Oh. My. God. I. Can't. Believe. I'm. Posting. This.
Just a warning, I wrote this while highly giggly and stupid. It was my first falloutkinkmeme fic and... well, you can't blame me! I didn't know you then! ...Actually I did, I'm lying, I cheated and I wrote this abomination.
I have no excuses... I'll... just go crawl in this corner and giggle-snort over farts. TMI?
"Well, Charon, I'm pretty sure we're fucked." The Lone Wanderer hummed, not taking her squinted eye from the scope of her Sniper Rifle.
Her sharp eye studied the large reptilian abominations as they meandered across the brown, dusty pathway beneath the Savior of the Wastes and her ever-silent ghoul companion. She prayed that she wouldn't dislodge a rock, pebble, piece of dust―anything―to alert those Deathclaws to her presence. "Fucked like a virgin in Paradise Falls. Shit."
She hadn't expected a reply, so she knew it was her job to think of a way out of this high cliff-deathclaw infested-clusterfuck. Perhaps paying more attention to the safe-routes on her Pip-Boy would be wise, for future reference. If, of course, she wasn't disemboweled and eaten at the end of this escapade...
The Lone Wanderer could sense Charon's discomfort at her side, a low, rumbling growl sounding very quietly in the back of his throat.
The young woman blew a deep breath through her nostrils as she carefully lowered her large rifle, glaring at the rickety wooden bridge that seemed to be their only way out of this place.
Except, you couldn't just cross over a loud, squeaky, possibly pre-war bridge without alerting the pack of Deathclaws below you to her presence. Hell, that's why they were in this situation now. Only, they had been lucky enough to hide for long enough to be cut a break. Either those over-sized lizards were feeling charitable, lazy, or full...
Either way, the Lone Wanderer suspected that she was being toyed with.
"Well, hm, okay." She pondered aloud for a moment, checking, double checking, then triple checking the map on her Pip-Boy before warily pointing to a dirt path that winded down the opposite side of the cliff. "That looks pretty steep, I know, but... Ack, fuck it, we either become barbeque or break an ankle. It's your choice though."
Her eyes settled on her companion's rotting face, studying the usual scowl that resided there.
"Hm, alright then, thanks for the input." She gave him a thumbs up and a one-sided enthusiastic pat on the back, perhaps a little too hearty to be truly thankful. And perhaps the sound of her calloused hand slapping against his solid leather was a tad too loud in this rocky cavern, the sound echoing around them.
The Lone Wanderer winced at her slip-up, eyeing Charon's suddenly stiff expression and wide eyes for a brief, apologetic moment before peaking over the side of the cliff.
Well, the Deathclaws were gone, but that wasn't always a good thing, being the mischievous, sneaky, fucking murderers they were. Neither was the battle growl that rumbled through the canyon in unison with the sniffing that hummed very audibly in the ears of the two wastelanders. They were being hunted.
She looked back to Charon for any possible advice he could give, but she was answered with his very strained expression.
His scabbed lips were pressed in a thin, painful looking line, what was left of his brows drawing together tightly as he seemed to shake with either fear, rage, or constraint to kill her.
"FFFFFUU-" The Lone Wanderer growled, but was rudely cut off by a subtle if not totally flabbergasting...
PFFFTTT...
The woman thought for a moment that a nearby Deathclaw had spotted them and hissed in warning, but then... They didn't hiss, did they?
A second thought entered her mind a split second before she lost her vision, her ability to breathe, and the memory of the situation she was in. What the fuck is that smell...?
"Dear Mother of GOD!" She choked, blinking the stinging tears from her eyes as she was forced to gag on the putrid, rotting air that drifted towards her. "What-, what is happening? Is this some kind of punishment?"
Had she been so scared that she shit a vomit-covered, maggot infested corpse from the radiation bath that was her anus? Was it that Iguana she'd had in Megaton before setting out this morning?
…Wait, aren't there Deathclaws around here?
It occurred to the Lone Wanderer then that perhaps the Filtration Mask that she picked up from The Pitt would probably be quite handy. She held her breath up until the point where it's bulky mass was fastened around her head before taking three of the largest breaths that she'd ever taken in her life.
"Oh fuck, what was that Charon- wait... Ch-... Charon?" The Legend of the Wastes gaped at her very stiff companion once the realization hit, although she was sure he couldn't see because of her new accessory. "Did... Did you just fuckin' rip one in the midst of a Deathclaw sneak attack?"
"Erm... Ahem." He cleared his gravelly throat before narrowing his eyes at his employer. "No. I didn't, it was... my armor."
"Your armor?" She scoffed, a bit too loud for the situation at hand, before pointing a calloused finger in the ghoul's face. "Don't pull that shit with me Charon, I know a backdoor breeze when I hear it and that was a fuckin' 7.5 on the rectum scale. Ho-lee shit!"
Charon was entertaining himself with thoughts of how he would deal with his current employer after release of his contract as she went on, and on, and on... As he had known her to do about everything.
"I mean, you could have suffocated me―we are in close quarters you know! How are you not melting from the stench of that ass thunder stewing in that get-up?" She marveled at the very idea, gesturing a hand up and down the length of his tight leather armor. "I mean, God damn! I better get you to a bathroom A.S.A.P, cause that turd is whistlin' for the fuckin' right-away. Whew!"
"Are you done?" He forced through a clenched jaw.
"Are you? That was like the second-coming of nuclear fire..." She gave a low whistle before shaking her head, drawing her large rifle before rising to a crouch. "Lets split before those lizards get a whiff of that... Damn, way to send a beacon out, Charon..."
After that day the Lone Wanderer would hold her breath in anticipation and terror when her companion would make that familiar strained expression, just waiting for a falter in his tough-ass visage... But like most things in the wasteland, the tale of Charon's cheek flapper faded into a myth...
Because farts... Farts never change...
I cleaned it up as much as I could. This... this is just bad... LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL