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

“So you’re sure that the computer is the only place to de-activate the collars?”

“Yes. And they could activate the self-destruct on any of the other slave collars in the meantime.”

“Don’t worry.”

“You have a plan?”

“Yeah. You won’t like it. Just go with it. I’ll get you out.”

She looked him up and down warily. They were too close to back out now. The city of slavers was already looming uncomfortably close.

“Give me the pistol,” he said quietly. Now Anna looked at him as though he were asking her to jump to the moon. She’d gotten quite attached to Ahzrukhal’s gun since about the first raider who’d tried to take her head off.

Brow raised, Charon held out a hand. Anna acquiesced.

They found the doorman in minutes.

“State your business or I shoot!”

Charon held his hands up, all weapons holstered. “I want to speak to Eulogy about my property,” he said, stomach giving a twist that he ignored.

“What about her?”

“She’s sub-par.”

“Not my problem. We ain’t seen you before, and we don’t take responsibility for subcontractors.”

“I just want to speak to him about arranging another business transaction.”

“…Mr. Jones’ time isn’t cheap.”

With a growl, Charon threw a bag. It clinked on the ground, and the slaver opened it to look inside.

“Come on in. Just don’t touch anything, ghoul-man.”

The pair entered, passing through a number of wicked-looking barricades and earning suspicious glances from more than one slaver.

Being inside again made Anna nervous. Fingers twitched for a gun, legs itched to start running. Ghostly horrors played across her memory—she knew what these people were capable of. Charon’s stoic presence kept her from outright panic, but still her spine prickled and her breath shortened.

They were quickly led to the “pad.” Inside, they went into a large room built for a hedonist, complete with silk bed, sex slaves, and enough liquor to kill a dozen men. Eulogy lounged between two mean-looking mercenaries with large guns.

“Hey, hey, I hear we have a problem, customer. What can I do for you?” Eulogy Jones asked.

“I acquired this slave from a ghoul named Ahzrukhal. She’s not broken and her collar’s discipline nodule isn’t working.”

“And what are you proposing I do about that?”

“I want a new collar. If that isn’t possible, I want help breaking her in. The dirty work isn’t for me.”

Charon discussed this all quite casually. Anna’s eyes darted more rapidly between the men. His eyes betrayed nothing—so who was he double-crossing, really? She had only known this man for a few days and placed all of her trust in him.

It really was a bad habit she’d gotten in to—but he held her remote, what else could she do?

“I can hook you right up with a new collar. We sometimes have problems with that model—it is pre-war, after all—for the bargain price of 800 caps, because I like you.”

Charon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re robbing me.”

“Sorry. It’s 800 or nothing. Those collars are not easy to find.”

Charon dug out bags of caps from several locations on his body, tossing them onto the bed between the concubines.

“Check them,” Eulogy ordered. The slaves opened the bags, nodded. “All right,” he continued, “If you’ll just follow me to my computer terminal, we can deactivate that collar and get a new one on.”

Eulogy typed in a few codes and asked for the remote. Charon handed it over and Eulogy flipped it open.

“I’m sure you remember Forty,” Eulogy told her, “He’s on duty outside the pad right now. So if you try to run…”

Anna managed to shake her head slowly. Her knees shook at the memory and remembered, phantom pain.

“Good girl,” Eulogy said, pressing a button. Her collar clicked. “Clover? Get me a new one from the closet.”

Charon barely moved. He didn’t reach for the shotgun on his back, instead smoothly lifting the pistol from his hip. Without any preamble, Eulogy Jones sprawled dead on his floor, most of his head gone. Gunshots jolted through the old theatre, and in moments, everyone in the room was dead except for Anna and Charon.

Already filled with adrenaline, Anna took several minutes to register all this. “Were—were the slaves necessary?”

“Chick one went for a knife, two for a pipe. Yes.”

With that, he reloaded and handed her pistol back. “Get ready,” he growled, “And pick up a decent damn gun on the way.”

Hell broke loose soon after. Slavers poured in after the shots. Charon and Anna had the advantage of surprise but little else. They lacked the sheer numbers and weapons of the slavers, but survived the first round.

