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raina-at · 1 year

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Clues

“And where are you off to?” John asks, looking up from his textbook. He’s sitting in the kitchen, studying for his anatomy exam and eating chips.

Sherlock passes by the table and takes a chip from the paper plate John is holding out in an unspoken invitation. “Molly needs help with organic chemistry.”

John smiles at him fondly. “That’s awfully nice of you, sacrificing your Friday night to help her.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She’s going to be Anderson’s TA next semester, meaning she’ll have access to the lab after hours. It’s a simple exchange.”

“Yes, yes, you keep telling yourself that, much easier to pretend you couldn’t just break into the lab like you’ve done all of last year, instead of admitting that Molly’s your friend and that’s why you’re helping her.”

Sherlock helps himself to another chip. “Shut up,” he says, then pops the chip into his mouth, making John laugh.

The sound shivers down Sherlock’s spine like a warm caress, making him feel warm all over. He’s long since stopped asking himself why making John laugh is the best feeling in the world, he’s just accepted that it is.

“Fine, go share your big genius brain with the girl who isn’t your friend at all, of course,” John answers. He gets up and nudges Sherlock with his shoulder as he passes to the sofa. “Text me if you’re going to spend the night, okay?”

“Yes, mother,” Sherlock says with mock annoyance.

John flips Sherlock off absently, already engrossed in his textbook again. “Finish off the chips, will you,” he says absently.

Sherlock shrugs into his coat and grabs the chips from the table to have on his way. “Don’t wait up,” he says in lieu of goodbye and closes the door behind him.

*-*

“So, if you look at the molecular structure of- Molly, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Molly looks up from her textbook and blushes scarlet. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I’m just-”

“Just what? Ungrateful? Inattentive? Wasting my time?” Sherlock ticks the points off his fingers. “Uninterested in passing this course? Willing to throw your future away?”

Molly drops her head, her forehead meeting her textbook with a painful-sounding thud. “Oh my god, this is so embarrassing…”

Sherlock sighs. “Let me guess. This is about a boy.”

“Yes,” Molly all but wails. “I’m being so stupid! But I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s so handsome” She lifts her head a bit, looking at Sherlock with a pleading expression. “You know Greg? From the rugby team?”

Sherlock nods, his anger abating somewhat. Greg apparently has a debilitating effect on girls. He’s noticed it on several occasions where John dragged him to social gatherings. The effect is entirely lost on Sherlock himself, though he acknowledges that Greg is good looking. Maybe it’s because Greg is so unquestioningly straight, but then again, so is John, and John’s mere presence both enhances Sherlock’s intellect and has the ability to derail it completely. So he sympathises with Molly. To an extent.

“What would it take for you to be able to actually concentrate on what we’re doing?” he asks, checking his watch. It’s only nine, maybe they can save some of this study session.

“If I knew for sure that he’s not interested, I could put it out of my mind. I know he likes me, but I’m not sure if we’re just mates, or if he wants to take it further.” She pulls out what looks like a battered women’s magazine. “There’s a list of clues here. Whether someone likes you. Maybe we could….” she trails off, giving Sherlock a hopeful smile.

Sherlock sighs. “Let’s have it then.”

“Okay, clue one: He’s looking for excuses to touch you.”

“Sounds a bit fishy,” Sherlock says, waggling his hand in a ‘not sure about that’ gesture, thinking of how John constantly bumps against him, puts a hand on his shoulder, or his arm. “Friends touch quite often as well.”

“He did touch my arm this afternoon,” Molly says, musing aloud. “I’m going to mark it down as a yes.”

Sherlock decides he needs a control group. He’ll compare the clues on the list to things normal friends — like he and John — do all the time.

“Go on.”

“Clue two: Shares food. Greg gave me half of his muffin last week.”

John sharing his chips without even a second thought. “Meaningless. Next.”

“Compliments you. Greg told me I’m really smart the other day, does that count?”

John calls him brilliant and amazing all the time. “No. Friends like each other, that’s not an indicator for romantic attraction.”

“One or two of these are normal among friends, it says here. If you get seven or eight out of ten, he’s interested in more,” Molly muses, but continues reading the clues out when Sherlock makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture. “Four: Shows concern for your wellbeing.”

Text me when you stay over. Finish my chips. Do you want some tea? “Friends do that. Next.”

