#(sneaky ghosts ARE machines)

[apparitionism]

Bonus 2

Here’s the second part of a holiday story, begun in part 1, about how Myka and Helena, in a vaguely season 4 world in which nobody’s going to go to Boone but through which they have thus far been separated, are reunited for a day-before-Christmas-eve retrieval in Cleveland. Helena has been summoned by Claudia to serve as Myka’s backup, for Pete is spending some holiday time with his family... but as it turns out, the retrieval is necessary because—plot-semi-twist!—Pete Christmas-gifted his cousin, who is a bigwig at an accounting firm, with an artifact, a pen that apparently has something to do with Santa’s naughty/nice list. Which said cousin used to confer end-of-year bonuses—and penalties. As this part opens, Myka is just beginning to process the fact that the whole situation is Pete’s fault...

(And no, I didn’t manage to bring this thing in for a landing in this part. Nobody faint from the surprise.)

Bonus 2

“Okay,” Myka acknowledges, because what else can she do? The fact is that in any Warehouse-related context, “coincidence” is a non sequitur, and she begins formulating a plan to Christmas-gift Claudia with a T-shirt featuring that sentiment. How fast can she get a custom T-shirt made?

The irony is that Claudia would know.

“Yeah,” says Pete’s cousin—Pete’s cousin! She might be affirming the Claudia-irony in Myka’s head, or the situational irony Myka is now stuck in, or any of the vast array of ironies that make up the Warehousian unfolding of time itself. Myka would not have expected Pete’s cousin’s words to contain multitudes. And yet.

“He told me it was the kind of thing he thought I’d like,” that cousin continues, “and he was right. Effects aside, it’s a gorgeous implement. Perfectly balanced... which I guess works on an existential level too, doesn’t it? Naughty, nice.” She shifts the pen to rest a delicate crosswise on an extended index finger, testing its equilibrium as a chef might a knife.

The pen—or is it merely a different species of knife?—basks in Nancy Sullivan’s regard. “Resonant little instrument,” she says, with clear affection. “Anyway, we were talking about Pete.” A different sort of affection now colors her voice. “He went into this big production-number apology about it being sort of secondhand.”

“Oh?” Myka says, distracted by pens, knives, resonances... but, right, secondhand. Of course it’s secondhand. No new item could be an artifact. Or could it? This seems like a Steve-conversation topic.... and it certainly beats “H.G. is god knows where” for philosophy.

“Not because it’s not new,” Pete’s cousin says, apparently reading Myka’s mind, “but because he initially was thinking he’d give it to somebody else.”

Myka repeats her interrogative “oh?”, but she’s getting a feeling again.

“Yeah,” says Nancy Sullivan, and Myka really has to applaud her talent for broadly applicable affirmation. “He said he wanted to give it to his partner because, and I quote, ‘she likes the old-fashioned stuff,’ but then he realized he shouldn’t because, and I also quote, ‘she’s got this whole family feathery-pen dealy-thingy and I don’t want to upset her.’” She waves the pen again, this time directly at Myka, like a conductor imploring the oboes to pick up the pace. “And he told me his partner’s name,” she concludes.

“I’m sure there are lots of Myka Berings in the world?” Myka tries, weakly, raising her hands as if to offer Nancy Sullivan all those other Myka Berings. The last vestige of defensibility... then her hands drop, because really. She looks at Helena in apology, with only an indistinct, tangled sense of what she’s apologizing for. I’m sorry I occasioned this is part of it, yet there’s a deeper fault she feels but can’t quite ideate, one more consequential than an anodyne “oops.”

“Listen, he’s a really good guy,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“I agree completely,” Myka assures her. But in the interest of full disclosure, she adds, “Mostly completely. I mean, I’m going to kill him for this.”

Helena says, “Are you.” Her tone brings Myka up short: it’s impossibly knowing, suggesting insight into everything Myka has been thinking, about someday and talking and things.

Again with the reading so right.

Myka would love to have the panache to do more than glance furtively at Helena, to pull off a playful, similarly knowing response, like “that depends on my backup” (or something actually clever that will doubtless occur to her during some post-holiday post-mortem). Instead she goes with a not at all interrogative “Oh.”

Nancy Sullivan looks from Myka to Helena. Then she says, “Okay, revision: A really good guy who might be hanging onto some unreasonable hope.”

Myka wishes she could keep from glancing yet again, now, at Helena—now as she grasps the fullness of her underlying error, now as she formulates a hopeful plan regarding someday saying out loud “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize that he had any such hope and that I didn’t make completely clear that any such hope would never have been anything but unreasonable”—but the wish doesn’t work. She glances... thus proving Nancy Sullivan’s point.

“He didn’t mention you,” Pete’s cousin tells Helena. “I think I see why.”

“I’m both offended and pleased,” Helena says, with her customary little thank-you head-bow.

Rather than luxuriating in the familiarity of that head-bow, Myka tries to head off a more detailed discussion of Helena’s role in it all (and what a nondescriptively limp phrase that is) by observing, “The sixth-sense thing is quite the family trait.”

“Ah. Sure. You’ve had experience,” Nancy Sullivan says, a little droop in her voice.

Has she taken Myka’s words as criticism? Myka hurries to reassure, “Sometimes it’s very helpful.”

“But. Other times.” This is heavier, and now she must be referencing her own vibe-related experiences.

“Your family get-togethers must be really... charged?” Myka tries.

