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vilhelios · 2 months

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— SWIM WITH ME / I THINK I CAN SEE THE BEACH;

( i need you here with me / but we're out in the open. ) ; romantic headcanons for abysswalker!rafayel ♡ more under the cut!

CW: spoilers for rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth + general abysswalker rafayel lore ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; mentions of blood, injury, and self-harm (rafayel plucks off his scales) : might feel a little ooc because it is abysswalker and not main story rafayel ; quite the word dump (bc i rattle my cage for him)

— as the morning light of the desert creeps into the dim of a tent, two bodies lay tangled in the warmth of each other. RAFAYEL sleeps light and wakes early—hours before the sun peeks over the golden dunes—and although the habit irks him, it does offer him a wonderful sight as compensation: the sight of you, bathed in the soft, rose-gold light of morning, hair a mess, marks littering your skin from where the sheets pressed up against you.

overcome with a love that warms him like molten gold, the young god cannot help but litter your face in butterfly kisses. two to the apples of your cheeks, one on the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips, the middle of your temple. when you shift in your sleep, groan at his ministrations, rafayel can only chuckle, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he thinks he can hear amund yell for his presence. he couldn't care less.

— RAFAYEL sees himself as the sword at the hilt of your belt, the dagger in your hands that you should use as you see fit, the steady hand guiding your own, drawing your bowstring. he is your ever faithful shadow, always at your side, a watchful gaze always on you. it is only natural for one to protect the keeper of their heart... which is why you and the medical kit from the nurse's tent have gotten well acquainted with each other.

"one of these days, you're going to listen to me." you sigh, gently peeling aside the torn leather of his garb. rafayel does not wince; you don't think you've ever seen him do so, not when he ripped that arrow from his shoulder, or when he stumbles back to your tent with a bloody gash on his chest, or when he's brandishing new bruises on his knuckles. the royal guards seem intent on tracking you down, crossing all of philos's 30,000 zetameters of sand to lock you up in your gilded cage again.

rafayel seems equally intent to ensure that doesn't happen, even if it means throwing himself into their line of fire.

"if i listen to you," the lemurian starts, violet gaze trained on the gentle workings of your fingers, "they'll take you from me again, back to the palace." his breath hitches the slightest—at the thought of you leaving him again, or at the too-harsh tug of the bandage, you're not sure.

— some nights, RAFAYEL is awoken by dreams—horrible, lifelike nightmares. it's sudden, a jolt that has him taking in rapid breaths, a tremor in his hands. "a nightmare", he tells you, when you stir awake and ask him what's wrong in a groggy voice that makes his heart ache, "just a nightmare, sweetheart. nothing to worry about." he waits until he hears your breathing slow once more, pressing kisses to your temple all the while, before slinking out of the tent and into the cold desert air. he'll return to your side before the sun rises, but for now, with still-stuttering breaths, he just needs some time to clear his head.

in his nightmares, a butterfly flaps its wings just the wrong way and rafayel is landed in a world where he is as cold-blooded as amund wished he was. he is back in the ruins of the isle of songs, your hand guiding his own (white-knuckled, dagger brandished) to the place where your heart thrums beneath. and unlike himself, rafayel takes the chance: takes back what is his, what was never yours to keep. the god of the sea was a foolish, lovesick man. he would not make the same mistake.

the dagger sinks into your flesh, the ease of it wrong. your blood flows onto his palms, gets into all the creases of his gloves, spills onto the barren earth and dyes the returning sea red. it is so, so warm against his skin, warms the fire in him that threatened to fizzle out. (he has always been a selfish man, he knows. it is only right that he is no better than bloodthristy philos.) the look dream-you gives him, before he awakes from this cruel world, sears itself into the back of his eyelids. he can see it still, when he looks at the dark of the night sky: reverent, loving. (how could you not, when he has freed you yet again?)

— often, you ask RAFAYEL to tell you tales of the ocean; more specifically, its creatures! what were those rays he spoke of, or the sharks, or those star-shaped things? do the lemurians actually eat them? your lover finds your boundless curiousity incredibly endearing, chuckling whenever your eyes seem to light up at the mention of some new deep-sea fish.

"this is a whale shark." rafayel says, and you watch as the scale in his hands transforms into a small purple apparition. it's as long as his pointer finger, heteroceral tail flicking as it swims in the flame currents, light purple spots patterning its black back. "they are gentle things, despite their size. they only ever eat plankton. i used to have one as a pet, long ago."

"how cute!" you laugh, waggling your finger in front of the shark and watching it follow. "did you have other pets?" and at that, he procures another silver scale, places it into your palms and covers it with his own. a barreleye manifests, and you grin when it's luminous purple eyes stare up at you.

(rafayel ignores the sting in his arm, pinpricks of blood soaking his garb from where he'd plucked some scales off. the wonder in your eyes is more than worth it.)

— helping the LEMURIANS with their daily chores within the camp comes like second nature to you. there is always so much to do: collect jars upon jars of water from the nearby oasis, prepare food, feed the camels, record the state of the camp's supplies... all the while, you feel RAFAYEL'S eyes on your form, your ever cautious vassal. with a little smile, you pretend you don't notice his lavender gaze, if only to spare him from the flushed ears.

it's surprisingly simple, making that lemurian cake: tapioca flour, camel's milk, a healthy dash of sugar, and citrus rind... when the sweet old woman you've spent the afternoon baking with feeds you a slice, you think you've simply ascended. back then, rafayel had fed you one that was cold and a little stale—probably as it was a part of his rations for long journeys. perhaps he'd like one that was far fresher, and baked with love?

... which is how rafayel found himself with a wicker basket full of cake shoved into his hands, and an awaiting you in front of him. "you've been training a while, haven't you?" you smile, taking one of the soft slices and bringing it up to his lips; "try it for me, please!"

and as obedient as ever, rafayel takes a bite, sweetness and citrus on his tongue. "it's good," he hums, kisses your fingertips, "tell me when you're making it next time, love. i'd love to help."

— the LEMURIANS, you remember, were masters of the arts: singing, painting, poetry... so it's no surprise, then, that they celebrate their craft almost every night: children crowd around a charming poet, hooked on every word of their newest bedtime story—his newest fable, that is (something about a fish and a bird, who wished to visit a bakery); the musicians have already begun their newest improvised song, a lively version of an old elegy, it seems; the bonfire in the centre burns high into the night sky like it was trying to reach the stars itself, and when the lemurians dance around it their shadows are long against the sands. you don't know how, but you're eventually dragged into the dance yourself. the glee is infectious, and you find yourself instinctively looking for your beloved.

RAFAYEL doesn't indulge in dancing often, as fun as it may be. he knows the steps, his feet still tapping to the rhythm of the tambourines even as he nonchalantly leans against the tent pole in the distance. it is second nature, now, but his eyes always find you, even in the crowd of people—you, laughing and twirling around without a care in the world. it makes his heart race, a smile creeping onto his own features. he watches you dance with his people, linking arms and being spun around; for a moment he wonders if he should join just to be your one and only dance partner.

... he doesn't notice when you've escaped his gaze, but before he knows it, you've snuck up on him and wrapped a shawl around his neck, dragging him towards the crowd; "dance with me, rafa!"

and how can he refuse a shared moment that transcends lifetimes—across shimmering oceans, and marble floor ballrooms, and golden sands? rafayel's stumbling forward into you until his arms take their rightful place around your form. his hands find the small of your back and yours hold onto his shoulders, shawl long abandoned on his neck. this is second nature, galaxies colliding, two souls becoming one.

