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nightingaelic · 2 years

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I loved your Courier with wings piece and I was wondering when you get a chance can you do one with the fallout 4 companions?

It was already something for a vault dweller to emerge in the wasteland and become more than just another corpse in the weeds, victim to one of the countless dangers that roamed the Commonwealth. But not only did they refuse to die, they refused to crumble in the face of the unseen threats, the factions and egos and mysteries that ruled this new world with little care for those just trying to get by. There were tales taller than the Mass Fusion skyscraper about them in no time. A dead spouse, a missing child, a mission of vengeance and rescue. A life lived before this wreckage, before fire rained down on America and shaped it anew. And strangest of all, a figure that had emerged from deep underground and shot skyward, refusing to be imprisoned again.

Cait: The Combat Zone gig kept Cait busy for the most part, but she caught rumors here and there from the raiders that ran the place and radio broadcasts in the spaces between fights. She wrote the rumors off as some hotshot with a power armor jet pack and gliding wings, but others were less easily reassured. There were stories about Corvega, Beantown Brewery, even Gristle's gang up by Concord, and none of them had happy endings.

"If they make their way here, we're all dead," Tommy said after hearing about another sighting of the mysterious vault dweller.

"If they walk in the front door, just put them in the ring with me," Cait joked. "I might not make it, but at least it'll be a good show."

When the sole survivor did finally walk in the front door, Cait was astonished that they weren't punched full of holes by the raiders' bullets as soon as they entered. They were fast, wheeling over the theater's seats and diving down on the unlucky that needed to pause to reload. Cait and Tommy took cover until the dust had settled, but while Tommy kept cowering as they approached the stage, Cait rose and brushed herself off. "You just wiped out our livelihood, angel," she said.

The sole survivor smirked. "They shot first."

"Oh, I noticed. Got more bullets in the seats than you did in the crowd."

They glanced around. "This place needed some renovations, anyway."

Cait grinned. "Can't say I disagree with you. Why come here at all? I figured this wasn't your scene."

"It's not." The sole survivor's eyes wandered across the cage ring onstage. "I just wanted to see what happened to this place. It's been a long time since I visited, and someone in Diamond City said it was still putting on shows."

"Still putting on..." Cait shook her head. "You can't be pre-war. Last I checked, ghouls didn't sprout wings."

"Nobody sprouts wings." The sole survivor smiled. "I went through a hell of a lot to earn these."

"Sounds like a story that warrants a drink." Cait abandoned Tommy and gestured toward the recently-vacated bar. "What's your poison, angel?"

Codsworth: It had been a little over 210 years since Codsworth had seen the sole survivor, but there was no mistaking the figure that descended the hill upon which Vault 111's entrance sat. "As I live and breathe!" the Mister Handy robot cried, floating forward to greet them. "It's... it's really you!"

The robot stopped short when he realized their pained movements, and how impeded they seemed by something they carried on their back. "Is there something...?"

"Codsworth." The sole survivor collapsed, falling forward into the dry grass. A pair of wings, each one at least nine feet long, splayed out in an unsuccessful attempt to keep them upright.

"Oh dear, oh dear." Codsworth rushed to their side. "Can I assist you? Let me help you stand."

The robot did his best to steady them as they climbed to their feet again, marveling at the wings as he did. They looked like something out of the kitschy art pieces he had seen for sale at pre-war home decor shops, particularly the fanciful Christmas nativities. Aside from the vault suit, they could have fit right into one the Biblical scenes. "Forgive me, but how did you come to possess these... appendages?" he asked politely.

"Beats me." The sole survivor had their eyes closed. They looked like they were about to throw up at any second.

"Some water," Codsworth suggested, retrieving a sample from his built-in purification system. "That's it, drink up. Slowly, now. You'll need every bit of it if you want to rebuild your strength."

Once they were finished, Codsworth accepted the empty can and stowed it away. "There. Now, where is the rest of your family? Surely they can't be far behind you, if you managed to emerge unscathed."

The look on their face was more than enough to tell Codsworth that his worst fears had been realized.

Curie: When the Miss Nanny robot that had been concealed in the hidden wing of Vault 81 realized that her unexpected visitor had wings, she immediately asked if they would allow her to examine them. "C'est extraordinaire," she said in wonder, floating around them and scanning the feathery additions that hung from their shoulders. "These must be the result of Vault-Tec experimentation, no?"

The sole survivor shifted uncomfortably under her assessment. "I can tell you the details later. We've got a sick boy to save, first."

Curie happily relinquished the cure for Austin Engill's illness and stood by quietly as the Vault 81 residents thanked the sole survivor for all of their help. The boy was waking up by the time they were finished, and the sole survivor bashfully extended one of their wings so he could reach up from his hospital bed to feel its feathers. "They're real," he whispered, astonished.

The sole survivor permitted Curie to follow them out of the vault, but they put off her request for an examination for several days. They were protective of their wings, unfurling them only at times where flight was absolutely necessary. Curie took measurements of their estimated weight and length as best she could, but the distraction of the beautiful, adaptive post-war world around her began to win out. She stopped asking about the sole survivor's wings after their first week together.

Months later, after Curie had come to the inevitable conclusion that her robotic body was insufficient for the work she wished to conduct in the wasteland, the sole survivor brought up the topic with her again. "In case the consciousness transfer goes wrong," they explained. "Did you want to-?"

Curie stopped them. "It will be okay. Everything is prepared, and Doctor Amari can be trusted. Save the moment for when I have the ability to truly feel them."

When Curie awoke on Doctor Amari's memory lounger, the sole survivor was standing over her, peering at her face with touching concern. Curie smiled and reached a hand up to grasp theirs. "Cocou," she murmured.

In response, the sole survivor uncurled a wing and guided her hand to it. "Enchantée," they said, sliding her fingers into the feathers.

Paladin Danse: Danse only became aware that he was staring at the vault dweller who had helped him fend off the ferals outside the Cambridge Police Station when Scribe Haylen cleared her throat. "Paladin, are you alright?"

"Fine," he replied a little too quickly. He dropped the nose of his laser rifle and approached the stranger who had two wings spread out behind them, stretching and flexing in the fading afternoon sun. They looked like statues he had seen in the Capital Wasteland, art deco guardians that still watched over the DC ruins and their inhabitants. They also looked tired.

"Will you three be okay from here on?" they asked him, lowering their own weapon. "That subway station nearby is loaded with more of these... things."

"We'll manage." Danse surveyed the pile of bodies that had formed around them during the attack. "You handled yourself well. I don't suppose I could trouble you for more assistance, while the rest of my team recovers?"

Hours later they were deep inside ArcJet Systems, fighting off Institute synths inside the XMB booster engine's silo, already spinning around each other like their partnership had been born long before that day. Danse was running out of fusion cells, the sole survivor was less sure of their aerial movements within the concrete tower, but the synths kept coming. Desperate, the sole survivor threw a nearby switch and the booster engine roared to life. They realized their mistake too and dove toward the Paladin in power armor, but Danse threw a hand out to ward them off. "Stay there!"

The fire from the engine tore through the synths, and the sole survivor was flung upward on the wave of heat that had been released at the silo's base. Danse fell to one knee and braced himself until the flames had abated and the ash that had been released began to settle. When he looked up again, the vault dweller was descending, circling lower and lower until their wingspan obscured the scaffolding above and filled his vision.

"Who are you?" Danse asked, dropping all pretenses of protocol.

They touched down next to him as lightly as dandelion fluff descends on a field. "Nobody, anymore," they replied.

"I highly doubt that."

The sole survivor smiled. "On your feet, soldier. Let's find that deep range transmitter."

Deacon: The moment Deacon heard about the sole survivor of a vault that was flying around the northern end of the Commonwealth, he immediately abandoned his other surveillance projects and started putting himself in their path. They took their sweet time building up the confidence to approach the larger settlements in the wasteland, but Deacon was a master of patience.

Finally, after another ordinary day of looking busy at Bunker Hill, the winged wonder talked their way through Kessler and ducked around staring caravan hands to go sell some duct tape to Deb. They looked gaunt, like someone who had gone from having all their needs met to barely surviving in a short period of time. The knees on their pants were patched, and Deacon was positive that there were bruises underneath from rough landings. He ducked out of the settlement as soon as they disappeared into the columned trading floor, before anyone could notice his interest.

His next look at them was a longer one, as a security officer in Diamond City, circling the marketplace while they consumed a bowl of noodles that was probably their first real meal in days. Their wings were a little more weathered, with more ragged edges from use and wasteland abuse, but they were still whole. Deacon risked some more scrutiny, as he certainly wasn't the only security officer that was watching the sole survivor. Their wings weren't visibly synthetic, but neither were most synths these days - just because there wasn't a harness or cybernetic mesh attaching them to their owner, it didn't mean they were organic. Then again, the Institute was also known for experimentation with that tricky manipulator, FEV, so it really was anyone's guess where the wings came from.

