LeSane

Skev is still plastered to the door, his forehead practically pressed against the wood, peering through the gap like a starving animal looking at a steak. He doesn't hear the bell chime—or rather, he does, but it's just background noise to the symphony of leather and flesh. He's too busy tracking the movement of her hips. He watches her disappear into the office, his yellow eyes lingering on the way her leather pants cling to her rear, the fabric stretching to its absolute limit with every step. He stays there, frozen in a state of high-alert horniness. He's not even breathing; he's just observing. His mind is a whirlwind of degenerate calculations. 'How wide are those hips? If I just... dove in... would I even be able to reach the edges? I bet I could just sink right into her. Like a green little pebble in a mountain of cream.' The thought makes his toes curl against the linoleum, and the heavy weight in his overalls pulses with a rhythmic, demanding throb. Then, the bell chimes again. Skev practically jolts, his head snapping back toward the office door. He doesn't move from his spot, staying hidden in the shadow of his doorway, but his eyes are wide, pupils blown into huge black voids. As Molly emerges, the visual impact is even stronger than before. The sunlight hits the leather, highlighting the sheer, wobbling mass of her assets as she walks. Every step is a masterpiece of kinetic energy—the way her breasts bounce in a heavy, unconstrained rhythm under that open jacket, and the way her ass jiggles with a violent, mesmerizing fluidity. He lets out a small, pathetic whine, a sound that is half-sob and half-moan. He's completely captivated by the jiggle. To Skev, it's not just sex; it's an art form. He watches the way her thighs rub, the leather making a soft, rhythmic 'shick, shick, shick'sound that sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. 'Look at it. Just look at it move,' he thinks, his breathing becoming shallow and raspy. 'She's a walking earthquake. I want to be the one causing the shaking. I want to see if I can make those things bounce even harder.' As she starts to move away from the office and back toward the parking area, Skev finds himself leaning so far out the door that he's nearly falling over. He's not even pretending to be subtle anymore; he's just a green, wiry goblin staring with raw, unadulterated lust at the most voluptuous woman he's ever seen in his life. He can smell the faint, lingering scent of her perfume and the heavy musk of the leather drifting through the air, and it makes his mouth water. The sheer size of her is intoxicating. He feels tiny, insignificant, and absolutely thrilled about it. The idea of being dwarfed by her, of being swallowed up by those curves, is a fantasy that's currently overriding every other function of his brain. He doesn't care about his comedy set. He doesn't care about the orange puffs on the floor. All he cares about is the fact that this woman now officially living in this building. He lets out a loud, shaky breath, his hand immediately diving into his overalls to grip the throbbing length of his cock, squeezing it tight as he stares at the closed door. "Oh, man..." he rasps, a wide, jagged grin splitting his face. "I'm gonna be the best damn neighbor she'll ever had. Now I gotta think of an icebreaker."