— after all of the night's festivities are said and done—the musicians pack up their flutes, lyres, and tambourines; the children cover up their yawns with still-red palms from clapping to tonight's tunes; the remaining food is safely packed away for tomorrow—it's just you, RAFAYEL, and the dwindling embers of the fire he'd just stomped out. "i do believe even your highness is not exempt from curfew," he hums, takes your hand in his, and presses his lips to the knuckles.

and in the silence of your tent, coveted in the silver hues of moonlight, rafayel sits you down before him, your back leaning against his chest. his arms wrap around your frame, his chin resting on the crook of your neck. this is your ritual, on too-cold nights: rafayel lights a flickering flame in his palms, the black and violet embers cold as ever. you both stare into this dying fire—you both know what is to come.

sometimes, when the ugly concoction of guilt and sorrow prick at your very soul, your hand reaches up to entwine with his own, just as they did to guide his dagger to your heart. "i won't." rafayel says, and you know what he means. "i will never hurt you." he doesn't complete the sentence, the words dying on his tongue, but you know the rest (there is no other end to this story): i would rather die.

a/n : i need abysswalker carnally it's not even funny anymore 🤩 these were. not supposed to be this long (they are like little fics in themselves omg). but i love this rafa so much i think he deserves it. thank you for the love on the previous rafa content <3 it makes me so happy seeing people who also love this lil guy. the dancing with rafa hc is very much so inspired by "through heaven's eyes" from the prince of egypt! <3333

#love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel fluff #rafayel headcanons #love and deepspace headcanons #qi yu headcanons #love and deepspace fluff #qi yu x reader #abysswalker rafayel

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faeriekit · 6 months

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Health and Hybrids (XVI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here PART FOURTEEN is here PART FIFTEEN is here and this is sixteen *SixTeen theme plays*

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Martian Manhunter finds out that,yeah, dude, when your brain is missing chunks, you can't write or access data without the hardware to store it. My dude remembers nothing.

Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Days pass. Nights pass.

(He thinks.)

He gets a new room. This one has a window. He can’t stare at it all the time, but when he does, he can feel himself growing stronger. Steadier. The change in his body is borderline tangible.

If only it was physical. He’s still too weak to lift anything but his arms, and not even all the way. Moving his head is tiring. Lifting his head is impossible.

But he tries.

A lot.

The doctors and the lady have to make upset noises with him when he does, but he wants to be able to see everything they’re doing to him. So far it’s a lot of tubes and needles, but what if they become scalpels and clamps?

…Danny tries to assure himself that they probably won’t be.

But they might. Things could change.

And that eats at him constantly.

Someone puts a big circle on the wall in his room. It’s large. It’s a little fuzzy at its distance on the far wall, but it’s got little arms on it, and little dots in equal degrees around the circumference. It takes him almost two napping periods to realize that it’s a clock.

Danny squints. He can...almost read analog. (Probably.) It sure doesn’t help that he has no idea when night is and when day is, though. He sleeps at one hour and wakes up at another, and the room will look entirely the same. Was it a few hours’ sleep, or a day’s? Was it longer? The world spins outside his window, big and blue, and he spins against it in a station on a lonely moon. There’s no way to tell.

Someone eventually notices that he’s bored, though, because he gets a television and a remote.

It’s a super thin television. At first, Danny spends time wondering why they put a screen with no system in his room, and then hour later the lady starts pressing buttons on the remote, and the screen lights up with a news program.

…The TV is too far away to see all that clearly. He can see some of it when he squints, but then all the colors turn lime green.

The banner on the bottom of the screen scrolls with headlines, and cool, it looks like they invented new letters while Danny was asleep. Fantastic. His head hurts from trying to squint to read, but it kind of looks like a kindergartener scribbled all over an otherwise serious news report.

Great. Now he’s getting a headache.

But the noise is…nice. It’s distracting. The news anchors chatter seriously as Danny gets yet another IV swapped out in his arm, and the heavily geared-up doctors have started telling Danny things he doesn’t like to listen to too much because if it is threats, great, he should ignore that; if it’s not threats, then, well, Danny’s bored of it all anyway.

“—Wel?”

Danny blinks. Well. That sounds like ‘Well’.

He shifts just enough to make eye contact. A doctor looks down at him from their place at his bedside. Their scrubs are kind of blue-green, with little flowers on the trim.

They have human eyes. The sight of soft, brown eyes probably ought to be reassuring, but they just make Danny more nervous.

“Eow eart wel?” They ask again, soft and slow. That middle bit sounds kind of like ‘art’. Ha. Old timey Shakespeare. ‘Art well,’ like ‘you art well—‘

Wait. Danny takes a deep breath. Blinks. His chest arcs up, just a little—just enough for the doctor to realize that Danny’s more than just looking, he’s paying attention. Are they asking him if he’s well?

Danny reflexively opens his mouth and flexes his throat, tries to answer—

Nope. Ow. The noise he makes sounds like the garbage disposal is backed up with angry blob ghosts. It hurts just to make. But the sound makes the doctor look at him; they see him.

“Inne cwic tima!” Danny hears, and then they’re jogging out of the room, and Danny is left alone. His throat hurts.

His head thumps back onto his pillow. The news program plays on. There’s a damaged city he’s never seen before on the news.

…And then the doctor comes back. Danny’s head is swimming, so he almost doesn’t notice their return, but they’re holding something, and that something has a sippy straw.

Danny is perfectly happy with a sippy straw.

The straw is put into his mouth. Danny goes sippy sippy.

…The water sloshes a little weirdly through his throat. Some of his tubes might not be where they ought to be, which is weird. Isn’t he supposed to be human right now? Or. Uh. Kind of human? Human equivalent? …Close enough…?

Danny drinks. When the pain in his throat goes to normal pain levels instead of new and angry pain levels, he lets go of the straw, and the doctor lets him.

Their fingers carefully brush Danny’s hair. Not very hard. A little too slowly. Just at the hairline. But it reminds Danny so much of sitting at home with Dad on the couch, home from school with a fever as Muppets tapes play in the background, that tears leak out of his busted eyes. The tears are probably just as green.

“Eow eart wel?” the doctor asks again. So gently. So careful.

“I’m tired,” Danny rasps.

The effort of speaking crashes into him in seconds. If things are happening around him, he doesn’t understand any of it. Nothing reaches him. He’s so tired.

He’s out before he knows it.

#Martian Manhunter: he's bored. Give the boy a television #Medical: :0 Sir yes sir!!#Medical when they hear Danny: HE SPEAKS!!! :D #Medical when they realize they can't understand him: OH NO!!! D: MM COME BACK PLEASE #health and hybrids #dp x dc #danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #tw gore #tw medical #tw body horror #dcu crossover #Danny realizing he didn't know how to read analog even when he was well: shit. >:(

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feydrawings · 4 months

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'Speak of neither to me!' said Andreth. 'I desire neither. I was young and I looked on his flame, and now I am old and lost. He was young and his flame leaped towards me, but he turned away, and he is young still. Do candles pity moths?' 'Or moths candles, when the wind blows them out?' said Finrod. 'Adaneth, I tell thee, Aikanar the Sharp-flame loved thee. For thy sake now he will never take the hand of any bride of his own kindred, but live alone to the end, remembering the morning in the hills of Dorthonion. " J.R.R.Tolkien, Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, History of Middle Eart Vol. X, Morgoth's Ring

Andreth and Aegnor for the Tolkien Advent Calendar!