“Five: Goes fishing for information about your romantic life. Greg did ask me if I have plans for the weekend, do you think he might- Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

Do you have a girlfriend?

Not really my area.

Do you have a boyfriend, then?

Their first conversation over dinner the evening John moved in, after Mike introduced them as potential flatmates.

“Read the next clue.”

Molly looks down at the paper. “Shows interest in your hobbies.”

John leaning over him and looking at crime scene pictures, John listening to him go on about the chemistry of tobacco ash and the infinite varieties of London soil, John’s enthusiasm for his violin…

Sherlock swallows. “Next.”

“Initiates contact, makes plans.”

He takes out his phone and looks at his last ten text alerts. They’re all from John.

“Next.”

“Wants to meet your family.”

Well, nobody wants to meet Mycroft, but John usually offers him tea when he comes over, and John’s shown a certain amount of — morbid — curiosity about their parents.

“Next.”

“Blows off people and plans to spend time with you.”

“And the last one?” Sherlock asks, unsure if what he feels is hope or dread.

“Lots of eye contact.”

“Molly,” Sherlock croaks, unsteadily. “I have to go.”

*-*

The way home takes thirty minutes and that’s time enough for Sherlock to do some serious thinking on the subject of John Watson, and what Sherlock wants from him.

Facts: John is intelligent, smart, funny, good company, he smells good, his eyes are extraordinary, he’s the only person Sherlock could envision living with and his laugh makes Sherlock shiver.

He comes to the following conclusions: a) He’s in love with John, and has been since they met. b) He’s a massive idiot.

*-*

Sherlock bursts into John’s bedroom without knocking. “Do you like me?”

John, who was fast asleep face down on his textbook, sits up, blinking against the light. “What?”

“You know how much I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock says, running a hand through his hair, gesturing in agitation. “Do you like me?” he asks, gesturing between the two of them.

John blinks, obviously still half asleep. “Um…”

“Answer the question!” Sherlock snaps, irritated.

“I’m not even sure I know what the question is,” John says, frowning at Sherlock, confused. “You storm in here in the middle of the night and yell incoherent nonsense at me, and you’re irritated at me?”

“We got ten out of ten, John! Ten out of ten!” Sherlock yells, dimly aware that this doesn’t exactly help John with anything, but too agitated to care. “You touch me all the time, you care about me, you let me rant at you, you feed me, you’re polite to my brother, you haven’t been on a date for months,” Sherlock enumerates the points, checking them off with his fingers. “I forget the rest, but you see the point, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure I do,” John says, rubbing a tired hand over his forehead. “You asked if I like you. Of course I do, we’re friends.”

“Yes, obviously, but do you like me? Like me, like me? Have sexual and/or romantic interest in me? The clues say you do, and the clues never lie!”

John looks distinctly uncomfortable, and he’s even blushing a bit, which Sherlock rates as a very good sign. “Um…” he rubs the back of his neck, a classic nervous tell, then he looks up at Sherlock, and there’s that eye contact the article was talking about. “Would that be a problem?”

Sherlock releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. “Of course not, you absolute idiot. Why do you think I endure your dreadfully slow typing, your inability to pick up your dirty socks from the bathroom floor and your horrid taste in music? I’m obviously completely besotted with you and have been for a while now. Granted, I only realised right now but-”

He doesn’t get any further because John pulls him down to the bed, rolls on top of him and starts kissing him like there’s nothing better to do in the whole entire world, a sentiment Sherlock is in complete agreement with.

“I think we’re done talking for now,” John says with a wicked grin as he pulls back a bit to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock quite agrees and pulls John down for another round of snogging.

He makes a mental note to thank Molly in the morning. Then he dismisses everything that’s not John from his mind. It’s surprisingly easy.

Have a bit of fluffy Unilock with awkward boys today. This got long, that's why I cut it.

Thanks for the prompt and the tag, @calaisreno

Tagging a few people to join the fun: @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @jrow @fluffbyday-smutbynight @topsyturvy-turtely @totallysilvergirl @khorazir @catlock-holmes @meetinginsamarra @lisbeth-kk

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock fic #my fic #microfic #may challenge #clues #Unilock #fluff #humour

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i-did-not-mean-to · 19 days

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MAY-U - Turgon x Caranthir

AH @elentarial, my friend! Have some cheeky Turgon for your nerves!

