#nate sole survivor fic

[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.

-

:)

[zombiehearts2007]

Fuck it, I’m starting a post apocalyptic polyamory!

[simplegenius042]

Fallout Casting for Satoru "Kakashi-sensei" Gojojojo for Jujutsu Kaisen Abridged react fic

"Five bucks and I'll tongue punch your fart box." - Satoru Gojo, Episode 3 JJK Abridged (by The Schmuck Squad).

Reasons To Why I Believe These Characters Should Be Cast As The Variant of JJK Abridge's Satoru Gojo are listed below the cut:

Elrand Brandt (Fallout Vault Dweller OC, faceclaim Jason Statham) -> In his twenties and had told the Master to kill himself.

Finidy Mona (Fallout 2 Chosen One OC, faceclaim Jessica Alba) -> "Chosen One" will be as close to "Honored One" as Fallout will get.

Alph Dolen (Fallout 3 Lone Wanderer OC, faceclaim Sam Blackensee. Has transformed into a Ghoul) -> Fawkes talked about how it was his destiny to save Project Purity and his hopes and dreams died in his early twenties.

Raul Alfonso Tejada (a ghoul mechanic that helps out Ryder in Fallout New Vegas, follows her around after she saved him on Black Mountain and is inspired to pick up his guns again to protect those of lesser fortune) -> He's badass and voiced by Danny Trejo. Also got very father-figure vibes going on. And lost a young female companion (his sister) like Gojo had (Riko) whom they were both trying to protect.

Nate Gust Sarid (Fallout 4 Sole Survivor OC, faceclaim Steven He. He is a Synthetic Human) -> The SPECIAL cheat stats make a lot more sense with him given the context that he's a synth, which could be similar to Gojo's cheat skills in general. Not to mention they're both (basically) fathers (Shaun for Nate and Yuji & Megumi for Gojo).

Vega (Fallout 76 Resident OC, faceclaim Yvonne Strahovski. Has transformed into a Super Mutant) -> Both are selfish and have unbreakable egos.

Tycho (from Fallout, a Nevada ranger who's wandered the Wasteland of California, he helps Elrand beat Gizmo and takes on the Master's Super Mutant army) -> Hides his face and a total all around badass.

Roger Westin (from Fallout 2, an NCR congressman fighting against the corruption within the New California Republic with underhanded tactics to build a peaceful, civil expansion into the north) -> Badass breaking the rules to do the right thing.

Butch DeLoria (from Fallout 3, Alph's former childhood bully in Vault 101, now one of his closest allies after the Lone Wanderer saved the life of Butch's mother from Radroaches. After Alph and Amata we're run out of the Vault, Butch helped build up the rebellion against Overseer Almodovar, and had managed to slip out of the vault to get Alph and Amata's help. After resolving the issue, Butch joined up with Alph and Amata to wander the Capital Wasteland, becoming the founding members of the newest Tunnel Snakes) -> He's rocking a style and while he can come off as a jerk, he's got a heart of gold, though never a push-over.

Joshua Graham (from Fallout New Vegas' Honest Hearts DLC, Joshua is Caesar's former Legate, now known as "the Burned Man", he resides in Zion to help the Dead Horses (as well as Daniel and the Sorrows) against the threat of the White Legs. Ryder gets some very important insight from him on how to deal with Caesar's Legion) -> Okay, so his eyes aren't blindfolded, but he is bandaged up elsewhere. And not to mention his voice is captivating. And he'd probably despise his Gojo variant which makes for some humorous opportunities.

Deacon (from Fallout 4, the Railroad's top intelligence agent and overall the best spymaster you'll ever meet, he trains Nate in the art of espionage and being a better liar. Had given Nate trust issues for a while when partnered together. He also helps Nate discover he is a synth and come to terms with his newfound existence) -> He's got the charisma. He's got the sunglasses. He's got the lies and the confidence. He's got the vibe of a responsible irresponsible adult. He's got the vibes of a back-alley drug dealer guaranteed to give you the good stuff and be there with you to make sure it goes alright. He's probably stolen caps from Carrington. He's the man. The goat. The guy the Railroad keep around because he's really good at his job even if his tactics are questionable sometimes.

Remember, for the alternative option, REBLOG and put in the tags WHO else from the Fallout franchise should be Abridged!Gojo and WHY you think they'd better suit the role.

I've also created and will continue to update (until the polling is done) a Master List for the poll results of the casted winners. You can find it right here.

You can find my Fallout OC profiles Master List right here, which also includes a link to the original post where I pitched my react fic idea. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, chow!

[littlemiss101]

when i offer you survival | ch 3

Unsurprisingly, being in battle has not changed since Nate was a soldier. 

Adrenaline floods his system, sharpening his vision, cutting through the doubt and indecision. The only things he can do are move and fire, cranking the handle of the strange gun every change he gets. 

“DOWN!” Cassanrda shouts, and Nate drops behind the little cover he’s got. Cass leans over and sticks him in the arm with a stimpack and depresses the plunger in one smooth motion; then without a word she’s back up and shooting. Her shotgun bucks as she takes down raider after raider, not even flinching as blood splatters against her face. 

There’s a synergy to it. Not just him and Cass, but rather the battle as a whole, a call-and-response that he knows intimately. A raider fires and he moves, he fires and they duck, again and again until somebody lands a hit. Someone comes in swinging and Cass slams her gun into their face, cartilage cracking as their nose becomes concave. 

The past and present overlap like film reels played simultaneously. Nate is in the Museum of Freedom, holding Nora’s hand as they pass through the exhibits. Nate is on the ground in Anchorage, battle raging around him as his commanding officer shouts increasingly desperate orders. Nate is scrambling for ammunition while Cass lays down cover, bullets shattering the hardwood floor beneath them. The images converge and reflect in his minds eye; Chinese soldiers where raiders should be, his wife’s laughter echoing in the sound of gunfire. 

“Oh, shit ,” Cass says, and the world rattles back into focus.

read the rest on ao3

[hanckocks-dagger]

oh, the night's so blue

masterlist

John hancock x f!reader

Description: After a drunken one night stand with your boss and mayor, you'd planned on hiding out in your room for several months. Those plans get delayed when Nate, general of the Minutemen and your childhood friend, asks you to join him on a quest in the west of the Commonwealth.

Tags: Drunken one night stand, Hancock is a pining simp, and a slut. Reader is not SoSu, has afab characteristics and is referred to with she/her pronouns through the story. No y/n

Warnings: Smut! Drunk sex, consentual but I'll throw in the dubcon tag anyway, talk of violence, guns and drugs a lá Fallout ofc

Word count: 6.1K

Notes: So this is a one-shot that sort of feeds into an idea I've had in my head for a while, of a reader that knew Nate from before the bombs, who either ended up in Vault 111 as well or something similar, but got out about a year before Nate did. This might end up turning into a series of semi-connected one-shots or I might just cut it off here, but I definitely have some other ideas for this story rolling around in my head. More story focused than some of my other fics, delving a bit more into what actually living in the game's story would be like, but of course a hefty dose of our lovely Hancock. But I really like Nate, and I didn't want to make the reader the Sole Survivor so we could see the two of them interact. Also my Nate build is usually high charisma, high strength and low intelligence (idiot savant perk ofc), so he's a bit of a himbo <3 my fav type of man.

Also just a small and totally irrelevant thing, but I headcanon Nate/the sole survivor as choosing not to smoke, just because the player isn’t able to smoke in the game. Just a fun tidbit I threw in there. Also, I’m a smoker and I have friends who aren’t and the relentless back and forth teasing is always fun. They all vape anyway, so it’s just a race for who gets cancer first lmao. 

Cross posted on my ao3!

"What's the status on the top shelf stuff?" You yelled out from the back room, wiping drops of sweat from your forehead before they could drop into your eyes. Sure, the new beer tap was ingenious, making the closest thing to actual fresh beer since you'd come out on this side of the cryo-chamber, but goddamn were the canisters heavy.

"Almost out of moonshine, luv," Charlie called from the bar, tinny cockney accent carrying through the open space.

That was fine, you could drop by and speak to Vadim tomorrow before opening, as long as Hancock could supply the caps and lend you some help to carry the bottles back.

"Anything else?" You grunted, heaving a full canister back out to the front, bending down to connect the pipes.

"I think you should start carrying some Fireball, I know how much you used to like it," A new voice spoke up from the other side of the bar, startling you into banging your head on the underside of the bartop. You cursed, shooting to your feet, finding a ginning, familiar face on the other side.

"Nate!"

He said your name back with the same amount of enthusiasm, slouched in one of the barstools, familiar bright blue vault suit looking a little worse for wear.

"When did you get in? How did you get in?" You asked, eyes flitting about. Sure enough, there in the background, spread over one of the couches was mayor Hancock, speaking with a smiling Magnolia and a broody looking MacReady.

"Just landed in town, figured I'd come say hi before crashing at the Rexford."

"Well, shit," You breathed, wiping your sweaty hands on a dishrag, "Can I get you a drink? I want to hear about this oh-so-secret mission you were on."

"Sure, I'll take a beer."

You fished over a clean-ish looking glass, gave it a quick wipe for good measure, and poured. The movements were practiced, muscle memory from a lifetime ago taking over as you tilted the glass, filled it, flicked the spout the other way for some top foam. You slid it over the bar, accepting Nate’s smile as payment. 

You grabbed yourself a glass, calling out to Charlie as you filled the glass with ice, “I’m calling it a night, just leave me a list of whatever needs to be done in the morning.

You poured yourself some of the top shelf stuff, nothing good by pre-war standards, but nowadays it was rare and mostly didn't taste like it was 200 years old.

You stepped around the bar, planning on planting yourself on a stool next to Nate, but he was already rising to his feet, heading for the rest of the group.Hiding your awkwardness, you trailed after him. You knew MacReady tangentially, sometimes bringing him drinks into the backroom, keeping an eye out for disagreements and sometimes running up to get Ham when things were getting out of hand. Magnolia was your coworker of course, and there was plenty to talk about after long shifts, but she was– technically speaking– about twenty years your senior, and married to her job in a way you weren't.

Then there was Mayor Hancock. A charming flirt at the best of times, happy to stand up for you on the job, as the owner of the bar, after all, but there was always something about him you never managed to crack, never straying away from genial small talk. Small talk, of course, these days, meant discussing the last Super Mutant raid, or let him rattle off about his favorite chems. As you approached, he tipped his hat at you and you responded with a little curtsy, using your free hand to tug on your apron like a skirt. 

You fell onto the couch beside Nate, stirring your drink with a finger, using your other hand to untie the apron around your waist. Being off your feet felt good. There were no clocks in the Third Rail, and no windows, so your sense of time tended to get a bit skewed, but seeing as Ham usually tossed out the stragglers by 5 am and you'd had a mess and a half to clean up, you assumed it must be closing in on dawn. A rough 12 hour shift made your liquor feel earned, as you sipped at it, feeling the warmth spread through your chest.

"So," You said, catching Nate's attention before he could get sucked into the others' conversation, "What was the notorious General of the Minutemen up to this week? Liberating some more settlements?"

"Mmm, actually doing some work for the Railroad," His tone went hushed, unnecessary and strangely endearing, as everyone in the bar knew and was at least non-committal about their activities.

"Ahh," You replied, matching his tone. "Did it go well?"

"It went fantastically. I brought my own team in," He motioned with his beer toward Hancock and MacCready, "But we ended up getting some help from another agent, too. And, man, what a lady," he went a bit starry eyed, making you laugh.

"Got a little crush, Nathaniel?"

He snorted, and you spotted the tinge of red in his cheeks with glee. 

"Nothing like that, but what a powerhouse. You should have seen her, mowing them down with a minigun."

"Don't sell yourself short, Nate, I've seen you in Power Armor before. Unstoppable force and all that."

Ever humble, Nate's cheeks turned rosier, and he glanced down at his drink. You watched his Adam's apple bob, the shy smile that graced his features.

To put him out of his misery, you turned to the group at large, "So, does this mean you've returned our beloved mayor back, or are you heading out again?"

Hancock's attention snapped up from MacReady so he could grin at you, "What, you missed me doll?"

"Well, you do sign my paychecks," You smiled back at him, then remembered, "Oh, yeah, speaking of, I have to go over to Diamond City tomorrow to get more of Bobrov's best, maybe I can steal Nate to help me ferry it all back."

He hummed, "What d'ya say, brother? 100 caps to keep my favorite employee safe?"

From behind the bar, Charlie gave his best impression of a grunt, "I resent that, mayor!"

"'M sorry, Charlie, you just don't have her charm."

"Or her tits," Magnolia chimed in, twirling an unlit cigarette in her fingers as she smirked at you.

You flushed, eyes flitting around, finally landing on Hancock and MacReady's empty glasses, "Refills, boys?"

"Thought you'd clocked out," MacReady said, even as he handed over his glass. "Well, I'm the club's ambassador even after hours, gotta keep the reputation up."

"You best not be giving free drinks to every sorry brother that walks in here," Hancock called after you as you stepped behind the bar.

"Mm, no," You sing-songed back, "Only my favorites."

The night passed easily. You stayed by Nate’s sidelistening to him tell tales of the people he'd been meeting, the farm he recruited for the minutemen last week. He didn't delve too far into this last mission, always the good soldier who followed orders. You spent about twenty minutes trying to guess his secret Railroad code name.

"Mmmm, buttercup."

"Not even close."

"Sugar bomb?"