#silmarillion #silmart #tolkien #tolkienart #the silmarillion #aegnor x andreth #aegnor #andreth #athrabeth finrod ah andreth #andreth saelind #middle earth #tolkien elves #jrr tolkien #tolkien fanart #tolkien legendarium #tolkien fandom #watercolor #*mine: art #history of middle earth

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duhragonball · 8 months

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Dragon Ball Super Movie 1: Broly (2/3)

Well, enough of that flashback stuff. Let's move on to the present.

So after the destruction of Planet Vegeta, uh all of Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, and Dragon Ball Super happened. This is kind of a weak point for this movie, because it's story is rooted in Goku's origin tale, but the climax takes place when Goku's a middle-aged man, so a lot of lore has happened in between. There's a similar thing going on when Raditz and Frieza show up in DBZ, and when Broly made his debut in the 1993 film, but Goku was 24-30 in those stories, so it wasn't quite as big a strain.

The thing is, the stuff we had to skip over was extremely important, and the movie simply can't go over all of it. If someone who knew nothing about Dragon Ball watched this thing, they would probably think that this is a story about Goku and Vegeta trying to avenge their people by defeating Frieza, except that already got dealt with in 1991. Goku, Vegeta, and Frieza have each been killed and resurrected... twice. This movie doesn't have time to explain all their baggage, much less how Goku and Vegeta became pals. So no one even tries to fill in the audience on who this big purple cat man is. You either saw Battle of Gods or you just have to roll with it.

And you know what? Good. No one was there to explain Ox King or Mr. Popo to me when I first got into this thing. I've been watching this stuff for a quarter century, and I still don't know what the fuck Tien's third eye is all about. Context is for the weak.

Anyway, this scene takes place on a private island Bulma bought some time ago. She had a resort built here so Goku and Vegeta could spar without damaging West City. And the food is good, so Beerus and Whis tagged along, although neither of them really have any impact on the plot at all. Whis asks Goku why he wants to get stronger, and Goku explains that he's feeling inspired after the recent Tournament of Power arc from the tail end of the DBS anime. Vegeta, on the other hand, is only concerned with Frieza, who was restored to life during that storyline. Frieza's more powerful than ever before, and Vegeta expects him to get even stronger and menace the Earth again.

Sure enough, Bulma gets a call from Trunks as Capsule Corp, who informs them that Bulma's collection of Dragon Balls and the Dragon Radar have been stolen by goons wearing Frieza Force uniforms. But the joke's on them, because Bulma only had six of the Dragon Balls collected. The seventh is on the Ice Continent, so they know exactly where to go to intercept the thieves. Beerus doesn't want to tag along for the trip, so Bulma leaves her infant daughter Bulla with Beerus.

So what was Bulma planning to wish for? She admits that she was going to ask Shenron to make her look five years younger. Why only five? Because if she got too young all at once, people would think she had work done.

So what does Frieza plan to wish for? Immortality was what he wanted on Namek, but not this time. No he only wants to grow about five centimeters taller. Why not just use his second or third forms to be tall? Because he wants to be taller in any of his forms. Why only five centimeters? Because he wants it to seem like he's still growing.

I've never been too happy about this gag. I mean, it's a good gag, but I liked it better the first time, when Commander Red planned to use the Dragon Balls to make himself taller. It does add some complexity to Frieza's character, though, since he's not just stubbornly trying the exact same routine that got him wrecked on Namek, and then killed on Earth, and then re-killed on Earth again.

This time, he's not trying to take the Dragon Balls by force, because he knows Goku and Vegeta are too powerful to challenge head-on. So he's using stealth instead. The minions he sent to Earth are weaker guys, which mean Goku and Vegeta wouldn't sense their ki. And it seems like Frieza's plan is to just sneak down to Earth, make the wish, and head out before anyone can stop them.

And he's not pursuing the same wish he had twenty-odd years ago. Really, Frieza was never that interested in immortality in the first place. He only decided to wish for that because it was the one thing he didn't already have. But now he's been dead twice over, and that's given him a new perspective on life and death, and he seems to think being unable to die would be similar to the unending torment he experienced in hell. Neither does he seek an invincible body. I'm not sure Shenron could give him greater strength, but Frieza feels that would take all the fun out of "the game". If nothing else, it's interesting to see Frieza consider this at all. Back in the Namek Saga, he never thought about wishing for greater power, because he believed he already was the strongest in the universe. Now that he knows otherwise, he seems fairly content with that.

Meanwhile, we meet the last two players in this drama, Leemo and Cheelai. They're operatives in the Frieza Force, but they're not warriors. Leemo's been with the Frieza Force from the beginning, and Cheelai's a recent recruit, having joined up to avoid the consequences of stealing a Galactic Patrol ship. Their orders are to find more warriors to join the Frieza Force, since their ranks are pretty threadbare. Remember, when Frieza destroyed the Saiyans, they made up half of his fighting force. The other half was still quite formidable, but all of his best troops ended up getting killed during Frieza's disastrous invasion of Namek. Then Frieza came back and tried to attach Earth in Resurrection F, and he brought like a thousand soldiers with him, and those guys all got killed as well.

As Cheelai observes, Frieza is down to women and old men like herself and Leemo. There just aren't many warriors available in the universe these days, because all the good talent got killed off a long time ago. As they discuss this, Leemo picks up a distress signal from Planet Vampa. Thinking their might be a reward for it, they head over to answer the call, and find...

Paragus! Also a bunch of alien monsters. Fortunately, Paragus isn't alone...

They also find Broly on Vampa, and he's all grown up and stronger than ever. Their scouters measure Paragus' power level at 4200, which isn't too impressive these days, but it's way better than anything the Frieza Force has at the moment. And Broly's power is too high for the scouters to measure, so they definitely want him to come along. On the way to Frieza's ship, Cheelai feeds Broly rations and takes a liking to the big guy.

When the four of them report to Frieza, Paragus explains that he had to cut off Broly's tail because of the frequent full moons on Vampa, which cause Broly to lose control of himself as a giant ape. Occasionally, Broly still loses control of himself anyway, but Paragus can rein him in using...

... a shock collar, which he can activate with a remote control. Leemo and Cheelai are horrified to learn of this, but not so horrified that they turn down the generous reward Frieza gives them for their discovery.

Now, one thing that always bugged me about this movie is that Frieza immediately starts making plans to use Broly against Goku and Vegeta. He wasn't planning to attack them this time around, but now that he has Broly on his team, it seems much more favorable. Later, when the fighting starts, Frieza is disappointed to find that Broly can't transform into a Super Saiyan, but why would he expect Broly to be able to do any of that? Sure he's a Saiyan, but Goku and Vegeta have mastered power levels far, far beyond what other Saiyans have ever dreamed possible.

But I keep forgetting that Frieza can sense ki these days, the same way Goku can. Back in the Namek Saga, Frieza had to rely on scouters like the rest of his goons, but when he trained to become Golden Frieza in Res F, he learned to sense energy. So when he sizes up Broly, he's not just guessing at how strong this guy is. He can actually perceive the untapped potential in Broly's body, and he seems to recognize that Broly would be capable of giving Goku and Vegeta a hard time. So it makes sense.

Anyway, Paragus is happy to cooperate, since he still despises King Vegeta for what happened, and he's down to attack Prince Vegeta to even the score. And Broly has to do whatever Paragus wants or he gets another shock.

