#ice dancing battle

[tmnt-crossover-polls]

Round 3 poll 5

Guess I've been... Disarmed Joke Summary : Future Rise Leo fucking dies and somehow wakes up in another dimension and promptly adopts all the turtles emotionally since none of them are legal. Actual Summary: Future Rise Leo gets sent to the beginning of 2012 Tmnt and gets immediately noticed by the 2012 turtles, hi-jinx ensue as Rise Leo tries to figure out emotions and all that shit.

A tale of spirits summary : “We do not know of your brothers, Great Spirit,” Zuko answered, stuttering more like it. “I’m sorry we could not be of more service.” The spirit frowned and stood up. “That’s weird, we were just together.” There was a shift and Uncle’s head came up. They stared at this strange spirit. It turned its back to them and Zuko was breathless at the show of disregard. Figures a spirit would not consider him a threat. He shouldn’t take it personally, but he’s been dismissed his whole life. He’s tired of it. A hand gripped his trembling one and he takes a breath. There is no use getting upset over the ways of a spirit. They both studied its small form and Zuko was caught by its profile. The spirit’s back held three repeating and somewhat glowing symbols. It curved in a familiar motion. “A turtle,” Uncle whispered.

@phoenixdeleted

@unorthodoxx-page

[luvsvpreme]

the life on rhaenys' face faded away the moment vhagar got meleys...

she died the same moment meleys died. she was already gone way before she went down with her girl.

[fatum679]

On the twenty-second day of the fifth moon of the year 130 AC

Daemon ripped off his nephew’s helm and drove the sword down into his blind eye, so hard the point came out the back of the young prince’s throat. Half a heartbeat later, the dragons struck the lake, sending up a gout of water that was said to have been as tall as Kingspyre Tower. Neither man nor dragon could have survived such an impact, the fisherfolk who saw it said. Prince Aemond had only turned twenty.

The end came when a crossbow bolt nicked one of the dragon’s eyes. Half-blind, and maddened by a dozen lesser wounds, Dreamfyre spread her wings and flew straight up at the great dome above in a last desperate attempt to break into the open sky.

Helaena Targarye threw herself from her window in Maegor’s Holdfast to die impaled upon the iron spikes that lined the dry moat below. Helaena’s end had been mercifully swift: one of the spikes took her through the throat and she died without a sound. She was but one-and-twenty.

The Blood Wyrm’s jaws closed about Vhagar’s neck, her black teeth sinking deep into the flesh of the larger dragon. Even as Vhagar’s claws raked her belly open and Vhagar’s own teeth ripped away a wing, Caraxes bit deeper, worrying at the wound as the lake rushed up below them with terrible speed.

Aemond & Helaena Dreamfyre & Vhagar

[hopestrope]

Rhaenys Targaryen, The Queen that Should Have Been

"Rook’s Rest was Ser Criston’s next objective. Forewarned of their coming, Lord Staunton closed his gates and defied the attackers. Behind his walls, his lordship could only watch as his fields and woods and villages were burned, his sheep and cattle and smallfolk put to the sword. When provisions inside the castle began to run low, he dispatched a raven to Dragonstone, pleading for succor...

Here Mushroom’s version seems most likely, for we know that nine days after Lord Staunton dispatched his plea for help, the sound of leathern wings was heard across the sea, and the dragon Meleys appeared above Rook’s Rest. The Red Queen, she was called, for the scarlet scales that covered her. The membranes of her wings were pink, her crest, horns, and claws bright as copper. And on her back, in steel and copper armor that flashed in the sun, rode Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was.

Ser Criston Cole was not dismayed. Aegon’s Hand had expected this, counted on it. Drums beat out a command, and archers rushed forward, longbowmen and crossbowmen both, filling the air with arrows and quarrels. Scorpions were cranked upward to loose iron bolts of the sort that had once felled Meraxes in Dorne. Meleys suffered a score of hits, but the arrows only served to make her angry. She swept down, spitting fire to right and left. Knights burned in their saddles as the hair and hide and harness of their horses went up in flames. Men-at-arms dropped their spears and scattered. Some tried to hide behind their shields, but neither oak nor iron could withstand dragon’s breath. Ser Criston sat on his white horse shouting, “Aim for the rider,” through the smoke and flame. Meleys roared, smoke swirling from her nostrils, a stallion kicking in her jaws as tongues of fire engulfed him.

