Wasteland Filly, Stranded Succubus, Lost Together [Part 1]

 

You never tell anypony where you came from. They wouldn’t believe you. And even if they did, what could they do? There is no way back.

 

The sun is a bruised smear behind the clouds when you spot her.

 

White coat untouched by radstorms. Black stockings pristine, hugging plump thighs all the way to polished hooves. Crimson mane with black streaks, tied back with an oversized black bow. Piercings glint in both ears. Magenta pupils rimmed with thick mascara, wide and lost. A few freckles dust her muzzle like someone scattered cinnamon on fresh snow. And floating beside her—chattering in a voice like dry leaves—is a little skull familiar wearing a tiny pink ribbon.

 

Bubbles.

 

Your stomach drops.

 

You know this mare. You know her teats, the exact shade of her black cock when she wills it into existence, the way her ink magic brings filthy doodles to writhing life. You’ve come to sketches of her more times than you can count, back when coming was easy and the world wasn’t on fire.

 

Lilith. A succubus unicorn plucked straight out of someone’s porn thread and dropped into the real hell of the Equestrian Wasteland.

 

She looks around, trembling. “This isn’t Canterlot,” she whispers to Bubbles. “This isn’t anywhere.”

 

You should walk away. You’re a filly. You’re alone. You have half a canteen and a rusty knife.

 

But you remember the threads. How clean she always was. How wanted. Out here, clean means prey.

 

Hoofbeats. Laughter—rough, drunk, hungry.

 

Three slavers crest the ridge. Earth ponies in spiked barding, chains rattling at their sides. One licks his lips when he sees her.

 

“Fresh meat,” he says. “Look at those stockings. Bet she’s never even seen a radroach.”

 

You move before you think.

 

You dart out from cover, small body low to the ground, and slam your shoulder into the nearest slaver’s foreleg. He stumbles, swears. You bite the strap of his saddlebag and yank—a flare gun clatters out. You kick it hard into a thornbush and bolt.

 

“Hey! Get back here, you little shit!”

 

They chase you instead of her.

 

You lead them through twisted rebar and collapsed overpasses, tiny hooves skidding on loose gravel. A bullet whines past your ear. Another scorches the tip of your tail. You dive into a drainage pipe barely wide enough for your body, heart hammering, and wait until their cursing fades.

 

You’re still panting from the run, legs shaking, tail singed where a bullet kissed too close. The slavers’ cursing has faded into the distance, swallowed by the ruins. You crawl out of the drainage pipe expecting an empty billboard shadow—instead Lilith is there, white coat pristine against the filth, magenta eyes wide with something between terror and awe.

 

“You saved me,” she says again, softer this time. She steps closer, stocking-clad legs brushing yours, and the scent of ink and old parchment floods your nose. “A little green heroine.”

 

You try to shrug. It comes out shaky.

 

She steps closer. The scent of her—ink, old parchment, and something darker—fills your nose. Her stocking-clad leg brushes yours.

 

“You’re trembling,” she murmurs. A faint glow of magenta magic flickers around her horn. “Let me repay you.”

 

Bubbles snickers. “Mistress, she’s dripping already. Smells like heat and desperation.”

 

You freeze. You hadn’t noticed the slick warmth between your hind legs, the way your filly pussy has started to wink traitorously.

 

Lilith’s smile curves, slow and wicked. “Is that true, sweet thing?”

 

You should say no. You should run.

 

Instead you try to shrug it off—some gruff wasteland nonsense—but your voice cracks. You’re a virgin. You’ve never been touched like this, never even touched yourself in this body beyond quick, ashamed rubs when the heat got too much. The thought of what she’s offering makes your heart hammer against your tiny ribs.

 

Lilith reads you like an open book. Her smile turns gentle, wicked edges softened. “First time?” she murmurs, horn glowing as a single ink tendril rises—warm, slick, stroking your cheek like a question.

 

You nod, small and mortified, ears flat.

 

“Then we go slow,” she promises. She lowers herself to the dusty ground, plump body settling, tail lifting to reveal soft black teats and the glistening pink hidden beneath dark lips. Magic flares brighter—flesh shifting, stretching—until her thick black cock slides free, heavy and veined, already beading at the flared tip.

 

Your breath catches. You know this cock from drawings, from fantasies you jerked off to as a human. Now it’s real, warm, twitching in the dead air.

 

Lilith reaches out with a forehoof and gently pulls you closer until your muzzle presses against one soft teat. You latch on without thinking—suckling like a starved foal. Sweet, thin milk touches your tongue; succubus magic, feeding something deeper than hunger.

 

She moans, low and filthy. “Good filly.”

 

She guides you with careful hooves and tendrils until you’re straddling her barrel, small green chest to her plush white one. Your dripping filly slit slides along the underside of her shaft, coating it in your slick. You rock instinctively, tiny clit bumping the flare, pleasure spiking sharp and new.

 

A tendril teases your tail aside. Another circles your entrance, spreading your virgin folds gently, gathering your slick to ease the way.

 

“Relax,” she whispers, kissing your forehead. “Breathe with me.”

 

The blunt head presses against you. You tense—instinct, fear—and it burns immediately, a sharp stretch that makes you whimper and dig your hooves into her coat. She stills, tendrils stroking your teats, your blank flank, your clit in slow circles until the pain ebbs into aching need.

 

Inch by thick inch she sinks in—slow, relentless—your virgin walls forced wide for the first time, fluttering and clenching around every vein, every ridge. It hurts, then hurts less, then melts into blinding fullness that steals your breath. Your belly distends slightly around her shape; you can feel her pulse deep inside you.

 

When you’re finally seated flush, trembling and impaled, she lets you adjust—forelegs wrapped around your small frame, holding you steady while you pant against her neck.

 

Only then does she move—shallow, careful thrusts upward, savoring your broken whimpers. The tendrils keep stroking, teasing, drawing sparks from your clit and teats until pleasure drowns the last of the pain. Bubbles floats closer, whispering filthy encouragement you barely hear over the wet sounds and your own broken moans.

 

You come first—sudden, overwhelming, squirting hard down her shaft in frantic waves, walls clenching in virgin spasms you’ve never felt before. The sensation rips a cry from your throat; your whole body shakes with it.

 

Lilith follows moments later, groaning low as hot seed floods deep, thick ropes painting your untouched womb, spilling out around the tight seal to drip down her black teats and your thighs.

 

When she finally slips free with a wet sound, you collapse against her chest, trembling, tears pricking your teal eyes from the intensity.

 

Lilith kisses your forehead, gentle now. “Stay with me, little green savior. The wasteland is big, and I’m… very generous with my heroes.”

 

Bubbles giggles overhead. “And very, very hungry.”

 

You close your teal eyes against her warm coat.

 

For the first time since you woke up small and green and lost—and now no longer a virgin—you don’t feel alone.

 

===

 

You’re still draped over her plush barrel, small green chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. Her black cock has softened and slipped back into nothing, leaving only the warm, sticky mess between your hind legs and the slow drip of her seed down your inner thighs. Your filly pussy throbs with pleasant ache, stretched and full in a way that makes your teal eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Lilith’s foreleg strokes lazy circles along your blank flank, her magenta gaze soft and sated, mascara slightly smudged from the heat.

 

Bubbles floats in lazy figure-eights overhead, humming a lewd little tune.

 

You find your voice first—hoarse, dry, but edged with that old human sarcasm that never quite died.

 

“Wow,” you mutter against her neck, words muffled by crimson mane. “First thing you do after a filly drags slavers off your tail is stuff her full of succubus cock. Real classy gratitude, princess.”

 

There’s no venom in it. You’re too boneless, too flooded with lazy warmth to manage anything sharper than a dull poke. Your tail twitches, flicking a drop of mixed fluids onto the dust.

 

Lilith chuckles, low and rich, the sound vibrating through her chest into yours. One stocking-clad hind leg shifts, brushing your sensitive teats and making you shiver.

 

“Mm. And yet you took it so eagerly, little savior.” Her horn glows faintly; a soft ink tendril wipes gently at the mess on your thighs, almost tender. “I thought it only fair to reward heroism properly.”

 

You huff, ears flicking back. “Just… be careful who you shove that thing into out here.” Your voice drops, quieter now, the sarcasm thinning into something rawer. “Wasteland doesn’t hand out love. Barely lets you share lust. Mostly it just takes.”

 

Lilith stills beneath you. Even Bubbles pauses mid-loop, ribbon drooping.

 

For a long moment there’s only the distant howl of wind through ruined buildings and the soft drip of spent pleasure cooling on both your coats.

 

Then Lilith’s forehooves tighten around your small frame, pulling you closer until your muzzle tucks under her chin.

 

“I know,” she whispers, breath warm against your ear. “I felt it the moment I arrived—the hunger in the air, the way everything wants to devour everything else.” Her voice hardens, just a little. “But I am a succubus, sweet thing. Devouring is what I do. The difference is… I prefer consent. And I prefer it mutual.”

 

She nuzzles the top of your head, bow rustling against your black mane.

 

“Stay with me,” she says again, softer. “Let me devour you gently. Let me keep the ones who’d take from you… entertained.”

 

Bubbles snickers. “Permanently, if needed.”

 

You don’t answer right away. You just press closer, letting her warmth chase the wasteland chill from your bones, letting the steady beat of her heart drown out the distant gunfire on the horizon.

 

You push yourself up on shaky forelegs, the lingering warmth between your thighs making every shift send little aftershocks through your small frame. Seed still leaks slow and sticky down your green coat, and you pointedly ignore the way Lilith’s magenta eyes track the motion with lazy satisfaction. You huff, ears pinned back, and fix her with a glare that probably looks more pouty than fierce on a filly’s muzzle.

 

“As if you know these wastelands well enough to confidently stride around without getting a bullet through your pretty head,” you snap, voice rough but lacking any real bite. “You need me more than I need you, princess. And right now I’m half a mind to teach you how to use a gun—because I know for damn sure your soft pre-war flank has never even touched one.”

