The Rebellion is snuffed out before it ever begins.

Killed in the cradle, a knife in the dark, sniped in the back of the head. Literally– right in the middle of one of their planning meetings they were swarmed and wiped out in a swift and bloody massacre.

It was far from the first attempted uprising among the Nuka World raiders. Hell, there’d been people scheming to snatch power for themselves before they ever reached the place. It was the nature of raiders to always be crawling over one another, to need to earn people's respect again and again. You can’t go soft, you can't be weak, and whoever displaced you was there because they were tougher than you. 

The previous man to snatch power for himself was Overboss Colter. He  had been strong and charismatic, which took him pretty far, and what he lacked in actual Leadership he made up for in pure debauchery. Bloodsport, booze, slaves, drugs, and his most ambitious project The Gauntlet. Some of the more serious types complained that he never put that sort of effort into expanding their territory, but Rotcher had always liked the guy. He wasn’t bathshit crazy like Nisha, or a cap-obsessed Merc like Mags. What did you need caps for when everything in the world was free? When you could just take and take and kill and party to your heart's content?

That was why Rotcher had joined his crew, when he’d been the one grumbling about leadership and power, planning out a rebellion. The last guy worked them too hard, put too many people on the bottom, punished folks for being lazy– it was a wonder he hadn’t been shot sooner. Colter had stood over his corpse and people had cheered, with Rotcher right along with them, even if Colter himself hadn’t really been all that special. 

All Rotcher cared about was being wild and answering to no one. Sure, the Overboss was on top, but it was the slaves that put together his Gauntlet and his crew that reaped the benefits. They'd been at Nuka World for a full year and Rotcher could count on one hand how many times he’d been ordered to do anything by anybody, and that was how he liked it. 

Then along came Overboss King.

Stupid fuckin’ name.

Everyone had laughed when she took her place at Fizztop Grille. Enough people hated Colter, had gotten bored of his Gauntlet, that even his self-professed fans hadn’t really cared when he was replaced. There’d been talks of rebellions against him too, some of those same folks who would later try and rebel against King. Rotcher took it to mean that a certain type of person was always looking to rebel against someone. It was just how raiders were– if Colter had got soft enough to be killed by a pre-war vault pony then he deserved it. Everyone knew she wasn’t really his replacement, just another slave tasked with all the jobs everyone had wanted Colter to do. No one wanted to be saddled with all that, and the different factions were too comfortable to go to war, so it just seemed easier to let her do whatever she was able to and kill her once she failed. 

But then she fucking succeeded. Took over Nuka World. Expanded like crazy, into the other parks, turning on machine after machine, making it safe enough for trade, for travel, for partying, for caps. She brought people in, sent people out, killed that psycho-bitch Nisha and even started expanding, little by little, into the Commonwealth.

Then the slave collars came off.

And the low-grade gruntwork given to weak idiots became jobs that paid in caps. 

Suddenly people wanted to feed the animals, suddenly people wanted to patrol. People asked for the privilege of clearing out mirelurks from the river around the bottling plant and used those caps to party or to upgrade their gear. Suddenly slop work was a way to climb off the bottom rung of the gangs hierarchy, and with it came clean streets and clean food. Caps flowed like the purified water that the boss made available to everyone in Nuka World, and a percentage of all those caps went right back to her.

Rotcher could put up with all that.

He could!

But then came the rules.

Suddenly you couldn't kill a man in the street with no justification, even if they were weaker than you.

Suddenly you couldn't bust shit up for fun– you had to get permission, and if the boss thought the thing you busted was valuable she might take whatever price she imagined it was worth outta your hide.

Suddenly the whores weren’t free.

That was the last sticking point for Rotcher, and he knew it was the sticking point for a lot of other Nuka World raiders too.

Within a week they were having secret meetings in the disused halls of the Galactic Zone, planning a way to murder Overboss King dead and take her throne. Maybe the last few years had been good and easy, and maybe they were all happier and healthier than they'd been in their entire lives, but that didn’t mean they were loyal. Plenty of folks had gotten won over, sweet talked, turned into lap dogs and guard dogs and family pets, but that wasn’t what Raiders were meant to be! They were wild, they were rabid, they would bite your throat out just as soon as piss on your leg!

