Fallout 4 is a fish out of water damn near odyssey action movie where most of the main plot can be summarized by Epic the Musical. The mechanics are action based and fun to utilize, and the overall narrative of the story works better when you’ve already befriended most of the companions because almost all of the companion storylines are about not giving up on them or staying true to being who they are: good people. Which works narratively when you are given the choice to give up your humanity for your son, or give up your son for humanity.

Fallout New Vegas is a goofy ass western where your main motivation is to get back at a guy for shooting you in the head, but then somewhere along the way you get wrapped up in a surprisingly insightful commentary on the two party political system where there’s obviously a cartoonishly evil guy and you’d think picking the lesser of two evils would help, but even when the lesser of two evils means well AT BEST, they still fail the lower class everyday people living in the Mojave and the soldiers they send to die for them, all to serve what is at best the obliviousness of the bosses in Shady Sands and at worst the GREED of the bosses in Shady Sands

I haven’t gotten through much of Fallout 3 but I can already tell that this is a HORROR MOVIE. Your character starts off born and raised in a safe environment and you are forced out of it suddenly and without real warning. When you leave the vault everything around you looks dead, and the only radio to comfort you is Enclave (fascist) propaganda that is specifically written to make you feel unsafe by labeling various groups as monsters. The environmental design is so good that you immediately understand where you need to go because you’re pointed in that direction by a path and some signs. But when you’re pointed away from the safety of that rundown city with a bomb in the center of it, the game directs you to a tunnel with giant rats, like 10 ghouls, and you’re very likely to run out of ammo or weapons entirely. And when you run to the end of the tunnel thinking you’re safe because you’re in a new area, you see the SHADOW of a super mutant up ahead. That’s fucking HORROR GAME design (although the level scaling was kind of off because how is someone at level 2 supposed to take on that much?).

I think the fallout fandom focusses way too much on glazing the games we played as kids and going “this is what the series as a whole is SUPPOSED to look like” when just 3 games all did something drastically different and unique. Each game has their own flaws. I have yet to kill anyone with VATS in fallout 3 without launching them into space. So much of New Vegas’ environment is “this is a desert so there’s nothing here and when there is something here there’s a 50/50 chance it’s just gonna be a boarded up building that you can’t access.” Fallout 4’s main story is boring if you don’t take the companions into context, and they arguably should’ve leaned more into making Nate and Nora their own characters than this weird middle ground where they aren’t quite you and they aren’t quite them. But, so far, I’d say each game has something they EXCEL at. Fallout 3 has amazing environmental design. New Vegas has brilliant storytelling and character writing. 4’s gameplay is the best I’ve seen in the whole series and is one of the most REWARDING to play.

Summary: It's been more than 200 years since you've last seen your cowboy. Pairing: Cooper Howard x Reader Word Count: 1,070 (a drabble? what's that?) Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing, A/N: Part of The Cowboy & The Movie Star series, a part 2 if you will. Let me know what y'all would like to see from this series. What snapshots would y'all like to see?

I do NOT consent to my work being translated or published onto third party sites - including AO3 and Wattpad.

A layer of dirt and grime covered every surface of the Red Rocket Gas Station. Outside the sun blazed down, covering the Wasteland in a blazing heat. The wind gave an occasional whistle as it blew more dirt into the gas station’s broken windows. Though you were paying attention to none of that, you were focused on the sound that should not be there. 

The thumping of heavy footsteps on broken concrete. 

So with your back against the checkout counter you reload your gun and cussed Ma June. If this ‘simple favor’ didn’t kill you, you were going to ring the older lady’s neck. 

As the heavy steps get closer your finger tightens around the trigger of your gun. The old bell chimes above the door and heavy footfalls turn into light steps as the newest customer to the Red Rocket navigates around the debris littering the floor. The footsteps grow quieter as the person heads towards the other end of the gas station. 

Taking the opportunity, you slowly crawl towards the open door a few feet to your right. The manager’s office was threadbare, a simple desk and chair sat in the middle of the room with a few filing cabinets sitting behind the desk. It did not offer many hiding places, however you had no interest in hiding. You were interested in getting the piece of tech Ma June was searching for and getting the hell out of the Red Rocket. 

BRENNA x HANCOCK

How often do they sleep together?

Every single chance they get.

Where do they sleep?

