#fallout danse fanfic

[mrs-sharp]

Everytime you realise your favourite fictional character is... fictional.

[chadfallout76podcast]

FALLOUT 4:

"DEATH SHROUD" SERIES UPDATE!

Check out the AMAZING artwork tumblr artist @rad-roche did for our second installment in the Death Shroud! series. This story is titled, "The Cat's Paw", and will see an even BIGGER cast of voice actors returning to reprise their roles this May to benefit Wes Johnson's VoiceAPalooza charity drive for the Alzheimer's Association.

Please note that the voice cast list may change as more people confirm, so this is likely NOT the final art.

[stoat-party]

He’s born tall and broad, created to labor ever deeper into the earth until the day his body gives out. Synths are easier replaced than repaired.

He’s strong, but also sharp and driven, with a single-minded faith in his creators that makes them take notice. He’s a rare find. Maybe instead of hauling debris, they can train him to kill.

When Zimmer tells him he’s been assigned to the courser program, he doesn’t really know what it means. All he knows is that he’s special, and useful. Being valuable means security — and already, the twin fears of erasure and obsolescence bake themselves into the back of his mind. He is three days old.

-

They’re pleased with his diligence, but not with his well-meaning questions. Every fiber within him knows that the Institute is right; all that’s left is to find out why. Instead, they teach him to recalibrate a laser rifle.

He loves his laser rifle.

He fires. Changes stance. Fires. The target shudders with every impact.

“Insufficient. Again.”

The corpse-gray face of his observer doesn’t change. Hasn’t changed for two hours. M7-97 is told that synths don’t have feelings the way humans do. All they can experience is a pale imitation, like seeing the world in two dimensions. He believes this. But at the same time, he knows what he thinks of early-gen synths, and the only word for it is hatred.

He runs the drill again. Its yellow eyes bore into him. When they next meet his, they pronounce their stony judgment.

“Insufficient. Again.”

For the first time, it occurs to M7-97 that the weapon in his hands would be handy for disabling Gen-2 synths, if someone happened to give him the order.

He makes another attempt, wholly focused. There is nothing else. This task is his entire life. He is seventeen days old.

He waits. The thing speaks. “Sufficient.” It stares unblinking. “Again.”

-

The Institute is the future. The Institute’s actions are always justified. M7-97 can explain it flawlessly, and this is unacceptable. A courser does not justify himself. A courser spares no thought for why.

When they take him to Retention & Reclamation, he assumes it’s for training. He feels no sense of injustice in this place, only the tense solemnity of a necessary evil. (If he had to feel anything at all, the Institute would have preferred smug amusement. They didn’t tell him that.)

A woman in a black lab coat instructs him to remove his jumpsuit. This is not training.

His stomach turns. They called him a prime candidate. They said he showed promise. “What did I do wrong?”

“Most quirks in central processing can be resolved with regular maintenance. However, Dr. Zimmer has declared you unsalvageable.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

Begging is aberrant, but he has nothing to lose. “Please. I will do better.”

She glances at the clock, annoyed. “Remove your jumpsuit, M7-97.”

As they prepare him for reconditioning, he doesn't register the fear. Just suffocating failure and aimless guilt. He’s spent his short life learning the language of violence, but in the hands of his creators he is meek and silent. He is fifty-four days old.

[leavingautumn13]

fo4 wip sketchdump

[text in panel 5 is from the "chair model" episode of the office]

[finniestoncrane]

2.5k Event Request - Paladin Danse x Fem!Reader word count: 950 a/n: lord help me, there's very little i want more in this world than for danse to bend me over his knee and spank me. i don't think it's too much to ask for ;-; cw: daddy kink, spanking, my god he's so awkward but he's TRYING 🔞minors dni🔞 • masterlist • kofi link • tag: finnie2.5k (to follow or to block)

You were well aware of the fact that you were bothering Danse, but when he had asked if you would like to accompany him to his quarters on the Prydwen, you’d thought it might be the beginning of a more interesting relationship between the two of you. Instead, he had needed your help passing him tools as he tinkered with some old tech he had found on your travels that day. For a while, you’d been able to stave off the boredom just by watching him, admiring his body out of his power armour, finding him even more attractive in the grease-stained vest and waisted overalls than even in his tight, burnt orange jumpsuit. But even that had lost its intrigue when you realised that you weren’t going to be seeing what was underneath. Not unless you did something about that.

It began with some playful teasing, asking too many questions, taking his tools from him when he needed them, sitting next to him on his bed, far too close, your hands laying on his thigh or on the back of his neck as he tried to focus. You’d thought a few times that you were getting through to him, but he wasn’t having any of it. And you reached his final nerve, watching him place the hunk of junk down on his side table and turn to you, stern look on his face, dak, thick eyebrows narrowing into a scowl.

“Are your intentions to drive me to the brink of insanity?”

“No… but come on, Danse! We’re on downtime. There must be a little bit of you that wants to let loose.”

“I can assure you, there is not.”

“Oh my god, it’s like hanging out with some strict parent.”

“Maybe if you could behave, I wouldn’t have to act like your father.”

A twinge travelled down your spine, excitement fizzing in your chest as the implications of his words settled over you.

“Oh… my father? My dad? Maybe I should be punished for all of my misbehaving then?”

“Maybe you should.”

“R-really?”

Your words were quiet, pushed out with a little whimper of excitement, and Danse noticed the change in tone. He looked up at you, confused about the slight smile on your face. It was as though you actually wanted him to punish you. And while your little grin, and the notion of dishing out the repercussions for your actions, brought on a little tingle in him, he wasn’t sure how to follow through on the threat. So, he grunted and turned his eyes away from you.

That just meant that you would have to keep this line of thought going.

“I think you should punish me, daddy.”

The word had an almost primal effect on him, his pupils widening as the way you let it slip over your tongue echo in his head.

“Does that sound good? It does to me.”

Swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat, he coughed before he spoke.

“That sounds counterintuitive to the idea of punishing you, given that you seem excited by the idea.”

You reached for him, your palm pressing against the thick bulge that had begun to form at the front of his pants.

“I think you’re a little excited by the idea too.”

Danse caught his breath, releasing it slowly as he decided to try and indulge you.

“Well. How do we proceed?”

You hadn’t considered that this would be a little bit awkward for him. He was so firm and stern, it seemed like it might come naturally. But he needed a little bit of encouragement. He needed someone else to be forthcoming.

“I don’t mean to be so forward, but…”

You pushed your pants down, positioning yourself over his lap, cheeks in the air feeling his cock twitch against you as he took in the curve of your rear.

“… maybe you should spank me. Just to start.”

The idea was definitely appealing to him. He had always been a firm believer in corporal punishment as a method of getting the squires in order. And though pain should have been the first thing on his mind, given this was not a reward, he couldn’t help himself. He let his palms glide over your cheeks, gripping them firmly, your flesh soft and warm, so pleasant to touch. Your soft moan reminded him of what he was really doing, though, and he lifted both hands from you, one of the resting on your hip to hold you still as he raised the other.

And then brought it down with a loud, sweet smack.

Then another, relishing in the way your whole body twitched and then relaxed, the way his handprints marked your skin like he had branded you.

Another.

Another.

Until you were squealing with delight, and likely a little in pain. At which point he decided to check in, not wanting to actually do too much damage to your soft skin.

“Did my- uh… daddy’s punishment teach you a lesson, then?”

It was sweet, the way he was trying to say what he thought you wanted to hear.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl. Now, do you think you can behave? I can reward any good behaviour going forward.”

“Of course, daddy. Anything for you.”

He stood up, lifting you from his lap as he did so and then pushing you down onto his mattress. As you watched him, a rare smile forming on his thick lips, he dropped himself down onto you, a flurry of surprisingly passionate kisses covering your neck as he let his hands explore your curves. The idea of punishment had gone entirely from his mind, it was only pleasure he sought from you now.

[sweetcocopowder]

A Damsel in Distress - Paladin Danse x Nate / Male Sole Survivor

Synopsis: A distress signal comes over the Cambridge Police Station radio that has Danse racing out of there quicker than he can think.

Word Count: 3.1K

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Angst. Gore.

Notes: This is me dipping my toes into the fallout 4 universe. so give me some leeway, i wanted to challenge myself by writing this. enjoy :)

The crackling of the radio doesn’t grab the attention of the Paladin at first. His mind too focused on repairing a loose hinge in the right elbow of his power armour that had been bugging him for days. Whenever he’s out of the hulking metal, he always feels vulnerable. Not small per say or weak. A Paladin must know that they can handle themselves in and out of the armour. Yet he’s so use to wearing it almost twenty four hours a day that it’s become second nature within it.

The radio crackles again, louder this time with a voice mixed in underneath all the intense white noise. Paladin Danse stops short, wrench still in hand and looks over to the orange box. It’s not often that distress signals have been picked up. The station that they use is only for people of the Brotherhood or familiar with them.

Scribe Haylen has already wondered over to the radio, adjusting the dial. The whole police station falls into silence as Haylen tries her best to tune into the signal. Even Rhys is watching from afar at the table. But soon he moves back to whatever he was doing, head bowed between his shoulders.  

