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

Hear me out, A!As.

It has to be weird as hell waking up with another person's voice.

Anon would like Christine fantasizing that Vera's still around so she can have some kind of companionship post-Dead Money. How that plays out is up to you.

Kinks: Violence, angst, voice
Characters: Lonesome Drifter, F!Lone Wanderer, Mister Burke
Relationships: Het (F!Lone Wanderer/Mister Burke)
Summary: The Lonesome Drifter sings a song of love and murder in the Capital Wasteland.

"Sing me a song," she said. He didn't know the woman except as a presence at the bar, just another blonde in a casino full of fancy girls. There had been several in the audience during his performance, but this was the first to approach him afterwards; his minor brush with celebrity wasn't quite enough for women who could have their pick of Chairmen. The Lonesome Drifter put down his glass of whisky and gave the strange woman a smile.

"Seems to me I gave you more than one song this evening."

She waved at him dismissively.

"A better song. All those numbers were so sad, and without much in them to be sad about!" She placed her hand on his leg, and he made no attempt to remove it. "Why don't you try harder and really break my heart?"

You met girls like this sometimes as a singer. Girls who come on strong when it isn't really you they want but your music. They leave you once they realize you're more than just a sweet voice; a man with fears and weaknesses and boring habits, who thinks about things besides romance. Girls who end up breaking both your hearts.

At least this one said what she wanted up front.

"I know a few murder ballads, if that's what you want. Old stuff, about highwaymen and jilted lovers."

"Nothing old! I've heard them all before. Can't you sing me something new?"

The Lonesome Drifter cocked his head, wondering how much the woman had been drinking. Maybe she was always this demanding, drunk or sober. If he ever made it big, he would have no time for girls like her, nor would he sing at all when he wasn't being paid.

But for now, he was still small time. He leaned in close to the strange woman, and softly- quieter than the music piped through the bar, forcing the woman to lean in as well- he began to sing.

"Oh wandering maiden, won't you sit by my side?
Such a lovely creature should not have to roam.
I'll give you a mission, and if you agree,
My love will be yours and my fortress your home.

Oh wandering maiden, this town has grown old
No hope for its people except that they die
Your pay will be handsome, the wasteland renewed
If you start a blaze and leave no one alive..."

I want an F!Courier who is absolutely brilliant (enough so to challenge Mr. Gannon), sharp, and disgustingly manipulative. In fact, she's never physically killed a single soul (maybe she doesn't even know how to use a gun properly), though she certainly is the cause of hundreds of murders. Whether she uses a combination of good looks and brains to get what she wants or just some smooth talking (not flirting, necessarily, though that is also great), I want this F!Courier to have a big brain and a silver tongue. Though she isn't necessarily EVIL, she certainly isn't good, and is so disjointed from normal feelings that she honestly can't decipher right from wrong. A sociopath maybe? Definitely a narcissist.

But wait! There's more...

I want this cold, calculating, plotting, conniving dame to side with Mr. House, becoming something of a secretary or confidant. House absolutely adores this Courier, but when Caesar arrives on the Strip a couple years after the Second Battle to negotiate some political shit, the Courier secretly offers her services to the former emperor, promising to help over-throw House (again) and allow Caesar's Legion to become an absolute power, with her riding shotgun, whispering sweet nothings in Caesar's ear. I know that seems pretty backwards right? Why didn't she just side with the Legion in the first place? Will she actually let Caesar's Legion take over? WHO KNOWS. I'm not smart enough to figure out the plot, that's why I need the master writers of the meme to take on this baby. This can be a total gen fic or full of wonderful, dirty smut, I truly don't mind either way. If at a loss for pairings (if including smut) I wouldn't mind some rough, angry, dominating sexytimes between Caesar and the Courier. Or maybe Vulpes finds his doppelganger (the Courier) rather fetching and decides to tear dat ass apart ASAP. Or maybe... dare I say it... LANIUS? Anything goes, don't mind how or what and you can fuck around with my prompt as much as you want, take it all or leave it all, I just want this like the burning fist of Mars.

I don't even fucking... Ugh. I'm listening to my Disney playlist again, and when 'Kiss the Girl' came on, I somehow envisioned the Courier uncomfortably enduring Arcade's rape face whilst the song plays loudly around them.

