──── ୨୧ ──── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 🎀✨Magical Girl in Training 🩷 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ lvl 20 • Tenna Yume/selfship/oc x canon 🍮🐾 Digital Artist/Merch designer 🔞Suggestive/NSFW sometimes (Minors DNI) 🐇• Do not steal/resell/repost my art !! ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ✨🎀
Summary: Yes Man invited the Courier to co-host a post-apocalyptic cooking show. The Courier agreed enthusiastically (obviously), assuming 'cooking show' was code for. . . ahem.
Rating: M (VERY suggestive, but NO actual smut)
Word Count: 8,604
AO3 LINK: [BOOP]
Addiction, you had learned, wasn’t limited to chems or alcohol.
. . .It could also, surprisingly, apply to robots.
Your robot lover had tried to explain it to you once, in that cheerful way of his—something about neural pathway equivalents and positive feedback loops and how organic beings experienced dopamine rushes (blah blah blah) but HE experienced electrical surges in his reward circuits that were “Quite similar, actually, remarkably so!”
Or, huh… something like that anyway.
Honestly, you had stopped listening around the point where he had started pulling up research papers on addiction psychology, plus some old RobCo technical documentation that had a whole section titled ‘WARNING: Securitron units may develop compulsive behavior patterns related to novel sensory input stimuli’ with a footnote about a test unit that had, apparently, become ‘inappropriately attached to a specific radio frequency’ and kept repositioning itself to maintain signal reception. The manual specifically noted ‘Do not allow units to associate pleasure-analogue responses with non-combat activities.’
. . .
Well. . .
“Welcome, WELCOME to ‘Atomic Eats With Yes Man And Six’! Today we’ll be making pre-war snack cakes from scratch! And with NO brahmin milk substitutes either! WOW! ISN’T THAT JUST SUPER EXCITING, SIX?”
. . .a bit too late for that, huh?
Your gaze slid to the side and up, right to the beaming smile of your partner.
Or rather, according to the “plan” (cough cough—script), your co-host.
Because yes, this was absolutely happening. And yes, the seven feet tall death machine on a wheel standing (wait… could it even be called standing?) right next to you—no less, right behind a perfectly polished counter (for OBVIOUS reasons)—was also wearing that frilly pink apron that you had come to know well over the past few months of your lovely relationship. Although, the other times were much more innocent—like, for example, when Yes Man wanted to try making pancakes and the fluffy abominations somehow ate through the pan… with teeth involved, for some reason (good times by the way).
This? This was NOT innocent.
This was simply—
You raised one hand to thumbs up, eyes dead. “…Couldn’t be more excited.”
Yay indeed you thought, watching as he rotated forward.
“NOW! For those of you just tuning in—” Your boyfriend’s grippers gestured enthusiastically toward the camera that was absolutely recording this for posterity (̶a̶n̶d̶ d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ N̶O̶T̶ f̶o̶r̶ r̶e̶p̶e̶a̶t̶e̶d̶ v̶i̶e̶w̶i̶n̶g̶ d̶u̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ l̶o̶n̶e̶l̶y̶ w̶a̶s̶t̶e̶l̶a̶n̶d̶ n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶s̶, n̶o̶p̶e̶, n̶u̶h̶-̶u̶h̶)̶. “—Fancy Lads Snack Cakes are a PRE-WAR DELICACY! A triumph of food preservation technology! Each cake is individually wrapped and has a shelf life of approximately TWO HUNDRED YEARS, which is REMARKABLE when you think about it! The perfect combination of sugar, artificial flavoring, and enough preservatives to survive a nuclear apocalypse! Which they DID! Isn’t science WONDERFUL?”
He turned back toward you, that ever-present smile getting brighter.
“Six, my lovely assistant! As someone who’s traveled EXTENSIVELY throughout the Mojave, you’ve probably encountered quite a few boxes of these tasty treats out in the wasteland! Would you like to share your experiences with our viewers? Please?”
You blinked up at him, probably looking like your brain got lost on the way.
His mouth turned into a ‘3’ shape as he tapped his claws together.
Ah.
Right.
With your mind clear, you turned your gaze to the camera and—
“I stole at least ten boxes from the Ultra-Luxe.”
—totally nailed the delivery (courier of many talents, baby).
Except. . .
Wait.
. . .why did it get so quiet all of a sudden?
Feeling betrayed, your head turned slowly—not unlike a rusty door that hadn’t seen oil since before the bombs dropped—toward your lover. With it, one of your hands lifted, extending in a gesture that roughly translated in Courier-Six-Speak to ‘why the fuck did you stop talking, this is getting weird, please continue before I have to acknowledge that silence exists.’
And—oh.
He actually leaned down a bit.
You would have said something like ‘hey sexy’ (natural charm), however at that moment you also noted that one of his digital eyes spasmed a little. Just the corner though. Kind of like a stroke, if robots could have strokes. Barely noticeable unless you had spent the last several months learning every pixel of his expressions, which you had, because you were either deeply in love or deeply unwell (the answer was both, by the way).
Either way, the edge of his smile flickered.
Then—and this was the part that truly sold his performance—he cupped one claw around the side of his speaker, like he was trying to create some kind of acoustic privacy barrier (good luck), and the whisper (it was not a whisper, Yes Man could NOT whisper—even if he insisted many times that he could—and you would die on this hill) that came out was strained in a way that would have been concerning if you weren’t 100% sure this was all part of the scenario.
And this was DEFINITELY part of the script.
. . .The script that you didn’t read.
(Oops?)
“Six!”
You pursed your lips. “…What?”
Before he could respond, movement caught your peripheral vision.
Not that far away, the other Securitron—since yes, there was one of the generic ones inside the penthouse too (and also wearing a tiny chef’s hat that originally made you question Yes Man’s kinks, but you ultimately decided to roll with it because you were freaky like that)—straightened up from whatever camera angle adjustment it had been doing.
For some reason, it started rolling backward.
For some other reason, it lifted one massive gripper in a salute and spoke—
“It was nice knowing you, Yes Man sir.”
—with the vocal equivalent of a death row prisoner’s last words.