“…. -bridge Police Station,” finally a voice is clear over the radio and Danse can’t help the feeling of his stomach sinking low into his stomach. “I need assistance. Surrounded by raiders! I’m holding myself in the- shit where am I?” A few passing moments of ragged breathing, filled with phlegm and other liquids in the throat, “Some Regional Office and I’ve-” a groan admits itself through the radio followed by a shaky exhale. “Got myself pretty shot up this time.”

Danse may have only met the man a month ago, but he knows Nate’s voice when he hears it. Right elbow joint be damned, he’s jumping into his power armour before he knows it. Haylen is already on her feet and packing her things up.

A large metal hand on her back is quick to stop her in her tracks. “I need you and Rhys to stay here while I go out and retrieve the Initiate,” Danse speaks firmly.

“I think that’s unwise, Paladin,” Haylen speaks up, standing to attention.

But Danse doesn’t budge no matter how dedicated she is to be leaving with him. “I don’t want this base of operations to be compromised or unattended in case of an attack. I intrust Knight Rhys to overlook this base until my return. There will be no further argument.”

Haylen’s shoulders faulter a little. “What about medical supplies?”

“Where is the location of his whereabouts?” Danse asks, getting to the point quickly.

Scribe Haylen shrugs her pack off her shoulders and grabs out a device from within. She holds it out to the Paladin with some urgency.

“I sent him to BADTFL Regional Office to retrieve the haptic drive. Trek east and you’ll run into it within the hour,” Haylen says. “This-“ she flicks a switch on the device and a slow beep admits from it, “-will lead you right to the signal he’s emitting.”

The Paladin takes the device and looks it over with a bleak expression. It’s almost small within the hands of the T-60, hard to hold onto. But he grasps onto it, unwilling to let go all the same.

“I value your help greatly, Scribe,” Danse thanks in his own way. “I will retrieve him and will be back in just over two hours. If I am not here with Nate when the third hour rolls over, then I give you permission to act.”

And with that, he flips his helmet on and loads his cell rifle before travelling east. He knows going into this alone is stupid and selfish. But he can’t allow his small patrol to be dispersed because of his own need to make sure that Nate is alright. This thing that has decided to make itself at home inside of the Paladin’s chest that makes him feel unable to breathe.

With each block he passes, he can’t help but let his worry grow deeper and deeper. The tightness in his chest becoming a little too much for his own liking. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. No. He shouldn’t be letting himself feel this way. He can’t let himself get close to anyone again. This is purely for the Brotherhood. And nothing more.

But every time the pulse of the signal becomes stronger, becomes quicker he can’t help but let himself feel. The steady beep of the device almost ricochets inside of the Paladin’s brain. He can feel a headache coming along.

He is also well aware that it was Haylen’s needs that has gotten Nate in this predicament, but it is no fault of hers. Nate has shown himself capable many times before. Completing mission after mission for both Haylen and Rhys and reporting back each time with success. A few scrapes and bruises is all that he has been wounded with but nothing this serious. He hasn’t doubted Nate for a moment, seeing on more than one occasion that he can handle himself if not more. He’s been by his side with the synths and Danse saw a soldier, not a scared man that will hide and cower. Not like any of other’s he’s come across within the Commonwealth. Nate’s different.

-

Arriving at the Regional Office, it’s a little too silent for the Paladin’s liking. The distress signal beeps at a quickened pace in one hand as Danse holds his rifle in the other. There’s no one out the front and with no time to delay, he barges through the front door with his gun locked and loaded. Scoping the front entrance, he’s met with a front desk and rummage. No life can be seen.

Walking further in, the only sound being his heavy footsteps and the quickening pulse of the distress signal, he becomes unnerved. He keeps his gun out at the ready, holding it a little awkwardly but he can’t complain at this given moment. His eyes dart back and forth, waiting for something to happen.

Three raiders are dead on the floor in the next room. All pocketed with bullet wounds that seep red into the old wooden floorboards. A switchblade sticks out of the neck of one, his face contorted into permanent horror that has Danse staring a little too long. He continues forward, noting of the busted turret that dangles from its wires on the ceiling.

A muffled argument strikes the Paladin’s attention and, he slows his movements the best he can inside his T-60. He looks into an office like room where three raiders are. He switches the distress tracker off before they become alerted of his presence.

“It’s us three against him!” The only woman shouts harshly into the face of the other two.

The scrawnier raider of the bunch slides down the table with a shaky groan. He holds his side, his hand coated with fresh blood. His grimy face is pale and Danse can tell from here that he isn’t going to last much longer.

“Two against one,” the injured man groans out.

The woman scowls deeply, her yellow teeth like dog fangs that bare something dangerous. She pulls a pipe pistol from her belt and shoots the injured man in the temple without a thought. His body convulses before falling to the side and becoming horrifyingly still. She then turns to the remaining raider, waving the gun in his face.

“Are you with me to kill that son of a bitch?” She snarls.

He pushes the gun from his face forcefully, almost tearing it from her hand. “Of course!”

Why Raiders do what they do, Danse will never truly understand. Was that man not a part of her crew? Not even a second thought to end his life instead of to try and save it. Less mouths to feed. He’s heard that come from a Raider’s mouth before and it makes Danse sick. Never in his life in the Brotherhood has he seen someone put someone down like a dog so inhumanly.

The Paladin places the device in the dip of his chest plating and takes his rifle’s safety off. As soon as the woman turns her back to head into the other room, Danse charges. He crosses the room before the two raiders are even able to turn around at the charging bull coming their way. Something blinds him as he acts, something he hasn’t felt in quite some time.

Danse shoulder barges the man, throwing him across the room into a filing cabinet. The woman stumbles backwards into the wall, eyes as wide as saucepans. She pulls her pistol but Danse is quicker. It takes five rounds for her to fall. She slides down against the wall, her yellow teeth bared as if they were ready to bite.  

The last raider struggles to rise to his feet. He tries to crawl away, his breath ragged and shallow. Paladin Danse steps over to him with a frown deep set on his face. He can hear the slow drag of each breath, blood clotting and rising in the back of his throat. A punctured lung.

But despite being on the verge of death, the raider jumps forward with the last bit of strength he has. He dives for the pistol still gripped in the woman’s grasp. But as before, Danse is the quicker draw.  

-

The room the raiders were heading to leads down a ramp that opens to a cell. An old prison that Danse has no time to wonder what use to happen here in Nate’s time. It’s dark and there’s not much light getting in through the leaf clotted windows. He turns on his head lamp, lighting his way towards the stairs on the other side of the cell. As Danse passes the steel bars in his search for Nate, the sound of a hammer to a gun cocking catches his attention.

Danse looks into the cell, his head lamp lighting up the shadows. In the corner, something that he didn’t see before is quick to catch his attention. In his blue vault suit and mismatched armour pieces of leather and combat, is the man Danse was looking for.

“Nate?” Danse calls out.

A pained, hearty chuckle comes from the corner that is none other than the vault dweller’s. Quicker and a bit more drastic than he should have, Danse opens up the cell door and stomps inside.

The entire right side of the vault suit is coloured red where Nate holds onto a leaking wound. His usually tanned face is pale as a ghost, sweat dripping and beading down his temple. Yet, even though he trembling from the lack of blood he still has a cocky smile upon his lips.

Bandages and other first aid equipment is spewed around him in a shitty attempt to bound his own wound. At the sight, Danse is quick to exit his power armour. The fat metal digits of the power armour are not going to be able to flirt around the finer details of bandaging up Nate. He doesn’t even think about how foreign it is to be outside of his power armour. His mind his appointed to Nate curled up in the corner of the cell.

“Report to me, Initiate,” Danse says, needing the vault dweller to talk to him.

He gathers up the medical supplies and even reaches forward to search into the pouches on Nate’s webbing belt. Nate groans at the sudden movement and watches Danse with hazy dark blue eyes. The Paladin stops for a moment and looks at the blood weeping from between his fingers. He can’t let himself become panicked in this moment.

“I said report to me,” Danse speaks more firmly. “That’s an order.”

Before Nate can utter a word, Danse moves his hand away to assess the damage. A bullet is still lodged in his side, the wound a deep hole in his side. No exit wound.

“Got shot,” Nate bites back through gritted teeth. Short and blunt, but at least he’s talking.  

Danse glances a glare his way as he begins to twists a bandage in his fingers. “How?” He asks.

Anything to keep Nate aware. He needs to keep him talking.

“I hoped it would be you to come,” Nate speaks with a thick slur. “My knight in shining armour.”

Danse doesn’t warn Nate as he digs the bandage deep into his bullet wound. The vault dweller barks out in pain, grabbing out onto Danse’s shoulder to try and keep himself grounded. Danse pushes him back, his head hitting the wall with a light thud. Nate breathes in heavily and grinds his heels into the ground as Danse pushes more bandages inside the wound to stop the bleeding for now. All until he can get Nate back to the station.