The look of offense he gave you was so scathing it had you spitting out half your beer over the table, doubled over in laughter as he complained.

"It relates to my prowess as an agent, not some pre-war pet name!"

"Fine, fine, uhhhh. Striker? Shadow? Tank?"

"Honestly, these are terrible. Never open a baby naming business."

"Uhm, excuse you," You said, taking a sip of beer to try and reduce the heat in your cheeks, "I would make excellent raider names. Chainsaw, evil-eye, uhhhhh," You cast your eyes around, searching for inspiration, "Ricky."

"Ricky?" MacReady asked, eyebrows knit in confusion, "What's wrong with Ricky?"

"Dunno," You shrugged, "Doesn't he just sound like an asshole?" You put on an air, repeated 'Ricky' in an ominous voice, which got MacReady and Nate to crack up again.

Magnolia vanished up to the surface after a bit of flirting with Hancock, insisting on her beauty sleep. As was your usual, you whistled after her, calling lewd, joking comments as she walked up the steps. As was her usual, she gave you a scowl and the middle finger.

"Ehhh, I'll get her to crack one of these days," You murmured into your beer, that tipsy, never ending giddy smile stuck on your lips. You caught Hancock's eye where he sat, now alone on the couch, spread eagle with his gangly limbs. When he spotted you, he gave you a grin, cigarette in his teeth.

Suddenly you desperately wanted a smoke. You patted your own pockets, found that you'd left them at home. You cursed the you from the morning for whatever logic had made that choice, suddenly desperate for nicotine.

Your head, resting against the back of the couch, lolled to look over at Nate. Who, of course, didn't and had never smoked. Goody-two-shoes.

So, you clambered to your feet, ignoring the ache that made itself apparent, and collapsed over besides Hancock.

"Does the good mayor have some cigarettes to share?" You asked, hand on his knee, leaning in close to be heard over a playful argument MacReady and Nate had started.

Hancock's smile got wider somehow, those deep dark eyes crinkling at the corner, giving the appearance of crow's feet.

"For you? Always." He dug around in the deep pocket's of that crazy coat, pulling out a cigarette case. Instead of handing you one, though, he plucked the one from his mouth and stuck it into yours.

Brain slowed by a long shift and plenty of alcohol, it took a moment for the action to catch up with, fingers rising slowly to pluck at the cigarette. You blinked at him, but he seemed unphased, pulling out another cigarette from his case and lighting it.

You leant back in the couch as your brain caught up on his move, staring blankly at a gesturing Nate, MacReady equally engrossed, somehow having missed the interaction that now had your brain reeling. Hancock's arm was stretched out behind you, tantalizingly close, fingers almost tickling the hairs at the back of you neck. You felt the chill of goosebumps, shook off the urge to shiver.

You puffed at the cigarette instead, slowly sinking back in the couch, reverting back to the sort of talk you were used to with the mayor, "How'd you like the trip? Nice to get out of the city?"

Hancock took it in stride, as he did everything, "Oh, yeah. Makes you forget what's out there, staying too long in these walls."

You hummed your assent. You stuck to Goodneighbor because you wanted to stay alive. The furthest you'd ventured in the last year was scoping out that brewery for the Rexford. But Hancock was a ghoul, and even so was more careless with safety than anyone else you knew. Getting out of the city, with only yourself and the stars as company... it was a romantic idea.

"So, what, we're gonna become the Railroad's home base now?" You teased,

"Not exactly," Hancock replied, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, "But Nate knows his shit, and he trusts them. They're doing good, dontcha think?"

You considered this, rolling it around in your liquor soaked brain, "I guess it depends on whether you think the synths are just robots or... y'know, slaves being put through just as much pain as we are."

Hancock nodded, eyes trained on you, expression curious. For all his flirting, Hancock was easily one of the more respectable men you'd met, always willing to listen, even if he was usually a bit too out of his mind to interpret it. He was whip-smart, too, when he was sober enough to put a thought together.

"I suppose it depends on if you believe in the soul. Do you, Mayor Hancock?" Some deep-seated, long ago buried urge reared his head. You remembered being a kid, sitting in a diner with high-school friends, batting your eyelashes at a crush of yours, a coy smile on your face, trying for a sultry voice and missing it by a mile. But now you were about two hundred years older, and had a few years of experience under your back.

So when you looked at Hancock through lidded eyes, purposely hollowed your cheek as you sucked on your cigarette, the one that had been in his mouth before yours, you could appreciate his reaction. The widening of his eyes, the way the hand behind your head seemed to move just a bit closer, the minute shift of his hips as his body turned further towards you.

"I think I'm a bit too sober for those kinds of questions," He snickered. Being a Ghoul made determining age difficult, but sometimes you were sure Hancock was young, younger than you even, the way he carried himself, the carelessness of a teenager.

You smiled back, soft, put your cigarette out in an ashtray on the table, picking up your glass instead.

Hancock said your name, sultry, and that hand finally brushed your shoulder, a gentle, teasing touch.

You answered with a smile, a tilted, " John," followed by a sip from your drink, one you concentrated all your effort into drinking as normally as you could. If you let your tongue slide over your lips to catch the lingering taste, well, no one had to know.

"You know," You said, voice hushed as if you were revealing a great secret, "I feel like I don't know you well enough. You haven't been around enough since you hired me."

"I knew I left the bar in good hands," As if to prove his point, his fingers teased over your bare forearm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Maybe, I should- ah- give you a tour of the Old State House sometime."

The innuendo was painfully obvious, accompanied by a lecherous wink, but you felt your face flush anyway, ridiculously charmed by his brazenness.

Charlie ended up kicking the four of you out, insisting on sweeping before the sun came up. On the way up the stairs, conspicuously a few steps behind Nate and MacReady, the two of you got a bit too handsy, after you'd spent the last couple of minutes petting the velvet of his coat, hypnotized by the luxurious softness of the ancient costume, as Hancock rattled off history facts about Boston, some of which you'd half remembered from history class.

"Found the old fucker's diary in a closet on the second floor," He'd said, as your fingers traced down his arms, across his chest, barely disguised fascination. You wanted to steal his hat, tuck it onto your hair, flick it the way Hancock often did.

"That old bastard was– was kinkier than you could ever imagine," His voice stuttered as your fingers traced near his navel, studying the stitching on the waistcoats he wore.

"Oh yeah?" You snickered, loose enough with drinks to lose your impulse control chasing after whatever felt good in the moment. Mostly that had been cigarettes, but now it was the idea of kissing him, of feeling that mouth on you, anywhere.

"The mayor of Goodneighbor," You breathed, smoothing out his collar, "Keeping himself busy with five hundred year old porn."

Hancock laughed with you.

Outside, the two of you stumbled apart, leaning against the brick wall to share a cigarette, Nate and MacReady somehow still talking, even if Nate was shooting you curious glances and MacReady smirked every time your eyes passed over him.

Eventually, though, when a too loud sentence awoke a grumbling drifted who threatened to hurl a bottle at Nate, it was time to call it a night.

Nate clapped Hancock on the shoulder and kissed your cheek, which got him a punch on the arm, a bit harder than you meant to with the alcohol in your system. He took it like a champ, of course, calling out, "Have fun!" As he rounded the corner towards the Rexford.

MacReady vanished with a tip of his cap, leaving you with smoke in your mouth and the morning sun in your eyes.

"You want to take that tour now, doll?" The brush of a teasing hand over your lower back.

You thought about your dusty apartment, of waking up in a few hours to repeat the same shift for the millionth time. A cold bed, empty.

"Yeah," You breathed, hand catching on the fluttering sash around Hancock's waist, setting a firm pace and tugging him along with you like a dog on his leash. His hands found your hips before you even made it to the door, pinning you against the old wood to kiss you, deep and warm and wet. Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, till you stood hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest.

Somehow, one of you got the door open, falling through the door, walking each other in an embrace towards the staircase. The kiss deepened, Hancock licked into your mouth as you bumped into the banister, struggled to keep your balance.You let him lead, pushing you backwards up the stairs, hands always gentle, ready to catch you if you tripped.

It was a drunken fumble, your shirt rucked up, trying to get all his stupid buttons unbuttoned as you staggered to the stairs, his lips suddenly attached to your neck.

His hands moved to your exposed waist as you reached the second floor, greedy hands moving over the expanse of skin. You huffed against his mouth, finding it unfair as you struggled to even get under his ridiculous fucking shirt, finally managing to sneak a hand under it, nails gently scratching against rough skin. You weren't exactly versed in Ghoul anatomy, but you'd heard enough complaining from drifters at the bar about the lack of feeling in their skin to know you'd have to push a little deeper, press a little harder. Sure enough, as Hancock lead you stumbling towards his bedroom, you pushed your hand up to his chest, pressing down into the meat of one of his shoulders, you received a deep groan against your mouth.

Then suddenly you were in the Mayor's bedroom. Clean enough, by the wasteland standards. Strewn with chems, as you'd anticipated, but the bed looked as clean as you could be.

Hancock had ended up behind you, hands sneaking around to your ass, your collar pushed to the side so he could kiss the exposed skin of your shoulder. It felt... nice. Soft. Softer than you'd anticipated from him. It sent an ache through you, not to your core, though electricity tingled, desperate for attention you hadn't provided it with in years. The ache was in your heart, extending out to your lungs, stealing your breath the way his kisses had, as he gently guided you towards the bed.

You spun around in his arms to capture his lips again, nipping at his bottom lips, hands moving to his waist, sneaking down into his waistband. The two of you danced around the room, lips locked, hands moving as clothes were unbuttoned, tossed to the side, shoes pulled off.

Then you were naked, falling onto a surprisingly plush mattress, as Hancock dropped his coat onto the back of his desk chair, pants unbuttoned and half falling off his skinny hips. He left the hat on, even as he stripped everything else off, and it made you huff a quiet, airy giggle. He grinned back at you, always happy to be happy, as he crawled on top of you, bracketing you between his legs.

His dick was the same as the rest of him, scarred and pocked, but you found you didn't mind in the slightest as your hands wandered downwards, teasingly gentle touches running over him, drawing out airy breaths and groans.

You were quick to guide him into you, pulling him down for a kiss when he entered you, sending shocks of burning pain through you, uncomfortable but manageable. Still, he noticed, unfocused eyes blinking down at you, a frown on his face.

"What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," You breathed, even through the tension of your muscles, "Just– uh– been a while. Gimme a moment."

He seemed unsure for a moment, looking as if he wanted to pull out, but you forced a calm through your muscles, slowly feeling him inch his way further inside, until the two of you were hip to hip. You breathed through the sting, shutting your eyes and guiding his face to your neck, happy when he got the hint and nipped at your skin. Your breath got shaky when he found a perfect spit by the junction of your neck and your shoulder, feeling his teeth sink into the flesh, soothed quickly with his tongue, with his spit-slick lips.

"Okay," You breathed eventually, one hand holding the back of his neck, the other clutching at the muscle on his back, "You can move."

"Are you–"

"Hancock," You said, voice firm. In a more sober state, his caution would touch you, but you were desperate to feel the drag of him, to feel his hips working. "I'm a big girl, it's okay. You can move."

He bent down to kiss you as he slowly pulled his hips back. With conscious effort to keep your muscles calm, your side of the kiss was a bit half hearted, but you gasped into his mouth as he pushed back in, the stretch not painful but, "So fucking perfect," You breathed, "Just like that."

Hancock was amazingly receptive, somehow cataloging every moan and twitch, and he had you pushed into the mattress within minutes, gasping and shaking beneath him. His hips drove into you at a perfect pace, his mouth moving to your tits, gentle bites at the soft skin, pulling your nipples into his mouth to flick at them with his tongue. Your whispered words of direction quickly dissolving into moans and gasps of his name.

Almost the exact second the thought of your clit popped into your head, his fingers were there, moving tight circles, pressure just the right side of too hard. You arched into him, a moan so loud it would have made you self conscious if you weren't too focused on driving him deeper, getting him closer, getting as much of his skin on you as you could.

Your orgasm approached with mounting tension in your muscled, strangled cries of more, harder, "Please, John."

You came with a strangled cry, every muscle in your body tensing and then going completely limp, gasps of air as your peak faded, replaced by a pleasant buzzing sensations. John's pace slowed as you shook, hands leaving your clit to grab at your hips, pull you towards him as he chased his own release. You were happy to let him, your hands exploring him leisurely, gripping at his biceps, his shoulders, wrapping around his neck to guide him into another kiss.

You could tell when he got close, the way his hips jerked, thrusts growing rushed and sloppy, desperate, the way his breath quickened, the way his dark eyes seemed to darken even further. At the last moment, he pulled out, wrapping his hand around his cock, haphazard pace the same as he fucked into his fist, a few more pumps and he came over your stomach. You tensed under the surprising heat of it, but relished the soft groan that escaped his mouth, head tilted back, mouth open,

He half collapsed on top of you, breathing against your mouth, only his arms holding him from falling into you. With every inhale, his expanding chest brushed against your breasts, every touch sending electric shots through you.

He collapsed beside you, still panting, one arm curling around your chest, just under your tits, pulling you into his side. "Just– give me a second, I'll get you something to clean up."

"Mmm," You breathed, relishing the heat of him, positive he was warmer than a normal person, the way it radiated off him, heating your skin at the contact points, "Don't worry about it. Deal with it in the morning." Your words were slurring, eyelids heavy.