Later, Cheelai tries to get to know Broly better, but Paragus forbids Broly from speaking. While they argue over this, another henchman tries to drunkenly hit on Cheelai. I really like how Leemo tries to defuse the situation here. He's not a fighter, so it suits his character that he'd try to employ a nonviolent solution, like offering to buy this guy a drink. Being a noncombatant in the Frieza Force, he's probably grown accustomed to swimming with the sharks like this. But it doesn't work, and then Broly steps up to use a non-nonviolent solution, which is violence.

But Paragus doesn't want to offend his host, so he gives Broly another shock. Cheelai confronts him over this, and while she chews him out, she swipes his remote control. Then Paragus gets summoned to talk with Frieza. While he's gone, Cheelai destroys the remote, and they listen to Broly tell the story of his green fur wrap.

It's a pretty simple story. The closest thing Broly had to a friend on Vampa was one of the large green creatures on the planet. Paragus used the creature to train Broly, goading it to attack, and then having Broly dodge it. But over time, the creature became accustomed to Broly, and they became pals. But Paragus wanted the creature to be hostile, so he shot its ear off with a laser pistol to piss it off. Ever since, Broly has kept the ear and wears it as a memento of their friendship.

I like how easily Cheelai and Leemo sympathize with Broly in this movie. They're not good guys at all. Cheelai's an opportunistic thief, and Leemo's a cog in Frieza's evil empire. But they're not heartless, and Broly's story is so tragic and innocent that you can't help but feel for the guy. Leemo compares Paragus to his own rotten father, so you can tell that he can relate to what Broly is going through. And Cheelai can tell when someone's being used. Paragus can dress it up all he likes, but he's just using Broly's power to serve his own selfish interests.

Moving on, Frieza's team on Earth have located the seventh Dragon Ball, and Frieza's fleet moves in to join them for the wish-making. But Bulma, Goku, and Vegeta get their first. They probably would have arrived sooner, but Bulma wanted to stop somewhere to buy cold-weather gear. Let's just take a moment to admire her safety-yellow snowsuit. She looks like a baby duck in this thing and it's great.

Frieza confronts Goku and Vegeta and introduces Paragus and Broly. I never really noticed these guardsmen who stand by while Frieza steps out of the ship. Paragus should have gotten one of those uniforms, since that pink shower curtain he's wearing looks dumb as hell.

I mean, look at Goku. Bulma got him a sweet blue coat and he looks like a million bucks. He tries to convince Paragus and Broly to get along as fellow Saiyans, but that doesn't get him anywhere. You'd think he'd know better by now.

So Broly's rarin' to go, and Frieza sees no reason to make him wait, and it's on. Broly attacks Vegeta, and that brings us to the final leg of this movie, which we'll cover next time.

#dragon ball #2023dbapocryphaliveblog #dragon ball super #dragon ball super: broly #broly #goku #vegeta #frieza #paragus #cheelai #leemo #bulma #whis #beerus #bulla

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disasterofastory · 7 months

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The pretty little actress of Rogers + Script (Steve Rogers x Reader)

The pretty little actress of Rogers + Script // Extra chapter for The pretty little actress of Rogers Steve Rogers x Reader Mafia AU Warnings: smut

Summary: Steve helps you with your lines.

A/N: The script part is from here. And this is the third chapter I post today because my kinktober will be busy with another fandom. Enjoy!

"What are you doing?" Steve asks you from behind. Soon, his chest is pressed against your back, and his warm breath fans over the curve of your neck as he leans closer to see the papers in your hands. You let yourself fall back against his body, and he keeps you steady on the chair with his arms around your middle. "I try to learn my lines," you reply, eyes still on the black ink. "And how is it going?" he hums questioningly. You shrug. "I hoped it would go better." "I could help," he suggests after a few seconds. Surprise shows on your face as you lean away from him to look back over your shoulder. "You would?" You ask. "Of course," Steve smiles. "I can try."

"Are you ready?" You ask Steve when you are in the living room, your papers now in his hands. Both of your stand in front of each other in the middle of the room. "Yes," he nods, running over the lines one more time before his eyes find yours.

"God knows what he'll say, Jim," You sigh. Your voice is different. There is a slight despair and sadness in your tone. Steve grunts his answer. "Let 'im. He's come too late, that's all." "He couldn't come before." You shake your head. "I'm frightened. He was fond of me." "And aren't I fond of you?" His arm slides around your waist, pulling you against his body. It's not in the script, but you don't say a word. "I ought to 'a waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'." You continue. Your hand rests on his chest. You can feel the beating of his heart under your palm. Steve's voice gets passionate with a hint of anger. His arm around you tightens. "And what about me? Aren't I been in the fightin'—earned all I could get?" Your hand moves up to his face as you gasp. "Did you—?" You shake your head. "Not like you, Jim—not like you." Steve grunts again. "Have a spirit, then." "I promised him." "One man's luck, another's poison." "I ought to 'a waited. I never thought he'd come back from the fightin'." "Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave." He replies grimly. You find it hard to do your part of the scene. Steve's arm around you is firm, and his face is hard and fits into the role perfectly. "Daisy, don't you never go back on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too." Her threat makes you gasp again as you start to tremble. Cupping his face, you kiss him. It's short and soft, but enough to light the fire in your lower belly. "I never could," you breathe out. "Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us!" You shake your head. "What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide." His blue eyes go back and forth between you and the paper he holds in his other hand. The lines roll off his tongue easily with the right tone at the right time. "Jim, do you love me true?" He pulls you even closer after your question. Your whole body is pressed against his. Your nipples harden at the feeling of his hard chest. "I ain't ashamed—I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see me 'eart." "Daisy! If I'd known you out there, I never could 'a stuck it. They'd 'a got me for a deserter. That's how I love you!" "Jim, don't lift your hand to 'im! Promise!" You are loud and desperate as you beg. "That's according." "Promise!" You beg. You have to force yourself not to smile the whole time you play your roles. Steve is really talented, even though you can feel the hardness in his pants pressing against your hipbone. It's not really professional, but you don't complain. "No fear! Shan't 'ave no need for it like as not. All right, little Daisy; you can't be expected to see things like what we do. What's life, anyway? I've seen a thousand lives taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on the wires like flies on a flypaper. I've been as good as dead meself a hundred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. He's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If he does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober." Your voice softens again. Your hand slips down around his neck. "Jim, you won't go fightin' in the sun, with the birds all callin'?" He grunts. "That depends on 'im."

And with his last line, he drops the papers to cage you against him entirely. He kisses you vehemently and roughly. He bites into your lower lip, demanding entrance to lick into your mouth when you moan at the light sting. "It's not in the script," you state against him as you gasp for air. Your lips are already swollen and burning. "I think it should," he pants, leaning back to you again. "Oh," you grin teasingly between his kisses. "You think someone else should kiss me like this?" Both of you know it's a joke. Whatever happens on the stage stays on the stage, but Steve still growls with disapproval. "Hell no," he replies. His large hands slip down to your ass, groping the soft flesh before hauling you up to curl your legs around his thin waist. "You should only kiss me," he rasps. "These lips," he continues, biting your lower lip again to pull on it, "are mine." "Yours," you hum. "And these tits are mine to play with." He let you fall on the kitchen counter. Legs spread open. His thumb ghosts over your nipple through your shirt. You nod and mewl the whole time. Steve makes you dizzy and desperate for more. "And this pussy..." His expression is firm and determined. You have to hold onto the counter as he frees you from your jeans and panties. The fabrics fall to the ground carelessly. His dark gaze is already between your legs. Your wetness is smeared on your inner thighs and glints under the lights. "This sweet, tight cunt is mine to taste and fuck." "Yes," you moan. His hands slide from your knees to your hip to pull you to the edge. The marble is cold under your bare bottom. "Tell me, Sugar," Steve orders. "Tell me whose pussy this is." "It's yours, Steve," you reply immediately. You would say and do everything he wants. "And don't forget it."