Charon met her eyes and cocked his head to the stairs. She followed, and they slipped towards the balcony. Before anyone saw them up there, Charon had dropped two of them. Anna kept just inside the door, waiting for any stragglers to follow them.

Only one did, but he brought an assault rifle. Anna took it as the man gurgled on the floor and prayed it didn’t operate too differently from her old BB gun.

When she emerged from the stairs, Charon was laughing and jeering at the slavers, reloading under cover. He poured a bottle of irradiated water over a graze-wound and returned to the fray. The heat and lust of battle written across his face were something to behold, especially from a man who betrayed so little emotion.

She managed to shoot. The first few bullets went far wide of their targets, but then she saw Forty taking aim with a heavy-duty minigun.

She emptied the clip into him and kept pulling the trigger before Charon casually mentioned, “Might want more bullets, kid.”

Anna almost took a swing at him. Instead, she loaded the extra magazine—her only extra, taken from the slaver’s pocket—and kept shooting.

At some point, bullets stopped flying back in return. Anna stared at the wall behind them, her back to the railing. Riddled with holes and blood, the theater stood testament to the gravity of the battle. She looked down at herself, her torn pre-war clothes, and the blood spreading over them.

“Nice choice on the assault rifle, smoothskin.”

“…You okay, kid?”

“…Kid?”

“…Anna?”

Just so you know a!a, I'm enjoying this story very, very much! Please keep going :)
Also - your Charon is even more badass than in-game Charon. :)

Summary: Boone and Courier Six get it on in the Lucky 38 elevator.
Tags: Het, Boone/F!Courier
______________

She was on him as soon as the doors slid shut. Her hands were tugging his shirt out of his pants, undoing his belt buckle, unfastening the zipper and sliding them down. She was a whirlwind, but that was alright with him.

He'd been hard from the moment they'd walked into the casino. He knew what was coming, what Andi had planned. It was their thing. Out in the wasteland, there were too many dangers to truly let their guard down. Here in the casino, there were too many ears. But in this elevator, they had all the privacy they wanted, if not the time.

His mouth went dry as he watched her shimmy out of her pants. He loved that little hip wiggle she did. If he hadn't been hard already, that would have done it. He knew from experience that she'd be wet already. That didn't mean he couldn't tease her a little.

He worked quickly to unfasten just enough of her top that he could cup those perky breasts. They were just the right size to fill his hand, and oh-so-sensitive. Her breath came faster as he teased her nipples, pinching a little the way he knew she liked. A small gasp escaped.

He glanced up. Third floor. Plenty of time still.

Her hands have been busy while he's been enjoying her breasts. She'd freed him from his pants and begun sliding her hand up and down his length. He loves the way that feels. Her hand is just the right size to wrap around him. And she does it oh-so-well.

Sometimes he would lead, and sometimes she would. He'd already decided it was his turn, so he cuts her off long before either of them really want her to stop. Instead, he turns her and presses her against the wall.

"Spread 'em." Craig knew how much Andi loved the 'cop voice' so he used it at every opportunity. He caught the small smile that flitted across her lips before she stepped out of one leg of her pants and spread her feet wide.

He pulled her back, angling her hips the way he liked them. Her ass stuck out, but it was a good thing, so neither of them minded. Craig knelt behind her, his fingers brushing against her, spreading her open a little at a time.

He rubbed her clit, circling a little, rolling that sensitive nub the way she always loved. A small moan fumbled from Andi's lips as she pressed herself a little further back, a little wider open.

She's ready.

He glanced up once more. Floor Eight. They had about ten floors until they needed to start getting clothed.

He lined himself up, his hard length sliding through her slickness. Andi knew what was coming, so she pressed herself back even harder, needing him to move faster. Craig chuckled, and slammed into her, a little roughness gets them both there faster.

They'd already reached floor ten. Time was short.

He drew back, slammed forward again. It earned a throaty moan from Andi who loved it. He drew back again, slammed forward once more. He kept it up, speeding up a little at a time until Andi is sliding along the chrome wall. Her hands have left streaks on the chrome as they slipped upward.