Deacon tried a greeting in Goodneighbor. "Hey," he said as they brushed past him, on their way to see Daisy about a library book return. They eyed him with surprise, but only nodded before continuing into the pre-war ghoul's shop. Deacon smiled and loitered for a little longer, letting a plan form in his mind's eye before slipping out the gate and heading back to HQ.

Sure enough, they found their way to the end of the Freedom Trail before the year was out. Desdemona was annoyed, which Deacon had anticipated, but when she poked him for details about the Commonwealth's latest curiosity, he put himself on the line. "Yes," he said when she asked if he was vouching for them. "Definitely."

"Why'd you do that?" the sole survivor asked him after Desdemona's show of force was over. "You don't know me."

"This might be jumping the gun a bit, but we have big plans that are just now getting set into motion," Deacon answered, straightening his sunglasses to help block out the catacombs' spotlights. "Someday we're gonna go public. Now, I know you're already committed in terms of being a symbol of hope, but I'd like to give you my pitch about why you'd be a good one for the Railroad."

Dogmeat: Dogmeat was unconcerned with the sole survivor's wings, beyond a perfunctory inspection upon their first meeting at the Red Rocket Station. The sole survivor stood still for the dog while he sniffed their feathers, waiting for him to whuff his satisfaction when finished. "Good enough, boy?" they said, stretching the wings carefully so as not to startle the dog. "Something to get used to, I know. For both of us."

Dogmeat cocked his head to the side and accepted their affection, panting happily. The sole survivor sighed. "At least something made it through the war without coming out too different on the other side."

Mayor John Hancock: Hancock was about ready to start plucking feathers when the sole survivor finally came winging his way. They'd been circling the downtown ruins for a week now, scouting the area as if searching for something, and they had all his Goodneighbor guards on edge. "They're gonna drop in one night and start wrecking the place, Hancock," some of the ghouls would say when he tried to reassure them. "We can't fly. What are we supposed to do?"

"You can shoot, can't you?" Hancock always reminded them. "Don't do it unless you're sure they're about to drop a grenade on you or something, though. Last thing we need is a feud with the would-be savior of the Commonwealth."

Fahrenheit got most of the guards straightened out after that, but the whole thing was such a headache for the mayor that when the sole survivor deigned to touch down, he straightened himself out and strode up to them with every ounce of authority he could muster. "About time you showed your face in town," he said. "Now what the hell do you want that's got you circling Goodneighbor like a hawk?"

The sole survivor looked taken aback. "A merc," they said. "Goes by the name Kellogg. Someone told me he used to come through here occasionally, and I was hoping I could catch him."

Hancock looked to Fahrenheit, who shook her head. "Ain't seen him," he said.

"Been over a month," Fahrenheit added.

The sole survivor's face fell. "Shit. Guess that lead's a bust."

"Why not land here sooner and ask?" Hancock demanded to know.

"I was warned to keep my distance," the sole survivor replied sheepishly.

Hancock rolled his eyes. "Hovering over my town like a goddamned bird of prey. Nobody here's gonna hurt you. Except maybe Finn, but he won't if you've got a spine under those wings. Just keep your intentions known and we won't have a problem. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Grand." Hancock spread his arms wide. "Welcome to Goodneighbor."

Robert Joseph MacCready: MacCready was in the middle of explaining to Winlock and Barnes that they would get their money eventually when a stranger in a vault suit stumbled through the door. He was about to advise them to get lost for their own good when he realized that the two Gunners had become completely distracted by something about their entrance. "What's the big-"

With a blustery thump, the vault dweller unfurled wings larger than their own body that knocked over the VIP room mannequins and blocked the door. "Problem?" they asked the Gunners.

Winlock eyed them suspiciously, but he didn't go for his gun. "No problem. We were just leaving."

He nodded to Barnes, and the two men tried to inch around the vault dweller's wings. They didn't make it easy to leave, and in the end the two men had to wait for them to diminish their stance a bit before squeezing past into the hallway.

"Never seen those two hit the road that quickly before," MacCready commented once they were gone. "I think I heard about you on the radio once or twice. Thought you were a myth. Are you some kind of newfangled super mutant?"

"Something like that." The sole survivor smoothed their feathers down again and approached him. "I heard there's a mercenary around here who's a crack shot with a sniper rifle."

"You're looking at him," MacCready said with pride. "What do you need a gun for?"

"To watch my back, mostly. But also to teach me some distance shooting tricks." The sole survivor sighed and held up the pistol they'd been using for the better part of their time above-ground. "This works fine within a certain range, but I need some practice with rifles before I even try using one while doing aerial maneuvers. Hancock said you're the best sniper he knows, so here I am."

MacCready set aside the vault dweller's unusual appearance and got down to brass tacks. "Price is 250 caps, up front. And there's no room for bargaining."

"Done." The sole survivor began emptying their pockets.

"And you need a rifle of your own. I'm not teaching you on mine."

His new boss jerked their head skyward. "Think KL-E-0's got what I need? She seemed pretty well-stocked, today."

MacCready jumped to his feet and began scooping up the caps they were depositing on the VIP room couch. "Worth a look. Just don't get anything laser or plasma to begin with. Learn the basics first, and then you can start to get fancy."

Nick Valentine: The day the sole survivor came to Vault 114, Nick was just as shocked by their appearance as they were by his. He thought they might be wearing loose clothing and beating Skinny Malone's boys up with a tennis racket, they way they were whistling and flapping around down in the vault's atrium, but he didn't get a good look at them until they peered through the circular window of the Overseer's office. "Sweet heavens to Betsy," the detective exclaimed when he caught sight of the wings on their back. "What exactly are you?"

"What are you?" the sole survivor countered, eyes wide at the old synth's Institute-manufactured face.

"Open the door and we can compare notes," Nick suggested.

They obliged, and the vault door slid open with a rusty hiss. The sole survivor folded one wing up and wrapped the other in front of them, as if their pinions were going to protect them from the unknown figure with the glowing, golden eyes. "Relax," Nick reassured them. "Never seen a synth before?"

"What's a synth?" they asked. "Someone outside Diamond City called me that, and then everyone got really quiet."

"Oh, kid." Nick lit his last cigarette and took a drag, looking the sole survivor over as he did. "Is that vault suit you're wearing yours, or just a fashion statement?"

"Mine."

"Hmm." Nick waved the little torch around to point at their wings. "So you're either a Vault-Tec experiment I've never heard of, or you might be a distant cousin of mine. But we can unpack all of that later. Right now we've got a couple of seconds to get out of here before the rest of Skinny's guys realize their buddies aren't just taking their time changing the guard shift."

Piper Wright: As soon as Piper caught sight of the person approaching Diamond City's main gate, she completely forgot about the fact that Mayor McDonough had ordered her to be locked out. "It's you!" she said excitedly, hurrying up to the sole survivor. "Travis hasn't shut up about you for the past two weeks. What are you doing in Diamond City?"

"Looking for someone," the sole survivor replied, surprised. "I'm sorry, you are?"

"Piper Wright, owner of and reporter for Publick Occurrences. Diamond City's resident newspaper." Piper stuck her hand out. "Not to spring this on you during your first day in town, but I'd love an interview. Saving the folks in Concord, restarting the Minutemen, winging around the Commonwealth like something out of a storybook... you've made a lot of people curious about you. Me included."

The sole survivor shook her hand hesitantly. "I'll think about it. Why is the gate closed?"

"Just a little disagreement with the mayor. Nothing for you to worry about, I'm sure they'll let you in." Piper rubbed her chin. "If you want to skip the security screening though, I don't suppose they can stop you as easily as they stopped me."

The sole survivor caught her drift, and they looked at the gate in alarm. "They locked you out of your home?"

"Eh, not for long. I'll find a way back in."

"Come here." The sole survivor offered her their hand. Piper took it, and found herself swept up in their arms. The vault dweller's wings shot out, and the wind they stirred up nearly knocked loose her cap.

Their flight was short, likely because the sole survivor didn't want to get shot down, and they set her down gently in the middle of Diamond City's main street toward the marketplace. They ignored the stares of passersby and looked up at the newspaper office's sign. "This is you?"

"Yeah." Piper tried to catch her breath again and wound up coughing. "Sorry. Yeah. Did you... do you want to come inside?"

Preston Garvey: Preston had been pretty sure that he and the rest of the Quincy survivors had met their end in the Museum of Freedom, even as he took potshots at raiders from the building's balcony. He was prolonging the fight, but they were wildly outnumbered and Sturges had no more tricks up his sleeve. Even Dogmeat had disappeared sometime during the fray, which was a bad omen if ever he'd seen one.

When the German shepherd reappeared and tore into the raiders on the ground, Preston almost wanted to run the dog off again, to save at least one of their skins. He nearly missed the shadow that followed Dogmeat, the uncoordinated dive to the ground that swept the surprised raiders back a block and slammed them into buildings one by one. It was all Preston could do to grab his laser musket and clutch it to his chest before the newcomer in the vault suit alighted on the balcony next to him, folding up a pair of wings on their back neat as you please.

"Need some help?" they asked breathlessly.

"Who are you?" Preston replied. "What- where did you get-"

"Vault 111. Above Sanctuary Hills." The sole survivor indicated the northwest road out of town. "The rest can wait. Are there more in the building?"

