NUCLEAR.

[scarmarked-blog]

👀  ... 

[beenpole-archive]

continued from (x)

@warscaars

Hands encased in velvet cup his face, soft thumbs grazing over his skin as she admires him. How she itches to feel him without contrived protections such as gloves , but it’s much too soon for such a thing. The woman can’t think of the last time she touched a man’s skin, with her own. The texture she can guess. Scarred, weathered, gruff. The types of things men were. “You’ve got more scars than even I have the patience to count.” Hers are simply but a fraction of his, yet it is not a contest. Of course, the vertical line grabs the most attention, but she doesn’t prod any further. He doesn’t ask questions, so neither does she.

[scarmarked-blog]

            She touches him with a gentility that he’s never felt in all his years -- imagined, certainly, but never came close to experiencing.  Of course, he expects nothing less from this demure creature before him.  They were polar opposites in the best way -- a soft-spoken pacifist and a battle-scarred warrior, working together to achieve the same end, though he’d long since stopped getting paid for his services.            His mouth pulls into a lopsided smile as he stares at her, noting the way her own lips part slightly whenever a gloved fingers runs along one of his many scars.           ❛ No harm in tryin’. ❜ 

[mentatsghcul-blog]

                “NICE  iron.  You rip that off’a someone in  PARTICULAR?”  // @warscaars

[scarmarked-blog]

              ❛ Custom-made.  Surprised a big shot like you doesn’t have               one himself.  F’you’re ever in the market, I got just the guy. ❜

[scarmarked-blog]

                               Heated words made the brothers duel, and where one                              brother fell, the other raised bloodied axe in hand, alone.

[beenpole-archive]

🌺 c:<

Send 🌺 to hear what my muse likes about yours

“I like… how you don’t seem to care when I’m acting up, or get mad or annoyed at me when I cry. You’re much more patient than most people. I know I’m hard to handle sometimes; more effort than they are willing to put up with, but you do it. If it’s because I pay you or not– uh, you’re still– you’re still there for me. You make me feel safe. I never doubt you. And I like it when you hold me… and play with my hair. I just like… you.”

[scarmarked-blog]

@beenpole in regards to this.

He’d heard the news while he was on one of his weekly trips, roaming just to stretch his legs.  He never strayed too far, however.  Couldn’t leave her alone long enough for something to happen.  

“She’s dead,” they’d said, while keeping a safe distance from the tall man with the scars, lest he lash out at the messenger.  Cain reacted with nothing more than slight disbelief, but immediately set off back to the house.   The doubt didn’t fade until he had her body in his arms.  Blood poured from several gunshot wounds, covering hands that were all too used to the sensation.  His pulse pounded, throbbed, in his ears as he held her body close, each shaky breath carrying words that felt too heavy in his throat.  Her name fell past dry, scarred lips like a prayer, a hopeful, but ultimately futile plea for her return.  After burying her, he set off once more.  He grew careless.  Sloppy.  Fuck guns; he found knives to be much more therapeutic, more personal.  He wouldn’t rest until every raider was dead.  Until every one of them had paid for what they did to her.  Was she perfect?  No.  But out of the two of them -- out of a shy, antisocial woman and a violent, sadistic murderer -- why was she taken?  Why her?   Weeks had passed.  Through various interrogations ( slow finger removal, one by one; one of his favorites ) he’d found the head raider’s hideout.  The one that had seen fit to kill her just to steal her goods.  He was out of stimpaks.  Whenever he needed one, he instinctively turned around-- but found no one behind him.  There were times when the pain grew so bad he could hardly see straight, but he wasn’t about to give up.  Not now.  Not yet.  With a pocket full of shotgun shells and a clip left in his pistol, he stood outside the hideout’s exterior.  A breath later, he raised his bloody hands to the double doors and gave them a solid shove as he stepped inside.  Immediately, he could hear turrets activating and gruff voices yelling and foretelling his demise.   They could try to take his life, if they wanted, but they’d never succeed.   What more could you take from a man with nothing left to lose? 

[mentatsghcul-blog]

shyly sets his url here

JAY TALKS MAD SMACK…  on vocaroo. ( no longer accepting. ) 

ooc. link.

[scarmarked-blog]

Visit Original Link

swallow your pride, don't let your lip react; you don't wanna see my hand where my hip be at.

[ofthenlght-blog]

gently sets url here if u want

me: can’t stop laughing

[turtlelust]

Visit Original Link

[scarmarked-blog]

when your blood starts to boil, stand up and shout loud   your mouth screams like a gun -- click, clack, boom, pow.

[scarmarked-blog]

am i too late

[three days grace vocals] it’s never too late@beenpole

[whatsthesiitch-deactivated20151]

hello friend i am here to send my various urls

MY BAE <3

[scarmarked-blog]

alt. ending to this.

“Don’t stop on account of me. You’re almost finished.”