“Now is not the time for jokes and quips,” Danse adds before he rips off the remaining of the bandage with his teeth.

Cleanliness is something that cannot be thought of at this given moment. He needs Nate out of here before he becomes another victim of the harsh reality of the commonwealth. He just needs to get him to the station where Haylen can patch him up properly.

“The turret got me,” Nate grits out through his teeth. “Didn’t see it until the last minute.”

“And you got this far afterwards?” Danse asks.

Nate grins at that. “Also got pretty beat up. Didn’t expect a…” he wonders off for a moment, his breathing becoming shallow before he perks up again, “didn’t expect a baseball bat to hurt that badly.” He quirks even in his near death state.

The Paladin doesn’t say anything else to that as he wraps the remaining bandage around Nate’s torso. He pulls it tight, keeping pressure on the wound. Nate flinches at every movement, squeezing his eyes shut with his jaw set tightly. Danse looks over his handy work and deems it able to last the trip back. Not perfect, but good enough.

“Can you stand?” Danse asks.

Nate looks at him bleakly through squinted eyes. His trembling isn’t as bad as it was before, but he looks as if holding his head up is a mission.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the Paladin answers to himself.

He gathers Nate’s things back into his pouches and quickly realizes the man is out of stimpacks. Stupid mistake. Coming out here with barely anything on him. Does he think himself invisible!?

Danse stands up and walks back over to his power armour. Without a word, he enters it and heavy metal sets back into place. He now feels more at home inside of the T-60, now coming to the realization that his back was unprotected the entire time he was patching Nate up. Stupid move. But it’s much safer inside 110 pounds of pure steel and machinery. He can protect himself and most importantly, Nate.

He walks over to Nate and as careful as he can, picks him up like some husband taking his wife away to his honeymoon. Nate groans and hisses in pain as the movement pulls and tugs on his side and all the other bruised and bashed places he’s been struck over. The bullet probably not feeling all to comfortable either still wedged in between muscle. Nate holds onto one of the bars on the Paladin’s chest piece with his head dipped between his shoulders.

Danse moves in a hurry out of the building all while trying to not jostle Nate around too much. He just has to make the trip back to the police station.

-

“A true damsel in distress,” are the first words that come from Rhys’s mouth as Paladin Danse walks through the doors.  

Haylen ignores the Knight. She keeps her distance until the Paladin has set Nate down onto a table that she has place into the middle of the side room specifically for him. Danse takes three steps back as Haylen instantly gets to work. She has the basic medical training but has had to learn more from being around the Knight and the Paladin.

“Rhys a need some purified water,” Scribe Haylen instructs without taking her eyes off of Nate.

“What?”

“Now!” She snaps in a tone that both of them rarely seen.

Rhys grumbles as he goes into the back room, leaving them for now. Haylen steadily takes the bandaging off of Nate’s torso, not knowing the full extent of his wounds.

Danse takes his helmet off, the locks hissing and releasing as he does. “As far as I’ve taken note, there is a bullet still in his side and he’s taken multiple hits with a blunt object,” he informs to her.

“Thank you, Paladin,” she says, her voice monotoned with her mind deep on the task at hand.

Nate groans as he moves his hand to his waist, his blood slicked fingers unclipping one of his pouches. He slips out a small device, something that Danse doesn’t recognise at first. But when he holds it out to Haylen, she stops cold.

The Haptic Drive is held between his bloody fingers.

Haylen takes it off him with her mouth a gape. He still got the damn device. Even after all that happen to him.

“Told you I’d get it,” Nate grins as he peers through one narrow eye.

“You stupid man,” Haylen mumbles as she takes it from him.

She sets it aside before returning back to patching Nate up. His priority over the bullet in his side worries Danse for a moment. But he’s seen this happen within the Brotherhood so many times over he can’t truly count them all. Despite being a man out of time, a man from the past. Nate fits into the Commonwealth a little too well.

It could be his military past. Or is pure need to get his son back. But whatever drives him is something that Danse rarely sees within the Commonwealth again. He is aware that Nate’s ranking is unofficial at this moment, but he truly wishes that other members of the Brotherhood could see Nate. Maybe he could inspire people within the Brotherhood. To keep fighting and to keep moving forward.

Danse could deny it a little bit longer for his own sake. Keep himself chin high in work and patrols. But he’ll give himself the benefit of the doubt that Nate’s actions have given Danse a new drive forward. Something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

-

:)

[everydayyoulovemeless]

Fo4 Masterlist

Oneshots / Drabbles

To Victory - Danse x Reader

Mystery Swim - Deacon x Reader

Kiddie Kingdom - Platonic!Gage x Teen!Reader

Was It Worth It? - Hancock x Reader

World On Fire - MacCready x Reader

Gorski Cabin - MacCready x Reader

Wounds - MacCready x Reader

Seaside Sunset - Platonic!Old Longfellow x Reader

Out Of Time - Yandere!Preston x Reader

Neighbor - Sturges x Reader

Headcanons / Reactions

Cait NSFW Alphabet

Curie SFW Alphabet

Desdemona SFW Alphabet

Desdemona NSFW Alphabet

DiMA NSFW Alphabet

Ellie Perkins NSFW Alphabet

Nick SFW Alphabet

Nick NSFW Alphabet

Piper NSFW Alphabet

[Valentine Idolizes You]

[Danse Idolizes You]

[Curie Idolizes You]

[Deacon Idolizes You]

[MacCready Idolizes You]

[Piper Idolizes You]

[Cait Idolizes You]

Nick Being Fatherly To Sole

DiMA As A Dad

Hancock As A Dad

Gage And The Nuka-World Leaders With A Shy!Overboss

Gage And The Nuka-World Leader With A Short!Overboss

Nuka-World Leaders With A Child!Overboss

Nuka-World Leaders With A Black Widow!Overboss

Companions (+Sturges, DiMA, and Travis) Reactions to being taken to Nuka-World

Companions (+Sturges, DiMA, and Travis) Living At Homeplate With Sole

Companions When You Come Out As Queer

Companions (+Sturges, DiMA, and Travis) As Coffee Shop Customes

Companions Favorite Settlements To Stay At

Hancock, Nick, and Danse as Yandere’s

Yandere Deacon, Nick, and Hancock HCs

DiMA HCs

How The Companions (+Maxson and Tinker Tom) Are With Synth!Shaun

Companions As Aesthetics

Companions with a child!Sole

What The Companions Love Language Is

HCs About Being Apart Of The Minutemen

Companions Going To See The Barbie Movie

FNV Companions Interacting With Fo4 Companions

Companions Living In Goodneighbor With Sole

Companions Reactions To Sole Being Emotionally Distraught After Being Separated

Companions MBTI Types

Random Headcanons For The Companions

Companions Reactions To Sole Getting "Suprise Adopted" By A Territorial Deathclaw

NSFW Hancock HCs

Brother!Arcade, Hancock, Fawkes, and Gob With a Teen!Reader

Companions Favorite Place to Kiss Their S/O

Companions With a Mute!Sole

Companions Reactions to a Werewolf!Sole

Factions React To Sole Being With The Enclave

Companions React to Sole Being With The Enclave

Modern Headcanons

Accidentally Giving Sole a Bad Haircut

Fo4 Robots Meeting The New Vegas Robots

Companions Reactions To Sole Introducing Gage As Their Boyfriend

Arcade, Curie, Lily, Fawkes, and Marcus's Reactions to a Scientist Researching FEV

Marrying the Companions at the Castle

Headcanons on Piper, Cait, and Curie Living Together in Sanctuary

[rosemaryreaper]

Thanks to @fallout4reacts for the prompt!

So I broke my 1k words or less oneshot rule. Again. Because this became...something. I used this as an opportunity to explore my Sole's relationship with Danse since it plays a role in part two of Rosemary Reaper. But, uh, needless to say, that relationship is complicated.

Anyway, enjoy! As always, I'll eventually post this on AO3 after Tumblr has had it for a bit.

Word count: ~4,300

* * * *

Skin of Theseus (Danse)

“...entire site has been overrun. The door won’t last much longer. Paladin Brandis, sir. It’s been an honor, sir.”

The holotape’s whirring ceased with a soft click, taking the knight’s voice with it. Dust motes, thick and heavy in the light of the window, drifted over remains years past the point of recognition. A tattered orange flight suit hung loosely on filthy bones. Weighted down by a rusted chest plate, the skeleton slumped awkwardly against the wall as if too tired to sit upright. Deep scratches and burns in the wood told the story the tape had failed to finish. 

Knight Delaney’s Pip-Boy clunked as she ejected the holotape. She wrapped the accompanying holotags around it before stashing them in her bag. “Well, that confirms it then.”

Careful with the strength of his suit, Paladin Danse swiped a hand through the dust on the chest plate, revealing the winged sword emblem on its front. Delaney wore the same Brotherhood-issue combat armor over her military fatigues. Hers was in notably better condition. 

“Knight Astlin,” he said. “She was in my company, years ago. Best marksman I ever saw.”

“She was a friend?”