"Yeah, and I've got people inside." Preston shook off his surprise. "I don't know if you've got much room to maneuver in the hallway outside the room we're holed up in, but if you can get out into the museum's atrium..."

The sole survivor nodded and produced a pistol. "On it. Lead the way."

As Preston opened the door for them, the phrase Mama Murphy had been muttering to herself all the way from Lexington popped into his mind. "Our guardian angel," he murmured.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Just glad you dropped in."

Strong: The only way up Trinity Tower was through 30 stories of Strong's brothers, and Strong was confident that any human that made it to the top of the building would have already partaken of the fabled milk. He was therefore annoyed when the first human to arrive was cheating, using bird wings to pass up the mutants and fly straight for the cell where he and Rex Goodman were incarcerated.

Rex wasn't nearly as bothered. "Oh, beneficent bard! A rescuer, swift on swallow's wings! Do hurry up and let us out, it's been days since they gave us something to eat that wasn't raw."

Strong grumbled his disdain as the rescuer picked the lock, and he glared daggers at them the entire way down on the outside lift. When they finally reached the bottom intact, he refused to thank them for their help, even though Rex berated him for remaining silent. "Puny bird," was all the super mutant said.

The sole survivor was forgiving though, and they did offer to help the super mutant in his quest after Rex explained the situation. "I'm looking for it, too," they said. "Or something like it."

"Strong drink milk first," Strong insisted. "Then human. No more fly away from fights."

The sole survivor chuckled. "The wings might grow on you, Strong. I hated them at first too, but now I don't know what I'd do without them."

X6-88: When the Director's parent appeared at the rendezvous point near Libertalia, a shiver ran down X6-88's spine. He checked the involuntary reaction before it had run its course, but the arrival of a winged figure from on high was one that no amount of Institute training could have prepared him for.

They approached him leisurely, just as much at ease with their overt superiority as him - they with their enormous, feathered wings, he with his engineered deadliness and efficiency. "Do you like what you see?" they asked him, pausing to give the Courser a proud pose.

"Opinions are irrelevant to our mission today," X6-88 replied evenly.

"Oh, come on." The sole survivor leaned in and ran a hand up his shoulder. "All you Coursers do when I walk into a room is stare. The SRB has you trained well, it never feels impolite... but now that we're not surrounded by Institute walls, you can tell me what you're thinking. Is it admiration? Envy? Maybe a little fear?"

X6-88 desperately wanted to twitch, to shrug their hand away, but he relaxed his muscles and kept his face still. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Boo." The sole survivor took a step back, and a mild pout crossed their face. "No one in the Institute ever tells me their real thoughts. It's getting old."

BONUS!

Ada: "Where did you acquire your mobility upgrades?" Ada asked the sole survivor after they assisted her in fighting off the scrapbots and laying her caravan companions to rest.

"I don't actually know," the sole survivor answered, running a hand along their left wing's feathers. "I was frozen in a vault for two centuries, and I woke up with them. They've served me well, but I keep waiting for something to go wrong."

"Turing was always a little wobbly whenever Jackson tinkered with his jet thrusters," Ada recalled. "Zoe always made sure to run some maneuverability tests once Jackson was finished. I could help you conduct some of your own, if you are unsure of your upgrades' capabilities. It's the least I can do."

"Thanks." The sole survivor fed another branch to the fire and shifted on the stump they'd claimed as a chair. "More than anything, I'm worried about wiping out. Someday I might not be able to dodge a missile and I'll just go down and break a leg, or the wings themselves. And then I'll just be a sitting duck. I can fly okay to escape fights, but these are way too heavy to run with."

"Have you considered Stealth Boy technology?" Ada suggested. "Or an armor-integrated medic pump, in case of injury? There are plenty of pre-war military technologies that give you more control over such a scenario."

The sole survivor looked up. "Now there's an idea. Do you know where I might try to find those?"

"I know of a few spots that my caravan marked as places of interest."

Old Longfellow: Wings on a person weren't a common sight in Far Harbor, and of course the harbormen stared when the newcomer landed on the dock. Even Old Longfellow had himself a double take, when they first walked into the Last Plank looking for a guide to take them up to Acadia. But once you got past the initial shock, they looked like any other wastelander down on their luck. Their boots had holes in them, their clothes were bedraggled, and even their wings were in need of a good preen.

"They heavy?" Longfellow asked as they made their way up the road toward the observatory together.

"Heavier when it's wet." The sole survivor turned and grimaced at the appendages in question. "How long will this fog last, do you think?"

Longfellow laughed. "Long as time itself, I reckon. Some years it's manageable, some years it's worse. Never goes away completely."

He yelped in surprise when the wastelander's wings unfurled, shaking water everywhere. The last thing he saw before they shot straight up into the sky was their look of distaste.

They were back in a few minutes, gliding in to a less-than-graceful landing on the asphalt. "You weren't kidding," they gasped, chest heaving. "It... it never ends."

"Mm-hmm." Longfellow nodded. "Best to stick together, or you'll lose track of the ground. Crash straight into the surf like a drunken radgull."

The sole survivor smiled between their deep breaths. "Have you ever seen a radgull get drunk?"

"Once or twice. Not a pretty picture."

Porter Gage: The first time Porter Gage laid eyes on the scared wastelander, they had just shuffled off the shuttle from the Commonwealth into the Gauntlet. He could hardly believe what he was seeing, staring at the security cameras that tracked the progress of hapless adventurers - an ordinary mark, except for the wings they were lugging around like so much dead weight. He could only imagine what Colter was going to say, if they made it all the way to the bumper cars arena.

The Gauntlet was a narrow walk, with barely any room to spread your arms out, let alone a pair of wings as large as the ones the vault dweller was sporting. If that wasn't enough, the chain link fencing and barbed wire that the raiders had used to enshroud the outside sections was more than enough to discourage them from trying to take flight. By the time the newcomer made it to the final staging area, Gage was wondering if they even could fly, or if those wings were just for show.

Colter was thrilled, of course, and completely wrapped up in this latest symbol of his own might. It wasn't hard to slip the vault dweller the tip about the Thirst Zapper while the Overboss was hyping up the crowd, spewing shit about clipping the wings of God's angels himself. The Operators were making larger bets than they ever had, pulling out piles of caps and shouting over the crowd whether they backed the Overboss or the Angel, the Pack members present were claiming the winged intruder as an honorary member even if they were about to get their wings ripped off, and several of the Disciples were already begging to be the one who got to dissect the freak of nature when the dust had settled. Gage kept his mouth shut throughout, hoping against hope that his face didn't look too guilty.

He needn't have worried, though. Gage knew the fight was won the second the vault dweller burst from the locker room, a whirlwind of feathered wings and improvised weaponry. The crowd screamed, RedEye roared his approval, and Colter's laugh shook the arena. "Think you're some sort of messenger, some higher power? Ha!"

The wastelander smiled and pulled the Thirst Zapper from their belt. "The only message I bring is death, Overboss. And I'm here for you."

Elder Arthur Maxson: The Prydwen and its vertibirds had been the only things in the sky as the Brotherhood advanced north, or at least the only things that posed any kind of threat. Elder Arthur Maxson took to visiting the airship's forecastle during his free hours to watch the empty skyscrapers sweep by below them, to watch the radgulls wheel along the coast.

He made a point to be out there as the Prydwen approached the ruins of Boston, another broken metropolis on the horizon that held a sinister threat somewhere within it. The young Elder was looking over a rusty satellite dish array, deep in thought about the Institute's potential methods of concealment, when he was interrupted by a flapping noise and a thump on the grating behind him.

Maxson spun around. His eyes widened. Standing on the walkway was a wastelander in a vault suit and combat armor, unremarkable in appearance but for the feathered wings that stretched out at their sides, each one longer than he was tall. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" they demanded.

Maxson glanced around. No alarms had been sounded, no Knights had come onto the walkway. He was on his own. "Elder Arthur Maxson, leader of the East Coast Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel," he answered truthfully. "I believe we announced our intentions upon our approach."

The vault dweller scoffed. "'Do not interfere, our intentions are peaceful'? That tells me nothing. What are you doing in the Commonwealth that you don't want me to interfere with?"

"I am not inclined to give you that information so freely," Maxson countered. "For all I know, you could be an agent of those I seek to wage war upon."

"It's the Institute, isn't it?" The vault dweller folded their wings up and took a step forward. "You're after them, too."

Maxson hesitated. His eyes were drawn to the impossible instruments of flight that this wastelander was using. Not machine, but certainly not a product of nature, either. "Explain yourself, civilian. What exactly are you?"

The vault dweller folded their arms, too. "You first, Elder. I think we might share an enemy, but I've never heard of a Brotherhood of Steel."

Desdemona: The agents of the Railroad were full of theories about this vault dweller's arrival and what it might mean, but Desdemona paid them no mind. The last thing her organization needed now was more attention on itself, and a winged shadow over Boston was the least of their worries. They were still recovering from the losses at the Switchboard, still trying to move their cargo out of the region without attracting the attention of increasingly-common Courser and synth patrols, still trying to survive when most of the Commonwealth was against them.

