#scavver writes

[vaultscavver]

wasteland, baby!

falloutober day one: WAR NEVER CHANGES. 2k / ( eventual sole survivor x hancock x maccready )

a/n: thank you @falloutober for the amazing october word prompts! ive been excited about this challenge for months, and ive already plotted out an entire series to work with falloutober that im super excited to share! so, without further ado, welcome to my pet project, “wasteland, baby!”

xx, scavver

SYNOPSIS — A nuclear apocalypse should have been the end of the world in 2077. But two hundred and ten years later, humanity is still clawing at the brink of survival, scraping instinct from underneath their fingernails and wiping irradiated sweat from wasteland-marred foreheads. The year is now 2287; natural resources have mutated, people are as irrational as ever, and a pre-war vault dweller emerges from a pod in which she had been frozen for the last two centuries. The Sole Survivor of Vault 111 has hell to pay, and who better to join her pursuit of revenge than a red-coated ghoul mayor searching for a purpose and a gunslinging sharpshooter with too many debts to pay?

─ ─── ──── ─── ♠ ─── ──── ─── ─

The world ended in 2077.

It wasn’t a surprise for anyone. Nothing lasts forever. 

There’s always an end, a lowering of a pencil after tracing a careful circle. There are preserved pieces of time frozen on display for people to reminisce about. But when something expires past it's intended use, does it count as dead? Is it really lasting if it's pointless? Does something need to have a purpose to be alive or has humanity just been trained to believe so?

Watching the orange skies darken with the mushroom clouds of a nuclear war, Eleanor Mercer couldn’t help but feel expired. She held her five-month-old son in her arms as the elevator lowered them into the ground, where Vault 111 would save them from the war waging above ground.

She had only been granted the elite spot in the Vault because her late husband, Nathaniel Mercer, had died on duty and granting Nora a place in the Vault was the government’s way of compensation.

Never mind that Nora could scarcely afford their suburban lifestyle on her own, or that their infant son was now fatherless.

She had planned to move back in with her parents in the country, maybe go back to medical school, try to build a happier future for her son.

The large elevator doors closed with a resounding slam.

Her neighbors, an assortment of military personnel and government officials, were crying and holding onto each other as they descended. Nora barely recognized any of them, and now they had to hide away in a Vault together for who even knows how long.

Expired. Gone. Over.

Nora’s tongue tasted metallic, adrenaline postponing a complete breakdown. Was that it? Was it all worth nothing? Their entire lives, just… blown up?

Selfishly, she thought about the boxes in her living room that were still half-packed, full of treasures and knick-knacks that she wished she had taken with her. Books, pillows, Nate’s guitar, her son’s favorite blanket. Maybe some onesies, or at least diapers, for her baby — her baby who was squealing, gurgling as he cried into her chest.

Snapping into focus, Nora readjusted her hold on him, quietly soothing his cries and rubbing her palm over his back in an effort to comfort the infant. Slowly, just as slow as their descending elevator, his whining lulled and his eyes closed, half-asleep against his mom’s shoulder, unaware of the uncertainty in the world.

This didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like it could be an ending. It was a semicolon; a sentence that is pulled longer than it should have, words added on and on and layered atop one another, when in reality, Nora wasn’t completely sure any of it was worth writing at all.

To Nora, the world had ended just as it started; with a bang, a flash, and a deep-rooted emotional scar that would last eternities. 

The elevator stopped; the first family out were the Russos, with their small crowd of children. Mrs. Russo found the Vault Overseer and was immediately demanding to contact their in-laws to see who survived, while Mr. Russo tried to herd their kids into following the orders of the Vault Technicians. 

Other families were smaller and quieter, following instructions without question. Nora followed close behind neighbors whose names she didn’t know, at the rear of the group, heading through the Vault’s entryway and into a room lined with pods that reminded Nora of small spacecrafts.

This room was significantly colder than the entryway, and the baby started to cry again.

Kissing his forehead and rocking him gently, Nora trembled, struggling to keep calm. "It's okay, sweetheart. Mommy's here, see? We'll all be okay. We’ll all be okay.”

No matter how many times she repeated the words, she couldn’t convince herself.

Glancing around at the lines of pods they were told they would be decontaminated in before moving to the deeper sections of Vault 111, Nora couldn't help but wonder if "okay" was the same word as before.

Next to them, a Vault Tech Doctor cleared his throat, stepping forward with a fake smile. "Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Mercer... But it's vital that you put on your new Vault Suit. And, please, step in here..." He gestured to the pod to Nora's left and she nodded once, absently.

The doctor gave her a folded pile of clothes and moved on, giving the same pile to all the other residents that had been able to enter the Vault.

The jumpsuit was a slick and heavy material that stretched easily in her hands, smelling like disinfectant. The whole Vault reeked of a hospital, actually — the metallic white walls were crisp, bright orange railing blocking the mounds of wires and tech beside each pod. There was a loud ambient sound like an air conditioning system on full blast, but Nora couldn’t locate where it was coming from. 

One of the neighbors whose name she didn’t know offered to hold the baby while Nora dressed into the blue jumpsuit, prepping for decontamination in the pod.

"He'll be okay, right?" Nora asked the doctor as she took the baby back, shifting uncomfortably in the skin-tight suit, "The, uh, the cleansing won't hurt him?"

"Not at all!" The doctor ushered them into the pod, "Vault Tech decontamination regimes are perfectly safe for both you and your little one. Now, take your time! We have all day."

Nora slid into the seat of her pod, resting her back against the soft pads, holding Shaun close. The door closed heavily, locking them in the pod.

Her throat started to close up, panic seizing at her chest, and she struggled to make herself breathe, to calm down, to be strong for her son.

"The pod will decontaminate and depressurize you before we head deeper into the Vault." The doctor's voice was robotic and altered as he spoke through the closed door, pressing buttons on the side of the pod. He gave Nora another fake smile, "Just relax." 

"Time for a whole new life." Nora murmured to the baby, once again rubbing his back soothingly. 

She wondered about all the work they’d put into the things they surely lost; would her son be happy here? Did they have all of the materials and necessities to properly care for a baby? How long would they be there? Would her son grow up underground, learn to read here, learn to live here? Would he get a chance to pursue a life for himself? Or would they be mindless worker bees for the rest of their lives?

"Resident secure." The Vault 111 Computer spoke through speakers imbedded into the inside of the pod. "Occupant vitals: Normal. Procedure complete in five... four... three... two..."

Nora never got to hear the final number of the countdown. Frost arose on the inside of the pod, coating the glass and sending goosebumps rising on her arms as she panted, finding it difficult to breathe. Before she could even wonder what was going on, why it was suddenly so cold, her vision went white, and her body became stiff. 

Her consciousness distorted, like she was balancing between sleep and awake, knowing only the foggy darkness of the freezing pod.

"Manual Override Initiated." The computer's voice spoke again, and Nora gasped as feeling returned to her fingers and nose. Was that it? Was she pressurized and ready for her new life at Vault 111? Why was it so cold? "Cryogenic stasis completed."

Panting, Nora struggled to move her arms, to lift the baby and check on him, but she felt so... stiff... heavy... like her entire body was asleep... she could hardly breathe, hardly move, hardly see... Her vision slowly came back in, blurry and distorted, but good enough to see two mysterious figures approaching her pod.

"This is the one," a woman's voice spoke out of a hazmat suit, pointing towards them. "Right here!"

Were they worried about the baby? Where was the doctor?

The second figure was a man wearing a brown leather jacket and biker pants, with odd straps crossing over his chest and back, adorned with so many weapons it was hard for Nora to even name them all. He had a pistol in his right hand, and his left hand flexed at the holster on his hip. He examined the pod, then turned to the woman. "Well? Open it."

Pressing a few buttons, the woman released the locks on the pod, opening the wide door. Steam rolled out Nora was sent into an immediate coughing fit, holding her son tightly against her chest. He was crying again, screaming against her jumpsuit, and she could barely move well enough to soothe him.

