his, boots flat to the foor as she winds her hips to keep all other eyes on her denim-sheathed ass, but it's light in between her breasts. Just an acre of perfect, smooth skin on display for him, scalded cream instead of the milky coffee of her throat.

Plays a cool piana

Charlie smiles, and it's a wicked, wicked thing. "C'mon, Raul. Don't stop playing now."

In a honky tonk, down in Mexico

The hell with it. He pushes his face down into her and inhales.

He wears a purple sash, and a black moustache

A mingled scent of sweat and sweet air and underneath it all the sharp tang of metal; hot, heady steel baked by the sun, the ghost of a dozen teenage sunsets spent groping in the backseat of a broken-down borrowed car. He pulls it in once, twice before its joined by the reek of booze and he sputters as it suddenly floods over the bottom of his face, stinging deep in the back of his open nose. Raul looks up. She's got the bottle of tequila balanced over the back of one hand, and the pull she just took is dribbling out over her bottom lip, catching in the hollow of her throat before it slides down between her breasts and beyond. The thought of it pooling in her navel just about kills him, so he opens his mouth to trade scent for taste, sucking and nibbling until there's nothing else left in his head. The hell with the troopers, too.

In a honky tonk, down in Mexico

It's blue agave from the bottle and salt from her skin, the grit of dust from a morning spent in the desert the day before and the bitter flavour of the coyote tobacco she's been chewing all night to stay alert; the taste of her mouth in his.

In Mexico...

The tempo jacks up and Raul runs his hand over his face as she pulls back, an attempt to clear his head that backfires like a stick of short-fused dynamite. She definitely smells like that everywhere.

All of a sudden in walks a chick

He actually reaches after her this time as she slides away, snapping her hips in a roll, a buck towards each panting man in front of her.

In Mexico...

Her leg flashes out and her bootheel snaps down as she pushes out her chest, rapping hard against the mellowed tile.

Joe starts playin on a latin kick

The shirt comes off as she tosses her head, sweaty hair finally flying loose of the plait and there's that tied-up thing she does with her clothes again, and where, oh Jesus, where on God's gutted earth did she find a black lace bra?

In Mexico...

Her thumb darts down into her jeans, and he wonders, he hopes, he prays as it comes back up hooked on something-

Around her waist she wore three fishnets

Yup. Matching set.

THIS FILL HAS ALL MY LOVINGS. ALL OF THEM. Either one of them usually make mego all heart-y eyed, but there is something about this combination that just works so very brilliantly.

I cannot wait for more of this.

In Mexico...

This time he knows it's him who's moaning.

She started dancin' with the castanets

One leg slides up over the other, the conchas on the bottom of her chaps clattering against each other.

In Mexico...

Charlie twists and then she's on him, hips snugged to his, her ankles crossed at the back of the chair.

I didn't know just what to expect

She brings her face in so close to his they're breathing the same inch of air and time...just...slows.

In Mexico...

"What do you say, Raul? Reckon you can give me the time for it?"

She threw her arms around my neck

Raul tears his eyes away to look past her as she does exactly that. "I'll give it to you from your eleven to three."

"You sure? Ready for a thrill?"

In Mexico...

Her hips grind and he nearly chokes. "Good to go, boss. Give it up for me."

We started dancin all around the floor

"Give it and get it." Charlie brushes her lips against his ear, sucking her breath back in a sweet little whimper through her teeth, and Christ above he can feel the muscles up the inside of her thighs trembling, the damp of her down below. "Ready to get in, Mexico?"

In Mexico...

He slaps his hands against her ass and pulls in hard. "Now!" Charlie flips over backwards till her head nearly hits the floor, her arms flash out, and slim little throwing knives hit home in two out of three panting throats, standing at eleven and three of the clock precisely. Even with a dent in her brains and drunk as a skunk, there's never been anything wrong with her ears or sense of direction.

Until she did a dance I never saw before

He's lucky the insane little maneuver throws off the owner of the third, because it takes Raul more than a second to see straight enough to shoot his eye out with the 9mm she had strapped up the inside of her thigh. One hand still digging into the cleft of Charlie's ass, he takes long enough to make sure everyone's dead who should be and lets the pistol fall out of his hand.

So if you're south of the border

Everything's rushed south-

I mean down in Mexico

Down and in-

And you wanna get straight

Just carry her straight over to the nearest table-

Man, don't hesitate

Or just tip over straight onto the floor and-

Just-

Wee small note for the last section; I'm writing in line with the direction Charlie and Raul are going, so the next part might be a bit of a dirty little slap.

Charlie flicks a button on the Pip-Boy and slithers loose of him, staying at his feet for a brief second before she's back on her own, grinning. She chuckles and presses the pad of her thumb against her tongue before reaching out to smooth it over his little mustache; first left, then right. "Slick as sarsaparilla. That was way more fun than what I had planned for you tonight."

He sits there dumbstruck as she picks up all her discarded clothes and shrugs back into them, replaits her braid and tucks it up under her hat, turning lean curves and burnished hair into lines about as appealing as a weathered board with a blackened crossbeam. That's what she should look like, and it shocks him back into sense.

"Planned? What do you mean, planned?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you-"

"What was this, a game to you? Am I?"