"Mmm," Hancock agreed, tucking his face into your shoulder. He held you tight, like little kids held onto teddy bears. It was... nice. Unfamiliar to you, but, as you buried your head into the soft pillow, you supposed it was something you wouldn't mind getting used to.

You woke with a start, unfamiliar footsteps thudding above your head. It took a moment to reorient yourself, to recognize the walls you were blinking at, the hand tucked around your waist, the soft snores in your ear. Your head thudded, your mouth dry as a desert, tasting like cigarettes and whiskey. 

"Shit," You whispered, slowly extracting yourself from Hancock's warm arms, getting to your feet. Stark naked. Your pants were slung over a chair, one sock still in the pant leg, the other tossed onto a desk, surrounded by several tins of mentats and empty jet canisters.

"Fuck," You breathed, hopping around trying to get your socks on. One of your boots was on its side, halfway under the bed. Your shirt was hanging on the fucking doorknob and you tugged it on, ignoring the stale smell of sweat and alcohol that clung to it from last night’s shift.

You swept the room, but couldn't for the life of you find your underwear. The thought of leaving them somewhere was mortifying, but when Hancock shifted in the bed, you decided not to risk staying. You pulled your boots on, leaving them unlaced as you crept over the ancient floorboards. Seeing as Hancock was managing to sleep through the ruckus of the drifters on the top floor, you doubted the creak of the house would wake him, but you were still extra cautious as you cracked the bedroom doors open, just enough for you to slip through and rush down the staircase, pointedly not looking at any of the Neighborhood Watch.

Out in the semi-fresh morning air, you took a deep breath, mumbling another curse to yourself as you began a quick jog home, trying to avoid any knowing glances as you rounded a corner and shouldered the door to your apartment building open.

Shower, underwear, find Nate, get him to ask Hancock for the caps while you cowered in the background with sunglasses and a baseball cap over a dark hoodie. Fuck.

The shower was cold, obviously, and you counted your blessings for having running water at all, even if it was a bit too irradiated for comfort. You did your best to scrub fast, hands brushing through sweaty, greasy hair, soaping the necessary areas. You very pointedly did not linger on the dried, flaking cum on your stomach, exorcizing it with a washcloth and curses.

You were busy drying your hair with your dirty shirt, because whenever the water lingered too long it left an uncomfortable sheen over your hair and smelled a bit like a bog. A knock sounded at the door, sending ice through your veins, a response equivalent to the roar of a Deathclaw or the clicking of a Mirelurk.

For a moment, you contemplated crawling onto the rusty fire-escape outside your living room window and walking into downtown Boston to let some Super Mutants eat you.

Instead, though, you stepped over to the door, moments quiet as you contemplated what the fuck you were going to say. Last night was a mistake. You're my boss. I haven't had sex in two years and I'm sorry for leading you on, can I please have my panties back?

Another knock startled you out of your thoughts, fast and panicked, followed by the call of your name from a voice that definitely did not belong to Hancock.

You opened the door to a panting Nate, already back in his suit and armor, gun tossed over his shoulder.

"Nate?"

"Hey! Have fun last night?"

You flushed, even though his expression was nothing but kind; curious and happy for you, like a good friend should be.

"Uh. What's with the get up?" You deflected, which Nate took in stride.

"Distress call from the Minutemen, they asked me to head out west to Graygarden."

"The... farm run by robots?"

"Oh, that's what it is?"

"Wh- Never mind. What are you doing there?"

"Something about the water supply and Super Mutants. I'm leaving in a few minutes"

"Okay, that's fine, I'll drag someone else with me to Diamond City, no stress."

"No, I want you to come with me."

You blinked, hand tensing on the door frame, "Nate I'm not a fighter."

"Yes you are," He said, looking so genuinely confused it made your heart seize a bit, "We fought together. At Anchorage. Did you forget?"

"No, I didn't–" You swallowed. 

After returning home, witnessing massacre after massacre, you'd sworn to yourself you wouldn't get involved in that kind of shit. Even after the world ended, you'd managed to keep that promise. At night, alone in your cold bed, you could still hear the hissing of sentry bots, the creaking of power armor, the whistling of bullets. "I don't do that anymore, Nate."

Nate pulled one of his more serious faces, a rare sight for a man with seemingly endless drive and relentless optimism, even after losing more than you could imagine.

"Look. I understand what you're feeling–" You took a breath to interrupt him, because his blind patriotism had driven him forward when you'd lagged behind, weighed down by the blood on your hands. Nate pushed forward, "I know you don't believe me, but I really do. And nothing helped me heal those wounds like helping people."

"Helping robots." Your voice was flat.

"Who provide food for over a dozen settlements. You'd be doing good."

You bit your lip, casting your eyes over your apartment to avoid the earnest look in Nate's eyes. Sure, you were... content in your life. Goodneighbor was as safe as any settlement could be, you had steady income, some sort of purpose. But you remembered the day Nate had walked into the Third Rail with Nick Valentine on his heels, bleary eyed, vault suit still pristine. The way your heart had sung, the way an aching loneliness you'd felt since coming off the ice had faded.

Was this what the rest of your life would be? Slinging drinks, small talk with coworkers and bar patrons, waiting for the next time Nate would walk in through the doors like some yearning wife waiting for her husband to return from war?

Besides, you weren't going to be able from Hancock in his own fucking town, not for long.

You shut your eyes, feeling the phantom weight of a gun in your hands.

"Fuck. Fine."

The smile on Nate's face was like a kid's at Christmas.

"Great! I'll meet you at the front entrance in..." He glanced down at his pip-boy, "Thirty minutes?"

"Okay."

And he was off, leaving you standing in your doorway, blinking at nothing wondering what the fuck you'd agreed to.

Under your bed there were some loose floorboards you'd been using to store the important things. Your spare caps, your vault suit and pip-boy, your 10mm pistol and your combat shotgun. The former was familiar to you, used centuries ago in a war no one understood anymore. You'd grabbed it on your stumbling way out of the vault, and it was a good thing to or you would have gotten gored by some very territorial mole rats before even making it to a settlement. The shotgun had been stolen, in your trek to downtown Boston, taken off a raider you'd knocked out with a lead pipe. He'd clearly made some adjustments to it, with a hair trigger, less recoil than expected and a scope you'd never needed to use. You'd been meaning to sell it since you'd gotten in, but it had ended up in the floorboards where you'd simply hoped it would stay unless you were strapped for cash.

A knapsack was quickly filled with everything you needed, a change of clothes, a portable water purifier, all the food that would go to waste if you didn't take it with you. You tucked some spare caps into a hidden inside pocket, wrapping them in cloth to keep them from rattling. Your spare 10mm ammo, a few packs of cigarettes, a lighter, a flashlight.

The pistol was strapped into a thigh holster, a gun belt held your shotgun rounds. The shotgun went around your shoulder. They felt heavier than you remembered them being, their weight an oppressive reminder with every step you took out of your apartment. You'd need to let Charlie know you wouldn't be in for a while, and you'd need to stop by KL-E-0's for some spare parts. Easy enough, it was just the matter of avoiding certain tricorn-hat wearing mayors.

You kept your head down as you made your way through the street. You cut a more imposing figure with your armor, with the glint of weapons. People moved out of your way as you jogged towards the Third Rail, sliding in through the door like a mouse darting into its burrow.

You rattled like a tin can chime as you walked down the steps to the bar, announcing your approach before you could be seen, a cat with a bell. You were skittish, pausing at the last step to peek into the lounge, trying to spot a red coat, a familiar smile. Coast was clear.

"That the new uniform, then?" Charlie's voice nearly sent you flying, a squeak leaving you as the Mr. Handy suddenly appeared in view. The three eyes didn't exactly convey emotion well, but you could hear the dry amusement in his tone, maybe a hint of judgement.

"No, I uh–" You shook yourself, loosening the cotton in your brain, "Nate asked me to accompany him on a mission. Shouldn't take more than a week."

"Seven days and I'll file a missing person's report." Dry, dry, dry.

"Right," You breathed, gripping the banister like a life line, "Right. I appreciate the uh– The thought, Charlie. I'll see you around." Saliva filled your mouth, and you had a second to panic about throwing up on the floor as your stomach rolled, before the feeling faded.

Charlie didn't dignify you with a response, going right back to... whatever it was he did when the bar was closed, so you turned around, rattling right back up the stairs. First vacation in two years.

Again, you kept your head down as you walked through the alley towards Kill or Be Killed, pointedly avoiding letting your gaze slip to the Old State House, like the building itself would summon him. Something burned in your chest, not quite shame, but the next thing to it. In another life, you would've considered chewing on a baby aspirin, kept the landline in view, ready to dial 911, if you were having a heart attack. Now, though, you shrugged it off, grabbing your canteen and taking a greedy drink, washing away the cigarette taste that still lingered in your mouth.

KL-E-0 was in her usual place, piercing red eye landing on you.

"Well, don't you look dressed to kill."

You'd wondered, sometimes, if she had been especially programmed to sound so sultry, or if it was just her natural charm.

"Heading out for a while," You dug your bag of caps out of your pocket, placing it on the table as your eyes roamed over the wares available, "Think you could spare some grenades and shotgun shells?"

"Let's get you outfitted, killer."

The word left a sour taste in your mouth that had nothing to do with the cigarettes. You made it through the trade quickly, enough ammo to last you several encounters, enough grenades to get you through a couple rough spots. You left with your pockets lighter, your bandolier, pack and shoulders weighed down.

"Have fun, baby."

"Yeah, thanks, Kleo."

Nate was standing by the entrance, a respectable distance from the Neighborhood Watch, a focused frown on his face as he fiddled with his Pip-boy. He looked up when you approached, frown turning to a bright smile.

"So," you said, shouldering your gun, "Ready to head off?"

"Not quite, we're still waiting on the rest of the party. You know how he is, always fashionably late."

You didn't manage to get out your confused "Who?" Before a familiar hand was clapping Nate on the shoulder, saying, "So! Ready to get this show on the road?"

Fuck.

Notes: This is so insanely self indulgent it’s crazy, but I do hope you enjoyed at least a little <3

[a-fluffer-nutter]

Take This Heart of Stone

A/N - Hi all! I've had this sitting for a bit, very close to completion, and due to an impromptu road trip I did not want to be on, I got to finish it! Taking the title from the Obscure Lyrics Title Challenge I made, have this Fallout 4 fic between Hancock and reader!sole survivor (gender neutral). Please enjoy this longer fic!

TW: Drug Use, PTSD-based nightmares/stress, mention of a dead loved one (your late husband that dies within 5 minutes of the game).

Word Count: 4,715

You had loved Nate, you always had, since the day you met him in college. You had loved him the day he dropped down on one knee for you and the day after, when they sent him to Alaska. You had loved him when he returned, even though his eyes had grown darker and the hair that surrounded his ears had lightened. You had loved him more than anything, so much so that the two of you had Shaun, who was named after Nate’s father. You had loved him so much that you escaped your cryogenic sleep to avenge him, to kill the man that stole him from you. You had loved him so much that for months, you did everything in your power to find Shaun and bring him home. You had loved him so much. 

So why, why were you thinking you didn't? Well, it was certainly the fact that you had become smitten with a certain someone on your journey, someone you certainly didn't expect to fall for. Granted, with the current state of the world, you weren't expecting to fall for anyone, and it's taken you quite some time to realize that not everyone wanted to kill you. Just most of them. 

It wasn't every day in the Commonwealth that someone was willing to kill for you. And at the time, the only people that you truly thought had your back were Preston Garvey and Nick Valentine, as you had been the one to save their lives first. Though here, you didn't have to do a thing. 

  “We don't need your insurance, asshole,” you growled while reaching into your back pocket for a pack of cigarettes. 

  “You don't want any accidents to happen now, do you?” A man of a taller stature had grabbed your attention once you had entered the town of Goodneighbor. He was insistent on protecting you, for a hefty fee. 

  “If you listened, you would know that we don't need you,” Nick Valentine was by your side, looking bored from this interaction. He took his lighter out and lit your cigarette for you. The two of you had a job to do and this jackass was an inconvenience. 

  “Shut it, tin can,” the man spat on the ground between you and Nick. He turned to look right at you. “I'm talking to you and you only.”

          Lips curling into a scowl, you went to pocket your pack. Once the container was in your pocket, your hand slid a bit further to palm at your 10mm hiding beneath your top, nestled into its makeshift holster. 

  “Well, I'm talking to you and I'm telling you to leave us the fuck alone,” with your non dominant hand, you drew the cigarette from your lips and blew a puff of smoke at the man. If he wasn't gonna leave you alone, you might as well antagonize him enough to start a fire fight. He might have been bigger, but you knew damn well your draw was quicker. 

  “Oh, you little,” the man took a step forward with his hand on his side arm. You had your gun drawn in an instant, finger on the trigger. Nick was mimicking your actions, ready to take a life for you when the three of you were interrupted. 

“Now that's not the proper way of greeting our guests, now is it Finn?” The man froze for a moment, his eyes burning as he looked into yours. 

 “I just want to protect our new friends,” Finn drew out the last syllable in a snake-like manner. Finally looking away from you, you allowed yourself to unlock your elbow and drop you hand to your waist, your index finger resting just beneath the trigger. 

“Well now, all I was hearing was a bunch of no’s,” you finally looked over at the new person. You recognized the outfit immediately, having been to every museum in Boston when you and Nate were still in college. Granted, anyone who has ever been to Boston, or grade school, would recognize the attire of a true American patriot. Granted they all dressed the same to you, but at least you recognized where the attire was from. Nate would have been thrilled. “No means no, man. Especially when Nicky’s around.”