 

Lilith blinks once, slow, those long lashes fluttering. Then her lips curve into that wicked, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip despite yourself. She doesn’t move to cover herself; her black teats and slick marehood are still shamelessly on display beneath the lifted tail, stockings pristine even after everything.

 

Bubbles cackles, spinning in a delighted circle. “Ooh, the little green one has teeth! Mistress, she’s adorable when she’s bossy.”

 

Lilith silences the skull with a gentle pulse of magenta magic, then sits up gracefully, crimson mane cascading over one shoulder. She leans in until her muzzle almost brushes yours, warm breath scented with ink and sex.

 

“Bossy,” she purrs, “and absolutely right.” Her horn glows again, and a soft tendril of ink coils out to wipe the last traces of mess from your thighs—almost tender, almost apologetic. “I spent my days in a manor, drawing pretty pictures and indulging pretty ponies. Guns were… beneath notice. Crude things.”

 

She tilts her head, bow rustling. “But you, my fierce little savior—you’ve survived this place alone. Small as you are.” Her gaze lingers on your blank flank, then flicks to the faint bulge in your belly that hasn’t quite settled yet. “Teach me, then. I’m a quick study.”

 

There’s no mockery in it. Just heat, and something dangerously close to respect.

 

You snort, turning away to hide the flush under your green coat. “Fine. But first we find cover that isn’t out in the open like a pair of idiots. Then I’ll show you how not to shoot your own hoof off.”

 

Lilith rises smoothly, stockings whispering against the dust. She falls in step beside you without protest, Bubbles bobbing along overhead like a lewd little lantern.

 

You lead the way through the skeletal remains of what used to be a trading outpost—rusted wagons half-buried in ash, billboards peeled down to faded smiles promising Sparkle-Cola forever. Your small hooves pick a careful path you shouldn’t know: past the collapsed stable entrance everypony avoids because of the ghouls, around the radscorpion burrow that still clicks at night, straight to the boarded-up general store that looks picked clean to anypony else.

 

But you remember the guides. The wikis. The speedruns.

 

You nose aside a loose floorboard behind the counter, reveal the hidden hatch, and there it is: a pre-war stash some paranoid trader never came back for. Cans of cram and pork ’n’ beans still sealed, boxes of Med-X and RadAway, a half-full box of .32 ammo, and—jackpot—a clean little varmint rifle with a scope that isn’t even cracked. No 10mm, but it’ll do.

 

Lilith watches you work, magenta eyes wide, crimson mane fluttering in the hot wind. Bubbles hovers over your shoulder, whispering, “Mistress, the tiny green one is looting like a pro. Are we sure she’s not part diamond dog?”

 

You ignore the skull, levitate the rifle out with your mouth—careful, careful—and drop it at Lilith’s black-stockinged hooves.

 

“Here,” you say, voice gruff to hide the little thrill of being useful. “Unicorns have the advantage. You can float this thing around a corner, line up the shot, and pull the trigger without ever showing your pretty flank. Earth ponies and pegasi have to stick their heads out and pray. You? You get to play dirty.”

 

Lilith’s horn glows soft magenta. The rifle lifts uncertainly at first, wobbling like a foal’s first steps, then steadies as she gets the feel. She turns it this way and that, barrel glinting in attached scope light.

 

“Fascinating,” she murmurs, voice that low, velvet purr that still makes your spent filly parts clench in memory. “So much more… direct than ink and parchment.” The rifle spins once in her magic, smooth now, almost playful. “Show me, then. Teach me how to kill with it.”

 

You snort, but you’re already nosing open a can of cram to split. “First lesson: don’t point it at anything you like. Second: the wasteland doesn’t care how magical your cock is. It’ll still put a bullet through you if you get cocky.”

 

Lilith laughs—rich, delighted—and levitates the rifle to her side like it was made to be there. One stocking-clad foreleg brushes your shoulder as she leans in, warm and close.

 

“Then keep me humble, little green savior,” she whispers against your ear. “I’d hate to die before I’ve properly thanked you again.”

 

Bubbles snickers. “Second round incoming?”

 

You roll your teal eyes, but you don’t pull away.

 

The two of you settle in the shade of the ruined store, sharing canned meat and stale water while you walk her through loading, aiming, breathing. Her magic makes the rifle dance—elegant, deadly. By the time the bruised sun starts to dip, she’s popping rusted cans off a shelf at twenty yards without looking, a sly smile on her freckled muzzle.

 

 

You watch the last can she shoots spin off into the dust with a metallic ping, and you huff loud enough for her to hear.

 

“Show off.”

 

Lilith’s answering laugh is low and pleased, the rifle still floating steady in her magenta aura as she sets it gently against her shoulder like it belongs there now. Bubbles does a triumphant loop around her horn.

 

You turn away before she can see the reluctant grin tugging at your muzzle and lead them deeper into the ruins—past a collapsed overpass, through a rusted gate that hangs crooked on one hinge, into the shell of an old maintenance shed. Concrete walls, one door you can barricade with a chunk of rebar, a broken window high up for ventilation. Safe enough for one night.

 

You clear a space in the center, gather scraps of dry wood and splintered furniture, and strike a spark with your flint and steel. The fire catches quick, small but steady, throwing flickering orange light across Lilith’s pristine white coat and the black stockings that somehow still look brand new.

 

You skewer two cans—one cram, one pork ’n’ beans—on a bent coat hanger and set them over the flames to warm. The smell rises: salty, rich, almost comforting in its wrongness.

 

Lilith settles across from you, folding her plump legs neatly beneath her, tail curling like a crimson banner. Bubbles perches on a nearby shelf, ribbon drooping as he pretends to nap.

 

You pass her the first hot can when it’s ready. She levitates it carefully, sniffing, one elegant brow arched.

 

“Meat,” she says, soft wonder in her voice. “Actual meat. In a can.”

 

You tear into yours with your teeth, chewing slowly. “Yeah. Ponies got desperate near the end. Grain shortages, zebra blockades, everypony hoarding everything. Some genius in a lab coat decided we’re opportunistic carnivores—teeth can handle it, stomach mostly doesn’t complain—so they started processing griffon imports, lab-grown protein, whatever they could cram into tins. Figured it’d stretch rations longer when the bombs finally fell.”

 

You swallow another mouthful. The salt hits hard, makes your tongue tingle. “Doesn’t taste bad, honestly. Better than two-hundred-year-old grass clippings.”

 

Lilith takes a cautious bite, eyes widening as the flavor spreads. She hums—low, appreciative—and licks a smear of grease from her lower lip.

 

“Decadent,” she murmurs. “In the manor we had fresh salads, imported hay fries, the occasional scandalous fish dish when Mother felt adventurous. This… this tastes like survival.”

 

She meets your teal gaze across the fire, magenta pupils reflecting the flames.

 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For the food. For the gun. For pulling me out of the path of those brutes.”

 

You shrug, ears flicking. “Don’t get sappy. Just don’t want to scrape your pretty corpse off the dirt tomorrow.”

 

But you scoot a little closer anyway, until your green shoulder brushes her white one, sharing warmth against the wasteland night creeping in through the cracks.

 

The fire crackles. For now, the shed feels almost safe.

 

===

 

The fire has burned down to embers when the door explodes inward with a splintering crash.

 

You’re on your feet in an instant, heart slamming against your ribs, the varmint rifle already in your mouth by the time the first raider barrels through—big earth pony buck in spiked leather, shotgun belching flame. The shed lights up orange and deafening.

 

You fire twice. Miss once, clip his shoulder the second time. He howls.

 

Lilith is up beside you, magenta aura flaring bright around the rifle you gave her. Her first shot goes wide, punches a hole in the wall. The second raider—a unicorn mare with a machete levitating beside her—laughs and charges.

 

Lilith’s next bullet takes her square in the throat.

 

The mare drops, gurgling, blood bubbling black in the firelight. Her machete clatters uselessly.

 

You don’t have time to watch Lilith freeze. Another raider vaults through the broken door, pistol barking. The bullet catches you low in the left flank—hot, tearing, like somepony drove a branding iron straight through muscle. You scream around the rifle bit, legs buckling.

 

“Lilith—shoot!”

 

She does. The rifle bucks in her magic, three rapid cracks. The last raider stumbles back out the door with half his face gone.

 

Silence falls, thick and ringing.

 

You’re on the ground, blood hot and sticky under your tail, soaking the dust. Lilith stands over the unicorn she killed, horn still glowing, eyes wide and glassy. Her plush chest rises and falls too fast.

 

“I… I killed her,” she whispers. Voice small. Trembling. “She’s… dead.”

 

You spit the rifle out, hiss through the pain. “Yeah. Good shot. Now grab me—we’re leaving.”

 

She doesn’t move.

 

“Lilith!” You snap, sharp as you can manage. “Pick me up and run, damn it!”

 

That jolts her. Magenta magic wraps around your small body—gentle despite the shaking—and lifts you against her side. You bite back a yelp as the motion jars the wound. Bubbles darts ahead, scouting.

 

You’re out the back window before more raiders can circle around, Lilith galloping hard through the dark ruins, your blood leaving a sporadic trail on her white coat.

 

She finds an overturned wagon to duck behind, sets you down gently in the shadows. Her stockings are torn now, one piercing dangling loose from an ear. She’s shaking harder than you are.

 

You dig through the saddlebags with your teeth, find the Med-X. Jam the needle into your thigh without ceremony. Sweet, chemical numbness spreads fast, turning the fire in your flank into a dull throb.

 

Lilith watches you, mascara streaked, magenta eyes wet. “I’ve never… not like that. Not real.”

 

You lean against her foreleg, breathing hard. “First one’s always rough. You did what you had to. She’d have done worse to both of us.”