Continuing to cough, her voice ragged and hoarse, she looked wide-eyed between the two mysterious figures, her eyebrows drawn. “Is… is it over? Are we okay?”

“Almost.” The leather-clad man stepped forward; hands braced against her shoulder to keep her from stepping out of her pod. “Everything is going to be fine.”

The woman in the hazmat suit approached cautiously, hands extended. “It’s okay, hon. Just give me the baby.”

“What?” Nora croaked, wheezing, holding her son tighter. “No, I’ve got him.”

"Just give him to me." The woman coaxed softly, wrapping her gloved hands around the baby’s middle. "Everything will be okay, just hand him over."

"No, wait — No!" Her protective fury took over as she gripped her son tighter, struggling against the woman’s advances.

"Let the boy go." The man said, and as Nora turned, she met the barrel of a gun, inches from her eyes. "I'm only going to tell you once."

As Nora and the hazmat-wearing woman struggled over the baby, his cries increased in volume. The leather-bound man growled loudly, grunting out another warning.

A gunshot rang out.

Pain like nothing Nora knew swarmed her body, her vision going dark with it.

Her arms slacked and the hazmat-wearing woman stumbled back, holding the baby, ignoring his screams.

Nora had screamed, too, she realized only after she went quiet, her frozen hand palming at the bleeding wound in her shoulder.

"Damn it." The man put his gun away, shaking his head. He whirled murderously around to the woman, who coward before him. "Get the kid out of here. Go!" The woman turned without question, fleeing out of Nora's line of sight. 

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

Bleeding, frozen, in a pain like none other, Nora tried to heave herself from her pod, to follow the woman, to get her baby — but the man easily pushed her back against the cushion of the pod, putting his gun away.

He wore a frown, a deep one that carved long lines into his gaunt, pale face. A scar ran over his left eye, marring deep into the flesh, his icy blue eyes ringed in a sleepless red. He gave her a sadistic smile that looked closer to a grimace, “At least we’ve still got the backup.”

And he closed the pod door, sealing her in again.

Nora pounded on her glass as he walked away, trying to scream again, but her voice wouldn't work. Blood ran heavily down her arm, dripping from her fingertips.

The Vault Tech Computer rang again, "Cryogenic Sequence Reinitialized."

Nora's vision went white once more. 

Pain thrummed through her, and for a long while, it was all that she could feel. Pain and impossible cold, so freezing that it burned.

"Critical failure in Cryogenic Array. All Vault residents must evacuate immediately." 

Gasping and coughing, a sudden heat rushed through her, loud alarms filling reverberating around the metal room as her pod door was unlocked and released, opening too quickly for her to brace herself. She fell forward, hands and knees on the ground, heaving and shivering and panting as she tried to catch her breath. 

She barely registered the flashing orange lights and trilling alarms filling the Vault as she tried to stand, only to stumble back to the ground, shaking violently. Her body still felt frozen. She fell limp against the Vault’s cold, dusty floor.

Even unconscious, Nora kept shivering; two hundred years was a long time to be frozen, after all.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

6.8k+

Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren.  Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.  

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company. 

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends. 

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment. 

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action. 

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.” 

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you. 

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around. 

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed. 

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high. 

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part. 

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger. 

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth. 

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner. 

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose. 

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose. 

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable. 

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds. 

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints. 

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.  

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud. 

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown. 

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life. 

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin. 

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance. 

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes. 

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center. 

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl. 

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit. 

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it. 

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings. 

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time. 

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption. 

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin. 

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking. 

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again. 

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips. 

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous. 

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection. 

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return. 

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss. 

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

[darkworkcourier]

Hi, hello, I decided to be stupidly self-indulgent and write my Courier/Cooper Howard. I guess it's an AU in the sense that I'm writing this under the No Gods, No Masters ending of FNV? Mr. House whomst.

---

All these years on, Cooper still hates Vegas.

He did some work in there—movie scenes, photo ops, theater releases. Casinos used to pay people like him just to show up, to draw in big crowds eager to gamble alongside the stars. He'd throw down a couple dollars on a blackjack table or at the roulette wheel, then make a beeline for the buffet when his time was up. He never had time to go sightseeing in the Mojave, to gaze down the long concrete throat of Hoover Dam, to catch all the sunset colors at Red Rock Canyon.

He flew in and out, and felt dirty all the while.

Knowing what he does about fellas like Robert House, he feels a particular kind of dirty again as New Vegas wavers like a mirage on the horizon. He's passed through before, following bounties through NCR checkpoints and around Legion patrols back when those bastards still crawled like red mites through the canyons and gullies.

This time is no different. A bounty on a would-be gunslinger who put a bullet into a brahmin baron's son during a bar fight. His trail's easy to follow, as all Cooper has to do is the world's longest bar crawl and ask after a shaken-up little shit in a mouse-colored duster. Same color as his coward hide, Cooper says.

His route takes him to a little outpost called Goodsprings. It's quaint in the way that Wasteland towns usually are—just people trying to keep their heads down and still attached to their necks. They must see ghouls aplenty, as everyone from the bighorner rancher to the bartender doesn't so much as bat an eye at the sight of him.

The bartender in particular is his favorite kind of person. The only question she asks is what he'll be drinking, and then she slides him a shot of whiskey and the rest of the bottle.

"Good for the caps?" she asks.

He nods, knuckles the brim of his hat as extra confirmation. "Much obliged, ma'am."

She scoffs with a smile. "Heavens to betsy, but you're polite. Oughta teach some of our other menfolk 'round here to mind their manners."

"It's a dyin' art," he agrees.

She goes back to wiping out chipped glasses with a rag that probably gets them dirtier than not. As she does, the saloon door opens with a low, throaty creak, getting both of their attentions.

The bartender coughs out a laugh. "Been a minute since you darkened our doorway, honey," she says.

Cooper glances over his shoulder to the visitor, burned-up brows rising in surprise. On one hand, she's a Wasteland special—.308 rifle slung over her shoulder, tan face windburnt on the cheeks, aged brahmin leather rucksack over her shoulder practically busting at the seams with supplies. At a glance, he can't tell if she's a scavver, caravaneer, or mercenary—maybe all three.

But on the other hand, he doesn't see women like her all that often. She's probably in her late 30s or so, although he's absolutely shit at guessing ages these days. A pair of aviator sunglasses rest on top of her head—hair blue-black and tied back—like she's a movie star at poolside. And, hell, the rest of her looks that way, too. If it weren't for all the hallmarks of a life lived out in the wastes, she'd fit right in to his best Hollywood memories. Boxed at the edges, sure, but pretty as all get out.

He doesn't often bitch about being a ghoul, but seeing girls like her out in the wastes really makes him kick himself over getting irradiated.

"Trudy," she greets, sliding onto the stool beside him easy as pie. Like the rest of the town, she doesn't so much as blink at him. "How're things?"

"Just dandy," the bartender replies, sliding a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla, of all things, across the bar top. "How's Vegas?"

The woman snorts as she opens the bottle, sliding the cap into one of her many pockets. "Same as always. Loud. Full of people with more money than brains. I needed a vacation."

"Well, you know you're always welcome," Trudy says, reaching across the bar to pat the woman on the arm. "Now, Sunny'd kill me right dead if I didn't tell her you were in town. I'm gonna hop out back an' let her know, if that's alright."

"Sure," the woman replies. She grins, a little pinch appearing at the bridge of her nose. "Me an' tall, dark, and ghoulish'll keep an eye out for any ruffians."

And just like they've been friends for decades, the woman gently elbows him in the bicep. If it were anyone else, or anywhere else, he might take a little offense. But it's not often that any gal quite like her even touches him, and this town is nice. So he just smiles and nods, good as anything.

"Of course, ma'am," he says, touching the brim of his hat again. "Do what you gotta do."