Brenna and Hancock set up a room for themselves on the second floor of the Old State House in Goodneighbor for when they're in town. They even carted a decent bed up that damned spiral staircase.

When they aren't in Goodneighbor? That's luck of the draw. Whatever hotel they can manage to find, or an intact, unoccupied house that they clear and secure beforehand.

Bren also has a house in the works, one for them to escape to and one that is personalized to suit their needs. It's a gift for Hancock.

How do they prepare to sleep?

Depends on what they have access to. One thing they don't fuck around about is brushing their teeth. Brenna is ready with a can of Purified Water, because they both agree it's wet, toothpaste, then wet again.

If a source of water is available, Brenna loves to shower before bed. Hancock either joins or watches.

Then they just...talk until one or both of them falls asleep. Lots of laughter, teasing, soft kisses, and sudden nips on bare flesh. John will have an inhaler of Jet some nights, and if he's really lucky, he can convince Bren to partake.

What do they wear to sleep?

Brenna is always in panties and either a black tank top or the soft, big black t-shirt that Charon gave her. Then, when she inevitably gets hot, she pulls the shirt off in the middle of the night, tosses it to the floor, and sleeps in just her panties.

Hancock usually sleeps naked. Brenna encourages the hell out of this shamelessly. She loves looking at John and will take every single opportunity to whet her appetite.

Do they cuddle?

God yes. In their respective public roles [mayor and moral merc] they have to be perceived as hard by most. So, at night they cuddle in many ways.

Hancock loves to lay his head in her lap, playfully setting his tricorn on top of her head as she gently rubs his scalp. He tends to lose himself in the intensity of her azure gaze, forgetting for a moment to breathe. He always tosses out a quick quip to distract from his loss of composure.

Sometimes she throws her leg over his when he's lying on his back and snuggles into his side. Her fingers trace absent patterns along his bare chest as his arm drapes around her waist.

Other times Hancock lies on his side, grabs her hips, and pulls her into the curve of his body. One hand lazily runs up and down her side while the other is curled around her, fingers toying with her breast. He always breathes her in deeply to relish that damned hint of oranges that lingers on her skin, closing his eyes as he kisses the back of her neck.

No matter how affectionate their cuddles, there is always passion simmering.

What are their preferred sleep positions?

Brenna prefers to sleep on her side.

John passes out on his back.

How easy do they fall asleep?

Brenna can fall asleep easier than one would expect considering that she has trouble sleeping. It's the staying asleep part that is the issue.

Hancock takes longer to fall asleep unless he's taken Calmex. A rarity for him.

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Brenna tosses and turns a hell of a lot. As a light sleeper, she is always shifting from her side to her stomach.

John is pretty much out when he's out.

Do they snore?

Brenna does not. Hell, she'd have to sleep first. What she DOES do is occasionally cease breathing. It wigs John the fuck out when she stops for a second... two... ten...

'Fuck! Breathe Sunshine!!'

With his hands shaking slightly, Hancock will run his fingers along the curve of her cheek and jaw to get her to breathe again. Works every time. The moment she takes a small breath, he has to kiss her bare shoulder just to have an outlet for the overwhelming fear that briefly grips him. Thankfully, that terror quickly abates as a rush of relieved adoration floods his body.

As for Hancock? A decade after his transformation into a ghoul and the subsequent loss of his nose, Hancock's sleeping habits have changed. Previously a quiet sleeper, he now snores, though surprisingly softly, with occasional snorts. These tiny, infrequent sounds often elicit an affectionate chuckle and soft kiss to his chest from Bren... provided it does not disrupt her hard won sleep. Otherwise, she'll nudge him with her elbow.

Who hogs the blanket?

JOHN. That bastard steals them and they somehow become trapped in his legs. Brenna always has a spare on hand. It is easier to pull out another blanket than it is trying to wrestle the one from Hancock. That man's dead weight is deceptively heavy considering his lean frame.

What do they dream about?

Brenna hopes not to dream. There are times her dreams are... a bit prophetic and they make her uneasy.

John dreams, but he rarely remembers them. There have been a few nightmares... oh... and damn! There was this one dream he had about Brenna. Something to do with being in his jazz club The Third Rail, sequestered in the VIP section and on "his" couch. Bren was bent over the arm, red sequined dress hiked up around her waist, black lace panties around her ankles. Despite being in heels, she could barely hold herself up, her legs shaking like leaves when he dropped to his knees behind her and buried his face between her thighs. Hancock woke up the next morning hard as a rock with Bren straddling him in only her panties, smirking like the fucking temptress she is. That dream was a good one, but the waking up was a hell of a lot better.