“You're going soft, Hancock,” Finn growled, looking down at the shorter man. “The citizens of Goodneighbor are going to realize this soon. They'll drive you out and we'll have a new mayor.”

“Thanks for the five star review,” Hancock replied evenly, smiling up at Finn. The ghoul glanced over at you, noticing you stare. His rough features softened, his dark eyes full of contempt, though there were sparkles of mischief. You could tell this was not the first time he's had to deal with a town resident as distasteful as this one. “You know Finn, it's a damn shame you feel that way.”

Locking eyes with the man again, Hancock's smile straightened ever so slightly as he grabbed Finn’s collar and pulled his face down to his level. In one swift motion, he withdrew his switchblade, clicked it open, and began to stab the man. 

Hearing the squelch of Finn’s insides as Hancock rapidly stabbed him over and over, you winced but couldn't look away. Hancock's black eyes analyzed the man’s face as he experienced intense anger, fear, pain, then nothing. 

Thick, red blood pooled through Finn’s shirt and jacket as Hancock tossed his corpse aside like a child growing bored of their toy. Hancock's face showed no emotion as he looked down at his blood soaked knife, staring at the droplets slipping down the shiny steel and plopping unceremoniously to the concrete. 

Realizing you had just been holding your breath, you let out a gentle exhale as Hancock looked up from his work. This man had just killed someone because of you. For you. And he didn't even know your name. 

“How's it going, Nicky?”

It was a year later now and the two of you had become inseparable. He braved the Glowing Sea with you, mentally timing your journey so he could supply you with each dose of Rad-X when necessary, then sat you down in Virgil’s cave to pump a full dose of RadAway through your veins, doing his damnedest to keep any pain to a minimal. He aided you in assisting the Railroad in their mission, fighting by your side as Deacon led you through rooms of synths that needed you dead. He watched your back as you fought through the ruins of the C.I.T. in order to gain access to the Institute. He followed you through the Institute, planting bullets into the heads of everyone who fought back. He stepped out of the room once you both stumbled across Shaun in his bed, standing on the other side of the door, listening to your anguished scream once the gunshot rang out, your son’s lifeless body slumping over in his bed. He held your hand as you told Tinker Tom to take synth Shaun back to the Commonwealth, to have his memory wiped so another family could love him, shedding the last bit of innocence you had, the final thing that connected you to the before times. He wiped the tears from your eyes and the blood dripping from your wounds as the two of you hobbled back to Sanctuary Hills, welcomed home as heroes. He now laid beside you in bed, holding you close as you twitched and whined, the shadows in your mind polluting your dreamscape. 

Nightmares weren't uncommon for either of you. If therapists still existed, one would certainly diagnose both of you with PTSD, though Hancock had been dealing with his for quite a bit longer, so it was easier for him to cope. Well, that and the rampant drug use, of course. There's no time to fall into a depressive episode when high on Jet, or at least that's what he had told you. Though he would never admit it, he too has had tortured dreams of himself before becoming a ghoul and watching his fellow outcasts die. Despite this, he would always make sure to lay out the pet names and words or affirmation whenever you woke up. 

The two of you were resting in Sanctuary Hills for the night. With the help of Preston and his crew, you remodeled the house across from your own. Codsworth and Preston had tried to convince you to take back your house from before the bombs dropped, but you just couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right, without Nate, without Shaun. You let Preston take the house as a unit of operation for the Minutemen. You watched as everyone gutted the house to repurpose some of the materials, though you had only one thing you refused to let them touch: Shaun’s crib. As long as Preston wouldn’t touch the crib, the house was his. You didn’t want it in your house, oh no, it was too hard to look at, but the knowledge of it still being there was somewhat comforting. 

Darkness filled your mind, the walls around you began to shrink, claustrophobia setting in. The walls were cold, metallic, and familiar. Frantically looking around, you saw him. He was reaching out to you, down the long hallway, toward the vault door. He was calling for you, Shaun in hand. Sprinting faster than you ever had, you went for him, boots resonating against the metal flooring. Nate was there and he wanted to lead you to a new life, above ground. Back home. All you needed to do was reach him, but why was it so far? Why did the ground feel like a treadmill? 

Suddenly, gloved hands made of rubber appeared from every which way, grabbing at every inch of you. They tugged you back and held you down. Your eyes may have been covered, but you could feel the chill. As much as you tried to fight, more weight was pressed against you. Screaming Nate and Shaun’s name into the gloved hands, the tears streamed down your face felt like magma. 

Then, you heard the gunshot. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” you heard Hancock mutter into your ear after you woke up with a yelp, bolting into an upright position. Unfazed by the sudden jolt, Hancock had merely sat up and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. “What will be your fix this fine mornin’?”

“Just a cigarette,” you mumbled, letting out a sigh. Feeling his weight shift then lift off the bed, you let yourself flop back down onto the mattress, the old springs squealing under you. 

“Mm, I’ll get you to try Day Tripper one of these days,” he hummed as crossed the room to the desk, opening the top drawer. 

“I’m day tripping every day of my life, John,” Hancock let out a soft chuckle as he returned to your side, cigarette and lighter in tow. 

“That’s the spirit,” he smiled as he stuck the cigarette gently between your teeth, your mouth open ever so slightly. Smiling back, your eyes examined his fingers as they held the golden plated lighter, no doubt the metal being cool against his skin. His other hand cupped the side as the flame flickered to life, finally being unsheathed for your morning ritual. It danced as it made contact to the end of the cigarette, igniting the poison that filled your mouth and throat. Breathing it in, you instantly felt a bit better, though you didn’t know if it was from the drag or from the man watching you with gentle eyes. 

Taking the cigarette from your mouth, Hancock leaned over you, admiring the bone structure of your face as you moved your head away from him, blowing the puff of smoke toward the window. 

“What was this one about?” Hancock asked, slipping the cigarette between his lips. 

“Them,” your voice was quiet as you stared out the window, the sky a lighter blue this morning. 

“We can go see them, if you'd like,” his voice was so soft that the light tap of the cigarette against the ashtray felt thunderous. 

“Not today,” you bit your lip. 

After the fall of the Institute, you finally had time to grieve. It took you days to leave your bed, people having to bring you food and water to make sure you were still alive. In this time period, you have decided you wanted to have a funeral for your boys. 

It was a military funeral, your friends had decided. They knew Nate had served in the army, had fought in Anchorage. They had seen the flag sitting on the bookshelf. In a cruel twist of fate, Nate had been murdered, despite surviving the bombs being dropped, though the flag he received for trying to prevent those bombs from dropping survived as well. His fighting spirit lived on, even after everything. 

Preston was the one that presented you with the flag. There was no fancy unfolding it, then refolding it like they did before the world ended, but it still made the tears fall. 

Your other closest companions carried the coffin that he had been entombed in. Before leaving the vault in the beginning of all of this, you had somehow managed to retrigger the machine that he was in, his body returning to a cryogenic, eternal sleep. The only thing missing was his wedding ring, which you had worn around your neck on a silver chain until the funeral. This allowed his body to be preserved before his burial, so you were able to see him again one last time if you had wanted. 

Then, there was Shaun. You obviously didn't have access to his body, but someone had recovered some of the rubble from the C.I.T. ruins, right where the earth collapsed into itself. This debris was put into a vase and then sealed, providing you with a flowery urn. It may not have had his ashes inside, but it was the thought that counted. 

This urn was presented at the funeral, but during the burial, which you were not a part of, it had been placed in the coffin, tucked in so Nate was holding him, just like he had when he died. They were buried behind the house, which hadn't been your idea. Burying your spouse and child in the backyard like you would do a deceased dog was somewhat amusing to you, in a grim way. Only Nick really understood your wicked amusement when you told him your feelings about the site of the funeral. He had joined you in laughing at the thought of someone accidentally digging up your dead cat from over two hundred years ago. 

After the funeral, you went to the grave site every so often. You mostly went alone, but you had recently been allowing people to join you. As of late, it has mostly been Hancock. You thought that bringing your partner to the site of your late husband's corpse was a bit therapeutic, almost as you were saying, “Hey Nate, this is Hancock and while I miss you and Shaun dearly, I’m ready to move on and grow old with someone else, just like we had planned on. I hope you don't mind, or if you do, that your ghost doesn't angrily haunt me for the rest of my life.” It seems like you haven't been haunted yet, so that was a relief. 

“What do you want to do today?” Hancock’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. Humming, you sat up and pulled him into you. As he nestled in, seated between your legs, you softly fell backwards onto the mattress, his body following suit. 

“I guess we should be productive,” you replied, tracing the shell of his ear with your index and middle fingers. Letting out a soft sigh, Hancock shivered. Your hands shifted down, both thumbs now stroking the length of his jawline, from the tips of his ears to his chin, then back up. Over and over as his dark eyes were shut, taking in the pleasant sensation. 

“I'd say this is productive,” Hancock mused, lightly squeezing your knee. 

“I could ask Preston if there's any work at a nearby settlement,” Hancock simply smiled as he listened to you drone on, listing every potential task for the two of you to do that day. If the two of you were out in the wasteland, he would normally stop you by the third or so job, but his brain was completely blank as he soaked in the touch. “I fucking hate farming, but I guess we could head toward Oberland to help out there. We could also check in with Vault 81 and, wait, are you okay?” 

The man had flinched beneath you, making a string of intelligible sounds. 

“It’s fine. ‘m fine,” Hancock said through gritted teeth. Brows furrowing, you leaned over a bit to see his face a bit clearer. 

“Dammit John, I thought I hurt you,” huffing a puff of air out of your nose, you flashed him an amused grin. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, he had brought his shoulders up a bit. While you couldn't see it due to the condition of his skin, the ghoul felt the blood in his cheeks start to simmer. 

“Shut up, asshole,” he barely made out as your fingers were now intentionally stroking his neck. You hadn't noticed that your fingers had strayed a bit further down and had begun to trace softer skin along the side of his neck, throat, and under his chin. As his ghoulification had happened more recently than most ghoul's, his skin wasn't as numb, with many of his nerve endings still normal. In turn, this made certain parts of his skin, the parts that were rarely ever touched or injured, a bit more sensitive. 

“It's not my fault you're ticklish as all hell,” your voice was sickeningly sweet. 

“Am not!”

“Says that man who’s literally giggling,” his denial had always been cute. He was the mayor of Goodneighbor; he had a reputation to uphold. He was a smart son of a bitch that had killed many, making sure that his people were safe. He had been by your side through everything. He was great with a gun and even better up close and personal with a knife. He was a strong, charismatic leader that did whatever he needed to do to save the lives of the people close to him. This was something he hadn't ever wanted a single soul to know about, that was, until you. 

“I do not giggle,” he shot back, as he was giggling like no tomorrow. Your fingers slipped down his neck and trailed across his chest and down to the buttons on his undershirt. Having only two buttons to undo, you made quick work of them before trailing your fingers along his taut stomach. 

Gripping your legs as tightly as he could without actually hurting you, Hancock desperately tried to hold back the laughter bubbling up in his throat as your blunt nails scrambled across his skin. Knowing how much stronger than you he was, he tried to keep his arms at bay, not wanting to hurt you by smacking your fingers away from his rough skin. While you certainly were going to have bruises on your legs, it was better than a broken hand or nose. Despite not having one, Hancock was a fan of your nose, believing it shaped your face nicely. 

“Why’re you holding back on me, John?” You cooed, before leaning forward to kiss the top of his head. “Don't make me go for the kill.”

“You wouldn't dare,” he shot back, though it was a bit hard to parse as he had been biting his lip the entire remark. 

“Now, why wouldn't I?” Your fingers danced up his torso, slowly sauntering over his ribs. Heels digging into the mattress, Hancock couldn't resist wiggling around under your touch. Releasing your legs, he clasped his hands over his mouth. Thankfully, you had the foresight to slip your arms under his, so as his arms began to press down against his body, yours were there to block them. 

“You’d never hurt a mayor, would you?” His voice was muffled behind his hands when you let out a sour laugh. He knew he was screwed from the malice dripping in your voice. 

“Corrupt mayors and politicians are the reason why I’m here, love,” your voice was as flat as a lake on a calm day. Hancock shivered as you pulled him closer, fingers stilled as you leaned in, lips against his ear. Your breath tickled as you breathed out a soft sigh. “Mayors get no mercy.”

“Sunshihihine!” Hancock couldn't contain his laughter once you pulled your arms back enough to trap your fingers under his arms. Hiding his entire face in his hands, Hancock dug his heels into the mattress as if to steady himself. 

“What's the matter, love?” Sounding as nonchalant as ever, you chuckled as your fingers vibrated into the hollows of his arms. “Now, my dearest John, why are you hiding your face? Won't you let me see that smile?”

“Nohoho,” Hancock turned his head away from you, though now you had full access to his exposed neck. 

“So, everyone else can see you smile, but not me, huh?” His laugh shifted in pitch as you kissed his neck continuously after your question. 

“Yes!” 

“You’re such an asshole,” you growled into his ear. 

It wasn't that he was ashamed of his smile and didn't want you to see it. No, it was because of his laugh. While you may have thought his laugh was absolute music, a melody that made your heart beat faster and your brain fizzle in a giddy sort of way, Hancock absolutely hated his laugh. He always had. While his laugh was low and raspy, and very sexy, Hancock also had the habit to snort if he laughed too hard. He had always done this, and he had hoped with his ghoulification, and this nose melting off his face, this little quirk would go away; vanish like ashes in the wind. However, this was not the case. After raiding the medical section of a library for answers, Hancock learned all about the structure of a person's throat and diaphragm and how the soft palate and uvula somehow make the sound, much to his dismay. Thus, he restarted his habit of covering his face when he laughed. 