“Friend” was a difficult word to assign to bones, much less to any Brotherhood soldier. That he had been given the chance to hear Astlin’s voice again was astonishing, certainly, but the sight before him was not unexpected. It was an unspoken assumption that most knights would meet their end in battle, and all of Artemis had been assumed to have met that end nearly four years ago. 

Tara Astlin had been his sister. They had fought together, bled together, and placed their lives in each other’s hands. But to call her his friend would have been foolish. It suggested a dangerous level of attachment. Of reckless hope—the kind that sank like a cold stone in his stomach as he stared at the body beneath his hand. 

“She was a good soldier,” he said, which was the truth, though a dishonest one. He withdrew from his crouch to cast his gaze about the office. He did not look too closely at the feral corpses, new and old, that littered the room, nor did he look too closely at the way Delaney studied him. “We shouldn’t linger. Note the coordinates of the remains for our report to Scabbard. Scribes will be dispatched to retrieve them for shipment back to the Citadel.”

Delaney cocked her head. “I didn’t think anyone retrieved bodies anymore.”

The spike of anger was bitter and unexpected. He heard the cold in his voice before he could stop it. “We are not raiders—cutthroats and cowards who leave their men lying in the street. The Brotherhood honors its dead. We always—always make an attempt to bring our siblings home.”

She raised her hands. “I was trying to say it’s refreshing to see—if you’d let me get there. Sheesh.”

“You’re new,” he said, a reminder to himself more than her. “Consider this a lesson in the Codex. The last entry in a soldier’s Scroll may very well be their most important, as the manner in which they die holds as much meaning as the manner in which they live. We report their final deeds so that they may ascend into history.”

“So even though Artemis probably didn’t survive…”

“We can still bring them home. If not their bodies, at least their stories.” His gaze fell on the pile of older corpses by the door. Over a dozen decayed ferals at the entrance alone. “Knight Astlin died with honor. She will be remembered by those that come long after.”

These were the words he said aloud. He did not give voice to the anger, still simmering beneath the surface, at how her squad had left her here, barricaded in the room alone. He did not imagine how it must have felt to die with her back against the wall, no one around to hear her scream as the monsters tore out her throat. He did not give voice to these thoughts, to Paladin Brandis’s imagined failings, because to do so would make him a hypocrite. After all, Danse had gotten two-thirds of his own squad killed. He couldn’t rightfully pretend that he would have done any better. 

“Have you noted the coordinates?” he asked when the silence stretched. 

Delaney held up her Pip-Boy. “Already done. The satellite array isn’t too far. We could check out the next location before—”

A snarl shredded the air between them. One of the corpses twitched to life by her feet. Delaney threw herself out of the way, crashing into a broken display case as the not-so-dead feral lunged for her legs. He shot three lasers into the mutant’s spine. He shot a forth into the back of its head for good measure. It slumped on its stomach with a rattling sigh, unmoving—even after he gave it a solid kick to the ribs to test.

He prodded at the other ferals with the boot of his power armor, silently cursing himself. They had done a thorough sweep of every room in the Recruitment Office except this one. Astlin’s body had derailed him.

It was a poor excuse. 

None of the other corpses came to life, which was almost a disappointment. He had the inexplicable urge to throw one out the window. He turned to his knight. “Area’s clear. Are you—”

Delaney was sprawled on the ground, shattered glass and splintered wood scattered around her. Her hand was pressed to her thigh, her teeth gritted as blood trickled from a gap in her armor. “Shit,” she hissed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He crouched beside her. The string of curses ran through his head with renewed vigor. She was his charge. He should have double checked the room. Now look what had happened. “Did it bite you?” he asked, serious. The chance of infection from a mutant bite was dangerously high. 

She shook her head, to his unexpectedly strong relief. “No,” she said through her teeth. “It was the damn display case.”

“Let me see, soldier.”

Blood soaked her fatigues when she removed her hand’s pressure. The wound was deep and jagged, with bits of glass embedded inside. Whatever broken edge she had caught, it had ripped her thigh right open. Not a simple fix. 

“We’re not going to the satellite array,” he decided. 

Delaney fully bared her teeth in a snarl, not unlike Dogmeat when he snapped at a raider’s heels. It wasn’t a look of pain. She was pissed.

They cleaned and dressed the wound as best they could in the wreckage of the office, but despite the aid of pressure and a Stimpak, blood continued to soak through the bandages over fifteen minutes later. She needed stitches, but this wasn’t the place for it.

Which is how they soon found themselves on the road not east to the satellite array but south to the nearest settlement. It was, uh…a painstaking process.

“This pace is inefficient,” he said for far from the first time. 

She glared up at him, also for far from the first time. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

He liked to think he was mindful of his stride in his power armor when there were members in his squad without. He was not one of those paladins who exhausted their men by forcing them to sprint to keep up. At this pace, however, he practically had to shuffle his feet as Delaney limped alongside him. It would take an hour to walk a single mile, and by then it would be dark. There were too many nocturnal creatures that would love to happen upon slow, injured prey. 

“We would move faster if I carried you.”

“You’d have to put your rifle away,” she said, breathless from exertion. “We’d be vulnerable.”

“You still have two hands.”

“Two guns are better than one.”

“You’re dripping blood down your leg.”

“I can walk.”

His patience was slipping. “We have very different definitions of walking.”

“We’re not far from County Crossing,” she snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

“This pace is inefficient,” he repeated. She ignored him. 

If she were any other knight, he would have ordered her to listen. Hell, if she were any other knight, he would have written her up hours ago—after a harsh reprimanding. Instead, he bit his tongue, because Nora Delaney was not any other knight. She was not truly a soldier, though she had the honor of one. Most of the time. 

And it was because she was not a soldier that he stowed his rifle in his scabbard, thrust his arms under her knees and back, and hefted her into the air without a word of warning. To no surprise, this act did not diffuse the situation, but he would not deny the satisfaction that accompanied it. 

She thrashed, spitting like a feral cat. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.”

Coolly, he said, “You can direct your ire towards any hostiles that cross our path.”

“This is so undignified.”

“On that we agree.”

She would not have spoken like this to him months ago, when they had first met. She had been polite and obedient in the beginning. Since then, she had morphed into the most infuriating woman he had ever met.

He had known her true goal for joining the Brotherhood from the moment he had sponsored her. Everyone did, but it was easier to pretend the combatant who had recovered an entire super mutant stronghold’s worth of nukes was on their side. When she went off on her own for days or weeks without reporting in, Elder Maxon pretended she did so with his permission. When she talked back or disobeyed his orders on a mission, Danse pretended their inevitable success made up for it. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney, the knight who wasn’t a knight. It simultaneously vexed and baffled him. 

His vexation and her disobedience had only become stronger with each passing month. She snapped and snarled like a wounded animal, hackles raised in battle and out. The Brotherhood had yet to find what she searched for, and somehow it had become his problem. Somehow, he had to pretend she wouldn’t leave him behind as soon as she did find it.

They made it to County Crossing before dark. The settlement was barely more than a mutfruit patch and a shack, but it had clean running water, a rarity in the Commonwealth. The farmers allowed them to set up their tent in the roofless ruins of an old house, with access to any supplies they needed. 

Anything we can do for General Delaney, they had said. Not for the Brotherhood—they pointedly ignored Danse. For Delaney. 

Like he had thought: exceptions.

If he had to count his blessings—and not strangle the source of his perpetual headache—Delaney was calmer with her feet up. She had stayed quiet as they had flushed the last of the dirt and glass out of the wound. Now, as she lay on a camp mattress within the tent, she flashed him a small smile. He wondered if she’d hit her head on the display case too. 

“This might be the longest I’ve seen you without your power armor,” she said. “I almost forgot there was a man in there.”

He could say the same of her—and then some. She had stripped out of more than just her combat armor for the occasion—her Pip-Boy, fatigues, and most of her clothes had been cast aside, leaving her in a tank top and underwear. He was accustomed to seeing his team in various states of undress. They normally didn’t smile at him while half-naked in bed, though. 

Her legs were quite long.

“We do not have any local anesthetics,” he said, before he could process the thought. The farmers’ medical supplies were sparse. Apparently, the caravan doctor they stocked up from was due to pass by in two days, which didn’t help them now. 

Her lips quirked. “Whiskey and a broomstick in the mouth?” 

“We do not have those either.”

“More fun for me.” The smile dropped. Almost off-handedly, she asked, “I take it you’ve done this before?”

“Many times. You can trust I know what I’m doing.”

It had taken watching Haylen operate on herself only once for him to realize that having a single medic on the squad was a disadvantage they needed to mitigate in any way possible. Severe trauma was still beyond his abilities to treat, but a minor laceration on the leg was easy enough to suture without assistance. 

“I do trust you.”

Trust was a given among his men, so he did not know why it surprised him to hear her say it aloud. She lacked discipline; she did not desire to shoot him in the back—or vice versa. That they would keep each other alive when they were together was one of the few constants in their relationship. Still, it had been an unspoken constant, up until this point. 

