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

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Reckless Games (Butch/m!LW 3/5)

[(Anonymous)]

Another gun, this time pointed at him, on his knees in the dirt. Gripped by a checkered coat. Hands bound. He should have fought harder. Had he screamed?

A heavy weight beside him woke Butch with a start.

“Butch,” Tate. “Fuck, Butch.”

This time the room was dark. No light through the blinds other than the neon from the saloon. Tate must have traveled faster than he thought, or the distance wasn’t as far. Even in the low light Butch could make out the sweat clinging to Tate’s skin in a thin sheen. Telling Tate’s irises apart from his pupils was hard enough in the light, impossible in the dark. Just black wells that still looked rattled in any case.

“What..”

Butch didn’t let Tate finish his question. Didn’t care. Pulled him down sharply by the front of his armor and kissed him with too much teeth. Always something too hard. Something reassuring that Tate felt the same, tasted the same. After Tate's coma, he said nothing tasted the same. Told Butch he tasted sweeter than ever and beer was shitty.

It took some maneuvering to fit both of them in the single bed. They'd had worse, though. Tate slotted his legs around Butch's, pressing their bodies together and resting his head against Butch's shoulder and chest.

"Butch, your hair."

Not Butch, why you got that bandage on your head? Why couldn't we meet half way, Butch? What kind of fuckery did you get yourself into now, Butch? Once you’re better I’m gonna kill you, Butch! Those statements would have been expected. But not the sad way Tate asked after his hair.

Tate's armor was ripped at the shoulder, jagged and uneven. The whole sleeve was barely holding on. There was no mistaking the work of a ripper. They'd seen plenty of the Legion's handiwork crossing through on their way West. Under the armor he was bandaged up, crudely. Butch knew the signs that Tate had "doctored" himself..

Butch touched the hole in the armor, right down to the bandage. Poked it until Tate outwardly expressed pain, hissing in response.

"Wake the doctor. He'll fix you."

"Not yet." Tate settled back down.

Tate's armor smelled like blood. His hair too. Butch curled his arm around him and put his fingers in his hair, gripping onto it and holding the blond in place.

"Someone shot you, not Legion, then?" Tate questioned.

"No. Maybe, I don't know."

"Never saw one with a gun in Arizona." Tate's words were half-buried in Butch's chest. But they had spoken enough like this for Butch to make out the syllables.

"But they got you too?"

"Barely. But this shit is fucked."

Butch laughed at that, "I agree. I wonder what happened to the others on that job?"

:”I don’t give a fuck,” Tate growled.

Using both hands to roll Butch over onto his back, Tate’s intent was clear enough. He shifted his legs around Butch’s torso until he straddled the brunet. Totally unfair since he was still in his leather armor and Butch was outright vulnerable. With his weight shifted onto his legs, Tate’s hands were free to run over Butch’s body, first his chest, his arms. Didn’t touch his face at first. Seemed to be avoiding it. Just ran his hands everywhere else and kept his eyes locked with Butch’s.

“You missed me?” One hand settled on the top of Butch’s left thigh. Tate’s thumb moved in little circular motions, almost there.

“Nah, of course not,” Butch smiled.

With his other hand, Tate finally touched Butch’s face. Not the bandage, though. Nor where his hair used to be. But his chin, his cheeks. Spaces where Butch’s facial hair had grown in.

“Prickly.”

Butch turned his head to the side to kiss Tate’s palm, scraping it in the process.

“Yeah, yeah, I look like shit.”