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falloutkinkmeme_backup ([personal profile] falloutkinkmeme_backup) wrote2018-10-20 09:59 pm

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

Welcome to the Fallout Kink Meme, Part IV! Please assume the position.

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Last Seconds of Old Years 1b/1

(Anonymous) 2013-11-24 10:17 pm (UTC)(link)
“Kind of gives you hope, doesn’t it?” he says. Finally, finally looking away, he pulls a pack of smokes from his coat, abandoned beside him.

Willow grins over the lip of her beer. “What, you hoping for a smoothskin, too?”

She laughs and Quinn laughs with her, lets it drop. A hundred years and you get good at that—letting things go. But maybe he’s out of practice, because his thoughts keep circling back.

He doesn’t know really how to explain it. From the outside, it looks simple enough. Two mercs doing some freelance work. Happens all the time. Nothing there to name.

But it’s bigger than that. Bigger than all of them. So big a person can’t quite touch it—can’t even put words to it.

So big a person can only string spent shells on an old chain, worry them like beads when nights get too dark and too slow.

They have days—weeks, now—without gunfire in the distance.

They have streets full of caravans and the warped bones of dead monsters.

They have clean water, even though they don’t need it.

And they have respect.

When War and Death walked out to clean the wastes—they came from here.

Yesterday, a trader shook Quinn’s hand. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look twice. And last week, a Brotherhood squad passed through, guns all holstered—even with Willow leaning on the subway railing, catcalling, “Aw, don’t you love me anymore?”

Quinn hasn’t seen a raider in weeks, not on any of his runs. Every day, more ex-slaves pass through, headed for the Lincoln Memorial. Even Talon Company’s just a bad memory, sticking far and away from downtown DC.

Yet, just last year, Charon spent his days breaking legs at Ahzrukhal’s word. But now Charon sits at Carol’s bar, his hand like a hubcap on V’s knee. Until, a minute later, she pulls his arm up and around her shoulders, leans into him like practice, like patience, singing along to Christmas songs still playing on the radio, ten minutes to New Year’s midnight.

V changed everything. Changed things Quinn would have sworn couldn’t be changed. They call the two of them War and Death, but Quinn’s seen war and he’s seen death and these two are something altogether bigger. Things are better. The world fucking ended, but things are getting better.

Quinn lowers his gaze. Drinks his beer. Thinks about the way his caravan looked at him when he started losing pieces of his face—people he’d been walking with his whole life, recoiling like he’d started spitting plague.

Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

(Anonymous) 2013-11-24 10:19 pm (UTC)(link)
At his side, Willow smiles. She sees through him like a window—always had—nudges his shoulder.

“Cheer-up,” she says. “You’re too damn pretty to look so sad.”

And Quinn laughs—unexpected, nearly snorts beer through his nose—ends up coughing through the rest of song on the radio until Three-dog croons, “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. The last seconds of an old year, but would look at that baby shine? Fresh waters, no slavers—my, oh my, whatever will the new year bring?”

“Shut up, Three-dog,” V snaps, but smiling, sleepy, her head tucked under Charon’s chin.

“Let’s count her down, shall we? 10… 9… 8…”

Quinn finds himself thinking about the oncoming year, fresh water and people getting their feet under them again. Thinks about clearing out the feral-corridors of the museum. Might be more ghouls coming, what with the roads easier.

“7… 6… 5… 4…”

At the bar, V grins, sits upright. “We had a tradition in the vault,” she starts.

But Three-dog finishes, “3… 2… 1! Happy New Year, Wasteland!” and Quinn doesn’t get to see what her vault tradition might be, because Underworld has tradition, too, and tradition leaves him with a mouthful of Willow, warm like smoke, leather beneath his hands.

Quinn leans into her, smiling against her lips, presses his forehead to hers when they finally part for air. And judging by the cheers—by the singing and laughing and clanking bottles found from Wasteland-wide—judging by Willow’s fingers tugging the smear of her red lipstick from his skin—

It’s going to be a hell of a new year.

(The End)

Re: Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

(Anonymous) 2013-11-30 11:37 pm (UTC)(link)
This is fantastic. I loved Wolves, and it's sweet to read a long-term happy ending to that epic wringer.

Re: Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

(Anonymous) 2013-12-01 08:25 am (UTC)(link)
I love this, something about the way it's been written.. It's perfect and I'll defiantly be rereading it.

Re: Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

(Anonymous) 2014-01-14 06:52 am (UTC)(link)
Beautiful. Just wonderful, in all the warm and fuzzy parts of me. Especially after finishing the lovely long fill of Wolves.

Re: Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1

(Anonymous) 2014-01-16 02:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh my goshhhhhh, this is too presh A!A! Ahh, I'm a sucker for happy endings...