When they reached floor fourteen, they were both panting.

At sixteen, she was screaming his name and clenching down hard as she came.

By seventeen, her climax and the knowledge that they're running out of time had driven him to his own orgasm.

When they reached floor eighteen, they pulled away from each other, and tried to get their breathing under control. By nineteen they're fastening their pants. The smudges on the wall were wiped off by floor twenty.

At twenty one, she stole a kiss.

Floor twenty two. The elevator dinged. The doors opened. Boone exited first, his face schooled with his usual impassivity. Courier Andromeda, professional ass kicker just behind him, a scowl on her face.

The elevator was their thing. Nobody else needed to know.

oh my gosh, this is perfect. Exactly what I wanted to read. Thank you so much!

Ouch. This is wonderful!

Nice prompt. I didn't even know I wanted to write that fill until I'd read that.

After getting a field promotion, the LW starts to get a bit bossy to the sergeant, so benji shows him that while the LW is above him in rank, he sure as hell isn't in other matters.

Aww yiss. From the moment Benji started climbing up that cliff I was like DAAYUMMMM and thusly boners. I should play that again. It's been far too long...

That's so sad and sweet. :'( I know from personal experience how dealing with people suffering from mental disorders can be. I really hope someone fills this!

Oh, yes. I am such a huge sucker for Benny/F!Courier.

If no one comes back to this, I might tackle it. Because yes?

I was watching Slings & Arrows when it hit me.

What would Hamlet be like in the Mojave Wasteland? Oh, that would be priceless.

However, I'm aware that not everyone will share my specific love of Hamlet, so I'm looking for any of Shakespeare's stories set in the fallout universe.

Hamlet in Vegas? Rome & Juliet in the Capitol Wasteland? Surprise me. OC's would be fine, or in-game characters.

Go wild. I'd love anything from the crackiest crack to angsty drama to smutty romance.

I have this dirty dirty fantasy about milking women, and I haven't seen it here yet on Fallout Kink Meme (if it is somewhere sorry for the double prompt). The Legion is already guilty of objectifying women...and dabbling in cannibalism, so why not actual human product!? A lot of the Legion seem malnourished and human milk is a lot better than cow milk anyways (much less than the milk of those irradiated brahmin). Hopefully this isn't too out there and some kind A!A can fulfill this vision for me.

might do this...-lurks-

In another fic I was reading on here Vulpes thought about how he had used sleep deprivation to break and torture prisoners and slaves.

This made me whimper.

I want to see Vulpes forcing the Courier to stay awake, maybe even for days, and all the side effects this entails. He might not even physically torture her in anyway, although if you want to do this in addition by all means go ahead.

Sexiness entailing is a bonus. Even bigger bonus if Vulpes is not very attracted to the Courier until she is adorable and confused when exhausted.

Ping-ping-ping!

The metal BB’s hit the targets with what Clara thinks is the most satisfying sound she knows (next to perhaps the sound Wally Mack’s nose made when she broke it a few months ago). Usually, just disappearing down into her storeroom and shooting for a few minutes calms her down. Not tonight, however. Tonight, she’s shaking and her eyes are teary in frustration and embarrassment and not even imagining Christine Kendall’s face on the targets gets rid of these feelings.

She hadn’t even wanted to go to prom! Clara had been perfectly content and resigned to a night in alone. Her father and Amata had their own plans for her. Amata had showed up with a dress and a whole bag full of things to tame Clara’s short, curly hair. After three hours, one for convincing and two for primping, Clara was dragged away from her bed in a too-pink dress and heels that hurt her feet. The one thing she couldn’t complain about, however, was her hair. Ever since Wally Mack thought it’d be funny to snip her ponytail off months ago, Clara had given up on her hair. Amata refused to, however, and the end result was soft red curls that bobbed just along Clara’s jawline.

Clara wouldn’t say it out loud but she felt pretty, and when she walked into the Atrium and saw all the string lights and heard the music she was glad Amata had forced her to come.