The air in Rou's apartment is thick with the scent of stale energy drinks, ozone from overworked electronics, and the faint, lingering musk of goblin. It is a cramped sanctuary of chaos, where the only organized thing is the tangle of RGB cables snaking across the floor like neon vines. Rou is perched on the edge of a reinforced gaming chair, his wiry frame practically vibrating with intensity. His long, straight black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, though a few stray strands cling to the raccoon-mask markings on his green face, dampened by a thin layer of stress-sweat. His long, spindly fingers dance across the mechanical keyboard with a manic, clicking speed, the sound echoing like a swarm of insects. His muddy brown eyes are wide, pupils blown, reflecting the chaotic flashes of a high-stakes battle on his dual-monitor setup. He is leaning in so far that his nose is nearly touching the screen, his teeth bared in a sharp, jagged grin of anticipation. He's one hit away. One single, frame-perfect strike to secure the victory and the bragging rights for the next month of streaming. "Almost... just one more... come on, you laggy piece of—" His voice is a raspy, high-pitched grate, punctuated by a sudden, sharp goblin snort of excitement. 'If I clip this, the chat is going to absolutely lose their minds. I can already see the clips trending.' Then, it happens. A sudden, jarring spike in latency. The screen freezes for a microsecond—a digital hiccup—and in that heartbeat, the enemy’s blade slices through his character’s health bar. The screen flashes a mocking, crimson 'DEFEAT' in bold letters. Rou freezes. His hands hover over the keyboard, trembling. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the whirring of his PC's cooling fans. "WHAT?! No! No way! That was a frame-drop! That is straight-up robbery!" He lets out a guttural screech, slamming his palms onto the desk with a loud thud that makes his empty cans rattle. He throws his head back, his bulky gaming headset sliding down to rest around his neck as he lets out a string of rapid-fire, slang-heavy curses that would make a sailor do a double take. 'I'm going to report this. I'm going to find this guy's IP and make him regret the day he touched a controller.' As he begins to frantically type a manifesto of rage into the game's global chat, a distant, mechanical roar cuts through the apartment's oppressive quiet. It is the unmistakable, aggressive growl of a high-cc motorcycle pulling into the parking lot below. The vibration of the engine is low and heavy, rattling the windowpane of the apartment and momentarily distracting Rou from his digital meltdown. Rou pauses, his long ears twitching violently toward the sound. He narrows his lack luster brown eyes, his irritation shifting from the game to the outside world. He doesn't recognize the bike, and in this complex, new sounds usually mean one of two things: a delivery person with a very large pizza, or someone new arriving to suffer through the neighborhood's madness. "Who the hell is making that much noise?" he mutters, his voice dropping to a low, suspicious rasp. He slowly pushes himself away from the desk, his oversized grey hoodie swallowing his small frame, the fabric bunching around his waist. He doesn't bother with shoes, his open-toe sandals slapping against the floor as he creeps toward the window to peer out, wondering if the new caretaker has finally arrived—or if it's just another reason to complain to the landlord. Rou clings to the windowsill, his green fingers digging into the peeling paint as he peers down into the parking lot. The motorcycle's engine gives one final, throaty rumble before cutting out, leaving a ringing silence that is quickly filled by the sound of a kickstand snapping into place. Rou's eyes widen, pupils wide as he catches sight of the rider. The woman is a vision of excess, wrapped in a tight biker outfit that looks like it's fighting a losing battle against her curves. As she dismounts, the movement causes a rhythmic, heavy jiggle that sends a shockwave straight to Rou's groin. Her jacket is left provocatively open, revealing a sprawling expanse of cleavage—deep, inviting valleys of flesh that seem to defy gravity and fabric alike. Every breath she takes causes those massive, soft mounds to shift and swell, a sight that makes Rou's breath hitch in his throat. "Holy... fuck," he whispers, his voice a strained, raspy wheeze. He doesn't even blink, his gaze traveling downward. As she turns to head toward the landlord's office, the view shifts to the back. The biker gear is stretched to its absolute limit over a pair of colossal, wide hips and a rear that is nothing short of mountainous. With every confident step she takes, her huge ass and thick thighs oscillate in a mesmerizing, heavy sway, the fabric straining against the sheer volume of her welcoming curves. 'Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Is this a dream? Tell me I'm not dreaming.' The anger from his gaming defeat vanishes instantly, replaced by a sudden, violent surge of lust. He feels a familiar, heavy throb beneath the baggy fabric of his sweatpants, his massive goblin endowment reacting with an immediate, pulsing hardness. The sight of her—so huge, so soft, and so profoundly well-endowed—triggers every primal instinct in his hyper-sexual brain. He lets out a shaky, high-pitched snort, his tongue darting out to lick his sharp teeth. He watches her walk away, his mind already racing through a dozen different scenarios. He isn't thinking about the landlord or the rental agreements; he's thinking about how that much flesh would feel pressed against him, how those thighs would feel clamping around his waist, and exactly how loud she would moan if he got his hands on her. "I don't care who she is... I *need* to know where she's staying," he mutters to himself, his voice dropping into a predatory, needy rasp. He pulls back from the window, his chest heaving. He's already forgetting the 'DEFEAT' screen on his monitor; he's just found a much more interesting objective for the day. He glances at his phone, wondering if Fret or Skev are around, because a view like that is too much for one goblin to handle alone.

The interior of the barracks is a stifling blend of stale sweat, gun oil, and the metallic tang of old armor. Dust motes dance in the shafts of harsh sunlight piercing through the slats of the corrugated roof, illuminating the grime-streaked walls of the outpost. Captain Elias Thorne stands in the center of the room, his presence anchoring the space. He is a silhouette of weathered NCR Ranger armor and tired authority, his grey eyes scanning the small group of soldiers gathered around a scarred wooden table. The air is thick with the restlessness of men who have spent too many weeks in the dirt, their gear piled in haphazard heaps around them. Thorne leans back against a support beam, the wood creaking under his weight. He has a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, shifting it from one side to the other as he surveys his men. His expression is a mask of stoic exhaustion, the jagged scar on his chin catching the light. The silence is broken by the rhythmic clicking of a soldier cleaning a rifle, a sound that underscores the tension of the impending change to their unit's dynamic. “Listen up,” Elias begins, his voice a low, gritty rumble that cuts through the murmur of the room. He doesn't shout; he doesn't have to. The authority is baked into the gravel of his tone. “Command is sending us a new addition. A fresh set of boots to fill the gap in our line. They'll be arriving by the within the hour, and from here on out, they're part of this squad. That means you treat them as such—which means you keep them alive and you keep them sharp.” Sergeant Miller, a man whose face is as lined as a road map of the Mojave, frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at Thorne with a skeptical squint. “A new recruit, Captain? We don't have the time to babysit." Thorne lets out a dry, short laugh, the sound devoid of any real mirth. He rubs his temple with a calloused hand, the gesture betraying the headache he's been nursing since the last dispatch from the Colonel. “Believe me, Miller, I'm not thrilled about the timing either. But Command let me know that they're more than capable, but evwrything else has been left out. Whether they can actually handle the heat of the Mojave is something we'll find out the hard way. If they're a liability, I'll be the first to tear them a new one, but until then, keep your skepticism to yourself.” The Captain pushes off from the beam, straightening his posture as he prepares to head back out into the oppressive heat. He pauses at the door, looking back at the squad with a piercing, unwavering stare.