How easily do they wake up?

Brenna is an incredibly light sleeper, the tiniest noise and she will be wide awake. Comes from being a female merc. Dumb fucks always think they can get the drop on her.

Hancock sleeps more deeply when he's with Brenna. There's a comfort with her that he doesn't get anywhere else. This allows him the freedom to indulge in a relaxed state. Still, he is capable of waking up easily. The Wastes tend to train people to be quick on the uptake, and as the mayor of a settlement and a known figure, he tends to draw attention. Both good and bad.

How awake are they afterwards?

Brenna wakes up on a dime, instantly alert. She's never groggy, mind and senses sharp. She has always been that way and couldn't pinpoint why. Or maybe she doesn't want to.

When it's time to wake up, Hancock is lazy. He metaphorically drags his feet and grumbles, usually tossing out a few 'fuck yous' to the sun. Arm thrown over his eyes, he will sigh rather dramatically, one hand blindly seeking the warm satin of her thigh, only to come up short. Pouting, he will groan and bitch wordlessly until his actions elicit the response he is seeking from Brenna. She always caves, blue eyes twinkling and either tugs his legs playfully or, more importantly, crawls along his body, trailing soft, teasing kisses up his stomach until he is convinced to drop his arm. (If she is feeling particularly cheeky, she'll blow a raspberry against the taut plane of his belly just to hear him laugh.) Then, with a smirk, John will gently cup her face between his palms, dark eyes intent as he growls a rough and sleepy:

"Mornin' Sunshine. C'mere."

Beautiful art by @yappacadaver !

I wasn't tagged, but read Laird [whose name I LOVE] and Emmrich's sleep dynamics and had to do this for my loves! @paramortality - Laird's fantastic from his red Mohawk, to his bearded grin, to how he wakes up "like a bear coming out from hibernation."

If Yappa did this with Raymond I MUST see!

If anyone would like to be introduced to Laird and Emmrich, check them out here. They're darling.

It’s still in the works now, (in my mind) but I’m planning on writing a Hanahaki fic that is Arcade Gannon x Boone.

I already picked out the flower, but I will give kudos to those who guess the flower’s name.

Hint: it shares the first name of a very important story location in Fallout 2, associated with the Enclave.

After failing to get into Diamond City, Jayne makes her way with Billy to Goodneighbor instead. It's got a friendly name, so it should be welcoming, right? Oh Jayne, you are so naive, because as we all know, Finn likes to extend his own special welcome to newcomers.

(*I’m also Charon trash! ;D )

_____________

“Dammit, we are outnumbered!” 

Charon wasn’t sure if his employer heard him over the hail of gunfire that erupted through the ruins around them.  The twisted metal of destroyed skyscrapers and ravaged buildings around them provided plenty of cover — but it also made it difficult to pin-point all of the threats in the area.  The super mutants seemed to be everywhere; some popped out from behind mounds of scrap metal, while others jumped down from the second floor of a crumbled building nearby.  

Over the sound of machine guns whirling, Charon could hear the rapid approach of a centaur making its way toward them.  They always seemed to be with a pack of super mutants, but the abomination was unsightly enough to make even him grimace.  One of its long tongues shot out, hitting the front of their metallic cover, and Charon’s mistress’s geiger counter ticked from the radiation emitting from the creature’s saliva.  

His mistress suddenly popped up from cover, firing toward the super mutants in front of them with an assault rifle.  By now, they had fought together enough that Charon knew she was creating an opening, and he braced his arm up on his cover to put the centaur out of its misery with a blast from his shotgun.  

“Got one,” Charon murmured, more to himself than to her, while she took cover again and the spray of bullets continued.  

“Shit, I hate this place,” she hissed, reloading a clip.  “Shortcuts never work out in my favor.”

“Perhaps if you were looking for a shortcut to hell,” he quipped, and she smiled ruefully, her attention still riveted on the battle.  

“Pffft, we’re not dying today.  These assholes, on the other hand, just found that shortcut.”