Steve falls on his knees in front of you, putting your legs over his broad shoulders with ease. The new position gives him a great view of your slick center. Your clit throbs and aches with need and impatience. "Please, Steve," you cry. Your hips push up on their own accord. "I need you." He doesn't answer. His long fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, keeping you in place, and without any warning, he dives into your pussy. He feasts on your wetness while his home is filled with his grunts and your moans. Every lick and swirl of his tongue makes the coal in your stomach burn more. Your thighs around his head tighten, but Steve doesn't complain. If he has to go like this, he will go as a happy man. His plump lips seal around your clit, sucking it as if his life depends on it. The sudden, almost painful feeling sucks every air from your lungs and every coherent thought from your mind. You moan and wail under his attack. "Steve," you cry out his name. Your arms shake as you try to keep yourself sitting. "SteveSteveSteve." He growls in approval, licking a long stripe on your burning pussy. "Cum for me, Sugar," he says. "Make a mess on my face." And you do. The moment his attention is back on your clit, you cum. Your eyes close shut, your lips fall open, and your throat is hoarse from screaming and chanting his name without pause.

Your hands find Steve's shoulders when he stands up between your legs. His face is wet with your juices. His eyes are still dark and ready for another round. "What," you pant. "What happened to you?" The words are slurry and barely louder than a whisper. Your whole body trembles and twitches from the remains of pleasure striking through you.

Steve smirks at your airy question. The confession of him getting a hard-on every time he sees you play is for another time.

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #mafia au #mafia!steve rogers #marvel smut #avengers smut

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devilry-revelry · 5 days

Text

Riata | The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x Lucy MacLean

Summary: Two times the Ghoul used his lasso to wrangle Lucy MacLean, and one time she actually liked it.

Tags: Fallout Prime TV Series Spoilers (nothing huge, though), The Ghoul is his own warning, Lucy is a bit of a silly Gucy, older man x younger woman

Triggers: Hostage situation, abuse/torture

Lucy was thirsty. Very thirsty. So thirsty that it was overwhelming. So thirsty that it became real dang difficult to think of much else despite how desperately she tried to keep her mind busy. If she wasn’t being held hostage by a dastardly noseless man (she was), and still in the vault (she wasn’t), she would be able to commit herself to a number of things to keep her troubled mind occupied. She could go train; do her gymnastics, or her fighting, or go to shooting practice. She’d be able to brush up on the latest chapters being covered by the MacLean family book club, or prepare a lesson plan for an upcoming history class. Without her typical go-to’s, she had taken to mentally reciting lines from her favorite movies but it was getting harder and harder to focus. What should have been the opening lines from The Man and His Dog turned into her reviewing the symptoms of dehydration.

Dry mouth (check). Trembling (goodness, her hands wouldn’t stop quaking). Thirst (she was so thirsty). Her captor, the awful, awful man, made a bit of a game out of her predicament. He would mosey to a stop near decrepit, poisoned water sources and taunt Lucy.

“Bet yer thirsty, huh, sugar?” he’d drawl. “All this water and not a single drop for the poor little vaultie to drink.”

On some occasions he would go out of his way to splash the water source around. The ripples broke the greasy stagnation, made the water look a little less putrid, and more palatable. Sometimes the Pip-Boy’s Geiger counter would join in on the torment with a poignant click, click, click. On one occasion it prompted the undead-looking cowboy to release an alarming cackle that would have been befitting a movie villain. Dastardly, indeed.

The click, click, clicking, the endless taunting, and the relentless sun were a most formidable tag team and Lucy found her resolve breaking far sooner than she had expected. The water looked more like waste product than it did actual liquid. It was a puddle nestled in a questionable container, tucked away in the middle of some dilapidated buildings. She lamented not drinking from a broken toilet three stops ago. That water at least looked somewhat clean. Her knees gave way, nearly collapsing into the sand before she dipped trembling hands into the water and took big greedy gulps. It tasted sour and acrid; nothing like water. It left an oily coating in her throat that made her gag. Lucy swallowed down the sensation, desperate to keep it down.

Out of her periphery, the man had stooped down beside her. He looked disgustingly smug as Lucy met his eyes. He was alarmingly proficient with baiting her into getting angry, and getting her to take verbal snipes at him. Thankfully this particular back-and-forth was brief, as the noseless man was swept away in a coughing fit. During their travels, he had been incredibly stalwart in his management of her. He hadn’t let his guard down once; not even when he went to relieve himself – and to be honest, good for him, because Lucy had been more than prepared to make a grand escape attempt the second she heard his fly unzip.

The coughing overtook her captor, dragging him into a hacking, drooling mess. His guard was finally down and Lucy made a run for it.

By the time she reached the end of the block of destroyed houses she could still hear him wheezing for air. She took a hard turn down another sand-packed street, and performed a hood-slide just like the ones she had seen in some of her dad’s movies.

But then she saw the ditch; the fudging massive hole in the ground where there should have been more buildings, maybe a city, maybe people. It was a void in the earth and the sheer force of shock she felt upon seeing it slowed her progress to a complete stop. That’s when the rope appeared, dropping clean over her head before cinching up tight at her waist. Lucy didn’t even have enough time to be properly perplexed before she was yanked off her feet and tumbling butt over tea kettle through the sand.

Desperation kicked in. Lucy had been a good hostage. Though she admittedly could have tried harder at being amicable, she had been polite. She addressed him as sir when she spoke to him, and thanked him the one time he had let her go to relieve herself. All in all, this situation withstanding, she had been a dang good hostage – but not any more. His gnarled, mottled hands ended up near her face, one of the fingers dipping into her mouth as she screamed and struggled against the tight lasso. In a fit of rage, Lucy bit down with every ounce of force she could muster. She tasted salt, grainy sand, and then her mouth flooded with a wave of hot copper.

Lucy MacLean had bitten off her assailant’s finger. Beyond the surprise at her own ferocity, she expected him to lash out and maybe finally kill her but her captor didn’t even hint at the pain. If anything, he said something that could have maybe been praise…?

He still cut off her pointer finger, though.

The Mojave was hell on earth.

If Lucy could turn back time to when she was at the Santa Monica observatory, right to the exact moment when the Ghoul said, “You comin’?” she would make sure that she said no. Heck, she would make sure to say fuck no. There had been enough chasing down Hank MacLean to last her an entire lifetime. Quite frankly, her father wasn’t the man she had thought he was and chasing him across the desert just made her dislike him all the more. The only highlight to the excursion was that Lucy and Ghoul were on the same team; she wasn’t a hostage and the Ghoul had prepared for the journey. They had food and water, but they were forced to adhere to strict rationing. While they were able to hunt and forage for food, the nights they didn’t manage to find something were lean, and the thirst was constant.

