#the fact that i finished it at all is a miracle

[guhamun]

❝YOU SOUND LIKE SOME old man…but I can understand the feeling.❞ Calcharo’s lips curled slightly into an amused smile, such present for but a few lingering moments before it was gone once more, replaced by his usual, unreadable expression. ❝I think I was actually able to sleep for the whole night.❞ For the most part. It still took him time to fall asleep, a given considering he was sharing a room with someone and was in a new ‘environment’, but at least he had managed to sleep at all. That was a miracle in itself. Whether that spoke of the springs healing properties, or just the fact that he felt comfortable enough to lower his guard a little – such mattered little in the end. Pausing in his actions come the other’s teasing words, he huffed softly, throwing Jiyan a quick glance. ❝As if you have room to talk. Your hair isn’t any better this morning. I’d think you had a fight with your sheets last night and wound up losing.❞ It wasn’t odd to see the other’s appearance a little disheveled, although that was a given considering his forte involved the wind. Even so, Calcharo had to admit…looking so at ease really did match the general.

     So, this was what he looked like in the morning, huh? For some ridiculous reason, he had thought that the other man just woke up looking like he did when he was at the base with his impeccable appearance. This was going to be a chance for him to see how the other’s morning routine was, even if it was, no doubt, going to be different from how he went about things in Norfall Barrens. Finishing up polishing his blade, he gently sat it next to the bed once more, moving on to check the rest of his equipment one more time as Jiyan prepared their coffee. Without even having to look, he had a feeling that the other man preferred his without any embellishments. Calcharo wasn’t different in that regard. He wasn’t fond of black coffee, but he’d drink it as it served its purpose.

     Still…the first time he had enjoyed the beverage with sugar and cream in it, it was as if a whole new world had opened up to him. Truly a wonderful taste when done in moderation. Given his cup, he placed his gear to the side, leaning back against his bed so that his back rested upon plush pillows ❝Take your time. I know you plan on meeting up with the mayor again later today, so I won’t interfere.❞ He’d just sit here quietly enjoying the overall silence of this room before a busy day, a warm cup of coffee in hand. On a normal day, he would already have been dressed and out that door before the sun completely rose over the horizon. For once, he could merely ‘exist’ until it was time to be productive.

Morning, he said back, and couldn't help but notice that his smile widened on its own just a bit. There was something oddly nice about getting to say that mundane word to the other man. The fact that he would get to say it again on the following days was... he knew it made no sense, but it felt nice. "It may sound strange coming from someone who has yet to reach a quarter of a century, but I feel rejuvenated. You could say that the sagaci springs did their 'magic'." His golden gaze settled on the mercenary, and noted that the area of their eyes didn't look dark as yesterday. That was good. "You look good. But I can't say I ever imagined that I would get to see the leader of the Ghost Hounds with bed hair. It's endearing," he teased, like he was one to talk. But, to be fair, that was nothing new for the general. Given the attribute of his forte and how active he tended to be during the day, it was no surprise that, despite his hair being tied most of the time, wild strands and bangs tended to be all over the place, standing in all directions.

Before getting out of bed, Jiyan rolled his head in circles a few times clockwise and then counterclockwise. He let out a sigh of relief while stretching his arms as he stood up to start the day and prepare their morning coffee. He followed Calcharo's instructions in how to make their coffee and, for his own, he didn't sweeten his drink with anything. There actually was a funny story behind his rather 'boring' taste, one he didn't mind sharing with the newly transferred vanguards.

It was the day after he was transferred to the Norfall Barrens and, just like every other vanguard, his breakfast included a cup of coffee. He... had never had coffee before, and the face he must've made when tasting that first bitter sip must've been hilarious as everyone at his table laughed. One of the captains, a stern woman that, to everyone's surprise, already had a grandkid, saw that and walked up to the people in kitchen duty to scold them for their carelessness. Not only was his pride wounded upon hearing that 'Can't you see that he's still a growing boy? He should be getting milk or orange juice!', but he was panicking at the fact that he was already causing trouble since day 1. So he immediately gulped down his watered down cup even though it burned his tongue, and then said that he actually preferred it this way. No one really believed him, so he had to spend the next few months doing the same to convince them. By the time everyone forgot about it, he had gotten used to the taste and didn't think of making any changes. It was years later that, when another combat medic offered to make him a cup, he tried coffee with sugar for the first time... and gagged. Never again, he decided then.