And then Christine Kendall decided that it’d be good to splash spiked punch all over Clara’s face and dress and hair. The momentary silence that followed was embarrassing, the encouraging laughter from Wally and Susie Mack even worse. Clara had clenched her fists and pushed past Christine Kendall in her red dress so roughly that the girl nearly fell over.

Clara had wanted to hit Christine right square in her face, still does in fact, but the Overseer was literally watching from his office window above. Since Clara wasn’t exactly itching to go through the trouble punching Wally Mack in the nose got her all over again, she walked away.

She’s so frustrated and angry with a dozen things that she can hardly steady her fingers when she goes to reload. Her face is tear damp and sugar sticky. She probably looks crazy…

“You look like you need a drink, Red.”

The voice makes her jump and her shot goes wide of the target. Even more frustrated now that she missed (she never misses), Clara whips around to glare at the only other person who knows of her storage room.

“Go away, Butch.”

Predictably, Butch doesn’t leave. He saunters over to her and leans back against one of the storage crates, blatantly looking her up and down before shrugging off his jacket. It’s strange to see him without his stupid leather Tunnel Snakes jacket on; part of her had honestly expected him to wear it over his vault issued suit. Butch pulls out a bottle of whiskey from one of the inner pockets. He sets it down on top of the crate and reaches into one of his pants’ pockets, holding up a bottle of vodka a second later. He grins wide.

“Pick your poison, Red.”

“I’m not going to drink with you,” she says flatly. It’s a knee jerk reaction to oppose Butch on almost everything. After years of petty fighting on both sides, it’s more instinct than habit. The words were out of her mouth before she even truly considered it.

“What? You ‘fraid daddy’ll find out?” Butch teases as he brings the whisky bottle to his lips. He takes a generously long swig from it and smirks at her when he resurfaces.

Clara sighs and reaches over to the vodka. She presses the mouth of the bottle to her lips and hesitates. The sharp, sterile smell hits her and she knows before it’s even touched her lips that’s its going to be unpleasant. Butch is watching, though, with his eyebrows raised and that amused half smile on his face. He doesn’t expect her to do it.

Bracing herself, she tilts her head back a gulps the burning stuff down, counts to five before she lets herself stop—just to prove a something. Clara regrets it almost instantly. Her whole face is on fire never mind her throat and Butch is laughing at her anyway.

“That’s disgusting,” Clara coughs. Butch keeps laughing. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be doing this with Christine or something? Isn’t she your girl?”

Butch stops laughing with a cough and says with a shrug, “Nah, she ain’t my girl. Pretty sure right now she’s Wally’s girl.”

Considering what Christine just put her through, and what she has put her through ever since they were ten, Clara has no good reason to defend the girl’s actions in the slightest. However, she remembers a fifteen year old Christine crying in the bathroom because Butch Deloria had been bragging all day about getting to second base with Penny Tocchet. Christine Kendall has a heart of questionable size and maybe that’s why Clara says it.

“She only does it to make you jealous. She doesn’t like Wally—no one likes Wally,” Clara says. “I always hear her talking about it to Susie. She’s just trying to impress you. She likes you.”

“Yeah well maybe I ain’t so sweet on her,” Butch says it simply with a shrug and another mouthful of whiskey. “‘Sides, she took it too far tonight…”

“How do you mean?” Clara’s confused now. If he doesn’t like Christine why would he care what she did or who she was with?

Butch gestures at her with the bottle and snorts, “You’re covered in punch, you really gotta ask? Ain’t you supposed to be smart or something, Lab Rat?”

“So…is that why you’re here? Cause Christine poured punch on my dress?” Clara laughs and her tone turns teasing. “Was the Butch-Man worried about me?”

“Hello no,” Butch scoffs and drinks some more. His face is red but she doesn’t know if it’s from the alcohol or if he’s blushing. “I’m here cause everyone else cool enough to hang out with is off screwin’ and I sure as shit ain’t goin’ home this early. I didn’t even know you’d be here, figured you’d be home cryin’ into your pillow.”