It was such a blast to write these two again! Thank you very much for submitting them! <3

Characters: Turgon x Caranthir

Prompts: Blind Date - Librarian - That's now how you talk to someone

Words: 2 200

Warnings: /

“No, Moryo, absolutely not,” Maglor spat, leaning suavely against the worn frame as if the half-closed door, obscuring the bigger part of his face, did not in the least disturb him. “You’re going on a date, not to a funeral!”

Grabbing the first item he could lay his hands on, a cherished book about ancient economies, Caranthir let his arm snap back to fling his unusual missile at the unwelcome intruder.

“Oi, I’m merely trying to help you! Nelyo has worked so hard for this,” Maglor lamented, lifting his skilful, pale hands in mock defeat while letting his unfairly handsome face melt into the doleful mien of one unjustly accused of a heinous crime.

“As if,” Caranthir grumbled bitterly. Nevertheless, he started undoing the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on his shirt again. He’d quite liked the way the colour—a red so rich and dark it looked almost black—had complimented his complexion, but he had to admit that Maglor was much more stylish than him.

He had no other choice but to believe the mouthy fool!

“I think you should wear Curvo’s green shirt,” Maglor went on. “I just so happen to have it here.”

Cocking one eyebrow, Caranthir leaned back slightly. His younger brother was not known for letting anyone borrow his clothes without kicking up a fuss and starting a fight—hence, Maglor must have shamelessly stolen the garment from under the little one’s upturned nose.

“Tyelko’s and Nelyo’s wouldn’t fit you,” Maglor explained. “And you’ve told me one too many times how much you loathe my, if I may say so myself, impeccable and editorial style.”

“What’s wrong with my own clothes?” Caranthir muttered petulantly.

“They’re ugly. We all believe you’re doing it on purpose too! Even Námo wouldn’t be caught dead in those rags…caught dead, get it?”

Slapping his thigh, Maglor tossed his loot across the room with surprising accuracy. “Don’t let Curvo see you in it. And wear the tight pants mom bought for you last Yule!”

Caranthir grimaced—he hated those trousers with a burning passion. They made his legs look pathetically spindly and revealed his deplorable lack of a well-rounded, bouncy behind to anyone with even just a single involuntarily straying eye.

“Someone is waiting to meet you,” Maglor grinned. “Do you not owe it to them to at least pretend you’re somewhat of a catch?”

“Káno, stop antagonising him!”

Their oldest brother appeared, as ever surrounded by a halo of red hair and dignified impatience. “You look nice, Moryo. Wear the Yule-pants! And comb your hair properly!”

“This is ludicrous!” Turgon grunted as he was tempted to brace his feet against the wall to tear at the door with his whole body weight like some ridiculous character in an animated TV show for children. “Let me out, you idiot!”

“Say you’ll go on the date that I organised for you because I love you!” Fingon screamed through the door. He was stronger than he looked, and—unbeknownst to Turgon—he’d roped their sister into helping him keep the door closed despite their brother’s valiant efforts.

Ever since a rather unfortunate accident involving Argon, the cellar door, and about a dozen firefighters, there were no key left in any lock in their house, and manoeuvres such as the one they were enmeshed in at the present moment had to be fought out by strength and stamina alone.

“Fine,” Turgon finally relented. “I’ll go, but you and that wicked vixen of a sister shall do my laundry for two weeks.”

He’d known that it had been a mistake to leave his clean, orderly flat to come to the cesspit of chaos and destruction that was his family home, but his beloved older brother had invited him, and he’d felt compelled to spend some time with his siblings.

After all, they were constantly whining that they never got to see him.

“A blind date! This is real life, not a romantic comedy!” he grumbled as he swept past his giggling siblings to find something appropriate to wear.

“You can’t tell me that you spend all your time at work in the aisle of the encyclopaedias, Turno,” Fingon chirped. “We all know you’re lonely. As your brother who, it bears repeating, loves you, I’ve unbent the earth to secure this prime candidate for you.”

“Pah! We shall see!” Once more, Turgon was woefully certain that he was walking right into a trap, but—where his family was concerned—he couldn’t help trying to keep them happy and safe, and so he took his woollen coat off the hanger and went off to his date as one rode into battle: grim and determined not to fail.