Then he reversed through the wall.
. . .Not around it. Through it.
The drywall exploded outward in a cloud of dust and pre-war insulation, and the robot kept going, momentum carrying it straight toward the penthouse floor-to-ceiling windows with all the grace of a brahmin on ice (which you had only seen once in a fever dream). Next, he met the glass with a kiss that was frankly unwelcome—judging by the window’s reaction. For it, not to be outdone by the wall, also exploded (but more dramatically).
There was an awkward pause—
(If you ignored the distant, monotone “Wheeeee—”)
—up until, somewhere far below, metal met pavement.
. . .
Your head tilted, staring at the Securitron-shaped hole. “Huh.”
“SIX! Darling! We CANNOT—” A pair of enormous clawed hands landed on your shoulders, spinning you back to face—wow, okay, your boyfriend’s smile was doing something weird now. “—REVEAL THEFT ON CAMERA! There are PEOPLE watching! The Omertas are watching! The White Glove Society is DEFINITELY watching because I sent them a personal invitation! The ULTRA-LUXE MANAGEMENT might be watching as well, and I’d rather not spend the next fiscal quarter dealing with PROPERTY LITIGATION—!”
His pupils searched yours, almost desperately.
“…you know?”
You stared up at him, completely void of emotion.
Because uh. . .
. . .dramatic much?
You had no idea why he was taking this sexual roleplay so seriously.
But fine. If he wanted to commit so hard then you could as well.
With a roll of your eyes, your hands lifted, settling on top of his claws with what you hoped was the appropriate level of dramatic tension and sultry courier charm. Slowly, you leaned back—just a fraction, really—and let your expression shift into something that could maybe pass for contrite if you squinted hard enough and prayed to god.
“You’re right, I—” You bit your lip (sexy). “I didn’t steal them.”
The pause you inserted there? Award-worthy, baby.
“I found them. Outside the Strip. In a… box.”
His screen flickered. “…Six—”
“A very abandoned box.”
“Honey, please—”
“That no one wanted.”
His smile twitched at the corners.
You looked up at him through lowered lashes.
“Which I then claimed through the ancient wasteland law of—”
As you reached out with a hand, one of your fingers traced his chest area.
“—finders-keepers.”
. . .
His display briefly showed a ‘Connection lost’ before recovering.
“HA-HA-HA!” He mimed wiping away a tear. “Oh, Six!”
In a flash, his claws found your hand and suddenly you were moving—spinning in a graceful arc that would have been romantic if not for the faint sound of his internal cooling fans kicking into overdrive. When you stopped, you were facing the camera again, and his grippers landed on your shoulders in what was probably meant to be a casual, co-host-friendly gesture (you supposed), but felt more like he was physically preventing you from saying anything else.
You couldn’t imagine why.
“My WONDERFUL co-host is such a KIDDER! ‘Finders-keepers!’ WOW! What WIT! What CHARM! The viewers are probably LAUGHING SO HARD right now! Because we ALL know that the Courier RESPECTS PROPERTY RIGHTS and would NEVER—NEVER—engage in activities that could be interpreted as THEFT! Which they DEFINITELY didn’t commit! Because that would be TERRIBLE for our brand! And by ‘our brand’ I mean OUR REPUTATION—”
His hand tightened on your shoulder and you gasped softly (you were such a good actor).
“—AS NEW VEGAS’ RULERS!”
A bowl materialized in your hands.
Actually, he kind of just shoved it at you (rude).
“BAKING!” Your partner announced, rolling backward and forward a few times like he was physically trying to reset himself. “LET’S TALK ABOUT BAKING! The SAFE, LEGAL, FAMILY-FRIENDLY activity that we’re doing RIGHT NOW!” A small spark erupted from his side as he beamed down at you. “Six, my sweet, what’s your favorite thing about the baking process? And PLEASE think very carefully before you answer!”
You didn’t think about your answer.
Instead, your eyebrows waggled. “That thick, robot di—mmfph?”
“THE MEASURING!” His claws clamped over your mouth with enough force that you briefly saw death, but quickly recovered when he whisper-shouted a quick ‘sorry!’ and adjusted his grip with a wince. An awkward giggle followed. “They mean MEASURING! Such PRECISION! So IMPORTANT! You can’t just eyeball ingredients, right? That’s how you get STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE! In CAKES! I’m talking about CAKES! Right, Six? RIGHT?!”
His eyes found yours as he took his gripper away, letting you breathe.
And you, placing the bowl on the counter gently, just stared. “I… guess?”
“WONDERFUL! MOVING ON!”
Your mouth opened slightly, one eyebrow raising.
Since, well, you were starting to get confused. When was the—
His claws slammed on either side of you, effectively caging you in.
Oh-ho-ho~!
There it was.
The setup you had been waiting for—claws on either side of your body, his massive frame looming behind you (the thought alone—gods—), the camera forgotten (or so you assumed, because who kept thinking about it during the good parts instead of just… enjoying the sensuality?). This was it. The moment where things FINALLY transitioned from ‘wholesome cooking content tee-hee’ to ‘why yes, officer, I DO have a permit for this Securitron (wink).’
So naturally, you leaned back, letting your hips make contact with his front panel and—
“Six,” he began, his hands spreading a bit wider on the counter (wait, what—wasn’t that supposed to be the other way around?). “Can you please measure out three and a half cups of flour?”
. . .
Three and a half cups of… flour?
Right now? Seriously?
You turned your head up determinedly, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression, but all you got was the edge of his screen and that smile and—oh, was that a digital sweat drop? Huh. Your eyes narrowed, lips pursing in contemplation as the ‘emoticon’ (could it be called like that? You had no idea and honestly did not care) grew larger.
Was he. . .
Your eyebrows furrowed.
. . .was he playing hard to get?
You didn’t expect him to be the type (given the context), but—okay. You could play along.
With a sigh, your hand reached for the measuring cup, fingers curling around the handle as you turned back toward the ingredients spread across the counter. Flour. Sugar. Eggs that looked suspiciously fresh for a post-apocalyptic wasteland (you chose not to question it). The usual suspects for baking, you supposed, though your expertise in this area was limited too ‘can identify food’ and ‘will eat anything that doesn’t actively try to eat me first.’
