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falloutkinkmeme_backup) wrote2018-10-20 09:59 pm
falloutkinkmeme_backup) wrote2018-10-20 09:59 pm
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Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.
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F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 7a
(Anonymous) 2013-04-19 11:57 am (UTC)(link)Hope you enjoy the read!
:*.*.*.*.*:
In the subsequent hour on their way to the second terminal, Dean had noticed that the Courier had taken to lovingly perusing all the articles each of the vending machines they had encountered had to offer.
At least there was one thing about women that not even the bomb could change. He liked that. It gave him some solid ground to stand on in the world gone mad with change.
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t well aware that the world and people had changed. Madre sure has. And its inhabitants… don’t even get him started with that. The problematic thing was, knowing that people have devolved into wild tribal savages was far, far different from having to work with one. Having his life be tied to one of them. Dean hadn’t liked it when his life had depended on his chauffeur’s inane driving skills – how he managed to be on time, and in one piece, on half of his concerts will forever remain a mystery now.
And now, he was in position to rely on different type of chauffeur to get him from one end of the decaying deathtrap of a resort to the other. As her shadow slinked forwards, guiding him with that god-awful certainty he very much felt like he was a pet freshly brought from the store trailing at the heels of a much hardier survivalist.
Always at the front she was. The leading lady. The front line. The first one in. A good place to croak, in Dean’s opinion, so he wasn’t complaining – not at all!
…Much.
The same feeling he felt in the café coiled around in his belly like an iron chain. And iron chain with a ball and leashed to his neck.
:*.*.*.*.*:
Any encounter with the Ghost People was bound to be grisly already. Right now, and much to his chagrin, it had also grown in abundance. He warned her that too much noise would get them all stirred up, but did she listen? Of course not! In addition to having ridiculous fascination with vending machines, women never listened. He could easily believe that he was back at one of those cocktail parties with frilly feathers and enough opium permeating the air to stifle a mammoth.
Dean resented that analogy. And the one before that. In fact, he resented plenty of analogies he had been coming up with recently. She was giving him good material to resent too. Like now, how by all accounts – her accounts – the building with the second terminal wasn’t too far off, about one third of the district away, to the right and a floor up. She knew that because her Pip-boy had caught on an energy signal in that specific location. So she had explained to him with a jumble of words he’d likely need a dictionary but would still have to smile and nod in a polite society. He wasn’t tech savvy as he wished – bits and pieces that kept him alive – and he suspected that the postman had caught on to that.
“Finally,” the Courier exclaimed making a full stop so Dean bumped into her, a moment before digging forward ahead of him. Not hard when he was determent to walk behind, with his hands in his pockets, sulking silently but never admitting to doing so. “That took a while.”
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 7b
(Anonymous) 2013-04-19 11:59 am (UTC)(link)“What took a while?” Was Dean’s befuddled response to a black armored shape diving off into the Cloud. He was still shaking off the green puss left behind by his latest encounter with death. He decided that he was wrong and that it wasn’t yearly but a decade worth of near death encounters that he had experienced since teaming up with her. Granted, it was forced on the part of the old boss man, but her presence didn’t help the situation any.
She attracted those things like manure did flies. Warmongering. That’s what it was.
There was a familiar click and rustling of old, weathered down leather accompanied by her voice, “Finding trinkets that should keep us on our feet for a while longer.”
Only then did Dean notice that her hands were elbow-deep in one of his old suitcases, lying around at key points he had precisely calculated in a case of an emergency, like an overeager child who couldn’t resist getting her fingers sticky. He felt a fume, a snap of something – might have been his nerves, a feeling of entitlement being stomped on, and not the first time now, and with the cigarette tossed in the air he growled out a frustrated hiss, moving quickly. One had to point out that here ‘quickly’ could be used to describe that ungodly speed ghouls tended to exhibit at the worst possible times – and slammed the suitcase lid on her fingers.
“Do you feel any particular need to put your mitts on all of my things?” He rasped forcefully, leaning over her. Dean wasn’t particularly tall, nor was the Courier short, but the tension made it feel as if he were towering over her.