To sum this shit up, I want the feelings of the people around the Courier to influence what music plays, and of course, the Courier's mood could also influence a song. Say he/she is sad over a death of an animal/companion/NPC when suddenly 'The Circle of Life' starts bellowing out dramatically around her/him, either ruining or intensifying the moment. Say she (if you so choose to make this Courier a lady) is walking through the Legion Fort and 'A Girl Worth Fighting For' awkwardly starts playing whilst socially retarded soldiers shout sexism at her. Say Caesar gets excited that he/she is siding with him (if you so choose, again...) and 'I Just Can't Wait to be King' starts playing, making everyone verrrrrry uncomfortable. Say he/she is a total shitty shot, and the walking, sexy ass refrigerator known as Boone shakes his head in shame, inciting 'I'll Make a Man Out of You' to burst out.

And no, the music isn't strictly for the Courier's ears, everyone can hear it. Everyone. Cue companions/NPCs bein' all 'wuh duh fuuu'. You can make it like a radio, where everyone is just forced to listen to the song and wait out the merciless awkwardness. OR if you want to make this spectacularly flamboyant, you can make the NPC/Courier/Companion who inspired the song to actually be forced to sing it really enthusiastically, choreography and jazz hands included. I don't know. IDONTKNOW. Just please, do this for me.

Genius prompt is -dare I say?- GENIUS!

I too want this like the burning fist of Mars. Seconded!~

Dude yesssssssss

This is an amazing start, anon! I can't wait for more!

Should we pick out the ring together, or do you want me to surprise you?

I'm on this.

Yessssssss~

Takes place after James dies in the rotunda; LW and Charon have made camp in an abandoned building the night after James's death. Charon comforts LW in the only way he can think of: sex.

I'd like LW calling Charon "daddy" and basically just really passionate h/c sex. Thanks! <3

I wrote and posted this on FF a couple weeks ago for my Courier Charlie and I think you might like it.

It's been hours, long enough that she's no longer sure if she's fought in this pit before, but then there's always the chance that this is a brand new one. Walls of dirt and stone, busted rebar and concrete, badly welded scraps made out of who the hell knows what; they're all the same in the end until a rival family or what passes for the law busts it up and breaks it down. She doesn't favour a side, just takes what she wants from whoever will set it up. An opponent, screams in the air, blood on the sand, and a purse full of caps at the end of the day. Same dirty little fucking dance.

She flicks her duster out and spits, waiting for the bell. "New Reno is a shithole."

Her final guest of the night grins from across the ring at her, all scarred muscle and dug-in smoky blue tattoos leaning against a sledge that weighs at least twenty pounds if it's an ounce. "I hear you keep saying that."

"Reckon it keeps being true."

"Then why the fuck don't you leave?"

"And give up your fine company?"

Both of them raise their voices as the announcer starts his patter to the crowd, outlining the skills of both, their histories of wins, or sometimes just total bullshit he pulls from his ass, all exaggerated to make the bets fly even faster. Same unending prattle.

'In this corner, weighing in at a long 165 pounds-'

"Last chance to give up before I kill you."

'Your darling of the desert, your queen of the blades-'

"I could say the same."

'The one, the only Duster!'

"Duster? That's supposed to scare me?"

Duster flicks out her leathery namesake again, giving the sheaths at her hips a flash of daylight. "Don't care what it does for you. Crowd give it to me because it makes it easier for the betting."

'And in this corner, at a whip-whopping 278 pounds-'

"Makes it easier to identify the paste I'll turn you into."

'Your Beast from the East-'

"Ah heck Jules, do I really need to know who the fuck he is? Not like I can keep track any more." She slaps a shit-eating grin on her face and Jules laughs from his perch high above, gold-capped teeth shining out of his dark wizened face, and everyone laughs with him, all except for the lunk with the sledge. it doesn't matter. The bell rings and then they're at it. Same shit, different day.

He's faster than she thought he would be, faster than he has a right to be, and Duster knows there has to be some sort of chemical edge at work. All it does is make the fire in her belly burn higher, and she starts laughing as she dances around, ducking and bobbing as the sledge comes within an inch of tearing her hat off with her head still in it. Faster, but there's no flair, no fight, no skill.

The sound of the crowd rises around her with each bit of blood that falls from the little nicks she's leaving in him, a flow that matches the sound of her own in her ears. Why in all the stars and sky they'd match her up with such an ox for her last go around the ring for the night she has no idea. Duster even goes so far as to bash his teeth in with the hilt of one of her knives, a risky, stupid move with his kind of reach, just to see if it would mean a better fight, a better thrill, the only kind of high she wants. She doesn't get it.