"Much obliged," she says, echoing him. She looks back to the woman. "Lizzie, you be nice to this fella."

"Always!"

Trudy heads out from behind the bar, leaving Cooper with her—Lizzie. He watches her take a long drink of her sarsaparilla, following the line of her throat, the faint bob as she swallows. She's still got sweat clinging to her skin from the desert heat, but he can also see freckles on her bare shoulders and her cheeks. If he still had the network of blood vessels to get warm in the face, he thinks he might just.

Lizzie sets her drink down and turns to look right back at him. Not at all put off by his stares. She's all smiles, eyes crinkling with crow's feet at the corners. "See somethin' you like, cowboy?" she asks.

Flirting right out the goddamn gate. It doesn't sound like a joke coming from her, which takes him by surprise.

But it's just as easy to fall into a role.

"Suppose'n I do," he replies. "If you're into irradiated fellas, that is."

She breaks into a laugh, which he almost thinks is at his expense until she follows it up. "Cariño, I'm mostly into people who click the Geiger counter," she says, all matter of fact.

Color him surprised again. "S' that so?"

Lizzie leans over the top of the bar, elbow on the top, chin resting in her palm. Her grin's as wide and content as a cat. "I got a track record, won't lie," she says. "Y'know there's a dominatrix ghoul in Freeside?"

He didn't, but that's a fact he's going to be rolling around in the ol' decrepit gray matter for a while. "Huh," is all he says before taking a shot.

"If you tell her Lizzie Holliday sent you, she might give you a discount."

"I'll keep that in mind, sweetheart."

The nickname seems to make her preen, and she takes another drink like she's fortifying herself. She sets it back down, then gives him a long once-over that almost makes him self-conscious.

Almost.

"Wanna get out of here?" she asks.

"Ain't you got a friend wantin' to visit?"

This time, her smile shows some teeth. One of her top incisors is chipped, and some deep-set part of Cooper that still wants supplies the thought that he ought to test how that tooth feels on his own tongue.

"She knows my priorities," Lizzie says.

And that's all the invitation Cooper needs.

---

Holy-good-goddamn, but he missed this.

Lizzie's riding him like he's the last train out of Yuma, rolling her hips over his, hands braced on his shoulders with a grip that would hurt someone with more nerve endings. Her hair's out of its ponytail, messed up one one side where he raked his hand through it while she was sucking his cock earlier.

And holy shit did she have some technique. He doesn't have a reason to doubt that she's fucked ghouls before, since she put just enough pressure on all the right parts so that he could feel it. And not once did she shy away from him once his clothes were on the floor and he was sprawled out on her bed.

Her bed, in a converted ranch home that she's made positively cozy. He feels like a teenager sneaking in through the window, out of place amongst the artwork and Christmas lights and tchotchkes. He could almost put himself two centuries back, in some college girl's over-decorated dorm room.

But sorority girls don't have deathclaw skulls mounted over their dressers.

Lizzie suddenly catches him on an upward thrust that makes both of them hiss. Then she seats herself flush against him, and it's the closest to heaven he's probably going to get for the kind of bastard he is. She's warm, slick-wet around him and for him. Hazel eyes blown wide and cheeks dark with arousal. It's the first time in years he's felt wanted like this; like he's something worth wanting rather than the irradiated husk of a man.

Another thrust and she shudders, muttering in Spanish and squeezing her eyes shut.

He doesn't catch what she says, but he can't help a little self-deprecation for the road. "If you gotta pretend I'm someone else, by all means."

She swears—and that doesn't need a translation—before her eyes are open and fixed on him. "Give me a name to start moanin' and there won't be any confusion," she says, rolling her hips to punctuate it.

"Jesus Christ," he says through his teeth.

"I'm not callin' you that."

He wouldn't normally offer up his name to anyone not worth knowing he was a human once, but she's something different. He knows that the way the wind blows, he'll likely never see her again, but he'll keep the memory of her tucked nice and close for those lonely, long nights.

"Cooper," he says at last.

She smiles, eyes reflecting those ridiculous rainbow lights strung up around her bedroom. Something about her feels otherworldly, powerful. Either he's already in some weird endorphin-induced haze, or he's more into her than he thought.

"Cooper," she repeats. It's easy and warm as sunshine in her mouth, and he wants to hear it again. He bucks his hips for her, driving up into that heat, eager to get a gasp, a whisper—anything.

And she delivers. Leaning over, tits pressed to his chest, mouth by one of his scarred-up ears, she says his name over and over. Follows the rhythm of his thrusts, loses the syllables as he pushes her over the edge. His name is unstrung, a thread caught in her moans and keens. Then she's pushed to open-mouthed silence, riding it out in desperate asyncopation.

When she finally comes down, he's on the way up. She's clinging to his shoulders still, their chests pressed together, her heartbeat a riot of rhythm rushing through his chest.

Then her mouth goes back to his ear.

"It's Adelita," she says, sighs. "Lizzie to everyone else. Adelita to you."

It's a hell of a trade—a name for a name, a release for a god-fucking-blessed release. He comes harder than he has in years, her name warm on his tongue. He fucks into her, pulsing, filling her, earning another gasp and moan wrapped around his name.

When it's all done, she rolls off him onto her back, chest heaving for breath. He's wheezing for his through rotten lungs. But he watches her, the colors of the lights on her freckled skin and in her eyes, the tresses of her hair falling across her sweat-damp forehead, the scar—

His eyes catch on it. Two interlinked starbursts of scar tissue on the right side of her forehead.

Bullet wounds.

He reaches up to push her hair away from it, pads of his fingers brushing over her skin so that he can almost fool himself into thinking he can feel it. "Looks like there's a story up here," he says. Maybe jokes.

She's still smiling. A little weary, a little amused. "That's my hard reset," she says.

"Oh?"

His hand's still on the scar, and she reaches up to tap the back of his hand twice. Tap-tap, in hard sequence. "Two little 9mm bites," she explains. "Sent me into an early grave."

Cooper frowns, looks at her hand now resting on his, both pressed to her forehead. Now that he's looking, he can also see a faint, hair-thin scar that follows her scalp line all the way across. This girl's got some history.

"I gather that it didn't take," he replies.

Lizzie—Adelita—hums to herself, then sings, "There ain't no grave can hold my body down," before looking up at him. "I did get better."

"I see that. So, either you're the prettiest ghoul that done walked the wastes, or the Mojave's got better doctors than I thought."

"The latter," she confirms. "Myself included."

"No shit?"

Her dark brows rise, grin plain on her face. "Doc Holliday. Get it?"

The joke catches him by surprise, again. A lot of shit about this girl is a surprise. It pries a laugh out of him, then earns a few strokes through her hair. "That's good," he says. "That's real good."

"Gracias."

They lay there in a shockingly comfortable silence. His hand in her hair, combing the strands back and away from that scar. She leans up against him, eyes half-lidded, a dreamy expression on her face.

Then, she sighs, "This is already a damn good vacation."

"Glad I could contribute," Cooper says. "High-stress job?"

She sighs, blinks slow, then reaches up and rests an arm across his waist. "You have no idea," she says.

Curiosity gets the best of him. He's a man who appreciates people keeping their noses—or lack thereof—out of his business. However, he's also a bounty hunter, a man making his too-long living on asking the right questions and using those answers to his benefit down the road. It might be good to know something about her, to make connections, to network as some assholes in his past life might say.

"Merc work? Or somethin' worse?"

"Jack of all trades," she says. She raises up her gaze to him, and for one brief, strange moment, her eyes catch that unearthly light again that he can't entirely blame on the Christmas lights. "Mostly courier. An' mostly ruler of New Vegas."

---

Years down the line, Cooper Howard goes back to Vegas.

It's with company now—a vault girl he's tolerating a little more by the day, and a dog. They cross the Mojave, following the silhouette of Vegas by day and its glow by night, drawing in closer and closer like irradiated moths to Vegas' big ol' flame.