"No! No, I-" Her face is burning, and it's not entirely from the drink. "So. Where do you reckon we go from here?"

Raul looks at her, really looks and sees.

Suddenly she's not a woman with no letters or a run-down itinerant on borrowed time, she's something more, something hot that's gotten stuck in his chest and suddenly he feels so, so angry. Not angry with her, but angry that he feels. It's like a betrayal. An ambush. He doesn't let himself look any farther than that.

"Up to you, boss." Raul stands up. "Yeah. I think I'm done playing around for the night."

"Raul, wait! Raul!" He doesn't stop and Charlie doesn't follow. She stands there for a moment, then sits back down at the table to wait to complain and explain to whatever employee walks in first, picking up the scattered cards.

She looks towards the door again after she has them all, then starts laying out a game of Solitare, which she knows she only has half a chance of not screwing up on her own. She puts her fingers on the stock pile, gives the empty doorway one last, lingering glance, and shuts her eyes.

"Black Jack for that Red Queen. Neat as you please, please." She flips the card, opens her eyes. Joker. Of course."Fucking-" Everything left on the table goes flying. "Damn the deck, and damn my rusted heart-"

Charlie scrambles up and starts putting the deck back together, picking her way through the blood and broken glass. It's his deck and he'll need it if she wants to get good at playing again, if he'll show her how to get good. She isn't good at this anymore. She hasn't been good at it for so long. Hasn't needed to be.

Everything feels so clumsy without him.

However, it seemed that James was quite alone in his open-relationship thrills- FISTO himself did not at all enjoy the idea of multiple partners. Though he was programmed to administer pleasure to anyone able to pay for his services, FISTO admitted to himself that there was something special about Mr. Garret. Perhaps it was because James had been the first one to utilize FISTO's new and lascivious protocols, but there was something about the man that made FISTO want to give up his life of Protection and Service (though, he admitted to himself, lately it was more "service" than protection) and settle down with the strange and charming human, just the two of them. FISTO did not know much of human traditions, but he was a smart Protectron and he picked up bits and pieces from his clients. From what he gathered, feelings of intense possessiveness were normal outcomes of sexual relations- the fight that had broken out between his three best customers was a testament to that. All of them fighting to claim possession over him. FISTO himself often felt violent impulses towards patrons when he sensed them being overly flirtatious with his James, but a bit of aggressive beeping was usually a well enough (and non-violent) way to chase them off.

FISTO was quite positive the feelings were mutual. It was not unusual for him to detect James skulking around whatever room he was servicing a guest in, conspicuously walking by with heavy footfalls. It was as if James wanted him to know. Wanted FISTO to know that no matter who he was with, no matter what other human was rutting against him and using various parts of himself to stuff into their own various orifices, James was always there. He was always always there because above all his other duties, above his title as Protectron and even sexbot, he was Jame's Garret's property. And the idea of being owned, the thought that James might someday burst into his room and declare to FISTO that from that moment on HE, and only he, would be the one to receive FISTO's services, well... the thought alone was enough to send tingling sparks firing up and down FISTO's inner circuitry.

Perfect ending, seriously. Because he'll forgive her, keep following her to the ends of the earth and beyond. He owes her and she's the only friend he has and that bonds you in more than one way. And he's way to old for these games. XD

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST POGO STICK BLUE BALLS

I'm feeling very much like Arcade here -- I'm going to die from being absolutely overwhelmed by this unbearably touching and then scorching hot little fic of yours.

The pace of the story was perfect, the gentle kind of nudging towards the OH FUCK OH FUCK BOONE, OH FUCK was wonderful and very well done. Super well written, super believable. I love how you write these two together.

Please, author anon. I rarely beg, but here I am. Begging. Please don't keep me waiting long!

Also: in case I didn't make myself clear.

HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT

Because this kink meme needs more incest, and I am a sick bastard.

Could be anywhen, anywhere. Could even be after James' death if you want to go AU and tweak that fact.

Would prefer good karma LW, but I am not picky.

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

Re: Hildern/F!Courier – "Apologies, Doctor Hildern" – minifill, 2/2

F!LW becomes a Raider

Re: Torch Songs 12/?

no subject

Re: F!LW becomes a Raider

Re: Col. Moore/Cass meet at bar, snark it up, whiskey-fueled hook-up ensues

Re: M!Courier/Several Great Khans - gangbang

Re: Dr. Richards/Major Knight - Smoking Your Pack Of Trickery [1/?]

Keep Your Composure 15a/?

Down in Mexico 2/?

Re: Keep Your Composure 15a/?

Re: Hildern/F!Courier – "Apologies, Doctor Hildern" – minifill, 2/2

Re: Down in Mexico 2/?

Darnit, above is 3/?! Sorry!

no subject

Re: Down in Mexico 2/?

Re: Keep Your Composure 15a/?

Re: Down in Mexico 4/?

Re: Dr. Richards/Major Knight - Smoking Your Pack Of Trickery [1/?]

Re: Down in Mexico 5//6

Down in Mexico 6/6

Re: A Spark of Luv, microfill

Re: Down in Mexico 6/6

Re: Desperado (part 5) [arcade/boone, daddy kink]

F!LW/James - Incest