He really shouldn’t have been surprised when a tip of a gun appeared right under his skinless chin – cold, round metal shape pushing intrusively between the hardened and exposed muscles; and a hand, and again his mind insufferably took the wheel and immediately noticed of the smaller size and surprisingly greater strength of her grip than he had previously anticipated, curled into his dusty jacket, but none of those strange comparisons had any place in his head now! – so close, possibly loaded and thus very threatening. Where she pulled it from, he didn’t even dare imagine; largely because the way things were going his imagination would come up with something rotten and not suitable for this situation.
“Do you have a problem with me putting my mitts on your things?” She asked after a pause in that even, and if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, perhaps softer tone.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t-…
“I most certainly do! Do you think I enjoy having my personal space constantly trampled on?!” He snarled. No, it was a trick of the ear. It couldn’t be anything else. And if it wasn’t, then she was up to something.
Her hands, warm even under the glove, immediately came off of the torn revers of his suit, and that mysterious gun disappeared once more.
“Have it your way,” she said holding up a stimpack in one hand with a light twirl of her wrist and rolled up the torn side of her suit up, revealing the stitched gash. Guilty made a mental note to patch it up once she got the chance to do it. Or, if not, replace it fully. Because of the implant she had the prudence enough to install before heading to this ‘special kind of hell’ it was healing, but slowly and no thanks to the toxins in the Cloud. Guilty could positively feel the mist leech her life. “I’ll just barrow one thing then… if you agree?”
Dean turned away, eyes glancing briefly over the exposed skin still in several shades from formed bruises, muttering something about women being impossible, about her being impossible. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of pressure released when stimpack was used and had a miniscule, barely worth of mentioning, twitch. She did still sport a large wound, all stitched up by his not so expertly hand, and had used up all of her medical supplies to keep it from tearing open while on the move.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 7c
(Anonymous) 2013-04-19 12:01 pm (UTC)(link)“You certainly went out of your way to avoid the other sections, didn’t you,” she said approaching him. Her voice had no trace of pain she was likely enduring. Miracle of drugs, or something such.
“Residential area always had the least amount of buggers. Which is not saying much considering they could still pack a theater,” he sighed, his tone deflated. Mood was bouncing all over the place and he felt like he was less and less in control of the situation. They went where she dictated – well, where the boss man dictated… she had proceeded to rob him of his precious few valuables. All of that contributed only to worsening his temper.
When he turned back he saw one Sierra Madre chip dancing across her knuckles. His eyes followed it, as the coin twirled and disappeared into her pocket. Not the first one. Not the last one, in fact. She probably had a full purse of those under her belt by now.
She started doing that after the light and gun show, collecting chips but not using too many of them; returning some surviving pre-war bits and pieces for more… Like they were made of gold, and she was at the height of a gold fever. A wheel clicked and turned in his head. Do they even have gold fevers nowadays? Does gold have any value now?
For some incomprehensible reason, these things bothered him. The way she held onto them. It made him paranoid. What will she do once they reached the vault? Perhaps she won’t reach the vault. Perhaps she’ll just open the vault and then…
“You sure came a long way to rob this place. I guess greed is in the blood.” She heard him say, interrupting wherever her thoughts may have gone. Acidic slime oozing from the chomped up limbs of ghosts couldn’t compare to his words.
Guilty was silent at first, mulling over the best suited answer – one that wouldn’t set him off like a powder charge.
“If this is about the Casino, I’ll say right now that I have zero interest in it. Feel free to keep anything you find in it.”
Building falling, behind them preferably, would have had less of an effect.
“Really?” He called with utter disbelief in his voice. She stopped and turned. As the night had fallen and the Cloud had turn from red to sickly purple, she was barely visible in her dark suit, and her helmet tilted down. It made it impossible for Dean to have any grasp of her possible reactions with it obscuring her face. In light that she refused to remove it even in the face of injury he had come to conclusion that she must do it to either keep him on his toes or because she had a face to make him appreciate his own appearance. “Why are you here then? I can’t imagine you stumbling your way into Madre.”
Other reasons… Although Guilty didn’t think Dean would show anything more than a passing, superficial interest in ‘when’ and ‘how’ and ‘that’s bloody why’ of her coming here, she choose not to elaborate.
“I knew Sierra Madre had a vault. I just assumed that it was a shelter from bombs, not a… depository. Guess I didn’t expect things to be this bad when I headed out.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorted but as she kept quiet he turned thoughtful. “Partner,” he started, “people don’t come to Sierra Madre because of nice weather, beautiful atmosphere, generous locals or,” he pointedly looked at her, “to satisfy their curiosity.”
