#boonesix

[thecreedsmaxim]

spreading the boone/courier six agenda

[snail-eggs]

The Gates of Hell | Circles of the South

synopsis: Deep in Legion territory, tensions rise.

a/n: thank you for reading! you’ve all been so unbelievably kind about the first chapter that it made me get to this one quicker than I ever would have otherwise :)

tags on ao3 | read on ao3 | playlist | divider by @/coolcatsgraphics

Step in the dirt. He watches the back of her head. Step. Can feel the dread pooling in his gut. Over that tripwire, she doesn’t look back. An endless march she’s leading them both on. Miles upon miles outside of what they know. Step—one, two, three, over and over again. The crunch of bones under his boot, a wince. Step. Step. Step. Follows like a good soldier. Like the dog he is. 

Step. Stop. 

Just a few days from the Nevada border, Boone realizes he’s sick of not knowing. Of following like a loyal hound. So he stops, dead in the dirt and she hears it. The ceasing of his footfalls—whips around for fear that something has happened to him. He stares her down from under the shade of his beret. Tries to discern, just by looking at her, if she’s leading them both to their deaths in Tulsa. Tries to think of what he’d do to stop it. The droning wind of the wasteland fills his ears, makes him feel like he needs to yell to be heard. 

“The fuck are we doing, Six?” It isn’t in his nature to question—especially not to question her, and yet.

She bristles, “You know what we’re doing.”

“I know where we’re going. That’s a big difference.”

“Boone, it’s the same shit—what does it matter? We need to go.”

“Why, Six?”

“I don’t know!” Bullshit. In all the time he’s known her, Six has never not known. Might’ve been foggy on her own intentions, her methods, but she’d never drop the ball this badly. Not the Six he knows. Makes him wonder what it is that she’s hiding so close to her chest that she’s willing to lie to him. Makes him wonder just how many times she’s pulled the wool over his eyes before.

“It’s a simple question. Why Tulsa? Out of everywhere in this fucking country, why Tulsa?”

“Are you deaf? I don-“

“But you do know. You always know, so just tell me.”

“Boone, seriously just drop it. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not your fucking dog. Can’t just drag me around like this.”

He’s seen this look on her before, the way her face twists up when someone hits a nerve. And he fears he’s hit it good with the way she comes towards him, shoulders squared. Jabs her finger into his chest. “Oh, I’m dragging you? What the hell else would you be doing, huh? Sittin’ back in Novac talking to Carla’s fuckin’ blood in the carpet? Or—or would you just be staring at it, boozing like it’s gonna make you feel any less like a piece of shit. Tell me, Craig.” 

“You don’t get to use her name like that.” 

“And you don’t get to ask me why I do the shit I do.” Six shrugs, “You don’t wanna come with me, fine, saves me from hearing you bitch and moan.” She turns around as if to walk away and Boone can’t quite place what he feels in this moment—the familiarity of it, the desperate need to get the last word in. 

“The only one bitching and moaning is you. Thought you trusted me.”

“Oh, sure.”

They stare at each other, then. Wind still howling, the loose shirt Six pulled off a moldy, scorched  mannequin hanging off her more like a dress than anything. Boone puts some weight on his heel, a half measure in turning around. In leaving her. Can’t stomach the thought of parting ways, of leaving her to fend for herself in the wastes. She’d already gone off on her own once. Gone off and come back half-dead. Jumpy in ways he’d seen in women that managed to escape the Legion, what rare few there were. Six had never talked about it but Boone feels a lump in his throat now. Realizing. Putting it all together in his mind. Looks in her hazel eyes and sees—

He marches past her, knocks shoulders. Mumbles something about scouting ahead. Can’t shake the thought from his mind, now. Doesn’t think he ever will.

It’s been exactly three days since she slept and she’s feeling it now. Her eyes heavy, burning in the light of the small fire Boone built for her. A small and rare kindness from him—never letting her light one on even the coldest of nights for fear of being sniffed out by Legionnaires. But maybe it’s different here, in this ranch they’ve found cover in. The ghost of one, really. Six thinks it must have been stunning before the war. Wishes she could have lived then just to see it. 