The blush that taints her cheeks is almost as embarrassing as the situation itself.  There she was, exposed and panting-- and all in front of the man whose name she’d whispered almost needily in the midst of her arousal.  She wants to smack that smirk off his face, that shit-eating grin he always seems to don, even at the most inappropriate times.  Glancing away in shame doesn’t help.  She can still feel his eyes -- those terribly mismatched eyes, one blue, one an almost milky white -- roaming over her, and when she finally gathers the courage to look  ( no, glare ) back, she notices that the smirk on his scarred face has given way to an almost appreciative smile.  There’s so much that she wants to say, wants to do.  She wants to order him out, to tell him to leave, but her lips part soundlessly as he takes an experimental step forward, silently asking for permission.  When no rebuttal is given on her behalf, he moves again and again until he’s kneeling on the bed.  The space between them deceases so slowly, she feels she might die if that gap isn’t closed. His scarred lips hover before her own, and she takes that final plunge.  Her heart skips a beat.  Was she still breathing?  The feeling of his lips against hers, mixed with the slight scratching of his stubble against her skin, nearly made her sigh with pleasure.  She’d wondered, even daydreamed, about this moment for so long, casting side-long glances at him when he wasn’t looking, or watching him as he built a makeshift fire for the long, cold nights during their travels.  He pulls back, and her eyes immediately snap open.  Her worries that something was wrong seem to be unjustified, however, as he leans forward and guides her onto her back, his hand drifting downward to replace her own.  His skin’s just as rough as she’d imagined. Her breath hitches in her throat as he slips one finger between her legs and rubs her with a gentility that she didn’t think was possible from such a gruff and violent man.   A single, large finger slides inside of her, and she finds herself gripping onto his broad shoulders, her eyes fluttering closed as her lips part to breathe a relieved sigh.  Instinctively, she parts her thighs to encourage the movements of his finger -- back and forth, back and forth, but just enough to help her adjust to its size.  Once she’s gotten used to the rhythm, he slowly eases in a second.  She’s panting by now, her breath shaky and needy as she repeatedly whispers his name in some sort of manic mantra to coax him on.  Their lips meet again with a new, enthused passion.  Her hands have found his hair, that lovely red hair, and she gives it an experimental tug, which only makes his hand move faster.  She can’t help the breathy moans and whimpers that tear from her lips, his own parting only to give a faint growl as he rolls his hips against hers for good measure.  Slender fingers move to grip his shoulders once more as her posture tightens and stars explode before her eyes.  Her body writhes beneath him, tensing and curling in a jerky, erratic fashion, all while he continues to rub her to completion.  Spent and sated, she eventually falls limp on the bed, panting softly.  She feels like crying, like grabbing his face and kissing him as a show of embarrassed gratitude, but she does neither.  Instead, she falls silent and turns her head away, arms moving to cover herself as best she can.   The faintest look of confusion passes over his face before it fades back to its normal, impassive expression, and he pushes himself off the bed.  Her eyes are closed, but she can hear the door closing behind him. Had she imagined it being like that?  In all her time thinking about what it would be like with him... was that what she’d wanted?   No.  Not everything.  But it was a start. 

[beenpole-archive]

"Don't stop." [ s i n n i n g ]

The door was locked, the lights were off, and it was time to relax. 

Keep reading

[beenpole-archive]

Cain has died. B)

When someone tells another they’d take a bullet for them, one is never really going believe them. Even when it actually happens, there is a disconnect between reality and the memory of such words, one thinking their life would never be so terrible where as such an event might happen. Even with his grey matter painted across her face, it’s impossible to believe this is happening. His body falls without a sign of life, and her knees buckle after him, her thin frame draping his. Maybe they think they got her too, two birds with one bullet. She’s still, trying not to shake until she doesn’t hear them anymore. It’s not as if lying there is as simple as not crying, because they still clipped her in the shoulder, the next bullet was supposed to take her out. The raiders won’t leave until they got what they killed for, picking her up by her backpack causing her to grunt – “This one’s still alive, boss.” The man snickers out, taking the knife from his belt and cutting the straps of the bag, and she falls back onto Cain’s body. Flipping over as she hears him unholster his gun, perhaps to beg him for mercy, or rather a swift death. At this point, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, death doesn’t seem so bad. “No. Leave her. Probably die of septic anyway. Take her pipboy. Jackpot.” The raider boss kicks her in the shoulder, forcing her to cry out, her hand flying to the wound, covering her lily white fingers in her own blood. All she can do is cower and whimper as the boss checks Cain’s body for valuables, the underling removing her pip from her limp arm, shoving it into her bag, before they finally leave. She’s not sure how long she’s been laying before she looks over at him. It’s when she finally sits up that she realizes her wounds are not as bad as the men thought - Marcie is covered in his blood, soaking through her sweater and blouse. With this realization she laughs, a humorless chuckle that quickly devolves into body shaking sobs as her hands touch his bloodied face. The bullet had gone in from the left, obliterating his skull, falling to pieces in her hands. Where did she go from here? She needs medical attention, and there was no way she was leaving him here. “Shit– “ The sobs die down, but the shaking doesn’t. They have taken everything– her money, stimpacks, clean water, her pipboy, him. “Oh god…” The sobbing is back, her fingers gripping into the rough material of his shirt. Marcie had made it for him. Hair sticking to her face, nose runny, the distraught woman drops her head to his neck, crying. Maybe crying isn’t the right word, but screaming doesn’t quite explain it. Without him, she’s nothing. If she had only told him, would she feel any better at all? Or would this only hurt more? She’s crying his name in between the ‘i love you’s, not that it matter now. This was the man she’d give the world for, and when he gives her the same, she is left with nothing.

[mentatsghcul-blog]

for the url thing - any of mine. B)

SEND ME A URL. I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I THINK OF THEM.

ooc.  @facechanging / @circuitried / @warscaars / @retributioned  //  OBVIOUSLY,  COLE,  I must like you and your writing quite a bit, since I follow almost every blog of yours.  And for good reason! Especially with Deacon,  you have such a passion for writing your muses, and your energy goes into everything you do for them. Your OCs are so good, too.  (  I’m extremely partial to Cain; he’s my favorite of your OCs.  )  As a mun, you’re definitely the friendliest person I’ve seen. And one of the funniest.  I love you, man.  I do.

[ofthenlght-blog]

UHH @warscaars IS IT TOO LATE TO APOLOGIZE