Then came an answering roar. Two more winged shapes appeared: the king astride Sunfyre the Golden, and his brother Aemond upon Vhagar. Criston Cole had sprung his trap, and Rhaenys had come snatching at the bait. Now the teeth closed round her.

Princess Rhaenys made no attempt to flee. With a glad cry and a crack of her whip, she turned Meleys toward the foe. Against Vhagar alone she might have had some chance, but against Vhagar and Sunfyre together, doom was certain. The dragons met violently a thousand feet above the field of battle, as balls of fire burst and blossomed, so bright that men swore later that the sky was full of suns. The crimson jaws of Meleys closed round Sunfyre’s golden neck for a moment, till Vhagar fell upon them from above. All three beasts went spinning toward the ground. They struck the ground so hard that stones fell from the battlements of Rook’s Rest half a league away.

Those closest to the dragons did not live to tell the tale. Those farther off could not see for the flame and smoke. It was hours before the fires guttered out. But from those ashes, only Vhagar rose unharmed. Meleys was dead, broken by the fall and ripped to pieces upon the ground. And Sunfyre, that splendid golden beast, had one wing half torn from his body, whilst his royal rider had suffered broken ribs, a broken hip, and burns that covered half his body. His left arm was the worst. The dragonflame had burned so hot that the king’s armor had melted into his flesh.

A body believed to be Rhaenys Targaryen was later found beside the carcass of her dragon, but it was so blackened that no one could be sure it was her. Beloved daughter of Lady Jocelyn Baratheon and Prince Aemon Targaryen, faithful wife to Lord Corlys Velaryon, mother and grandmother, the Queen Who Never Was lived fearlessly, and died amidst blood and fire. She was fifty-five years old."

-Fire and Blood, George R.R. Martin

(Arts by Vak Phoenix, Jordi Gonzalez Escamilla, Douglas Wheatley, fkadaenerys)

[kuro-anko]

biblically accurate: battle of the kingsroad

[atopvisenyashill]

idk if it counts as my craziest take but EYE feel like it’s maybe an out there take that the end of twow and most of ados is just going to be like. an apocalypse novel. i mean even more than it already is lmao like the riverlands but all over bc the Others and wights are going to actually win a lot of ground. i think there will be pockets of humans, largely in castles that can withstand a siege and have knowledge on how to fight the others, that will be surviving but people won’t really be TRAVELING they’ll just be hunkered down and trying not to die. i’m talking ice zombie apocalypse here, the walking dead but with ice zombies and ice fae, it’s going to be a long and tiresome war and they’re gonna lose like a lot of the battles.

[question-marked]

"i think you would make an excellent dance partner."

"Definitely, do you want to dance with me?" Edward asked. "If you want to do some ballroom dancing or any other kind of dancing, I would be into that. I think it would be fun...I can play some music, maybe we could make some choreography to go with it...or look at someone's else's and try to emulate it."

[corvuschriisti]

[ Cue the Music ] - Dancing’s what tonight’s all about, is it not? Grab a friend or a stranger and get to twirling (or whatever it is the kids call it nowadays).

Even among the sea of people, Leanne makes her way to those she knows best with ease, though her eyes do widen in awe as she approaches the raven. "Wow, Naesala, you look amazing!!" She reaches out, tracing the intricate patterns of gold lining his wrist and shoulders. Leanne herself had exchanged her uniform here for the flowing robes she had been more used to wearing back home.

She giggles as her eyes lands on his brooch, designed similarly to her own but with a white feather instead of a black one. "It looks like we've got each other's feathers, doesn't it?" Taking off her own, she pins it against Naesala's clothing, before stepping back and looking at her handiwork with satisfaction. There! It blends in much better.

An energetic song begins to play, and she reaches out with a bright grin. "Let's dance together, Naesala!"

"Do you really think so?" Naesala asks. He likes it when people call him pretty words, and coming from Leanne he knows its sincere. There's a happy energy that surrounds them, and Naesala's heart feels light.

He laughs when she points out their feathers. He'd immediately thought of the herons, and he's happy to see that one of his closest and dearest friends wears his color with pride. He takes one of the white feathers off of his own brooch and pins it to hers.

"There. Now that looks beautiful against your dress."

The music picks up and Naesala takes her hands. "Should we show these beorc what grace truly looks like?"