He’s got his rifle in his lap, scanning, always watching the shadows. Always on edge. She remembers Boone as she first met him. That same rifle pointed at her head in Dinky’s mouth. One of her first memories ever—though not really. Not if these dreams are any indication. They’re right on Arizona’s border now, practically kissing it, the Legion’s presence looming over them more and more as the days go by. Haven’t actually seen any Legionnaires and that alone makes Six itch. Makes her grip her gun just a little tighter. 

The fire crackles in the silence between them. Haven’t spoken in a day and a half. Feels like more.

“Relax,” she says, “There’s nothing out there, Boone.” 

And he looks up at her, maybe the first time in hours, like he’s really, earnestly considering it. But his eyes move past her, back to the wastes. Six sets her jaw tight. He’s a man of habit, she supposes, albeit one she’s not all that fond of. “Gotta sleep sometime,” she chides, and by some miracle, he speaks.

“I’ll sleep when you do.” It’s quick, defiant. Shit, almost witty. She isn’t used to this at all, doesn’t really feel like him. Six likes it. Likes it a lot. 

“I’m just saying, don’t come crying to me when we’re neck deep in shit because you want to nap.”

“I don’t cry.”

“Yes you do.”

The sun isn’t kind, but then, when has the wasteland been anything but a sadistic monster. Six can feel the heat pooling on her head, the dark hair resting upon it siphoning the centuries-gone heat of the bombs from the atmosphere, it feels like. They’re low on water. So desperately low that Six has taken to staring at puddles. Her skin is baking under the desert sun, so well past burnt that she fears she’s approaching cremation. 

She’s checking her Pip-Boy compulsively, as if by checking the map one more time, it’ll make a town appear right in front of them. They’re fucked on that front, though. Not another town for miles—not until Yuma. 

Six is doubled over, panting, when she hears it. The grumbling call of a Brahmin. Starts thinking that she’s finally gone mad from the heat when she locks eyes with Boone. Can tell from  the way his gaze snaps to her that he heard it too, wondering if it was all in his mind. 

Just over the horizon, she can see. Her heart races.

Blood trickles down her temple. She and Boone are cornered. What they hoped would be a trader wound up being a Legion convoy transporting slaves from the east. Behind a boulder, it’s clear now that their time in Novac trusted them where they were once a well-oiled machine. Boone tries but cannot get a good shot. 

Six screws her eyes shut and sees not Tulsa, but Vulpes. His body on the floor of that shack, feels the ache around her wrists from where he’d used all his weight to restrain her when he figured her out. Makes her mad, feel a deep melancholy for him despite what he did—tried to do. If only he’d been different like he pretended to be. If only he’d resorted to killing her right away instead of letting his greed and hubris overtake him like most Legion men do. Six thought she was wearing him down, could get him on her side. Thought very stupidly that she could help him change.

She feels Boone’s hand on her shoulder pulling her out of the fugue she stuck herself in. Looks up to him with wet eyes. Grips his hand tight, just for a second, then grabs her gun.

Six cannot help the way she feels as she wraps her hands around the Legionnaire’s throat, her knee bringing down his leg that threatens to kick and buck her off. He’s turning colors. From red to purple and blue at the lips, eyes straining, nearly popping out of their sockets. She can feel his throat constrict, fighting for air. Six puts her whole body into it. Can hear the crack of Boone’s shots off in the distance. And then, suddenly under that weight, crack.

“Six.” She hears Boone call out her name. Feels dazed. Looks down and sees what she’s done. Feels a swell of something—not quite pride, not quite disgust. 

When Dante first found himself face-to-face with the gates of Hell, he was beckoned to abandon all hope for he was about to enter a plane of endless peril. Six finds herself somewhere similarly, now. Arizona’s welcome sign barely standing now, void of all text. Whatever the Grand Canyon state once was is lost now, “Divide et Impera” being all that is left to greet them. 

[thecreedsmaxim]

some boonesix shitposts 😔 I CANT GET THEM OUT OF MY HEADDDD GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUTTTT

[thecreedsmaxim]

canon i was there!

[thecreedsmaxim]

[thecreedsmaxim]

who wants to come to our wedding

[snail-eggs]

The Descent (prologue) | Circles of the South

synopsis: Six has been having dreams. Dreams that feel like something else entirely bleeding through.

a/n: I have had this knocking around in my noggin for way too long. Here you go.

tags on ao3 | read on ao3 | playlist | divider by @/coolcatsgraphics

She is somewhere and nowhere. An intangible space that she finds herself trapped in every time she closes her eyes. Six knows it all now—knows it like the back of her hand. This is a dream, or at least what her rational mind knows it to be. Sometimes it feels like prophecy, like a call. The ground is crumbling under her feet and still, she is standing on it solid, the wind whipping around her, kicking up dirt and debris that assaults her skin, digs into her eyes. Little pinpricks that feel familiar. Like the memory of pain but not quite pain itself.