Pacing up and down the street in which the small, cosy restaurant lay, Caranthir wondered for the seventeenth time whether he should not simply sneak away.

He could simply go to a dark pub and wait a few hours before returning to his familial home with an elaborate lie about where he’d been and what he’d done.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t sure how truthful Maglor’s depiction of their brother’s involvement was—if Nelyo had indeed set up this charmingly casual meeting in a tasteful ambience, there was a distinct chance that he’d also be made aware of Caranthir’s notable absence.

Thus, he traipsed across wetly shining cobbles aimlessly until a deep, full voice resounded behind him, hailing someone—as there was nobody in sight but him, Caranthir correctly deduced that he was the one being addressed in so gruff a manner.

“Hey you! Have you been set up by well-intentioned but ultimately clueless loved ones?”

Whirling around, Caranthir felt his eyes widen as they travelled along a tall, athletic frame that ended in a sharp-featured, alluringly stern face.

“My brothers have coerced me,” he admitted, drawing closer automatically. “They’re convinced that I’ll be eaten by a horde of cats I don’t even have…”

“Ah,” the stranger chuckled knowingly. “Believe it or not—the fate they project for you would be kinder than the one my siblings are painting for my own sorry self. If their teary-eyed prophecies are to be believed, I shall be buried under an avalanche of books that will slowly grind my bones to dust as I decay, ruining the tomes and leaving my family heartbroken.”

“Do you have that many books at least?” Caranthir inquired, feeling oddly captivated by the rich timbre of the stranger’s voice which made him think of spiced hot chocolate and warm plaids on a cold winter’s night.

“I’m a librarian,” the other replied quietly. “Not the most exciting job—hence why Fingon, my oldest brother, thought that I needed an intervention. My name is Turgon, by the way.” “Fingon,” Caranthir repeated slowly, letting the name melt on his tongue. “He does not, by any chance, step out with a tall, lanky ginger?”

“Maedhros, The Beautiful? Why, yes? My brother is obsessed with that man,” Turgon answered without hesitation or false sense of coyness.

“Oh, that blasted liar! I’ll cut the strings of his favourite harp!” Caranthir cursed under his breath. So much for the heroic effort his brother had made on his behalf—he’d simply stuck his head, and possibly other body parts, together with his accursed boyfriend to get their respective boorish brother to agree to a blind date!

“I take it you know the red-haired Wunderkind?” Turgon asked sharply and held open the door.

Without really having noticed that they’d been moving while talking, Caranthir found himself stepping into the fragrant warmth of the restaurant.

“He’s my oldest brother. Not that anyone would believe that, what with him being so handsome and all…”

“Hey! That’s not how you talk to someone—not even yourself. I have no trouble believing that you’re related!” Turgon interrupted cuttingly. “The freckles and fierce look are a dead giveaway!”

Caranthir’s mouth opened and closed a few times without emitting more than a choking wheeze so shocked was he by the matter-of-fact compliment. He’d never been the kind of person to attract much gratuitous flattery, and so he didn’t quite know how to react properly, especially because Turgon’s eyes were confusingly clear and steady as if he’d not just said the single most gratifying thing Caranthir had ever heard.

“So, what is it you do?” Turgon questioned calmly as they were led to a little alcove in the back of the establishment by a discreet, soft-spoken waitress. “Just so I know how much I have to cut back on the ‘boring’ discussions.”

Blinking owlishly, Caranthir had to admit, if only to himself, that it was easy to see similarities between his brother’s sparkling paramour and the dignified but kind beauty sliding into a chair opposite him with perfect grace.

“I’m an accountant,” he croaked. “By all means, tell me about lists and tabulations.”

“Oh, I see why they thought this would be funny,” Turgon grimaced. “If my sister is to be believed, I’m boorish, headstrong, and deplorably tedious in all I say and do.”

“That was not my impression thus far,” Caranthir contradicted diplomatically. “Also, you wouldn’t even want to hear how my brothers describe me.”

“Shy, wicked smart, and as irascible as sensitive,” Turgon shot back without batting an eye. “At least, that is what I seem to recall from the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had to sit through.”