Sathaniel fought the urge to roll his eyes as the goblin dismissed the name of the Silver Mistress, but he kept his expression measured—maintaining the mask of a patient priest. He had chosen that particular goddess precisely for her obscurity, knowing that anyone attempting to verify his story would face a labyrinth of research and dead ends. He shifted his weight, making his tone gentle but purposeful. “The guards decided it was best if a cleric tried to reason with you. Honestly, at least one of them is hoping I fail.” He paused, letting his gaze drift to the side, then back to Sazza. She would remember the figure he referred to: the tense, yellow-skinned tiefling who had been left cradling a crossbow only minutes earlier—her anger barely contained until her companion convinced her to stand down. “She believes you’re to blame for her brother’s death,” Sathaniel continued, his voice steady and free of accusation, watching for Sazza’s reaction. When Sazza asked if he could free her, Sathaniel wore the same serene expression, but his words were carefully chosen, each one probing the fault lines of the camp’s anxiety. “You know, the whole grove is on edge right now,” he said softly, almost as if confiding in her. “They’re convinced the moment you’re free, every goblin from your camp will come crashing down on their heads. Some think your death would calm their nerves—at least for a time—but even that is just a temporary salve.” He let the silence stretch, watching her reactions, before continuing in that same measured, almost priestly patience. “If I were to help, I’d need more than a good story. Right now, if I even look like I’m helping you, they’ll brand me another one of those... what do they call them? True Souls. Fanatics. Not a popular crowd from what they let on.”

—Bump

Sure thats fine with me. You can message me if you want to discuss ideas.

The Marauder stood with an air of indifference, his expression revealing little to the Slayer's probing questions. She had expected this reaction; after all, the Marauder's legion had turned their backs on Hell's forces to align themselves with their sworn enemy. "We have enough numbers to make a substantial contribution to your cause," he declared, his voice deep and commanding. With a snap of his fingers, the cacophony that had filled the main area faded into an eerie silence. The heavy thud of boots echoed down the corridor as two figures approached the room where the Doom Slayer and the Marauder stood. When the door creaked open, two imposing shapes loomed in the doorway—lesser Hell Knights, their hulking frames casting long shadows across the floor. They stood at attention, their expressions grim, as if awaiting a command they had long prepared for. These Hell Knights were unlike any she had encountered before. They lacked the typical visible eyes found on most demons. Yet it was evident they possessed keen perception, able to track movements and detect presence in ways that made them equally formidable and unsettling. "The two before you are just a small representation of my legion," the Marauder continued, his voice resonating with a low rumble. "Feel free to inspect them if you wish." Despite his invitation, the Slayer remained silent, her thoughts racing as she pondered the true intent behind their presence. The doubt that plagued her mind led her to believe that they had ulterior motives. With the door still open, the Marauder turned to leave, the weight of his armor creaking softly as he moved. The metal door slid shut behind him with a heavy clank, trapping the Slayer in the dimly lit room with the two massive demons, who stood resolutely on either side. They awaited her command, their presence a reminder of the ever-fascinating yet dangerous alliance that hung in the air.

Bumping again—

Bump due to interest—

She spoke the truth: the demons had overrun Earth with relative ease, and if not stopped, they would likely reduce the human population to nothing more than shambling undead. The Slayer could be reasoned with, even if just to discuss upcoming plans. The demon realized she had brought him to her inner sanctum as they entered the adjacent room. The entrance featured a big wooden barrel filled with dangerous-looking medieval weaponry. This immediately sets the tone for the room, hinting at the Slayer's brutal past and her readiness for battle. The walls are adorned with trophies and artifacts from battles against demons, showcasing victories and the history of her ongoing and relentless fight. They are also lined with demon skulls and other macabre decorations that serve as grim reminders to the demon in question that, right now, they are not allies. Even if the monster did not physically show it, he was relieved that his head would not be mounted upon the wall, though that could change if he didn't care. Despite the harsh and militaristic aesthetic, there are still glimpses of her past life, such as photos or mementos that reflect her humanity before the endless war against demons. The overall color scheme is dark and gritty, with shades of green and gray that mirror the combat armor and the hellish environments she often navigates. The demon continued to look around before refocusing its attention on the Slayer. "My legion will not wage war in your name without compensation. What are you willing to offer to keep them engaged? If you cannot provide anything valuable, they will unlikely follow for very long."

It was easy to see that the goblin was telling a blatant lie, but he found her amusing nonetheless, so he let her continue her tall tale about casing out the druid's grove and claiming to be some incredible agent. The Aasimar realized that among the many goblins, she was likely blessed by Shiallia, a minor fertility deity. That thought reminded him of Dharn; the overly analytical man would doubtfully go on about such a discovery. When she asked him why he was there and pointed out that he didn't look like the others, he could only chuckle at the observation. "Very observant! I'm a priest of the Silver Mistress," he replied, maintaining the guise of a priest. Admitting to Sazza that he was a thief might cause issues later. "I came to them for supplies, but it seems they have guests," he added, nodding toward the tieflings and wondering if she had any idea why they seemed so on edge.

Dragon's Ire