In front of her, there is the vague shape of a town, out of focus like when she zones out while walking the expansive Mojave wastes. Houses, at least what she thinks are houses, a church, maybe. Tulsa, sounding out in her mind like it has every night for months. A tug in her chest tells her this is home but Six does not know what home is anymore. Not since she took two bullets to the head in Goodsprings. She can hear discordant voices but not words, far away and yet almost exclusively in her ears. Loud as if they were right there beside her. There is laughter, what could be pleasant conversation, but above it all, there are screams. A cacophony of them growing not in volume but in intensity. Six hears a distant hopeless and pained moaning. The wind is louder; a rumbling starts within her head, deep inside her ears in tandem with the buzzing of millions of flies. They are in her eyes, in her nose, her mouth—her throat. It hurts. Her hands are shaking, she walks but the world, the spot in which she has been standing, follows her. Six breaks into a sprint, gets no closer to the town. A siren sounds. Old and weepy, like it’s crying in agony. She knows this sound, knows it means danger. 

The dull, ambient burn of radiation in the air stops her. A storm, she thinks. Always a storm. To her right, she sees it—the only tangible, real thing. As real as her. Thick, gray clouds tinged with a sickening green, a vortex swirling down and down until it touches down in the dirt. Her heart pounds, she feels a wetness in her hands. Blood. Never hers, never allowed to find out who it belongs to. Six balls her fists, feels a squelch. Cannot take her eyes off the storm—the vortex. It looks like it’s swirling in place. Stagnant. She feels a pit forming in her stomach, the feeling of impending doom that she knows so intimately not only here but in her waking life. 

Tulsa. It worms itself into the forefront of her mind. Tulsa, Tulsa, Tulsa. Maybe this is Tulsa itself calling to her, beckoning her away from the home she’s found on the West Coast. Maybe down south is where she needs to go. 

A second vortex emerges from behind the first. They dance together—one in front of the other, like walking. The storm is walking—

Six tries to run again. Away from the town, away from the storm. Her legs are trapped knee-deep in the dirt, there is blood in her mouth. She screams and there is nothing, save for the scratching pain in the back of her throat that tells her she’s already screamed her lungs out thousands of times before. The storm is getting closer. Walking towards her. She’s cemented in the ground, as much a part of it as the buildings in the distance that she cannot reach—can never reach no matter how hard she tries. 

The storm is here now. Six shields her head with her arms, hears a child’s distant cry, and braces for the end.

She starts up in bed, a cry threatening to escape but stifled by the clenching of her throat. She’s always choked up when she comes out of these dreams, can hardly breathe and her chest feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. The room around her is dark, save for the green glow of her Pip Boy in bed at her side. Six looks ahead of her to Boone, asleep on the couch—won’t sleep in that bed anymore, no, it’s forever tainted in his eyes but Six thinks it is just fine. Through the blinds, the dying light of dusk tries to fight its way through. Almost time for his watch, she thinks. 

They’ve been holed up in Novac for months, sleeping in Boone’s old room, falling into the old routines of what feels like an easier life. And it is easier. Easier than dealing with their effects on the wasteland, on New Vegas. Here in Novac, things are forever untouched. Six likes that. They both like that. 

Six stares at him. Watches the rise and fall of his chest, traces the outline of him in the dark even though she has to strain to make it out. There are tears in her eyes but not enough that they threaten to fall—just enough to make them burn, though. She stares unblinking, thinks of the dream that’s somehow more vague and intangible now that she’s awake. Tulsa. She’s had enough of goddamn Tulsa. Wants her mind back but, thinking about it now, she isn’t sure she ever had it to begin with. 

It won’t stop. She’s tried night after night to resolve this—whatever it is—once and for all and she can’t. It has been bleeding over, taking control of her waking mind until all she can think about is fucking Tulsa. 

