See I know that weed would be like super weak as a chem in Fallout but it would be so much funnier if all these hardcore chem users can’t handle the smallest dose of weed cause it’s like a pure non-irradiated strand and they’d lack any tolerance for canabanoids.
Contrarily, all vault dwellers have high tolerance as it’s like the only pre-war drug people could’ve snuck into the vaults and wastelanders look at vaulties crazy cause they’re like. “Oh I don’t do heavy chems *takes a bong rip that’d send a super mutant behemoth into a coma*”
Twitter keeps failing to post my tweets and replies but Tumblr would never betray me like that. Tumblr lets me post all I want about the ghoulified Hollywood cowboy on a revenge mission and his chipper deadly ray of sunshine soulmate who crushed on him her entire life and how horny they are for each other
the ghoul catches a glimpse of you from behind bathing?🫣
he can’t remember the last time he’s seen the silhouette of a woman like you, unblemished and perfect. had to be at least a hundred years? the curve of your ass, where your waist dips in…you’d feel silkier than butter under his fingers
Deliberate
It was an honest mistake.
Not much about the Ghoul is honest these days, so it seems necessary to point out integrity when it comes.
Fresh water, enough to drink, let alone enough to bathe in is a luxury in the Wasteland. So, when the two of you stumbled across a functioning water pump, you wasted no time partaking in the miracle. Being the gentleman he is, he allowed you first dibs and the gratitude in your eyes had almost stirred something in his chest.
He waited for his turn. And waited. The Ghoul had no doubt you’d had enough time to finish a decent shower and dress, so what the hell was keeping you?
After far too much time had passed, he’d come to check on you (give you shit about lingering in one place for too long). Some smart ass remark poised on the tip of his tongue, he rounded the corner only to stop so fast his boots skid.
You face away from him, oblivious to the way his throat has gone drier than the desert air. Your bare skin is damp, little droplets glistening as they trickle over your curves. His eyes trace the perfectly smooth expanse of your back, the beautiful dip of your waist, the tantalizing rise of your ass, and the gorgeous stretch of your legs.
He should leave, should turn on his heel and scurry away, tail tucked, belly on fire, but he can’t tear his gaze away. Beauty—like clean water—is a scarcity in this place. It ought to be admired.
You must feel his eyes on you because you turn your head to peer over your shoulder. He expects you to scream or curse or cover yourself. He doesn’t expect the small smile that pulls at the corner of your mouth.
“Yes?” you question, feigning innocence. In his chest, his heart pounds.
You’d planned this. This “accidental” discovery was intentional.
Deliberate.
The Ghoul’s chin dips, the brim of his hat throwing a shadow over whiskey-colored eyes.
The water on your lips is the freshest he’s tasted in years.