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

so what i noticed about playing f!courier in third person mode is that she has the ass of a champion.

what i'd like is a male companion (pref. Joshua Graham but anybody will really do) get distracted by dat ass

bonus points for trying to nonchalantly cop a feel

_{Summary: "Here lies Craig Boone. Sniper, widower, sad victim of a killer ass."

Characters: F!Courier; F!Courier's fine ass; Craig Boone; Craig Boone's raging boner; Ensemble of convenient, unfortunate Fiends
Tags: Booty. 'Nuff said I think.}-----

Honestly, there was nothing in the wasteland, the entire goddamn world, that he liked better than being told to follow her at a distance. It was just good sense and solid combat tactics to have a sniper hang back a bit, give him a better view--

Uh.

It was just good common sense to let the guy with the gun made for popping heads from a distance stick to the rear--

Wait. Wait, hold on.

To put him in a better position to assess--

... Fuck.

Fine. FINE. If Boone was being completely honest with himself, he just liked walking a good enough ways behind the courier that he could watch her astonishingly, heart-stoppingly, brain-implodingly (fuck everyone if that wasn't a word, it was now) fine behind sway. Sure, he could do that up close too, but the chances of her turning her head and catching him staring like a deer in headlights were a hell of a lot higher. Anyone who even pretended not to feel the same, though, was a hypocrite, probably a commie, and definitely a faggot. No, no, wait, he'd seen enough women startled into awed silence by the passing of that ass that 'faggot,' too gender-specific, didn't quite cover it. Anyone who disagreed with him on this, male or female, was either a fucking liar, sexually repressed, or just didn't have a pulse. Maybe all of the above. End of story.

Who could blame him? Six's slender torso tapered to a delicate, slim little waist capable of something describable almost solely as gyrating above the best part: the smooth, satisfying swell of tight, perky, round ass that knocked side to side with each step in a way that could very nearly knock him off his feet and right the fuck out if he wasn't careful.

Come to think of it, he could blame himself, actually. Pretty easily, too. Suddenly he remembered he was supposed to be head-over-heels miserable over his late wife, rest her soul. He'd never been a religious man, but the wash of guilt had him turning his eyes heavenward behind his shades. Know you're up there, Carla. Listen, God's usually lookin' everywhere butt (oh goddammit) at me, so do me a solid and tap the old fart on the shoulder, ask Him to send a lightning bolt my way and strike me down where I stand.

Boone scanned the cloudless expanse of blue sky hopefully, but no supernatural disasters seemed to be forthcoming, so he swore quietly under his breath and rolled his eyes back down to earth. Tried scanning the horizon for threats like he was supposed to be doing, but ultimately his gaze just settled once more on the courier's cursed, glorious bottom. So he swore again.

She looked up from punching buttons on her Pip-Boy to cast a curious glance over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised under the brim of her black cowboy hat. "You say somethin', Boone?"

He pulled his beret off and wiped his damp forehead with the back of his wrist. "Said it's goddamn hot out."

"Yeah, no shit. Welcome to the Mojave." She stopped, suddenly, and so did he - then, when she pulled her pack off her back, dropped it to the ground, and bent over at the waist to rifle through it, his admittedly paltry mental processes ground to a halt, too. Suddenly he was staring down just ass, just the perfectly soft, heart-shaped curve of sky-turned ass practically dipped in leather armor.

Fuck you, God. Fuck you so much.

When Six straightened again, she held two bottles of water in one hand. She turned slightly, not to face him but to at least be able to look directly at him - and give him a fantastic profile view of dipping spine leading to jutting, curving butt. Fuck. She tossed him one of the bottles, and he fumbled it, nearly dropping it onto the crack-- (god-FUCKING-dammit) cracked concrete. Lucky him, she had already glanced away, and was unscrewing the other bottle of water, jerking her head to point with her chin at a mostly-intact section of wall nearby. "We can rest in the shade over yonder a minute if you need to. Got plenty of time." She took a long draw from the bottle before turning to look at him once more, and it was about then he realized he'd gotten distracted again and was just standing there with one hand wrapped white-knuckled around the bottlecap, failing to have even tried twisting it.

He shook his head stiffly and popped it open, genuinely needing a drink - water would do, he guessed - and using it as a means to tear his eyes away again, shutting them tight and tilting his head back to guzzle the whole bottle. When it was gone, he regretted that there wasn't more, just because his excuse for looking the one place her ass wasn't in his peripheral (which always meant it was only a matter of time before he was stuck looking dead at it again) had drained away.