He’s staring back now, she notices. Is a little embarrassed but not enough to look away. Six wonders if he’s trying to read her now like he always does. Trying to figure her out. He’s gotten good at it. She wishes she had half the skill he does—would really like to take a stab at cracking him open and making sense of him. Boone props himself onto his elbow, groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose. She can’t really see his eyes in this light; the color of them. It’s a shame. 

“I thought you had better hobbies than watching me sleep.”

Six shrugs, “Sometimes I smoke.”

“Fun,” Boone swings his legs over the edge of the couch, reaches out ahead of him to turn on the lamp. Six winces at the light. But she can see him now, and he can see her. Can see her swollen, red eyes that are sinking further and further into her skull after every restless night. And she sees the worry that flashes over him, gone the second she clocks it. She doesn’t watch him as he heads to the bathroom, doesn’t stare thoughtlessly at the door after he shuts it like she has more times than she ought to admit. 

No, she lays back, Pip-Boy resting on her stomach. Six fucks with the dials a little bit in a way she never has. Tries seeing what it has mapped outside of the West Coast—outside of the only world she’s ever known. A minuscule world, really. She’s looking for Tulsa without really looking for it; trying so hard to not admit to herself that, that tiny spot up in the corner of Oklahoma is what she is so desperately trying to find. There’s a knock at the door. Six shuts off her Pip-Boy like a kid getting into things she shouldn’t.

She doesn’t join Boone on his watch tonight. Instead she lays on the floor, burning through her last cigarette next to Carla’s bloodstains on the carpet. She finds a strange solace in them, as if she’s there, keeping her company. Sometimes Six feels bad for him, bad for not insisting that he stay in another room. But she resolves that he’s a grown man and if it really, truly bothered him, they wouldn’t be here at all. 

When she closes her eyes, she sees it. The vague approximations of what Tulsa might be swirling in her mind with all the dirt and debris and the screams. The cigarette burns out between her fingers, scorches her a little and she lets it. She thinks of Joshua when it does, and isn’t that ironic. He’d know. Have an answer for her somewhere within a sea of bible verses and metaphors. Six knows she couldn’t ask around about this, about the dreams, without sounding like she’s going insane off some bad chems. She takes a drag, feels a little like she never made it out of the dream at all. Feels hazy—wouldn’t at all be surprised if phased through the ground at any minute. If she saw that tornado walking outside the window right now.

Her skin crawls with unease and she pulls at the dead skin on her bottom lip idly. She has to go. Has to make the dreams stop. The Pip-Boy is across the room, bleeding that same green light it always does. 

[snail-eggs]

Circles of the South | Masterlist

synopsis: Six has been having dreams. Dreams that feel like something else entirely bleeding through.

pairing: Craig Boone/Courier 6 (OFC)

tags on ao3 | read on ao3 | playlist | divider by @/coolcatsgraphics

The Descent (prologue)

The Gates of Hell

I. Limbo

II. Lust

III. Gluttony

IV. Greed

V. Wrath

VI. Heresy

VII. Violence

VII (I). Against Neighbors

VII (II). Against Thyself

VII (III). Against God, Art, and Nature

VIII. Fraud

VIII (I). Hypocrites, Thieves, Sowers of Discord

IX. Treachery

IX (I). Caina

IX (II). Antenora

IX (III). Ptolemaea

IX (IV). Judecca

X. Center of Hell

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i’ll cross post this either later tn or tomorrow but

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KISSING DOWN THE GD BODY BOONESIX YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO 🔥🔥

pairing: Craig Boone/Courier 6 (F!OC)

warnings: smut. sex. they finally fuck. are you happy, Rags? you've created a monster. Seriously though, this is my first attempt at smut. That's a warning on its own.

divider by @/saradika

There’s something off about this. About the way Six looks as she’s counting their remaining bullets in the divot in her lap. She looks more alive than she has the past few days, despite the bags under her eyes growing worse and worse by the day. 

The house around them is falling apart. Foundation groaning with every strong gust of wind. He taps his boot against the steel bed frame. Rust flakes off. He has no idea how it’ll carry his weight, let alone both of theirs. Boone’ll let her take it tonight, he thinks. She needs the sleep more than him, even if her pseudo-prophetic dreams keep her from getting any real rest. 

What he doesn’t know, however, is that it isn’t just visions of tornadoes, swirling around the irradiated dirt and leaving nothing in their wake that’s haunting her. No, more recently, it's his hands. Six hasn’t been able to stop thinking about his hands. Looking at them. At the way they grip his rifle, pull the trigger just so. The way his hands clench, knuckles turning white when she’d asked one question too many. 