 

A pause. She nods, slow, but her ears are still pinned flat.

 

You force your mind to the maps you memorized back when this was all pixels and fanfics.

 

“Listen,” you rasp. “Three blocks east, old ministry hub—looks like a collapsed school. There’s a maintenance closet on the basement level, false panel behind the janitor’s shelf. Should be an emergency cache. Healing potion, maybe two if we’re lucky. You carry me, I’ll talk you through it.”

 

Lilith wipes her eyes with a trembling foreleg, then scoops you up again—careful, so careful—settling you across her back like a wounded foal. Your blood stains her bow crimson.

 

“I’ve got you,” she says, voice steadier now. “Lead the way, little green savior.”

 

Her horn glows, rifle floating ready at her side.

 

You point with a shaking hoof into the dark.

 

Together, you vanish into the ruins.

 

You cling to Lilith’s back like a burr, small forelegs draped over her shoulders, your blood soaking into the crimson of her mane and bow until the colors blur together. Every jolt of her gallop sends fresh fire through your flank, even through the Med-X haze—sharp hisses escape your clenched teeth, guiding her left, right, straight, down shattered streets lit only by the sickly green glow of radiation leaking from cracked pipes.

 

Lilith is trembling beneath you. Not the delicate shiver of a pre-war mare startled by a loud noise—this is deeper, bone-deep, the kind that makes her plush frame quake with every stride. You feel it in the way her muscles bunch and release, in the hitch of her breath that isn’t just from running. Her stockings are shredded now, one torn clean to the thigh, revealing pale skin flecked with your blood. The rifle floats beside her in a magenta grip that flickers every few seconds, like her concentration is fraying.

 

She’s never killed before. Not really. Not where the blood sprays hot and the body hits the ground with a wet finality. Back in her manor, “devouring” meant silk sheets and willing partners, ink tendrils teasing until everypony begged. This was different. Messy. Permanent.

 

You hear it in the crack of her voice when she finally speaks, barely above the pound of her hooves.

 

“I can still feel it,” she whispers, voice raw. “The recoil. The way the bullet… left. The way she fell.” A shudder rolls through her so hard you nearly slide off. “Goddesses, there was so much blood. It’s on me. On my magic. I can taste it.”

 

You hiss again—left here, past the overturned cart—and she veers sharply, horn glowing to shove debris aside with desperate force.

 

Your muzzle presses against her neck, tasting salt and copper. “Keep moving,” you rasp. “You did what you had to. She’d have gutted us both. Focus.”

 

But she’s unraveling. You feel her mind racing through the frantic pace she sets—too fast, reckless, hooves skidding on loose gravel. Flashes of memory: the raider’s eyes widening in surprise, the wet gurgle, Bubbles’ sudden silence. Guilt coils tight in her chest, mingling with the succubus hunger that still hums under her skin, confused and angry that violence felt… good. The power of it. The finality.

 

She stumbles over a chunk of concrete, catches herself, but a soft, broken sound escapes her throat—half sob, half snarl.

 

“I’m a monster,” she breathes. “I liked it. For a second—I liked it.”

 

You dig your forehooves harder into her withers. “You’re alive. I’m alive because of it. Keep going, damn it—basement door, there, the one with the faded apple sign.”

 

She crashes through the rusted door into the cool dark of the ministry hub, horn flaring bright to light the way. Stairs down—careful now, her legs shaking so badly she has to lean against the wall to keep from dropping you. Dust swirls in the magenta glow. Bubbles floats ahead silently for once, ribbon limp.

 

Maintenance closet. Janitor’s shelf. False panel—she rips it open with magic too rough, bottles clattering.

 

Two healing potions, violet and shimmering.

 

She levitates one to your lips first, trembling so hard the glass chatters against your teeth. You drink greedily, warmth flooding your flank as torn flesh knits closed.

 

Only then does she sink to the floor, pressing her face into the dust, shoulders heaving.

 

You slide off her back—legs steady now—and nudge her cheek with your muzzle.

 

“Hey,” you murmur. “Breathe, princess. You carried me. You saved me this time.”

 

She turns into you, burying her muzzle in your dusty green neck, body still shaking but slower now, grounding against your small warmth.

 

For a long minute, the only sound is her ragged breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere in the dark.

 

You slide forward on unsteady legs—still tingling from the healing potion—and wrap your small forelegs around her neck as best you can. She’s taller, plush and trembling, but she folds down enough for you to press your green chest to her white one, nuzzle into the crook of her shoulder where crimson mane spills warm and fragrant over your muzzle. Your hooves rub slow circles along her back, tracing the tense ridges of muscle beneath soft coat, feeling every shudder ripple through her like aftershocks.

 

She’s still crying quietly, hot tears soaking into your dusty neck. The rifle lies forgotten on the concrete beside her, barrel cooling.

 

“Shh,” you murmur, voice low, rough from dust and pain that’s only just faded. “You had to, Lilith. Those raiders—they’d have dragged us both off, done things worse than killing. You saved me. You carried me here through the dark while I bled all over you. You did good.”

 

She tries to pull away, ears flat, magenta eyes glassy and ashamed. “But I liked it,” she whispers, broken. “That moment when the bullet hit and she dropped—I felt… strong. Hungry. Like when I feed, but sharper. Dirtier.”

 

You tighten your hug, small body pressing harder against her warmth. “Don’t,” you say firmly, though your own voice wavers. “Don’t think about that part. That’s not who you are. You’re the mare who draws filthy pictures in a manor and makes ponies beg for more with a smile. You’re playful, not cruel. The wasteland tries to twist everypony—it’ll make you enjoy the wrong things if you let it.”

 

You pull back just enough to meet her eyes, teal locking onto wet magenta.

 

“I won’t let it take you,” you promise, fierce and quiet. “Not you. We’ll get through this together, and you’ll stay… you.”

 

Lilith stares at you for a long heartbeat, mascara streaked down freckled cheeks. Then she crumples forward, burying her face against your small shoulder, forelegs wrapping around your barrel and pulling you close—almost too tight, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

 

Bubbles floats nearby in silence for once, ribbon drooping low.

 

You hold her as the trembling slowly ebbs, two lost mares clinging to each other in the dim violet glow of leftover potion bottles, the distant wasteland wind howling through cracks overhead like it’s jealous of the warmth you’ve found.

 

For now, it’s enough.

 

===

 

**Lilith Interlude:**

 

Lilith’s forelegs tighten around the small, warm weight pressed to her chest, the little green filly’s breath soft and steady against the hollow of her throat. Anon’s black mane tickles her chin, dusty and coarse, nothing like the perfumed curls she once nuzzled in silk-sheeted beds. The child’s hooves—small, scarred, far too knowing—rest against her back in gentle, grounding circles. Lilith buries her muzzle deeper into that dirty green neck and inhales the scent of gunpowder, blood, and something faintly sweet beneath it all: the filly’s own lingering arousal from earlier, now cooled into something almost innocent.

 

She had been so certain it would be easy.

 

Back in the manor, everypony wanted something from her—pleasure, power, the thrill of being devoured by a succubus who smiled while she took. A flick of crimson tail, a flash of magenta eyes, a whispered promise spelled in ink across bare flanks, and doors opened. Guards looked the other way. Rivals melted into moaning heaps. Even her mother’s sternest guests ended up begging beneath her bow and stockings.

 

Here, though? Here, ponies shot first.

 

The memory slams into her again: the raider’s snarl twisting into shock as the bullet punched through flesh, the wet slump of a body hitting dirt, the sudden silence that tasted like copper and finality. No coy bargaining. No chance to drop her voice to that velvet purr and watch eyes glaze with lust. Just recoil and death and the awful, electric surge of power that had nothing to do with sex.

 

Lilith’s breath hitches. She presses closer to Anon, as if the filly’s small frame can anchor her against the yawning realization: her old tricks are useless out here. A pretty smile won’t stop a bullet. A teasing brush of stocking-clad thigh won’t make a raider drop his gun. They would have taken her—ripped the bow from her mane, torn the piercings from her ears, used her until there was nothing left but another stained corpse in the dust. And they would have taken the child first, just because she was small and green and blank-flanked and theirs to break.

 

Anon’s voice—rough, steady—cuts through the spiral. A quiet promise that Lilith doesn’t have to become the thing that enjoyed the kill.

 

She believes it, because this filthy, sarcastic little filly dragged slavers away from her pristine coat, taught her to shoot, bled on her back while hissing directions through the dark. This child who should be prey has become the only thing keeping Lilith from fracturing apart.

 

So she clings tighter, trembling still, but slower now. The wasteland wants to strip everything from her—her softness, her playfulness, the delighted depravity that once defined her days. It wants to leave only hunger and sharpness behind.

 

But Anon’s warmth is real. Anon’s promise is real.

 

Lilith closes her magenta eyes, mascara smearing against green coat, and holds on.

 

She will learn to kill if she must.

 

But she will not let the wasteland take who she is—not while this small, impossible savior breathes against her throat.

 

===

 

Hours bleed away in the dim basement glow of scattered potion bottles, the two of you tangled together on the cold concrete like the last warm things in a dead world. Your small hooves never stop their slow rubbing along her back, tracing the curve of her spine through soft white coat, feeling the tremors fade inch by inch until her breathing evens out against your neck. Lilith’s tears dry into salty tracks through her smeared mascara, her crimson mane a tangled veil over both your faces. Bubbles hovers nearby in silence, ribbon drooping like a wilted flower, for once not cracking lewd jokes.

 

Eventually, she pulls back—slow, reluctant—magenta eyes puffy but clearer now, freckled muzzle brushing yours in a lingering nuzzle before she sits up properly. Her bow is askew, stockings ruined, but she still looks impossibly elegant even in ruin.

 

You sit up too, legs crossed under you like a foal, and meet her gaze with your usual half-lidded teal stare.

