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It’s another scorching afternoon in New Vegas’ notorious land of lawlessness. Nevada’s postcard-worthy Capitol of Criminals, a Sauna of Sin, the Hub of Hooligans.
Or, better known by those who call it home, as Freeside.
Despite the intense heat, the smaller district is bustling with all manner of locals and tourists wandering about the crumbling street, dipping in and out of the wide variety of shops and establishments beckoning them to come spend their caps with everything from old world neons and sunburned criers. No one wants to be caught on the street with extra caps in their pocket once the sun goes down, or be caught with anything of value bought with said caps for that matter.
Except, one shop has inexplicably switched off its neon green OPEN sign this very profitable afternoon. ERNIE’S EXOTIC EXPORTS looms over the busy street with her doors shut, windows shuttered, and the scrawny curbside hawker long gone. Reno had told the kid to scram and he’d done so without any hesitation.
But it’s the noises coming from the inside that let everyone know to steer clear.
Broken wood and shattered glass from a toppled cabinet litter the shop floor, and the air is filled with swirling dust from all the pre-war merchandise being flung around. The door has two gaping bullet holes letting in twin streams of sunlight, and behind the splintered remains of a wooden check-out counter, there’s two more fist-sized punctures buried so deep into the cheap plaster wall that they’ve exposed some of the old brick. And seated between those two holes is Reno and Rude’s current assignment and Exotic Ernie himself; a middle-aged greaseball with stringy black hair and mud-colored eyes, his face always on the verge of bubbling up with something gross and likely slimy.
Reno has been both excited for and slightly dreading this pitstop on their monthly ‘payment certifying’ rounds as the Shinra Caravan Company's chief auditors. Dreading it because the less he had to look at the mostly pathetic, wretched faces of their clients, the better. But still always excited because if the worst came to be, he and Rude had full permission to whatever was necessary to either get the caps Rufus was owed, or to teach these unsavory bastards a lesson only they could provide.
And boy howdy, does a Boomer like Reno love the opportunity to cause some mayhem at the expense of others. Especially when he gets to do so with the Ghoul standing a foot behind him as he smiles and swings his electric baton through what remains of a magazine rack.
Rude isn’t like most of the Ghouls wandering around the Mojave, and certainly not like the ones Reno’s encountered. Back at Nellis there’d been a handful of the original dwellers of Vault 34 who gotten too heavy of a dose of radiation when they’d originally combed the area with their geiger counters to ensure it was safe to inhabit, and while a few had to be put down when they turned Feral some managed to keep their sanity. Hell, even with a missing arm and eyes milky white with cataracts, Old Laurie could still pack and aim a helluva shell by the time Reno left his tribe for more dangerous, and way more entertaining, pastures.
But despite having the same kind of scarring and disfigurements decorating a body that one could mistake for the world’s biggest slab of jerky, Rude’s a bit of an oddity amongst his fellow Ghouls. He’s kept a good amount of his bulked physique even with most of his muscles having long sloughed off, and his voice is so deep and smooth it’s as if the radiation strengthened his vocal cords instead of annihilating them. The stubby remains of his nose and ears offer just enough support to let him keep wearing his signature set of sunglasses, always immaculately polished despite the insane amount of sand and blood the duo encounter on a daily basis.
Right now that polished pair of plastic lenses is doing a great job in making their latest ‘client’ squirm in his seat and sweat harder than a junkie in a Jet den. His eyes keep darting towards the deadly pneumatic device attached to Rude’s right arm, and Reno raps his own baton across the man’s knuckles to remind him that his Ghoulified partner isn’t the only source of danger here.
“I’ll say it one more time, nice and slow for you Ernie. So listen, or I’m letting the big guy here redecorate this place with your insides after I’m through with you,” Reno presses the tip of his electrified baton into the shop owner’s chin until he hits bone, “Do you have this month’s payment, or not?”
“Ye- yes, yes alright! Here’s your damn caps!” With his hands shaking violently Ernie opens up one of the filing cabinets lined up behind what once was his counter, and out from the depths of the bottom drawer pulls out a very stained pillowcase. He tosses it onto the table and the sound of hundreds of metallic bottle caps clanging together rings out, “It’s all I've made this entire month, no one’s buying shit these days!”