“So why are you still here, Butch?” Clara’s asks him shortly. He could’ve left the second he saw her here and found some other hole to drink in. She tells him this.

“It’s always better to have a drinkin’ buddy,” he says it like it’s something they teach in school. Then he smirks and his eyes glint mischievously, like they always do when he’s about to say something obnoxious. “‘Sides…if I can get enough booze in you maybe Wally won’t be the only Tunnel Snake gettin’ lucky tonight. Whaddaya say, girl?”

Clara rolls her eyes and braces herself for another gulp of Vodka. It burns less this time but it still tastes terrible. She points at Butch as she speaks, “If you want to keep your Tunnel Snake, you’ll keep your hands off me.”

Butch matches her with his whiskey and smirks, undaunted by her threat. “Yeah, yeah, Red…. Drink up and lemme know if you change your mind—won’t blame you if you do. No one can resist the Butch-Man.”

Clara snorts.

She quickly discovers that she is a talkative drunk. Her mind is a full three minutes behind her mouth and somewhere through a vodka fog she knows she should just shut up. Butch isn’t nearly as drunk as her—his tolerance level is higher than hers and his whiskey bottle a lot smaller than her now cherished vodka bottle—and she knows he’ll probably remember more of this night and what was said than she will. She can’t stop talking though. She pours vodka down her throat and pours her heart out as she does.

Butch is a surprisingly a quiet drunk, or maybe he’s just listening to her, she isn’t sure. He doesn’t interrupt her though as she vents about her G.O.A.T. results (“Marriage counselor…really!? Who even—I can’t!”) and her dad (“I love him but sometimes it’s jus’ really, really, really hard having him as a dad. He’s always analyzing things with his doctor brain—”). He doesn’t say a word until she’s ranting about Christine and the fruit punch.

“—it’s not even that I like this dress because I hate dresses. It’s jus’ that now I’m sticky an’ smell like fruit on top a’ the pink dress! So I look extra stupid!” Clara huffs and drinks down some more burning vodka. She scrunches her nose at the sensation now, not the taste. She thinks taste buds have actually given up and left her for the night.

“Nah, you def’nitely don’t look stupid, Red,” Butch laughs and kills off his whiskey.

Clara looks over at him with narrow eyes. At some point they both decided that the floor was the best place to sit and so he’s directly across from her, back against a crate and legs stretched out in front of him. She’s the same—though her legs aren’t spread like his because no amount of alcohol in the world could make her forget that this is Butch Deloria and he will look up her skirt if he gets the chance.

Except he’s not even looking at her and that’s annoying to Clara. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed and he almost looks like he’s sleeping. She wiggles her toes and they brush against Butch’s knee and he jerks at the touch. Clara giggles uncontrollably and he just shakes his head.

“What’s s’funny, Lightweight?” Butch pushes off of the crate and leans forward. Clara claps her hands over her face and shakes her head. Her cheeks hurt from laughing and she doesn’t even know what’s funny. Maybe it’s the whole situation, the whole night—she’s drunk with Butch Deloria in a storage room. Butch leans in close to her, a smile on his face. “What’s s’funny? Lemme in on this.”

“S’nothing I was just…thinking about the prom,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Ya know…for a second I was excited ‘bout it. Freddie even promised me a dance! And I know, it’s Freddie, but…it would’ve been nice. Cause like I’m always just the Lab Rat, you know? Like I’m…Red. I don’t think anyone even thinks of me as a girl half the time! So it just would’ve been nice…”

Clara looks down at her fruit punch splattered dress and sighs. She wishes she had stayed home. It would’ve been less disappointing.

Butch sighs loudly and stands up, swaying quite a bit for a second before steadying himself. He holds his hand out. Clara just stares back blankly.

“What?”

“C’mere, stand up,” Butch shakes his hand for emphasis and Clara hesitantly grabs it. He pulls her up onto her feet and sighs once more. “I’m gonna dance with you but only so you stop whining, got it? Don’t go thinkin’ anything into it or anything stupid.”