She's moving in for the killing blow, bored and ready to make him smile from ear to ear under the chin when something jumps up from nowhere and bites her.

"What the fuck-" She slaps at the back of her neck and pulls away a dart, sticky and black. There's time to stare at it, time to think 'well, this is an interesting turn of my key' before her feet are flying out from under her, blades gone and the end of her long coat caught up in his meaty, fat fist. She stares up at him, eyes burning from under the brim of her hat like two coals in the ground as whatever the dart was smeared in works into her brain. "You low-down dirty whoremaster."

"You've pissed off too many of the wrong people, you cocky little cunt. Time for you to shuffle on down the trail."

"Some people just can't stand a girl winning fair and square. Who was it, the Mordinos? The Wrights?"

"Does it matter? You don't give a shit about names, remember?" He grimaces and hefts the sledge, broken teeth streaked with a sick ruddy orange from his bleeding gums that smears when he pats the tip of his tongue over them. "Fucking teeth-busting bitch. I was just supposed to make it look good. Now I'll make it last. Looks like your fancy coat got you killed."

Duster locks eyes with him as he smiles and pulls her own lips up in a rictus, putting every one of her intact pearly whites on display that she can. "Looks like it got me in close, you sonofawhore. Send whoever the fuck and the Golgotha my love."

Her hand flicks out faster than a spurt of heat lightning and slaps against his groin, pulling her up and out of the way of the sledge just in time. He's howling and she's dancing, although it's more of a dirge with that dreck in her blood, the slow, sick march of it taking the sweetness out of the song. Duster holds up her hand as he pats at his now-sopping crotch, waggling the handle of a recently whole switchblade.

"What..."

"Cheap little stick for a cheap little prick."

"How..."

"Never try to cross a cunt or send a tribal tripping, sunshine. You won't win on either account."

She circles him until he drops, retrieves the dart from the sand and thocks it into the side of his skull to send a message back. The crowd's still roaring, she's still on top, but the song's gone fully sour for her now, and she sighs.

"I'm too old for this shit." Duster takes time to make sure whoever pegged her in the neck isn't waiting in the wings before she picks up her knives and staggers off out of the arena, ignoring the crowd, ignoring Jules calling after her, openly walking through the streets until she reaches the weathered door she's looking for. Fine then; if New Reno wants her gone she can take the hint, but it'll be on her own damn terms. Even she can't have pissed off anyone here bad enough to pay for a contract to track her all over the damned NCR and beyond. "I hear you're hiring honest folk."

The oldster across the counter, who has a pate so shiny it would put a new babe's ass to shame, eyes her with his mouth in a pinch. "That we are. You know how to get around?"

Duster laughs. "I think you know I do. Think you know I need to now, too."

He grunts and pushes a battered clipboard across the melamine, the rivets on the back squeaking. "Payment on delivery. Failure means we send someone out to take it out of your hide. You get three hots, two shots and a cot at the main depots upon completion of each job; everything else you have to hunt up for yourself. You can't write your name, just mark down an X."

"I can write my name just fine." She picks up the pencil and scrawls on the dotted line.

'Courier'.

Unf, dat prompt. I love.

Beautiful prompt in alllll the right ways~

Kieran is my favorite and I am so so glad she finally showed up on the kmeme. And in femslash, no less! Perfect thing to ring in New Years, thank you!

Butch paused mid-thrust.

"Dollface, what do you think you're doing?"

Ramona Brown(who would later become the legendary "Miss One-Oh-One") looked up at him.

"Huh? ....Are you...are you serious? You don't want me to mess up your stupid little hair do?"

Butch scoffs.

"This 'stupid little hair do' took me an hour to perfect for you, so I'd appreciate if you didn't fuck it up."

Ramona looks at him, tight lipped.

"FINE," she says, obviously irked "But will you atleast take off the fucking jacket? I didn't exactly picture my first time in a closet while you wear that stupid, ugly thing"

Butch looks more offended than that time she called his mother a filthy, alcoholic whore.

"Are you kidding baby? Tunnel Snakes rule!"

"And that wasn't even the worst part." Arcade stops to throw back another shot and quickly wipes the corners of his mouth with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger. "No, the worst part was the next morning. No one should have to go to bed with a man hung like a super mutant just to wake up and see he has a face to match."