Courier’s eyes narrowed. He was sharp – for the most part. She was yet to decide what to make of that.
“You not believing me is not my problem, unless you decide to make it so,” she spoke softly and moved away, measuring steppes carefully. They had ways to go still.
Dean snorted, because he didn’t believe a word she had said. The Courier had displayed interest in the Madre, Dean didn’t miss things like that, and he was not about to let her get the better of him.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8a
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:51 am (UTC)(link)***
Whenever she looked up through the red fog at night, she could see faint glow of the stars. It was the easiest way to know the difference between day and night, pip-boy notwithstanding, because the shade, the tone, the light… everything remained the same. The same dull rust red that threatened to drive you insane.
So it was with eyes firmly set on weakly twinkling stars that the Courier wondered, where was the thunder coming from? On occasion, often when she least expected it, a thunderous clap would crack over her head making her muscles tense for a brief moment. Before Zion she had never experienced rain and storm. Thunder and lightning and storms not made purely of sand were a new experience to her but to her own surprise even, she had adapted to them quickly. Thunder-like sounds in the Madre had nothing in common with the sky cracking open in the canyon.
The moans were a whole different thing altogether. The screeching and something she could only describe as desperate cries of pain filled the air accompanying every twist and turn. She wanted to ask Dean, the oldest living resident of the Sierra Madre, where the hell was it all coming from but one look on the broken down speakers mounted on the walls, flickering and sparking in all directions was the answer enough. It was easy to be thankful that no living thing was letting out those screams. At this point she needed to believe that no living throat was capable of letting out those noises.
Her eyes swept over the street, the narrow terraces and musty, cracked windows. No traps, no Ghost People so far… they had an appropriate name as they seemed to appear just as fast as they have vanished into the fog. It clicked in her brain than that it had to have been Dean who had named them – who else lived in this resort long enough to see them grow from normal people to something only Big MT’s purely scientific imagination could produce. Two centuries in this place and flair for dramatics still hadn’t left him.
They headed forward, faster now as they approached the final terminal. And approaching the final terminal in many a roundabout way meant being one step closer to the Madre. This time around the activation didn’t need the overly complicated procedure the last one endured; only growing mistrust and doubt mingled with the anticipation in the air. There was no sofa for the ex-star to lounge on, and no awkward subjects were being spouted out. It was quick, it was efficient and before long a blue light of security hologram illuminated that corner of the street that led to the already near inaccessible roof with cut wires.
She paused, zooming in the map on her pip-boy and the markers Elijah had sent her. “I still have to escort Christine and God to their place, so you just sit tight and wait for the signal. With the holograms powered up you should be safe enough.” This was one third of the road done and one more thing to cross off of her list of assignments. Guilty rubbed her chin under the smooth surface of her helmet, already in her mind going through the possible routes she’d likely have to employ, abandon or just improvise. It was fortunate that the resort was relatively small, and that she had highly advanced map with trackers built in.
“Christine? Is that her name?” Dean asked – because he had to say something after a lengthy silence between them, or else she might think he was somehow acquiescent to her, and he couldn’t have that! – expertly ignoring any further mentioning of the mutant. “Of course, you can’t see it in posters but…” The helmet gave him the look. He tried to ignore the unsettling feeling that a black helmet succeeding in doing so. “…never mind. But uh… how do I know the power won’t suddenly go out? And… I don’t know, this still sounds risky to me. For me.”
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8b
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:53 am (UTC)(link)“Far be it for me to tell you but…” the tone of voice she had adopted immediately put the ghoul on edge. It reminded him too much of a woman using a pretense hug as her hand slid down his back reaching for his wallet-… “Dean, a man with cold feet isn’t someone any woman would share her bed with.”
Had crickets survived nuclear blast, and if in some spectacular case they had survived Sierra Madre, they’d surely be supplementing the atmosphere right now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked tersely, cigar out of his mouth and quickly forgotten under his heel. It happened a lot since they became ‘partners’ in this little heist.
“Christine. You wall-flowered away when she gave you the silent treatment, didn’t you?”
Muscles around the remains of his nose flared, and she knew that his eyes had narrowed as well. If there was one thing Dean Domino did not take light of, it was mocking. Now, an angry Dean was not a manageable Dean, but the Courier refused to try and placate him.