It was for that reason that Rotcher had missed the latest gathering of The Rebellion. He just wasn’t the scheduling type– he’d partied too hard, thrown up in that stupid bitches precious fountain, kicked someone so hard that one of his shoes had flown off, and slept straight through the meeting time.

When he woke up, the whole lot of them were dead; strung up on pikes in the middle of Nuka Town USA.

To the untrained eye it was as brutal a culling as any other raider boss, but Rotcher suspected they'd all been killed hours before they were skewered. It was all just a show. She didn't have the stomach of a real raider. 

But she’d cleared out the rebellion and that was that; No survivors but Rotcher, and damned if he wasn’t mad about it. If he’d been there they would have won, surely. It’d be her on a spike, and he’dve made sure they did it proper. He’dve watched her bleed to death while he fucked one of her spoiled vaultie kids.

‘Speaking of…’

They were all over today, Cherry having come down from his usual sentry above Fizztop Grill, and Cola had been trailing after his mother when she passed through Packs territory. Muttfruit, as usual, was stuck to Gage like a bad smell and even Rocket had been laughing it up in the food court, not a care in the world. He couldn’t remember having seen mane or tail of them in weeks, and suddenly there they all were. Flaunted around like trophies. Weak things with weak constitutions, the products of a weak mother who was stupid enough to think that with the rebellion gone that they would be safe.

Any real raider would know better. Overboss King wasn’t a raider, though, no matter how many scars she bore, or how big her guns were.

Rotcher, though. He was a true raider through and through.

xxx

Over time Rotcher has learned that there is a certain order to things. People who get mad, they get strong, they kill, until eventually they are killed. People who get sad never get strong, but they get killed just the same. That was why when Rotcher lost something he wanted, he chose to get even.

xxx

Overboss King kept her pet deathclaw in the Safari Zone.

More specifically, she had ordered The Pack to clear out the area beneath the ancient rollercoaster and filled it with things she insisted that deathclaws liked. For whatever reason that seemed to be true, because even though the creature wandered around as much as it liked at the north side of the map it never came any further south without King leading it, and never ever attacked The Pack.

Maybe it was Kings doing– maybe it was familiarity with their smells. But every time mirelurks  or gatorclaws tried to force their way past the walls, the massive beast would run to their defense. 

And Overboss King would always be sure to stop over afterwards and reward her pet. 

He wondered if she was ashamed that everyone knew what she did there. She didn’t keep it a secret, but then again, how could she? The night that Banshee came out of her had been a real party– Nuka Town USA full of laughter and noise to cover up the sound of her screams as she birthed a monster of her own.

It too lived just outside of the Safari Zone, in a large building all to itself. It rarely left, and only those that delivered its meals ever went inside. There were no guards, either; Rotcher has no trouble at all slipping in through a side door, stepping quietly around the junk piled up near it, and finding a spot behind a shelf to scope out his prey.

It’d been a minute since he'd seen it in person, not since it was old enough to wander on its own. Banshee had gotten bigger, the fat reptilian tail no longer sticking straight up in the air as its increased length dragged it down. It's shaped like a pony, but not– claws where hooves should be, two curled horns around the ears, and scales all along his back and flanks. Banshee was a hybrid, and ugly as all hell, but in this case, looks didn’t matter. 

As Rotcher looks on, it stands up on its hindlegs, using that tail for balance as it grabs a box up on a tall shelf, dropping it to the ground and scratching at the lid until a collection of empty bottles falls out. Banshee wastes no time batting at them, chasing them across the factory floor in a loud messy clatter.

Its focus is entirely on its toy, the warehouse echoing with the crash and bang of bottles ricocheting off the walls and shelves, accompanied by a happy screech sharp enough to make his own ears throb. Too distracted in its play to recognize the clatter of hooves as they come up from behind.

His arms go around its neck, yanking Banshee’s front legs up and off the ground, a quick movement of his knee sweeps out the back leg, too. In a second he has it pinned beneath him, bearing down his own weight. 

Banshee shrieks– or tries too, at least. The pressure of Rotcher’s forearm against his trachea keeps the noise from properly escaping, just an angry, animal gurgling. 

“Fight all you want, little monster– it's happening either way.”

It's a trick to keep his body pinned against Banshee’s while also shimming down his pants, but it's far from Rotchers first time with a fighter. Experience beats out fear, and on Banshee's next desperate kick he loops his foot around the scaled ankle, spreading his legs wide and pressing his cock between Banshee’s soft, warm cheeks.

