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It's not often that the last, best hope for humanity and his stalwart ghoul manservant get some time to themselves.
Three Dog tracks their escapades too closely for either of them to ever slip up, to not be professional in all regards. It's too dangerous if the Talon Company or Enclave caught wind that they were anything more than an employer and his personal bodyguard, and not to mention the added sticky layer of the wasteland's sole role model fucking and being fucked by a gruff ghoul two centuries his senior.
But when they find privacy, and time, amongst the adventuring, and shooting, and errand running-- they appreciate that more than anything. The Lone Wanderer, especially, when he can take off his helmet and uncloak his stealth suit, stretch out his legs, and Charon is just glad to see his face, for once, and not the impassive orange visor staring back.
So they take their time. This is an old Smithsonian, an art museum from the looks of it, a pet project of his to explore and salvage anything good and interesting for his home and Abraham Washington. They make their way up, to the top floor, shooting robots and stomping radroaches as they go, stealing affection in the form of lingering hands on shoulders and bumping into each others sides.
In the old American art museum, underneath the neon glow of the outlined United States of America and the green wash of Vaultie's pipboy propped up nearby, they undress each other. Bob Crosby and his Bobcats is crooning from the pip-boy. There's no hurry as they thumb off buttons, and pull the zippers down on their suits. With each patch of skin revealed, as a belt clatters to the floor, they trace their fingers over newly exposed softness or the hard resistance of muscle underneath their fingers. Vaultie enjoys the contrast of their skin, the rough burgundy of Charon's arm against his own pale, knotty one, slightly yellow from a nearly healed bruise. Charon kisses it, briefly, drags his lips up his arm, lightly bites at his shoulder and relishes the give of his flesh underneath his lips, his teeth. He kisses his clavicle, sucks at the sensitive skin there until the Lone Wanderer is keening and flushed underneath him. And next, is his neck, alternating between kissing and sucking as he makes his way up to his face.
Vaultie surges forward; Charon, quietly, pushes his chest down, a silent no, the only way he can deny his employer. He's young, and doesn't realize the sweetness of taking ones time. (And to be honest, Charon hadn't either, not until recently. Time had been something to waste away, staring at brick walls and the backs of junkies heads.)
The first kiss elicits a sigh of frustration from the Lone Wanderer. Charon is patient. They are quick, chaste things, but combined with the light touches of cracked hands to his sides, his chest, are quickly making the kid squirm underneath him. Only when he begs does Charon give in, lets him capture his mouth, but he forces him to slow down; parts his lips, lets Vaultie explore his mouth, as his ribs quiver with simultaneous unspent energy and exertion. The Lone Wanderer tastes like Nuka-Cola and old Sugar Bombs, and when Charon feels his hands go for his cock, he groans in his mouth, cants his hips away.
"Wait."
Vaultie almost protests but Charon captures his bottom lips between his teeth, silences him so the only noise is the click of his teeth sliding off and the gentle hum of the neon sign behind them.
Charon kisses his employer one last time before his lips travel down. And further, and further, occasionally pepper in gentle bites and the lick of a tongue when the patch of skin before him suits his fancy, eliciting a squirm each time. Vaultie's breath hitches as Charon trail lower, and lower.
"Charon..."
The ghoul smirks, his breath hot against his cock, and then it's gone, lips teasingly kissing his inner thighs, his kneecaps. "Charon, please--"
He rumbles out a snort, running a hand up his leg, from thigh to the crease of the back of his knee. "As you wish."
Charon ducks his head, and Vaultie runs his fingers through his last bits of hair, careful not to tug, eagerly rubbing. Charon's hands curl around his thighs and he squeezes and spreads them and--
Vaultie lets out a sharp exhale as Charon avoids his cock entirely, nosing downward, past his balls, and his hands slide from his thighs to his ass as he spreads his cheeks and licks. It is immediate, electric, and he reflexively grabs at his hair, has to release it just as quickly when Charon mumbles some annoyances at his last vestiges of ginger hair being pulled out and his voice vibrates through his tongue and through Vaultie's body that makes his toes curl hard. It's slick, and probing, and like all other things Charon takes his damn time, until Vaultie is a shivering mess and begging just vaguely enough that Charon's contractual obligations don't force his hand, a steady tempo of please, please, please.
Charon moans and pushes his tongue in deeper, in tandem with a single finger. And then a second. By the third, he's removed his mouth entirely; he's not sure if Vaultie has noticed, because he's writhing and moaning all the same as Charon patiently and thoroughly preps him, his eyes dark and glassy at the sight of his employer on his fingers and the curve of his arching body.
Charon spits in his free hand, pumping himself twice quickly. And he knows, with his size and girth, it's still probably not enough, but from the way Vaultie's cock is leaking against his taut stomach the Lone Wanderer wouldn't last much longer. He removes his fingers, slick with his own spit, and Vaultie whimpers at the sudden loss. Charon takes his hips, and pulls him a little closer and lifts his bottom half up; Vaultie's legs easily wrap around his torso, eager, heels digging into his lower back.
"Adam, are you--"
"Y-yes, yes, yes, please, just fuck me."
A command. The skin of Vaultie's hips look pink underneath his grip as he eases forward, swearing under his breath at the resistance against the head of his cock, and then-- he's in, sliding forward, and the heels on his back dig in a little harder, the moan so sweet to his ravaged ears.
Charon presses in, his rough skin flush to Vaultie's own, and then pulls out, just as slow. Vaultie grabs his own cock, finally, and starts to stroke it with a near sob of relief, and Charon has to look away before he finds himself spent right then and there, his eyes swaying to the neon America, the televisions placed in each outline of the commonwealths flickering a broadcast of fuzz. He can't look down at the Lone Wanderer spread on his cock, or the way sweat was rolling down his chest, the tremble of his stomach or the dark-eyed stare of devotion up at him. Charon thrusts, and thrusts, and he thinks about the dull ache in his old knees and tries to name all of the commonwealths in reverse alphabetical order. Instead, he hears Vaultie's wanton noises and the slap of irradiated skin against vault-raised perfection, feels his balls tighten and his milky eyes flit downward.
It's the way Vaultie's swollen lips are parted as he openly pants, and the quick, desperate movement of his fist over his cock, and it's the way he catches his shining eyes and he mouths his name--
Charon doesn't have time to pull out, swears and buries himself into his employer as he comes and he's seeing stars, comes so hard he swears he's two centuries younger by the intensity of it. The Lone Wanderer isn't far after him, whimpering as semen spurts between his twisting fingers and onto his chest.
Charon is careful; he removes himself, slowly, muttering apologies against his skin before rummaging through their possessions to find a bottle of water, a clean towel, and a tablet of Rad-X. He knows there's radiation, knows he shouldn't have, but Vaultie gingerly guides Charon's hand holding the moistened rag to himself and swallows each apology with a kiss. They're fine. They have time; they can stay here, over night. Not long, but for a night.