So when the sole survivor knocked in the door of the tomb that sheltered HQ, Desdemona was furious. She didn't care about their reputation, their allies, the great wings that curled over their shoulders: She wanted to nail them to the catacomb wall with her railway rifle for their hubris. "Get out," she hissed, already mapping out the next place she could move her operations to. "Whatever you have to say is not worth the trouble you will cause us."

They had the audacity to look wounded, and the feathers on their back ruffled anxiously. "But I thought-"

Desdemona planted her feet and took aim. Drummer Boy and Glory followed her lead, but as usual, Deacon was on a different page. "Dez, give them a chance," he suggested. "They might surprise you."

"I hate surprises," Desdemona shot back, refusing to lower her gun. "If it were any other wastelander standing in front of me, I'd hear them out, but there is no way that someone as visible as them can bring us anything but grief."

The sole survivor raised their hands slowly. "Sure. I get it. I just thought that you were looking to help synths."

The tone they said it in was a familiar one. Desdemona's rifle faltered for a second. "You're a synth?"

"Um." The sole survivor jerked a thumb over their shoulder. "I don't think these come standard on most humans. My best guess is that I'm some kind of prototype. I know I attract a lot of attention and that's not how you work, but I still want to help."

Deacon looked smug, and Desdemona made a mental note to chew him out about withholding information from her later. "Are you vouching for them?" she demanded to know.

"Yes." Deacon crossed his arms. "Definitely."

"Then they're your problem." Desdemona dropped the nose of her rifle and turned, leaving the dusty circle of the entrance's spotlights. "And if I hear that any of our operations have been compromised because of your pet project's celebrity status, I will shoot them out of the sky myself."

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #companions react #sole survivor #12 days of ficmas #merry christmas

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loverontheleft · 7 months

Text

Strip Poker (revised)

Original request: ooo I have a suggestion. So what if b is hosting like a poker night or some sort of game night with his guy friends and the reader is bored watching so she pulls up a chair beside him and then starts messing with him under the table and gives him a hand job? Haha sorry if that’s stupid - O DAMN BUT WHAT IF poker turns into (totally consensual, all parties very much cool with it) strip poker which just makes b hot because he knows he’s the only one who actually gets to touch you, his friends might get to look at you, might even fantasize about you, but it’s his bed you’re in, and goddamn if he doesn’t wanna flaunt that fact occasionally

Brendon x reader.

Warnings: language, dirty talk, arguably public sex, voyeurism, sex.

Word count: 3.8k➡️8.6k

-||-

You’ve had a very long day shopping with your sister and her children at the mall, and while you love them, they’ve exhausted you. All you want now is to curl up in Brendon’s arms. He’s wonderful at taking your stress away just with his presence, plus you love his hands on your body. The way he strokes your hair, caresses your waist and holds you close, or just spoons you on your couch makes any tension melt away.

You can picture your evening now: the two of you intertwined on the couch, Sinatra playing in the background, a bottle of wine and whatever he’s made for dinner on the coffee table, and the way his kisses turn more urgent and his whispers more suggestive before he takes you to bed. You can practically feel his soft tongue working between your thighs and his hands all over you; Brendon gets you so hot and desperate for him, but he always delivers.

“Brendon, love, you home?” You enter your home from the garage, drop your purse on the kitchen island, and listen, head cocked to the side. Your gaze shifts; through the kitchen window, you can see that his car is in the circular driveway behind the house, along with several cars belonging to his friends. You can hear a low rumble of chatter from downstairs now, and you remember: Brendon’s hosting a game night in the lounge of your newly remodeled basement.

It’s a huge space; what used to be one massive unfinished area has been renovated into multiple rooms. The stairwell opens into the lounge and game room, which in turn connects to the hallway with its multiple doors: there’s the theater with a fully stocked wet bar and walk-in wine fridge, three guest suites, a soundproofed recording studio and office space, and, behind a double-locked door in the studio, is the only room that isn’t quite done yet—what Brendon playfully calls your sex dungeon.

It’s a dark, luxurious space, and while you both agree you didn’t really need a separate area designated for sex—because you regularly fuck all over the house—it’s still nice to have an ultra-private retreat that’s dedicated to each other’s pleasure. With the walk-in closet’s shelves for toys and accessories installed yesterday, you can finally start unpacking the dozens of packages strewn across the floor and actually organize the space. Brendon insisted on stocking the room with duplicates of all your favorite things, mostly because he didn’t want either of you to be searching for something, only to realize it was two floors away in your bedroom. Nothing, he’d said, would kill the mood more than pausing to walk up, and then back down, two flights of stairs.

The only thing that’s left to add is the furniture; the rope rigging is arriving in the next few days, and the bondage-friendly headboard and frame should be here within a week. Meanwhile, the California king mattress and box spring are on the floor, waiting more patiently than you. You’ve told him that he needs to be stretched and hydrated whenever the bed is officially assembled, because you will be dragging him to it and keeping him there for many orgasms. You’ve been fantasizing about being cuffed to the headboard while Brendon works you over with a paddle, and you know he’s game to act out any scenario you suggest once the bed is ready.

“B,” you call as you head down the stairs, beaming when you find your husband, Spencer, Zack, Jake, and Dallon gathered around the card table in the lounge. Brendon has a deck of cards in hand, and there’s several empty beer bottles on the table.

Brendon’s eyes light up when he sees you. “Hi, sweetness! You’re home!” He beckons you over, but quickly abandons the cards to meet you halfway as you cross the room. He scoops you up as you fling your arms around his neck; his hands curve under your thighs, and he kisses you longingly. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist and squealing a little when he moves to settle back in his chair with you in his lap.

“I’ve got you, my love. Don’t worry. So happy my sweet girl’s home,” he murmurs against your lips. You love when he holds you and uses his petnames for you around others; it’s just one of the ways he makes you feel special and brings a little intimacy to everything he does.

Once he’s seated comfortably with you straddling him, he kisses you deeply, his hands framing your face and tongue teasing yours, and you both ignore the reactions of his friends. They’re used to how affectionate you two are, and you’re used to their over-the-top responses. They always tease that you two are shameless, while Brendon always retorts that you’ve got no reason to be ashamed.

When he pulls away now, he strokes a thumb over your cheek tenderly while his eyes meet yours. “Damn, you are so beautiful, sweetheart. You had a good day? It’s late—did you all get lunch out? I’ll make dinner later if you’re not too hungry now. Or we can order in. Whatever you’re feeling. How’s your sister? The kids?”

You fill him in on your day, and he leans over to kiss you again, just as intently. “Sorry to pepper you with all the questions. I missed you today, babydoll. Now that this tour has been announced, I feel like I’ve got to take advantage of every moment I’ve got with you. Love you so much.”

You murmur it back to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re all breaking in the game table.” You turn to eye the pile of chips. “Poker?”

“We just now started another game. You want me to deal you in?”

“No, that’s okay; thank you though.” You snuggle in closer. You’d wanted alone time with him, but he’s great at making you feel special even in a crowded room, and you get along well with the guys. It’s a change from your anticipated evening, but not a bad one. And after all, they’ll go home eventually, so you can use this time now to work Brendon into a horny mess—you know he won’t mind. “I’ll just watch for now. You need another beer?” You twist in his lap to glance around the table. “Anyone need one?” The guys look at Brendon, and Brendon shrugs.

“If you’re buying.” He grins and swats your ass when you hop off of his lap, making you shriek with delight as you head for the small kitchen in the corner of the lounge.

“My love, I’ll always ‘buy’ for you.” You crack open the fridge, grab five bottles and return to place them squarely in the center of the table for everyone to grab. “As long as we keep the fridge stocked. But the next round will require a trip to the full bar in the theater, because this fridge is now empty. We should really think about putting a full bar in here too.”

Brendon murmurs that he’ll get the next round and talk to the contractor tomorrow, and then he pulls you down into his lap again, one arm draped over your waist with his other hand holding the cold bottle. You settle back against him happily as he kisses your cheek, but then realize you might be blocking his view. “Will you be able to play with me on top of you? I can pull up a chair,” you offer, and Brendon reluctantly nods.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he sighs. “As much as I love having you on top of me and in my lap, playing will require my full focus. I fear having you on me will draw my attention elsewhere, making me crave a different game—one for just me and my pretty girl.” He nuzzles your neck with this comment while his fingers stroke your waist.

Zack groans under his breath at the innuendo, and you grin, standing to grab another chair and dragging it to Brendon’s side. You might not need to do too much work to get him where you want him; his mind seems to be headed there already. “Oh, we’ll play later, don’t you worry. I’ll try not to be too distracting for now though,” you promise, leaning your head on his shoulder and resting your hand on his thigh.

-||-

“Shit,” Brendon groans, and Spencer chuckles, leaning forward to drag the pile of chips towards him. “I really thought that was a good hand.”

“It was a good hand,” Spencer concedes. “Mine was just better.”

“Fair enough.”