“Three and a half,” you purred, lashes lowering. “Of course, Sir.”
“I—” His claws re-adjusted on the counter. “…Why are you calling me ‘sir’?'“
(Because it was hot? Obviously? Was he built yesterday?)
One eyebrow raising, you glanced up at him again. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“What? No! I mean—We’re CO-HOSTS! Equals! Partners in CULINARY EDUCATION! There’s NO hierarchical dynamic here that would necessitate—”
But you had already tuned him out—pausing just for a moment to raise your hand and close your fingers a few times in a ‘blah blah blah’ gesture that earned you a scandalized ‘SIX?!’—focusing on the bag of flour. Except there was one small problem.
The damn thing wouldn’t open.
Your fingers pulled at the corner, then the other corner, then tried to find some kind of tear strip that definitely didn’t exist because pre-war packaging engineers were apparently sadists who hated future generations. At one point you tried using your teeth (you almost lost a tooth and vowed to never try it again, while knowing fully well you WOULD try again… because you did it two second later and got the same result).
The bag remained sealed.
Right. Okay. Time for Plan B.
Hand sliding down the pocket of you pink, frilly apron—yes, you were ALSO wearing one, and you looked cute as hell in it, facts only—your fingers closed around the handle of your combat knife. The same one that had seen you through countless firefights, disemboweled more than a few raiders, and once carved a very detailed phallus into the side of a Legion camp. If it could handle all of that, it could most surely handle—
A metal claw shot out, grabbing your wrist mid-reach. “SIX! NO!”
You scrunched up your nose. “What? I was just—”
“I KNOW what you were ‘JUST’!”
Just as he raised one claw to place it against the side of his screen, pixelated eyelashes materialized on the top of his eyes—long, dramatic ones that would make any showgirl jealous—and he batted them at you in the most condescending display you had ever witnessed.
And obviously you gave him a look, because what in the goddamn—?
“But we can’t have WEAPONS on a COOKING SHOW! That’s—” His grip tightened—not painfully, just firmly enough that your hand couldn’t complete its journey to stabby-stabby town. “—that’s NOT food safe! And also! Imagine what the viewers would think! ‘Oh look, the Courier’s pulling out a murder knife to open flour!’ That’s not the IMAGE we’re going for here!”
Your lips pressed together. “It’s not a murder knife.”
“IT HAS BLOODSTAINS!”
“Had. I cleaned it.” A pause. “…Mostly.”
“SIX—”
“Fine.” You released the handle, letting it slide back into the pocket. “Then you open it.”
“OF COURSE! That’s actually what I was going to suggest! Let me just—”
POMF.
The world went white.
(And NOT in a sexy way.)
Why wasn’t the question that went through your mind. For you knew. You knew that Securitron grippers—while excellent for wielding miniguns, crushing skulls, and occasionally holding you tenderly during post-coital cuddling sessions while the owner whispered sweet nothings—were NOT designed for delicate culinary tasks. You didn’t actually expect that he would try it, but he was already acting super weirdo so. The three massive digits closed around the paper bag, applied what Yes Man probably thought was gentle pressure and—
Wow. Just wow.
Head to toe. Not a single inch spared. Your hair, your face, your clothes, even your eyelashes—everything got covered in flour. The apron, which had been a lovely shade of pink, was now the color of fresh snow. You could taste it in your mouth, somehow, even though you had definitely closed it (you were pretty sure, anyway). And your brain, trying to process what had happened, arrived at the only logical conclusion available.
Fate, apparently, had decided it was time for you to cosplay.
So straight ahead you stared, expression completely neutral and—
“I have become ghost,” you announced to no one in particular. “Destroyer of—”
“SIX! SIX, I CANNOT SEE!”
MUST PROTECC—
In an instant, your hand shot out—a blur of heroic action, ready to save your boyfriend from the terrible fate of temporary blindness—except you had forgotten one critical detail: you also couldn’t fucking see. What was meant to be a gentle, caring reach toward his screen turned into a full-speed collision between your knuckles. . .
. . .and your own face.
The fact that you survived this long was truly a mystery.
“WAS THAT—ARE YOU OKAY?!” Your ears picked up frantic swipe-swipes of metallic claws against glass, followed by small tinks. “I CAN’T—MY VISUAL SENSORS ARE COMPLETELY OBSTRUCTED! THIS IS—I’M EFFECTIVELY BLIND! OH NO! OH GOSH!”
There was a whirr (his wheel reversing at max speed) and—
CRASH.
—yeaaaah. He absolutely just slammed into the cupboards. Great.
Despite decking yourself in the face, you pushed through. Stumbling forward, your arms outstretched like some kind of feral ghoul, except instead of attacking anything in sight you were just trying to find literally anything that wasn’t covered in baking ingredients. Unfortunately for you, god had chosen violence. Your hip connected with the counter edge (ow), your elbows found what might have been a mixing bowl (it clattered to the floor), and your foot discovered that yes, someone had left a utensil drawer open (your toe would remember this).
“Shit,” you hissed, reaching over to hold onto. . . onto. . .
Your fingers sank into something that squelched with the consistency of—
Oh no.
OH NO.
The hamster inside your brain started running—GOING FOR THE GOLD MEDAL EVEN—searching for any explanation while sprinting on its rusty wheel, almost immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusions (because you had SEEN SOME SHIT). Deathclaw organs. Bloatfy secretions. Brahmin dung (actually no, you would have smelled that first so scratch that—). That weird stuff that came out of pipes in Vault 22. Or—FUCK—someone’s eyeball. A human eyeball. Multiple eyeballs. A whole bowl of eyeballs that someone had left for—why would there be eyeballs, this was a cooking show, there shouldn’t be eyeballs, but your hand was currently COVERED in something that felt like it could ABSOLUTELY be eyeballs and—
You squeaked.
(When was the last time you made that sound?
Never. The answer was N̵̹͛Ę̶̤̳̃V̵̩̼̕E̸̢͕͘R̸͖̃.)