She looked up at him, eyes too wide, jaw set too tight. It was a vulnerable position—laid out beneath his looming form. She was not a small woman, relatively. Tall, with long limbs toned by muscle, she’d once knocked Rhys flat on his back in a sparring match. But Danse was well-aware that, compared to him, most things were small. A towering height and broad frame were an advantage in combat with enemies that could swing a chunk of concrete at his head. Here in this tent, for perhaps the first time, he would have shrunk himself if he could, just so she wouldn’t look at him like that. 

“This should only take a few minutes,” he said, which was the best he could do instead. 

“Let’s just get it over with.”

She closed her eyes as he brought the needle to her skin. He kept his gaze on his task. Not on her face. If he looked at her face, no matter what expression she bore, it would distract him.

An illogical thought. He’d sewn knights back together before without issue. There was no reason she should have been any different. 

He didn’t look at her face regardless. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney.

In and out the needle wove, tugging at her skin with each stitch. She didn’t make a noise, aside from her uneven breaths. Over half a year together and he had never heard her cry while awake. She cried out in her sleep often, but they did not speak of such instances. 

The minutes ticked by. He did not have Haylen’s deft fingers; she would have finished the procedure in half the time. His less practiced hands were clumsy by comparison, forcing him to take it slow. The cold lump of guilt gained weight behind his navel. 

“Danse,” Delaney said, alarmingly unsteady. “Talk to me.”

He did not have Haylen’s bedside manner either. If there was a protocol for calming a person who would sooner bite his hand off than accept it, she had yet to teach him. “What would you like me to say?”

“Anything. Tell me a story.”

“Uh, I need you to narrow down the topic.”

A rumble rose in her throat. A growl or a groan, he couldn’t tell. “Scars,” she said, eventually. “Where did you get your scars?”

“I need you to narrow that down too.”

“How about the one across your jaw?”

It took an effort to keep his hands moving. Of all the ones she could have chosen…

He felt the bizarre urge to lie. To say he didn’t remember. Or that it had been from some great battle. She would surely laugh at him otherwise, and the last thing she needed was yet another reason to disrespect him. 

All the foolish thoughts of a battle-green initiate with something to prove. He chanced a glance at her face. She had laid the back of her hand over her eyes, shielding herself from the world.

“Knight Astlin,” his mouth said, before his brain could give full approval. “Rhys bet her fifty caps she couldn’t hit a Nuka-Cola bottle from a hundred yards away, blindfolded.”

“She shot you?”

“No, she shot the bottle. Which exploded as I was walking by.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. He double checked that he hadn’t poked the needle too deep. “I bet that earned her quite the earful, huh?”

“In a sense. I let her off with a warning. It was an impressive shot.”

She exhaled sharply again. The vague impression of a laugh. “Look at you, rulebreaker,” she said as he had feared she would. But then she added, “I would’ve liked to have met her,” and that statement was worse—because he agreed with it. 

“Almost done,” he said, for lack of an alternative. “Can you withstand the pain for another minute?”

“If you keep talking.”

He did not want to keep talking. He cast about for an escape, and he found it by his hand. “Where did you get this scar? On your shin.”

Her lips curled. With her eyes covered, it was nearly unrecognizable as a grin. “My husband tried to give me a piggyback ride. He tripped, sent us both flying. I scraped my shins on the pavement.”

Ah. Husband. Right. He had forgotten about the husband. She never talked about her old life. Nor did he ever ask. 

“You were fortunate.”

“I was fortunate,” she murmured. The same word, yet inexplicably different from what he had meant.  

He finished the last stitch. She uncovered her face, her brown eyes amber in the lamp light. Despite the ashen tinge to her cheeks, she maintained her grin as he cleaned up their makeshift medbay. 

“It’s funny,” she said. “It’s the stupid scars I remember the most. The ones that tell stories. They’re starting to get covered up now. This one on my elbow,”—she traced her fingers along a discolored patch of skin, darker than the rest of her olive complexion—“there used to be a scar here from when I fell playing tug-of-war at a potluck. There’s a different one on top of it now. I don’t even know where it came from.” 

She let the arm fall onto the mattress. Then she drew her fingers down her body. “When I left the vault, I kept track of them at first. The first time I got shot.” Her fingers circled an indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The first time I caught shrapnel from a grenade.” Those fingers glided up her hip, trailing over stretch marks as she lifted her shirt above the dark crescents between her ribs. “After a while they lost meaning. They just show up. Enough time and all the old ones will be gone. I’ll be a completely different person with completely different skin.” 

She let her hand fall to the mattress on her other side. He didn’t know at what point her grin had faded. Her shirt was still rolled up. 

“Maybe it’s already too late,” she whispered. “The person who I was before all this, I don’t see her anymore when I look in the mirror. I think she might have died with the bombs, and I don’t know how to mourn her.”

It took him a moment to recognize this statement as metaphorical and not an admission to being a synth. It would have been easier if she had actually admitted to being a synth. Then he could have followed protocol. There was no protocol here. 

She must have been in an extreme amount of pain to say these things to him. No bared teeth. No snaps or snarls. Just an ashen-faced woman too exhausted to pretend to be his vexation. They did not speak like this, paladin and knight. They had deviated from the roles they had carved for themselves. But they had both taken their armor off hours ago. 

“I don’t remember my parents’ faces,” he said, and she went still. “Or most of my childhood. The boy who might have remembered died to become an orphan who cut his fingers on scrap metal. And that orphan died to become a soldier with scars, gained with every battle, every loss. I am not the same person I was when I joined the Brotherhood, nor am I the same person I was when my squad left for the Commonwealth. None of my men are.”

Haylen’s smiles were rarer. Rhys was quicker to throw a punch. And Danse? Four graves greeted him on every patrol of the police station’s perimeter, a constant reminder of the cost of a leader’s failure—and a permanent lesson learned. 

“I cannot speak to your experiences. Only my own. I could count my scars,”—sometimes he did—“but it wouldn’t do much good. It certainly wouldn’t change them. I stand by the choices I have made, the orders I have given. It has not occurred to me to mourn the orphan with cuts on his fingers because that orphan would not have survived to today.”

She shielded her eyes beneath her hand again, though he had long since stowed the needle away. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered, voice so strained the cracks were tangible. 

His wrists tightened, the painful ache of an unfamiliar kind of panic. That he had never heard her cry was another constant in their relationship. By definition, it was never supposed to change. 

Without thinking, he brushed his thumb against the indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The goal you seek. Could the person you were before have achieved it?”

She took a shuddering breath. “No.”

“Then bury her. Honor her, but stand by who you have become.”

Her lips pressed into a wobbly line. He redirected his gaze to the medkit, shutting each latch with a sharp snap, too loud in the growing space between them. 

She swallowed audibly. “You said the Brotherhood honors its dead.”

“We do.”

“When I die—really die, will you bury my body in Sanctuary, if you can? If not my body, at least my heart.” Without uncovering her eyes, she tugged the chain around her neck out from under her shirt. Two gold rings swung from her hand, a pendulum over her chest, glittering in the lamp light. “It’s the closest I’ll be able to get…to him.”

An absurd request to come from her. He doubted Delaney knew how to die. She would likely claw her way out of any grave before the dirt had settled. 

Then he saw Astlin. Her back to the wall as enemies poured in. The ferocity with which she fought, taking down attacker after attacker, the bodies piling up in the dozens. Sheer stubborn willpower kept her on her feet—until sheer stubborn willpower failed to replace allies and ammo. In the end, she fell alone, with no one but monsters to hear her scream. 

Except it wasn’t Astlin in the vision. It was the knight breathing tremulously before him, lost in time. 

“You have my word,” he said. But you will never need it. Not while she was with him. He stood by his choices, including those made in a heartbeat. She would not be his fifth mistake; he would make sure of it. 

She exhaled a gentle sigh. When her hand finally fell away from her face, her eyes were closed. If the pain had dulled enough to allow her to slip towards sleep, that was a good sign. 

He moved to stand up. “You should get some rest. I will take the first watch.”

“Wait.”

Fingers closed around his wrist. He froze. She gaped at him, seemingly as startled by the act as he was. Her mouth opened, then closed. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as clearly as he did in combat. One beat…two…three…four… She was still holding his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “For snapping at you earlier. It was unfair.”

Whatever she had originally intended to say, that hadn’t been it. He couldn’t begin to fathom what thought had hooked on her tongue, but the warmer his skin grew beneath her hand, the less he wanted to wait to hear it. 

“I think you may have injured more than just your leg,” he said on impulse. 

She blinked at him. Then her touch vanished as sank onto the mattress, clutching her chest in laughter. It was an explosive sound, deep and melodic and bursting with warmth. He couldn’t recall if he had ever heard her genuinely laugh before. Surely he would have remembered the odd sensation it left in his stomach. 

“Get some rest,” he repeated, once she had calmed down enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. 

“Danse?” she said softly, halting his second attempt to flee. He stared pointedly at the front flap of the tent. The air inside had become stifling. “Thank you.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt. As best as he could to not give the impression of retreat, he left the tent, cutting directly through the cool night breeze to his waiting power armor. He slammed the fusion core into its slot and climbed inside with the practiced movements of someone who wore the heavy metal like a second skin. As the suit clunked into place around him, a confused warning about his elevated heart rate popped up on his HUD. He dismissed it. 

Thoughts of their mission slowly recentered him. Despite their detour, today had resulted in the successful completion of multiple objectives. They had located remnants of the lost patrol, cleared a building of a feral infestation, and gained intel on a new location to investigate. Once Delaney was well enough to walk, they could get back on track to their inevitable victory, same as always. 

Except tonight wasn’t the same as always. It wasn’t even the same as that morning, when they had set out together. Because, for once, Nora Delaney was neither his vexation nor his bafflement. 

No, she had become something much, much worse. 

[libertybri]

Fo4 companions + Maxson react to accidentally falling into worm hole and getting sent to the past for a week and end up meeting their younger self. (Danse meeting himself as M7-97)

So this was one super interesting, lol! I had to get a bit creative for some because I didn’t want to leave anyone out + I added Strong and Dogmeat!!

Cait

The moment her former self was in currently, was what Cait then believed was the peak of her life. She felt the strongest she ever was due to her own raw strength and the unmentionable addictions keeping her going at a hundred-percent all of the time. Being loved was a foreign concept and there were no thoughts of ever inheriting a real friend or someone who cared enough to save her. Even if she were to speak to that version of herself, Cait knew she wouldn’t be able to get through to her then. There was really no point of exercising the thought to her that there was good in the world willing to take her in. That was left up to Sole, for she believed only they could ever be the one to get through to her no matter her state.

Synth!Codsworth

“Oh dear, was I always floating about this rusty in the beginning?” The new synthetic-bodied Codsworth stands ashamed of his former self. The robot floated before him with his rusty exterior and only motive to try and rid the world of its new radiated filth.

“Um, did you say I? I do believe you are confused, sir. Perhaps all of this radiation is altering your thought process. My Sir and Mum should be back any minute now and they would love to help you!” The robot version of himself gleamed at the opportunity to help someone in need, not realizing the person before him was actually himself in another time and body. He was also mistaken about the timing of which only part of his family would return to him. The synth decided it wasn’t in his best interest to tell the robot all of this information, as he always remained hopeful.

Curie

The synth looked upon her former robotic self with two strong feelings; one of relief and one of sorrow. She was of course relived to be able to roam free among the world and view it as a human, for which she loved humans very much. However, part of her was longing for the former connections she had while in this state. The scientists she was built up with and the experiments she held while as the robot were dear parts of her past that she held closely to her synthetic-heart. Though with all of the reminiscing, she is able to remind herself of why the change happened and how she can move forward with her new connections and experiments that she also appreciates.

Danse

Danse doesn’t quite understand why he sees the synth with a blank personality, meant to take his own. He doesn’t remember his life before it was stolen, but meeting him, who took his own life. The version of himself now was standing before that same version. “You know you aren’t me.” He is still astonished with the entire thing, hoping this thing doesn’t yet have his personality.

“I am supposed to be Paladin—“

“M7-97.” Danse cuts him off sternly. “That’s who we are… We become Danse with time.” Though still struggling to understand himself after learning of his true identity, he doesn’t allow this to be a setback and instead finds satisfaction in seeing himself as a synth in an earlier stage of creation. It gives him peace knowing that he has the freedom to write his own story now.

Deacon

Deacon absolutely loathed seeing his past self. The younger leaving destruction in his path. He had no desire to speak to him or allow him to know of his future’s presence. Instead he only watched from the shadows intently, forcing himself to endure what he thought he deserved. Watching himself completing ravaging tasks was torture to his new role. He swallowed back all of the hate and anguish for that version of himself until this wormhole was done tormenting him with it.

Dogmeat

Dogmeat is overjoyed seeing himself as a puppy and immediately wants to play! He can’t even remember what it was like being that small, but that doesn’t matter now. He is content with just playing chase with his younger self until they’re both too tired to run any longer.

Gage

Seeing himself before the corruption of being a raider was like a punch to the gut for Gage. He saw optimism and light in his younger eyes, bliss from what he believed was protection then. What was soon to come for him was an awful awakening and the Gage now knew that, so he felt more sad than anything. He assumed anger would have been his first emotion, but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with the past any longer.

“Things turn out alright for us… eventually, at least. You’ll meet so many shitty people ‘long the way, but one’s gonna come around and change all that.” Gage makes sure to tell his former self about his admiration for the Overboss, no matter their current relationship. He owed his newfound happiness to them.

“Thing’s get serious with this ‘one’?” His former preteen self giggled at the ‘old-man’, teasing at any hints of a relationship of some kind.

Gage chuckles and shakes his head, “They’re alright by us an’ that’s all that matters.”

Hancock

“Yeah, I figured the day’d come.” The smooth-skin John chuckled a his later state. His eyes scanned over the ghoulified version of himself dressed in historical attire, but wearing it with definite swagger. “Say, that brother of ours ever come around? This fight worth it?”

“McDonough’s a lost cause, but the fight’s always worth it. Lot’s a people come around for you because you never lose sight of what’s right.” Hancock smiles as he reminisces on the upbringing of his people. A lot was sacrificed along the way; his skin being part of that recklessness within the upbringing. In his mind everything happened in its place for a reason. He had to be the mortar for his people and for that, he absolutely held no regrets.

MacCready

There’s so many things MacCready thinks to tell his former self, but when it actually comes down to meeting him, he can’t bring himself to relieve the munchkin of knowing the future. Those unchangeable experiences couldn’t be passed through stories, so instead he interacted in the only way his 12-year old self knew.

“Hey butt-muncher, you got cave fungus all over your upper lip.” He chuckles, getting on his own nerves very easily.

“Can it, mungo! This is a mustache!” MacCready can’t help but to laugh at himself. Though he made plenty of bad decisions in his childhood, growing that ‘mustache’ was quite possibly his worst small mistake he ever made.

Maxson

Squire Maxson was quite the sight to the older; having only aged 8 years since then, however appearing to have fought many battles that physically aged him tremendously. The young boy was still in training by his predecessor Sarah, yet untouched by the cruel world. Two years to come for this boy before his entire world changed and he would become the war-machine that he now knows so comfortably. Elder Maxson was struggling to find the words to convey to him former self, knowing nothing would change. He cannot label feelings neither, for that was a difficult task. The younger fears the man before him but not because of appearance but instead his demeanor. There was a darkness that loomed over him and despite only being 12 years old, the younger knew things were not well for himself later in life. “I become Elder…” His voice trembles slightly only then realizing what that means for Sarah. “Oh.”

“I do what’s best for the Brotherhood. I know what’s best.” Maxson says to himself, though it comes out more as if he has to convince himself of that. There were a lot of battles in his life but none bigger than the self-battle he is always going through. He wish things could be different for the young boy, but with the greatest responsibility among his shoulders, nothing could ever change for him.

Nick

Nick’s former self is a prototype synth, factory fresh and one of the first of his kind. As a prototype, his personality still wasn’t fully there as the Institute were attempting to develop prewar people into their synths. Nick realizes he never knew himself as a separate personality then, he has no memories before Nick Valentine. The image before him didn’t feel like him, so he merely watched as the Institute performed more experiments on him. Experiencing this wormhole creates more doubt in his mind as he tries to understand himself as his own Nick of his time.

Piper

The urge to approach her younger self and warn her of upcoming events was very hard to fight for Piper. She knew no matter what there was no changing the past but part of her hoped if she could just spiel enough knowledge to her younger self in this worm-hole, she would be able to break through the wall and change the order of events. Solemnly, she decides to instead nurture the young Piper as she needs.

“How different are things in the future? Is the grass greener? Do we find love? What is Nat like?” Her younger self, full of ambition and curiosity bombards her with several questions.

Piper cringes at the truth and does her best to mask the truth; “Uh, well, things are actually a lot different, but it turns out alright. There’s people there for us and we take care of them too… We’ll be okay.”

Content with this answer, the younger Piper goes back to drawing a portrait of her little family with the newest addition of baby Nat. Piper was only happy the innocence still had a few years before it would be lost.

Preston

In a nightmare-like tone, Preston was sent to himself at his lowest point. Though it wasn’t too far into the past for himself to see noticeable changes in his appearance, he was able to instantly notice the change in demeanor. His past self held no hope for the future or himself, he was lost in all ways and ready to give up. “The good fight is worth all of this sacrifice.” He tells himself. Seeing the future and what it holds definitely brings a twinkle of light to his former self, however he was still at a loss in his current state. “Good people give their all so the Commonwealth can stand for the future generations. You give your all.”

“What other choice do I have? These people are counting are counting on me.” The past Preston chokes back on his words. They come out a lot more confident than he felt in himself at that moment. He knew in his heart it was the right answer, as his fight will always be for the good of the people. Finding the courage was becoming onerous, but he was finally willing to accept the help of those around him to guide him.