Just shy of Goodsprings, as the foothills lean forward like they're drawn in by the city, too, Lucy asks, "What kind of place is New Vegas, anyhow?"

Cooper shrugs and adjusts his pack as Dogmeat trots alongside him, tongue lolling out of her mouth. "Sleazy, dirty, bright," he says. Then, his eyes catch the tallest building in the row of casinos—the top a massive roulette wheel with its spire pointing to heaven. He has to amend his opinion, for the first time since he stepped foot in Vegas as a healthy human. "Ain't the worst watering hole, though."

"We're not going to get shot at right through the gate?"

Despite himself, Cooper smiles. He draws down the brim of his hat as low as he can without losing vision.

"Nah," he says. "All we gotta say is that Lizzie Holliday put in a good word for us."

[grease-weasel]

What do Adam and Fuze think of each other’s factions??

Also I love your art style is so cool !

Fuze is the boss of a psuedo raider group. They don’t really do much actual raiding, but they wear raider gear and cause too much chaos to just be scavvers. Adam is General of the minutemen (he’s my sole <33)

Before the institute explodes, Adam and Fuze really hate each other 😔😔 Fuze calls Adam a boy scout and Adam thinks Fuze is a scumbag. Fuze just messes with the Minutemen and for some reason Adam just brushes it off, since Fuze isn’t directly stealing from settlers or minutemen. He’s just annoying.

Youtube prank channel type of behavior

So small pretense because Fuze isn’t really a “raider,” he was just raised by some before starting his own group. His little faction is mostly made of younger adults/teens, with him being one of the oldest (early 20s). They’re almost all orphans and runaways, and Fuze is their leader since he was around the longest. His moral compass is all out of wack, but he at least knows murder = bad. He hung with some raiders for a little while before leaving, and took what he had learned to survive and help other people like him. Since he pretty much got all his education from raiders and experience, he still acts really immature and childish, and his settlement is not very acknowledged by other major groups. They’re left alone for the most part, but Adam does try to get them on the Minutemen’s side, which Fuze doesn’t want to give up power to.

Fuze does keep the raider’s opinion on the minutemen, since he would have only been exposed to them while on the receiving end of their gunfire. He thinks Adam is a pushover and too optimistic, and since he’s got all his friends counting on him, Fuze thinks he’s the only one good enough to lead his group (it’s basically like the lost boys in Peter Pan)

Adam thinks that Fuze can do better than scavenging and occasional robberies and his parent heart is in pain seeing Fuze being an idiot </3 but that doesn’t stop him from leaving boxes of food around like he’s feeding stray cats.

I could write a whole story about these two but I will refrain-

[dndeceit]

It was already a hard fight not to think about writing a Fallout AU for the sides before the show came out. Now I feel like I'm at the losing end of a long battle...

(I have so many WIPs for SaSi and for Fallout, already. I can't be doing this... But then the devil on my shoulder starts whispering to me about FEV!Mutant Janus keeping his nature under wraps well enough to become warlord of a lawless little town called Darkside, and about Roman and Remus as a synth and the man he was supposed to replace (though which one is which?) running away together to live as brothers, and Virgil as a world-weary scavver guiding two upstanding Vaulties on their journey and all of them meeting up and I just... I'm weak.)

[nuka-bolt]

2, 12, and 13 for the WIP asks!

Hi Megh! Im so sorry this took so long🧡

WIP Development Ask Game

2. Describe the plot in one sentence:

Derailed: Scavver gets more than he bargained for when he tries to get some good karma and gets pulled unwillingly into a road trip with a passenger that doesn't know anything about how the world works

12. What inspired this wip?

Liar Liar: A ‘what if’ scenario. I was playing through Underground Undercover and thought "what if the Institute asked you to go undercover in the Railroad?". Which developed into “what if they sent in an infiltrator synth?”, then “what if that infiltrator defected and worked for the railroad?” “What if her work for the Institute causes a lot of the issues that the Railroad faces later in the quest-line?”

13. Do you like working on more wips at once?

Yes and no. On one hand, its great to have multiple in the same world because ideas you can't use for one can be used in the other, and if I get tired of writing one genre, I can swap to another. So if I get tired of writing Fallout, I can swap to my DnD planning and vice versa

On the other hand, I have so many ideas and absolutely none of them are getting finished

[whatwastelanders]

Kid meme: Novac/Betty

[Prompt]

Name: Alexander "Alex" Conley-Graham

Gender: Male

General Appearance: Shaggy, dirty-blonde hair; dark blue eyes; a ghost of a beard starting. His style of clothing is very heavily Mojave Wastelander influenced: duster, flannels, denims, an old cowboy hat of his father's.

Personality: Eager, willing, and ambitious - Alex wouldn't know how to sit still if his life depending on it (and it has before). He's always good for a tall tale (plucked from the depths of his imagination) and goes out of his way to put a smile on people's faces.

Special Talents: Smooth-talking gunslinger with a penchant for having animals (even the wild wasteland creatures) take a liking to him.

Who they like better: Novac.

Who they take after more: Novac.

Personal Headcanon: Harbored a massive crush on Sophie for most of his life. Travels to the Mojave with his dad to meet his father's family and really connects with the area. Stays in the Mojave scavving and exploring for a decade or so (always writing home) before returning to the Commonwealth to settle down, running a repair shop in Concord. It's actually Sophie who introduces him to the scavver who he would later marry.

Faceclaim: Luke Ford

[villains4hire]

Clarenci Von Polkawitz

I have no big disclaimers about this character other than he manipulates and betrays people he doesn't care about. But he can grow to care about your character in his own way.

I am aware Polkawitz is an altered name of canon and that's intentional.

->Final Space Disclaimer<- for my characters (placeholder)

Do I want them to die: He has his own ending and I use mostly the canon one, but with a little tid-bit added onto the end for his continuation. Will I have/get icons: I have them. Tag: always been me (canon s2 verse, I won't be using his redeemed version since he dies alone other than talking to Ash) | whispers of a scavver (continuation verse past his ending) - Clarence has left behind recordings, AIs, using his vast fortune to make amends with the people of his family he's wronged after his death. He has countless stashes, contacts, information and an AI that updates himself to give advice if people need his past knowledge or help. Though it clearly isn't him, yet sometimes, his hologram AI is a little too real for how it responds even if the ex-conman has been dead for a while. It's suggested to have Ash with your character for this verse considering it's pretty much dual-muse required. Age: Nearly a century old. Sex: Alien in nature, his species reproduces through spores. Gender: He/him identifying. Race: He's a type of fungus toad alien. Sexuality: Preferably 'women-like' beings but would be fine with men. Personality traits: I will not be covering his recordings verse as this covers purely his canon personality and my extended verse. Is rather nerdy. Rude. Thinks lesser of certain species like humans and refers to them as primates, albeit there are exceptions such as Sheryl who's probably only because she's 'strong'. He is fine with having 'indentured servants' as he calls it. A businessman. Has near insane, convoluted schemes. Arrogant. Betrays people a lot or manipulates them. Somewhat perverted at times though not extremely over the top thankfully? Prideful. Prides himself on his intelligence. Cares in his own way. Insecure. Very controlling. Holds a grudge but doesn't let money get in the way of that. Talks rather intelligently and often comes off as condescending. Narcissistic. Is a thief. Bad Influence. Likes to recycle. Bit of a collector and is a major hoarder. Tends to screw over the people around him on accident or sometimes intentionally. Can be rather cowardly or pathetic at times. Mental traits: Is a genius of many kinds. Physical traits: very small, around 3'5 to 4'0 as he's even shorter than Ash by quite a bit in canon. Powers: 1. Master of all things mechanical, electronic or plasmid. While he'd give the Lord Commander's engineer and technicians a run for their money with his brilliance? He's still very much just one guy at the end of the day, so a team of scientists working together would easily outclass him, but could still defer to him for his own knowledge for most likely a consultant fee. Now while he could learn Arachnitect technology? He doesn't have access to it in canon nor does he ever really learn about it other than vaguely in legends, writings, so he could probably point in the direction of where they are in their light fold webs, but that's about it. 2. Uses drones, robots or his children Ash and Fox to fight for him. Ash Pre-Continuation Verse and Fox Pre-Continuation Verse are both on here before Fox dies and Ash becomes what she does for my ending for her. So expect at least one of his kids with him and some robots probably if choosing to attack him. 3. A.V.A is his AI before her death on his ship the Crimson Light, she listens to him and flirts with him until Gary comes along and eventually wins her over. 4. Weapon Use - he does use things like a plasma pistol but will also use things like Ash's poison or spit on blades or droplets to put in peoples' food he keeps concealed. It depends if he wants them dead or to have a dehabilitating diseases that slowly kill them. And yeah he was probably tempted a few times to try this on Gary. 5. Knows how to hack rather easily. 6. Knows the universe and all the players in it like the back of his hand when it comes to the crime world or needing to find something. 7. Furthermore, has an extensive list of contacts when it comes to his ventures. 8. Extremely rich.