This wasn't fair. In fact it was about fifty different kinds of unfair. She'd busted into Novac still wearing the shapeless NCRCF uniform she'd used to slip past the Powder Gangers and talk Sheriff Meyers into taking Primm under his wing, wild ginger hair tied in a tight braid tucked under her hat and looking for all the world like an underfed teenage boy in too-big clothes. That was the first thing on Boone's list of reasons this was unfair - he'd had no idea what he what he was getting into. Turned out she'd had the dusty, form-fitting leather armor she'd squeezed out of a shopkeep back in Goodsprings sitting around in her pack the whole time, just because it wasn't as breathable. When they'd backtracked through the wreckage of Nipton to check out the Mojave Outpost he'd had to remind her she'd be shot on sight wearing the Powder Ganger getup, so she'd slipped into a gutted trailer and squeezed herself into the armor, and he'd nearly landed on his ass when she'd emerged again.

If only because his guilt and self-loathing felt a lot like the ghost of Carla glaring daggers at the back of his head, he'd decided if he ever got the drive and ability to become president of the NCR, he'd outlaw that fucking armor in a heartbeat. Also because there was no way it was healthy for him. His buzzcut was going to be gray by thirty if he was unlucky enough to live so long, he just knew it, but more likely he'd keel over within a month of following her crazy ass (son of a BITCH) around the Mojave from a heartattack and sweat-induced dehydration - at the same time - long before the Legion got him.

Here lies Craig Boone. Sniper, widower, sad victim of a killer ass.

He could think of worse ways to go, but all of them were a lot more dignified.

They kept walking ("You sure you don't wanna--" "M'fine."), and soon enough the telltale signs of Fiend territory - namely a trail of bones and the stench of piss, blood, vomit, and unwashed junkies - surrounded them. The blasted remnants of buildings were more tightly spaced here, and the need to stick together started to outweigh the need for Boone to have a wider scope of what Six was walking into, so she gestured for him to tighten up the formation and, cussing up a raging storm in his head, he obliged.

He really was a lot more likely to get caught staring at her butt this close, but unfortunately it was a lot harder not to when those swaying cheeks were filling up so much more of his peripheral.

God, he hated his life.

The courier flattened her back against a patch of concrete wall all of a sudden, and it took Boone a moment to retroactively process the short bark of laughter echoing down a shattered side street that had caused her to do it. Christ almighty just let the fuckers kill me, he thought pitifully, but copied her movements all the same after deftly unlimbering his rifle from his back. She gave him a dark look, and he realized he must have cussed again, this time a lot louder. The shuffling of Fiends had gone quiet.

Carefully, she bent and slid a shard of broken mirror out of a strap on her thigh, then, angling it slightly more toward the broken asphalt to not catch the glint of the sun, held it out just past the corner next to her to take a look down the side avenue. Boone scanned the buildings around them, checking for any Fiends clever enough to use the high ground - and sober enough to use it without deciding they could fly and suicide-diving off. He'd seen one do that once. Funniest thing he'd ever seen, truth be told, but given his own occasional depression-induced affairs with chems, he'd checked the body to see what they were using - Psycho, go figure - and made a mental note to never touch the stuff again. At least not when he planned to be any more than ten feet up.

She was retracting the mirror, quietly nodding to indicate the coast was clear for the moment, but he spotted movement in a busted window over her head and across the street, and - instinctively, honest - reached out to grab her waist and drag her out of their line of sight.

What he got was a handful of round, pliant-yet-firm, leatherclad asscheek.

He could practically hear her mental alarms going off, just under the din of his own, which were loud enough to split his eardrums from the inside.

"Boone," she whispered.

He cleared his throat. "Uh. Six?"

"Why are you grabbing my ass?"

"... Not what I meant to do."

She nodded slowly. "Normally I'd accept that. But..."

Boone swallowed hard. "Yeah?"

"But you should probably let go of it now, fuckhead."

A beat, then another. Then his brain kicked back in and he unclamped his hand like he'd burned it - Jesus dick, but that butt was hot enough he probably had - and stumbled back, ears going red. Distantly, he reflected on the fact that his hand could almost still feel that fantastic, supple curve under it, and there were nerve endings there and a whole lot of other places on his anatomy that really wished he actually could.

Later, in hindsight (fuckin'-a) he'd think about how incredibly lucky they were the forgotten Fiend he'd spotted that had caused his little blunder was so hyped up that what was probably intended as a neat headshot had instead cracked off the concrete a good two feet above him. Then he'd retract that sentiment and instead kinda wish it had been aimed better.

