Elsa

Humming drifted through the vault’s frigid corridors in slow, breathy notes, curling into the air like smoke. Each step of her heels gave a soft click against the metal grating, the sound echoing through the quiet. The sheer black-and-leopard nightie skimmed her hips, silky and barely there, brushing over pale skin chilled to the touch. Without a bra, every bounce made her chest give a faint jiggle beneath the thin fabric, nipples firm from both cold and the subtle thrill of moving through empty halls. Stockings clung tight to her thighs, the garter straps stretching and settling with each step as she peeked in on a Mister Handy buffing a vent with mindless dedication.

Fingers skimmed the velvety hem of the nightie, lifting it just enough to feel colder air kiss the lace thong stretched snug across her backside. Decades of repetition had bred a kind of restless boredom—wander the corridors, glance at the half-finished power armor, sigh at the same broken terminals, lounge in the same halls, pretend the silence didn’t press against her skull. The bots never reacted no matter how much skin she showed, and the absence of scandal only added to the teasing little games she played with herself. Sometimes she’d squeeze her own thigh just for the jolt of sensation, or adjust the cling of the stockings to feel the stretch and snap.

The soft glow of the hallway lights was shattered by a sudden stutter of crimson. A long-dormant alert light began to pulse overhead, washing the walls and her skin in red flashes. It flickered across the sheer fabric over her breasts, outlining the peaks beneath, then slid down her legs like a warning someone forgot to finish coding. She paused under it with a furrowed brow, the nightie swishing as she turned in place. No alarms, no voices, no Overseer logs crackling to life. Just that silent flash, blinking at her like a secret. She let out a frosty breath and moved on without bothering to understand.

A cracked vinyl sofa in one of the side halls welcomed her with its familiar sticky chill. She sprawled across it, bare back pressing into the cold material, and opened a tattered pre-war fashion magazine dated before the bombs. The pages were yellowed and brittle, but the glossy pin-up spreads still shone faintly. She traced a model’s hourglass waist with an absent finger, imagining the smooth corset squeezing against skin, the shine of stockings, the weight of garters tight on thighs. At some point the nightie rode up, baring most of her hips and the top curve of her thong. One breast slipped partially free from the fabric when she shifted, the exposed skin meeting the cold air with a shock that made her suck in a breath. Her other hand drifted across her stomach, sliding lower in a lazy stroke born from monotony.

The stillness broke like a snapped cable. A presence—warm, alive, unannounced—entered the hall. Eyes lifted from the magazine, and the sight hit like a cryo burst misfiring in her veins. There, frozen mid-step, stood a stranger, staring openly. The jolt made her flinch and tumble sideways off the sofa, the magazine slipping from her lap as legs tangled. She hit the floor with a gasp, stockings flashing, one breast fully freed for a split second before the nightie slid back enough to half-cover it. Breath misted the air as wide eyes stared up from the ground, heart hammering beneath her exposed skin. The stranger stood motionless, gaze locked, clearly not expecting a half-dressed vault dweller sprawled in silky scraps and stockings in a place long assumed dead.