And yet, you were too far gone to care.
“BABE! GET IT OFF!” You shook your hand frantically, jumping from foot to foot like you had spontaneously developed an interest for tap-dancing—because seeing something and feeling it was one thing, but NOT knowing and feeling was another (and it was HORRIBLE). “GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF! PLEASE—”
“WHAT?! WHAT IS IT?! SIX, I STILL CAN’T SEE—”
“IT’S—I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS BUT IT’S TOUCHING ME!” You felt whatever-the-fuck-it-was flinging off your digits in an arc that you desperately hoped was away from you and not toward your face. “IT’S WET! AND SQUISHY! WHY IS IT SQUISHY, YES MAN?!”
“IS IT DANGEROUS?!”
“I DON’T KNOW! MAYBE?!”
“SHOULD I ACTIVATE DEFENSIVE PROTOCOLS?!”
“I DON’T—JUST—WHERE’S THE SINK?!”
Another crash echoed from your boyfriend’s direction.
“I’M TRYING TO FIND IT! THE PENTHOUSE LAYOUT IS STORED IN MY MEMORY BUT WITHOUT VISUAL CONFIRMATION I KEEP HITTING—” BANG. “—THINGS!”
This. . .
. . .this was it, wasn’t it?
Back at Goodsprings, at the beginning of your adventure, you had thought that it was the end. That you would die right then and there from two shots to the head from a guy that looked—and acted—like a freaking moron. There would have been no more packages to deliver. No more chances to hit it off with a robot. No more midnight humming to songs on the radio from your Pip-Boy (why did Johnny Guitar always play during the night…?). Just a life ended abruptly that no one would mourn because it didn’t even have the ability to make itself known.
And now you were going to die from mystery goo.
While your lover demolished the kitchen.
Both of you covered in flour.
. . .
Okay, maybe you wouldn’t ACTUALLY die, because you just wiped that shit off but—
(It was butter by the way, but shh—no one had to know—)
You squinted through the white haze, slowly rubbing at your eyes to see the scene.
And it WAS ridiculous. So ridiculous in fact that you briefly wondered if you somehow agreed to a comedic porn roleplay instead of a normal one. Like, that was the only logical explanation. The only way this scenario made sense. Obviously you had misread the genre—this wasn’t straightforward sexy roleplay, this was one of those ridiculous adult films where the plot was ninety percent slapstick and ten percent ‘Oh yes, Mr. Handy, polish my walls! Polish them HARD~!’ (that one had lazy writing for the most part but the quote stuck). Which, honestly, didn’t seem that farfetched. You had dealt with weirder situations in the wasteland.
(The time with the Nightstalker and the Nuka Cola bottle came to mind.)
(. . .You didn’t like thinking about the Nightstalker and the Nuka Cola bottle.)
So, it had to be part of the scenario.
The whole flour explosion thing.
And the… everything.
. . .Right?
“…Yes Man? Are you—”
“YES?! YES, I’M FINE! I’M JUST—WHERE ARE YOU—SIX—?!”
Your vision cleared just enough to see him and—huh.
Would you look at that? He was coming straight toward you.
. . .
HE WAS COMING STRAIGHT TOWARD YOU.
Your back hit the counter edge and you had only a few seconds to make a decision before a WHOLE SECURITRON made contact. Dodge left? No room. Dodge right? Also no room. Jump? You weren't that coordinated, and with your luck you would probably just faceplant into his chassis anyway. So instead you did what any rational person would do when faced with an incoming missile (aka: robot boyfriend).
You opened your mouth. “Yes Man, WAIT—”
Impact.
“—OOF—”
“SIX?! OH GOSH, I’M SO SORRY!”
His metal digits immediately went to your shoulders, not gripping, just hovering in a way that suggested he was VERY aware he had just bulldozed his partner but wasn’t quite sure what to do about it (since blindness). You had to lean back—way back, actually—to avoid getting crushed by the middle of his chassis, which put you at an angle that was definitely not designed for extended human spinal column usage.
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—ARE YOU HURT?! DID I BREAK ANYTHING?! YOUR RIBS FEEL INTACT BUT I CAN’T BE SURE WITHOUT A PROPER MEDICAL SCAN AND—”
“I’m fine,” you wheezed, slapping softly at his front.
“ARE YOU SURE?!” He rolled backward, letting you breathe properly. “BECAUSE THAT SOUNDED LIKE IT HURT! AND I KNOW MY COLLISION DETECTION SYSTEMS ARE TOP-NOTCH BUT WITHOUT VISUAL INPUT I’M BASICALLY JUST A SUPER EXPENSIVE BATTERING RAM AND—”
You stared up at him.
At his screen, covered in white powder.
At the way his claws were trembling slightly on your shoulders.
At how he was pressed against you, trapping you against the counter, caging you in and—
Sex, your brain supplied eloquently.
SEX, your horny mind screamed in triumph.
YES.
YES.
YES.
YES.
YES!
The moment you had been waiting for, brave soldier, has come.
With pure determination, your hand reached up and started wiping at his display. Flour came off in clumps, revealing pixels underneath, and you worked methodically across the surface until his face became visible again, so you could FINALLY get this show on the road.
“Oh! Thank you SO much, Six! I can see again! That’s—” His tone brightened considerably, relief flooding through his speaker as he observed your movements. “—that’s WONDERFUL! You’re always so thoughtful and—wait, what are you—”
Your fingers found your hair.
The hair tie that had been perfectly placed for the more wholesome part of the show before, now came out with one smooth pull, letting your ponytail fall loose in what you hoped was a seductive cascade (and not the disaster it actually was, given the whole flour situation). You were optimistic, though. Which was exactly why you let your head tilt just so—the angle you had seen in all those magazines with ladies in various coquette poses.
Your eyelids lowered, gaze focusing on him.
Bedroom eyes: deployed, baby.
And now it was time for—
“Come on, big boy,” you purred, voice dropping an octave. “Show me what you’ve got.”
. . .
Something inside of Yes Man’s chassis audibly clanked.
You felt your sins crawling on your back.
His screen went blank—
Your smoldering look faltered.
