For funsies a few years ago, I wrote some smutty fanfiction in homage to The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Now I’m playing Fallout 4 and I’m inspired again.
Do not read if offended by erotica, drugs, alcohol, voyeuristic ghouls, or a sole survivor who likes to do it mongrel style.
This is all in good fun. The Commonwealth wasteland and its inhabitants belong to Bethesda and the creators of Fallout 4. I intend no disrespect to their incredible achievements and the wonderful franchise they created.
Less than a finger of whiskey flowed into his glass as he sighed and shook out the last few drops. Had the bottle been full when he started? No wonder he needed to piss.
Hancock swallowed the dregs in one gulp and left the bar. The rickety watering hole above Hangman’s Alley had no name. The flashing neon sign said “BAR” and no one called it anything else. Like a toothless wasteland jet-whore, you knew exactly why you were there and a name didn’t matter.
He glided down two flights of stairs to the street, moving with a slow grace that came from years of practice so no one could tell if he was drunk, high, both or sober. Folks were less inclined to give you shit when they couldn’t peg your state of mind.
The crapper stood behind the general’s house. Not that he called her the general. He wasn’t in the Minutemen, he was the goddamn mayor of Goodneighbor so he called her Fiona. And it wasn’t hers, really, just a place she crashed when she happened to be around. Which she was, at the moment. Which is why he drank more than usual.
And the house wasn’t much of a house. Not like the Old State House, which was an actual fucking house. The general’s digs looked more like a big, broken shipping crate, built by the raiders she’d wiped out a few months ago. Back when she’d asked Hancock to stay and oversee the new settlement, him being mayoral and all.
Hells yes, he wanted to help. Not just because there were precious few safe havens for the scrabbling rabble who did most of the living and dying in the Commonwealth, but because—for the first time in his life—he didn’t want to run away. An Old World woman awake in the wrong time, Fiona possessed a charming combination of leadership, tenderness, intelligence, and steel grit. He wouldn’t say he wanted to “settle down” because she wasn’t the kind of person you settled for, she was the kind you earned every day. And there was nothing about her that held him down. No, being with her, he felt high as Trinity Tower, even without chems.
He’d tried to explain it all to her, tell her about his past, make her understand what she meant to him. Normally, he could’ve talked a Gunner out of bullets, but, Jesus, that particular conversation with Fiona had gone off like a grenade in a shit house.
Sure, she welcomed ghouls into the ranks of the Minutemen and helped the Slog as much as any other settlement. Hell, a ghoul ran the general store right there in Hangman’s Alley. And if anyone didn’t like it, too bad, she wouldn’t stand for that kind of prejudiced bullshit.
But it was one thing to treat a ghoul with respect, and another to want him inside you. When he’d drifted dangerously close to telling her he loved her, the look on her face, it made him regret being what he was. Not for the first time in his life, sure, but for the first time since becoming a ghoul. He suddenly felt less like king of the zombies and savior of the lost, and more like the thing she probably saw when she looked at him—a scabby old junkie in an even older, tattered coat. And that fucking sucked.
Then she’d run off to help another settlement or five, and by the time she returned, she had MacCready. The viper in his bosom, the mercenary he’d sheltered in the Third Rail. Sure, MacCready’d done him enough favors, Hancock wasn’t about to shank him. Cock-blocking didn’t deserve a death sentence. He was a ghoul and he was Hancock. He would outlast MacCready and he would get what he wanted, in the end. He always did. Or, he usually did. And if that didn’t work, then shanking.
Meanwhile, whiskey soothed the sting.
Hancock turned the corner. Uneven light marked the narrow path to the toilet, the glow of a single bare bulb escaping through cracks in the wall of Fiona’s shack. Sounds escaped, too, despite the rattling of the nearby generator. Not the cadence of normal conversation, but low and suggestive voices, punctuated by the creaking of crappy bedsprings.
Goddamn lucky bastard, he thought while he pissed. He finished and tucked his junk into his pants when he heard Fiona moan. Blood rushed to his dick—because he wasn’t dead, y’know, he just looked like it. Inching forward, he peered between boards and saw them, MacCready on top and her legs wrapped around his waist.
A broken bottle crunched beneath Hancock’s boot.
“Wait,” she whispered, and he thought he’d been heard. But, no, she only wanted to change positions.
“Um, why?” said MacCready, being a fucking idiot. Did that boy learn nothing with the Gunners? Most of them would do anything for a few bottlecaps.
“I want to try something.” She pushed MacCready away and rolled over, onto her hands and knees, giving Hancock a spectacular view. She’d lost weight since she’d first appeared in Goodneighbor—clean, soft, well-fed, and wide-eyed but trying so damn hard not to let her fear show. Like an angel in road leathers. He woulda coulda shoulda fucked her right then and there, on Finn’s warm corpse. She was harder now, but still had a helluva rack and a round ass that MacCready had no idea how to handle.
“Okaaaaay.” MacCready sounded uncertain. Seriously, kid? Where’s your sense of adventure?
Fiona jockeyed onto his cock and started rocking. It was goddamn beautiful, but for fucks sake, MacCready, would it kill you to give her a reach-around? She eventually started touching herself, and Hancock did the same, furiously tugging his shit in the shadows.
Then she sat upright, bouncing on MacCready’s thighs, as if she knew Hancock was right there and wanted to make sure he saw it all. Her hand flailed over her clit like the horns of a rabid, wounded radstag, and her body stiffened.
Right on. He suddenly felt religious, raising his gaze to the starry heavens to thank god and any other invisible friends who might be looking down on him. She cried out, and his eyes snapped back to watch her arch her back and thrash with a hard climax. No credit to the mercenary who didn’t bother to kiss her neck, bite her shoulder, pull her hair, slap her ass, scratch her back, or grab her tits. Useless. What did she see in this asshole? So, he had hair. So what?
In a strained voice MacCready warned her, “I’m going to blow.” He pulled out, she pumped his dick a few times with her hand, and he shot his wad on the mattress, so he wouldn’t knock her up. They both had kids, so they weren’t sterile and had to take precautions. Ghouls, at worst, would only give you radiation burns. Nothing a little RadAway couldn’t fix.
She kissed MacCready full on the mouth as if he deserved it and Hancock stepped away, unwilling to watch that shit. Fucking was one thing, but falling in love was something else. That she was falling for MacCready, it hurt.
He finished jerking off, wiped his hand on the starred and striped flag he wore as a belt, and inhaled two puffs of jet.
It hurt like hell.
- J.L. Hilton
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