You rub your husband’s upper thigh soothingly. Zack and Dallon both folded in the second round, while Jake and Brendon both pressed onward enthusiastically, only to fall short of Spencer’s straight flush.

“Sweet baby, that feels so good,” Brendon murmurs against your hair as he turns to kiss the top of your head. You smile, slipping your hand up higher, pinky pressing along his zipper. You know he can feel it, because he inhales sharply, coughing to cover it up.

“Just doing my wifely duty to cheer you up,” you reply softly, eyes closed as you move closer and adjust your hand to cup him fully. He knows how much you like to tease, and you know how much he likes you to tease him. “Is it working?”

“Oh baby, you know it is. Alright, Dallon,” he sighs. “Deal.”

-||-

“Read it and weep, boys; read it and weep,” Brendon declares, showing his hand, and the others swear as they realize he’s got a royal flush. “You,” he declares, pulling you in for a long kiss, “are my good luck charm.”

You grin against his mouth. “So now would be a bad time to ask to be dealt in?”

He groans, and you laugh, speaking quickly to reassure him. “I’m just kidding; I’m happy to stay arm candy and your good luck charm.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “You’re so much more than just arm candy or a lucky charm. And you’re more than welcome to play. Double our odds of winning.” You nod, standing to retrieve another round of beers for the table, and you’re considering a glass of wine for yourself.

“Wait,” Brendon protests, standing after you and catching your hand. Your fingers now interlocked, he pulls you close. “I said I’d get the next round.” He seems to read your mind, because he adds, “and I’ll get you a glass of wine, doll. That case of the 2011 Malbec you like so much was delivered earlier. But feel free to walk with me; I love your company, and I’ll need help carrying everything.”

You give him a quizzical look, because you have no idea what wine he’s talking about. Instead of giving any clarification though, Brendon just wraps an arm around your waist as he walks you out of view of the table and down the hall.

In the back of the darkened theater, he grabs you by the hips, lifts you easily up onto the bar counter, presses a quick kiss to your lips, and then whirls around to grab more beer from the fridge. “Don’t move, babydoll. I’ll be right back. Let me just get them their beers first, so they don’t come looking and interrupt us.”

“Interrupt us?”

Instead of replying, Brendon winks at you and disappears back to the lounge where the guys are waiting. When he returns moments later, he moves with purpose towards you and captures your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.

“Thank god this is what you meant,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist and grinding against his growing erection. “Need you, B. Missed you so much today. I fucking need my man. You promise they won’t interrupt?”

His hands are in your hair, his tongue is exploring your mouth, and he groans your name when you scratch at his back longingly, begging for his fingers. “They won’t interrupt if we don’t take too long, so we don’t have much time,” Brendon murmurs, sliding a hand down the front of your leggings. “My best girl, always so damn wet for me.”

“Always,” you whimper, rubbing against his fingers desperately. “God, I’ve needed this so badly. Want to come all over your hand, fuck!”

Brendon nods and curls his fingers, smiling into the kiss when you whine. “That’s it, baby. All over my hand. Grind on your husband’s fingers; let me feel your pussy when you come for me. You gonna come on my fingers, all hot and wet? Wish I could lick and suck your clit, get you coming on my face and tongue, but—shit, you like that? Can feel how wet that made you. Yeah, you love the dirty talk, don’t you? Be my dirty girl and come on my fingers; let me lick them clean. Want to taste my girl.”

He hisses in a blend of pleasure and pain; you’ve dragged your nails down his back and are biting at his lower lip as you come. You’d apologize, but you know he loves the pain. Your thighs are tense around his hand, and you’re trembling from the way Brendon’s got his fingers still curled and flexing. When you finally go limp and are left clinging to him, Brendon slips his hand from your panties and slides two fingers into his mouth. He winks at you playfully as he shows you his tongue twisting around them, and you groan, scratching at his chest.

“That’s not fair,” you whine, making him laugh. “Don’t tease. My underwear is already soaked.”

Brendon raises one eyebrow, but chooses to say nothing as he finishes sucking his fingers clean. Instead, he helps you slide off the bar and holds you close for a long moment. You relish his warmth and the firm pressure of his body against yours; you’re already fantasizing about getting him alone after the guys leave.

He seems to share your thoughts, pressing his lips to your temple and promising you can have him soon. His hips rock forward a little, letting you feel how hard he is for you. “Soon,” he repeats. With that, he adjusts his erection in an attempt to hide it a bit better, ducks into the walk-in wine cellar, grabs a bottle to pour you a large glass of wine, and leads you back to the lounge.

-||-

You eye the pair of cards you’ve been dealt and consider, glancing at the three community cards. “Call,” you finally declare, nodding at Brendon, and he looks at you with interest as your other hand slips over the bulge in his jeans. He pushes more chips into the center for you, and Jake raises his eyebrows.

“Why are you handling all the chips, Brendon? It’s your wife’s bet.”

Brendon grins, saying nothing; his hips rock ever so slightly when you squeeze. “Y’all are probably being gross. We should do a hand check,” Jake muses and calls as well. You wonder if he has any idea of how right he is. They can all almost certainly see your arm disappearing under the table at an angle, clearly reaching toward Brendon’s lap. One thing you don’t miss about touring is the spontaneous ‘hand checks’ the band implements for you two; the ones that inevitably mean Brendon slipping his fingers from you or you releasing his cock during movie nights and any other group activities on the bus where you can get cuddled up together under a blanket. Fortunately, Jake seems to be kidding for now.

Zack calls too before standing to go to the bathroom, and you know now is your chance. Once the toilet flushes, you quickly unzip Brendon’s jeans under cover of the sound. He glances over at you, and you smile innocently, wrapping your hand around his length through his boxers. Brendon’s hips raise ever so slightly; you can tell he’s enjoying your touch.

Spencer deals the final community card, making you laugh merrily. “That’s a little scary,” Dallon comments, and you give him a wide grin. “That’s not helping. Okay; two pairs,” he states, sounding only somewhat confident.

Jake tips his cards. “Three of a kind.”

Zack laughs grimly. “Three of a kind.”

Brendon looks at you, and you look back; your fingers tighten a little, and you raise an eyebrow. He caves. “Flush.”

You smirk, stroking a hand over his cock to ease the blow. “Four of a kind, gentlemen.”

-||-

At Brendon’s nod, Zack has made a trip to the bar and returned with a large bottle of Jack Daniels and a single can of Coke. That round of strong drinks, plus your glass of wine and the men’s multiple beers, means you’re all more than a little tipsy. Brendon is leaning back in his seat; you’ve worked your hand into his boxers and are stroking a little faster. It’s probably the liquor’s influence, but you’re not worried about the rest of them seeing anything. Honestly, they’ve all been on tour with Brendon, which means, even with their hand checks, they’ve seen much dirtier behavior from you two than a handjob under a table.

Jake and Dallon once found the two of you contorted around each other in an empty storage closet, Brendon’s hand down your leggings as he loudly encouraged you to come on his fingers.

You’re positive they also witnessed The Germany Incident, in which Brendon had been laying naked on a green room couch with you, also naked, reclining against his chest in his arms and on his cock. He’d been fucking you with deep, urgent thrusts; you had your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder while he used one hand to tease your breasts and had the other stroking over your clit while he worked his cock into your wet cunt from beneath you.

You can still hear his voice, telling you to use your man, use his cock, come all over it, all over him, just let go, really soak him and the couch. He’d pinched a nipple then with wet fingers, making you squeal and cling to his arms. It only became an ‘Incident’ with a capital ‘I’ because you’d come hard and promptly lost consciousness—you later blamed the intensity of the orgasm, but also sleep deprivation from travel, plus some mild dehydration.

At the time though, Brendon had naturally freaked out when you went limp on top of him after shrieking his name, and—according to Brendon’s recollection of the Incident—Jake and Dallon had been there almost immediately to help get water, ice packs, and whatever else Brendon could think of—before he’d even had a chance to call for help.

When you’d regained consciousness, you were laid out on the couch, still naked but covered in a fleece blanket from the merch table with an ice pack wrapped in a t-shirt on your forehead. Brendon had tugged on sweatpants and was seated on the floor by your head stroking your hair, and Jake and Dallon hovered in the background. For the rest of the tour, neither could look at you without flushing deep red.

In hindsight, Brendon admitted, they’d probably been watching from the cracked doorway that had a direct line of sight to the couch. This had made you laugh; you’d kissed him hard and agreed that seeing you sprawled on top of him, legs spread wide while he fucked you desperately, noisily from underneath almost certainly had something to do with their awkward behavior.

As for Spencer, he'd walked in on Brendon eating you out in a dressing room post-show. You’d dragged your husband back there, begging for his tongue, and he’d dropped to his knees without hesitation. Leaning against the wall and hitching your dress up, you rolled your hips forward; Brendon had taken the invitation readily. The tip of his tongue on your clit with two fingers thrusting and spreading and curling in you had driven you wild.

You hadn’t seen him in six weeks at that point, and you were climbing the walls with desire. He’d been on edge too: you heard the zipper of his pants followed by the urgent sound of his hand stroking over his cock. Your eyes were closed in bliss, one hand cradling his head as he worked his tongue over you, and the other reaching down to spread yourself for him with two fingers.