Reno snatches up the pillowcase and gives it a good hard shake. He knows it’ll be enough; if it wasn’t, then Ernie would've been long gone, instead of trying to pull this crap. “Maybe if you didn’t try to sell garbage like it was made outta gold, you’d have some more wiggle room each month. Hell, replace that little asshole you usually got out front with a Strip chick. That’ll make them flock to your shit shack.” Reno tells him matter-of-factly, and the shopkeep stares angrily at the broken shotgun still resting near Rude’s feet. The barrel hadn’t been a match for his Powerfist.
“You damn thugs can’t keep bleeding me dry like this, if I shut this place down then neither of us will be making any money! Your boss will be pissed you lost him a client.”
Reno gives him a smile that would make a rattlesnake curl back up in its den, “Oh don’t worry big guy, you’re just a drop in the bucket compared to what we bring in every month. But hey, if you wanna talk to the Boss about it, you know where his office is. Then you can go crawling to the Gun Runners if you want any hope of ever running arms near New Vegas again,” the redhead jingles some of the caps around in his palm, “You better be careful though Ernie, they don’t mess around with their weekly payments. C’mon Rude, we’re done here.”
Reno stuffs the case into his satchel, and heads towards the door. He hears the sound of Rude’s arm slamming once into the wall and Ernie screaming bloody murder at the sudden hole next to his head. Rude with his long powerful legs Rude catches up a moment later, closes the shop door behind him, and silences the man’s hollering.
They’re back to standing in one of Freeside's many less-then-reputable side streets, surrounded by once-bustling businesses now transformed into makeshift markets, crowded shelters, or shells long hollowed-out by the irradiated elements. Rude flicks a stray piece of plaster off his duster while Reno readjusts his bandolier and pats the satchel slung across his shoulder, “Rufus ain’t expecting us until tomorrow morning at the earliest. What do ya say we stash our spoils and go take over The Tops for a bit?”
Rude narrows his eyes and snorts, sounding like two rocks grinding against each other in his non-existent nasal cavity, “Hell no. That new floor manager is a bitch, and I’m not in the mood to be stared at by Smoothskins all night long.”
Rude may have the same all-access pass to the Strip that all of Rufus’ special branch of Turks are granted, but that doesn’t make folks gape at him any less, or stop them from making morons of themselves the second he walks into a room. He’s still on thin ice with the Gomorrah after one of their tackier VIP’s had the gall to ask what kind of bastard kid of a Ghoul and Super Mutant he was, and the subsequent devastation Rude caused to said VIP’s head with his shotgun. A shot from Reno’s grenade launcher right into the bar made their message extra loud and clear, but alas. The tourists on the Strip never learned for long.
“Alright, then how about…… a private room with a view of Freeside, and our own bottle of bourbon?” Reno suggests as he reaches in and divvies up a handful of Caps from the numerous ‘deposit bags’ they’ve been collecting all day, “I think between our friend in there and those assholes on the Strip, we got enough in here to splurge a bit at the Wrangler.”
“............”
“Alright, YOU can have your own bottle of bourbon, asshole.”
“Damn right.”
For once the pair aren’t too covered in blood for it to be an issue, so they make their way straight over to the bar. Rude, ever the gentleman, holds the door open for Reno so he can make sure no one looks too keen on following right behind the pair. The inside isn’t much brighter than Exotic Ernie’s had been, but thankfully there’s far less dust and the smell of liquor-soaked lucky streaks is far more palatable than crumbling nudie magazines had been. Reno chats up one of the owners while Rude takes in the crowd inside. It’s still too early for the unlucky bastards who’d failed to make it into the Strip to come pouring in, but he spots two of the bar’s premiere escorts, Beatrix and Santiago, hanging out near the stage. Hmm, somebody must’ve already rented out Fisto for the afternoon. That bucket of bolts had been a very heavily intoxicated one-and-done for both Reno and Rude a few good sunsets ago.
He hopes whoever the bastard is brought extra lube with them.
Reno whistles to catch Rude’s attention and tosses him a small key with a chipped red die attached to it by a tiny chain, “Got us our usual. I’ll meet you up there after I order some grub.”
“Don’t take too long.” Rude tells him and heads towards the stairs. He walks up and up and up until he reaches a floor with the least amount of doors, heads towards the one painted with a faded pair of 7’s, and lets himself in.