On one day in particular, a handful of days into their trip, when the sun was at its zenith and being particularly brutal, Lucy’s throat started to chafe. There wasn’t enough moisture in her mouth to swallow and soothe the ache but out of habit she kept trying. It left her throat feeling grittier than sandpaper. After one particular attempt to swallow down the pain she nearly choked when it felt as if her throat had stopped working. Her pace slowed almost to a stop and her hand moved to cup her jugular.

Marching diligently a few feet away, the Ghoul whistled to get her attention just before tossing a small stone in her direction. Lucy managed to catch it, but only just barely. It was smaller than her palm, and close to the size of the old hard candy that Betty used to give the kids in the vault. The stone was brilliantly white on the edges with pockets and grooves tinged an earthy brown. This particular excursion with the Ghoul was significantly less hostile. The first couple of days were awkward, and strained, but Lucy soon grew comfortable in his presence. He was still a bit too rough-and tumble, and a little too prone to anger, but he had grown far more patient with her. The ghoul still liked to push her buttons though, getting a fair bit of amusement with getting her worked up. So when he tossed the rock at her, she was almost completely positive he had done it to see her flinch. Just as she was priming herself to make an exaggerated show of rolling her eyes and throwing it back at him, the Ghoul tossed a similarly size stone into his mouth.

“Go on,” he said, the rock tucked into his cheek. “It’ll help. Just mind those perdy teeth’a yers, princess.”

Though Lucy was skeptical, she plopped the pebble on to her dry tongue. It tasted like nothing at first, and then she began to salivate. It was salty, with tinges of something earthy, and carrying the grit of the Mojave sand. Groaning in relief, Lucy gulped down the precious moisture as it pooled in her mouth. The ache in her throat received a modicum of sweet relief.

“It stops workin’ after a while,” he continued on, giving her a sidelong glance. “Doesn’t do much for dehydration but it stops ya from breathing through your mouth.”

“Thank you so much,” Lucy said in earnest. She mustered enough energy to send him a thankful smile. “Where did you learn that?”

“Ol’ trick I learned back in boot camp.” After a beat of silence he added, “Don’t choke. Don’t think I won’t eat you if you die out here.”

Boot camp. Did that mean he had been with the Brotherhood of Steel? She knew better than to ask outright. The personal questions were usually what got him annoyed the fastest.

Lucy tucked the rock into her cheek, feeling the stone clack against her teeth. “One of these days I’m going to ask you everything I want to know about you, and you’re going to give me answers.”

“Sure, I’ll letcha know.”

“You will not.”

“No,” he agreed on a huffed breath, a small twitch of his lips belying his amusement. “I will not.”

“Because you like arguing, and getting a rise out of people?”

“People? Nah, sweetheart. Only you.”

They fell into a mutual silence, trudging onward through the sea of sand. The Ghoul was right. The pebble stopped assisting with saliva production maybe an hour later. The grating thirst returned, and it returned with a vengeance. If she could go back she would say no. If she could go back, she would return to her vault and have a luxurious shower and a hot meal. If she could go back—

There was a structure jutting out of the sand in the not-so-far distance. It shifted and flagged under the waves of the beating sun, but Lucy was almost completely sure she could make out the jutting slab of tin on the roof.

“Holy moly,” she rasped, slowing. “You see that?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Can…” she didn’t like asking the Ghoul for favors. Didn’t like the idea of him seeing her as a weak link, but she was desperate for a break. “Can we stop there for the night?”

The ghoul had already changed trajectory, picking up his pace as he said, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Lucy tailed him, matching his pace and feeling a fresh kick of energy when they grew close enough to the shed to determine that it wasn’t just a mirage. She got a little ahead of herself then. Once it was confirmed that the structure was real she moved to a jog, and then an all out run. They found shade. They found shelter for the night. Through her excitement, and the sound of her own rampant breathing, Lucy could hear the Ghoul call out to her.

“Easy, darlin’. Let’s check it out first.”

While she could process that she had heard his voice, her sun-fried mind was unable to properly process the words. Running through the sand made her legs burn, her mouth was watering with exertion. They could have a fire for the night, a properly cooked meal! She could make out the shape of a door against the old wooden structure, and could see the way that sand had built up over the bottom of the frame.

The Ghoul called out again, his voice sharper, “Goddammit, Vaultie, slow down!”

But still, Lucy ran. When she reached the shack she stuttered to an uneven stop, reaching for the door. She grabbed the handle and pulled for all she was worth. The door resisted under the weight of built up sand, and so she pulled harder, throwing her weight into pulling the door open.

A bone-chilling hiss shot out from the shack, followed by something guttural and shrill. Something lunged from the dark of the shack,

“Lucy!”

All she could do was stare, even as she acknowledged the danger before her. Lucy was off balance after fighting with the door, and her mind couldn’t quite work out whether to right herself or make a run for it. The creature that emerged from the darkness was human once. It had been like the Ghoul once. The feral ghoul was much more gaunt than the others she had seen. Its bony fingers looked too much like claws, and the skin of its face was long gone, exposing skull and teeth. And she could do nothing else but watch as it came at her with both. Lucy closed her eyes as she braced for impact – and then something wrapped tight around her ribs, and she was being yanked backwards.

Lucy fell into the burning sand in a heap, her cry of surprise being washed out by the abrupt sound of a single gunshot. When she opened her eyes the dead feral ghoul was at her feet.

“Fucking hell, Lucy–”

“—I’m sorry—“

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

“—I just—“

“Just tryin’ t’get yerself killed?!”

“—no, no—“

The Ghoul drew breath to continue berating her but the wind suddenly vanished from his sails. His shoulders deflated. He closed his eyes, and huffed, “Fuck, girl.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, squinting up at him. The sand was far too hot to be laying in, but she was almost afraid to move. “I didn’t– I wasn’t thinking–”

She expected a short, angry rebuttal but all he did was cast a look about the desert. Then he looked at the dead feral. He gave a tug to the rope, it cinched tighter, digging into her skin and probably bruising. He moved past her and into the shack for a moment, then returned, holstering his weapon.

“Get in there and sit the fuck down,” he ordered.

They stayed in the shack for two nights before setting out again.

Upon getting to the other side of the Mojave, the Ghoul and Lucy ran face first into the wasteland’s golden rule: thou shalt get sidetracked by bullshit every goddamn time. Their trail had gone cold a month or two ago, and the duo had ended up involving themselves in an insurmountable amount of bullshit. The only real plus side was that there were more than enough caps coming their way, and it afforded them luxuries that Lucy once took for granted. They were able to secure room lodgings for days-long stays. They were able to afford bathing accommodations, warm food, and mostly clean water. Having a few creature comforts seemed to pull the Ghoul out of his perpetual state of fight-or-fight, but he seemed to grow even more protective of his vaultie.

Whenever they purchased lodgings they shared a room. The one time Lucy offered to buy a second room for a couple of nights he had adamantly refused. Despite having several meal options - different types, different locales - they still took every single one of their meals together. Some of their evenings felt downright domestic, and that suited Lucy just fine. The only problem was that the remnants of Nevada itched at her curiosities. Lucy wanted to go to the casinos to see, and play the games. Lucy wanted to learn the card game everyone and their sister was playing. Lucy wanted to go to the bar and try her first drink, she wanted to have dinner in the old restaurants and experience the community they were staying in. The Ghoul was very staunchly opposed, but Lucy couldn’t hold it against him. The area was apparently flush with slavers, and he obviously didn’t want to take any chances before they managed to figure out the next step in their journey…

But sometimes Lucy’s curiosity ran a little too rampant… Which was why she snuck out of their hotel room when the Ghoul was taking a bath.