“You're a bigger asshole,” Hancock said after concealing a soft snort. 

“Are you calling me fat?” Teasing him definitely made the whole situation worse for him. As did the light sensation of your teeth against his neck, giving him a gentle bite. Laughter creeping up a notch, you decided it was finally time to hear it. “Arms up, sweetheart.”

Surprising Hancock was one of the only ways to get the upper hand during your little play fights. He was quite strong, despite his slight build, but there was absolutely nothing he could do if you managed to outsmart him or catch him off guard. 

Pushing yourself backward with your legs, your body was launched far enough back that the moment you managed to tuck your legs into your chest, Hancock fell flat on his back. Quickly, you dragged his body closer to you, reeling him in like a prized sturgeon. Before he could react, you pulled his arms up and sat yourself down onto them, your knees pinning his palms. 

“Well, if I'm so fat, then I won't have any issues holding you down, now, will I?” 

  “I didn't say you were fat!” Hancock’s eyes sparkled with concern and panic. Searching your face, he let out a little sigh as you replied with a soft smile, batting your eyelashes. “Fuck. Why’ve you gotta be so damn beautiful?”

  “If I wasn't so fond of your laugh, that probably would've gotten me to let you go,” you mused, your head tilted to the side, cheeks warming up. 

“Eh, I tried,” your lover shrugged his shoulders to the best of his abilities in his current position. He let out a husky laugh as he smiled up at you, his sheer infatuation for you clear in his dark eyes. “If there's no talking you out of this, then give me your worst, sweetheart.”

The fact that Hancock knew when he had been defeated was a trait you had always admired. Sure, he'd never give up in a life or death situation, but in something like a petty argument or a playful scuffle, he wasn't big on dragging it on if he knew he had already lost. 

Letting out the softest laugh, you leaned forward and gave him an upside down kiss. Humming into it, Hancock gave your lower lip a playful bite, which caused you to let out an exaggerated gasp as you pulled back. 

            “You little,” you broke off once you brought your deft fingers to dance across his most sensitive spot, tapping the hollows of his arms as you would while hacking a terminal. 

The frantic laughter that slipped from his lips was addictive, much like the cigarettes that eased your mind and soured your lungs were. A mixture of deep, raspy laughter and the occasional snort or squeal, the sound resonated through your nerves and shot an endless amount of dopamine through your veins. This blissful high was better than any you'd ever had after a puff of Jet or a tablet of Mentats. Legs bouncing against the mattress, the old springs squeaked as he contorted his body like a trapped yao guai. 

“Darlin’,” Hancock managed to get out between bouts of hysterics. All other attempts at speech were cut off by a snort or instead of it being a proper word, the noise he would make sounded more like a piece of paper being crumpled up into a ball. 

  “Alright love, fun’s over,” you said after pulling your hands back. Lifting yourself just enough for him to get free, you watched as Hancock slowly pulled his arms down and hugged himself, stray laughs escaping despite him biting down on his lip. Letting out a little laugh yourself, you got to your feet and practically pranced over to the desk. With one swift motion, you opened the top drawer, grabbed an inhaler, and tossed it to the ghoul. “Your Jet, my liege,” you teased with a curtsy. 

  “Smartass,” Hancock rolled his eyes as he shook the plastic container. 

  “Your smartass,” you corrected. You strolled back over to the bed, not before swiping a pack of cigarettes, and plopped down beside him. Eyes lovingly following your favorite features of his, all you could do was smile as Hancock’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes rolled back as the puff of Jet was administered, poisoning his lungs with the time-defying aerosol. 

“Like what you see?” Smiling softly, his voice growled out the words, the gravel in his voice always intensified by the drug.

  “I love you,” the words just slipped out. There was usually a bitterness that rose in your stomach every time you said those three little words, but not this time. No regret resonated through your mind like the reverberation of the electric guitar Nate had as a kid. No tears threatening to cascade down your flushed cheeks. No. This time, it was strong. It was natural. It was real and it felt good. 

Hancock intertwined his fingers with yours. He too realized how raw your words were, noting the ease of it all, the serenity glistening in your eyes. 

“I love you too.”

You loved Nate, you always had, but it was time to let him go. You were a person ripped from your time and thrown into a whole different world, and somehow, through all the fear, anger, and heartbreak, you had managed to find love, once again. John Hancock, a ghoul who saved your life without even knowing your name, now held your heart, as you held his. Nothing could alter the past, and the world moved forward. Now, it was your turn to move forward as well. It was time to move forward, with your fingers interlocked with those of your lover's. And that is exactly what you are going to do. 

[maccreadysbaby]

My Masterpost 🥳

hello! my name is maccreadysbaby! i’m a multifandom fanfic and original content writer here on tumblr and (sometimes) on wattpad @/highschoolgirl97. you may have found me through writing tips, fanfictions, fo4 character reactions, or just general crack posting, but I’m glad you’re here! :)

please, check me out! ↴

my old masterlist was getting full and boring, and as i’m shifting away from character reactions/fo4 content and more into original/fanfic content, i decided my list needed an update. HERE IS MY STILL INTACT OLD MASTERLIST WITH ALL OF MY FO4, DESTINY, COD, AND ORIGINAL CONTENT. (IT WILL STILL BE UPDATED AS I DO SMALLER MULTIFANDOM WRITINGS.)

⚠️ I STILL TAKE REQUESTS FOR THE FOLLOWING FANDOMS (list is subject to change):

- Batfam - Detroit: Become Human - Fallout 4 - Fire Emblem: Three Houses - Voltron

BELOW IS MY CURRENT LIST (WITH LINKS!) OF ORIGINALS AND FICS I WRITE HERE ON TUMBLR!

✍︎ The Hundred Days Series (ongoing): a batfam fanfiction trilogy starring my most popular oc ever, bentley whittaker, as he deals with his insanely crazy life that may or may not include batman.

➤ A Hundred Days to Become a Wayne (Book One!) ➤ A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne (Book Two!) ➤ Project: Killcode (Book Three!) ➤ House of Wolves (Book four!)

✍︎ Before Us (on hold): a fallout 4 maccready x oc fic, starring a female non-sole fo4 oc, with nate as the sole survivor (railroad ending)

✍︎ Crash and Burn (on hold): a fallout 4 preston garvey x oc fic, starring a non-sole female oc, with nate as the sole survivor. (minuteman ending)

✍︎ Killer Instinct (on hold): a lord of the rings tenth walker / boromir lives / boromir x fem!oc fic

✍︎ The Big Leagues (on hold): a fo4 multi-companion work journeying through each of their respective backstories — each chapter can be read as a standalone

➤ ALL OF MY ONESHOTS, REQUESTS, AND SMALLER WRITINGS (HEADCANONS, DRABBLES, ETC) CAN BE FOUND HERE, LISTED OUT BY CHARACTER AND FANDOM.

➤ ALL OF MY WRITING TIP POSTS CAN BE FOUND HERE.

➤ MY HUNGER GAMES FANFICTION (ONLY RAVENS FLY) CAN BE FOUND ON MY WATTPAD ACCOUNT, BY SEARCHING THE USERNAME IN THE DESCRIPTION AT THE TOP OF THIS POST, OR BY SEARCHING “ONLY RAVENS FLY��� ON THE WATTPAD WEBSITE

THANK YOU FOR CHECKING ME OUT!

[eluvisen]

twenty questions for fic writers

I was tagged by @commander-krios thank you! <3 If you'd like to do this, consider yourself tagged!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

43 works

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

838,649

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Fallout, KOTOR, Andromeda Six, Mass Effect and Dragon Age. I used to write for Elder Scrolls back in my FFNet days.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Marriage and Other Forms of War (Fallout 4)

One If By Land (Fallout 4)

Welcome Home (Fallout 4)

What Makes a Memory (Fallout 4)

Remnants of a Dream (Mass Effect: Andromeda)

I wasn’t expecting to see my ME:A fic make this list lol.

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to respond to every one, but sometimes it takes a while to muster the energy to reply.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don’t usually go for angsty endings but probably Almost So Perfect. After some emotional hurt/comfort Bastila kisses Carth and then freaks out and immediately cuts things off.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

My personal rule is that I can torment my characters as much as I want as long as they get a happy ending, so most of my fics have happy endings, but the fic I think of first is What Makes a Memory. The difference between the first and last chapters is like night and day. Kaelyn begins the story wanting to forget it all because her grief overshadows everything, but by the end she’s ready to live in the present again. I’m still proud of that one.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Thankfully, no. Although I did turn off comment notifications on FFNet because commenters on my FO4 fics wouldn’t stop trying to outsmart me and play gotcha.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I used to, mainly M/F.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Crossovers aren’t my jam so I don’t write them.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

As far as I’m aware, no. 

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nobody’s asked me if they could translate a fic, so I’m assuming no.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have. As a teen, a cousin and I cowrote some stuff. More recently, a friend and I were working on a Fallout fic with our Sole Survivors, but we both burnt out before it was finished.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

If I had to pick one (and I don’t like choosing lol) I’d have to go with Revanasi since it's my oldest ship.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

The aforementioned Fallout collaboration would be nice to finish, but we’re both in different fandoms now so the inspiration isn’t there.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Characterisation, emotions, dialogue and description.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Combat, action and plot.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I’ve used things like Mando’a and I made up some Catharese words for one fic since it doesn’t have its own conlang. My personal rule is that the meaning of words in another language should be clear based on context. A translation guide in the author’s notes is okay, but when I'm reading I know I won’t constantly scroll up and down to the translations because I'll lose my place in the chapter. So I won’t do that to my readers, either.

That said, I’ve seen workskins for AO3 that allow users to hover or tap on text and see a translation. If I were going to include other languages more often in a fic, I’d probably use that to make it easier on readers.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

KOTOR

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Probably Marriage and Other Forms of War. That fic remains the longest I’ve ever written, clocking in at 233k words, and I gave Kaelyn and Nate the ending they deserved.

That said, I have an Andromeda Six fic in the works that might take the cake once it’s finished…

[kaydreamer]

She's a Rebel, She's a Hippie, She's Hope

I started a little Fallout 4 fanfic to serve as some writing practice for Spring Tide Rebellion, and it kinda spiralled into a whole-ass hyper-fixation. Turns out I like writing just as much as I like drawing.

I heard there's a healthy writing community here on Tumblr, so I figured I'd cross-post it. You can also find it on Archive of Our Own.

It's a slow-burn romance between the Sole Survivor and Hancock, involving a flirting game, lots of character exploration, heaps of funny bullshit, and more fluff than a bus full of bunnies.

Also, some moments which will play your heartstrings like a sad violin, because one doesn't get to experience nuclear apocalypse without a healthy dose of trauma.

The synopsis is below, along with the link to Chapter 1.

Please enjoy!

---

LINK TO CHAPTER 1

---

Hope. Her name was pure irony, given the state of the world she woke up to.

She had always despised Vault-Tec, with their shiny, corporate, sickeningly cheerful take on the spectre of nuclear apocalypse. It was her brother, Nate, who had written her name down on that list. She’d argued. But when the bombs started falling, she ran for the vault, just like everyone else.

The only person who didn’t want to walk into that icy tomb was the only person who walked out of it.

There was an irony to that, too.

Waking to a broken world, the passion which fuelled her in the Peace Movement drove her to join the Minutemen the moment she stumbled upon them. If she could help people survive, help to build a better world, she would - while her grief-torn vow to track down her stolen nephew led her on a wild chase across the Commonwealth, all the way to the gate of Goodneighbor.

It was there she'd meet a flirtatious ghoul whose charm and wit would light a fire in her soul, and whose own desire to help the people of the Commonwealth would show her the apocalypse could be about thriving, not just surviving.

It turns out the counter-cultural spirit lived on, and it survived in a ghoul named John Hancock.

---

A few extra notes about this story:

🔥 My take on Hancock's appearance is closer to his concept art. He's not been a ghoul for very long, he still has a nose and hair. (I use the 'Sexy Hancock' mod in-game.) He's got those soulful black eyes, though.

🌿 I also like my nuclear apocalypse to come with that overgrown Chernobyl vibe, so the Commonwealth is more of a wilderness than a wasteland.

✨ Hope is Shaun's aunt here - she was a little too footloose for the whole white-picket-fence vibe pre-war. You'll see why.

🔪 The first part - with jolly ol' Finn at the gate - has been done a hundred times in a hundred fics, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I know I always get a kick out of reading how other people write it.

💕 The flirting starts in Chapter 2 and doesn't stop thereafter. And yes, it will get steamy later on. 😉

[orangevanillabubbles]

Hey! I’ve got some questions for the people interested in the fic. I’m probably half done with this draft but I’ve ran into a bit of an issue. It’s from Hancock’s perspective (which is really important to the story) and I originally wanted to use they/them pronouns and no name for the soul survivor. I wanted readers to be able to put their own characters in this position if they wanted to, but I didn’t want to use “soul survivor” or something like that would make it less personable. The issue is, a large part of this takes place in a group setting and it’s becoming confusing when is use they/them pronouns for the sole survivor and I don’t have a name for them that I can use in it place like I normally would when writing about nonbinary characters.