[hide-your-bugs-away]

Alan Price and his government-assigned Pokémon team (to me, at least) 🙏

[horizon-verizon]

Mushroom tells us there were two men on Dragonstone that night who drank to the slaughter in a smoky tavern beneath the castle: the dragonriders Hugh the Hammer and Ulf the White, who had flown Vermithor and Silverwing into battle and lived to boast of it. “We are knights now, truly,” Hard Hugh declared. And Ulf laughed and said, “Fie on that. We should be lords.” The girl Nettles did not share their celebrations. She had flown with the others, fought as bravely, burned and killed as they had, but her face was black with smoke and streaked with tears when she returned to Dragonstone. And Addam Velaryon, lately Addam of Hull, sought out the Sea Snake after the battle; what they spoke to each other even Mushroom does not say.

Fire and Blood by GRRM, pg 448

[tmnt-crossover-polls]

Round 3 poll 6

Shellshocked Summary : what is Raphael Hamato, age 25 to do when he ends up with 4 mutated baby turtles one night after a patrol? Why raise them of course!! Raphael and Mona Lisa have a lot on their hands when it comes to raising 4 sons but they have more than enough help along the way. But something seems to disturb their family’s bliss as the boys grow, and it becomes an even greater threat when their sons start their training.

Last ronin becomes a discord Admin summary : The Last Ronin survives and finds himself on a Discord server with alternate, very alive versions of his brothers. Did I forget to mention he's also the admin?

@lieutenantbiscute

@melonpalooza

[leahthedreamer]

Junior worlds this week, a very exciting time for us junior ice dance enjoyers.

[moseslikellamas]

Thorn of Winterfell

Chapter nine

Pairing - Stark!OC x Benjicot Blackwood

Summary - The Battle by the Lakeshore begins

Warnings - graphic depictions of violence, lore™️, sketchy depictions of medieval hierarchies, blood, death, depictions of shock, dubious battle mechanics. Depictions of anxiety, graphic violence against animals

Word count- 2.3k

I changed like a fuck ton about the set up of this battle but the outcome will be pretty much exactly like cannon.

I need to talk to Cregan. It was the only thought circling through her head. It kept stinging her over and over like a swarm of unhappy bees. She kept trying to swat the refrain away as she rode towards her party. You need to see your brother! There was chaos around her as the army began fortifying its position. Confusion and outrage was underlining the determined work. No one knew why they’d stopped and it looked like Daemon had abandoned them. She prayed to the gods that ser Dustin had everything in hand. As she approached the two men she heard them arguing.

“I should look again! I can see where he is!”

“We can’t ride out any further. It’s madness as it is! If three scouts ride out after Daemon, they’ll lose it!”

“We don’t have to ride out. No is paying any attention to us-“

Syana cut the lord off, outraged.

“My head is on the line for you Blackwood. You will go back and help control your men. Do not look again.”

If he blew the entire operation by exposing himself, he wouldn’t have to worry about the riverlords. She was going to kill him herself. His face was the picture of fury as he stared back at her. She was unmoved by it. She was so sweaty she was afraid her armor would slide off her back. Where was her brother? She couldn’t help craning her neck back to look at the army every few seconds hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

“I’m trying to help us.” He began again.

“And it won’t matter if the entire army falls apart at the revelation! Enough people are going to die here. Don’t divide us now.”

“Keep your bloody sword up.” He hissed as he rode past her back towards the camp.

She was beginning to hate that refrain.

“Don’t worry about him.” Robb said casually from beside her.

“Oh I am very worried. But we have work to do. I don’t know where the rest of the scouts went, lost in that mess somewhere. So I guess we’re it. Which side do you want?”

He laughed at her, actually laughed at a moment like this.

“You aren’t scouting anything besides wolves right now. Go find your brother, my eyes are sharp enough for two.”

“I’ll send a scout if I find one, and I bloody well better find one.” She shouted back at him already galloping away.

Syana rode hard, eyes looking for the familiar glint of her brother’s armor. Her heart felt like it might give up at any moment. She was taking heaving gasps of air, trying to calm herself. Please let Prince Jacaerys be okay. Images of dragons locked in a death grip kept spiraling through her head. Where is Cregan?

“You!” She shouted at a familiar Frey bowman whose name she couldn’t recall. “Join Robb at the front, we need scouts.” She didn’t know if he was half decent at scouting but he had a bow and that was close enough for her right now.