Motivations: To make money and build his empire | post betrayal, to make amends for all he's done and leave his recordings and AIs to help those that cared about him. Then make amends with his children. Backstory: Pretty much just all of canon yeah, not much is needed other than a little addition I added which I thought he at least deserved one final talk with Ash.

->Always been you<-

[suchwastelanders]

Eddie Wilson

Basics

Full name: Christopher Edward Wilson Nickname: Eddie Gender: Male Date of Birth: May 15th Age: Twenty-five

Sexual orientation: Demisexual; panromantic Relationship Status: Single City or town of birth: Small homestead in the Commonwealth Current location: At the Atom Cat garage, family homestead, Goodneighbor, or otherwise just around the 'Wealth Job: Mechanic; scavver Factions/Affiliations: Atom Cats Religious beliefs: None Character alignment: Chaotic Good Fighting style/Weapon of choice: Capable of using a rifle, pistol, shotgun, and any blunt weapon he can get his hands on; prefers not to fight if possible

Appearance

Height: 5'10" Weight: 155lbs General Health: Healthy Figure/build: Lean Hairstyle and color: Brown and curly; styled like an 80s hair band Eye color: Dark brown Tattoos: Various Scars: Various Piercings: None Clothing: Wasteland metalhead: worn leather jacket, denim vest, torn jeans, biker boots, etc.

Personality and Family

Likes: Music; working with his hands; poetry; storytelling; comics Dislikes: Authority figures; someone being condescending with him; being underestimated Fears/phobias: Losing his uncle; being alone Hobbies: Playing guitar; writing poetry; coming up with elaborate stories Known for: Mechanic knowledge; guitar skill; poetry; having a rather intimidating appearance despite his fluffy marshmallow interior; having a smile that'll knock the boots off your feet

Parents: Lenore Wilson (deceased); unknown father Guardian: Christopher Wilson (uncle) Significant other/s: None Siblings: Unknown Pets: None

Faceclaim: Joseph Quinn

[satans-left-asscheeky]

Companions react to Sole asking to see their junk

(Thinking out loud well playing fallout today was a bad idea. I was trying to open maccreadys inventory to retrieve the desk fans I had given him and instead of just saying that my dumbass says "Okay show me your junk" (COMPLETELY INNOCENTLY MIND YOU) and ofc at the moment someone decides to walk right past me.... that was a fun conversation. )

( also I accidentally ended up writing this for shortly after sole and them first met)

Maccready

"Look I'm a hired gun if your looking for that you're gonna have to go some place else pal."

He is really embarrassed when sole explains that they indeed meant the vacuum tubes and gears they had handed him earlier. This is one of the many reasons why he doesn't like carrying peoples crap. He blushes and hands them their stuff well muttering something under his breath about vaulties and their confusing vocabulary.

Hancock

"Heh well that's a bit forward, but I'm down."

Is a bit dissapointed when sole explains they meant the random shit they had handed him earlier, but still he hands it over and tells them "Im always down to let you handle my junk" then winks at them. somehow he makes sole the one who's embarrassed by the exchange.

Cait

"Well someone clearly doesn't know how to sweet talk a girl. Seriously though do ya wanna end up with ya arse full of lead?"

Doesn't even feel bad for what she said after sole explains. Sole should be more careful with wording in the future. Caits been around far to many scumbags in her life time to deal with that type of bs

Danse

"That is highly inappropriate soldier I recommend you cease this behavior before I fill out a detailed report to Kells."

Is embarrassed even before sole explains but is even more so after. He'd probably apologize profusely and hand them all the things they had him hold onto. He'd probably need some space for a bit. If sole brings it up again at some point in the future as a joke he'd still get second hand embarrassment from his past self.

Curie

*French noises of confusion and embarrassment*

Sole would have to reiterate and say specifically what they wanted before curie would understand. Curie would be bright red. Safe to say the poor synth is mortified.

Deacon

"Buy me dinner first"

He would be so relieved when sole rolled their eyes and said they wanted their wonderglue and duck tape back. He would never let them know that he seriously thought they were propositioning him.... Wouldn't be the first time he'd have to "lose" a new recruit for being a perv.

Piper

"Excuse me!?"

Soles gonna have to explain very quickly or dodge the incoming slap. Once explained Piper will apologize nervously and hand them back their things. God that was awkward.

Nick

"I've been in the commonwealth for years now and yet it never ceases to amaze me how dehumanizing people can be."

Once Sole explained he'd feel a little embarrassed, but then again do you know how many people have asked him what he has in his pants apon meeting him? He's unfortunately far to used to uneducated scavvers having far to much to say.

Preston

*Chokes on his own spit*

By the time he's done choking sole had already reached into his pack and taken what they needed. End of story right? Well they never explained to Preston what they meant so now he's just really confused and embarrassed everytime he's around them.

X6-88

*Disapproving glare*

Sole would either nervously reiterate that they needed their wonderglue or drop it all together. either way it was never spoken of again.

[vaultscavver]

( scavver masterlist )   ⠀⠀ ─── ⠀‎‎‏‏‎ ‎⠀‎⠀⠀❛ 𝓱𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝓴𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞 ❜ 31-part series / eventual sole x hancock x maccready

these chapters are inspired by @falloutober’s 31 days of apocalyptic prompts for october 2023 — even though it isn’t being written in october, i just love these titles and wanted to work with them <3

this madness is in a semi-organized timeline, and i've included a lot of ocs and changes to canon because i think it's fun, so to get a clear view of the story i recommend reading it in the order it's posted. but if you don't want to, don't worry about it! i've tried to make everything as simple as possible so that each fic can be standalone as well as part of a series.

─ ─── ──── ─── ♠ ─── ──── ─── ─

01. WAR NEVER CHANGES

─── the one where nora watches her world end twice.

02. NEON

─── the one where the detective has a hunch and nora debates the morality of ferals.

03. DISTANT GLOW

─── the one where maccready needs the caps, and this strange, masked vault dweller needs an extra gun.

04. DADDY-O & 05. THIS THING CALLED DEFEAT

─── the one where maccready isn't just a bodyguard, and nora doesn't know how to think about him and his moonshine-revealed secrets.

06. MONUMENT

─── the one where duncan maccready's cure is hidden under dangerous layers of feral-ridden hallowed halls.

07. MIDNIGHT RIDE

08. FAITH, HOPE, & LOVE

09. BUTCHER PETE

10. TERMINAL

11. FALLEN STAR

12. RUST

13. CIVILIZATION

14. AFTERDAMP

15. KEEPING WARM

16. LACRIMAE RETURN

17. FANG & CLUB

18. RESPITE

19. FERAL

20. WAYWARD SOULS

21. MUTATION

22. HEAT LIGHTNING

23. HOMECOMING

24. CIGARETTE

25. POUND OF FLESH

26. INK SPOTS

27. GREEN

28. COLD, DARK

29. SHRAPNEL

30. ATOM

31. THIS LITTLE LIGHT

[that-blue-vault-dweller]

Kinda hate myself for coming up with this one, but: A young teenage (Maybe 13 or 14 year old) SS who was raised in an abusive family and as a result, is very jumpy and easily scared, and can't stand up for herself very well.

