For funsies a few years ago, I wrote some smutty fanfiction in honor of 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 masturbating ghouls, or a sole survivor who likes to do it mongrel style. This is all in good, dirty fun. The Commonwealth wasteland and its inhabitants belong to Bethesda and the creators of Fallout 4. I intend no disrespect to their incredible achievements.
If you’d like to see a tour of my actual Hangman’s Alley settlement in the game, check out my video on Youtube.
Less than a finger of whiskey flowed into his glass as he sighed and shook the last few drops from the bottle. Hadn’t it 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 heaven forbid 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.
Hell yes, he’d 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. Fiona and her intriguing bundle of contradictions gave him a rush. She was an Old World woman awake in the wrong time. A charming combination of kind and ruthless, naive and brilliant, soft and steely. She wasn’t the kind of person you settled for, she was the kind you had to earn every day.
He’d tried to make her understand what she meant to him. Most of the time, he could talk 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. Fuck, 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 any prejudiced bullshit.
But it’s one thing to treat a ghoul with respect, and another to want his dick in you. When Hancock had drifted dangerously close to telling her he had a thing for 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 or savior of Goodneighbor, and more like the creature she saw when she looked at him—a scabby junkie in a tattered old coat. And that fucking sucked.
Then she’d run off to help Garvey with another settlement or five, and came back with MacCready all over her like green on a mutant. The viper in his bosom, the mercenary he’d sheltered in the Third Rail. Sure, MacCready’d done Goodneighbor enough favors, Hancock wasn’t about to shank him. 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 rounded 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. As he finished and tucked his junk into his pants, he heard Fiona moan. Blood rushed to his dick—because he wasn’t dead, y’know, he just looked like it. Inching closer, he peered between loose boards and saw them, MacCready on top and her legs wrapped around his skinny waist.
A piece of glass crunched beneath Hancock’s boot.
“Wait,” she said, and he thought he’d been heard. But, no, she only wanted to change positions.
“I want to try something.” She rolled over, onto her hands and knees, giving Hancock a spectacular view.
“Um, why?” said MacCready, being a fucking idiot. Did that guy learn nothing when he was running with the Gunners? Most of them would do anything for a few bottlecaps.
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. Hancock 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 was totally wasted on MacCready.
“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, thanking god and any other invisible friends who might be watching. She cried out, arched her back and thrashed 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 a puff of jet.
It hurt like hell.
– J.L. Hilton
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