As it was, the two of them managed to take that warning and forget, albeit briefly, the hilariously awkward misshap long enough to spring into action. Almost instantly, the Fiend in question was dropping thirty feet to the ground below with a sizeable hole between his eyebrows before the echo of the crack-boom had even subsided. The commotion had the others they'd heard earlier pouring out of every nook and cranny like so many cockroaches, and Boone almost, almost, felt bad for killing them, because the poor bastards had at least provided him a distraction from his mounting embarrassment, which made them very nearly okay in his book.

Not okay enough that dropping them en masse didn't feel good. Right now they were one letter away from being Friends but dropping them en masse always felt good so fuck them anyway.

Six finished off the last tire iron-wielding tweaker off with a point-blank shotgun blast that made an ugly mess of a head that wasn't too pretty to begin with.

They took a moment to catch their breath amidst a cloud of gunsmoke and adrenaline, wiping bloodspatters off their faces. Adrenaline, adrenaline was good. Adrenaline was great. Fighting was fantastic.

The courier bent over to pick through the sucker's pockers - why the hell couldn't she crouch like a normal person why the hell weren't there more Fiends he really needed more Fiends.

On second thought maybe adrenaline wasn't that great. Riding high on adrenaline when he was looking at her rear just seemed to compound the problem. He was still distracted when she straightened back up again, tucking a handful of caps and ammo into her pack as she turned to glance at him. He looked her dead in the eye, just to not look at-- Nope he was too humiliated to look her in the eye. He glanced down at his gun instead, cleared his throat, lashed it to his back again. Looked at her. Looked at a dead Fiend. Looked at her. Just don't look at her-- Looked at her ass.

What the fuck was wrong here there was no other ass in the world that distracting why couldn't he stop--

She snatched his wrist, and his panicked train of thought derailed then and there as she slapped his open-palmed hand against her ass and pressed it there a moment.

Yep, now seemed like a great time for that natural disaster. Come on, earth, just open up and swallow him please. God, do your stuff.

Heart, please attack. Please.

Fingers, stop squeezing, what the fuck are you doing, he didn't tell you to--

God damn that ass.

She was raising an eyebrow at him, and looking amused, maybe self-satisfied. "That good?"

"Uh."

"Feeling better? Got it out of your system? Think we can get a move on now?"

"..." His hand gave it another squeeze despite himself and he glared at it like the fucking traitor it was. "Uh, yeah. I'm good now. I'd really like my hand back, please."

She laughed, and released him, then began trotting off.

Unfortunately, that experience just made the walk a hell of a lot more uncomfortable. Physically speaking.

....now I kinda want to load up my game and just watch the courier walk around in various outfits. Guess I'm adding "luscious buns" to my list of surprising new kinks..!

Passer-non here...THIS IS THE GREATEST THING EVER!!!! I was laughing pretty much the entire time. You, my friend, are amazing!!!

Authornon responding! Thank you so much! Sometimes I worry I'm not as funny as I think I am. xD

Yes you are, this was killer funny :D Heart, please attack. That line!
You are a comic genius. Moaaaaaaaarrrr!!!!!!

This is bad of me but I laughed my...ass off. I love it! Absolutely hysterical!

IS THAT A PUN DO I SMELL A PUN.

COULD YOU TELL THAT A!A LOVES PUNS.

A!A LOVES PUNS.

A!A LOVES YOU.

I laughed so hard I cried! "God damn that ass" - you are awesome author anon :)

After this fill, I guess we're all gonna go to Assgrablandia with you, A!A. brb, buying beer for the trip.

I... I don't... what is this I don't even...

I love you. I'm incredibly in love with you A!A. You are the best.

I have been inspired. You win. I can't do Graham either, I always write him wrong, but I can do Vulpes or something. But for now, I'll be in my bunk.

With dat ass.

You are a gentleman and a scholar, a!a.

I FUCKING LOVE PUNS.

This is amazing. <3 <3 <3

so i'm a big baka who off an on checks the meme and i didn't think this would actually get filled

this was pretty great just so you know

I'm just dying from the hilarity, A!A, you genius you. The comedy here is gold, I really liked the style of which you wrote it-- just had me bursting into laughter the whole way.

I rmb the first time I played NV with a F!Courier and the first thing my brother said when I went into third-person was "dat ass tho"

Glad to know Boone feels the same way!! xDD

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

look at dat booty. i want dat booty,

Generous ASSets, 1/?

Generous ASSets, 2/?

Generous ASSets, 3/?

Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

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Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4

op hurr

Re: Generous ASSets, 4/4