“Oh no,” Caranthir whispered in a long, sighing exhalation. “Nelyo and Káno are the charming ones, in general. You’ve not experienced true awkwardness until you’ve been to one of our family dinners.”

“Is that an invitation?” Turgon grinned. He turned to take the menus the waitress was holding out to them, giving her a grateful smile, and set them down at once without so much as looking at them.

“I didn’t have much faith in this endeavour, but I do not seek to purposefully, petulantly—as my siblings would say—sabotage it. So no, please don’t come to dinner with my six brothers and mad parents!”

“Fingon loves them,” Turgon commented softly. “He speaks very fondly of all of you. Either way, do you feel like proving our siblings wrong…Should we be adventurous?”

He spoke that word as if it was a naughty concept, and Caranthir couldn’t help the surge of frantic, electrifying energy pulsing through his every fibre and driving heat into his face.

“Yes,” he hummed even as his heart started pounding wildly in anticipation.

Turgon struggled to control the uncomely frown of concentration that threatened to overtake his brow; his eyes burned fiercely, and he regretted having given in to vanity and exchanged his glasses for contact lenses.

Why had his face chosen this exact moment to betray him? The corners of his mouth twitched as a soppy smile tried to claw itself to the surface, and his forehead quivered as he attempted to recall every tiny fragment of information about the charming stranger sitting across the table.

Surely, the disgustingly amorous idiots dancing through his parents’ house must have said more about one so extraordinary as Caranthir. Why couldn’t he remember?

Fingon might have had a point after all when he’d accused Turgon of never even listening to anything he said.

His future brother-in-law called him “Moryo”, but every time Turgon’s watery eyes returned to that narrow, beauteous face, all he could see was light.

Not only was this unexpected treasure a sight to behold, but Caranthir was indeed ruthlessly smart. He followed Turgon’s rather theoretical tangent about filing systems effortlessly, interjecting witty comments and clever jibes at all the right moments.

Moreover, he’d instantly agreed to let their waitress compile a tasting menu for them, so—despite his reassuring gravitas and reticent demeanour, he was not as risk-averse as everybody believed and claimed.

In a word, against all odds and despite his own scepticism, Turgon had to concede that his jolly, often frivolous brother had managed to conjure up the man of his dreams.

Maybe, the sullen librarian now mused, he could have spared himself the stress and indignity of this whole ordeal if he’d just been more open to Fingon’s invitations to accompany him to various events that had been attended by not only Maedhros but also his mysterious brothers.

The selection of dessert miniatures was served much too soon, and Turgon glared vindictively at the old clock hanging on a crooked wall. Where had the time gone?

“You don’t have to stay,” Caranthir said sharply, following his gaze. “I think we’ve played the game long enough for them to be satisfied with our effort. I’d totally understand!”

“I don’t live at home,” Turgon replied distractedly. “They don’t expect me back anyway. How much mischievousness have you left in the tank?”

“Years of it,” Caranthir gave back immediately, his voice ringing with conviction and renewed enthusiasm.

“Wouldn’t it be a lovely revenge on our meddling siblings if you wouldn’t go home either?”

“And where am I to hide?”

“I know a place. If you’re not too tired, that is.”

The intense darkness—hell fire and heavenly abyss—of Caranthir’s eyes seemed to swirl like galaxies trapped in finest crystal as he cocked his head curiously.

“Lead the way, handsome stranger,” he said resolutely. “I shall follow you anywhere!”

↬ Masterlist

Thank you so much for joining me on this new adventure.

@fellowshipofthefics here's the next one for May!

Lots of love from me!

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #FOTFICS May Challenge #Fotfics #May Challenge #May AU #Modern AU #Turgon x Caranthir #Turgon #Caranthir #Blind Date #Librarian #That's now how you talk to someone

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justa-rat · 19 days

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Meeting of Minds and Gunpowder. Pt. 2.