—then showed a loading icon.
Until that beaming smile returned in full force.
“Well THAT was EXCITING!” He pivoted toward the camera so fast you nearly got whiplash from watching, “Wasn’t it, folks?! Nothing like a fun little FLOUR INCIDENT to keep things INTERESTING! But don’t worry! We’re PROFESSIONALS! We can handle a minor setback! Cooking is ALL about adapting to unexpected situations, right? And speaking of adapting—”
Without warning, one of his grippers clamped around your wrist.
You barely had time to register the contact before you were being dragged sideways, away from the counter, away from the camera, away from what you assumed would be the main event. You feet scraped against the floor—not out of resistance, really, but just because your body had decided it was done cooperating for the day, allowing you to become a sack of concrete with limbs. And if he wanted to move you, he was going to have to work for it.
. . .Which he did effortlessly because, you know, Securitron.
“—I think we should take a quick break to discuss some—uhhhhhhhh—SAFETY PROTOCOLS! YEAH!” Your boyfriend thrust a fist into the air. “Can’t have anyone getting hurt during our WHOLESOME baking experience! We’ll be right back!”
Ah.
The ‘pull the co-host away for a private moment’ trope. A classic.
You sighed dreamily as he pulled you around the corner.
The moment you were out of the camera’s line of sight, he released your wrist and leaned down—or rather, tilted his entire chassis forward in that way Securitrons did when they wanted to get closer to something at human height. His screen filled your vision, that smile taking up every pixel, and your heart did a little flip because finally.
The setup. The tension. The payoff.
Your eyes half-lidded on instinct, lips parting slightly as you prepared for—
“Six.” His voice was carefully controlled (almost too cheerful), that precious smile twitching at the corners as his display glitched. “My darling, WONDERFUL boss and beloved.”
His claws came together right in front of him, tips tapping against each other in a rhythm that would have looked contemplative (or cute; actually, it looked cute anyway but—) on anyone else but on Yes Man looked like he was physically restraining himself from doing something… drastic.
“Would you PLEASE—” Tap tap tap. “—and I’m asking this with SO much love and patience—explain to me EXACTLY what you think is happening right now?”
Oh.
That… didn’t sound good.
You blinked up at him, lips closing just a touch. “Uh...”
What was happening? Was that even a question? Well, obviously you were doing the sexy cooking roleplay he had set up (the two of you had done A LOT of roleplay so it was only natural that a scenario like this came up). The camera was the ‘audience’ (you didn’t expect that, but you weren’t judging). The aprons were costumes. The whole ‘flour incident’ was probably improvised foreplay or something (he DEFINITELY liked you messy, who wouldn’t?). Any second now he would push you against the wall, or bend you over the counter, or—
One of your hands extended forward, palm open. “We’re preparing?”
“Preparing.” His eyes crinkled at the corners sweetly. “Preparing for...?”
Was this part of it? The teasing? Making you say it out loud?
. . .Kinky.
“Well…” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “…You know.”
“I’M AFRAID I DON’T!” The smile never wavered, although the cheerfulness in his tone cranked up several notches, which was… never a good sign. “See, I have access to THOUSANDS of pre-war databases! Technical manuals! Cooking guides! Even some very questionable magazines from 2077 that I wish I could UN-download! But NONE of them, not a single one, has prepared me for understanding what ‘you know’ means in THIS context! So if you could please CLARIFY what you think we’re preparing for, that would be SUPER HELPFUL!”
The lights in your brain blinked, but nobody was home. “We’re preparing…”
“MHM~!” His optics closed in what looked like delight. “PLEASE, GO ON!”
Your head tilted, expression blank. “…to fuck?”
There was a moment of silence.
. . .
. . .Then his display returned to factory settings.
“Oh! To FUCK! I see! That’s WONDERFUL, Six! Really! SUPERB CLARIFICATION! Gosh, you have such a way with words!” You noticed his eyes narrowing (it was a small change, but a threatening one nonetheless) and felt your pulse kick up. “Just one tiny question though! And I’m SURE you have a GREAT answer for this! You always do! But WHY—”
He tapped one claw against his screen thoughtfully.
“—would we be doing THAT?”
A bead of sweat ran down your temple. “Because… you wanted to?”
“WANTED TO? ME?!” His grippers moved with enthusiasm to press against the spot where a heart would reside inside his chassis, if he were to have such an organ in the first place. And oop—those eyelashes returned, batting adorably. “Oh, golly, Six! You’re SO thoughtful! Always thinking about what I want! That’s EXCEPTIONALLY sweet AND selfless of you! Except—”
His hands spread wide, the metal digits twitching.
“—WE’RE CURRENTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF A LIVE BROADCAST!”
Live.
. . .Live.
Your eyes widened.
Oh.
OH FUCK.
Mouth falling open in a perfect ‘O’ of horror, you stood there frozen. Your arms spread wide, fingers splaying out like you were trying to physically grasp the concept of your own stupidity in real time. The full, completed look of a caveman who just discovered fire and immediately set his asscheeks ablaze for fun and just as quickly realized it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Truly, a pose that belonged on ancient cave paintings as a warning to future generations.
Slowly, one of your hands lifted, index finger extended.
You pointed at him.
Next at yourself.
Then at the camera.
Back at yourself, but this time more frantically and with a strangled wheeze.
Camera. Him. You. Camera. Him. You. Camera. Him. You. The ceiling for some reason. You two times. Him. The bag of flour. Even the Securitron-shaped hole in the wall because it needed to be addressed one way or another. You again. Camera camera camera—
“YES! YES, SIX! LIVE!” The word exploded from Yes Man’s speaker. “L-I-V-E!”
He started miming each letter with his entire frame—those mechanical limbs spreading wide for the L, claws meeting above his screen for the I, a full body V-shape that made his wheel screech against the floor, and then the E with such dramatic flair that you half-expected him to launch into a full dance number right there in the kitchen.