 

“We’re even now,” you say, voice rough from disuse but steady. “You saved my flank back there, carried me bleeding through the dark. I saved yours from the slavers. Books balanced.”

 

Lilith opens her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to thank you again—but you cut her off with a small, wry grin.

 

“I’m still sticking around, though,” you add, bumping your shoulder against her plush one. “Somepony’s gotta make sure your pre-war ass doesn’t wander into the next bullet. You’re too pretty for raider bait, and I’m too stubborn to let the wasteland win that easy.”

 

She huffs a wet laugh, the sound shaky but real, and leans in to rest her forehead against yours. Her horn glows faintly, a soft ink tendril rising to gently straighten your tangled black mane.

 

“Stubborn little green savior,” she murmurs, voice velvet again, though quieter than before. “I think I’d like that very much.”

 

Bubbles finally perks up, spinning a lazy circle. “Does this mean we’re keeping her, Mistress? She’s housebroken. Mostly.”

 

You narrow your teal eyes at the floating skull, pinning him with a glare sharp enough to crack bone—if he still had any worth cracking. Bubbles hovers there, pink ribbon perked like he’s about to launch into another round of snark, but you cut him off before he can open his bony jaw.

 

“We’re partners,” you say, voice low and flat, edged with that old human exhaustion that never quite leaves. “Me and Lilith. Like I said—she needs me way more than I need her right now. So zip it, bonehead. Don’t make me figure out how to pop you for your namesake.”

 

Bubbles freezes mid-bobble, empty sockets widening in mock horror. The ribbon droops dramatically, like a wilted party favor. “Ooh, the tiny green terror threatens me,” he rasps, but there’s a nervous rattle in his voice now. “Mistress, your filly’s gone feral. Shall I fetch the muzzle?”

 

Lilith snorts—soft, tired, but genuine amusement flickering in her magenta eyes as she watches you. She’s still close, her plush white side pressed warm against your smaller green one, one stocking-clad foreleg draped loosely over your withers like she’s not quite ready to let go yet. The askew bow in her mane brushes your ear when she leans in, breath warm and scented with faint ink and gun oil.

 

“Behave, Bubbles,” she murmurs, voice velvet but firm, a hint of that old manor authority slipping through the cracks of her exhaustion. “She’s earned the right to threaten you. Several times over.”

 

Bubbles huffs—a dry, theatrical sigh—and drifts a little higher, out of easy hoof-reach. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good. Mostly.”

 

You don’t relax your glare until he turns away, pretending to inspect a crack in the wall. Only then do you huff, ears flicking, and settle back against Lilith’s warmth. The basement feels quieter now, the distant wasteland noise muffled by thick concrete.

 

Partners. Yeah. That word sits strange in your mouth—too soft for this place—but it fits, somehow, in the space between her heartbeat and yours.

 

Lilith’s hoof squeezes gently around your barrel. “Partners,” she echoes, quiet, like she’s tasting it too.

 

===

 

You push yourself up onto all four hooves, legs still a little wobbly from the potion and the lingering ache of everything else, black tail flicking dust from your blank flank. The basement air is cool and stale around you, violet potion glow fading as you shake out your tangled mane and fix Lilith with a flat, practical stare.

 

“We better start planning our next moves,” you say, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Bad news: all that running means I’m not a hundred percent sure where the nearest half-safe town is anymore. Could be a day, could be three. Good news?” You shrug, ears flicking. “There’s decent caps in sex work if you’re willing to degrade yourself for it. Plenty of desperate ponies out there who’d pay good bottlecaps for a pristine succubus unicorn with stockings and a magic cock. Though fair warning—some would rather just take than rent. Up to you, princess.”

 

Lilith stays seated a moment longer, magenta eyes narrowing as she studies you—slow, deliberate, like she’s weighing every filthy implication you just dropped. The torn stockings cling to her plump thighs in ragged strips, bow still crooked, freckled muzzle smudged with dried tears and basement grime. Bubbles drifts closer, ribbon perking with obvious interest.

 

Then she laughs—soft at first, then richer, that velvet purr rolling back into her voice like she’s slipping into an old, favorite dress.

 

“Degrade myself,” she echoes, rising gracefully despite the ruin of her elegance. She steps close, towering just enough that you have to tilt your head up, one stocking-clad foreleg brushing your green shoulder. “Little green savior, I spent decades in a manor perfecting degradation. The willing kind. The kind where they begged for more and paid in favors, jewels, secrets.” Her horn glows faint magenta, a thin ink tendril teasing idly along your ear. “Out here, though… caps instead of compliments. Rough hooves instead of silk sheets.”

 

She leans down, warm breath against your muzzle, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I am a succubus. Hunger is hunger. And if it keeps us fed, armed, and moving…” Her tail lifts just enough to flash the soft black teats beneath, a deliberate tease. “I could make it work. Very well. Though I’d insist on certain… standards. And protection.”

 

Bubbles snickers overhead. “Mistress offering full-service wasteland escort? This I gotta see.”

 

Lilith’s magic flicks the skull hard enough to send him spinning. “Quiet, you.”

 

She straightens, magenta eyes sharpening with something between amusement and resolve. “We’ll scout first. Find a settlement that isn’t a complete cesspool. If the opportunity arises, I’ll handle the negotiations—my way.” A sly smile curves her lips. “And you, my fierce little partner, can watch the door. Or join, if you’re feeling generous.”

 

You feel heat creep under your green coat despite yourself, filly body betraying you with a traitorous wink.

 

You huff through your nose, ears flicking in reluctant surrender, the sound sharp in the dusty basement air. Fine. Sex work it is—if it comes to that. Caps are caps, and hunger doesn’t care about dignity.

 

You nose the remaining healing potion into your battered saddlebags, cinching the strap tight with your teeth. Lilith watches you with that sly, half-lidded smile, magenta eyes gleaming as she levitates her rifle into place at her side. The torn stockings cling to her plump thighs like battle scars, her bow still crooked but somehow more alluring for it. Bubbles bobs overhead, uncharacteristically quiet after your earlier threat.

 

“Lead on, partner,” she purrs, falling in step as you push open the basement door and step back into the bruised dawn light of the wasteland.

 

The two of you move careful but quick through the ruins—your small green frame scouting ahead, hooves silent on cracked concrete, Lilith’s taller white one close behind, horn glowing faint to shove aside debris or silence the occasional radroach with a precise, practiced shot. She’s getting better already. Too good, maybe.

 

You remember the motel from the frantic run here: a faded pre-war eyesore half-collapsed against a hillside, neon sign flickering “LUNA’S REST” in sputtering pink. Fifty-fifty, like you said. Could be a trade outpost—caravan guards, merchants hawking chems and canned sludge, a bar where caps flow with the watered-down whiskey. Or it could be slaver bait: pretty lights to lure in the desperate, chains waiting in the back rooms.

 

As you crest the last ridge, the place comes into view. The parking lot has a couple of brahmin carts hitched up front, smoke curling from a chimney stack—signs of life. A earth pony buck in patchwork barding lounges by the entrance, chewing a cigar, rifle across his knees. He straightens when he spots you: first the pristine white unicorn with the crimson mane and black stockings, then the scruffy green filly at her side.

 

His eyes linger on Lilith—hungry, calculating. But he doesn’t raise the gun.

 

Yet.

 

You glance back at her. She meets your teal gaze, arches a brow, and that wicked smile curves slow and deliberate.

 

“Shall we see what flavor of hospitality awaits, little savior?” she murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous. One ink tendril flicks playfully at your tail. “I’ll handle the talking. You watch for the chains.”

 

You snort, but you fall in beside her as you approach, small body tense, ready to bolt or bite.

 

You hang back half a step, letting Lilith take the lead as you approach the motel’s entrance. Her stride is deliberate now—hips swaying just enough to draw the eye, crimson tail lifted in a casual arch that flashes the torn edges of her stockings and the soft curve beneath. The guard’s cigar pauses halfway to his mouth, eyes raking over her pristine white coat, the black bow, the piercings glinting in one ear. He doesn’t even glance at you, the scruffy green filly trailing her like a shadow.

 

Smart. Or stupid. You keep your teal eyes sharp, scanning the parking lot: two brahmin chewing lazily, carts loaded with scrap and canned goods—real trade, not just bait. A couple of travelers milling near a makeshift bar under the awning, nursing bottles. No obvious chains, no cages in sight. But you note the side door half-hidden by crates, the way a pegasus mare in leather barding watches from the rooftop with a sniper rifle that hasn’t moved yet.

 

Lilith stops a polite distance from the guard, head tilted, magenta eyes half-lidded in that practiced manor seduction.

 

“Evening,” she purrs, voice like spilled honey. “My little sister and I are looking for a room. Hot food. Maybe some company that pays in caps.” She lets the words linger, one stocking-clad foreleg shifting to show a flash of plump thigh. “I’m told I’m very… accommodating.”

 

The guard swallows hard, cigar forgotten. “Uh. Yeah. Name’s Brick. We got rooms. Bar’s open. Madam Rosecolt runs the place—she’ll wanna talk terms if you’re… offering services.” His gaze flicks to you finally, curious. “Kid yours?”

 

“Ward,” Lilith says smoothly, before you can snort. “Very protective. Bites if you touch.”

 

You bare your teeth in what could pass for a smile.

 

Brick grunts, steps aside. “Inside. Rosecolt’s at the desk. No trouble, or you’re out on your flanks.”

 

Lilith brushes past him—close enough that her tail flicks his nose—and you follow, small body tense, ears swiveling for any sudden moves.

 

The lobby is dim, lit by flickering lanterns: faded moon-and-stars wallpaper peeling at the edges, a counter made from an old reception desk. Behind it sits Madam Rosecolt—an older earth pony mare, rose-pink coat faded with age and dust, mane pinned up in a severe bun, but her eyes are sharp as shattered glass.

 

She looks Lilith over slow, then you.