May 12th,

Word Count: 920

Part One

Goodnieghbor bloomed before the Ghoul. A mix of robots, ghouls, and smooth-skins. Compared to Diamond City, it was a true mixing pot of all sorts. However, one thing that pulled them all together in similarity - was the no good aura around them. Each and every person was scum, he could tell. Pickpockets, thieves, and scammers the lot of them. Even the spare raider could be spotted slinking in and out of doors in the back alleys. Dried blood splattered on the pavement underfoot, telling stories of mugging and knife fights long passed. A place of true degeneracy. It was about what the world had come too in a nutshell - a steaming pile of shit. As long as he got what he needed, the Ghoul could care less. He adjusted the hat on his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and strode deeper into the city. Another wretched bout of coughing wracked his lungs, his head tilting down on instinct as he shoved himself into an alley. He leaned against a wall for a moment, sweat beading down his forehead. He took a wheezing breath, sliding down till he was sitting, resting his aching head in his hands. His body was shaking, not out of any fear - but of need. The world blurred, spinning around and around twistingly.

"Hey… Guy. You feelin' alright?" A raspy voice sliced through the Ghouls' thoughts.

A man stood before him, he wore a brazen red coat - fashioned in a colonial style. Atop his head sat a tricorn hat, it looked to be old, worn, covered in dirt and old blood. The Ghoul swatted a hand lazily in his direction, voicelessly forfeiting the others assistance - yet the stranger still persisted.

"C'mon pal, just talk to me. What's the problem? Run 'outta Jet? Psycho? Buffout? Withdrawal can be a bitch, I've been there." His words sounded oddly sincere. This was no doubt going to cost him. It didn't really matter, if this dumbass stranger could get him in the same room as some Rads - he'd be all set from there.

It was a shame the strangers voice only worsened his aching head.

"I don't need no damn drugs. Not them kinda drugs, anyway." He growled out through grit teeth, the wave after wave of vertigo driving him near mad. His expression turned to a wince, and the stranger nodded in understanding. Wordlessly, he fumbled throughout the pouch attached to his waist. Inhalers and tablets shifted about as he dug through it, momentarily producing a small vial containing a yellow liquid.

"Here, friend." He extended his hand, the vial resting in his palm. The Ghoul wasted no time snatching up the precious vial, uncorking it with his teeth - he paused, looking up at the stranger. A fellow ghoul, it seemed.

"If this is piss, I'll fuckin' shoot your ass." He lifted the vial to the gaping hole in which his nose once rested, sniffing it. It at least didn't smell like piss. The stranger only snorted in response, but said nothing to his comment. The Ghoul lifted the vial to his chapped and broken lips, tilting his head back and slurping up the small amount of liquid greedily. Instant relief washed over him, and a sigh left his body. He relaxed, waiting for the rest of the symptoms to slowly subside.

"Feel better?" The stranger was leaning against the wall now, one ankle crossed over the other as the full of his weight rested on the building behind him. His arms were crossed, and he was watching the other man keenly.

"What do you want, exactly?" The Ghoul cut to the chase, he understood how the wasteland worked - nothing was truly for free. "Caps? Want me to kill someone for ya?" His tone was demeaning, taunting even. Guy looked like he was ripped out of a damn history book.

The stranger simply put his hands up in resignation, bowing his head ever so slightly, "I don't want a damn thing from you, friend, just a fellow forgotten and undermined man looking to help another get back on his feet." A smile appeared on his face, and the Ghoul realized it was worse than anything he could have thought. The man was an idealist.

Pushing himself away from the wall, the stranger took a few paces towards the Ghoul. He tensed in reaction, hand unconsciously feeling for his gun - but the other made no move to pull out a weapon. Instead, he reached out a hand towards the Ghoul, an offering of peace - and to help the fellow stand. The Ghoul's eyes narrowed, and he denied the help - pushing the other ghoul's hand out of his face, and getting to his feet on his own. They stood eye to eye now, rather than the stranger lording over him in a state of vulnerability. The Ghoul even took slight satisfaction of being taller than the other, tiling his head up ever so slightly. He took a moment to look the stranger up and down, fully taking in the revolutionary war garb he dawned. He made a vague gesture towards his clothing, curiosity overpowering anything else in that moment, "So uh… What's up with the getup… You some kinda… Weird reenactor? Thought thems all died out with the war n'all."

The stranger's smile didn't fade, he even let out a laugh, "Ahh, nah. Not really. Outfit just… Spoke to me is all. The name’s John Hancock, I'm the mayor here. I'd like to personally welcome you to my little slice of heaven, Goodneighbor."

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #fallout show #fallout ghoul #john hancock #john hancock fallout 4 #200 words #200 words challenge #may challenge #short story #fanfiction #fanfic #fic

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