Around her men were making barriers and trying to consider where best to make their stand. She was relieved to see Benjicot in the middle of the men directing where to place items. His aunt was working with another group though she couldn’t tell what they were working on. Where is my fucking brother? She screamed in her head. She spotted Forest Frey and Jon Charlton leading their own efforts. Okay that leaves Dustin, Grey, and Stark. Where are they?

She turned her horse around, striding back through the camp. She fined combined with her eyes, making sure no face escaped her. She found several more scouts and send them out. ‘I'll see to his punishment myself, wolf.’ The King consort’s threat rang loudly through her mind like bells clanging against her stone foundation. It wasn’t until she reached the furthest edge of camp that she spotted him. There against the water surrounded by a sea of wolves. Lord Dustin’s yellow sigil was bright against the sea of white.

Syana slid from her saddle before her horse even slowed. She quickly strided over to him. He was in a deep conversation with Ser Rodrick about how to best utilize the stark forces. She waited as patiently as she could at his side. Her heart was finally beginning to calm and she could begin to assess their position. She had to put the dragons out of her head, they weren’t her concern anymore. She felt like her skeleton was trying to claw its way out of her skin, standing there waiting. Which side would they attack from? She anxiously worried about them being surrounded.

Cregan’s hand on her shoulder startled her momentarily. Then she was leading him away from the group of men poised around the water.

“Benjicot saw the route Prince Aemond was taking.” Her brother was calm beside her as she spoke and she envied him for it. “He advised Daemon to ride to meet the Queen. The crown will be in hand by nightfall.”

“Get to the point, Syana.”

She stopped walking, turning to face her brother. “The Lannister army will be here before nightfall. Another will come later to reinforce them. He didn’t tell me the specifics. He was too busy trying to tear everything to shreds.” She said bitterly.

The visions from the weirwood tree played across the front of her mind. All of the burning people and stacked death bodies in the water.

“I’m sure you’ve also noted the storm rolling in.” She looked towards the swirling clouds creeping across the hills.

“We’ve done all we can to plan.” He said at last, drawing her attention back. “This is the fun part, little sister.”

She frowned at him. She knew he was trying to bring a moment of levity to the situation but she was not a warrior. She did not relish the flurry of bodies, the warm rush of blood over her hands. And she was afraid. It was a terrible secret feeling she kept locked down. But it was threatening to bubble up and overwhelm her. The last time they’d been attacked there’d been no time to think. They’d been taken by surprise and her brain had turned on autopilot. Now she had time to think, to consider everything that might go wrong. To consider whose body would be in the God’s eye tonight.

“Stay alive brother.” She said her mind is still running faster than free stallions in the north.

“And you keep-“

“My bloody sword up. I’ve got that, thanks!”

⊹˚‧ ₊ ❄︎₊ ‧˚⊹

Syana had decided that Benjicot was lying to her. He had to be. As the hours passed it became clear to her that he wasn’t just a skin changer. He couldn’t be and know everything he did. He’d know where Prince Aemond was flying, where the Lannister troops would attack and where the support army would come from. He hadn’t said it outright of course but it was clear as he directed the men that he knew more than he was letting on. She wouldn’t profess to be the most knowledgeable on skin changing but she knew you couldn’t inhabit more than one beast at time. How had he known the location of all three?

She was already in position, they would be upon them soon. Robb was beside her, they were on the highest point with all of the archers. Not that the highest point was all that high. The land around them was gentle slopes and rolling hills. It was already slippery from the steady patter of rain. She couldn’t keep her eyes from flickering between the liar and her brother. Cregan was in front, the wolves were the first line of defense. They were the best horsemen here and winter was coming. The temperature had dropped with the rain. Her breath was visible with every exhale.

The steady pounding of feet rumbled beneath them. In the distance under the last gleam of the fading light, soldiers approached from the south. The rain had soaked through her armor long ago, her hair plastered to the side of her face and neck as a result. Let Cregan live to be so old he curses the gift of life. It was the only prayer she sent up to the gods, the only one that mattered.

“Archers, nock!”

Robb’s voice boomed from beside her like tumbling boulders. Steady hands notched her first arrow.

“Draw!”

As she drew the string back she breathed in deep. With her shoulders set back, she waited.

“Loose!”

Breath, arrow and fear all exited her at the same time. The rest of the men around her ceased to be, her only tether was the shouted commands of Robb beside her. Volley after volley they rained flaming arrows on the enemy, the lannister armor was a golden beacon even as night settled over them.