She fired again, and Charon was quick to have her back, keeping some of the forces pinned while she thinned out their numbers.  In the months that she had held his contract, they had learned how to compliment one another in battle, and despite the fact that they were outnumbered, they weren’t outgunned.  They had gotten out of much stickier circumstances, and they would get out of this, too.  The vaultie had gotten something of a reputation for being able to deal with problems — problems that even the Brotherhood had trouble dealing with.  It never ceased to amaze him that someone that had grown up in such a soft environment had become so battle-hardened so quick, but it made him respect the hell out of her.

They had almost finished off the brawny mutants when suddenly, the whirl of the gatling gun cut through the clearing again.  It sounded different this time, high-pitched, and she swore at the same time he did.  Charon barreled toward her just as the first laser spurt tore through their flimsy cover, and when he collided with her, he flattened her to the ground and pressed himself over her back, trying to shield her with his much larger body.  The heat from the laser was at his back, and he winced as a spurt singed the back of his armor.  

The second the weapon sputtered, needing to reload and cool down, Charon was on his feet, vaulting over the remains of their cover and quickly closing the distance to blast the super mutant with his shotgun.  When the asshole fell, he double-tapped just to be on the safe side, and then gave the clearing a quick glance to confirm that it was the last of the super mutants.  

At least it wasn’t a Fat Man, he thought, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as the adrenaline rush started to wear thin.  A glance over his shoulder gave him pause, however; he had expected his mistress to pop up, complaining about his rough treatment — and the fact that he had been the one to fell the mutant with the gatling laser.  

“Mistress?”

When she didn’t reply right away, trepidation washed over him, and he rushed back to find her still lying on the ground.  She had pulled herself up slightly, but she was clutching her side, blood clearly staining her fingers, and panic began to rise within him.  He had seen her hurt before, yes, but it was a rare occasion, and it never stopped him from worrying.  She was a smoothskin, after all — not to mention that he towered over her —which made her seem fragile.  He was her protector; that was his role as long as she held the contract.  

And he had failed.

“Don’t get that look on your face, Charon,” she hissed, trying to stand up.  “It just grazed me.  Damn laser weapons always pack a punch.”  

Quickly, he put a hand at her elbow and assisted her, while scanning her for further injury.  Her armor was thick, but not overly-bulky. The laser had melted through and got her in the side, but it had lost so much energy that it didn’t go through her.  He couldn’t assess the wound here; they needed to get into a more defensible location.  

“I am sorry I could not prevent your injury.”  Charon was always formal, she had found, and she hated it.  It had to be a by-product of his brainwashing, and it made him sound so robotic.  There were some occasions (albeit few and far between) when she could get him to speak faster, to put more of an inflection in his voice, and she always reveled in them.  

“If it wasn’t for you, I’d be swiss cheese.”

The term seemed familiar to him somehow, but the phrase was lost on him.  Brushing it aside, Charon abruptly scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.  She flushed; he made her feel so tiny by comparison.  Her first instinct was to fight against him, to protest that she didn’t need to be carried through the Capital Wastes, but… the moment she tensed, a pain shot through her side that had her hissing and pressing her fingers tighter against the wound.  

“Do not struggle.  Let me take you to shelter for the night, so I can dress your wound.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, but she knew it actually was one; he wanted permission. 

“Okay, okay.”

When she first held his contract, he didn’t do anything unless she directly told him to — except when it came to fighting.  When she had gotten hurt back then, he would simply stand there and watch until she specifically asked him to do something.  Now, their dynamic had shifted; he had decided she was a good person, and actively wanted to help her, which was a new sensation for him.  He was accustomed to being used for someone else’s gain — and usually under circumstances he would easily call evil. 

But this badass smoothskin was actually a kind-hearted person, trying to make the Wastes a better place, a livable place.  

And he actually liked having her as his contract holder.

______________________________

Their shelter was a destroyed store with most of its roof still intact and a proximity mine planted in the doorway.  The windows were boarded up, but he still didn’t feel comfortable building more than just a small trash can fire, while his mistress stripped off her mismatched armor.  

Her T-shirt was ragged and torn, and the portion around her abdomen had been seared off.  Slowly, she peeled it up, so the cloth was just below her chest, and hissed again.  “Shit, this burns.  I hate energy weapons so much.”

“You like the gauss rifle,” he commented absently, steering her closer to the light from the fire.  