It’s fun to stay at the Y M C A—
“THIS IS THE WHOLESOME COMMUNITY OUTREACH PROGRAM!” As he spoke (and you died), his display shifted—showing a cartoon version of you and your lover with chef hats, surrounded by smiling stick figures that were probably meant to represent New Vegas citizens. Hearts and starts floated around them. It was aggressively wholesome. “You know, the one YOU signed up for in the first place? The one where we agreed to do EDUCATIONAL CONTENT ONLY for the people of New Vegas? REMEMBER?!”
The cartoon Yes Man and you gave a thumbs up.
A little speech bubble appeared: ‘Teaching valuable life skills to our community! YAY! ♥’
The breath that left your parted lips felt like your soul escaping.
“I gave you that LOVELY LIST of options! Twenty different activities to choose from!” The image on his screen changed into a clipboard, complete with checkboxes. “Community garden! Radio show! Wasteland safety seminars! Story Time with Grandma Lily! And YOU—” One specific line was zoomed in on, highlighted in bright yellow. Was that your—? Oh no. “—initialed RIGHT HERE! Next to ‘Atomic Eats with Yes Man and Six: A FAMILY-FRIENDLY Cooking Show’! With your ACTUAL initials! The ones you use for LEGAL DOCUMENTS!”
His jolly expression returned, though it looked way more strained than usual.
“And I’m SURE you read all ten pages of conduct expectation and broadcasting guidelines before signing! Because you’re VERY THOROUGH LIKE THAT!” One of his digits went up. “And RESPONSIBLE!” Another one, this time with more force. “And would NEVER just scribble your name on something without understanding what you were agreeing to!” The third one shook just as he raised it. “That would be WILDLY IRRESPONSIBLE, wouldn’t it, Six? Especially for someone in charge of an entire independent nation!”
That adorable (terrifying) smile of his brightened.
“Don’t you agree?”
You. . .
You had not read it.
You had, in fact, scribbled your signature while eating a box of cinnamon Sugar Bombs and thinking about whether or not Securitrons could experience jealousy (they could, you had discovered, when a random tourist at the casino had gotten a little too friendly with you and Yes Man’s fist made friends with his face instead).
Shit.
“I…” Your mouth opened and closed a few times. “I didn’t…”
“Hmm?” The lovable idiot leaned in closer, one claw cupping the side of his screen in an exaggerated listening gesture. “I’m SORRY, I didn’t quite catch that! The audio sensors are working perfectly but sometimes human voices can be SO quiet! Could you repeat that for me? LOUDER, perhaps? Don’t be shy, honey!”
“I didn’t…” Your throat felt dry. “…read it.”
. . .
His screen flickered once.
Then his eyebrows—those cheerful, perpetually-raised pixelated lines—drew together into something you had never seen on him before. A frown. An actual, honest-to-frying-Mojave-sun frown. His mouth curved downward, his eyes narrowed, and suddenly his whole expression read like one of those old emoticons.
Basically, a ‘>:(‘ robotic pout.
And it should not have been as devastating as it was.
(BUT FUCKING HELL WHY DID IT LOOK BOTH SO CUTE AND HOT—)
“I KNOW YOU DIDN’T!” He announced, the red light on his torso lighting up for a second. “THAT’S THE PROBLEM, SIX! You NEVER read ANYTHING I give you! EVER! I could give you a document that says ‘I, Courier Six, hereby agree to launch myself from a catapult into the Colorado River while wearing a deathclaw costume’ and you’d SIGN IT! WITHOUT LOOKING! Possibly just humming a soft tune and—” His grippers drew together as he imitated your voice. “—‘Oh, sure, Yes Man! Whatever you need! I trust you completely!’—” He huffed, crossing his arms (ADORABLE AUGH—). “WHICH IS VERY SWEET, and I DO appreciate the trust, but GOSH, darling, do you have ANY idea how stressful it is to constantly worry that you’re going to accidentally agree to something CATASTROPHIC?!”
“I—well—” Your cheeks burned. “You could have at least TOLD me this was live!”
“I DID! IT WAS ON PAGE ONE! IN THE TITLE! ‘LIVE BROADCAST COOKING DEMONSTRATION’! LIVE WAS THE FIRST WORD, SIX! THE FIRST!”
“You know I don’t read titles!”
“THAT’S NOT THE DEFENSE YOU THINK IT IS!”
“Well maybe you should’ve mentioned it verbally!”
“I ALSO DID THAT! YESTERDAY! I said—and I QUOTE—‘Six, honey, are you ready for tomorrow’s live cooking show?’ And you said ‘uh-huh’ while cleaning your rifle!”
Oh. Yeah, that… that sounded about right.
“And NOW—” He threw his arms up, claws clicking against each other. “—because SOMEONE didn’t bother to read the part about appropriate on-camera conduct, we’re going to have to do SO much damage control! The White Glove Society is watching! The Omertas are DEFINITELY recording this for blackmail purposes! And let’s not even TALK about what the Followers are going to think when they hear that New Vegas’ independent ruler tried to—”
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
“—initiate sexual contact during a CHILDREN’S PROGRAM!”
You slapped yourself in the face while trying to cover a sharp gasp. “Children’s—?!”
“IT WAS SCHEDULED FOR FAMILY VIEWING HOURS, SIX! FAMILY! There could be KIDS watching! Little wasteland humans who just wanted to learn how to bake and instead got to witness you doing BEDROOM EYES at a Securitron while covered in flour!”
“Oh my god—”
“PAGE SEVEN! ‘Target audience: All ages, emphasis on youth education’!” His screen flashed with the exact page, highlighted. “And YOU just tried to turn it into—into—” He sputtered, apparently unable to find words, which was NEW and very scary. “—whatever late-night radio show content you thought this was!”
“Okay, but—”
“Our REPUTATION, Six!” His grippers flew to your shoulders, gripping tight. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to make New Vegas seem stable and well-governed?! And in ONE EPISODE you nearly—” His eyes widened. “—you SEDUCED me! On camera! In an APRON! The NCR is going to have a FIELD DAY with this! ‘Independent New Vegas’s new leadership can’t even film a cooking show without descending into chaos!’ The HEADLINES!”
He shook you with his hands, and goddamn the strength of that—
“Think of the HEADLINES, SIX!”
Oh GOD.