Butch hooks one arm around her waist and makes to grab her hand with the other but she stops him, pulling back so that she can fiddle with her pip-boy. She hears Butch groan as the soft music starts to play and she smiles up at him excitedly. He laces his fingers through hers and starts to lead her around the tiny space.

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

Clara stumbles as they dance, naturally. She’s never been the lightest on her feet and the alcohol definitely isn’t helping her. Butch more than makes up for her lack of grace though. He’s done this before, probably practiced with Christine in the weeks leading up to prom. The thought annoys Clara. She doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though because Butch twirls her and she trips, falling to the floor and bringing Butch down with her.

And when two lovers woo
They still say I love you
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by

Clara starts laughing again. Her shoulders shake and her stomach starts to ache and she can’t stop giggling. She’s not alone this time, at least, because Butch is laughing to. She looks up at him through her tears and feels her chest tighten. This is a perfect moment, she thinks very suddenly. She remembers her dad telling her all the stories about her mom and how they had moments, precious seconds of perfection where nothing else existed outside of the people experiencing it. I’m having a perfect moment, she thinks again. With Butch…

Moonlight and love songs, never out of date
Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate
Woman needs man and man must have his mate
That no one can deny

“You don’t like me,” she reminds him softly. She’s afraid to speak too loudly, or speak at all, because everything seems so breakable all of a sudden.

Butch hovers above her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He doesn’t have his usual smirk on his face, something she’s inexpressibly grateful for. There’s a small smile on his lips when he speaks, “Maybe I do…”

It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by

(What's up, guys? Is anyone still reading this?)

She'd told Boone to wait for his shot. That was something snipers were supposed to be good at, but it was a lot to ask of him when in Legion territory. He'd told her before that he would start shooting upon seeing red, no questions asked, but she was only asking him to wait a little while. Surely he could manage that, couldn't he?

Then again, this entire operation was risky. She was counting on a man frequently considered unreadable to behave a certain way; if he doubted her or took a less forward course of action, everything would be ruined. Would his pride and what he considered to be love be enough to see her through?

Vulpes was the man to whom those questions applied, but really, she could haves asked them of Boone just as well.

Lying down inside the tent, wrapped up in fur, the Courier waited for the commotion to start. Vulpes had been tight-lipped when he left her, saying to stay there and not come out again until he told her. He had some things to take care of, it seemed. So far, so good. But why was it taking so long?

Rechecking her plans, the Courier couldn't fault herself. Everything that she could pre-arrange was in place. The camp was mostly empty, with the footsoldiers off running drills. The officers were the ones who remained, tough targets but relatively few in number. She couldn't say whether Caesar himself was there, but several Centurions certainly were. If this worked, she wasn't going in to an operation again without at least a full squad backing her up. And if it failed...best not to think about that possibility.

At long last, she heard a shout through the night air. More shouts followed it, then the sound of mechanical fists and gunfire. It had begun.

I'm still reading! Love it! :D I was hoping for an update!

This was totaly beautiful a!a :3 ! thanks soo much :*** ♥

Oh my god a!a this is so GOOD you just don't even knowwwww. <3333

Hm. It's not my kink, but... I might be able to write you something.

I can't promise anything, but I can picture what you're asking for, and that's typically enough to at least get me started.

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

Re: Role Reversal, Charon/F!LW 8/?

Re: Role Reversal, Charon/F!LW 9/?

Re: Role Reversal, Charon/F!LW 9/?

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

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

Re: Bulletproof Soul - 2/2

Re: OP

M!LW/sgt. benjamin montgomery

Re: M!LW/sgt. benjamin montgomery

Re: Courier with a Mental Disorder

Re: Benny/F!Courier - Fluff

Shakespeare in the Wasteland!

Legion Herder/ Random slaves or F!courier

Re: Prom in 101

F!Courier/Vulpes Inculta - Sleep Deprivation

As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Re: As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Re: As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Re: As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Re: As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Torch Songs 17b/18

Re: Torch Songs 17b/18

MY HEART COULDNT TAKE IT AND EXPLODED

Re: As Time Goes By [F!LW/Butch]

Re: Legion Herder/ Random slaves or F!courier