To make a long story short, what would you guys prefer I do? I can rewrite it, or keep it the same

Having name would be easier, but I will do whatever you guys think is best

[sweetcocopowder]

Three Christmas Nights | Paladin Danse / Nate (Male Sole Survivor)

Synopsis: Nate enjoys three Christmas's in the wasteland, all different, all held in different places. Yet his mind is always on one person despite his best efforts. And he wonders if said man can love someone has damaged as him.

Word Count: 7.5K

Genre: Sad, sappy yet heartfelt

Warnings: Depressive thoughts. Self loathing. Guilt. Pining. Alcoholism.

Note: I wish you all a Merry Christmas. There might not be any more posts other than my other Danse/Nate series for this yet. Only cause I've got the chapters ready from ao3. But other than that, happy holidays and a blessed new year.

The first Christmas Nate had spent in the Wasteland, a man out of time and place, it was high in the sky aboard the Prydwyn. Only newly under Paladin Danse’s wing and fresh into the Brotherhood, it felt more like home than anything else in this bazaar place. It was military, and Nate knew military. Knows guns. Knows the smells. Knows the way of command. So, despite finding Elder Maxson a little straight forward and with a few outlandish ideas of his own, Danse is what had him keeping around.

Being honest, Nate had hung up his dog tags along ago. Kept them hidden in the bedroom closet so he wouldn’t have to look at them. Nora adored them though. Found no shame in it, only pride that he had gone and fought for his country. Even though it had gotten them nowhere in the end.

Yet, the U.S military had survived and was transformed into the Brotherhood of Steel, changing and morphing into a being of its own over the past two centuries. With its own morals and beliefs, even though some have Nate cringing on the inside. He had learnt long ago to keep his dislikes on the inside and to shut up within military standards. It has cost him getting beaten and bruised through multiple training session with no sleep or water.

He had just hoped that Elder Maxson wouldn’t punish him too harshly if he stepped out of line. He stuck by the Paladin the most, hoping that hiding by his massive form he could keep in the good books. The Paladin had already written him off as an efficient man, willing to help and keep in order. He just hoped he could keep to that with all the chaos pinballing around in his head. So much had to be done in such a little time.

Which is why he was surprised that in such a strict and tight chain of command aboard the Prydwyn, Christmas was celebrated on the main deck. Nate had watched from the upper decks at first, wondering just how long this would go on for. Ingrim was nowhere to be found, and Knights and Initiates had taken over the power armour deck. Drinks were passed around, stuff that had been freshly brewed from a settlement close by that indulges itself in a small still. Supplies both the Brotherhood and Diamond City. The alcohol is meant to be used for wounds and supplied to Keagen. But they had gotten something a little extra, something infused with berries and other spices that the Wasteland still had to offer.

When the party had gone on for longer than an hour, Nate had become more so impressed. No sign of Elder Maxson or Lancer. With curiosity peaked, he had ventured down with a skip in his step to seek out either of the men. He wasn’t a tattle tale, god no. He just wanted to find out why. It wasn’t like Maxson, from what Nate had figured out with this man, he had thought that there wouldn’t be time for a party with the “Threat of the Institute still about.”

Who Nate had found instead in the canteen had been Paladin Danse, standing off to the side in his power armour watching everyone like a hawk. When he had spotted Nate, he had stood up straighter and his eyebrows had perked up. Something akin to a dog seeing their owner, but the survivor would never say such a thing out loud. He probably be told to run laps around the Boston Airport. Twice.

“I thought you’d be against all of this,” Nate had spoken up first, looping his fingers into the front of his belt.

He had swapped out his vault blue suit to an orange Brotherhood uniform by the Paladin’s command. He had said it would be the proper means of things to be wearing the orange instead of keeping to the old blue. Nate would have to admit, the Brotherhood uniform is much comfier than that tight vault suit. It liked to ride up in places that weren’t meant to be ridden up in.

Paladin Danse had shaken his head ever so slightly. “I convinced Elder Maxson it would be good for morale, in exchange I watch over this little get together,” he had said. “In case anyone decides to get too rough, I’ll step in. I’ve taken responsibility.”

Which had taken Nate completely off guard. Maybe he had taken the Paladin for a complete stick in the mud. A man that takes everything by the books and to the T. It had left him speechless for a good few seconds, having to collect himself with a small, shocked scoff.

“Well then,” Nate had started with a smirk. “I guess I can’t offer you a drink?”

And the offer had gone right over the Paladin’s head. “If I am to be on watch, I need to be sober and ready for anything.”

Nate had nodded with his bottom lip pouted out. Somehow, a man that likes to keep up morale against his Elder’s wishes but a man that won’t step out of line for said morale. What a gentleman.

“Enjoy your post, Paladin,” Nate had bid his fair well to enjoy the party at its fullest then, or the liquor for the most part.

Thus, Nate had drank himself drunk that night on the Prydwyn. He doesn’t remember much, just that the alcohol tasted like sour grapes and rotten apples. But he had drank it anyways, the need to get drunk the driving focus of the night. He didn’t want to think how far out of time he was. He didn’t want to think of how everything around him had changed so drastically. He didn’t want to think that his wife was dead. He didn’t want to think that everyone and everything he knew was gone. That his son was still missing. And that he had somehow ended back up with a gun in his hand and inside a rank with a purpose to kill.

The talking had gotten very loud at one point and the amount of alcohol slushing around in his gut wasn’t ideal. With a womble in his step, he had ventured down to the bottom decks of the Prydwyn with no recollection of how he had gotten there. All he remembered is curling up against one of the storage containers and calling it a night with the taste of rotten apples on his tongue.

He doesn’t remember how he had gotten back into his cot, yet he had woken up there. Tucked in like what his mum use to do for him when he was six. Not even his friends in college had taken him back to his dorm when they found him passed out drunk out in the middle of the football field. All they had done was take pictures and said pictures would be passed around for the next few weeks to have a good laugh at.

But, waking up hung over, filled to the brim with emotions and tucked into bed, it was the glass of water on the table next to the cot that had sent him over the edge. He hadn’t cried when he saw his wife dead in the vault. He hadn’t cried when he had seen his home in ruins. He hadn’t cried when he had to venture across the Commonwealth by foot to seek out his son. Hadn’t cried when he was almost eaten alive by a Deathclaw. But it was the thought that, maybe it isn’t all that bad here, that had the tears rolling down his face. That some bastard here actually cared.

He had cried under his blankets that morning like he did when he was six years old.

The second Christmas Nate had spent in this wasteland, a General of the Minuteman and now known as the sole survivor, was spent on the ground within the safety of the Castle walls. The Minutemen had grown vastly and graciously over the year with Nate’s help. Many settlements had joined the course to help other communities and keep themselves afloat in this dangerous wasteland. Sticking together and making sure your neighbour isn’t going to slit your throat was Nate’s biggest leading factor to take his role seriously for Preston.

He will have to admit, the mayor of Good Neighbour had inspired Nate a lot. Hancock had helped him find his way and set his foot back on the good little path with his own morales, even if the ghoul didn’t realize it. Nate can still remember his speech he had given his community, his people. It had made the survivor want to know the ghoul better. Find out what made the ghoul tick.

He had found out a lot more than jet and mentats.

But this snowy Christmas, he had spent it surrounded by people he had grown fond of, proud of even. Preston had stuck close by him that night, talked about his General in such a light that it had made Nate blush. He would have asked the handsome man to his bed, but guilt had sprung just as quickly to his chest along with many other mixed emotions he couldn’t of named for the life of him. He didn’t want to hurt the poor man’s heart by asking him for a one night stand with a man that would leave him in the morning. Preston is too good for Nate’s own selfishness for a little pleasure and leisure. Nate’s mind had wondered to the Prydwyn on the horizon and one resident upon her decks.

Would there be another get together this year? On the main deck with that rotten apple alcohol. Or maybe it tastes better this year and they’ve gotten their recipe right in the year that they’ve been using their stills. Would Danse be overlooking that party? Making sure no kid falls down the stairs drunk. Make sure that no one lets the mole rats out.

Maybe he never even convinced Maxson this year to let the kids have a get together for morale. Or maybe he did. Flashing those big brown eyes of his, he can almost get away with anything. He lacks charisma, but it’s his caring that makes up for it. Maybe those eyes of his hold some spell that he unknowingly casts over everyone that looks upon them. That one gets so lost in them that all you have to do is agree and nod and go along with Danse so that he doesn’t realize you haven’t been listening the entire time.

Or maybe that’s just Nate getting caught up in the trance that Danse has over him. Maybe he should hop and skip over to the Prydwyn, see what he’s up to this fine night.

He had gone to stand, gone to grab his gun to make the trip over to the airport. Had the determination of a mule to get through the snow and the raiders to get to the Prydwyn. But the only place he had gotten, was the cold Castle floor.

This time, he had woken up where he had fallen. The morning light had blinded him, his head already pounding with the fall and the left-over alcohol in his system. No glass of water. No soft cot to wake up to. No one had moved him, they all but lay a thin blanket over him and called it a night. Did no one ask why he had a gun in hand? Why he smelt stronger of whiskey than when he had left the party? Why he was dressed up in his General’s uniform to go somewhere than to sleep in his own bed?

His head had pounded too much to be caring about that so early in the day. With the little strength he had left, he had crawled back to his warm bed and fallen asleep to the sounds of the busy Castle around him. The lapping of the icy waves outside had lulled him to a deep sleep. One that took him to the late evening where a haze of a storm had begun to brew.

Preston had commented he had slept like the dead, woken by no one. Reminded Nate of his grandpa that died in his sleep for some reason in that moment. Such a morbid thing to think, yet it had come by so quickly that he didn’t have time to stop it.

He had died at the age of sixty-eight, just before Nate had been drafted for the war.  

The third Christmas Nate had spent in the Wasteland, now the known saviour of the Commonwealth, was celebrated up north in Sanctuary Hills with Danse by his side. No longer Paladin, the man had turned to the Minutemen for help a few months after finding out his true nature. A synth.

What a true kick in the teeth. To be raised and taught everything within the Brotherhood. To have your own morales be in line with the Brotherhood. To have such trust and admiration for your brothers and sisters, to only have it all taken away underneath his feet within a few seconds.

The data that Nate had pulled from the Institute had names and genetical signatures of every synth that they had let out into the wasteland. And Danse had been an identical match to M7-97.

Nate could recall the feeling of dread when Maxson had told him the news and all in the same breath, ordered him to execute Danse himself. That’s when he had seen the Brotherhood had a lost cause. That’s when he had taken Maxson’s orders with a sneer curling at his lips and left the Prydwyn with Haylen calling after him.

She didn’t have to convince him. He had already made up his mind that he was going to find Danse and protect him with all his might. Danse had done so much for Nate and to think that Maxson wanted him to be the one to put a bullet between those brown eyes. It made him sick. Sicker than that rotten apple liquor.

Nate had found him, pacing back and forth down inside Listening Post Bravo. Before the survivor could get a word out, Danse had called himself everything he had said ill about synths. All that hatred and loathing towards a race was now aimed at himself and his very being. Everything he was made to be, everything he thought he was, was now just made to be destroyed and thrown out like the inhumane trash he was. He saw himself as nothing, so quickly. It has scared Nate solid.

He hadn’t brought a gun with him. Had travelled all that way to Danse, all that way to across the wasteland to show he wasn’t there to kill. But Danse had a gun, off to the side already loaded. Nate had stared at it for far too long as Danse had rambled on. How he had to be the example not the exception.

“SHUT UP!”

It was out before he could stop it.

Danse had stared at him with those brown eyes of his. And that time, Nate didn’t see that solid determination he once held onto for support. That stern, stone cold look that still looked out into the world with care and admiration. All he saw was tears, brimming to those brown eyes that Danse was holding back with great effort. All he saw was a kid. Somewhere when Nate had been staring at the gun, Danse had gotten down on his knees only making the man look small. Small and defenceless.

Nate stills sees that image in his head from day to day. But that had been six months ago now.

Tonight, it’s all about how lively Sanctuary Hills is. It’s about the celebration of the destruction of the Institute. It’s about a new age for the Commonwealth that no one thought was even possible. Enough food has been prepared in advance that three Castles could survive on for weeks.

Snow had not yet arrived in the Commonwealth yet. A late one for Christmas this year but a chill in there air could be felt nevertheless. Everyone wears a scarf or an old beanie. Nate is just hoping to rely on the alcohol to stay warm tonight.

Dinner is served underneath the large, dead tree at the end of Nate’s old street. The branches are strung and lit up with old Christmas lights and ornaments that the children have made. It was Codsworth that had helped to put it all up. More than thrilled to help out around the place and to see the old block look festive once again. It had made Nate warm inside to see the old bot have at least some sort of nostalgia from the past.

So, Nate now stands in the middle of a vast group of people. All strangers to him but they all know him as well as if he sent them Christmas cards every year. A lot of handshakes. A lot of fake laughing. A lot of trying to remember names. And a lot of pats on the back that make him feel oddly numb. All this praise and all this, hope that Nate has given these people is… it doesn’t feel real. He’s spent over two years in the wastelands now and his hair has grown out to his shoulders, his beard freshly trimmed for the occasion. He looks like a different man than when he came out of the vault. A man that’s been shaped by the horrors of the wasteland.

He wears his General’s uniform, lacking the coat in favour of a scarf. He wanted to be as casual as possible but still people treat him like he’s some saint. Someone to be formal around and praise and… everything that Nate doesn’t feel like he is.