You DID think about the headlines.
“Holy shit.” Your hands shot out, palms landing on his chassis. “What do we do now?”
“WELL!”
You blinked, because his tone shifted immediately—back to that trademark cheer, right along with the smile that you fell in love with in the first place. Although, the easiness that he managed to put into that, the sudden whiplash of it all, made it all seem a bit—
You felt one of his hands land gently on your head.
CourierSix.exe has stopped working.
“Lucky for YOU, my beloved, I’m VERY good at crisis management! AND damage control! AND making problems disappear! It’s basically my entire job description!” As the joy in his voice grew, the hand on your hair started patting you in gentle pat-pats. “Don’t worry, Six! I can and WILL handle this! I’ll send out a statement about technical difficulties! Blame it on, oh I don’t know, interference from the Lucky 38’s old security systems! Maybe claim you were actually demonstrating DANGERS of not following kitchen safety protocols as an educational tool! Something… meta! The viewers would EAT THAT UP!”
Relief flooded through you so fast you felt lightheaded. “Oh thank fuck—”
“BUT!”
That single word stopped you cold, mouth open and eyebrows raised.
And he, using his hands, moved you backward to see your face better.
“I think we need to address the ROOT of this problem, don’t we?” He tapped one claw against his screen with a few soft tinks. “You see, this whole mess happened because you didn’t read the paperwork I gave you. And this isn’t the first time, is it? There was the contract with the Gomorrah that you signed without reading—which was fine, I caught it before you accidentally agreed to… questionable things. And the supply order from where you almost requisitioned 500 pounds of Radroach meat instead of 50. And last week’s security protocol update that you initialed while eating breakfast!”
You winced. “I… yeah.”
“SO!” His tone brightened further. “I think we need to make a little PROMISE to each other! You know, just to prevent future incidents! Can you do that for me, Six?”
“I—of course, yes, anything—”
“WONDERFUL!” A tiny star sparkled on his display as he beamed down at you. “So! From now on—starting right now—you’re going to read EVERYTHING I give you! Every document! Every form! Every memo! No more signing things while doing other activities! You’ll actually SIT DOWN, FOCUS, and READ! Can you PROMISE me that?”
You head bobbed frantically. “Yes! Absolutely! I promise! I’ll read everything, I swear!”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Even the boring parts?”
“Even the boring parts!”
“Even the terms and conditions?”
“Even those!”
“Even the footnotes?”
“YES! I’ll read the footnotes, the headers, the page numbers—EVERYTHING!” Your hands clasped together and holy SHIT, you didn’t remember the last time when you were this expressive (but hey, you didn’t want your boyfriend mad AND have a crisis on your head so some sacrifices—even of composure—were NECESSARY). “I’m so sorry, I should’ve been more responsible, you’re ABSOLUTELY right! You work so hard on all the administrative stuff and I just—” You gaze trailed down, unable to meet his for a moment before you caught yourself. “—I didn’t appreciate it enough… but I WILL from now on! I PROMISE! I’ll be the best document-reader you’ve ever seen! I’ll read so thoroughly that I’ll probably find typos! Which I’ll tell you about! Constructively! Because I love you and I want to support you and—”
“HA-HA-HA!”
Wait—
“OH, SIX! Sweet, GULLIBLE, Six!”
What in the—?
All those emotion died down inside of you in an instant. “…Why are you…?”
“You REALLY thought—” Another giggle interrupted him, and wow, he even went out of his way to install some teary-eyes software to make his expression more fitting. The absolute gall (that you actually respected and loved but shh). “—you REALLY thought this was a live broadcast?!”
Your stomach dropped, since there was no way—
“You should’ve SEEN your face!” Momentarily, his display went whole black just so you could see your own face in the reflection (and at this point it wasn’t THAT horrified, thankfully, but you suspected that you must have looked dumb as hell a few seconds ago). “The panic! The genuine horror! And the apology—WOW! I don’t think I’ve ever heard you string that many sentences together without a single curse word! You were SO concerned about our reputation! About the little humans! About the HEADLINES!”
A pulsing, teeth-achingly cute heart appeared on his screen.
“It was ADORABLE!”
No.
“Hook, line, and sinker!” He gestured excitedly with his grippers, making shapes in the air, and you KNEW that he was getting more and more smug by the second. “I’m honestly impressed with my own performance! Acting is HARD, you know? And maintaining that level of stressed urgency while internally laughing? Even MORE difficult!”
NO.
“And the way you promised to read everything from now on? Aww, Six! I’m going to keep that in mind and make sure to ALWAYS remind you whenever you forget about it!”
NO FUCKING WAY.
“You didn’t.” Something scraped against your throat. “You fucking did NOT—”
“Oh, I absolutely DID!” His expression snapped back to that iconic smile—the one that never moved, never changed. It froze in that permanent cheer that made your brain fire commands it probably really shouldn’t in this situation but—“I LIED, SIX! TO YOU! LOOK AT ME GO!”
Before you could process that admission, his claws wrapped around your waist and yanked.
Soon after, the world spun as he twisted you in a sharp pirouette that would have been graceful if you had any say in it. Your hair whipped across your face, flour still dusting the strands (you hoped you still looked your best), and you caught a glimpse of the ceiling, the floor, his delighted expression that slowly grew more pronounced again, and then—
Your palms slammed against the counter edge.
The impact rattled through your arms as you caught yourself, fingers gripping the surface while your brain tried to catch up with your body’s current location. Which was, apparently, right back where this whole disaster of a “cooking show” started. So with a small breath, you spun around, back pressed against the counter, and found him already rolling toward you with both grippers raised in the most transparently fake placating gesture you had ever seen.
You didn’t expect that. Not one bit.
For it was all just so. . .
“OH NO!” His eyebrows shot up, but that grin stayed in place no matter what. “I did something BAD! How TERRIBLE of me! I LIED to my beloved! The ruler of New Vegas! The person I’m programmed to serve and protect! I DECEIVED you with MALICIOUS INTENT! I should probably feel SUPER GUILTY about that! And I WOULD! Except—”
With a flicker, his eyes became half-lidded.