They’ve stayed at the Atomic Wrangler plenty of times before, and this particular suite is definitely their first choice. Since it’s on the fourth floor, Room 77 is just high enough to muffle all the noise downstairs while still giving them a perfect view of Freeside through the four massive windows surrounding a table that’s more than sufficient for just two people. There’s a king sized bed tucked in the corner covered in blankets and sheets that don’t look like they’ve survived a nuclear war, a seating area complete with a fireplace and well-stocked holotape player, and finally a door leading into the mother of all ensuites whose tub size is only rivaled by the literal jacuzzi found over in the Royal Suite, Room 777.
But hey, Rude and Reno know how to make due with the basics.
By the time Reno comes up, helping an Wrangler employee haul up a whole mess of plates and bottles, Rude’s already taken off his coat and tossed his sling bag over near the bed. He finishes washing some of the dust and dried blood off of his skin and hands.
Reno is slamming the door shut after flicking an extra cap at the Wrangler employee who Rude assumes brought their spread up, “I grabbed everything that sounded good, but if you see something missing on that list then you can march back down to order it yourself. My ass is DONE for today.”
“I think you got everything but the Brahmin trough,” Rude says. He grabs a small piece of paper that’s been left on top of one of the gleaming grey covers. A bottle of bourbon, a bottle of whiskey plus one Nuka-Cherry. One Bighorner steak, roasted carrots, a couple skewers of grilled ‘Iguana’, and-
“All that stuff on the menu to choose from, and you still order the mac and cheese?”
“Yeah, cause they got the shit to actually make it taste good.” Reno quips back as he shucks off his bomber jacket and hangs it right next to Rude’s coat. He removes his goggles and holster and piles them on top of the coat rack as well, and finally Reno unzips his vault suit down to his waist and tugs the top half of his torso free. He ties the sleeves together to keep them out of the way, so that there’s only a thin grey tanktop covering his torso.
Rude has seen Reno’s body in a wide variety of states throughout their partnerhood, and while nothing can ever beat having him naked and spread out across Rude’s bunk, there’s just something so particularly taboo, so risque about seeing those deceptively boney arms and all that creamy, freckled skin no longer be hidden away by dull blue leather. He knows the Boomer’s body better than his own these days, and yet it always makes Rude hunger for more.
It stirs the voyeuristic corner of Rude’s well-preserved brain, the one that compels him to greedily devour every forbidden inch of Reno’s body that he’s granted access to. Even now, when it’s something as simple as the slight sway in his Partner’s hips as he walks over to the table, the extra dash of drama when he collapses into his chair and props his boots up on the windowsill. Reno winks at him and grabs for his bottle of whiskey to start yanking on the cork, “No dessert before dinner baby. You aren’t making a meal of me while I’m running on fumes.”
“You’re too skinny to make a real meal out of anyway,” Rude says, and pinches Reno’s waist to make him yelp. He snatches back the whiskey while his redhead is distracted and pulls the top off with one good yank. He hands it back to Reno and reaches for his own bottle of bourbon so the pair can do a mock cheers, and he downs a fourth of the amber liquor in a single swig. Reno rolls his eyes but takes a (much smaller) sip of his whiskey straight too, before the pair dig into their spread.
Food isn’t usually something Rude puts too much thought into, but he’s grateful that Reno always seems to think of it for him. The ‘iguana’ is nice and fatty, with enough radscorpion venom and dried jalapeno sprinkled all over to almost make his tongue tingle. It’s definitely better than the jerky meant only to keep his sanity intact. As such, it rarely tastes like anything other than old shoe leather. The carrots and Bighorner aren’t nearly as exciting, but Rude still takes a bite whenever Reno shoves the dishes his way. He even accepts a spoonful of the ‘mythical’ mac and cheese- the fresh brahmin milk and butter may be lost on his dulled tastebuds but, all the little happy noises Reno makes while guzzling it down make it downright delectable. All the caps in the world don’t mean shit when good food is so hard to come by.
Their meal doesn’t last very long. Shaking people down for caps sure gives you a hell of an appetite. Rude tosses his last wooden skewer onto the pile and Reno mops up the last streaks of creamy cheese with his finger. With a loud sigh Reno kicks his legs up on the table and shoves some of the plates dangerously close to the edge. He sighs, one hand resting on his stomach while the other holds his half-full soda bottle, “Fuck, sometimes I think it’s true, what they say about a good meal. That shit really is better than just about anything. Maybe even sex.”