Strong

“So this is what I become…” Strong’s former self wasn’t as shocked at the sight of his future as he was now knowing what would eventually happen to the world. “They actually did it, damned us all.”

Strong studies this human timidly, still not fully convinced at one point this was him. He decided to instead lecture himself for being sad about his current state, “HUMAN SHOULD BE HAPPY. HUMAN STRONG AFTER BOMB.”

Human Strong crosses his arms, “Human was strong before. I, er, you worked out a lot before… this. At least you still take pride in your athleticism.” Though the human version of himself was glad that teeny bit of self-sense was still there, he was still deeply distraught at his outcome with life.

X6-88

Depending on the path Sole takes, X6 meeting himself in his early stages of creation could be broken down in two ways;

A) Sole “rescues” X6 from the confinement of the Institute and he lives at a settlement after the Institute is blown up.

—X6 is faced with a version of himself that is no courser to the institute, but merely just a test subject of a synth. This version has plenty of training to endure before he could ever be a courser. While X6 thought he would be disgusted, or even envy the given fresh start, he felt nothing but pity for his former self. “One day you will be freed of the Institute’s reign. Your savior is powerful and compassionate enough to forgive a synth like you for all of the trouble you have caused them.” He tells his younger self, stating fact of what he knows now. However, this version would hear none of it and he knew that.

B) Sole becomes director of the Institute.

—X6 feels nothing when meeting himself in the early stages of creation. He knows from that point to where he is now, things would never change for him. This was his destiny after all; A machine made to serve and kill.

[wastelandbfs]

Fallout Fanfic Masterlist

Fallout 4

John Hancock / Nora

Do Not Go Gentle - M - Angsty - One-shot - Complete

Scorched Earth - E - Porn with a tiny bit of Plot - Ongoing

A series of Impure Thoughts - E - Porn without Plot - One-shot - Complete

Happy Birthday, Hancock - E - Porn with a tiny bit of Plot - Complete

A Mardi Gras Birthday - E - Porn without Plot - One-shot - Follow up to Happy Birthday, Hancock - Complete

Snow Day - E - Porn without Plot - One-shot - Complete

Bad Man - T - Flirty Fun - One-shot - Complete

Nick Valentine / Nora

Serendipity - M - Fluffy coffee shop - Ongoing

Good Vibrations - E - Porn with Plot - One-shot - Complete - Written with @oraeliaa

Makin' Memories - E - Porn with Plot - One-shot - Follow up to Good Vibrations - Complete - Written with Oraeliaa

Danse / Nora

Happy Birthday, Danse - E - Porn without Plot - Complete

Drinking Games - T - Fun Flirty Fluffy - One-shot - Complete

After Effects - E - Porn with a tiny bit of Plot - One-shot - Follow up to Drinking Games - Complete

Arthur Maxon / Nora

Happy Birthday, Arthur - E - Porn without Plot - One-shot - Complete

First Times - E - Porn without Plot - One-shot - Complete

Mistaken Identities - E - Porn with a tiny bit of Plot - Ongoing

Fallout TV Show

Cooper Howard | The Ghoul / Lucy MacLean

Ain't that somethin' - T - Flirty fun psychic fingers - One-Shot - Complete

Somethin' Else - E - Porn without Plot follow up to Ain't that somethin' - One-shot - Complete

Somethin' Extra - E - Porn without Plot follow up to Somethin' Else One-shot - Complete

[sirmanmister]

Rust

Day 12 of Falloutober!

You may ask “hey how does this correlate to rust in the slightest??” And LEMME TELL YOU

This is scene in @shitty-fallout-art’s fic “Rusted Shut” on Ao3, which is part of their HorrorOut au!! Literally the best fic series I’ve ever read and I’m not even kidding. I started reading it before I even had an Ao3 account and I would manually check every two weeks if there was an upload, and whenever there was I would drop whatever I was doing to read it.

It’s a psychological horror following Shaun as he makes his way through the wasteland to try to save humanity, while humanity basically asks "are you sure about that?" The Institute wipes out all food sources in the commonwealth (possibly further) to “reset the wasteland,” and so the inhabitants turn to good old fashioned cannibalism to survive >:)

The way Shaun’s reactions and emotions and his existential horror and his undying hope in humanity despite not even being human and the way it's written is just!!! I’ve used the word phenomenal several times describing it. I showed it to my little sister who isn’t even into fo4 and she read all 160k words in a weekend cuz it's just SO GOOD. Literally inspired some of my own writing style cuz the way it's just so immersive and DELECTABLE. I could absolutely go on about it but if you wanna see all my thoughts about the whole thing all you have to do is check out the comments on the fics because oh boy I have many thoughts abt it.

Here’s a link to the first fic in the series 🙏 ty to them for making such good food and ty to @falloutober for the prompts!!

[whatanightmaregrinch]

Paladin Danse x Fem! Sole Survivor- it’s all over but the crying

[ note: this is set after the events of the main story, sole followed the BoS route. This drabble deals with themes of mental health, and loss. Please read at your own discretion! ]

All was quiet in Sanctuary. Night had descended, and the gentle hum of the Bloodbugs were far away. If you pretended hard enough, it reminded you of the way Cicadas used to shout into the night, giving the evenings a natural ambience. This was similar, but Cicadas couldn’t turn a man into a drink carton, insides sucked out and carcass discarded for Bloatflies to feed on in the morning. You lent further back into your chair, which squeaked in discomfort at your actions. You’d taken to relaxing by the back door on nights like this, unable to stop your eyes wandering to the night sky to gaze at the moon. Before the Great War, it was normal to hear the sound of vertibirds, giant monstrous things, storm through the skies over the suburbs as they traveled to bases and distant lands alike to fight their wars. Now they only ever made pace from the Prydwen, and the sky was no longer a reminder to you that you had lived on the very edge of peace and destruction. Your deep thought was disturbed by a light turning on in the kitchen, and a soft but firm footfall approach from within.

Your companion, Danse, appeared. He hesitated upon seeing you lost in thought, but you smiled at him and his stiff posture relaxed somewhat, feeling more confident that he’d not interrupted a preferred solitude. He faltered for just a moment upon noticing there was only one chair which you were currently inhabiting, but decidedly shut the back door and came to sit down on the floor next to you. He seemed to have difficulty for a moment, before settling into a more comfortable position. You couldn’t help but chuckle at him, he looked so awkward , even if he did seem settled. He looked up at you, his usually stern expression soft in its mild confusion. “Is something wrong?” He enquired, and you found yourself shaking your head. “I just didn’t expect you to do that, I suppose I found it funny.” You explained, and he just nodded, following suit as you returned your gaze to the stars.

Since his expulsion from the Brotherhood (and subsequently discovering his true identity) he had been quieter than usual, but you understood well that pain took a long time to subside, especially great traumas such as his. It was difficult for him to grapple with all he’d been indoctrinated to believe and all that he was- how poorly he had acted to those you considered friends, allies and family. On his shittier days, he’d allow that guilt to fuel his self-loathing; and in turn, his mood would sour. He’d retreat as far into himself as he could, moving around the wasteland with you on autopilot. You minded not, you knew not to take his feelings and tone towards you personally. He was never rude to you anyway: sometimes curt, but never had he offended you or made you feel unsafe. You’d been in a similar way after your incarceration and staggered escape from Vault 111. You didn’t know who to trust with your pain, so you did not speak of it. Not until you stumbled through the gates of Cambridge Police station, responding to the somewhat desperate shouts of Danse and his team as they battled feral ghouls. Not until Knight Rhys (of all people) questioned you about your motives, swearing you intended to shit on everything he held dear. Back then, your priority had been finding Shaun. Now? It was picking up the pieces that your son had left behind, wounding the already scarred landscape with more radiation and debris in order to stop the organization that had grown him into the monster he had become. Trying to return to whatever normalcy life in this time offered was difficult for both of you, and neither of you judged each other for having battles too big for you to fight. You had seen him at his worst, held his shaking and crying form as he cursed his existence into the night. He had been your stability when you mourned Nate, and you often visited the grave you’d made for him together. He would sit silently by your side, listening to you as you spoke to Nate, talking about all that he had missed and never got to experience. Together you’d drink a Gwinnett Stout in his memory, and Danse would sometimes talk to Nate too. He would sternly promise the headstone that he’d been keeping you safe in his absence, and it brought you much comfort.

The relationship that you two shared had no name attached to it, not that you minded. Without words, you’d almost settled into a domestic partnership. Even though Danse was now aware he could not sleep for days with little consequence to his well-being, you’d approach him each time you felt tired and you would lie down together on a mattress (or bedroll, situation dependant) , and as you were both on the edge of sleep he would settle his arms around your waist, and you’d curl back into his chest. It would send your heartbeat wild, but you didn’t desire an answer to his actions. You just wanted to experience it. You ate together (even if a few times you argued when supplies were limited, him wanting you to take the remaining cram tins because of his synth status, you reminding him that synths like him had the same food need as yourself), and you’d even bathe together if you were on the road in the commonwealth. There was no awkwardness between the two of you, sometimes you’d even converse-albeit both of you faced in opposite directions, less out of discomfort and more out of respect for each others autonomy.