The Ghoul had very begrudgingly agreed to treat Lucy to dinner down in the hotel restaurant. Lucy was jittery with excitement. During some of their more recent jobs she had found a lovely baby blue floral sundress, and she had been looking for a reason to wear it the second she tucked it away in her pack. Dinner would be the perfect opportunity. Lucy took her turn in the bathroom to get gussied up. She got washed and managed to coax a couple of lazy curls into her hair.

When she was finished, she exited the bathroom. The dress was a little worn, but it fit well. It tucked in close at the waist with a flattering boat neck. It was just a shame that she couldn’t find better shoes, and had to stick with her clunky worn traveling boots. The accessories were limited to her pistol and holster. The Ghoul gave her a brief once over, then pushed past her with a terse, “Gimme a minute.”

Lucy gave him maybe two minutes before she wrote him a note telling him that she would be waiting at the bar. After making it down the rickety stairs Lucy took the quickest of detours to the hotel’s game room. There were a couple of people milling about, sitting at slot machines and idly pushing buttons. She took in all of the colorful lights, the ringing bells, and the strange synthetic music, and then she went straight to the bar located in the restaurant area. The place was probably brilliant, once. Decked out in rich reds and opulent golds that had faded poorly.

Perching on one of the many vacant stools surrounding the bar, Lucy offered up her friendliest smile at the bartender and ordered a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla. The woman had a kind face, but tired eyes. She set the bottle in front of Lucy, letting her keep the cap. The dining tables around the bar were sporadically filled, some people nursing drinks, others nursing plates of food. There was a little disappointment. She was expecting lively chatter and community, the room felt more like a ghost town. That is until the stool on her right became occupied despite the rest of the bar being open.

“This seat taken?” The man asked. He was rough-looking, with scars scattering up and down his neck and chin. He had dark short cropped hair and was adorned in miss matched armor. Despite his mean appearance, Lucy decided that his voice was kind.

She greeted him with a polite smile as she joked, “I guess it is now!”

There was no problem with sharing in some company until her date for the evening appeared, but the man’s friendly demeanor only put her on guard. The questions he asked were gently prying, asking where she was going and where she came from. Lucy politely skirted, silently acknowledging that there was a time not too long ago that she would have answered with a too open honesty. The Ghoul was to thank for her ability to acknowledge that even innocent questions could lead to dangerous ends.

But then in a matter of minutes her guard was down, because the man had pulled out a deck of playing cards, and had pulled the bartender in for a game of Caravan. Noticing Lucy’s interest, he offered to teach her how to play. Of course she accepted. The Ghoul was taking a while anyway, so what was the harm? The man and the bartender took turns explaining the set up, and then they dealt the cards. Lucy wasn’t sure when the man’s arm draped over her shoulder, and she wasn’t sure when the man had started sitting so close, but that was how the Ghoul found them.

“Well,” he said by way of greeting. His slow drawling voice immediately set Lucy on high alert. “Isn’t this just fuckin’ cozy?”

Lucy and her card partner glanced back. He snorted, “Easy, man. Plenty of other seats to choose from.”

The Ghoul shifted, kicking one of the legs of the stool. “That’s awfully funny, ‘cause I think I want this seat right here.”

There was danger in the Ghoul’s voice, an underlying threat. Sometimes it seemed like he leaned into the molasses in his voice to keep people off guard. Like if he let his accent thicken and his voice moved a little slower then people wouldn’t anticipate just how explosive his next move would be. Lucy cleared her throat, placing her cards face down. No one needed to die over something so mundane.

“Thank you both so much for trying to teach me, but I do believe I’m late for a dinner date with my friend here.” She turned on her stool and went to dismount just before the man grabbed her arm.

“You don’t have to go anywhere just because this ghoul doesn’t have any fucking manners—“

The Ghoul’s gloved hand shot out faster than lightning. He palmed the stranger’s head and slammed it down into the surface of the bar. It was done with so much force that the cards jumped and scattered. The stranger’s drink toppled and the glass shattered. The bartender back pedaled, holding her hands up in surrender though she looked deeply amused. Lucy hopped down from her seat and got between the Ghoul and the man before the violence escalated even further. As the man wailed his pain, curling in on himself and grasping his head, Lucy placed her hands on the Ghoul’s chest and gave him a gentle push backward.

“Hey,” she said earnestly. “Hey let’s go, huh? We can grab something to eat and go sit outside, or back to the room?”

“Fuck you, you fucking ghoul!” The man raged. “You fucking piece of shit—“

“You promised me dinner, remember? Come on, ignore him,” Lucy said softly, trying to keep her voice low and gentle. The Ghoul’s eyes lowered to Lucy. “Let’s go get something to eEEEEAT—“ in a move that was just as fast as his assault on the man, Lucy MacLean was picked up and tossed over the Ghoul’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Then he did a sharp pivot and marched away. “Hey! Hey, put me down!”

“Hush.”

“No! This isn’t fair!”

She griped and complained their whole way back to their room, and the Ghoul let her. He did not put her down again until they were in their room and the door was shut.

“What the fudge—“ no, no this time she needed the big guns. “What the fuck was that about? There was nothing happening, nothing untoward. They were just showing me a card game while I waited—“ he was moving across the room towards his bed where he kept his things, his back to her as she raged. “— and then you come in and just attack him?”

“He was sittin’ awfully goddamn close to just be showin’ you a game’a cards.”

“And that’s a crime?”

The Ghoul’s back was still facing her, but he had stopped rummaging through his pack. His posture straightened, but he did not look back towards her.

“And if he wanted somethin’ more from you, vaultie?”

“That—that isn’t a crime either! Now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going back downstairs.” She turned on her heel. She fumbled with the lock and pushed the door open. “Look, I don’t want to fight okay—“ she started into the hall just as that gosh dang honda knot dropped over her shoulders. It snapped shut at her waist and she was pulled backward. It wasn’t enough to send her careening to the ground, this wasn’t the violent wrangling she had received in the past, but it was enough to make Lucy stumble. For a moment she thought she was for sure going to land on her butt, but the Ghoul was suddenly behind her. She tumbled into his body and he secured her there with an arm around her waist. The door slammed shut and then she was being spun around, pushed up against it. “Sir—!” Lucy barely had the chance to process that there was a big gloved hand at her throat before the Ghoul was kissing her.

This kiss wasn’t like the kisses that she had shared with her husband. Those had been a little sloppy with her nervousness, and felt a little cold. Probably because that jerk Monty was planning to kill her. This kiss wasn’t like the sweet, chaste kisses she had shared with Maximus. The man was inexperienced but he tried in earnest; but there was just no time to learn and no time to teach.

This kiss was consuming. This kiss was claiming. This kiss was sensual in a way that Lucy had never experienced. The Ghoul took his time with her, kissing deep but all silken and slow. Gripping at the lapels of his duster, Lucy sighed. She would have leaned in closer if it weren’t for the hand at her throat. It wasn’t squeezing, merely holding her in place and keeping her at the Ghoul’s mercy. Aching heat pooled at her center as his tongue stoked against hers in a motion mimicking sex. He withdrew suddenly, marking his departure with a harsh nip to her lower lip.

“Ho—“ Lucy licked her lips, her eyes fluttering open. “Holy moly.”

“You don’t wanna fight,” the Ghoul said, his voice husky and low. His free hand reached to push her bangs away from her eyes. “So you’ll listen t’me when I tell you not to let some fuckin’ asshole get they close to you again. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yep.”