“Fire at will, hold rank!”

Syana was releasing arrows at a frantic pace, man after man fell but it was the sound of screaming horses that raised her heart rate. Her arm was burning from the constant strain of the bow. Her tricep was screaming as she reached behind her to pull an endless stream of arrows out of her quiver. The line kept advancing and she knew within moments they’d hit their defense barriers. Her eyes were glued to her brother for half a second before she was back, tearing men from the saddle by the dozens. Come on, she thought, taking another two down, just a little closer.

The second the two lines converged on each other, she pivoted and broke the line.

“East team, follow me!” Her voice was hardly audible over the sounds of steel and flesh.

The screams of horses and men alike rang through the air as the team of archers moved into the next position. They couldn’t allow the enemy to surround them on all three sides against the God's eye or the battle was over. She needed to lead a group way outside of range so they could attack the next army from the rear. Reinforcements at the front would help them execute a front and back crunch maneuver. It was a gamble but so was the entire operation. If they weren’t reinforced at the front, the army could fall back on them and they’d all be dead. Syana had absolute faith in the small group of archers with her but it wouldn’t matter if they were engaged directly.

All she had to go off of was a general guide on the direction the enemy would be coming from and the hope of a small copse of trees to help conceal them under the pounding rain. The wind was screaming past them, blowing so hard it stole the air from her lungs. Her helmet felt suffocating, like a metal tomb waiting for the mud to rise up and finish the job. She was bent down low close to the neck of her mount, her thighs hurt from how hard she was squeezing them. She rode hard and fast towards the approaching blob of green she hoped was the gathering of trees they were looking for. Her eyes stung from the freezing rain blinding her and she squinted to obtain a better view. It was the sound of the wind through the leaves that ultimately tipped her off.

“Bows at the ready!” She screamed against the wind.

If they’d timed it right the enemy should emerge from the east, banners raised…

An arrow whistled past her so close she could hear the wind off of it. Then the horrible wet thud of a horse pulled up short exploded through the darkness. She didn’t have a second to spare towards who’d been hit as a rain of arrows descended on them.

“Scatter! Abort mission! Fall back!” She screamed herself hoarse over the wind and rain.

Benjicot had been wrong after all. They were in the trees not to the east. They’d timed it wrong or something had changed. Either way they were all fucking screwed. She was lucky, people up north are good riders and they learn early. She’d been able to pivot immediately. As soon as the first arrow had pulled the horse down, she knew they needed to leave. Some of the others had not been so lucky. Those who weren’t pulled down by arrows were sucked into gaping mud holes that weren’t visible in the darkness. The constant screaming of horses grew to a crescendo of agony and she wasn’t sure how much of the moisture on her face was from the rain and how much was from the constant stream of tears that flowed down her cheeks.

Riding back towards the main army, she loosed arrow after arrow. She watched with a deep and primal anger as bodies stacked on top of each other. She hadn’t even realized she was screaming until an arrow in her shoulder made her stop. When she rejoined the rest of the archer line it was significantly diminished. Though she couldn’t tell if that was because the line broke or because they were all dead. Either way, she used the temporary cover to snap the arrow shaft in half. She didn’t have time to rip the arrow out, she’d risk bleeding out anyway. She just did it to ensure it didn��t get snagged on anything. After the arrow was ripped out, she was ripped from her saddle. In he distraction, the undulating mass of bodies had writhed up against her and plucked her from her horse.

[babyspacebatclone]

I hd rollerblades when I was in my teens, back before Y2K.

The setting was a fusion of having just read the motorball storyline of the Battle Angel Alita manga and figure skating, and included exactly 0% of my own physical ability.

It was supposed to be a combo of

and

and

Completely insane and impossible.

Perfect concept for an anime. 😊

(it was a cyborg sport, in a world where cyborgs had been prohibited from participating in normal sports. the underground scene had started up around violence-based things where having replaceable parts was an advantage; it eventually became a profitable entertainment industry. the races were a fusion as an attempt to legitimize artistic sports in the cyborg niche, while still appealing to the combat-desiring audience)

(different races would give different weight to the scoring of various elements: speed of completion, artistry, takedowns of opponents, etc. the most influential racers would have dedicated tracks that could be rebuilt like marble race tracks.)

(drone cameras were a must)

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”