“Oh really?” Rude takes a final swig of his bourbon, his gaze never moving from Reno’s lips, “Don’t know if I agree with that.” The desire from earlier is bubbling up again, in that athirst way that likes to surface in these moments of idle ease.
“Hey, by all means,” Reno cocks a languid grin towards the Ghoul, “But you might be doing most of the work, this way this food baby is making me wanna crash.”
“That’s never stopped either of us before,” Rufe reaches over to run his gnarled, bony fingers through Reno’s ponytail where it falls over his left shoulder. He gathers up the shockingly silky strands, and like a master with their dog’s leash, pulls and guides Reno’s face towards his own. Reno doesn’t say a word, he just lets his eyes do the talking. And those eyes are telling Rude just how eager he is to have the Ghoul’s lips pressed against his. Rude closes the distance between them, and obliges.
Reno’s lips taste of charred spices and artificial cherry, like the greatest barbecue Rude’s eaten in this life or his last one. The urge for Rude to take those chapped, rosy-pink lips between his teeth and bite them off, sever them off of Reno so the older Ghoul can swallow them whole and carry them within his guts for the rest of his forsaken existence is strong enough that soon blood begins to flow from his Partner’s mouth. But as greedy as he may be, Rude is still a pragmatic monstrosity at heart. He pulls his teeth back and lets his tongue take their place, kissing and tasting every inch of Reno’s mouth so he can relish the flavor of bloody cherry soda instead.
Eventually Reno’s breathing begins to hitch, and he pushes Rude away so his lungs can have a break. A watery line of drool keeps the pair connected, and Reno breaks it off with a swipe of his tongue as he takes in some deep breaths, “Still hungry, I take it?”
“Fucking starving.”
“Fuck man, I paid good money to fill you up first,” Reno laughs and swipes the glasses off of Rude’s face so that he can stare into those hickory eyes, see the hints of madness that lurk in the milky splotches slowly invading his irises. There’d been one time, while the pair had been laid next to a fire in the middle of the desert. With nothing but the stars and the song of a Nightstalker pack to keep the pair company, Reno had dared to ask if Rude feared going blind someday, but all he got for his curiosity was a fiery glare and a boot slammed into his tailbone as his goodnight kiss.
Reno sighs dramatically. He cradles Rude’s face in his hands. His thumb traces one particularly deep scar caused by one hell of a hit from some brass knuckles, “Though I suppose, neither of us is good about skipping dessert, huh?”
Rude re-angles his head so Reno’s thumb slips on his mouth and he bites down- hard. Reno’s euphoric scream is barely drowned out by the bustling crowd outside their open window and the grind of the slot machines below. Rude quickly strips him free of his vault suit and ratty boxer shorts, while Reno somehow manages to free his hand long enough to yank Rude’s own shirt off and fling towards the sofa. The Ghoul grabs Reno’s hip and effortlessly forces him up on the table with no regard for the hotel’s dishware. A cacophony of tin plates clattering onto the floor and the creaking wood of the tables only adds to the fever growing between the two.
Normally Rude loves some floorplay with Reno’s delicately-plump chest, those nipples that stick out just a hair too far. But all he can focus right now on is how Reno’s pussy is at the perfect height and angle, already glistening wet as he’s struck by a scent only a hellish creature like himself could ever pick up on. The same smell that made Rude finally give in and fuck Reno on a moldy mattress years ago when they got stuck in a radstorm togther.
Reno doesn’t hold back one bit on all his delicious noises when Rude begins to lick and nip at his aching clit. He swears he can still feel the phantom patch of the older man’s stubble rubbing against his thighs as Rude devours him, and it burns soooooo wonderfully. Rude grips at his hips to keep him from trying to thrust up into his mouth, to grind himself against his lips and teeth, so much so they both know they’ll be covered in bruises come morning. The tables screeched louder and louder as it fights against being moved from the sheer force of their debauchery, and it’s a wonder no one’s come knocking on the suite door yet.
Rude has a tried-and-true method of alternating between biting at Reno’s thighs to leave a canvas of hickies only he’ll ever get to see, and lapping at Reno’s pussy until he gets a mouthful of that ambrosia that Rude swears keeps him saner than any other hunk of flesh could achieve for him. But when Reno starts to feel the pressure coiling tighter and tighter at his very core, his entire body buzzing from the energy it’s failing to contain, he knows he’s not ready yet for things to end so soon.”