He put on his coat on before opening the door of their small balcony. As expected, he was greeted by the crisp and chilly air of Mt. Firmament, but it wasn't unpleasant in any way. "I'll be checking a few documents, if you don't mind." Usually, silence when there's an acquaintance or friend in the same space is a rather awkward affair, but he doesn't get that sensation from Calcharo.

[vyl3tpwny]

genuine question: why is genesis so low on ur topsters?

also, if you can: could i hear why hawaii: part ii is rated 3.5 on ur rateyourmusic? (as opposed to like. anything higher)

(p. s. your music inspires me to be the sincerest version of myself, and for that i thank you. the impact you've had on my life is unforgettable.)

genesis isn't rated low. my number one album of all time is genesis' "the lamb lies down on broadway", for about 16 years running. my topster is organized by relative colour, it's not perfect but it just looks nice!

—

when it comes to talking about music, what i like and like about it, almost 100% of the time i NEVER want to discourage people, talk down to artists, or claim my opinion as fact. the only time i will actively talk down about art is if it's purposefully harmful (see artists like: Tom Macdonald, etc).

with that said, music by miracle musical - and by extension tally hall - often does this thing where there are a handful of really impressive, well written songs that just blow me away. but then the rest of the album outside of those handful of songs are either just ok/catchy or don't interest me very much. the tally hall gang's highs are very high, and equally their lows are just sort of pace-killers for the albums.

it's dynamics like these that prevent me from liking some of my other albums for similar problems! i think albums like queen of misfits and glitter are bogged down by an absurd amount of boring filler that could have just been left out or reworked to be more interesting, it makes it hard to ever listen to those albums front to back. ironically i don't feel that way about fairytails, my 40-song long ass album, almost everything in it still feels rather purposeful to me. i listen to my own music a lot, and once i've finished a project i tend to try and listen to it and enjoy it from an audience perspective rather than an artist one.

while i'm on the topic, i don't necessarily agree with even rating hawaii pt. ii 3.5 because in the past few years i've completely lost interest in the idea of weighing albums by arbitrary scores. nowadays i like to just give 4-5's to albums i like and then ignore anything else. it doesn't really make sense to me to assign a number score to something with good faith, other than to show that score to other people. interfacing with art is not a black and white process. despite the so-called 3.5/5.0 score i gave hawaii pt. ii whenever that was, the reality is that record has influenced me and i've enjoyed it. honestly that's what matters the most. we can sit here and talk album dynamics, technicalities, compositional proficiency, lyric profundity, and """""consistency"""""" (which is a word music critics love to throw around without actually realizing what the fuck they're talking about) all day, but what matters the most is:

Did you like the music? (Yes/No)

Did it inspire you in some way? (Yes/No) [Optional]

Does it seek to do harm? (Yes/No)

Do you respect the efforts and goals of the artist? (Yes/No) [Should always be the inverse of Question 3; i.e; if you answer No to 3, then you should answer Yes to 4]

honestly if you answer yes, yes, no, yes, then it's a good album. i really don't care. not every piece of art has to push the envelope to new heights and be the most innovative thing in the world - i mean wouldn't that be extremely fatiguing and overwhelming? everyone wants to be a critic and tear down shit that doesn't click with them within the first viewing/listen these days, i don't know why, it's probably an ego thing, bred by the echo chambers in the corners of the internet. but a lot of music criticism can be COMPLETELY discarded in favour of "this just isn't for me", and a lot of people go leaps and bounds, doing mental gymnastics over internal compensations, to just avoid saying the dreaded phrase of "this just isn't for me".

trust me, i'm someone who has immense experience with tearing other people down to compensate for my internal insecurities, it happens extremely often which is why a lot of art criticism makes ZERO fucking sense. it's never about making meaningful commentary about anything, it's always just trying to justify in the format of a dissertation - the subjective experience of "this just isn't for me".

so. do i like hawaii pt. ii? yep. is it a perfect album? no. why did i rate it 3.5? probably because at the time i wanted someone somewhere to perceive me as Very Articulated and Well Educated In The Realm of Discussing Art In Front of Other People, in Order to Appear Superior in Intellect and Refined in Taste, Because I'm Insecure Just Like Everyone Else.