He had spotted Valentine and Piper around five minutes ago, but they had kept to the side lines. And Nate doesn’t blame them. The amount of people surrounding Nate is insane. He thought he saw Deacon before, but he doesn’t know if it was him or not in some disguise.

Yet, despite knowing that there’s people here that he’s travelled with, people he’s gone through thick and thin with his mind is only on one person. His dark blue eyes scan the crowd for one man in particular. Danse. He hasn’t seen him since earlier this evening. And he doesn’t know if Nate is avoiding Danse or if Danse is avoiding Nate. His mind is a jumble at the moment and there’s so many people shaking his hand!

The sound of glass being struck with a spoon quiets everyone. Nate looks up from smiling at a woman with his best fake smile and spots Hancock standing a top the dinner table. He minds the food being served out on it, being placed ready for people to sit down and dine. He holds a glass in his hand with a silver spoon in the other. He waits for the crowd to simmer down, a large grin on his face as his black eyes scan over everyone.

“Now,” Hancock’s raspy voice begins as he throws the silver spoon over his shoulder. “Tonight is a grand night! One filled with laughter, more than I have heard in a long time. I haven’t seen this many smiling faces since… ever! And it’s all because of one personal and his little Minutemen! Always there within a minute’s notice! Took down the Institute in less than a minute I think as well!”

A chorus of chuckles and snorts light up the night. Hancock chortles lightly to himself with a hand covering his mouth.

“Nate is who we owe it to! A man out of time! A man from the past! A man with an ambition to destroy the Institute for his son! To make the Commonwealth a safer place for the people! He is now of the people! One of us!”

Despite the praise and Hancock raising his glass to him, the thought alone of his son creates a deeper hole than what is there originally. All glasses are raised and cheers are exclaimed into the starry night sky. It’s a beautiful night. One that Nate barely notices as everyone sits down to dine. All around the tables that stretch around the tree.

He needs a drink. Desperately.

Nick Valentine sits across from him with Piper beside the detective. There’s food in front of them of all different varieties but Nate doesn’t touch a lick of it. Piper chatters of her work, on how she’s been reporting less synth activity that’s Institute related, on how the residents of Diamond City aren’t in constant fear and on how she might be out of the job now with no Institute. It’s all good news. Something that Nate would love to hear but, his mind wonders somewhere else. His eyes land upon the person he’s been looking for all night.

“There will always be danger in the Commonwealth, Piper,” the detective speaks up, “No doubt about that. We may have chopped the head off the snake but there’s still the body to deal with.”

Piper thinks on that for a moment before her face screws up. She gestures a hand towards Valentine, “That, doesn’t make any sense, Nick.”

“Ah well, you understand what I’m trying to say. There will always be some bad in this world no matter where you look,” Valentine states.

Piper hums on that. “Yeah, let’s not think too hard on that. It’s Christmas after all and a celebration at that!”

Nate only hears half of the conversation. His attention is on Danse, who sits far down the other side of the table. He can just see him peaking out from behind the tree trunk. He rarely sees him out of the power armour these days and let alone in civilian clothes. He wears a blue button up shirt that hugs his shoulders tightly. It looks good on him.

He’s currently stuck in a conversation with Curie. What an odd sight to see. It’s like so many worlds are crashing together tonight. So many people Nate has met coming together in one place and it’s, jarring. Nate can’t keep up.

Danse smiles softly at Curie as the other synth flails her arms about, most likely explaining something or going on one of her rambles. But it has Danse captivated all the same. Nate almost finds himself a little jealous. Jealous that he can’t see Danse’s smile up close. He barely smiles as is.

Nate wonders what the two synths are conversing about. Would Curie be going on a ramble about Christmas itself, explaining how it was celebrated before the war? Or would she be talking to Danse about his own worry about his identity. Would that be something Danse would be willing to talk about with a stranger? He’s never met Curie upon tonight. They seem to be getting along well though despite it all.

Curie lets out a loud chuckle that can be heard over the crowd. Nate’s heart swells at how mundane all of this is. No one is worrying about the horrors that lie outside of the safety of Sanctuary hills. What did Danse say that earned that reaction? He can be blunt at times but some of the things that come out of his mouth does earn a-

“Earth to Nate?”

A snap of fingers in front of his face as the survivor sitting up straight, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He looks to the two in front of him, wondering just how long he’s been staring for. How long have they been trying to get his attention?

“You staring at big boy or the pretty lady over there?” Valentine asks as he gestures over his shoulder, a cigarette in hand.

Piper tsks. “It’ll be the big boy.”

“What!?” Nate exclaims as if he’s been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar.

The reporter raises her brows at that. “When are you going to make a move on him, Nate? I’m not all for the soldier type but I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Pining over you that can’t charm a brick wall.”

The survivor stares at Piper with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape. He doesn’t know how to answer. Hasn’t even realize that anyone around him has taken any notice to his own pining.

“I’ve seen how you follow him around like a lost pup sometimes. And he does the same, following you around, wondering where you are,” Piper goes on.

“I-“ Nate stutters. “A brick wall? Come on, Piper I’m better than that.”

Piper laughs at that, throwing her head back and laughing. “The last time I saw you try and charm some poor woman it landed us in a feral ghoul pit.”

Nate sits up straight at that. “She was impossible! You saw how she was!”

Piper only laughs harder at that. Nate sulks to himself with his chin in his palm. He glances to Valentine who’s fully turned in his seat to get a good look at Danse. He’s only met the ex-Paladin once or twice. Both times weren’t all that pleasant with Danse’s dislike towards synths. But now there’s a sort of sympathy towards Danse that Nate has noticed. The gruff, closed off wall that Valentine had put up has been lowered in case Danse ever wants to… talk.

Nate huffs as hair falls in front of his face. He spies a bottle of vodka near him and his fingers instinctively inch towards it. He shouldn’t really but he knows he’s too sober right now. It’s a bad habit but it’s a habit that lessons the pain. His fingers grip around the neck of the bottle and he sits up straighter, looking around for a glass.

Valentine places a glass in front of him. Nate looks to him silently, slowly grabbing it to pour himself a shot of vodka. It’ll warm him up. And make his racing thoughts become a haze.  

“Look,” Piper chirps up again. “I’m not saying it’s bad. You don’t need to get so caught up in liking men if that’s the issue.”

Nate is midway through taking his shot when Piper speaks and said vodka is shot back up into the glass. He chokes loudly, covering his mouth as he can feel vodka burning the insides of his air ways. Not the place that alcohol should be. Some people around him glance at him, asking if he’s okay. Valentine assures them with a raises hand and kind words.

“Piper,” Valentine clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s the issue here.”

Nate clears his throat, his inside still stinging in the worst ways possible. He pours himself a shot to help with the pain. And it burns on the way down.

The survivor gestures the glass towards Piper before pouring himself another drink. “You ever fall in love with someone that’s just as broken as yourself?”

The questions take both Valentine and Piper off guard. The reporter glances towards Valentine but his concerned attention is kept on Nate. He’s silent for a moment, flicking cigarette ash to the floor before leaning closer to the table.

“I can’t say that I have,” Nick answers slowly.

Nate takes back another shot with a flick of his head. “What if you both get hurt?” He asks even though he’s not expecting an answer.

He doesn’t know it himself and he should know the answer to everything. Because he’s the General to the Minutemen. He’s a fucking Paladin in the Brotherhood of Steel. He’s an agent of the Railroad. Could have been the leader of the Institute.

He’s never told anyone that. And the thought of telling anyone makes his body lock up. His mouth clamp up tight. Who would he even tell!?

Another shot burns down his throat.

“What if you both heal?”

Valentine’s question hits a nerve within Nate. One that makes him look to Danse behind the detective with a sombre, tipsy expression. Could Nate help Danse? Could Danse help Nate?

A hand covers and squeezes his own, bringing his attention back to Piper. She looks to him with a new found sadness, like some kicked pup. The conversation quickly took a dreary tone all because of Nate’s lonesome pining and dreadful aura. He meets Piper’s gaze and he wonders what she sees. Does she see a hero? A legend that is as grand as all the stories told around the campfire? Or does she see a man. A simple man trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. A man from the past that’s trying to figure out where he belongs. A tired man that just needs some rest.

He breathes slowly, his body suddenly feeling very weighed down.

“It’s a celebration,” Piper says softly. “You should celebrate. Ask Danse for a-“ she chuckles at herself. “Ask him for a dance or something romantic instead of drinking yourself into a puddle. The future is brighter because of you and Danse is alive and sitting over there.”

As if on que, the harsh, bark of a laugh catches Nate’s ears. Danse’s rare laugh that he doesn’t hear often. He swears he feels his heart skip a beat. A genuine laugh. He looks over once again, past the two to see Preston has now joined in on the conversation with Curie and Danse. He hovers over Danse’s shoulder with a wide smile across his lips. It looks good on the young man. He’s needed this more than anyone. A break. A laugh.

Maybe Nate should stop being a sulk and actually enjoy the party. Maybe he should-

“Tiger,” Valentine ushers. “It’s only one night. What’s the harm in asking. It’s almost making me sad seeing you like this. Hey, I’ll go over there and ask him if you don’t any time soon. It’s killing me.”,

Nate licks his lips and suddenly stands, his hand still gripped around the neck of the vodka bottle. He feels so many eyes turn to him and he instinctively shrinks away, visibly wincing.

“Just uh-“ He can’t think licking his lips again. “I just need a moment is all. I’m sorry.”

With that, he wonders away from the party with the bottle still in hand. He doesn’t know where he’s headed. He just needs to get away from the noise. The chatter. The poking and the prodding. He knows he should just man up and ask Danse to do something instead of avoiding him. Who is he to ask him to live when he just ignores him like this!?

He runs a hand over his face before taking a swig straight of the bottle. He hisses as it burns but it feels good all the same. It’s what he needs. He needs the haze it brings over his mind. He just, doesn’t want to think. Not right now. Not when there’s everyone reminding him of all the good deeds he’s done.

Did he do them out of the kindness of his heart? Or because they’d put him one step closer to his son? Was it all for personal gain?

No. No it wasn’t.

Maybe. Maybe it was. Maybe he saved Danse from himself so that Nate wouldn’t have to live without a man that knows the struggle of war. He will admit that the man hasn’t seen true war, not like Anchorage but he’s seen it. Knows the loss and bloodshed of it. Maybe that’s why Nate clings to him like a life support. Cause he’s seen it all. Or maybe it’s the way that Danse cares and always puts others before himself. Is willing to lay his life down for a greater good. And he had.

He had laid down and waited for the bullet thinking it was for the greater good. Yet, despite his own self loathing here he is tonight laughing and conversating with people that Nate would have never imagined if he had remained with the Brotherhood. Maybe it was for the greater good that Danse’s true nature was shown to him.

Now is that selfish of Nate to think? That’s it’s better that Danse knows and struggles with his own identity instead of being blinded by an outlandish code so he would feel some comfortability in life. Danse has to start anew. Start from the ground up because everything he knew was ripped away to never be seen or grasped again. All because Nate walked into his life. Would they have found a way into the Institute if it wasn’t for Nate’s bull like drive? Maybe they’d still be twiddling their thumbs.

Nate lands on his knees heavily as he sinks low in front of his old closet. He doesn’t remember entering his old house. He doesn’t even remember turning down the street.

He rummages around, searching for one thing. One thing he had buried in here to never look at again and-

Slowly, Nate pulls out his old, rusted dog tags. The once shiny metal is now dull, the edges being eaten by rust, but his name and number can still be read clear as day. He hasn’t seen these in such a long time. He doesn’t even know why he’s pulled these out now. Come searching for them. Maybe for some solid proof that he was here. That his past life wasn’t all some sick and twisted dream that the Institute made up for him.

He sits back against the nearest wall as he holds his dog tags in one hand and the bottle in the other. Breathing in heavily, he listens to the murmur of people outside. He spies out the window, seeing the Christmas lights lighting up the settlement. It would bring a smile to his face, but it only makes him think of how the neighbour use to look like during Christmas.

Nate takes another, long swill of his bottle.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he knows that he passes out shortly after the bottle is drained empty of it’s sickly liquid. Nate clutches his tags close to his chest as he lays on his side, his dreams filled with a time long before.

He’s half between worlds when he hears the heavy fall of boots come down the hallway. He pries his eyes open, looking through his eyelashes as he peers into the dark, paint peeled room of his own. The room spins and he feels like he’s sinking into the floor where he lays, his cheek smooshed into the old crusty carpet. He doesn’t see who’s come into the room until a glass of water is place right in front of his nose.

A glass of water.

Nate swallows thickly, his eyes opening fully now as he looks up to meet the sight of Danse kneeling in front of him. It’s as if he suddenly sobers up, finding the will to sit up straight which is a big mistake in itself. His head swims and he quickly grabs at his head with a groan.

“Easy there,” Danse’s voice is soft, almost too soft.

A large hand cups Nate’s head to hold him still as the cup of water is brought to his lips. Nate almost refuses at first but the look on Danse’s face has him sipping down the water.

So, it was Danse who carried him to his cot in the Prydwyn. Would he have done this if Nate had been awake? Would he have cradled his face like this to make sure he sobered up on water? The thought makes his gut swim and he doesn’t know if it’s the man in front of him or his stomach mixing and churning with vodka and water.

The glass leaves Nate’s lips along with the hand on his face. He almost finds himself whining for it to stay but he stops short.