 

“Succubus,” she says flatly, spotting the subtle thrum of magic around Lilith’s horn. “Rare sight. Clean, too. You’ll pull caps—stallions, mares, doesn’t matter. House takes forty percent. Private rooms upstairs. No drugs in the beds, no permanent marks. You want food and board upfront, you work tonight.”

 

Lilith smiles, slow and wicked. “Thirty percent. I bring my own… entertainment.” An ink tendril flickers briefly into view, coiling suggestively before vanishing.

 

Rosecolt’s lips twitch—almost amused. “Thirty-five. And the filly watches the door or stays out of sight. No foals in the rooms.”

 

You bristle, but Lilith’s magic brushes your tail calmingly.

 

“Deal,” she says. “We’ll take a room first. Bath if you have it. Then I’ll start earning.”

 

Rosecolt slides a key across the counter—Room 7, upstairs. “Water’s hot. Food’s stew tonight. Pay up front for the bath.”

 

Lilith levitates a small pouch of caps—salvaged from the raiders, apparently—and you follow her up the creaking stairs, Bubbles whispering filthy commentary under his breath the whole way.

 

Room 7 is small but intact: a real bed with questionable sheets, a basin with piped water that steams when Lilith turns the tap. She locks the door behind you, then turns, pressing you gently against the wall with her plush body.

 

“First,” she murmurs, nuzzling your ear, “we clean up. Then I work. You watch the hall—any trouble, you come get me.” Her voice drops, warm and filthy. “And later, when the caps are counted… I’ll reward my protective little partner properly.”

 

Your filly heart stutters, heat pooling despite the exhaustion.

 

You don't say anything, neither confirming nor denying you're looking forward to it.

 

===

 

Hot water steams up the cracked mirror as Lilith’s magic turns the taps, filling the basin with something that almost passes for clean. You’re still pressed lightly against the wall by her plush weight, her crimson mane brushing your muzzle, when the question tumbles out of you—half curious, half wary.

 

“Are succubi common?” you ask, voice low in the small room. “I mean… you look like a regular unicorn. Stockings and bow and all. Hard to tell the difference from normal ponies. Except, y’know.” You flick an ear toward Bubbles, who’s hovering near the ceiling like a smug little chandelier. “The floating talking skull might be a dead giveaway.”

 

Lilith pauses, horn glowing as she levitates a rag and a cracked bar of soap. Her magenta eyes flick with amusement, then something deeper—old, private.

 

“Not common,” she says softly, dipping the rag and bringing it to your green cheek, wiping away a streak of dried blood with deliberate care. “Not at all. Most ponies go their whole lives without meeting one. We’re… echoes. Old bloodlines, or curses, or bargains made in the dark before Equestria polished itself pretty. A unicorn might be born with the hunger, or awaken it later. The horn gives us away if we feed too greedily—eyes glow brighter, magic tastes like sin.” She smiles, slow and wicked, sudsing the rag along your neck. “But outwardly? Just another mare. Plump teats, willing smile, a cock we can call when the mood strikes.”

 

Bubbles snickers, spinning lazily. “Don’t forget the familiars, Mistress. Not everypony has a charming skull to announce their depravity.”

 

Lilith’s magic flicks him into the corner like a misbehaving toy. “Bubbles is… optional. A luxury. Most succubi don’t bother. Or can’t.” She leans closer, warm breath against your dampening coat as the rag trails lower, circling your blank flank. “Out here? If any still exist, they’re hidden. Starving. Or worse—twisted into something the wasteland approves of.”

 

Her voice drops to that velvet purr you’re starting to crave. “You recognized me for what I am the moment you saw me, didn’t you, little savior? Before I even spoke.”

 

You snort, the sound sharp and derisive in the steamy little bathroom, water still running hot into the basin. Lilith’s rag pauses mid-stroke along your green barrel, suds clinging to your coat as you fix her with a flat teal stare.

 

“Well, I’m not the only one,” you mutter, ears flicking. “Rosecolt clocked you as a succubus the second she looked up. And Brick? Didn’t buy the ‘little sister’ bit for even half a second. Probably thinks I’m your pocket-sized pet or something.”

 

Lilith’s magenta eyes glitter with amusement, the rag resuming its slow path—lower now, circling the soft swell of your blank flank, teasing dangerously close to your teats. She leans in, warm breath ghosting over your damp mane.

 

“Perceptive, aren’t they?” she purrs, voice velvet and unashamed. “Madam Rosecolt has seen too many nights in places like this not to recognize hunger when it walks in on stocking-clad hooves. And Brick…” She chuckles, low and filthy, horn glowing as an ink tendril joins the rag, tracing delicate lines across your inner thigh. “Poor stallion was too busy imagining what I taste like to question the details. Besides, little green partner—would ‘sister’ have been more convincing if I’d claimed you were my daughter? Or my favorite toy?”

 

The tendril flicks teasingly against your filly slit, making you jolt, a traitor wink answering before you can clamp down on it. Heat floods your cheeks under the green coat.

 

She pulls back just enough to meet your glare, smile wicked and warm. “Let them wonder. Out here, mystery is currency. And you—” The rag dips between your hind legs, gentle but thorough, cleaning away the last traces of blood and spent pleasure from earlier. “—you are whatever keeps the questions from turning into trouble.”

 

Water splashes as she levitates you bodily into the half-filled basin, small body sinking into the heat with a surprised squeak. She climbs in after, plush white frame crowding the space, stockings finally peeled away and discarded in a wet heap. Her black teats brush your side as she settles behind you, forelegs wrapping around your barrel to pull you back against her chest.

 

“Now hold still,” she murmurs against your ear, nuzzling the base of your mane. “Let me finish washing my protective little whatever-you-are. Then we’ll go earn some caps—and maybe give them a few more things to whisper about.”

 

Bubbles snickers from his perch on the towel rack. “Mistress, the filly’s already winking again. Bath time’s about to get educational.”

 

You huff, sinking deeper into the water and her warmth, but you don’t pull away.

 

The water is hot enough to sting, steam curling thick around you both in the cramped basin. Lilith’s plush white body presses close behind you, her black teats soft against your back, forelegs wrapped possessively around your small green barrel. The rag is long forgotten; now it’s just her magic—warm, tingling magenta tendrils that slip between your hind legs with practiced, intimate care.

 

One tendril coils gently around your tail, lifting it aside. Another delves deeper, sliding into your still-puffy filly pussy, scooping out thick globs of her spent seed that drip slow and viscous into the water. You feel every swirl, every gentle scrape against your sensitive walls, the magic pulsing like a second heartbeat. Your breath hitches, hind legs trembling as fresh slick mixes with the mess she’s cleaning.

 

She hums low against your ear, crimson mane damp and heavy over your shoulder. “Can’t have you leaking all night, little savior,” she murmurs, voice velvet and filthy. “Though you wear my claim so prettily.”

 

You squirm, heat flooding your cheeks and elsewhere despite the thorough cleaning. When the last of it swirls away into the cloudy water, you mutter through clenched teeth, “You better not have gotten me pregnant. I’d fucking die if I had a foal—filly-sized like this, no way my body could handle pushing one out.”

 

Lilith stills. The tendrils pause, then withdraw slowly, leaving you empty and aching. She turns you in the water to face her, magenta eyes serious for once, mascara freshly cleaned away to reveal the faint freckles across her muzzle.

 

“I’m careful,” she says quietly, one hoof cupping your cheek. “Succubus magic… I can choose. You’re safe, sweet thing. I’d never risk you like that.”

 

The promise hangs between you, heavy and real. You nod, gruff, and climb out to dry off on the threadbare towel.

 

Later, dressed again in her torn stockings and crooked bow—looking every bit the high-class whore the wasteland never deserved—Lil

 

Lilith opens the door to Room 7 and steps onto the landing. Downstairs, the bar noise filters up: clinking bottles, rough laughter, the low thrum of desperate ponies spending caps on warmth.

 

You plant yourself outside the door, small green body tense, ears swiveling. The varmint rifle is slung across your back—too big, but you can still bite the trigger if needed. Bubbles hovers nearby, ribbon perked like a lookout.

 

First customer: Brick, the guard from the gate. He leers as he passes you, cigar breath hot. “Kid’s on guard duty, huh? Cute.”

 

You bare your teeth. “Touch her wrong and I bite it off.”

 

He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge as he disappears inside.

 

The door clicks shut. Muffled voices—Lilith’s velvet purr, Brick’s low grunt. Then the bed creaks. Rhythmic. Wet sounds. A sharp moan that’s definitely her magic at work.

 

You keep watch, teal eyes scanning the dim hallway, counting minutes by the slap of flesh and the occasional masculine groan echoing through the thin walls.

 

One after another they come: a grizzled caravan stallion, a nervous mare trader with a sack of caps, a pair of off-duty guards who pay extra for “both holes and the ink tricks.”

 

Each time the door opens, you glare daggers. Each time it closes, the sounds start—Lilith earning, performing, devouring in the only way the wasteland allows.

 

Caps clink into a tin on the nightstand. The pile grows.

 

And you stand guard, small and fierce, listening to your partner work while the night drags on.

 

===

 

The last customer stumbles out just as the lanterns downstairs dim to a sullen glow—a bleary-eyed stallion with a dopey grin and his barding half-buttoned, muttering about “those damn living drawings” as he nearly trips down the stairs. The hallway falls quiet except for the distant clink of bottles being cleaned and the low murmur of voices in the bar.

 

You push the door open with your shoulder and slip inside, locking it behind you with a soft click. Lilith is sprawled across the bed on her back, white coat glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, crimson mane fanned out like spilled blood on the pillow. Her bow is gone, piercings glinting in the low light, stockings finally discarded in a heap by the footboard. The room smells thick of sex—salt, musk, and the faint ozone tang of her ink magic.

 

She lifts her head when you enter, magenta eyes heavy-lidded but sharp, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her freckled muzzle.