[jomiddlemarch]

Everything but prudent

“This whole place belongs in a skip,” Marianne said darkly, pausing the scrub-brush she held clutched in her hand, the flagstones around her very slightly cleaner than when she had started, though it was hard to tell as there was a vast quantity of grey scummy water turning the stones dark, soaking Marianne’s jeans and trainers. The scarlet scarf she’d used to tie her bright chestnut hair back was still pristine as was her lip-gloss and Elinor made a great effort not to roll her eyes at the melodramatic scene Marianne had arranged for herself. All it needed was goldfinch to come through the open window and perch on Marianne’s shoulder, trilling a merry little melody. Marianne had refused the mop Elinor had suggested and Elinor was resigned to having to give the floor another going-over when Marianne decided it was clean enough.

“We’re lucky to have a place to stay,” Elinor reminded her. 

Lucky was an understatement. Elinor had started researching how much she could make selling her eggs, well before they’d come to Barton Cottage Inn where she could keep Lincolnshire Buffs to do the laying, and then, in what still felt like a miracle, their mum’s third cousin twice removed or whatever he was Jock Middleton, a successful hotelier who seemed equally fond of unprepossessing commercial properties and widowed distant relatives with dramatic daughters, had asked their mother whether she and her girls would be willing to make a go of the inn he’d bought at an auction nearly a decade ago and had forgotten about. Once they’d confirmed the inn had an intact roof to keep out the weather and at least one indoor lav, Elinor and her mother had leapt at the chance Jock offered, while Marianne took to melancholic swanning about their flat and making interminable cups of tea she never finished.

“You mean a place to work our fingers to the bone. To moulder away,” Marianne muttered. Elinor reminded herself Marianne was young and it was a wrench to have to give up on her plans to travel, the music course intensive she’d won a scholarship for which unfortunately only covered tuition, not living expenses in Vienna.

Elinor ignored the fact that she herself was only two years Marianne’s senior, had been forced to leave her highly-sought-after but poorly paid internship, and had been effectively abandoned by Teddy, who had stopped answering her calls without any explanation. She ignored it a little, anyway.

“I told you to wear rubber gloves,” Elinor said. “And the mouldering will get better once we have someone in to look at the electric—”

“Who’d come here, Ellie?” Marianne interrupted.

“Cousin Jock is footing the bill for the big repairs, I expect we’ll be able to get a service in shortly, and honestly, Marianne, you ought to hope lots of people want to come here and stay at the inn, otherwise even Jock’s generosity may run out and we’ll be out on our arses,” Elinor said.

“Elinor said arses, Elinor said arses,” Megan, their youngest sister, the one her mother had announced, after too much pinot grigio, had been an accident, but such a happy one, though your father did hope for a boy. Megan was a whirlwind, a cannonball, far too bright for her grammar school, impossible to homeschool, and exceptionally fine at distracting Elinor and Marianne from any real dispute.

“You’re tracking in God knows what, Megan—” Marianne exclaimed. Now she cared about the floor.

“Language, dear,” their mother said, having come in through the second set of stairs, the servants’ stairs, Elinor supposed, ones she and her sisters ought to get used to using. It was hard to consider wearing uniforms, but maybe Marianne would enjoy finding some signature print fabric they could make into scarves and throw pillows, something cottage-y, English country garden. Something that would not show the stains Megan was sure to immediately get on any article of clothing.

“But she said arses,” Megan replied.

“Elinor is an adult and if she felt she needed to use a vulgar word, I imagine she had her reasons. Elinor, I did call that company but it went straight to the machine, so I called Jock—”

“Mum, you should have waited, he won’t want to be bothered,” Elinor said. Some days, most days, it seemed she was the only Dashwood who didn’t think Barton Cottage Inn was a kind of free pass. Megan was the only one who had a right to feel that way.

“He wasn’t bothered a bit, you worry too much, darling,” her mother replied.

“Someone has to,” Elinor said under her breath.