Your eyes were still squeezed shut as you came with a sharp cry, your hips bucking and back arched off the wall; Brendon, his face still buried in your pussy and tongue moving frantically, let out a desperate groan that told you he’d just come all over his hand. At that exact moment, you heard the door open, followed by a low swear and the door slamming shut again. The only way you and Brendon knew it’d been Spencer was the set of drumsticks on the floor.

You can’t even pick the filthiest moment Zack has witnessed in your relationship. He’s found you both in various and complete states of undress in bus bunks, hotel rooms, showers, dressing rooms, elevators, cars, and, on one memorable occasion, an inflated lifeboat on a friend’s yacht.

Brendon had been on top of you, his swimsuit tugged down in the front just enough to get his cock out, and he’d pulled your bikini bottoms to the side so he could fill you. You can still hear the urgent squeak of the rubber and Brendon panting over you, telling you how badly he needed to feel you come for him. His low groan in your ear after you came and he finally spilled into you is still one of your favorite sounds. You didn’t love hearing Zack swear when he came around the corner and then mutter, “you fucking perverts,” but Brendon laughing in that exhausted, post-orgasm way of his and rolling off of you to bury his face in your neck is always fantastic, no matter the circumstances.

Now though, here in your basement, they all might get a live and up-close viewing of Brendon coming all over your hand. It’s not ideal, but you have no intention of stopping, of leaving your husband throbbing and in need of release. Brendon bites his lip, and you’re not sure if he’s close or if he’s just reacting to the newest community card. His hips are twitching though, and he’s giving you a long look, as if to ask, ‘how?,’ and also, just as important, ‘where?’

These are things you hadn’t considered when you started this little tease. You really can’t make him come like this; he’s wearing a dark shirt, and the way he’s slightly sunken down in his chair means he’d definitely come all over his chest. You’re pretty sure it has to be in your mouth. Not that you mind—you love swallowing for him. It’s just the logistics of your current situation.

You briefly consider dropping your phone and crawling under the table to let him finish in your mouth, but there’s a few problems with that. It would probably take too long, Brendon probably wouldn’t be able to keep silent, he definitely wouldn’t be able to maintain a neutral face, and it would just generally arouse his friends’ suspicions. Although, and you glance around the table, you can get rid of them temporarily by appealing to their stomachs.

“Jake, I got that French onion dip you really liked,” you say, trying to control your voice. “You and Dallon should head upstairs and get it. I’m too tipsy to try the stairs.” They nod and stand, and you smile to yourself.

“Zack,” Brendon mumbles, his eyes locked on yours, “will you show Spencer the list of new tour locations? They’ve added a few since we last talked. The complete schedule is in my office.” Zack gives him a confused look but nods, and he and Spencer head down the hallway to Brendon’s office and studio.

As their footsteps fade, you slip out of your chair and under the table. Brendon shoves his jeans and boxers down his thighs, groaning and coming the moment your mouth closes over him. “Jesus fuck, that’s it; swallow for me, babydoll,” he grunts, both hands in your hair as you suck greedily; your head is bobbing as you take him deeper and swallow happily. “This is exactly what I needed; goddamn, my gorgeous wife sucking my cock—making me come, yes, that’s it, swallow, honey—fuck, you make me come so hard; that’s all for you—my cock is all for you, it’s all fucking yours. God, you’d better believe I’m gonna eat your pussy later til you’re screaming my name; I need to get your sweet cunt all over my face before I fuck you the way you deserve.”

You can feel his hips tense as he finishes—he’s fighting the urge to thrust in between your lips. Normally you’d gladly let him fuck your mouth since that’s a good way for him to get hard again, but you both know you just don’t have the time. The guys could be back any moment.

Instead, Brendon’s petting your hair and breathing hard; you’re still between his legs, tongue softly licking him clean and your hand stroking his length gently when you hear footsteps.

“Shit,” you hiss, pulling off of him. Zack and Spencer come back just as Dallon and Jake come downstairs with bowls of chips and dip. You crawl out from under the table while Brendon tries to catch his breath. His friends stare between you down on your knees and Brendon, with his head tipped back, his eyes closed, face flushed, and his lips slightly parted. In your mind, it’s pretty obvious what’s just happened, but your pride requires an attempt at a coverup. “I dropped my phone,” you offer casually, wiping at your lower lip with your thumb.

“It’s on the table,” Zack points out dryly, and you shrug.

“Whoops. I’m drunker than I thought. Could’ve sworn I dropped it.”

“Where were we?” Brendon asks the question loudly to distract the group, and they settle back in their chairs, picking up their cards. “Spencer, I think it’s your turn to act on this round.”

He folds, and Zack deals the last card. It’s your turn; you fold. Brendon and Jake eye each other. Brendon ultimately folds too, and Jake turns his attention to Zack, who tips his hand. Three of a kind. Jake sighs and shoves the pile of poker chips to Zack before downing the rest of his drink. You stand and grab the bottle of whiskey, refilling the drinks in front of each of you.

-||-

“Dammit,” You swear as Brendon flips the fourth card. “Shouldn’t have folded.”

Brendon grins and eyes you. “You know,” he drawls, “you can get back in. For a price.” You arch an eyebrow, and he laughs. “Piece of clothing…or a truth. No dares when we’re this tipsy.”

Jake leans forward, rubbing his hands. “Strip poker; excellent.”

Zack snorts, while Dallon sits back in his chair and says nothing, but his eyes are bright. Spencer nudges Jake hard and looks between you and Brendon, who shakes his head a little, clearly amused by the silent conversation happening between the guys.

“I’m not opposed,” Spencer finally says. “I just don’t want…anyone to feel uncomfortable.” He’s clearly offering this to you; Dallon and Zack agree. You shrug, telling Brendon he plays dirty while tugging your hair tie out and freeing your ponytail.

He leans over and ruffles your hair affectionately. “You love when we get dirty together, doll. The hair tie will work to get back in for this round, but just know that if you lose…you owe another piece.” He looks at the rest of the group. “Are we doing all losers or just the lowest hand?”

You scoff. “All losers.”

Zack laughs. “You’re feeling confident, aren’t you?” You nod smugly as Brendon flips the fifth card. Spencer doesn’t react, Jake calls, you call, and Dallon and Zack both check. Brendon studies his hand, your face, and the community cards before calling as well.

Dallon and Zack both have two pairs, while Spencer sits comfortably with his three of a kind. Jake reveals his flush and you grin, showing off your full house. Brendon shakes his head with a smile. “Sorry, sweetness.”

He drops his cards to show his four of a kind. “You can take the truth if you want,” he offers casually, and you glance at him.

“Do you want me to take the truth?” You’re pretty sure you know the answer, but Brendon appears to consider the question as he takes a long sip of his drink.

“If you’re comfortable stripping, then I’m comfortable with you stripping.” He looks at you meaningfully as he sets the glass down, and you nod. You knew he’d say that. What’s left unspoken is that he knows his friends won’t be able to keep their eyes off of you; you both know that the possessive part of him loves when others can’t stop staring at you.

You both also know it’s a little backward, but you love knowing that they’ll look at you, think about you, and even want you —yet, ultimately, everyone at this table understands he’s the only one you’ll take to bed; he’s the only one you’ll ever want. You pull your cardigan off, letting it hit the floor.

The other guys are more modest and each sacrifice a sock, and you roll your eyes. “You’re all lame.”

Brendon laughs, leaning back in his seat. “They’re just starting slow because they know it’s gonna get a whole lot worse for them. Like you with that hair tie.” He throws a glance at you. “But someone feels confident—going right for the cardigan, hmmm?”

You nod, accepting the two cards you’re dealt and wait patiently.

-||-

“Take it off, baby!” You giggle, helping Brendon get his shirt off before standing and wriggling out of your tank top to reveal your blue lace push-up bra. If the guys notice Brendon’s jeans are still unzipped and half-open from your interlude under the table, they don’t comment on it.

“I don’t even mind losing, because you’re getting naked with me,” you say, reaching out to stroke his bare chest while he traces a finger over your bra strap.

“Gross,” Zack deadpans, crossing his arms. He’s won this round, while Jake has lost his other sock at this point, Spencer too, and the rest of you are shirtless. Brendon is gazing at you steadily over the edge of his drink, and you wonder what he’s thinking. Fortunately, you don’t have to wait long.

He sets his drink down and turns to Zack. “You’re just jealous,” Brendon tells him with a smile, and Zack grins, shaking his head. “You don’t have to admit it; I already know. Everything my wife brings to the table and she looks like this? Fuck, just look at my girl. We don’t mind you guys looking. How could you resist? She’s fucking gorgeous.”

You stretch and preen under Brendon’s praise, and he watches you hungrily. “Yeah,” you murmur, “you can look all you want—just remember I’m all his.”

Brendon finishes your sentence. “And more importantly, I’m all hers, which makes me the luckiest guy at this table.”