 

You hop up onto the bed beside her, small green body curling against her plush side. “Rumors are spreading fast downstairs,” you mutter, voice low. “Ponies already talking about the ink tricks—how the drawings come alive and do things no toy should. They’re calling you the ‘Living Sketch Mare’ or some shit. Not sure if any of them have put together that you’re a succubus yet, though. Could just be chalking it up to fancy unicorn magic and a dirty imagination.”

 

Lilith chuckles, the sound rich and throaty, one foreleg draping over your barrel to pull you closer. Her black teats press warm against your side, and you feel the faint thrum of her magic still lingering in the air like afterglow.

 

“Let them talk,” she purrs, nuzzling the top of your black mane. “Mystery brings higher bids tomorrow night. And if they do figure it out…” Her smile sharpens, wicked. “Succubus or not, they’ll still pay to be devoured.”

 

She rolls toward you, horn glowing soft magenta as she levitates the tin of caps from the nightstand—clinking heavy with the night’s earnings. More than enough for ammo, real food, maybe even a better gun.

 

Her other foreleg slides lower, teasing along your blank flank. “But enough about them. You stood guard all night, little savior. Kept the creeps from getting ideas.” Warm breath ghosts your ear. “Time for your reward.”

 

You huff, but you’re already pressing closer, filly body answering before your mouth can protest.

 

The bed creaks softly as Lilith rolls you onto your back, her plush white body looming over your smaller green one like a warm, living blanket. The room is thick with the lingering scent of her night’s work—musk and sweat and the faint sweetness of her ink—but her magenta eyes are fixed only on you now, sharp and hungry in a way that makes your filly heart stutter. She nuzzles down your neck, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear, then lower, tracing the line of your blank flank with deliberate slowness.

 

“My fierce little guardian,” she purrs, voice velvet-rough from hours of moaning for strangers. “Stood outside that door all night, glaring daggers while I took them one by one. Listening. Waiting.” Her tongue flicks out, hot and wet, lapping a slow stripe along your teal chest. “You deserve every drop of pleasure I can give.”

 

Her horn glows soft magenta, and the air hums as ink tendrils rise from the small bottle on the nightstand—black lines coiling like smoke before solidifying into warm, slick appendages, flexible and alive with her magic. Two of them curl gently around your hind legs, spreading them wide, exposing your already-winking filly pussy to the cool air. You gasp, small body arching instinctively, slick dripping onto the sheets.

 

Lilith lowers herself between your thighs, crimson mane spilling over your belly like silk. Her breath ghosts over your sensitive teats first—soft black nubs already pebbled and aching. She latches onto one with a low moan, suckling hard, tongue swirling in torturous pleasure. Then the pull shoots straight to your clit, making you whine and buck, before going back to your other teat.

 

Another tendril teases your entrance, circling the puffy lips before sliding in slow—thick, ridged, pulsing inside you with deliberate strokes that stretch your filly walls just right. A second joins it, scissoring gently, filling you deeper than her fingers ever could. You feel every ripple, every throb as they curl to stroke that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

 

Above you, Lilith’s magic flares brighter. Between her own hind legs, flesh shifts and swells—her black cock emerging heavy and veined, already beading at the flared tip, marehood glistening pink and open below it. She doesn’t enter you with it yet. Not yet.

 

Instead, she releases your teat with a wet pop and crawls up your body, pressing the hot length of her shaft along your belly. The flare bumps your tiny clit with every shallow rock of her hips, smearing precum across your green coat. Her black teats drag against yours, soft and swollen, as she claims your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss—tongue delving in to taste your whimpers.

 

The tendrils inside you speed up, thrusting in perfect rhythm, curling and twisting until your walls clench frantic and desperate. A third tendril joins the fun, thin and slick, circling your tight little tailhole before pressing in slow—stretching, filling, burning sweetly as it sinks deep alongside the others.

 

You come undone with a muffled cry into her mouth, filly pussy squirting hard around the invading tendrils, soaking her barrel and the sheets. She swallows every sound, hips grinding her cock against your spasming belly, riding your orgasm with you.

 

But she’s not done.

 

She pulls back just enough to line up, flare nudging your stretched entrance. The tendrils slip free with a wet schlick, leaving you empty and aching for half a heartbeat before she thrusts in—slow, relentless, inch after thick inch spearing into your oversensitive depths until her medial ring pops past your lips and you’re stuffed full, belly bulging visibly around her shape.

 

“Goddesses, you take me so well,” she groans, voice breaking as your walls flutter around her. She sets a brutal pace—deep, grinding thrusts that bump your cervix with every stroke, her heavy balls slapping your flank. One forehoof pins your shoulder, the other strokes your blank flank possessively.

 

The tendrils return: one coiling around your clit, squeezing and tugging in time with her thrusts; another shoving into your mouth, letting you taste yourself as you suckle desperately.

 

Bubbles floats closer, ribbon twitching with excitement. “Mistress is wrecking the little green one—look at that bulge! She’s going to be leaking for days.”

 

Lilith snarls, magic flinging him into the corner again, but the rhythm never falters. She leans down, teeth grazing your ear. “Come for me again, sweet thing. Milk my cock—let me flood you.”

 

You do—harder than before, vision whiting out as your pussy clamps down like a vice, squirting around her shaft in frantic pulses. She follows with a guttural moan, black cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum pump deep, filling you to overflowing, spilling out around the seal to drip down your tail and teats.

 

She stays buried inside as the aftershocks fade, peppering your face with soft kisses, tendrils retreating to stroke your trembling flanks.

 

“Good girl,” she whispers, voice raw and sated. “My perfect little partner.”

 

You lie there boneless, stuffed and leaking, her warmth draped over you like a promise.

 

The caps are safe in the tin.

 

The night is yours.

 

===

 

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, small green body limp and oversensitive, belly distended around the thick black cock buried to the hilt inside your filly pussy. Lilith’s seed leaks slow and warm around the seal where you’re joined, trickling down your teats and soaking the sheets beneath. She’s shifted you both onto your sides, her plush white frame curled protectively around your smaller one—forelegs wrapped tight around your barrel, black teats pressed soft against your back, crimson mane spilling over your neck like a blanket. Her breath is warm and steady against your ear, every exhale stirring your tangled black mane.

 

She nuzzles closer, one hoof stroking lazy circles over the visible bulge in your belly where her flare rests snug against your cervix. The intimacy of it—stuffed full, claimed, held—makes fresh slick pulse weakly around her shaft, your walls fluttering in exhausted little spasms.

 

In a broken, hoarse whisper—voice cracked from moaning and crying out—you manage to ask, “You… you planning to sleep with your cock inside me all night?”

 

Lilith hums, low and pleased, the sound vibrating through her chest into yours. She shifts her hips just enough to make you gasp as the flare drags against your depths, then settles again, keeping you impaled.

 

“Mm. Yes,” she murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive edge of your ear. “I like feeling you around me, little savior. Warm. Tight. Mine.” Her hoof presses gently over the bulge, claiming it. “Every time you breathe, you’ll squeeze me. Every dream you have, you’ll remember who you belong to tonight.”

 

She kisses your neck, soft and possessive, magic dimming the lantern until the room sinks into comfortable dark. Bubbles, banished to the corner earlier, floats silently overhead like a forgotten toy.

 

“Sleep, sweet thing,” she whispers, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’ve got you. All night.”

 

Your teal eyes flutter shut, body too spent to protest, the steady throb of her inside you lulling you toward exhausted dreams.

 

The wasteland is far away.

 

Sleep pulls you under like warm, thick honey, the steady throb of Lilith’s cock still buried deep inside your filly pussy the only anchor between waking and dream. The room fades, the wasteland fades, and you sink into a shared space—her succubus magic weaving your minds together, turning the dark behind your eyelids into something vast and velvet-soft.

 

You’re standing in a endless manor bedroom that shouldn’t exist: high ceilings draped in crimson silk, walls lined with mirrors that reflect infinite versions of you both. The air is heavy with her scent—ink, parchment, and raw desire. Lilith circles you slowly, taller and more regal than ever, her white coat gleaming, stockings restored and pristine black, bow perfect in her crimson mane. Her magenta eyes burn with predatory focus, pupils slitted like a cat’s.

 

You try to speak, but the dream swallows words. Instead, a low, needy whine escapes your throat as her magic coils around your barrel, lifting you effortlessly and flipping you onto your belly across a massive four-poster bed that appears beneath you. Soft sheets, cool against your green coat. Your hind legs are spread wide by invisible tendrils, tail pinned high, exposing your winking, dripping filly slit and the soft black teats beneath.

 

Lilith mounts you without warning.

 

Her weight settles over your small back—warm, plush, overwhelming. The blunt flare of her black cock presses against your entrance, already slick from the real-world claiming, and she thrusts in with one smooth, possessive stroke. The stretch is immediate and total, your walls forced wide around her thickness, belly bulging visibly as she hilts deep. You cry out, the sound echoing in the infinite mirrors, every reflection showing the same thing: tiny green filly impaled and trembling beneath a larger white succubus, freckled muzzle twisted in pleasure-pain.

 

She doesn’t pause. Her hips snap forward in a brutal rhythm, each thrust driving you up the bed, her heavy balls slapping your teats with wet, obscene sounds. Her forelegs wrap around your barrel, pinning you in place as she ruts like an animal—deep, grinding strokes that punch against your cervix and make stars burst behind your eyes. Ink tendrils join the assault: one shoving into your mouth to muffle your cries, tasting of her precum and your own slick; another circling your tiny clit, squeezing and tugging in time with her thrusts; two more latching onto your teats, suckling hard enough to draw thin streams of milk that isn’t really there.

 

You come hard and sudden, squirting around her shaft in frantic pulses, walls clenching desperately. She only growls and fucks you through it, pace never slowing, her own marehood dripping onto your tail as she uses you.