“He said he had a friend to send round, a sort of jack-of-all-trades, a bit at loose ends, he said, it would be good for him to have a project to work on, and heaven knows the inn qualifies,” her mother went on blithely. 

“Jock-of-all-trades has a friend Jack-of-all-trades,” Megan said, grinning.

“Actually, his name is Brandon,” her mother said.

“Jock has a friend named Brandon?” Marianne said. “That’s rather trendy, isn’t it?”

“His last name is Brandon. His first name is Richard.”

“That’s not trendy at all,” Megan said. “I’m going to call him Brandon.”

“You’re going to call him Mr. Brandon or sir,” her mother said firmly.

If he could deal with the old wiring and the wonky cistern, the crumbling masonry and the flaking plaster, if he could reach a détente with the boiler, which appeared to be possessed and not by a happy spirit, Elinor would call the man whatever he pleased, prince or saint or colonel.

As it turned out, he was a dab hand with a fuse and a gasket and he said he preferred Brandon.

If it were not for Elinor’s stupidly loyal heart, the memory of Teddy’s voice reciting Keats in the twilight, she’d have fallen in love at first sight.

She’d discover soon enough that Brandon did that as well. 

It took Marianne substantially longer.

Posted for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month Day 5, prompt: inn

[raiiny-bay]

he's a fashionable man

[artkaninchenbau]

Top 3 Genders and their Perks (in no particular order)

[mitamicah]

Hey, I had basically no spoons today but wanted to at least do something tiny for the first day of Bojere Week so here's my sketch comic of Bojan being "subtle" xD

[averlym]

no one would notice if i ever vanished // if bodies could sustain // this never-ending army // like blood pumping through a vein

(click for better resolution!)

:OOO hello. anyway since these are all posters i'd have in an ideal world or smth and i'd like to store the high res versions somewhere,,, here's the google drive folder for them? hehe ''

close up!

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Dangerously close to plotting a real Skyrim/Lord of the Rings crossover for after Keeping Count because my secret desire for Leara/Glorfindel has reared its head again

Shhh Don't question it.

[turnaboutstar]

I would be questioning my career choices too if I was him too ngl

[c0rpsedemon]

there's so much manga i have to read it's unreal 😭

[faithdragon36]

Hey remember that animatic I was working on. Yeah me too

[cultivating-wildflowers]

📚

[thepunkmuppet]

I am crying why is there NOTHING ANYWHERE for rex x jack. the pOTENTIAL are you fucking KIDDING ME?!??!!

rex calls him a stupid affectionate nickname. in EVERY. single. interaction. every single one.

rex gets uncomfortable / annoyed when jack makes gay jokes - i mean jack is super flirty and annoying like that’s just his ✨ personality✨ but also this throwaway joke could SO easily be turned into a really compelling internalised homophobia storyline

the boyfriend gag. THE BOYFRIEND GAG FEHFDSFNSDHJFKSLSGKJHSVJIFVFDBJIVSFIJBBSFDJIFJISH

just their whole dynamic. jack is flirty and over the top, always making jokes and just generally being a thotty bisexual little shit, and rex finds him really irritating and expresses constant dislike towards him, but ultimately ends up respecting him and in the end saving the world with him and for him. it’s giving rivals to allies to lovers, it’s giving stormcloud x sunshine, it’s giving opposites attract, it’s giving “I hate you (affectionate) I love you (derogatory)” etc etc etc did I mention rivals to lovers?!?

and finally rex was made immortal (by having jack’s blood PERMANENTLY INSIDE HIM, venom and eddie are shaking in their boots fr), and the only other person like him on earth is jack. they will be an old married couple for thousands and thousands of years sorry I don’t make the rules thank you for coming to my ted talk

[web-novel-polls]

lmao dying laughing at the sheer number of "reading" titles you have

I'm so bad at finishing stuff it's wild lol. I'll definitely have to reread the starts of some of them, but I do want to finish all of them. Eventually.

[no1ryomafan]

I think I ranted about this before and I should’ve expected this given I’m writing a literal crossover but fuuuuuuck I am one step away from posting more about mega man since I need to branch out with more of my interests even though my past experiences make me terrified and I feel any fan I meet it’s like Russian roulette if will click- but also I’ve hardly given the tumblr community a chance… I am conflicted.

[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'?”