It's been a while since the courier rolled back into Freeside, at least a couple of weeks since she snatched up her new traveling companion and set out for adventure. And not that the King has ever been particularly tight with any of the Followers but he barely recognizes this creature sitting in the Wrangler. The doctor certainly looked different, but anyone who traded a labcoat for leather armor would. This was more in the casual fling of his hands as he elaborates on the knotting methods he learned from a Ranger whose name he couldn't recall but whose cock he could describe in loving detail. "I'm serious," he's saying to Francine (and the King has never seen her grin like this), "it's not often that I'm so inclined but how was I supposed to refuse the opportunity to ride that monster?"

"You'd been a damn fool if you had, pal," Francine agrees encouragingly, pouring another shot.

The King had come here for a quick drink to ease up some of the weight in his shoulders, somewhere not knotted and tangled with incarnations of his responsibilities, but he takes a seat at the bar, beside the courier. This should be entertaining.

And it is. It would appear that for all of his public airs of low-key reservation, Arcade was quite the storyteller once properly lubricated, all airy tones and gesturing hands. And when it came to personal exploits he had volumes to tell.

The King's trying to hear the tail end of the story Arcade's wrapping up but Six swallows another shot and tosses him an uneasy smile. "Sorry about him," she says through a twisted attempt at a conspiratorial smile, marred by her own discomfort. "I thought introducing him to tequila would be a good thing but instead it leads to... this. I was just trynna get him to loosen up."

"I'd say you were successful, sweetie," Francine chuckles under her breath as she sets up another line of shots for Arcade. "Here, Followers discount."

"What'll it cost me?" Arcade asks, already picking up a shot.

"Explain what you meant when you said 'Chinese finger trap' a couple of ill-advised tumbles back."

"Oh!" Arcade knocks back the shot and licks his lips. "S'another word for spitroasting. Again, I normally prefer the master of ceremonies in one of those situations rather than the center ring, as it were, but I was the one who started things by sucking off one brother -- telling the other to get away from my ass would have just been rude. Not to mention my mouth was full."

Francine's bark of laughter is as genuine as Six's is forced, and the King is still on the fringes of the conversation but he knows he should chuckle or something. But his mind conjures up the image of Arcade on his hands and knees getting stuffed from both ends by anonymous men, their faces blurred as the mental tableau pinholes on Arcade's flushed face and mussed hair and hollowed cheeks and the resulting lurch of heat in his gut is not exactly expected.

Six is excusing herself and he jerks a little when she addresses him, and his collar feels tight. She's invited him somewhere, somewhere not flooded with Dirty Uncle Arcade's Storytime, and he declines. There's a flash of something like disappointment in her face and normally he would offer friendly placations, but he's sufficiently distracted by shifting on the barstool, heel digging into the top rung as he tries to maintain his posture while adjusting to the fact that his body is definitely reacting now.

Six leaves and Arcade's eyes are blurry from drink but he's watching the King carefully, one fingertip tracing the rim of his empty shotglass. Francine dutifully pours a fresh shot, but Arcade pushes the glass towards the King. "I don't claim to be the most observant man but I think you could use this more than me, if that look on your face is anything to go by."

The King's laugh is shakier than usual but his voice is casual as the shot burns nicely in his chest. "Don't mean that be that obvious," he says. "Just dealin' with a little stress."

"Stressed in Freeside? I couldn't possibly imagine."

He laughs again and it's genuine this time. "Hey, we can't all be chock fulla surprises tonight, doc." By now Francine's set out a second shot glass and filled both before disappearing into the back, but Arcade's is still full when the King has emptied his own. "Had no idea you were such a proficient, ah... storyteller."

Arcade laughs now. "Yes, that's what I'm good for. Determining the medicinal properties of local plantlife, criticizing the consumption of centuries-old food, and storytelling. My skillset may be limited to the utterly useless but at least it's unique."

"Well," the King says, "you won't find me complainin' about it."

"Really now?" Arcade says with a raised eyebrow.

It's a simple lift of a brow but it sends the King scrambling inside, composure airtight as he shrugs and says, "Like I said, dealin' with stress. A good storyteller makes for a good distraction."

"Distraction, huh?" Arcade says and the King can't tell if that's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright," he says, and finally tosses back his shot. "One from the top shelf. You've earned it. Here's the story of how I fucked and sucked my way out of a slaver camp."