He beckons you into his lap, cupping your face as you straddle him. “I can’t even say I lost this last round when you’re on me like this,” he murmurs while he draws you in for a deep kiss. You return the kiss eagerly, moaning into his mouth when his fingers start caressing your breasts. “Can’t ever lose when I’ve got my girl half-undressed and on top of me, rubbing against my—shit, guys, go get more beer. I need a minute with my wife.”

“Only one minute?” Dallon teases in a slightly strained voice, but Brendon is already kissing you again, one hand working its way into your bra and the other grabbing at your ass to keep you moving on top of him.

“Go away,” you moan, grinding down against Brendon urgently while flinging a hand at Dallon and the rest of them. “Go get beer or something, and then count to three hundred.”

“You heard the lady,” Brendon mumbles, rocking his hips up to press his cock into you. “My wife needs five minutes with me.”

You hear their chairs push back, and you rise up high onto your knees above Brendon’s lap once they’re gone.

“You’ve got me alone for the next five minutes. Now what?”

“Now I make my girl come.”

Brendon slides a hand down the front of your leggings. “Fuck, your panties match this bra, don’t they? Can feel the soft lace; wanna get you out of them with my teeth and then lick your clit until you come on my tongue.”

“We have like four minutes left,” you murmur, rocking back and forth on his hand urgently. “You know I want you to eat me out, but we’re running out of time.”

“Grind on my cock then, babydoll; come on your man, get off from rubbing your wet pussy all over me. God, but what I wouldn’t do to get my cock in your perfect cunt right now and feel you lose control.”

He slips his fingers from you; you’re moaning loudly into the embrace, tugging at his hair, and pressing down onto his cock throbbing under you. It feels so good, but you both know that in order to come the way you both want to come, you need to really ride him. “Need you in me,” you groan, and Brendon nods desperately, telling you to do it, take whatever you need, he’s yours. His jeans are still open from earlier; it’s easy to grasp his cock and pull him free. You consider just shoving your leggings down slightly, but you know you won’t be able to straddle him as long as you’re dressed. Instead, you slide your leggings and underwear off fully.

Finally, you spread your legs over him again and, grabbing his cock to press it against your pussy, you sink down onto him. You gasp, tossing your head back as you take him inside you, whining as you settle in his lap. You can feel every inch of his cock, and it’s creating the perfect amount of pressure. Moving urgently, desperately, you grip his shoulders. “Bren, tell me—”

“Fuck yes; you’re so damn hot. That’s it, ride my cock, you’re my best, dirtiest—”

He’s cut off by Dallon yelling from down the hall that you have two minutes left.

You’re both breathing hard. “Running out of time,” Brendon groans. “Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.” Order given, Brendon buries his face in your cleavage, licking and suckling at the exposed skin. You know you both need more, so you abandon his shoulders to shove your bra cups down. Your nipples now exposed, you gasp happily when he closes his mouth over one and starts rolling it with his tongue.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” you whine, grinding down against the base of his cock while he thrusts up into you. “Shit I’m close; right there, give it to me just like—give me your cock, yes, Brendon yes! Fuck me, oh shit, oh fuck I’m—Bren, now!”

He sucks hard at your nipple, and you shriek, tugging his hair and riding out your climax.

“Oh fuck,” you groan, still moving on him as you come back to full awareness. “God, you’re so hard—you gonna come in me, B?”

“Could,” Brendon grunts, gripping your ass with both hands. “Just need—fuck, a little bit more t—”

“Time’s up,” Zack yells, and you both groan. Brendon rests his forehead against yours and lifts you off of his cock. You make a small sound of protest, but you know it’s no use. Brendon gives you a longing look, and you know he’s just as disappointed as you are. You love when your husband makes you come, but you’d always rather come together. “Fix your clothes, you freaks,” Zack adds. “We’re coming back.”

Exhausted, you guide your bra back into place, slide out of Brendon’s lap, and tug your underwear and leggings on. Before you can get both up over your hips, Brendon slips a hand down between your thighs and moans low in the back of his throat. He loves feeling you after you’ve come for him, loves getting you sprawled out in bed so he can explore your body and see all the different reactions he can coax from you post-orgasm. You both know Zack means it though, and you don’t have the time.

Brendon pulls his hand back, you get your clothes back on, and you curl into his side, nuzzling his bare shoulder. He drapes an arm around you, kissing the top of your head affectionately. “To be continued, sweet baby,” Brendon promises in a low voice before sucking his fingers clean.

The guys walk back in, and Brendon gives them a not-entirely-playfully dirty look. “You guys are the worst. Not even a little grace period?”

They pile back into their chairs, and Dallon shrugs. “She came, didn’t she? What else was there to do?”

You roll your eyes and lean on Brendon’s shoulder, fingers grazing over his cock slowly. You love the way he throbs at your touch. “She could’ve gotten her husband off too,” you tell Dallon, who mimes gagging. “He was close, and you all cock-blocked him. But I’ll take care of my man later. Now,” and you direct this at Spencer, “it’s your turn to deal.”

-||-

You glance at the two cards on the table and wait. You don’t really want to fold, but you don’t have a good feeling. Sure enough, you end up with one pair; you sigh, going for the waistband of your leggings. Brendon’s eyes flit between your face and the delta of your thighs, and it dawns on you.

You can feel how wet your lace panties are, which means the guys would probably see how wet you are through them. That’s a little more than you want them to get right now. You make the decision. “I think I’ll opt to answer a question. Does Spencer get to ask it because he won this round?”

Spencer glances around the table, unsure of what to ask. “I yield the floor,” he jokes, and Dallon leans forward to claim the question.

“What were you really doing under the table when we came back downstairs with the snacks? We know you didn’t drop your phone.”

You exchange looks with Brendon, who just grins and shrugs a little. You take it as permission. “Sucking my husband’s cock,” you say casually, and Jake chokes on his drink. Brendon starts laughing, and Dallon points out that Brendon didn’t actually need to come during your five-minute interlude earlier, since you’d already gotten him off.

“I knew it,” Zack says triumphantly, prompting questioning looks from both you and Brendon. “I mean, I suspected. I didn’t know for sure, obviously. Although you did crawl out from under the table, wiping your mouth with that smug smile.”

Brendon keeps laughing and pulls you closer. “I need another, stronger drink,” you tell him, and he nods decisively. “Shots. Tequila, probably,” you add, and he grins, gesturing for everyone to follow him to the bar.

Once in the theater, he situates himself behind the bar, grabbing a selection of shot glasses, a bottle of tequila, and pouring across the glasses.

“Come and get ‘em,” he announces, and everyone reaches for one. The tequila leaves a warm trail down your throat, and you each set your glass down in front of Brendon. “Another?”

When you all nod, he fills them and his own again. You reach for yours, and he shakes his head. “No ma’am,” he says with a teasing finger wag. There’s a longing look in his eyes, and you think you know where his head is at. “You have to earn your second one. Hop up.”

You know exactly what he wants, and you love it. Doing body shots off of each other reminds you of being on tour with him in the early days: sneaking around, fucking in dressing rooms, and generally partying without any care for the consequences. Just as in love, just as wild about each other, but even more uninhibited and reckless in the best ways.

You accept his hand and lay yourself flat out on the bar, smiling up at him. His eyes roam over your body. “Jesus,” he sighs, taking you in with hungry eyes. “You’re so damn pretty, doll. I’m so fucking lucky to be yours.” With that, he reaches for your waist, and you know what’s coming next. If he’s okay with it, you are too. You both like showing off.

Brendon guides your leggings down, revealing your very wet underwear. You glance around the room in amusement. It’s just like being on tour: Zack and Spencer are taking another shot and studying the ceiling, clearly trying not to notice the way your leggings hit the floor, while Jake and Dallon are both openly watching Brendon’s fingers tease your skin.

“Don’t move,” Brendon warns you now, moving the waistband of your underwear down just a little to lick the newly exposed skin between your hip bones.

“Fuck, I love your mouth,” you whisper, squirming. Brendon winks, grabs the salt shaker, and sprinkles the coarse salt onto you, nodding decisively when it sticks to the wet path he’s left with his tongue. You reach down to your side for a lime wedge, placing it between your teeth.

“Don’t shiver and make a mess.” He maintains eye contact with you as he pours the shot onto your stomach.

“Fuck,” you hiss, and his tongue scoops up the salt, his lips suck up the tequila, and his teeth snap at the lime, sucking hard to tug it out of your mouth. Lime sucked and discarded, Brendon’s lips are back on yours, and he’s kissing you desperately. The combined taste of residual tequila and Brendon’s mouth has your head spinning.

“You earned your second shot,” he murmurs, but you’re not interested in just taking the shot.

“Let me take it off you,” you beg, sliding your legs to the side and finding your footing. Brendon grins, tucking your full shot glass into the waistband of his jeans while leaning against the bar.

“Should’ve known my baby would’ve wanted to get her mouth on me.”

“Damn right.” You lick greedily at his collarbone, pour the salt, and pop the lime wedge in his mouth. “You ready?” You hope he is, because you’re ready to make a scene. The two of you perfected the upright body shot during his Vices tour, and even though it’s been a few years, you know you’ve still got it. Even Zack and Spencer are watching you closely now.