The little monster was male, which didn't matter to Rotcher really, besides the fact that the path forward would be drier. He humps the little things ass, quick and shameless, letting himself enjoy the way his victim pushed back, bucked, squeezed his thighs and snarled. His cock didnt know the difference between fighting and fucking– it was often enough that one proceeded the other, after all– so the precum leaked out quickly, each thrust smoother and better, soaking Banshees skin thoroughly until he felt the tip of his cock catch against the tight little hole.

“You don't even know what's happening to ya, huh?” he asks, anticipation making his breath heavy, making his cock ache with how hard it is. Maybe he could've given a warning– told the kid to loosen up, to relax, and promised to go slow if he was good. It would've been fun to see him submit, and maybe even been more comfortable for the both of them. 

Instead he just squeezes his elbow tighter around the monster's throat, pulling him back far enough to twist his spine into an unsteady ‘c’. He waits for the snarls to choke off, until there is more wheezing for air then there is sound, until the eyes are nearly entirely white, the slit pupils dilated round with fear.

He waits until Banshee realizes he can’t stop this, that for all his mothers spoiling he was completely helpless.

Only then does he jam his cock inside.

Rotcher times it with the loosening of his arm, letting Banshee get his first breath of air at the same moment that it’s all punched out of him. The sound he makes is purely animal, a roar of pain that on the next thrust becomes a screech, a keen, then a cry. Banshee has stopped scratching at his arms and instead tries only to pull away, scrabbling claws at the concrete floor, but the inattention makes it easier for Rotcher to switch his grip. He leans his weight on Banshee's neck, shoving him into the floor and leaning over him as he gets enough leverage to push in another couple inches.

“Woulda been easier if you didn’t fight.” he says only now that it’s far too late, pulling back and hissing out his own pain at the shockingly tight hole’s grip. It seemed like every time he did this it was surprising, every hole tighter than the last one. They’d both be hurting after this, but only Rotcher would be able to walk away. He pushes in again and groans as he finds the way a little less punishing this time, another inch swallowed up in dry, burning heat. “All you do is fight, even when it causes trouble. Selfish little bitch. Just like your mama.”

The sounds coming between Banshee's teeth are getting quieter and quieter, almost swallowed up by the filthy noises his own ass made. He no longer scratches at the floor, just digs his claws in tight like he’s trying to hold onto anything at all. Something internal shifts on Rotchers next thrust and suddenly he’s in, balls deep and seeing stars. Banshee cries out this time, but it’s the sound a Yao Guai cub would make, helpless and frightened and begging to be saved.

Drool drips from Rotcher’s lips as he rocks deep into Banshee, hardly willing to leave him but almost mindless in his own pleasure. He wipes it away with his left arm, and Banshee doesn’t even think to use the opportunity to fight. 

“Please!” It’s the first word he's said this entire time, small and breathless and choked with tears. 

“So you can talk, huh? And here I thought you were a big scary deathclaw!”

“Please… stop..!”

“Why would I stop when you’re finally being good for me?”

xxx

Over time Rotcher had learned that there was a certain way of things. 

When it came to fighting and fucking, the fighting usually came first. When you fucked the way Rotcher did there was always a fight. Sometimes he’d start to fucking and when he didnt stop it would become a fight. So it was that Rotcher made it a point to never fuck someone he didnt know he could beat in a fight.

Rotcher liked it better when the fighting came first. 

Sometimes the fight was short, sometimes the begging came before the fight, but 9 times out of 10 it came like that. Rotcher was a pro at fucking through the teeth and the tears and would’ve gotten his rocks off no matter how long it took for Banshee to quiet down.

Even so, considering how long the little creature fought, he's surprised how long it takes for it to give up.

“‘Bout time.” he huffs into the back of Banshee's ear once he finally goes limp. Rotcher is by now laying fully across his back, arms wrapped around his victims chest to keep his thrusts from scooting him across the floor. “You’re too used to getting everything you want, arent’cha? Brat.”

Banshee doesn't say anything, hardly twitching as Rotchers cock punches into his stomach. No more begging, no more tears, hardly even a whimper. Weak and hopeless, just waiting for it to end.

Just how Rotcher liked them. 

