Title: "The Centurion's Frisky Frumentarii" Once upon a sun-scorched breach in the mighty Mojave, there sauntered a Caesar's Legion Centurion, known among the ranks as Aurelius of Phoenix, or to his friends--if such fearsome brutes had friends--'Romeo of the Wastes'. The blistering sun had been particularly unforgiving, turning the sand into a veritable griddle, upon which one might fry an egg, or perhaps an unsuspecting gecko. This particular day, however, 'Romeo of the Wastes' was not interested in culinary endeavors. Oh no, he had in mind a different sort of feast. Together with his most prized company -- a bevy of lithe, bronzed twinks, scantily-clad in the finest leather strips the Legion's meager fashion sense could muster -- they made way to an opulent bedchamber, a relic of pre-war times, surprisingly untouched by the ravages of atomic fire. Each twink was more supple than a radroach after a sip of irradiated dew, their chiseled physiques fetching enough to make a Super Mutant consider a stint in dieting. Their posteriors were as if crafted by the Goddess of Symmetry herself, balancing the line between the definition of a Legionnaire's shield and the enticing softness of Brahmin hide. The Centurion, a robust mountain of a man, clad only in his weather-worn armor's bottom half, sprawled onto an absurdly luxurious swathe of bedding, reminiscent of a time when cotton was king and thread count mattered. His harem enveloped him, naked as the day the bombs dropped, their glistening bodies a shimmering ode to the glory of Caesar's conquests. The room was resplendent with a table groaning under the weight of decadent spoils: brahmin cheese, fancy lad snack cakes, and tin cans of Cram inexplicably placed beside an assortment of pre-war cutlery. They lounged and feasted, the laughter bubbling with the viscosity of irradiated mirelurk meat. "By Jupiter's unmentionables," chortled the Centurion, as a particularly delicate twink playfully tried on his fearsome helmet, "you wear that like a true warrior of Vegas." "Mars would be jealous of these cheekbones," giggled the poser, his voice tickling the air like a Radtoad's croak after a hit of Jet. And as the twinks playfully teased their way through the hoard of treats, one particularly bold youngster, whose glutes seemed chiseled from the very marble of Quarry Junction, sauntered coyly towards Aurelius. "Would the mighty Centurion favor a soldier's company?" the twink queried with a smirk that could sour Fresh Apple Nuka-Cola. Aurelius, licking a dab of Sweetroll icing from his thumb, surveyed the twink's assets, as delightfully sculpted as they were daringly presented. "The Legate may command the throngs, but here, I dictate the pleasure," the Centurion boomed, feigning a sternness belied by an impish glint in his eye. The others tittered at the theatrics, their laughter like the chirps of a nest of baby night stalkers, playful yet teetering on the verge of mayhem. The bounteous twink bridged the distance between intent and act, folding into Aurelius's waiting embrace. "Let us couple the decadence of the Old World with the rigorous discipline of the New," the enfolding Centurion announced meteorically, lifting the twink onto his lap. As they coupled with the sort of incautious abandon only found in the aftermath of apocalyptic tribulation, the other twinks lounged about, bantering and complimenting each other's astoundingly maintained post-apocalyptic physiques. "By Securitron, Lucius, have you been hoarding all the Radiated protein shakes for those glutes?" "Caesar himself would erect a statue for Delanos' curves, had we not forsaken such idolatry." The Centurion and his chosen companion carried on with their escapade amidst chuckles and cheers, the confines of their enclave a respite from the wasteland. Lounged in the embrace of fleshy opulence, the Caesar's Legion Centurion, and his jovial cohort of twinks, had carved out an odd sort of paradise amid the ruins, where even the harsh tenets of the Legion could do little to stifle the flourishing of such irreverent camaraderie. And so the day wore on, gossip interspersed with lecherous glances, the gags never as empty as a drained Nuka-Cola bottle, their feast of both flesh and food continuing until the setting sun cast legionnaire shadows against the Old World's crumbling walls.