“There’s no need to spit fire and radiation. You got away scot-free and in one piece. Not many could say that after propositioning to an assassin from Brotherhood of Steel.” Who also wasn’t interested in men in any way, shape or form, but the Guilty decided that she shouldn’t crumb-stomp Domino’s ego too much. It might backfire.
“Brotherhood of what now-…?” He had no idea what she was talking about and it certainly had no bearing to-…“Assassin?!”
The black helmet and her shoulders shivered a bit in what he assumed was suppressed laughter – and so much worse for her if it was! – but she wasn’t about to elaborate further as the helmet sagged to the side. Regardless, he looked incredibly glad that nothing came of it his ill-timed proposition in the end. So much so that he didn’t even bother to hide that he had tried something to begin with. His focus was once more squarely set on the postman and the ridiculous insinuations she had been concocting.
“Let’s clear something up here. I am not scared. I never said I was. And you’re being ridiculous if you think so. I’ve played to worse crowds than this. I can hold the fort here.” Especially if it meant he’d finally get into the casino, and into that vault. “But listen… try and get in the Sierra Madre without me. You’ll wish you haven’t,” he leaned over her, all imposing-like, with a look, and a lowered voice, and promises of unpleasant things left hanging in the air. Things he could provide in the centuries past, when situation called for it.
Guilty paused, and she was not amused. He threatened her. He – a spoiled lounge singer who was lucky enough not to be killed outright by radiation and managed to survive in this little old world pocket of hell, was threatening her – someone who was born and bred into the survival-of-the-strongest reality of the post-war world.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8c
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:54 am (UTC)(link)Silently, she turned around to walk away and brought her arm up, switching between tabs on her pip-boy. It looked like she had come to some vital conclusion. Dean had noticed this too and when she quickly, not to say furiously, started typing across the keys he gripped her arm and brought the pip-boy’s screen to his face.
“‘Note to self: take off that poster of ‘King of Swing’ from the wall,’” he read in a little menu labeled as ‘NOTES’. These words piqued his interest immediately, and brought a sensation to his dissolute heart the kind he hadn’t felt in a while. He laughed, the previous tension shattered. “So they did survive, as well! And how’s that for a pleasant surprise? I didn’t picture you as a fan,” he managed between chuckles. She wasn’t. Patiently, and with great effort, she stayed silent but this news had brought amusement and heightened his spirit, so he pressed on in a most devious manner he could imagine. “Is it signed?”
Yes. As a matter of fact it was. And framed. And behind bulletproof glass. And Mr. New Vegas took liking to playing some of Domino’s songs more often than it was humane. But she wasn’t going to tell him any of that, oh no, because that would turn him from merely pompous to nigh insufferable. One was harder to deal with than the other.
“The previous owner of the flat had a thing for you, so don’t flatter yourself on my account.”
It didn’t help, because he did flatter himself. The world outside hadn’t forgotten about Dean Domino, not like they did Vera Keys. His fame might have faded, got trashed and buried under sand, and under general impression that he was dead, might simply be overlooked as the Old World curiosity. But he had not disappeared; the memory of him had not turned to dust and ashes. All right, so Danny Parker was among the bunch of surviving wall-stickers, but that bastard wasn’t alive now and he could do nothing to prevent Dean from tearing every single one of them on his track across the world – provided he chose to take some time off his busy schedule and waste it by doing so.
He grinned widely, not bothering to hide the satisfaction this news had brought to him. He looked at the postman, a woman wrapped left and right in armour thick enough to stop bullets, if not knives. The Courier had delivered him some great news indeed.
Scoffing but satisfied that the ghoul was pacified and would finally stay in one place, presumingly smoking like a chimney, Guilty stepped away from him and not looking back disappeared down the street and into the Cloud. When she got back to Lucky 38, and she was getting home, over Elijah’s and everyone else’s cold bodies if needed be, that poster was coming off of her wall. If Sierra Madre thought her anything, it was that the last thing she wanted was a grinning Dean Domino watching her sleep.
Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8c
(Anonymous) 2013-05-13 02:55 pm (UTC)(link)By the way the usual practice is to make each chapter a reply to the 1st installment. I only mention this because in a long fill like this if you reply to the last updates instead of the first it will keep moving to the right and you risk disappearing off the edge of the page!
Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8c
(Anonymous) 2013-05-16 02:10 pm (UTC)(link)