Dang, y’all are gluttons for punishment with all this angst.... 😔 But I do like writing it 😂🤣

Thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy! 💙💛

Cait - Immediately feels deep sympathy for the kid, and she resolves to take her under her wing. If anyone dares mess with the girl, Cait can and will become volatilely and aggressively violent as she defends her little buddy. No one will ever put their hands on the girl again. Not on Cait's watch.

Piper - Feels her stomach flop as soon as she realizes that the kid instinctively flinches when Piper reaches up to try to touch her face or to put a hand on her shoulder. Piper quickly makes it her mission to introduce the kid to as many kind touches as Piper can spring on her. She also will jump all over someone else if they try to hurt the kid regardless if physical or emotional injury is intended.

Curie - Feels absolutely horrible for the girl, and she is offering her hugs as often as she can. She always wants to make the girl feel comfortable, happy, and safe as she can possibly be. If anyone tries to insult or hurt the girl, Curie does the best she can to defend her, explaining to the offender that they are being quite rude and awfully inappropriate. They usually end up laughing at Curie, so she just leads F!Sole away from the situation.

MacCready - Feels pretty sorry for the kid and tries to watch over her in as non-hovering of a manner as he can. If someone tries to mess with her, he is quickly there to back her up and he threatens them quickly. They usually do not take him seriously. That is, until he pulls out his gun and tells them that they better leave her alone or they'll figure out just how serious he is.

Deacon - Before he even knows her personally, he sees how jumpy she is, so he makes a mental note to keep an eye out for her. During his times undercover watching her, if someone messes with her, he will actually interfere, utilizing his undercover identity as a drifter or a scavver and staying in character the entire time he defends her. When she actually knows who he is, he keeps up this trend of protecting her except now he will do it regardless of whether he's undercover or not.

Codsworth - Feels frustrated and upset that he could never do anything about it. He was programmed to serve her parents first and foremost, and while he could offer her comfort after they hurt her, he could not stop them. He blames himself for her condition, but he tries to make it up to her by defending her to the best of his abilities and standing by her loyally always.

Hancock - Immediately feels terrible for the kid, and resolves to do everything in his power to make sure that she is completely untouchable. By the time he's through, absolutely no one in Goodneighbor lays a hand on her and most of them are either very respectful or completely avoid her. Out in the wasteland, if someone even tries to hurt her, he is already gutting them with a knife before guiding her away carefully.

Danse - Feels very sorry for her and decides that he will keep her as safe as he can. Of course, absolutely everyone around is extremely discouraged from hurting her physically or emotionally when she has a giant, power-armor-clad paladin behind her that looks like he could kill them with just a flex of his pinky toe. He keeps her very safe and he always offers a sympathetic ear if she needs to talk about things.

Preston - Cannot believe that someone from such a perfect world knows intimately about abuse. He feels terrible for her, and he does the best he can to make her feel as safe as possible. He often pats her on the shoulder when she does a good job with something, and he tries to praise her a lot for things so maybe she can build her confidence back up. He also will lead her away from a situation if someone is being confrontational.

Valentine - Feels as if he's been hit in the gut when he realizes it. He from then on keeps an even closer eye on her and he makes sure that no one messes with her. He also offers to talk to her about stuff, and offers advice whenever he can. He just tries to play the role of a wise grandfatherly figure for her.

X6-88 - Feels that the situation is terribly unfortunate. He does not act much different, but he does more proactively take part in defending her and keeping her safe. If anyone even says anything less than kind or respectful to her, he withdraws his gun and tells them to step away from the situation quickly.

Dogmeat - Smells the fear on her when she is near large people or when people seem angry or upset about anything. Therefore, he just stands closer to her, pressing his nose against her hand until she pets him. If anyone tries to get in her face, he is immediately growling and if anyone dares raise their hand as if they might hit her, he is jumping to attack. No one will hurt her ever on his watch.

Strong - Tells her that she needs to be stronger. He tells her that she has to be mean and loud to show other tiny humans that she is boss and the best fighter. He is somehow really encouraging in his strange way and if anyone tries to mess with her when he is around, he is all but ripping them apart as he starts attacking in a pure rage.

Maxson - Feels quite bad for the child and resolves to keep her doing things on the Prydwen in order to keep her away from anyone who might be toxic toward her. He starts out giving her relatively easy things to do so she can succeed and feel good about herself. If anyone criticizes her work while she is in earshot, he will make sure that there is adequate punishment.

Sturges - Feels terrible for the girl, and he does the best he can to watch over her. He gives her plenty of work to do with him, and they talk about all sorts of things while they're working on different projects. He just tries to make her feel comfortable around him. However, if anyone messes with her, he will stand up for her quite sufficiently, telling the people to back off. People usually do not question him since he has such muscles and he looks so threatening when he scowls. Even if he truly would not hurt a fly.

Glory - Feels awful for the kid, and asks Desdemona if she can mentor the girl. Desdemona agrees, and Glory immediately starts trying to show her how to stand up for herself. Of course, Glory stands up for her regardless of whether the kid is trying to stand up for herself or not. When Carrington starts talking down to her and treating her less than nicely, Glory is already in his space, practically snarling in his face as she tells him to leave the kid alone.

[libertybri]

I would die for that jealous prompt with Romanced! Maxson &/or Maccready 😭

LOVE your writing by the way 💕

Thank you, you’re so sweet! I figured I would write Maxson for this one since there isn’t a lot of Elder content out there, but I can definitely make a MacCready version later on too!

Riled Up - Elder Maxson x gn!Sole

The Elder of the Brotherhood rarely left the safety of the Prydwen, when he did it would only be for serious matters or battle. However, that all recently changed when he began seeing Sole. They could never situate themselves on the Prydwen, though he could never understand why. This led him to follow them out into the Commonwealth most nights, sticking to his lover like a lost puppy in uncharted territory. Goodneighbor especially was one of his most disliked areas outside of Brotherhood grounds. Sole, however, saw no issue with dragging their boyfriend down to the old Third Rail for some drinks and dinner.

The two sit at the furtherest end of the bar and are served bourbon and Salisbury steak, basking in each other’s presence and overall having a good time, despite the fact that Arthur would rather be at home doing this. He could put that lingering thought aside in the moment as he took in the sight of his lover, smiling genuinely at him with a sort of gleam in their eye he believed resembled their love for him.

Their lovely night couldn’t be complete without some scavver attempting to create a ruin on it. A lanky man with a thick Boston accent approaches the two, eyeing up Sole a bit too long for Arthur’s liking. “Ey sweetheart, what’re you doin’ with a man like that? Heard someone like you does all the dominatin’ and I’m into that.” He opens up with heavy flirting, if one could even call it that. People were known to be vulgar in the Third Rail, but Sole had never encountered such behavior on their own time before.

“That’s not really—“

Arthur puts a hand on their forearm comfortingly, taking their attention off of the man. He takes over the conversation for them as he stands in between his lover and the man, looming over his much smaller figure. Anyone with a brain could have taken just this as their queue to leave the couple be and get on with their night, however this man saw it as an opportunity to get back at whatever antics he didn’t see fit in the Brotherhood, as the powerhouse of the faction stood before him.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, big guy,” he smirks at his doing.

“You should leave.” Arthur speaks coldly, narrowing his eyes at the fellow.

He lets out a dry laugh as he responds to Arthur, “If anyone should leave, it’s gotta be you, Elder Dick. Now you already know you ain’t too welcome around these parts. Take it kindly while you can.”