She wonders how they’d feel in her own. If his white-knuckled grasp would really hurt. She doesn’t think so, though. Not so long as he’s holding her. When it really comes down to it, Six thinks, all she wants is to feel him. If it hurts, then it hurts. So be it. 

Six looks up at him now from her spot on the floor. Bathed in the warm wasteland glow, he looks like something else entirely. Something not Boone—closer to the approximation of him that lives in her head and nowhere else. Lives deep in her chest too, she supposes. Close to her heart. And in her chest, her heart thumps hard against her ribs. Six can feel it in her throat. She swallows hard when he looks back; looks her right in the eyes in that precise, cutting way he always does. And maybe it's a trick of the light or the lack of sleep, but she sees something else there too. Something that softens the edge of his gaze. Her heart beats faster.

This adrenaline rush isn’t new. Odd, sure, but not new. Six can recall having felt it precisely once before. With Benny. At the Tops, on his bed after too many drinks, roughly fourteen months after he’d shot her in the head. But she wasn’t scared then, not at all. Guesses that means she isn’t scared now, either. Just nervous.

Boone has never made her nervous, though. Not back in Dinky’s mouth when he’d pointed his rifle right in between her eyes, not ever. 

Except for now, in this rotting house, sitting at the foot of some disgusting bed. Staring.

Six has forgotten all about the bullets now. They lay scattered on the floor, less than a handful still resting in her palm. There’s a flash of concern in Boone’s face then. He leans his rifle against the wall. Drops down to his knees right in front of her and begins to pick up the bullets in between Six’s legs like it's nothing. Like he isn’t so close. Her jaw clenches. 

“You need to sleep,” he’s tossing the bullets back into the box by the handful. His fingers brush against the ones in her palm. Hesitate for a moment before he grabs them up like all the others. “Look like you’re gonna keel over any second.” 

Her hands move of their own accord, cup Boone’s face on either side and tilt his head up to face her head-on. He’s deathly still—every muscle in his body tensed. Six runs her thumb back and forth on the rough skin of his cheek. Boone isn’t breathing, she thinks. He’s staring at her apprehensively. Like at any second, she’ll draw a knife and stab him right in the gut. Her eyes flit from his wary green eyes down to his lips. They linger there, long enough for Boone to notice. He inhales deep, exhales loudly. Their eyes meet again. 

Boone takes her by the back of the neck, faster than she can process. Pulls Six in and collides his mouth against hers .Its bruising—all wrong and still, neither of them break away. He can’t remember what it's like to kiss somebody—to really kiss somebody. Hasn’t so much as entertained the thought. Not after Carla. But now with Six’s lips pressed against his, it feels like second nature to have her so close. Feels like this is how it's supposed to be. He leans into her, the remaining bullets in his hand falling to the ground and he couldn’t care less about them. 

Six is halfway to having her back pressed against the dirty, splintering hardwood when his fingers find themselves tangled in her short brown locks and she pulls away. “Boone,” it's breathless, the way she says it. Nearly quieter than a whisper. She studies him as best she can from so close. Hasn’t ever seen him like this—so desperate. Hungry for more. Boone presses his forehead against hers. Leans into her, wordlessly begging to continue this—whatever this is. 

“Six.”

“Still want me to go to sleep now?”

And he chuckles earnestly before leaning in to kiss right under her jaw. Six’s breath hitches. She can feel Boone smile against her skin. He coaxes her back, tugs at her hair before he has her flush against the ground. It didn’t feel like this with Benny. Not even close. Six’s hands move down from his face to his chest; she clutches his shirt in a vice grip. Doesn’t think she ever wants to let go.

Her heart is beating out of her chest now, more so than before. She never imagined she’d have him this close, feeling the calluses on his hands run under her shirt; his fingertips digging into the skin of her waist like his life depends on it. Never thought she’d whimper at the pressure, only wanting more. 

This is dangerous territory they’ve crossed into. Despite the arousal muddling her thoughts as Boone grazes her collar bone with his teeth, Six wonders what comes after this. Nothing good, surely. She stares up at the ceiling, half hyperventilating now. He tugs at her shirt. She lets him take it off. Whatever the consequences are, they’re not worth losing Boone. Losing what she has with him. 

And yet. 