“Slow down, Slugger.” Reno grunts, and somehow manages to get Rude off of his pussy, his arms shaking as he tries to not collapse on back, “Can’t… I wanna cum with you in me, asshole. And not on a fucking table.”
“Needy little princess,” Rude mutters in exasperation, but he’s still somewhat of a gentleman at heart. He scoops up Reno in his arms- sending the rest of their spread crashing onto the ground- and practically tosses him onto the bed. The lube and a few loose Rad-X pills are pulled out of the front of Rude’s bag, and he somehow manages to lose his own pants and underwear while feeding the pill to Reno in another violent kiss. His hands work with Amin’s of their own to squeeze out and lather up his cock in lube, before Rude is finally ready to line them up.
“I love you, so damn much.”
“Then fuck me like you mean it, baby.”
And who can refuse a request like that?
Rude’s thrust his cock halfway in at first, and then his next thrust he’s forcing himself all the way up to the base of his shaft. Reno adores the pain and burn such suddenness brings him. He bangs his head down on the pillow and bites at the case with fangs like a mountain cat. Rude gives him a few moments to adjust while rubbing at the small bulge he’s very proud to make in Reno’s flat belly. But Reno’s tight walls and quivering breaths can’t keep him calm for long. He nearly pulls himself back out, just the tip still breaching into Reno. Before slamming back down into him hard. And he does it again, and again, and again.
Rude sets such a brutal pace that it’s not long before his dick is practically pulsing and Reno can’t tighten his legs around his waist anymore. It’s always a bit of a game to see who breaks first, and this time Rude feels himself racing to the peak and unable to stop the tsunami that is welling up inside of him. He unleashes his orgasm with a strangled moan, and it’s just enough to push Reno over his own edge. His redheaded lover screams out a broken, passion-filled melody that no holotape could ever properly capture. For a moment the two are connected, as both their minds fizzle out into a state of grey static, like the feeling of watching the sun just about to rise over the horizon. Before everything turns wet and white and sticky from all their sweat and cum and fluids spilling out all over.
Rude collapses onto top of Reno with barely enough consideration not to squish his lungs. They aren’t kissing, even that would take too much energy right now, but they breathe heavily into one another’s mouths like a lover's version of resuscitation.
It takes a few minutes for Rude to start to regain the feeling in his legs, and he gingerly wiggles his hips to get a feel for if they’re ready to separate yet. But Reno makes a keening noise and grabs at his arm when he feels him trying to move,
“Hgggh, ahhh, stop stop. Stay in, please.”
“You’re gonna be pisssed at how much it aches tomorrow.”
“Future me can suck it.”
Keeping the two of them connected like a pair of dogs in heat, Rude twists their bodies around so he’s closer to the nightstand and his bag. Without turning, Rude reaches inside his sling bag and rustles around inside until his fingers find his med kit. He pulls out an IV bag filled with yellow fluids, and a small needle he’s kept prepped since the last time they made love. Reno sighs when Rude grabs his hand to gently seek out a vein.
“You could wait, yah know.”
“We’re safe right now and we have plenty of time. Plus if I want more in the morning I’m not risking you shooting blanks.”
“So fucking romantic.”
“You know it.” Rude says and presses a kiss to Reno’s cheek as the needle slips under his skin, and the yellow RadAway begins to flow. This is the true cost of loving and fucking a Ghoul. You couldn’t ask for a quicker and more potent dose of radiation then to be filled with their very essence (save for drinking the waste water of a Nuka-Cola plant) and even the threat of his hair falling out had never been enough to dissuade Reno from such a taboo.
So, since Reno refuses to stop loving Rude, Rude makes sure to take care with everything else. To make sure that those flowing crimson locks stay on his head. That his eyes don’t grow dull and his skin shriveled and too fragile for his own bed. That he never loses his taste for shit like mac and cheese, Nuka-Cherry, and that abomination of a jello salad they had once at some old ladies farm. That his lungs stay clear and his heart keeps beating. If Reno can find it in himself to love a monster, a Ghoul like Rude then he’ll do all he can to take care of the rest.
It’s only fair that if Reno gives him a reason to keep living, that Rude does his best to keep Reno trucking along as well. Even if the world tries to say otherwise.