Fighting, Fucking, Begging, all of it was good for him. But what really got him off was the Acceptance.

He is loose and sloppy inside now, hot and smooth and no longer painfully tight. Rotcher moaned and snuffled into Banshee's mane, bit his ears and neck with flat teeth, slobbered into his hair, grunted and allowed himself to finally let loose. He deserved this, after all. The world owed him something after taking his rebellion, after putting a price on his whores, after ruining Nuka Cola World forever. His little oasis of fun in the wasteland, spoiled by one stupid, weak little pony.

Rotcher cums thinking of Banshee's mother, jamming his hips tight against her son's ass and pumping every drop inside him. He wondered how long she would fight, if she would feel as loose and hot around his cock as Banshee did, if she’d sniffle and beg like him.

When he finally pulls out even Rotcher can admit the mess he’d left of him is a little disgusting. He watches the gaping hole beneath Banshee's tail twitch and flex. It's red and puffy, but too open to hold his load in, already dropping thick and white down his bruised thighs to pool against the concrete.

He claps a hoof against the gaping hole and barks out a laugh when Banshee squeals in pain, tucking his tail down against himself to protect his privates as he curls up into a ball. 

It does his heart good to see it. His power is restored and the angry, bitter haze that had been clouding his mind the last few days clears with it, like the sky after a radstorm. Everything is bright and vault-tec blue.

“Oh– that reminds me.” Rotcher turns around just as he reaches the doors, poking his head back around the shelves. “You’d best keep your mouth shut– else your mama will be next. Well– hahaha, really I'm probably gonna do her eventually anyways– but if you blab then I’ll make sure you have to watch.”

Banshee doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know if a half-breed freak like him even has the capacity to love his mother, but if he can cry and be afraid it's worth a shot. Rotcher was confident, either way, that it wouldn’t say a word. 

xxx

A day later Rotcher wanders through Nuka World USA with caps burning a hole in his pocket and half a bottle of Daytripper burning a hole in his brain. 

He leers at a few Pack bitches as he walks past the bar and they laugh in his face, but the way their stubby tails wag tells it all. 

“You know you want me!” he shouts, buoyed by their laughter as he commits their faces to memory. 

“I don’t think you're anyone's type, Rotcher– otherwise you wouldn't have to pay for it.” Overboss King stands in front of him, and when exactly did she get there? The air around him glitters like broken glass, and even as he looks at her the world tilts and sways. He feels sick, but only in the pleasant way that chems could achieve, like struggling to stand fully upright is the most fun one can have.

“Who says I need to pay for it?” he says, shaking his head a little to bring her back into focus.

“Everyone. I’ve heard a lot about you, Rotcher.” She shows her teeth– bright white things, square and even. A telltale sign of a Vault Pony, even if her face was just as butchered as any raiders. 

They probably wouldnt even hurt when he fucked her throat– too flat and smooth to really bite down.

“You've been asking around, huh?” Rotcher takes a step closer, doing his best approximation of a charming grin. The daytripper helps– the twitch of his cock helps more. “Well Overboss, I did have plans for tonight but if you're that desperate for it I can give you a taste.”

She laughs– an ugly bark of a thing, probably picked up from her stable of mutts. “Wow! I’m so bummed I missed you the other day.”

“Me too!” He grins, taking another step closer and blinking harder when she doesn’t seem to get any closer. He doesn’t know what she's talking about– probably she’d come into the bar while he was too blasted to notice her. He’d make up for lost time though– he couldn’t wait to hear her scream. “Lets go on up to the Fizztop– I’ve always wanted to see someone fucked up against the glass—”

“Izzat Banshee?” Gage breaks in. He seems to appear suddenly, as though from thin air, though Rotcher has half an idea that the diamond dog must have been here all along. She never seemed to go anywhere without him, after all. 

Overboss King turns to him, surprised, “What? All the way out here?”

Gage points one great paw upwards, seemingly ignorant of the glare Rotcher is aiming his way.  His image briefly doubles as Rotcher’s eyes cross, then triples, before forming back into one. “Up in that tree?”

Rotcher blinks, tilting back his head and unknowingly exposing his throat. “What would that little monster be doin’ in a–?”

xxx

The last thing Rotcher hears is an enraged, animalistic screech.

The last thing he feels is his throat being torn from his own neck.

And the very last thing he sees is a flash of white slitted pupils.