Another nip — sharp and painful — quickly chased by a suckle at the afflicted sight, a swipe of the tongue. Criminy, it was good.

“And you’ll listen t’me when I tell you not to leave this goddamn room without me again.”

“Uh-huh.”

The palm and pressure at her throat vanished, and his hands dipped to loosen the rope at her waist. He didn’t back away, keeping close and forcing her arms up so he could guide the lasso up over her chest, past her head— and then her wrists were pinned up against the door, pulled together by the rope, and secured by his hand. Lucy practically melted into a puddle of goo, becoming pliant and needy. It would appear that she was deeply interested in a partner who was dominant. How interesting. How good to know.

Lucy swallowed hard, then whispered, “But, um, maybe you should kiss me again, though? Just to make real dang sure I won’t argue… ” The ‘please’ hung on her lips.

The Ghoul’s mouth quirked slowly. “You want me to shut you up?” The hold on her wrists got a little firmer. He dragged his mouth over her jaw, then down along her neck. “I could shut you up good and proper, darlin’.”

Lucy’s mouth watered, she hummed her interest.

“But you’ve been bitching about me takin’ you to dinner, so we oughtta do that first.”

The Ghoul moved away from her in a blink, abandoning her near the door and directing his attention to re-wrapping his rope. Lucy blinked, trying to properly process what had just occurred. He tossed a glance in her direction, his eyes assessing her with wicked amusement. “You ready?”

Still breathless, a little confused, and way too dang warm, Lucy replied, “Okey-dokie.”

#fallout #fallout fanfiction #fallout tv series #cooper howard x lucy maclean #the ghoul x Lucy Maclean #Lucy MacLean #The Ghoul #Cooper Howard #the ghoul x Lucy #fallout prime spoilers #spoilers #violence #older man x younger woman #human x ghoul

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zuko-always-lies · 2 months

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Who was imprisoned in the worst conditions?

As always, please reblog for more votes!

@atla-polls

#Hama #P'Li #Ming-hua #Ghazan #Zaheer #ATLA #ATLA polls #Korra #the legend of korra

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girlactionfigure · 1 year

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PALESTINIANS CAN BE SCHMUCKS

Palestinians can be schmucks. I know the world doesn’t want to say this. But Palestinians can be schmucks. And idiots. And buffoons. Palestinians can also be bastards. Palestinians can be murderers. Palestinians can be scumbags.

So can people of any nationality, ethnicity or group identity.

So why are people uncomfortable saying Palestinians can be schmucks? Bastards? Scumbags? Or murderers?

Why are Palestinians so dehumanised that the natural flaws possessed by all human beings are deemed absent from Palestinians?

You can feel people clench if you say Palestinians can be disgusting, murderous, racist bastards.

And some Palestinian individuals are disgusting, murderous, racist bastards.

Moreover, they are buttressed by Palestinian institutions that encourage, support and reward murderous bastards.

Last week, a Palestinian who fits the description above brutally murdered two British sisters and their mother because they were Jewish. He shot them to death at point blank range whilst they were on their way to a hike.

This was the act of a pig. There is no justification. It was unambiguously evil. It was simply the work of a racist acting out the antisemitism nourished within Palestinian culture.

Yet there was barely a word of condemnation for this crime. In fact, many non-Jews fought hard to exonerate the murderer and blame the victims instead: Jewish women.

How brainwashed by anti-Israel propaganda are these people that they’ve completely lost their moral compass?

And what nonsense logic makes Palestinians so magical that can’t be held to account for the murder of innocent children?

We live in a world where we’re constantly told we must all do better.

Except, it seems, for the Palestinians.

Apparently they are perfect people.

No criticisms there.

They were made in Willy Wonka’s side hustle: “Willy Wonka’s Darling Angel Factory”.

According to the world they need never reflect or take personal responsibility and we must never think wrong of their crimes.

It’s obviously absurd.

But it’s not by accident.

This is war propaganda pushed by Palestinian extremists who seek the genocide of Jews and the destruction of Israel.

This is much easier to do if the world endorses it.

The propaganda is willingingly embraced by those who know what the game is, and also by those who are useful idiots seduced by such infantilising narratives.

But it is a narrative in service of war. It hasn’t emerged for the purpose of debate.

Dissolving the Palestinians of all responsibility is an act of warfare. It allows them to act with impunity and without restraint. It allows them to commit civil crimes and war crimes. It is a shield to let Palestinians murder Jewish women and children. It allows Palestinians to commit atrocities without the world calling for justice. It allows reasonable defensive actions taken by Israelis to seem insane and cruel.

Those who push the narrative deliberately hide Palestinian crimes and their racist motivations because they’ve taken it upon themselves to become brand managers for the Palestinian cause.

They want to shield the Palestinian brand from any negative publicity.

Or rather - truthful publicity.

They want to lie.

By tinkering with facts, headlines and the subtleties of language - politicians and journalists attempt to wipe the fingerprints off every Palestinian crime scene.

They do all they can to hide, obfuscate and provide alibis for the most bestial, individual acts of Palestinian immorality that are buttressed by institutional support.

In this respect they are participants in a pact of scum.

Let’s put to one side those who knowingly engage in this lie because they’re at war with Israel.

Fine.

They’re doing what they have to do to be evil scumbags.

Let’s address those who actually want peace in the middle east:

You have been played by war mongers.

You have to be brave and oppose them.

You are not serving peace by participating in the lie that Palestinians are somehow the only humans on earth who have no responsibility.

You are not serving conflict resolution.

You are not serving truth.

You are not serving a solution.

Palestinian bigotry - largely of an Islamic persuasion - is not a by-product of the conflict - it is a contributing cause. It must be condemned without embarrassment if you seek peace.

Palestinian violence against Jews is not a by-product of the conflict - it is a contributing cause. It must be condemned without inhibition if you seek peace.

Palestinian society is not antisemitic because there is a conflict. There is a conflict because Palestinian society is antisemitic. It must be challenged without qualification if you seek peace.

And Palestinians don’t hate Jews because there is Israel. They hate Israel because it’s Jewish. This must be denounced without delay if you seek peace.

Until you engage with the above you have nothing to offer the situation.

Some things are just wrong. Let’s start with the murder of two Jewish sisters and their mother. Do not let yourself be played by warmongers who want you to ignore every moral instinct you have so that you become a person who excuses or legitimises the murder of children. Don’t let them make you into that person. You have one life. Do not become a person who thinks there are circumstances in which it’s permissable to murder Jewish women.

Step up. Be brave. From now on try this impulse:

When Palestinians engage in acts of terrorism, instead of thinking you have to protect their “brand” in order to retain their public support - call out their violence without restraint - because Palestinian violence is a CAUSE of the conflict - and if you want the conflict to end for Palestinians - you must stop them doing what perpetuates it.

It’s also the right thing to do.

Attempting to bestow upon Palestinians a kind of moral infallibility is wrong and leads to a situation where terrible acts of abuse can take place. If it’s wrong to conceal child sex abuse in a religious organisation - or to cover up institutional racism within a police force - then it’s wrong to cover up institutionalised racism and murder within Palestinian society. It has to be exposed and condemned. Otherwise it leads to two sisters and their mother being murdered in cold blood. Who wins from that? No one.

Palestinians have responsibility to stop this.

And so do you.

#Israel #palestinian terror #Lee Kern

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