Before Arthur can make any hasty decisions under the influence of his own anger, Sole lightly shoves him aside and steps in between them. They glare at the man and point a finger directly into his chest as they scold him, “You should be ashamed for ruining such a good night! Do you really think that kind of attitude is going to get me anywhere with you?”

“I was hoping it would get you to bed,” he admits, continuing on his snarky remarks towards the couple.

“Well, with the way you go about things, it’s pretty clear you struggle to get anyone to bed. I hope you can work on yourself, we will not be seeing you again.” Sole loops an arm with Arthur’s and drags him out of the place. The two settle at the hotel for the night and finally get some peace alone.

The Elder breathes out a deep sigh, sitting on the bed next to his lover. He leans into their side and lets go of the troubles of the day. “I wish I could have stood up for you more. Had we been anywhere else, he would have regretted his decision to mess with you.”

“I know, you goof. You don’t have anything to prove to me,” Sole runs their fingers through his hair soothingly as Arthur takes this as his cue to get comfier, laying in their lap and closing his eyes.

“It just makes me feel inadequate when I can’t give guys like that what they deserve.”

“A beating?”

“I didn’t say that—“ Arthur looks up at Sole and furrows his brows. He didn’t have to hide his feelings from them, he didn’t feel embarrassed to admit how that man made him feel. He felt comfort in the fact that Sole could stand in between them and still stand on his side. “He was being out of hand from the start, to be fair.”

“I already said you don’t have to prove anything to me,” they laugh.

“I know, but maybe you should know that I don’t think that much will change when it comes to you. Maybe I will grow out of it as we go through life together, maybe not. The thought of another man making you swoon makes me…” he pauses as just the thought riles him up. “If we were in Diamond City tonight and that happened, he would have ended up with more than a shattered ego.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep up your good behavior, love. You can’t go around fighting civilians.” At his silence, Sole takes his face in their hands and kisses his forehead teasingly. “You remember how hard it was for you to make me swoon? You really think any other guy has what it takes, then? You’re not a regular Joe, I’ll tell you that much, babe.”

Arthur finds peace in their silly, yet affirming approach to comforting his jealousy. He sits up and takes them in his arms. “The fact that I had to try so hard to get you makes the thought of losing you to another much scarier. But, I can appreciate your affirmation.” They smile at his acceptance and cuddle further into his arms. The two end their night off with sweet nothings as they drift off to sleep.

[hellhound-wrangler]

I have made the immensely foolish decision to dip my toes into the “writing fanfic” waters and I’m now regretting all my life choices. I have weird disjointed chunks of a story, some more edited than others. Also I apparently have a masochistic streak, because I’m writing fic for the game that aggravates me on almost every level, instead of one that isn’t actively maddening.

Anyhow, if you, too, have an inexplicable fondness for the garbage fire that is Fallout 3, I bring you a small offering of irradiated trash.

A week later, Charon shoved open the door of the Ninth Circle, a moaning drunk with broken hands draped over his shoulder (“Now take out the trash Charon, there’s a good boy” Azhrukhal had said before turning to the fool’s terrified friend to settle the briefly-disputed bar tab), and a slouching smoothskin leaving Carol’s Place took three long strides and caught the door, holding it open for him without comment. He spared a brief hard stare for the human, who looked back blandly. Unarmored, no visible weapons save a 10mm on their hip, torchlight glinting off their battered glasses, hair and skin and clothing all in unremarkable shades of gray and tan, just another scavver looking for oblivion in the shittiest bar in the end of the world. He wished he could warn the wastelander off before they poured more caps into Azhrukal’s safe and wound up robbed or dead or beaten or sold or whatever sick whim the old rat had in store, but standing orders strangled any warning he could offer in his throat (“Stop scaring off the customers, Charon”). 

When he came back into the bar, he briefly thought that the smoothskin had had an attack of good sense and left, until he realized that the customer deep in conversation with Azhrukhal at the bar was not the injured ghoul’s partner after all. The colorless wasteland clothing was the same, but the line of the shoulders was too relaxed, the body on the barstool too long and slouched and balanced to be the stocky frantic drunk Charon had last seen sitting there, the voice too low and calm to be a strung-out fool trying to spare themself a beating.

He didn’t want to hear whatever trap Azhrukhal was weaving for another stupid tourist, and he concentrates instead on the music of the radio, the morbid calculation of how long it would take until the ceiling fell in, the low burn of a two-day thirst in his throat. Sinking into his misery, he let the sounds of the Ninth Circle wash over him.

“-keeps hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”

“-unfailing, unflinching, until the day - “

“-drinks are foul-”

“-he finally met his fate/ But when they came to pay-”

“-a liability, the dog-catchers are coming-”

“-yesterday...I found one of Patchwork’s fingers-”

“-civilization is a thing for me to see -”

“ - must be kidding-”

“-bottle imp, Azhrukhal, will you be carried-”

“-how they coax him I’ll stay right here - “

“-need just a little bit of jet, I’ve got the shakes-”

“-never see him after tonight-”

“-what I do all year round-”

The sound of caps pouring onto sticky wood seizes the attention of every patron in the bar, and the refocusing of their bodies, rather than the sound itself, pulls Charon back to the present. The smoothskin drops an empty bag like garbage, a long messy pile of caps lying on the bar between them and Azhrukhal. The bartender draws in a single rattling breath and hastily shoves a filthy envelope across the bar to the human, eyes already on the treasure before him.

“Fine. Take your dog and get out.”

The human nods once, slipping their glasses from their face and tucking them into the neckline of their shirt. They stand smoothly, slouch vanishing as they rise. They open the envelope as they walk over to Charon, fishing something out. Their eyes are an eerily pale brown, catching the torchlight like an animal’s as they open their mouth to speak. Abruptly he recognizes them, the height (tall for a wastelander, though not compared to him) and the gleaming eyes - it’s the merc with the mottled armor. Ambush predator, he thinks again.

”Talk to Azhrukhal” Charon snarls, cutting them off. Whatever idiot deal they had entered with the bartender, he wanted as little to do with as possible.

“You are no longer under contract to Azhrukhal.” The smoothskin slides his folded contract from the envelope and extends it for him to see, looking absurdly as though they were offering it to Charon. One corner of their mouth curled up briefly, a snarl or a smile, there and gone again in an instant. ��I promised him that tonight was the last time he’d see you.”

“You purchased my contract from Azhrukhal? So, I am no longer in his service. That is good to know. Please, excuse me.”

Dazed, wondering if he’s dreaming, Charon brushes past the smoothskin, closes the distance between him and his former employer, as Azhrukhal sweeps cap after cap into a box he pulled from beneath the bar. The bartender’s head jerks up, glowering, his mouth opening to spit some final insult but Charon’s shotgun is already in his hands. He had meant to confirm his change of employment, hear the old ghoul seal his fate by acknowledging that Charon was no longer bound to him, but suddenly the thought of hearing the bartender’s rotten voice even one time more is unendurable. Before Azhrukhal can speak, the spray of buckshot silences him forever. Charon watches the headless body fall and fires again, blowing apart the chest (head and heart, big boy, a woman’s memory whispers, if you want them to stay down). He considers shooting the corpse again, reducing it to scraps of meat and bone and buckshot until he runs out of shells, but decides that this is sufficient and slips the shotgun back into its sheath.

Over the startled screams that marked the patrons’ reaction to Azhrukhal’s death, his new employer’s voice comes clear and steady. “Do you need anything out of here before we leave?”

Charon snorts, rolls his shoulders to feel the press of the shotgun in its holster across his back, shakes his head. “No.”

[deacons-wig]

hi i’m starving for deacon content nowadays and i’m just wondering if u have like any headcanons for him? like what sort of things he likes or dislikes, things he’s done, headcanons about him being buddies with the sosu, anything thank u ily sm

Hello dear, allow me to present a random assortment of Deacon headcanons:

Personal:

The nerd taught himself French from scavenged schoolbooks, just so he could read Proust in the one legible copy he found.