She scoffed.  “I hate energy weapons when they’re being aimed at me.”

Charon didn’t reply, too busy examining her wound up close.  It wasn’t life-threatening, but it had to hurt.  He dug through his bag and retrieved a stimpak and some Med-X.  

“Med-X?  It doesn’t hurt that much,” she lied, while Charon shrugged.  

“If you want to be in pain, that is your choice.”  

She rolled her eyes, while he readied the needle of the stimpak and proceeded to inject it straight into her wound.  She bit her bottom lip — fuck, that hurt — but almost immediately, it stopped bleeding, and she could see the wound beginning to shrink.  It wouldn’t stop her from having a fresh scar, she was sure, but she wouldn’t need any form of stitches.  

He lifted the other syringe in question, but she shook her head.  “Nah, I don’t need the Med-X.  That stimpak was enough.”  

In truth, it still burned, but she was saving the Med-X for something more serious, like a broken bone, or an instance where one of them would need to fight despite being injured.

Charon dutifully replaced the Med-X, and then began to pour some dirty water onto a rag to clean the wound.  The geiger counter clicked twice, and she sighed and muttered something about ‘Project Purity.’  As he wiped the dried blood away, his fingertips brushed her flesh — accidentally at first, due to his grip on the cloth, but then… he started to do it just to feel her. 

It was so soothing, getting to do this much.  It reassured him that she was alive, that he had really made it in time.  She was a skilled fighter, capable and renowned thanks to the radio station broadcasting her deeds throughout the Wastes.  She seemed immortal and untouchable, like a character from a radio drama.  

But she was just a human — just a young woman that had stepped from a Vault and into an unforgiving world mere years ago.  Even as skilled as she was, she was fallible; she could make mistakes or become overpowered.  

She could die, and the thought terrified Charon.

Doing this much helped assuage that terror.  She was so soft, and he was so close to her, bent over as she leaned back with a palm against the wall for support and the other still holding her ruined shirt away from her abdomen.  He was taking more time than usual, and it took him a moment to realize that her chest was heaving, her breathing heavier than normal.  Abruptly, he stopped wiping the wound with the cloth and glanced up, searching her face for signs of distress.

“Was I hurting you?”

Charon couldn’t tell if her face was flushed or if it was a trick of the dim firelight, but her gaze was unreadable.  She shook her head once and quickly cleared her throat.  

“No, no, I… it was fine.  I’m just feeling a l-...little light-headed.”

“Here.”  Charon instantly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the floor.  Her legs did indeed appear shaky, and he mentally scolded himself for taking so long with his treatment.  “I should have had you lie down before I began.”

“It’s fine.  Probably just blood loss,” she mumbled, while Charon continued to search her expression.  She wouldn’t meet his gaze.  

“The stimpak will take care of that,” he assured her, while he retrieved a piece of gauze and duct tape from their rather lacking medical kit.  He reached to put it on her and saw her belly tense as his fingers smoothed the tape across her skin.  Again, he glanced up, but this time… there was no mistaking the redness that had flared up across her face.  “Are you certain you’re all right?”

His hand had absently dropped to her thigh in his concern, and she finally met his obsidian gaze.  He’d seen many different looks in her eyes since their travels.  There was the glint of determination she got whenever she was focused during a firefight.  There was mirth whenever she cracked a joke or she found some particularly delicious food for them to eat.  There was melancholy when she mentioned her father or came across skeletons in the ruins.  And there were flashes of anger when settlers or members of the Brotherhood made comments about the fact that she was traveling with a monster.

But the look in her eyes now was one that he’d only seen a couple of times.  Once, after she had been feeling hopeless enough that she cried — yes, actually cried — on his shoulder, and then had pulled back to look at him.  And another time when she had been drunk and pulled him by the arm toward the single bed of their rented room because she wanted to be held while she slept.  

Her shirt slipped from her fingers, the ragged ends falling across her bandaged stomach, and she covered the hand on her thigh with her own, squeezing it.  A soft smile curved her lips, and the look changed, that fire in her gaze simpering to a flicker.  “You saved my life today, you know.  If you hadn’t rushed me like that, I’d have much worse wounds.”

Charon turned his hand over to grasp hers, shaking his head.  The terror he had felt over her getting wounded was pushed to the back of his mind.  She could be killed, sure, but the solution was simple.