 

The dream shifts—mirrors ripple, the bed becomes a plush chaise in a candlelit gallery lined with her living sketches. The drawings come alive: inky copies of Lilith, translucent and writhing, surrounding you both. One tendril-cock forces its way into your already-stuffed pussy alongside the real one, stretching you impossibly wide; another claims your tailhole, thick and ridged, pumping in counterpoint. You’re lifted between them, suspended in air, mounted from every angle while the real Lilith stays buried in your pussy, teeth grazing your neck as she claims you deepest.

 

She flips you again—onto your back now, small legs splayed wide, her plush body pinning you as she thrusts downward. Her black teats drag across your own, nipples hard and leaking faint sweetness. You latch onto the sheets desperately as she pounds into you, the wet slap of her hips against yours echoing endlessly. Her cock swells thicker inside you, flare catching with every pull back, dragging against your walls until you’re sobbing with overstimulation.

 

Again and again you come—squirting, clenching, milking her—until the dream blurs with it. She finally follows, roaring as her cock throbs and floods you, hot seed pumping deep in thick ropes that overflow and paint your thighs, your belly, your teats. The inky copies follow, filling every hole until you’re dripping from everywhere, swollen and used and claimed utterly.

 

Through it all, her voice echoes in your mind—velvet and possessive: Mine. My little green savior. Mine to fill. Mine to keep.

 

The dream loops, relentless, her cock never softening, your body never spent. Hours, days, eternity compressed into one endless mounting.

 

When dawn finally creeps through the motel curtains in the real world, you wake still impaled on her, sore and sticky and aching in the best way, her arms tight around you as if the dream never ended.

 

She stirs, nuzzles your ear, and whispers, “Good morning, sweet thing. Did you dream of me?”

 

You can only whimper.

 

===

 

Dawn light leaks through the grimy curtains in thin, dusty shafts, painting stripes across your small green body and the plush white one curled around you. You come awake slowly, awareness creeping in like radstorm static—first the delicious, aching fullness inside you, Lilith’s thick black cock still buried to the hilt in your filly pussy, soft now but unyielding, keeping you stretched and plugged with last night’s load. Every tiny shift sends a pulse of overstimulation through your walls, slick and seed mixing to leak slow around the seal, soaking your teats and the sheets beneath.

 

A long, broken moan drags out of you—“Fuuuuuuuuck”—hoarse and wrecked, teal eyes fluttering open as the dream’s echoes throb in your hindbrain: endless mounting, inky copies filling every hole, her voice claiming you forever. "Lilith, you're going to ruin me. How the hell am I supposed to protect you when I'm stuffed like this? Goddess that dream. Do you often make it a happen to fuck fillies throughout the night and in their dream?"

 

Lilith stirs behind you, arms tightening possessively around your barrel. Her black teats press warm against your back, nipples hard little points dragging across your coat as she nuzzles into your tangled black mane. You feel her cock twitch inside you at the sound of your moan, swelling just enough to make you gasp and clench involuntarily.

 

“Ruin you?” she purrs, voice sleep-rough and velvet-dark, lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. One hoof slides down to press over the visible bulge in your belly, claiming it. “Oh, sweet thing, I already have. Look at you—still stuffed full of me, leaking like a proper little cock-sleeve. How are you supposed to protect me?” She rocks her hips lazily, slow drag of her flare against your cervix making fresh slick gush around her shaft. “You’re not. You’re supposed to stay right here, warm and open and mine, while I keep you too blissed-out to walk straight.”

 

She chuckles low, teeth grazing your neck in a gentle bite. “And the dream… mm. Succubus gift. Shared sleep is delicious when the partner is so very receptive.” Her hoof circles the bulge possessively. “Do I often fuck fillies through the night and into their dreams? No, little savior. Never quite like this. Most ponies break or beg or bore me. You?” She thrusts once—slow, deep, deliberate—drawing a shattered whine from your throat. “You take everything I give and still glare at floating skulls the next morning. You’re rare. Addictive.”

 

Lilith shifts beneath you with a low, hungry growl, her plush body rolling smoothly until she’s on her back—taking you with her in one fluid motion, never once letting her thick black cock slip free from your overstuffed filly pussy. You end up splayed atop her, small green back pressed flush to her soft white belly, her black teats warm and slightly swollen against your spine. Her forelegs lock tight around your barrel just below your shoulders, pinning your forelegs up and away, leaving you helpless as her hips buck upward in slow, deliberate thrusts.

 

Each roll of her pelvis drives that flared shaft deep, punching against your cervix with wet, obscene sounds, the bulge in your belly rising and falling visibly with every stroke. Your hind legs kick uselessly in the air, spread wide by her grip and the sheer size of her inside you—there’s no way to close them, no way to clench and slow the relentless spearing that stretches your walls to their limit and beyond. Slick and seed from last night gush out around her cock with every thrust, splattering your teats and her barrel, the sheets already a ruined mess beneath you both.

 

You try to reach down—forehooves scrabbling for purchase—but her hold keeps them trapped high, useless, leaving you utterly exposed and open for her. She fucks you silly, pace building from lazy morning indulgence to something harder, deeper, her balls slapping your teats with every upward snap of her hips. Ink tendrils rise unbidden from the bottle on the nightstand, one coiling around your tiny clit to squeeze and tug in perfect rhythm, another shoving between your lips to muffle your broken cries as it pumps in and out of your mouth, tasting of her precum and your own desperate slick.

 

“That's it,” she purrs against your ear, voice ragged with lust, teeth nipping your neck as she rails you from below. “Can't stop me, can you, little savior? Can't close those pretty legs. Can't push me away. Just take it—take every inch while I ruin this tight filly cunt all over again.”

 

Your body betrays you completely—walls clenching frantic around her, squirting hard with every deep thrust, vision blurring as orgasm after orgasm crashes through you. She doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just holds you pinned and open and helpless, using you like her personal toy until you're a sobbing, trembling mess impaled on succubus cock.

 

Lilith’s grip doesn’t loosen—her forelegs locked tight around your barrel, pinning your own forelegs high and useless against your chest, leaving you splayed helplessly atop her plush belly like a living toy. Your hind legs kick feebly in the air, spread wide and trembling, no hope of closing around the massive black cock spearing up into your filly pussy. Every thrust drives deeper, her hips snapping upward with relentless force, the thick medial ring popping past your stretched lips over and over while her heavy balls slap wetly against your soaked teats.

 

You’re already a wreck—walls fluttering in exhausted spasms from the endless orgasms she’s wrung out of you, slick and last night’s thick loads churning into a creamy froth that bubbles out around her shaft with every punishing stroke. Her flare is brutal: wide and unyielding, catching on your entrance before forcing its way back in, pushing globs of old seed ahead of it like a piston. You feel it—hot, viscous ropes of yesterday’s cum forced out in messy spurts, splattering your inner thighs, dripping down your blank flank and over her barrel in sticky rivulets. The pressure builds and releases with every thrust, making room for fresh floods as her cock swells thicker inside you, veins pulsing against your oversensitive walls.

 

“F-fuck—Lilith—” you sob, voice shattered and raw, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as another ink tendril pumps lazily between your lips, muffling your cries. Your tiny clit is trapped in a coiling tendril’s grip, tugged and squeezed in perfect sync, sending electric jolts through your core that only make you clench harder around her invading length.

 

She growls low against your ear, teeth grazing your neck in possessive bites. “That’s it, little savior—feel me shove it all out. All that old seed making way for new. You’re so full already, but you’ll take more. You always do.” Her thrusts turn harder, faster, the bed creaking beneath you both as her flare bullies past your cervix with every snap of her hips, bloating your belly further, the bulge rising and falling obscenely. Fresh precum beads and mixes inside you, hot and thick, lubing the way for the inevitable.

 

Overstimulation burns sweet and sharp—your walls raw, every nerve screaming, but your traitorous filly body keeps squirting in frantic pulses, soaking her coat and the sheets anew. You can’t fight it, can’t close your legs, can’t push her away—just take it, helpless and impaled, as she uses you to chase her peak.

 

When she comes, it’s with a guttural moan—cock throbbing wildly, flare locking deep as fresh ropes of succubus seed pump into you, thick and endless, forcing even more of the old mess to gush out around her shaft in lewd overflow. You feel every pulse, every flood, your belly rounding slightly with the sheer volume until you’re leaking from everywhere, a ruined, trembling mess in her unbreakable hold.

 

She doesn’t pull out. Just holds you there, panting, cock still hard and twitching inside your flooded depths.

 

Morning has only just begun.

 

===

 

The basin is refilled with steaming water—hot enough to sting the raw, aching places between your hind legs—as Lilith levitates you both into it again, her plush white body settling first so you can slump limp against her chest. You’re boneless, teal eyes half-lidded, small green frame trembling with aftershocks as the water laps at your soaked teats and the mess still leaking slow from your stretched filly pussy. The room reeks: stale sex from her parade of clients, thick musk from the dream-fuck that bled into reality, and the fresh, creamy flood she pumped into you this morning. Your belly is still softly rounded, sloshing faintly with every breath.

 

Lilith’s magenta magic glows gentle now—no teasing tendrils this time, just a warm, careful probe that slips inside your puffy lips and curls deep. You feel it swirl through your womb, gathering the thick ropes of succubus seed in slow, soothing pulses, drawing them out in viscous strings that cloud the water white. The sensation is intimate, almost tender, making you whine and clench weakly around the magic despite yourself.

 

You sag heavier against her, muzzle pressed to the crook of her neck, damp crimson mane tickling your nose. Your voice comes out a wrecked sigh, muffled against her coat.

 

“As much as how amazing it was having my brains fucked out in bed and in dream, then in bed again… you can’t do that. I don’t even know if I can fucking walk properly after that, and safety is a real concern. What if I’m too blissed out of my mind when some fucker decides to rob us? You need me, brain intact, and legs not trembling when that happens, Lilith.”