The King is struggling not to squirm in his seat as he listens to Arcade's voice detailing his half-panicked plan of escaping his slaver captor by exhausting him. And the King's mental theatre kept up, illustrating Arcade on his knees, letting his face be fucked with a dirty fist tangled in his hair, Arcade's long-fingered hands groping for keys only to be hindered by seed pumping down his throat, of him wiping come off his chin with irritated tears at the corners of his eyes and asking is that all you got?, getting flipped onto his belly and fucked hard, thick meaty hands on his pale hips pulling him back with every thrust forward and it isn't until Arcade stops mid-detail and just stares at him with parted lips that he realizes his breathing has audibly picked up.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Arcade says, looking at him with a sort of pleased, muted incredulity, "but why finish this story when I can make a new one?"

Oh my stars and girlish garters, you are a prince. I have been pining for some Arcade/King since stepping foot into Freeside and you have been the one to finally deliver it, oh frabjuous day!

No words, only delight. Also boyhowdy am I ever stealing that slave camp thing for another Thing, 'cause outright theft is the most sincere flattery~

That was extraordinary, a!a.

This is too glorious for mere words. I would show you how much I love this via interpretive dance, if I knew how to dance.

This anon is starting a story with that in mind, actually. Here's a link if you're interested, it's a collab with another author. :) http://m.fanfiction.net/s/7674080/1/

OH MY GOD YOU TEASE

No seriously, A!A, this is gold, can't wait for more.

(Author's note: I apologize for how talky this fic has gotten. I promise more action in parts to come!)

Of course she couldn't stay asleep for more than a few minutes at a time. The Courier may have lived the rustic life in her travels before, but sleeping on House's feather beds had spoiled her and gotten her accustomed to a certain degree of comfort. After a few attempts at finding a position where the gravel didn't poke through her bedding, she gave up and just stared at the starry sky.

Quietly, she hummed to herself and thought about her situation. Both the men she was currently involved with could be classified as mass murderers. Granted, she was only toying with one of them, but how long could she keep it going before he realized? Her plans aside, the longer she played him, the more danger she put herself in.

And if things went bad, all of New Vegas would say it was her fault.

Put the blame on Mame, boys,
Put the blame on Mame!
Mame she started to shimmy shake
And that's what caused the Frisco quake...

The Courier looked toward Boone, to see if her humming had disturbed his rest. He wasn't lying down, though; instead, he stood by a ledge staring down the canyon.

"Can't sleep either?" she called to him. For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Carla..." he said finally. "I told you about Bitter Springs. I didn't tell you that God or fate or karma or who knows what has had it out for me since then."

The Courier stretched as she stood up, going to join him.

"Blaming yourself for Carla? I'd figured it was Jeannie's fault."

"I told you she was dead, didn't I? Jeannie didn't do that, and those Legion bastards didn't either. But I couldn't even rescue her right."

"What do you-"

Boone turned to face the Courier full-on.

"I got there too late. She was being auctioned off. The block was surrounded by soldiers, I never could have reached her. They were bidding on her, didn't care that she was crying and begging them to let her go. No woman should have to live through that."

"Oh."

She'd been afraid his past would turn out to be something like this. What could she possibly say in response? She doubted he would take pity if she offered it, and she wasn't sure she would; he wasn't the one who'd been murdered by the one he loved.

"You know what I am, then," said Boone. "What I've done. I didn't think it was wrong. I thought it was saving her. She wouldn't have lived through it, I was sure. And then I met you."

So that's where he was going with this. Better him than her- she would have had to bring it up if he didn't.

"I lived. And I didn't consider it a fate worse than death."

He nodded.

"The situations aren't really the same. I wasn't being sold into a lifetime of slavery, for one. For another, I made you the offer in the first place. It was under what you might call duress, though, so the point still stands."

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

Christine Royce/Vera Keyes, solo/voicekink

Ballad of the Wandering Maiden 1/?

Genius F!Courier manipulates Mojave

Courier is stalked by classic Disney music

Re: Genius F!Courier manipulates Mojave

Re: Christine Royce/Vera Keyes, solo/voicekink

Re: Ballad of the Wandering Maiden 1/?

OP wants to know...

Re: Arcade/any male -

Re: Arcade/any male -

F!Lone Wanderer/Charon - Daddykink

Rosolare la Donna 1/2

Rosolare la Donna 2/2

Re: Genius F!Courier manipulates Mojave

Re: F!Lone Wanderer/Charon - Daddykink

Re: Elizabeth Kieran, "Rosie Palms," 1/1

Don't screw with the Do

Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [1a/2]

Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [1b/2]

Please let me know your ring size so that we may become platonically wed - OP

Re: Ballad of the Wandering Maiden 1/?

Re: Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [1b/2]

Re: Prequel to New Vegas

Re: Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [1b/2]

Torch Songs 14/?