“I would ask you why you left but I don’t think a sad drunk agrees with loud and cheerful crowds,” Danse comments bluntly but there’s a tinge of light heartedness to it that Nate hears.

He wouldn’t of been able to point it out when they had first met. Everything that came from Danse’s mouth was blunt and short. But Nate had listened. Picked up the quirks of each sentence that passed from the ex-Paladin’s lips to figure out what he actually means. Find the hidden emotion that he tries oh so desperately to hide.

“A sad drunk?” Nate asks with a tilt of his head.

“Affirmative,” Danse quirks.

“Huh,” Nate scoffs. “I didn’t want to bring down the party, so I decided to start one on my own. Can’t you see I’m having a blast?”

Danse does the dramatic honour of looking around the room as if someone else is going to pop out. But when he sees no one else, he looks back to the survivor with a tilt of his head.

“A very lively party,” he says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. Which isn’t a lot. It sounds more like an insult than anything else.

Nate snorts through his nose.

“I came by to make sure you’re alright,” Danse says as he stands up straight. Nate’s chest squeezes at the sudden realization that he could be left again. “I should be getting back to the party. I’ll tell everyone you’re oka-”

“Stay.”

It’s out of Nate’s mouth before he can even think. He quickly clears his throat.

“Only if you wanna stick by a two-hundred-year-old man. I’ve been told I look good for my age,” he softly chuckles at his own joke.

Danse looks down at him silently with a small rising smirk on his lips. The few passing seconds feel like an eternity to Nate as he stares up at the other man with pleading eyes. It must work, that puppy dog eyed look Nate has perfected so well, or may he does just look like a sad drunk because Danse sits down right next to him with his back to the wall.

“You could go back out there,” Danse comments. “You’re the reason why everyone is here today.”

Nate looks to the other sadly. He looks a little too long at how the red and green lights from outside flicker and dance across the other’s face, making his dark brown eyes all that softer.

He licks his lips, looking away. “Why? Everyone has at least thanked me five times for my good deeds. You’d think I’m some kind of angel that has come from the heavens!”

“You shouldn’t put yourself in such a hole,” Danse says firmly. “I’ve seen men do less than you have be raised to Paladin. All they did past that is gloat on how grand and great they are to the lower ranks and roll in the praises they get. I don’t understand why you see yourself as something as low as the bottom of a bottle when you’ve made a future for the next generation of children.”

Nate swallows thickly, his chest squeezing tightly. He says his mind out loud before he even knows it. Before he can put a lid on it to stop the chaos from escaping.

“I put myself in this hole ‘cause I couldn’t even save my own kid,” He spits it, snaps it even to make Danse shut up. To stop making him sound like such a hero. And Danse does. He falls silent, watching Nate intently.

“I found him. I found my son in the Institute. But-” Nate’s voice hics. God he’s going to cry. “I was sixty years too fucking late. He was older than me. Had more grey hairs than me! God the way he spoke to me it was- I-“

Nate swallows his own words. He can’t say it. He shouldn’t say it. Not out loud. How would someone react hearing Nate say that he fucking hated his own son after searching high and low for him. After everything he had been through had been for nothing. He had found a way into the one place that didn’t have a front door and had only found his son running the place that had caused so much pain in the Commonwealth.

“I left him there, Danse.”

He doesn’t want to look at the other man. Doesn’t want to see what horror struck expression that has come across his face. But he looks. He looks and only sees… pity. A sadness and concern that Nate has seen so many times from the nurses when he was in the army.

“That wasn’t your son,” Danse suddenly says. “You didn’t raise him. Didn’t know him. That man was a stranger that had your son’s face.”

Nate swallows thickly, holding back the choke of a sob rising within his throat. Shaun died with Nora in that god forsaken vault. And out stepped Nate. A man from the past that had no idea what was going on nor what year he was in. Maybe he should have died with the rest. Maybe Nora would have had a better out look on a world such as this.

Nate finds himself staring at Danse. He doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never thought to put it into that perspective. Those dark brown eyes put him into one of those trances he can’t look away from.

“Ridding the Commonwealth of the disease festering underneath it’s skin, you saved everyone. You may have lost your family, but you’ve found one. You have one here with the people out there celebrating an old tradition that has probably not been celebrated like this in a long time. You’ve made people smile again, Nate,” Danse speaks softly yet his voice stills holds that same soldier like sternness to it that won’t ever go away.

“You’ve made me smile again.”

Yet, the way Danse speaks that last line it takes the survivor’s breath away. And just like that, the smile that Nate loves so much spreads across the other man’s face. It crinkles at his eyes and shows his little fangs he has.

The next thing that Nate does, he’d call himself stupid for it. He leans forward towards Danse, hesitating only a moment when his lips are a hair’s breath away from the ex-Paladin’s to see if he’ll pull away, to see if it’ll push Nate away for his stupidity. But when he doesn’t move, looking to Nate through his lashes and his mouth now lightly parted as if waiting, Nate moves forward that extra bit to kiss Danse’s soft lips. Only light like, a small peck that lasts a little too long before Nate can have a taste. He pulls away and looks into those brown eyes that stare directly back.

“I’m sorry there wasn’t any mistletoe, I jumped the gun,” Nate says as he leans away.

But Danse grabs him by the front of the shirt, almost rough like to drag him back into a much rougher kiss. One that Danse leads like he’s done this before, kissing and tasting Nate’s lips as if he can’t get enough of him. The survivor melts into Danse’s touch as the ex-Paladin places a hand on his waist to steady him.

Maybe everything will be alright. Maybe this Christmas will be a merry one after all. The warmth of Danse is enough to lull him into a mindless wake. He lets Danse kiss him the way he wants, lets him taste him as much as he wants. If only Danse could feel just how much Nate has wanted this for so long. His chest aches painfully even though he now has it within his grasp.

It’s better than alcohol. His mind melts and he forgets everything for the moment. All his worries. Everything he’s been through. Because he knows, in his heart he knows that there are arms he can lean on. That there will be someone there to catch him if he falls. Someone that will watch over him when he’s in a hole of his own making. To offer him water when he’s in need. And there has been arms to lean on for a good while now. Ever since he heard the distress call over his pip-boy.

Nate hums as Danse ventures down his jaw to his neck, holding onto the ex-Paladin and not letting go. He breathes heavily, his eyes a daze as he stares out the window. Snow falls softly and he doesn’t register it at first but, he chuckles softly at seeing the flakes. He doesn’t have to think too much about it though as Danse engulfs his mouth in another feverish kiss. He wonders instead how long the ex-Paladin has been wanting this. Yearning for it. How much he’s ached for Nate.

He’d love to find out. And they have the rest of the night to do so. He holds onto Danse and doesn’t let go. Doesn’t think he even wants to. He’s got Danse and that’s the best Christmas gift he could ever ask for.

-

Like, comment and reblog or whatever

[ford-ye-fiji]

When reading fic, do you prefer the Sole Survivor go by the default name (Nate or Nora) or by whatever the writer names them?

[simplegenius042]

Master List of Fallout Protagonists & Next Step for JJK Abridged/Fallout Reaction fic

With the protagonists characters profiles released, you should have a general idea on what these OCs of mine are like. Below are links on where to directly find them.

Fallout - Elrand Brandt, the Vault Dweller (aka, homesick engineer too tired for this shit)

Fallout 2 - Finidy Mona, the Chosen One (aka, the Elder's daughter with the weight of the world on her shoulders, somehow gets caught up with the mob and what remains of the American Government)

Fallout 3 - Alph Dolen, the Lone Wanderer (aka, daddy's boy and Finding Nemo if Marlin (James) went off to get some milk (Project Purity) and Nemo (Alph) took Dory (Amata) to go find him).

Fallout New Vegas - Ryder, the Courier Six (aka, the Magnificent Bastard playing all sides of the war to achieve an elevation in her power).

Fallout 4 - Nate Gust Sarid, the Sole Survivor (aka, sad widowed dad looking for his son, becomes general of down-on-their-luck underdogs to try and make peace with the other factions (except for the Institute and Nuka World's Raiders) because joining them weren't that appealing).

Fallout 76 - Vega, the Resident (aka, the most delusional motherfucker ever, and is the reason America wasn't rebuilt faster).

With that out of the way, the next step in the JJKA/Fallout React Fic is to publish polls where YOU can decide which Fallout character gets to be a variant of the JJK Abridged cast, and have the canon characters react to them.

The length of time for a poll will vary depending on how frequent of a character they are (e.g. main cast or notably important characters get up to a week, minor characters get less than that). Another thing, due to posting polls for the entire cast will be tedious (and since Schmuck Squad's JJK Abridged is still ongoing), I will only post character polls before a chapter is made/can be published, and only include the characters that appear in the episode, as that allows me some breather.

Polls will also include pictures of the JJKA character and the potential Fallout candidates who YOU get to decide plays as the variant, with reasonings why I believe they'd suit the character best. There will be a "other Fallout character" option, if you pick that, reblog and put into the tags on who you would want to play as that character.

If you're a little lost on what I'm trying to say, go check out my original post in regard to this "Fallout characters React to JJKA variants of themselves" right here.

Anyway, hope you enjoy, and polls will be published out soon.

[littlemiss101]

when i offer you survival, ch 2

Nate knows the Mr. Handy.

It still takes Tequila too long to lower her gun, white-knuckle grip unyielding as she stares down the robot that bobs towards the Vault dweller excitedly, blathering on in its grating accented voice and wailing about polishing rust. 

She makes an excuse for herself and goes to sit in the wrecked shell of a house, forgoing the open front door and clambering through a hole in the wall instead. Once the robot is firmly out of sight, it’s a little easier to breathe, to flip the safety back on her gun and return it to the holster. 

It’s a nasty habit, but most of the time, when she sees a robot, she kills it. If there’s people with it, she’ll abstain, and if she can just hack a terminal and shut it down, she’ll always do that over wasting bullets on the damn things. 

But she’s never going to be able to forget what it was like, walking down the Strip, surrounded by a literal army of Securitrons. The way that the robots of the Mojave moved seemingly to the Courier’s will. The protruding eye of the Mr. Handy reminds her endlessly of the security cameras inside of Vaults, of the eyebot that never left the Courier’s side, of the Securitrons that flanked her constantly after Hoover Dam. The long and short of it is that she finds them endlessly creepy, and that they make Tequila want to head for the hills, and watching one of them hug her squishy new Vault dweller is making her trigger finger itch. 

continue reading on ao3

[willinglyghoulified]

In my FF, my sole survivor, Gwenora Rose, goes to find Nick Valentine with Codsworth as her companion. Codsworth is pretty durable, so when she inevitably runs out of bullets,Codsworth has to do all the fighting for her.

Gwen is an ex bankruptcy lawyer who struggles a lot with having to kill people in order to survive, always reminding herself that Nate should have been the one to survive and find their son because he was better equipped. “It should have been me, I should have been the one holding Shaun that day,” is what she keeps remind herself. As for how far she’s come by the time she finds Nick, she’s a terrible shot and runs out of bullets often, and her arms are weak and untrained so she prefers small guns. She quickly realized that she had a long way to go before she got good at this kind of thing, but that didn’t stop her from going to find Nick. And Nick is... well, surprised that she made it this far without dying lol

Excerpt from my fic below. Story here.

(Excerpt from Book 1, Chapter 7)

Nick stopped dead in his tracks. “I just realized -- did you come all the way here without a gun or something?”

“I had one, I just ran out of ammo.”

He shook his head. “In every gun in that bag of yours, you ran out of ammo?”

I looked down at the heavy bag of mine and nodded.

He walked over to one of the bodies on the floor, bent down, and rummaged through their pockets. “See here,” he explained, “you can find all kinds of loot. Bullets, Stimpaks, chems, cigarettes, even more guns.”

“Looting the dead? Wait... I don’t know...”

“I know it sounds sketchy, but it’s them or you. And they sure as hell ain’t using it anymore. Now take this gun.” He gave me a machine gun that still had nearly a full chip. He shoved some ammo into my hand as well. “Now you won’t be a sitting duck. Let’s go.”

The gun was still warm. “W-Wait, I don’t know how to use this one,” I objected.

“You point and shoot,” he said over his shoulder. “Do I need to remind you which end the bullets come out of?”

[makahimetenshi]

Some traits of my Sole Survivor in fanfics

Since im writing a lot with the character im using during my playtrought i want to make some personality statements about my Sole Survivor uses...if you have a list you can see the good and bad right? It deppends on the fic if im using the male or fem version for some traits or not

Likes wine and cheese

Minutemen 80%, Brotherhood 10%, Railroad 5%, Institute 5%

Shaun is an antropologist

Stargazing

Read comics

Spends a lot of time in Far Harbor

Very fertile

Talks to animals and beasts

Skinny with big butt

Big shoulders

The kids with Arthur Maxson are always Arya and Shaun

Has an entire empty vault and its overseer of another one populated

Travel with the spouse to Washington in the past

Has a G spot

Nate and Nora were a swinger couple

Cait likes her

Likes dresses

Easily hooked on addictions

More meele than shooter type

Powerfist GRA and gunner ammo

Has some raiders settlements

Alone the first pregnancy months, full time with Nate after

Has eating desorders

Hates the wastelands and post apocaliptic society, not other kind of creatures, more fascinated than anything

Explosives build

Thinks everybody is ignorant and fool

Cruel and sadistic in the inside

Doesnt know a lot about power armor repairing or gun mods

Has a thing with personal hygiene

Hides a secret alley of drugs

Eat human meat