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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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Friends will be Friends 6a/8
(Anonymous) 2012-04-13 06:52 pm (UTC)(link)Entering the marketplace of Rivet City was a blessing; coming in from the oppressive heat outside the cool, shady hangar was as inviting and promising respite as an oasis to a traveller in the desert. Flak entered, with him the three other guards, and was almost shot dead. The bullet impacted two inches beside his head.
“The fuck?” He drew his gun, as did his companions, when they realised it had only been Quentin.
Quentin, the weapon dealer in Rivet City who was getting on a bit in years, had – again – forgotten to unload one of the guns he was about to repair. “Sorry, guys!”, he yelled merrily at the mercenaries on the stairs and returned his attention to the rifle he was tinkering with.
Flak shook his head with a sigh and lit up a smoke. The years hadn’t been kind to Quentin, especially not to his mind, and it could occasionally be a little tedious to get the right type of ammo from him. Every time he came to Rivet City Flak secretly hoped the poor old man would’ve met his maker, but he clung as stubbornly to life as he clung to keeping his shop. Sooner or later, somebody would get hurt.
As he passed the stall he cast a cautious look at the gun Quentin was struggling with and realised it was a very nice hunting rifle, a scoped one even, and that Quentin was banging it onto the table to get a bullet out. He cringed and walked around the counter.
“Wait a second.” Smoke clamped firmly between his lips, he took the rifle out of the old man’s hands and cautiously unloaded it, realising as he did so that the repeater mechanism needed some maintenance. “You wanna be gentle on the scope.”
“Bah.” Quentin snorted. “Who needs those fuckers anyway? I used to be able to hit a fly’s wing on hundred yards without one!”
“Some sight to behold, I’m sure.” Flak puffed his cheeks and let the smoke escape again as he spoke. “But there are those who ain’t as fortunate, and those might find a scope a very handy thing.”
Quentin huffed and held out his hands. Somewhat reluctantly, Flak handed the rifle back and thought it a shame that most likely, it would be hardly more than scrap by the time Quentin was finished with it.
“Oy”, a voice said, and Flak looked up to see two young men with SMGs head for the stall. “We need some ammo.”
Flak looked at Quentin, but the old man was engrossed in fiddling with the rifle and either hadn’t noticed his customers or was busily ignoring them. With a shrug, Flak opened one of the drawers were Quentin kept the ammo, rummaged around until he found three packs of 10mm, and shoved those across the counter. Since he was a regular, he knew what Quentin usually charged and as he put the money into the till, Quentin suddenly pointed the rifle at him.
“Hey”, he said happily, squinting through the scope. “I can see the hairs in your nose.”
Had Flak not unloaded the gun himself, he probably would have hit the old man, despite his age. As it was, he gently pushed the muzzle of the gun out of his face and down. “Don’t point guns at people you don’t mean to shoot, Quentin. It’s not polite.”
Quentin pouted at him, another sight to behold as Quentin lacked most of his teeth. Flak tried not to think of things with warts that lived in swamps.
“Say youngster”, Quentin said after a moment without pausing to fiddle with the rifle. “You seem to know your way around guns. Mind giving old Quentin a hand? My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
It wasn’t only his eyes, but Flak refrained from saying so. He had caught glimpses into the cabinet and different drawers on occasion, and the higgledy-piggledy chaos on every shelf and in every drawer had made him wince. It was no wonder the old man couldn’t find his parts and his tools anymore.
“Well...”
Friends will be Friends 6b/8
(Anonymous) 2012-04-13 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)“Say yes”, he begged. “It’s the first time ever he’s asked someone for help.”
It occurred to Flak at that moment that the whole of Rivet City had been sharing his sentiments about Quentin and had been holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. It seemed like they finally saw their chance to replace Quentin with someone... well... safer.
“It doesn’t have to be forever”, the chief whispered. “Just until we found... other arrangements.”
‘And get rid of the old crackpot’ hung unspoken in the air, but Flak couldn’t blame him. And the longer he thought about it, the more tempting the offer became. He had been complaining about caravaneering more than once the last few days. This was his chance.
“All right”, he said slowly. “But are you sure...”
“Absolutely”, the chief gave back, with audible relief in his voice. Seagrave instantly went over to Quentin and began to talk the old man round into taking a coffee at Gary’s. And within ten minutes after his arrival in Rivet City, Flak found himself co-proprietor of the armoury, still trying to keep up with events.
x-x-x-x-x-x
During the next weeks, Flak gradually took over business and found himself content with it. He cleaned out drawers and cabinets, sorted through the shelves, and at one point, Gary’s young daughter came over with a bucket and a few rags to help him get the place clean again.
In all that time, Quentin spent more and more time sitting happily on the sofa and contentedly slurping away at either beer or coffee, depending on the time of day, until one day, he didn’t show up.
That was no big surprise, as during the last months, he had failed to show up and open his shop on more than one occasion, but when someone went to check on him sometime in the afternoon, they found the old man still in bed, dead as a doornail.
In unspoken agreement, the status quo remained. Flak was content not having to go back into the wasteland, and the Riveteers were content to have someone managing the stall who could tell a 10mm from a .308 and who wouldn’t shoot a customer by accident.
All in all, Flak’s life had turned out quite well, and he might have been happy if not for the fact that he still kept thinking back to the day where he had parted with the man who might have become his best friend and whom he had just let go.
He often asked himself if he should have offered his help that day, even if he never forced himself on people, and more than once he wondered if his old friend was still alive somewhere. He often thought that he might have made a mistake in being so reserved.
But on some nights, those lonely nights when he was lying alone on his cot with his dick in his hand, he remembered that night in Paradise Falls, and that other night in the little cave where he had held on to him and willed him to live through hell… in those moments, he knew he had made a mistake in letting Shrapnel go like that.
x-x-x-x-x-x