 

She stills for a moment, the magic pausing deep inside you as if listening. Then it resumes—slower, finishing the cleaning with a final gentle flush that leaves you empty and aching in a different way. Her forelegs wrap around your barrel, pulling you closer until your back presses fully to her soft belly and black teats.

 

“I know,” she murmurs against your ear, voice velvet but quieter now, stripped of its usual tease. One hoof strokes slow along your blank flank beneath the water. “I got… carried away. You take me so perfectly, little savior—your sounds, your tightness, the way you squirt and beg even when you’re spent. It’s intoxicating.” A soft kiss presses to your temple. “But you’re right. The wasteland doesn’t wait for afterglow. I need my fierce green guardian sharp and steady.”

 

The magic withdraws fully, leaving you clean and throbbing faintly. She nuzzles your mane, breath warm. “I’ll restrain myself. Save the ruinous nights for when we’re behind real walls and locked doors. Promise.”

 

You huff—half relief, half disappointment—but you don’t pull away, letting the hot water and her warmth soak the tremors from your legs.

 

Bubbles floats in from his corner, ribbon perked. “Mistress promising restraint? The apocalypse truly is upon us.”

 

Lilith’s magic flicks him silent again.

 

The bath is quiet, her hold gentle, the morning stretching lazy and safe.

 

But you both know the wasteland is waiting.

 

You step out of the bath on legs that still feel like overcooked noodles, water dripping from your green coat as Lilith’s magic towels you both dry with quick, efficient swipes. The room behind you looks like a battlefield after a very specific kind of war: sheets twisted and soaked in places that will never come clean, sticky patches glistening on the floorboards, faint ink smudges on the walls where her living drawings got a little too enthusiastic with clients. The air is thick enough to chew. You don’t look back.

 

Walking is… an adventure. Your hind legs tremble with every step, filly pussy still puffy and throbbing, a dull ache deep inside where she rearranged your insides this morning. You grit your teeth, force your tail down to hide any telltale wink or drip, and try to walk like a normal, not-recently-ruined filly. Shoulders back, head up, teal eyes narrowed in stubborn determination. Nopony needs to know you just got fucked into next week.

 

Lilith follows, looking infuriatingly composed—stockings mended with a quick spell into something almost decent, bow straightened, crimson mane brushed smooth. Only the faint flush under her white coat and the satisfied curve of her smile give her away.

 

Downstairs, Madam Rosecolt is waiting at the counter, counting caps from the night’s take. Lilith levitates over the house percentage—thirty-five, as agreed—without a word. Rosecolt’s sharp eyes flick to you, lingering on your stiff gait, the way you favor one hind leg slightly. Her lips twitch.

 

“Rough morning, kid?”

 

You bare your teeth in what might pass for a grin. “Rough night for somepony else.”

 

Rosecolt snorts, slides the remaining tin across to Lilith. Heavy. Good haul.

 

You busy yourself at the makeshift shop counter—ammo crates, chems, canned food, a few battered weapons on the wall. The shopkeep, a grizzled unicorn stallion, watches you count caps with shaky hooves. You buy what you can: more .32 rounds for the varmint rifles, a box of RadAway, extra cram and beans, a battered 10mm pistol that might fit your mouth better in a pinch, and a couple stimpaks. Caps dwindle fast, but you’re stocked now.

 

Your legs protest the whole time. Halfway through haggling, the ache spikes sharp enough that you duck behind a shelf, pop the last healing potion, and chug it grimly. Warmth floods your hips, knitting the worst of the soreness away until you can at least walk without looking like you just rode a brahmin bareback.

 

Lilith joins you as you finish, one foreleg brushing your shoulder—subtle, supportive. “Ready, partner?”

 

You huff, slinging the new saddlebags over your blank flank. “Yeah. Let’s get out before Rosecolt decides to charge extra for the room damage.”

 

Outside, the wasteland sun is already brutal, but your legs hold steady now, teal eyes scanning the horizon. Lilith falls in beside you, rifle floating at her side, Bubbles bobbing overhead with a lewd whistle.

 

Caps in bags, supplies stocked, bodies (mostly) functional.

 

Time to move.

 

===

 

The road stretches ahead like a cracked spine, bleached asphalt crumbling under your small hooves and Lilith’s longer strides. Dust kicks up in lazy spirals, the sun a merciless hammer overhead. Your saddlebags are heavier now—ammo, food, stimpaks, the comforting weight of the 10mm gripped carefully in your teeth when needed. Lilith walks beside you, rifle floating in her magenta aura, crimson mane fluttering like a banner. Bubbles bobs overhead, uncharacteristically quiet since the motel.

 

Then the forest looms into view.

 

It’s wrong—trees twisted into skeletal shapes, bark peeling in radioactive curls, leaves glowing faint green even in daylight. The air shimmers with latent poison, Geiger counter in your head ticking from memory alone. Radstorms have kissed this place too many times.

 

You slow, ears pinning back. “Irradiated as fuck,” you mutter around the pistol grip before spitting it into your holster. “I’ve got two RadAways. They flush the rads after you soak them up, but they don’t fix the damage already done—hair falling out, organs cooking, that shit’s permanent.” You glance at Lilith’s pristine white coat, the black stockings she’s mended again with magic. “If your tongue goes numb or you lose taste, pop one fast. Means the rads are hitting your blood.”

 

She nods, magenta eyes narrowing at the glowing treeline. “Noted, little savior. I’d hate to lose the taste of you.”

 

You snort, but the warmth in your sore filly parts is undeniable.

 

The attack comes fast.

 

Shambling shapes burst from the underbrush—feral ghouls, skin sloughing in ragged strips, eyes milky and mad, hooves scraping sparks from the asphalt as they charge with guttural, rotting snarls. Pre-war ponies, trapped in undead agony for two centuries.

 

You drop to your belly, 10mm in mouth, barking shots—crack, crack—center mass on the nearest, blowing chunks of necrotic flesh into the dust. Lilith’s rifle sings beside you, magenta bolts of magic guiding bullets around corners and cover she doesn’t even need to peek from. One ghoul’s head explodes in a spray of black ichor; another drops with three neat holes through its barrel.

 

They’re fast for corpses. One vaults a rusted car, hooves outstretched for your throat. You roll, fire twice—miss once, clip its leg the second. It crawls, snarling. Lilith finishes it with a precise shot through the eye.

 

The last one stumbles into the open—a mare ghoul, mane long rotted away, but the muzzle shape… the freckle pattern still visible under the decay, the remnants of a once-elegant bow tangled in what’s left of her hair.

 

Lilith freezes.

 

Her rifle dips, aura flickering. The ghoul lunges—too close—and you shove Lilith aside, your smaller body slamming into hers as you fire point-blank into its chest. It collapses at your hooves, twitching, finally still.

 

Lilith stares down at the corpse, magenta eyes wide, mascara-less face pale beneath the freckles.

 

“That was… Lady Amethyst,” she whispers, voice small and cracked. “From the manor. She used to bring imported teas from Canterlot. Laughed at my ink tricks during garden parties. Called them ‘delightfully scandalous.’” A tremor runs through her plush frame. “Two hundred years. She’s been like this… all this time.”

 

You nudge the body with a hoof—careful, checking for lingering twitch—then look up at her. The wasteland doesn’t pause for grief; distant howls already echo from the forest.

 

You press your side to her leg, small but steady. “She wasn’t her anymore, Lilith. Feral. In pain. You—we—ended it.”

 

Lilith’s horn glows faintly, rifle rising again, but her gaze lingers on the ruined muzzle a moment longer.

 

Then she nods, slow, and turns away.

 

The forest glows behind you as you walk on, the taste of ash thicker in the air.

 

You slip beneath her without a word, small green body ducking low until your back presses warm and steady against the soft underside of her belly. Your legs stay straight—no awkward crouch, just the natural difference in height letting you fit there like you were made for it. Your neck cranes forward, head poking out between her forelegs, black mane brushing her chest as you walk in perfect sync. Every step rocks you gently against her black teats, the faint throb of her heartbeat vibrating through her plush barrel into your spine.

 

Lilith falters for a breath—then her stride evens out, slower now, like she’s matching the rhythm of your smaller hooves. One of her forelegs shifts, curling just enough to rest lightly over your withers, holding you there without trapping you. Her trembling flank—marked by that skull wreathed in black flames and dripping ink—brushes the top of your head with every step, the cutie mark still vivid against ruined white coat.

 

The wasteland keeps throwing ghosts at her.

 

A half-collapsed billboard flickers past: faded advertisement for Sparkle-Cola, the smiling mare on it wearing the exact same bow style Lilith favors. Further on, the twisted frame of a pre-war carriage—once painted royal purple, now rust and ash—lies overturned in a ditch. She slows without meaning to, magenta eyes fixed on details only she can see: the ghost of gold filigree, the echo of laughter from ponies who rode in it to garden parties two centuries ago.

 

You feel her breath hitch above you.

 

You tilt your head up, muzzle brushing the soft fur of her throat. “The bombs took everything from everypony,” you say, voice low but steady, carrying up to her ears alone. “Homes. Families. Whole fucking world. Turned friends into monsters and memories into knives.” Your back presses firmer against her belly, small body a living anchor. “But I won’t let it take you. Not if I can help it. Not the parts that matter.”

 

Lilith’s foreleg tightens—just a fraction—pulling you closer until your barrel is flush beneath hers. Her chin lowers, crimson mane spilling over your face like a curtain as she nuzzles the top of your head.

 

“You already are,” she whispers, voice cracked but warm. “Little green savior… walking under my heart like you belong there.”

 

Bubbles drifts ahead in silence for once, ribbon drooping low.

 

The road stretches on, poisoned forest thinning behind you, but you stay beneath her—small, steady, refusing to let the ghosts win.

 

For now, she keeps walking.

 

Because you’re there.