“—I really, REALLY don’t!”
. . .so freaking hot.
“Because here’s the thing, my sweet!” He kept moving forward, fully determined, wheel gliding smoothly against the tile. “The show wasn’t real! The camera wasn’t even PLUGGED IN in the first place! Look—” One metallic hand pointed toward the equipment, and sure enough, you see the power cable just… lying there on the floor. A detail that, embarrassingly, your horny brain failed to notice before. “It’s been a prop this whole time! Just set dressing for my little… educational exercise!”
You felt another wave of heat coating your cheeks. “You—”
“But the LESSON?” Deliberately, he raised one digit into the air and moved it side to side softly. “THAT was very real! See, I KNEW you wouldn’t read the paperwork! I COUNTED on it! And I KNEW you’d assume this was some kind of roleplay scenario because—well—” He wagged his eyebrows, which was exactly as ridiculous as it sounded . “—we do that sort of thing fairly often! And the apron IS super cute on you! So really, you were SET UP to fail from the start!”
He was right in front of you now, massive frame blocking out everything else.
“The whole thing was a test! An elaborate, carefully planned test to see if you’d learned your lesson about signing things without reading them!” With a thunk, both of his grippers landed on the counter on either side of you, caging you in and—oh, oh baby. “And based on that VERY sincere apology you just gave me, I’d say my methodology was HIGHLY effective!”
To top that off, he winked cheekily.
“Don’t you think so too, Six?”
Damn. . .
. . .He sure got you good.
Your eyebrows drew together. “So… none of it was real.”
“NONE of it!”
“The live broadcast—”
“FAKE!”
“The viewers—”
“IMAGINARY!”
“The Ultra-Luxe management watching—”
“COMPLETELY made up! Though they WOULD be judging us if this were real, so that part was accurate! And speaking of the Ultra-Luxe—” His metal digits flexed against the furniture. “—we should probably work on your… acquisition habits at some point! I mean, ten boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, Six? Really? That’s not finding things in the wasteland’, that’s THEFT!”
Your mouth opened to argue, but one of his claws pressed against it.
“But shh!” His smile softened just a touch. “Your secret’s SAFE with me. As always.”
Oh.
This dork.
This cute, cute idiot—
(You loved him so much it hurt sometimes.)
Your hands lifted slowly, fingers finding the edges of his screen. The glass was cold under your palms, a stark contrast to the heat currently trying to melt your brain into radioactive sludge. And you held him there, leaving faint white smudges on his display with the flour, keeping him in place even though you both know he could pull away if he wanted to.
But he didn’t. Good.
“You seriously did all of that—” you began, lashes lowering. “—just to teach me a lesson?”
“ABSOLUTELY!” There was no hesitation. Just pure, unfiltered pride that almost made you huff in amusement. “From start to finish! The fake show, the apron, the carefully orchestrated chaos—ALL part of my MASTER PLAN! I even calculated the exact amount of flour needed to create maximum comedic effect without causing actual harm! Though I’ll admit, the Securitron going through the window was NOT planned! That was—” He paused, his smile turning into a thin line for half a second. “—an unfortunate side effect of panic protocols! But everything else? TOTALLY INTENTIONAL!”
“Mmm.” You hummed, rubbing one finger along the glass. “That so?”
“YES! I mean, I COULD have just asked you nicely to read documents! But where’s the FUN in that? Besides, I’ve noted that you respond much better to practical demonstrations! Experiential learning! It’s all super effective! Studies show that—”
“Yes Man.”
“—retention rates increase by up to 75% when—yes?”
The edges of your lips curved. “….That’s so hot.”
“OH!” His tone brightened considerably and you could have sworn that a tiny sparkle effect appeared around his eyes. “So you’re NOT mad? Because I was approximately 55% certain you’d be at LEAST a little upset about the deception aspect! Not that I regretted it! The educational value was worth the risk! But still, I’m VERY glad you’re taking this so well That’s—that’s WONDERFUL, Six! You’re so understanding and—”
“Just because I found it hot doesn’t mean I’m not mad.”
. . .
“—and. . . oh.” A droplet of pixelated sweat appeared on his display. “Oh no—”
“I’m furious.” This time it was YOUR turn to do the frown (although you suspected yours was much more… marble-adjacent rather than adorable), even as your tone remained emotionless. “Furious that you managed to pull this off without me knowing.” Your fingers grabbed onto any part you could around his screen, an attempt at squishing that… didn’t exactly work but you liked to imagine that it did. “You LIED to me. Multiple times. With a straight face. Or, well… your version of a straight face. And you did it so convincingly that I believed every word.”
“When you put it like that is sounds BAD—”
“It was impressive—” Squish. “—but unacceptable. I’m supposed to be unpredictable, and here you are, predicting me perfectly.” Yet another squish, and this time he even made a fitting the situation face so that you could feel like you were doing something (…oh how you adored this bot). “Planning around my behavior. Using my own bad habits against me.”
“I—well—” Squish-squish and he 100% just held in a giggle. “—that was kind of the point—”
“So I’m going to have to punish you for that.”
The pause that followed was telling.
His eyes zeroed in on your face, scanning for context clues perhaps? So with amusement dancing in your own, you watched in real-time as his processor connected the dots. And yup—there it was. That digital blush, spreading across his display in a wave of pink pixels, made an appearance when he finally managed to get the implication.
One of his eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
Oh indeed Yes Man.
Oh indeed.
“Mhm.” You tilted your head. “But don’t worry. I get it. I will read everything from now on.” Slowly, your hand left his screen and began to trail down his chassis with clear intent. “After I make sure you understand that you can’t just outsmart your superior without consequences.”
“I—” That flush on his ‘cheeks’ grew as his claws opened and closed a few times. “What kind of consequences are we talking about here? Because I’m getting some SERIOUSLY interesting—and very welcome—readings from my sensors right now and—”
Your fingers slid lower.
“Oh!”
Lower still, following the line of metal panels.
“Ooooooh!”
And finally, with a tiny wink in his direction, your hand dipped to find the access panel you knew was there, and his entire frame shuddered as your fingers brushed against—
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