In a way, the both of you knew each other's intentions. Neither had denied the other. You tore your gaze away from the inky stillness above to look at him, hoping to steal a private glance, but you found he was already looking at you. He flushed, a welcome look on his face. “Can we discuss something?” He broke the silence, and you gave him your full attention, turning your body to face him to indicate agreement. He fiddled with the material of his trousers as he spoke. “Are we… are we in a relationship?” His words made you feel like an open book. How convenient it was for him to be bringing it up, like he knew you were thinking of him. The cool summer breeze caught some of your shorter hairs, and you swept them behind your ears and out of view. “Do you.. think we are?” You asked with uncertainty, and he searched your expression for a clue to how you were feeling. For a moment he held you, suspended at the end of your question. Embarrassment crept up his neck, and he stumbled over his words slightly as he spoke. “Yes, I mean-I hope so. Otherwise I feel a bit.. wrong?” He offered nervously, and you offered him a small, but amused smile. “ I’d consider us so as well.” You confirmed, and Danse would openly admit he felt relieved. “Good.” He muttered softly, slightly nodding as he spoke. Feeling satisfied, you both returned to stargazing. There was a brief silence as you both stared up in a silent appreciation.

“Can we hold hands?” He asked, without breaking his relaxed look at the stars. “Yeah, we can.” You replied, and you felt his hand reach up for yours, and you firmly interlocked your hand with his. He squeezed your hand for a moment, and you allowed yourself a smile. For tonight at least, you were allowed to be in peace.

[chadfallout76podcast]

Stephen Russell is BACK as Detective Nick Valentine in a new original story that takes place after the event of Death Shroud!

Amazing, amazing artwork by @rad-roche

[girlwiththegreenhat]

i am never going to recover from the death shroud radio play actually

[willinglyghoulified]

Sometimes I get down on myself about my writing, constantly catching myself stuck in the editing phase because it's not perfect, it's too cringe, it's not cohesive enough, or what if people don't understand what I'm trying to convey?

But then I re-read over pieces like the one I just edited and I'm like, gosh, I wrote that, and it made me feel something, and I regain my need to keep going with this story.

I've been working on this fanfiction off and on for about 7 to 8 years now, and one day I'll finish the whole series, because I want these characters to have the closure I envision for them.

(spoiler alert, maybe?)

Gwen, my OC, has found so many of these lost characters and given them purpose again. After Danse lost the Brotherhood (and his arm), he felt useless, incomplete, and needed a place to call his own again, though he would have never admitted to it. Gwen gave him the Minutemen. He teaches the soldiers how to fly Vertibirds. Gwen found Curie in Vault 81 and gave her a job at the Castle as a medic and introduced her to Virgil, a scientist, who also needed purpose after leaving the Institute. She found the Vault-Tec rep, who I had taken to calling Alvin, and asked if he would like a job helping her keep track of expenses and supply lines at the Castle. Gwen finds Cait and gives her a better life with the freedom to choose how she wants to live it. (She will later choose to continue to be a bodyguard, but she will be Fahrenheit's bodyguard when Fahrenheit takes up the mayor title in the future. Budding romance between Fahr and Cait maybe?) Sturges is her handyman for all things robotic and electronic, and he needs the comfort after being the last surviving member of the Quincy Massacre. Gwen even gives the title of General over to Preston at some point so that she could retire and focus on family. And dear, sweet Hancock finds the love of his life in Gwen and finds out what it's like to be a parent (we don't use the word "step-parent" here).

I'm a sucker for found family and falling in love with life again. Hell, Gwen even gave me a reason to keep writing this fic even after it's been so long. I want all of the things to happen to these characters, and I just hope that other people enjoy their stories as much as I do.

[fallout4treasures]

Found this extremely short story in my docs and I thought I published it here but I couldn't find it so here we go! (I've edited it some too, so if you've read it before and it's different now that's why.)

--

“A fallback point.” He followed her in, disheartened to see her already exploring the small cement shack and digging her way through boxes.

“What are we falling back from?” Her smile was still light, despite the confusion in her eyes.

“We're not. I am.”

--

Okay, he panicked. He could admit that. When he overheard Quinlan and Arthur talking about his… identity, his brain went into survival mode. He didn't want to believe it at first, but still wasn't going to wait for them to present their evidence. The sickening realization was still weighing heavily on his chest. It actually made sense. His memories, his emotions, he ideals, they were all planted in him by a computer. Probably after he was pieced together in a lab somewhere deep underground. He was what the Brotherhood stood to fight against. He was the enemy.

Leaving was absolutely the right choice, and it was technically faster just to bring Sole along. She had caught Danse right as he was sneaking into a vertibird to get back onto ground level. And for some reason she insisted on coming with on his "unknown mission" rather than let him go alone. But this wasn’t fair to her. She had no idea how much danger he put her in by bringing her. But he couldn't bear to let her go, not yet. It was coming, he knew that, but maybe for now it could wait.

Wait for what? He was piecing this together as he went, but it all seemed to be leading to one answer. It would be his last act for the Brotherhood. To put down one more Institute monster, it just happened to be himself.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to tell her himself, the look of betrayal in her eyes would be too much to handle. He decided he would send her back to the Prydwen when they got to the abandoned post. They would have one last walk together, he owed her that much.

He tried to make conversation, evading Sole's pointed questions. Where were they going? Why couldn't they bring their power suits? Why was he acting so weird? But it would end up coming to an awkward and screeching halt, leaving them to march on in silence. His mind was moving so quickly he couldn't focus on anything they were saying anyway.

Sole didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to have a synth for a friend, and she certainly didn't deserve to have everyone she cared about taken from her. But there she was, selfless, hopeful, caring. Just rolling with the punches. How did she do that?

“Are we almost there?” She finally asked, breaking another long period of silence shared between them.

“Actually, it’s right up here.” The path led up to the old outpost. She started trotting ahead, despite Danse's objections to wait.

“What is this place?” Sole called out through the open window.

“A fallback point.” He followed her in, disheartened to see her already exploring the small cement shack and digging her way through boxes.

“What are we falling back from?” Her smile was still light, despite the confusion in her eyes.

“We're not. I am.”

“What?” Sole laughed, she stopped flipping through a file to study his face. Her smile fell when he refused to meet her gaze. How could he? “But-”

“You're to report back to Elder Maxson. He’ll- he’ll want to speak to you.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“That’s an order, soldier.” Danse squared his jaw, meeting her gaze to see her eyes glistening with concern. His eyes fell in defeat, unworthy of looking at her. Sole. A flawless human being. Did he ever know her as a human? Was he replaced as far back as the Capital Wasteland? Was any of it ever real? Why would the Institute program him to care this much?

“What's going on?” Sole stepped closer, ignoring Danse's hesitation. When he didn't say anything she placed the most considerate hand on his forearm, snapping his attention solely towards her and away from his thoughts. Her soft skin, her worried eyes, her parted lips.

"You should go." He croaked out. His heart thumped into his throat. He wanted to pull away but he couldn't. Her touch was so warm, and alive. She wasn't programmed to feel this way. Her caring was pure, it was human. Everything he wasn't, apparently.

"Are you okay?" Her sympathetic voice rang in his ear.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out on their own, knowing what he was going to do before he did.

“For what?” In one sudden move Danse grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his, their bodies flushed together as he pushed her back against the wall. He felt her body halt beneath him, but it only took a moment for her mind to catch up to his actions. He let out a groan when her mouth opened up to him, letting their tongues mingle.

He found a way to shut off his mind, and he was going to take advantage of it. She felt good. Better than he had even imagined, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever think she'd kiss him back in real life. This certainly didn't feel like real life however, real life had unimaginable horrors. This felt more like his dreams, and if he tried hard enough he could even convince himself it really was a dream.

He broke away, feverishly making his way down her neck. He sunk his teeth into the soft but toned muscle, groaning at the sensual cry that left her. He kissed his way back to her lips before lifting her up for her to wrap her legs around his waist. She gave a small yelp against his lips as he pressed against her.

"Danse, just wait a sec." She panted. He pulled his head back, and all at once the shame in the pit of his stomach was back. Their eyes met and he was confused to find her staring at him in shock. The soft pads of her fingers reached to touch his cheek, and to his shock they were wet when they pulled away. Had he been crying?

Her perfect, very human, hand cupped his face with her thumb wiping the salty liquid across his cheek. Her expression broke his heart, she wouldn't feel this way if she knew the truth.

He hadn't noticed that his legs were shaking until his knees started to buckle below him. It seemed to happen so quickly. He had set her down and was sitting on the ground, with her following suit but making sure her own hands never left him. He wanted so badly to pull her close and cry into her comforting neck. But he had exploited her feelings enough.

"What's wrong?" She asked. How could he do this to her? Why would he be programmed to be so selfish? How could he feel like he loved her when he was a machine?

"Talk to me, please." She begged, thickening the lump in his throat.

"I-I… I'm sorry. I… I have to tell you something."