Besides practical reasons, Deacon loves to sew. Sewing is an honest and useful way to keep his nervous hands busy. If the wasteland has yarn, I imagine he is a competent knitter and makes goofy hats and fun socks for Sole, Companions, and his Railroad pals.

Since Deacon has a hard time with honest words, he is big on giving gifts and doing things that make Sole’s life easier. He gives them clothes and food, teaches them about the wasteland’s quirks and how to cook.

Speaking of food, he doesn’t like sugar or very sweet things, but he finds pre-war snacks and stashes them for Sole, who has a hard time   going from a high sugar/processed diet to what he calls “Wasteland Organic.”

He goes out of his way to find fun things for Sole to do so they can get some R&R. Think things like a bowling alley, a library, silly robot museum tours, maybe even dancing together at Magnolia’s shows.

Feel like crying? Barbara is not actually dead. The Railroad got her out of the Commonwealth! Deacon tells a lie that breaks his heart in order to protect her. He will take that secret to his grave, no matter how close he and Sole get. Anyone who may have known is now dead, a casualty of the Institute, so not even Dez knows.

Deacon is demisexual! Pining for Sole hits him especially hard because he hasn’t experienced sexual attraction in a long time.

Deacon is nonbinary. He uses he/him pronouns but doesn’t like when people refer to him as a man, and he confesses to Sole that he hates when people refer to him gendered words like man/dude/guy.

Deacon 110% has the “Child at Heart” perk. Shaun thinks he’s the coolest and Deacon helps Sole tutor him in reading and writing! If romanced, Deacon absolutely embraces being a parent. He teaches Nat how to recognize sketchy Institute activity and she shakes him down for caps in exchange for gossip. Piper would kill him if she found out. He is also endlessly amused by Bunker Hill kid who likes to grift newcomers.

Work-related:

He and Tommy Whispers were as close to friends as one could have in the Railroad. It was only after the Institute was destroyed that Deacon realizes how much he misses Tommy and opens to Sole about being grateful for having another friend.

Deacon’s favorite town in the Commonwealth is Bunker Hill. Traders are a great source of gossip, it’s a good place to make caps, and he has a trusted Tourist in Old Man Stockton. You couldn’t pay him to go up in the monument though. At least not until Sole drags him up there…

Deacon is very attentive to the state of his nails, skin, and teeth as part of his disguises. He hates having dirty nails though, so he suffers when trying to pass as a farmer/drifter/scavver.

In the game I know he wears glasses 24/7, but I think he only wears them in public and at HQ. In private with Sole or by himself he takes them off, and won’t wear them at night for practical reasons, like uh... needing to see??

Still, Deacon’s eyesight is not great. After the Institute, Sole convinces him to get glasses. The wasteland does have advanced medicine, so there’s no reason someone hasn’t figured out how to make prescription glasses??

Wearing glasses is a great transition from sunglasses because he feels naked in public without something on his face.

Deacon has a horrible relationship to sleep, but traveling with Sole helps him regulate a little. More on that here!

[ir0n-angel]

Five Favorites

I was tagged by @crackinglamb to share five favorite bits of writing. Thank you, dear.🤍

Tagging @st0nergh0ul @madangel19 @the-desert-dancer and anyone else who wants to play.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to write, so these are oldies. Hopefully Lamb won’t mind that I copied her format. Mine also got really long, so under the cut it goes.

From War Cry (Fallout 4):

Nora tightened the belt around her waist, making sure that each device was secure. She systematically flipped each ones' switches on and off again, satisfied when each light blinked then cut out.

"It really doesn't seem like a good idea to arm those things when they're wrapped around you like that." The power armor's speaker distorted Deacon's voice to the point of being unrecognizable.

Nora smiled at him, wrapping a long strip of cloth around and over her middle like she'd seen some of the scavver women wear. Wasteland deprivation, for once, had it's perks. The devices were virtually unnoticeable. "Careful, Dee. You almost sounded like you cared for a moment there."

"Absolutely not."

It was probably the worst lie she'd ever heard from him.

--- Trying my hand at telling a story with flashbacks for the first time, this one is a very strong contender for being my favorite to have ever written. Unfortunately, it’s my least popular Completed fic. ---

From Blue (Fallout 4):

On his third circuit of the perimeter, he was startled by the sounds of splashing down by the southerly side of the river. He crouched low and made his way to the crumbled stone wall, laser musket at the ready.

The splashing continued, then "GodDAMNit!", followed by groan of metal and a ba-whoosh of something large hitting the water.

The lady sure had a mouth on her, he thought to himself as he lowered his weapon and stood.

It would have been comical to see Nora sprawled on her ass in the swallows if the half moon's light didn't throw her look of misery into such sharp relief. It worried him more that he could hear the faint clicking of her Pip-Boy's Geiger counter, yet she made no move to stand back up.

--- Before I lost my heart to a certain ghoul, Preston Garvey was (and, really, still is) my sweetheart. I had a lot of plans for him. Sadly, this is the only one that made it to post.  ---

From Things We Can’t Say (Fallout 4):

"Hey, Yo Go... Yao Gooey... Yogurt! Sign says don't feed the bears!" he shouted. A second hard hit nearly knocked him off his feet again, causing him to slip and fall with his back against the door.

Regaining her wits, Nora jumped up and threw herself against the door as a third hit nearly had it open, knocking Deacon's glasses askew. She scanned around frantically for anything to fight with when she noticed the bar latches on either side of the door. She managed to slide both into place as the fourth hit rattled the hinges.

Five. The door held, not giving an inch. Six, but less forceful this time. Pause. A growl. Seven, eight... Weaker still.

"I think it's getting tired," Deacon huffed. "Or dying. That'd be nice. Wouldn't get our hopes up. Buckshot does fuck all against You-goo hide."

--- I had way too much fun with parts of this one, even though I eventually had to hand it over to my bestie to help me finish it after it stalled for two years. Deacon as a character is... well. Yet I’ve been given very high compliments that I keep him in character, so that’s nice. ---

From Have A Drink On Me (Fallout 4):

The woman was too stealthy, he thought as without warning her hand was on his arm. "Did I do something wrong?" she whispered when he refused to turn to look at her.

Correction: This was a terrible idea.

"No, but I might," he confessed, running a hand over his tired face. "I should leave."

When he opened his eyes again, he found that she had slid between him and the door. "Do you really want to?"

It'd been well over two hundred years since he'd seen eyes so blue, or so... full of lust? Surely not.

"No."

"I don't want you to, either." She slid her hands up to the buckle of his leather jacket, loosening it and pulling the strap free before moving up to the zipper.

The armor slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor as she pushed the jacket off his shoulders. "Nora, please..." he rasped. "I'm a ghoul, but I'm also just a man. You need to stop."

The jacket joined his armor. "Do you want me to stop?" she asked, her hands going still at the hem of his undershirt as she looked up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were sharp and clear. One beer wouldn't have been enough to impair her judgment like this, and she showed no signs of chem use.

"No." He leaned forward, crowding her against the door, and rested his forearms against the wood at opposite sides of her head, caging her in. A reminder of his size and a show of his strength to scare her off. "But I don't want to stop, either. Nora, look at me. You can't want this."

Her brows knitted and she tilted her chin up defiantly. "Edward Deegan, you and I are both from the old world. I know how this works just as well as you do. I would not have invited you up to my room if I didn't want this."

--- YEARNING. The start of my maddening spiral into Rare Pair Hell that resulted in my epic series Beer and Benefits. Just... *dreamy sighs* ---

From an Untitled WIP (Dragon Age: Inquisition):

It started with a simple, unconscious gesture so subtle that if he had blinked, he would have missed it.

The moment Cassandra had mentioned he was an apostate, the prisoner had angled slightly to put herself between him and the Seeker.

--- Take a wild guess. ---