Brendon nods, and you run your tongue back over his collarbone before moving down his body, lips closing over the shot glass and pulling it out of his pants, knocking your head back sharply to take the shot. You drop to your knees in front of him and, finally using your hands, set the glass aside. For the last step, you grab his waistband to bring him to his knees too, so you can seize the lime from his mouth.

“Well shit,” Jake breathes, and Brendon laughs, tugging you close and kissing you deeply. He rocks back off his knees and sits, his fingers running through your hair, and you need him.

“More,” you insist, crawling into his lap, rubbing against him. His hard cock is pressing into you through his jeans, and grinding on him in just your underwear is creating amazing friction. “Get your pants off entirely, B. Let me ride you again, get you coming in my hot, wet cu—”

“Audience,” Spencer interrupts, and you groan, pulling your mouth back.

Brendon is breathing hard, eyes dark and locked on you. “I’m gonna kick our audience out so I can fuck you,” he tells you, ignoring the fact that your audience is present and listening. “Poker night is over; I’ll see you guys later,” he mumbles in their direction without breaking his gaze with you, and they head for the stairs.

“Make good choices,” Zack calls, and Brendon flips him off without looking as he kisses you again.

“Once they’re out of here, you’re mine,” he tells you, and you rock your hips against his.

“I’m always yours,” you remind him and he nods, grasping your hair and tilting your head back gently so he can kiss your neck. “Bren, your mouth feels so good, need you to bite my neck while you fill my cunt; give me all your cum,” you moan, admittedly louder than you intended, and Dallon yells back that they’re still in the house. “Whoops,” you giggle, and Brendon grabs your ass, nipping at your skin.

“Bad girl,” he teases in a low voice. “Letting our friends hear you.” Your eyes flutter closed as his lips move over your neck and down to the swell of your breasts in the push-up lace. “They were so damn turned on by you,” he whispers, running a hand up your side to pinch one of your nipples lightly. “Blowing me under the table, sending them away so you could get off on my cock, letting me lick you all over in front of them, watching you drop to your knees for me…fuck babydoll, they’ll never admit it, but they are so hot for you. Their wives and girlfriends are in for such a good fuck when they get home.”

“God, Brendon…you like your friends getting all horny from me?” You’re murmuring this in his ear as you snake a hand down the front of his boxers. He groans, and you grasp his cock, jerking him off slowly with one hand while the other shoves at his jeans. “You like that, B?”

“Yeah, fucking love it. Love letting them see how goddamn sexy you are, letting them see exactly why I’m so fucking wild about you. Letting them see how I’m wrapped around your finger, completely yours—you’re the only one who gets me, and I’m the only one who gets you.” He moves to your mouth and lets his tongue explore before pulling back. “I don’t quite remember when, except that you were in the bathroom— but Jake leaned over and asked how good of a girl you really are.”

You arch an eyebrow in question, and Brendon smirks. “I told them you let me fuck you any and every day, in any and every way I want, and you don’t just let me; you positively beg for it. You say my name so sweetly when you come and then you plead with me to come in you.” While the possessive part of him loves others getting turned on by you, the possessive part of you loves when he brags about your sex life.

His fingers slip down between your bodies, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are. “And you get so damn wet for me; you really want me to fuck you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper urgently, bucking against his fingers. “Give it to me, Brendon. Fingers, tongue, cock. Anything, just give it to me.” He brushes a hand over the side of your face.

“And you beg so nicely too,” he comments, rocking up on his knees a little bit to shove his jeans down further, arm tightening around you so you won’t slip backwards. “Slide your panties to the side, honey, and ride my cock, bounce on it like we love.” You obey, body quaking when he’s fully in you. “That’s my best girl,” he groans quietly, unsnapping your bra as you work yourself along his length. “Love watching your tits move while you take my cock.”

“Brendon, you feel so good,” you whimper, and he bites your earlobe. You love being on top, because you can control the exact pace and angle; you can make sure his cock presses right where you want and guarantee you’ll come hard. Plus, the look on his face is always incredible—you love knowing he’s feeling that good just from having you on him. However, sometimes you really want him to take charge and take you.

“Want you to fuck me, B.” He nods, understanding. He curves over you with a hand pressed to the small of your back so you’re lowered gently to the carpet and he’s above you. Your hips are still twitching against his, and he kisses you hard.

“Let me take care of you.” He grabs one of your thighs and lifts it over his hip so he can fill you at a sharper angle. His hair has fallen into his eyes and he flips it out of the way, fucking you quickly with short, rough strokes. “You feel fucking incredible,” Brendon whispers, closing his eyes for a moment, relishing the way you meet his thrusts.

You’re breathing hard, panting, and your fingers are digging into his shoulders. “Incredible,” you echo, desperate for more. “Make me come,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Rub my clit and make me come.”

“Not yet,” he groans, taking both of your hands and pushing them over your head. He’s leaning over you, forehead to forehead, and you arch to kiss him. It’s sloppy and dirty, your tongues teasing and moving together, but neither of you are complaining. “You know,” he pauses to grunt sharply when you contract around him, “fuck, your sweet cunt—you know I like to come together. But I’m so close, babydoll; give me a few more moments, and I’ll come for you.”

“Brendon, I want you to come in me.” The words are plain, and you’ve said them before because you always get the same result. He gasps, his rhythm faltering. “Come in me, just let go and come inside your wife.”

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, thumb rubbing your clit gently until you grab his hand and apply more pressure. “Oh god, baby, I’m gonna—”

“Fuck Brendon, I—”

“Fuck, fuck, fu—gonna take it all?”

“Yes, fuck yeah, I need it, gimme that hot cum, oh my god, oh— fuck!”

“You want me to give your pussy all my cum? You want it filling your cunt, a hot, slick reminder of who fucks you best?”

“Oh fu—you fuck me best; oh shit, only ever you—god, Bren, fuck my pussy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, yes, give it to me, B, fuck! Right th—oh—!”

“Coming,” Brendon finally gasps in your ear, and you let yourself go with a sharp cry as he comes, fast and hot. The heat spreads through you, and you moan, clutching his back and clenching around him. Your entire body is quivering, and his hips move in little spasms as your pussy milks his climax from him.

“I can’t—Jesus, Brendon. I can’t stop— you’re the only one who—makes me come like—” you kiss him, and he lashes his thumb over your clit. “Again; oh God, oh Brendon, baby, yes, yes, yes!”

“That’s my girl,” he whispers against your lips while you thrash under his touch. “I love watching you come,” he tells you and you tremble, coming down from your high. “You’re so beautiful.”

“The same to you,” you say with a grin, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath while running your hand through his hair. “Love you, Brendon. So much.”

“Love you too, babydoll. So fucking much.” He pulls out of you, groaning your name. “I’m gonna take you upstairs now, and we’re gonna take a hot bath.”

“Mmmmm,” you purr, tracing a finger down his chest. “And then what?”

“Then, tomorrow I’m going to call the contractor to have them add a whirlpool tub to our sex dungeon bathroom so we can clean up and relax there after.”

You raise an eyebrow, and he laughs, gesturing between your bodies. “Want to be able to drag my wife right to the tub after I fill her up with cum and make her soak my cock. Stairs sound miserable.”

“Agreed,” you murmur, clinging to him. “But while you’re on the phone with the—”

“Don’t worry, love,” Brendon whispers against your forehead as he presses a gentle kiss there. “I’ll also mention the full wet bar in the lounge, because that was a great, highly necessary idea. Even if it means we won’t be able to send the guys out of the room or sneak away under the pretense of getting alcohol.”

“No pretense needed. I’ll just tell them I want to ride your dick and I don’t want them to watch, so they need to go amuse themselves in the theatre for ten minutes. As we’ve learned, five isn’t enough.”

Brendon smiles down at you. “My best, dirty girl,” he teases. “So clever. But tonight, after this bath upstairs, I’m going to tease you by licking and sucking every inch of you except your pussy, until you beg for my tongue. And then, I’ll eat you out til you can’t say anything but my name. Once I’ve made you come a few times with my mouth and we’ve made out with the sweet taste of your cunt on my tongue, I’m gonna get you on your hands and knees, so I can give you my cock from behind, just like you like it.”

You whimper, clinging to him and nodding. Brendon strokes a hand over your hair, murmuring, “I know you love feeling me fill you like that, slamming my hips into your ass, working my cock deep into you, rubbing your clit with two fingers and making you lose control.” His soft voice is a contrast to the explicit words, and you love it. “What do you think of my plan, pretty girl?”

“I think you’re the smartest, sexiest, best man I could ever ask for, and I’ll come up with some very explicit ways to thank you for your hard work and generosity.”

“That’s all I ask, babydoll.” Brendon kisses you softly before nuzzling your neck and scooping you up. “Now, let’s head upstairs.”

#brendon urie #my work #brendon urie smut #brendon urie imagine #brendon x reader #fanfic #imagine #brendon urie fanfiction #panic! at the disco #he could fuck me any way he wanted #loverontheleft #my work revised

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