She’s got her hands on his shoulders now, beckoning him down further. His hands are starting to mess with the button of her pants. Six gasps—no, whines as he presses a chaste kiss to her abdomen. Then he stops. With her pants unbuttoned, zipper down as far as it’ll go, Boone leans back onto his knees. Takes in the sight of her before him. Looks a little spooked, even, and the sight makes Six smile. A laugh escapes her throat unwillingly. Boone watches her fondly through his heavy-lidded gaze. Runs his hand up and down her still-clothed thigh. The sun’s rays bleed through the windows as it sets. Light’s waning and he can still see those intense bags under her eyes better than anything else. His cock stirs in his pants watching the heaving of her bare chest. He doesn’t understand the scope of this—doesn’t want to consider the consequences—all he knows is that he has never wanted anyone more than he wants Six right now and it's killing him. It's been killing him since their last night at the Tops when he’d watched her disappear with Benny into his room for what he’s sure was a piss-poor fuck. Really he would have been fine with anyone else but Benny—never really thought he’d be in this position anyway. Something about it made his skin crawl. The thought of Benny running his hands all over Six’s body after what he did to her. After he shot her in the head and left her to die in Goodsprings like a dog.

Boone might not be deserving of Six, but Benny is even less so. 

If it has to be anyone, Boone sure as hell isn’t mad that it’s him. He’s fucking psyched about it actually—as psyched as Boone can realistically be about anything. He pulls his shirt over his head, unbuckles his belt with fervor and tosses it to the side. 

Six arches a brow, looks him up and down. She’s amused and he’s not entirely sure why. “What?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, “You’re—you’re really pretty right now.”

“Pretty?”

“Handsome. Whatever. Cut me some slack, I don’t do this.”

“Six, we can stop if you—”

“Fuck off, I never said that.” Six reaches up, brings him in close and presses a gentle, languid kiss to his lips. Words catch in her throat when they pull apart. Words she can’t quite place. Only knows the tug she feels in her chest when they’re eye to eye. She’d stay like this forever if she could.

Tongues gliding against each other’s, Boone grinds his hips into Six’s. She’s half starved with the way she’s gripping at him in any way she can. These messy, open-mouthed kisses aren’t enough. Having his body pressed against hers isn’t enough. No, she’d need to be in his skin to be satisfied. Though she’ll settle for the next best thing. 

She reaches down, palms his cock through the fabric of his boxers. Boone groans into her mouth. He’s breathless now, desperate. 

When they fuck, its slow. He’s got one of her thighs held up against his hip as he drives himself into her at an agonizing pace. Being with Boone is nothing like how it was with Benny. There’s something fundamentally different about this, she thinks as she stifles her moan in the crook of his neck. Maybe Boone is just better at fucking—she doesn’t entirely doubt that—or maybe she’s just more present now that she’s not drunk off her ass. 

Benny was fun. Quick, but fun. They’d fumbled and laughed and drank but god, it was nothing like this. She’s almost glad it wasn’t. Glad she’s feeling this way with Boone instead. 

Her walls clench around him. The room’s completely dark now—Six has no clue how long they’ve been at this. She’s closer to the brink with every second that passes. Her breathing is becoming erratic—so are Boone’s thrusts. She comes loud and hard, nails digging crescent-shaped craters into his back. It doesn’t take long for him to follow. He pulls out, spills all over the inside of her thigh. 

She gets as good a look at him as she can in the darkness. Stares him in those tired eyes, knowing hers must look leagues worse. Six opens her mouth to speak but the words are held hostage by some unseen force yet again. She kisses him on the forehead instead. Smiles and nods over to the bed right beside them. 

“Sleep with me?”

Boone shakes his head at her. Cups her cheek with his hand. The way he’s looking at her scares her. She doesn’t know she’s looking at him the exact same way. 

“I’ll sleep with you.”

For the first time in weeks, Six is not haunted by visions of tornadoes or of Boone’s hands. Instead she finds herself in a deep, dreamless sleep with Boone right by her side. 

By her side where he belongs.

[snail-eggs]

is this the playlist for my boonesix fic that I have in the works? perhaps... perhaps (x)

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so here’s how boonesix are peak romance-

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can i. be insane about her for a while before we get back to our regularly scheduled boonesix? pls

good lord daena’s government name is so much more obnoxiously long than it has to be (i literally named her that)