Nancy Sullivan offers another all-encompassing “Yeah.” Then she laughs. “But at least we don’t have a feathery-pen dealy-thingy like your family does.”

Helena clears her throat, an attention-garnering ah-ha-hem, as if it’s in the stage directions preceding her next line in some farce. She inclines her head: more stage-direction drama. Finally, “You do now,” she says in benediction.

Nancy Sullivan’s jaw drops. “Wow,” she says, and “wow,” she repeats. Then she laughs again and says, “He really should’ve mentioned you.”

Myka might laugh too, but she is preoccupied by the way in which Helena’s well-chosen articulation has persuaded her body to remind her that it and she have reached no mutually satisfactory agreement about appropriate reactions.

And that in turn sparks Myka to a realization: once the retrieval is accomplished, there may be a nonzero chance that she and Helena could enjoy a bit more of that liminal together-presence...

Myka’s body makes its best effort to crash through the gauzy ideating her brain would prefer to do about what such time could entail, and after no small amount of nethers-vs.-cerebrum struggle, she manages to propose, truce-wise, a simple Let’s just hope it exists.

Surprisingly, body and mind are willing to shake on that, giving Myka leave to slip on a glove and pronounce, “Just give us the pen. Then it’s over. Mostly. The money will probably revert... so you’ll most likely have to redo the bonuses the old-fashioned way.” Hearing herself, she amends, “Well. The regular way.”

“I don’t mind redoing. But reverting...” Pete’s cousin tightens her fingers around the artifact, pulling it near to her body as if she might be considering, for one last “maybe,” the idea of punching her way out.

Myka tenses, and she doesn’t need to cast a glance to know that Helena is doing the same.

She glances anyway... and indeed, Helena alive with wiry readiness is a sight worth the seeing. So worth it, in fact, that Myka is genuinely, if improperly, disappointed that said sight doesn’t cause the truce to collapse.

After a moment, however, color returns to Nancy Sullivan’s knuckles, and Myka removes the pen from her slackened grip.

But then Nancy Sullivan cocks her head. “Is it really over though? I feel like something else might be happening.”

No. No. Absolutely not. “Something else is always happening,” Myka says, affecting nonchalance as she slides the feathery foolishness into a static bag, ignoring its yipping sparks of protest. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nancy Sullivan casts a skeptical look at the barky little bag. “If you say so. Anyway seeing Pete’s face when I tell him you and I –and he and I!—are fellows in family feathery-pen dealy-thingies now? Might end up being the second-best end-of-year bonus of all, given everything.” There’s a little mockery in her voice, echoing the cousin Myka knows so well.

“And the best such bonus?” Helena inquires.

“Docking Bob’s pay,” Nancy Sullivan says instantly.

Myka snorts, and Nancy Sullivan turns back to her and says, “Are you okay with me being glad we met?” Like she’s mostly but not entirely sure of the response she’ll get, and that’s another echo.

“Only if you’re okay with me being glad too,” Myka says, her own voice sounding a familiar note—one she’s pretty sure Pete would recognize.

After a nod, Nancy Sullivan turns to Helena. “I’d say it to you, but I feel like there’s something extra going on with you, like—”

Myka steps in: “Honestly, always,” and then she’s hustling Helena out of the office even as Helena chirps, “I’m both offended and pleased by that as well!”

Back in the elevator, Helena speaks first. “I did not expect that,” she says, sounding entertained by—practically bubbly about—the entire scenario.

“I should have,” Myka grumbles.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Oh god no,” Myka says, involuntarily. “Too easy if anything.”

Helena’s eyebrows rise, and her eyes accuse. “I’ve known you for no small amount of time,” she says.

Myka’s previous review fights that statement, but she doesn’t speak of it.

Her lack of response prompts a heavy I-am-no-longer-entertained sigh. “Must I return to the phrase ‘your truth’?”

“Please don’t,” Myka says. That’s also nearly involuntary, but it sounds too harsh, like she’s dismissing as unimportant that bookstore interaction, as well as the entirety of those in-extremis manifestations of herself and Helena. Rather than apologizing for that, for surely it would prove far too entangling, she tries to draw Helena’s attention back to the entertainment. “I like Nancy Sullivan. She reminds me of Pete and his mom.”

“Pete’s mother? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

That’s a bit more jousty, backed by curiosity. Good. “She’s a Regent,” Myka says, for it’s the most salient piece of information she has about Jane Lattimer.

Helena stills. Her jaw hardens. “Then perhaps I have indeed had the... pleasure.” Cold. Cold. Cold.

You idiot, Myka scourges herself. Why couldn’t she have done the normal thing and left Pete’s mom as “Pete’s mom”? But now, but now: now she’s seen this wound, down there under the ice, and she wants to test that ice, but she can’t, regardless of her wish and want to know know know, to know everything Helena has been put through, so as to know whom to hate (and she hopes that doesn’t include Pete’s mom) and whom to someday thank (and she double-hopes that does include Pete’s mom). “Anyway I think the cousin had the right idea,” she says, pushing back to the now, to what just happened. “Using an artifact to do what are really decent things, even if they were judgmental.”

“Rather Old Testament,” Helena says. “Strangely inappropriate for this holiday, no?” She asks that like she’s really thinking—wondering—about it.

Myka congratulates herself on having provided a distraction, however minimal, from whatever Regent-pain her unthinking reveal caused to surface. “I hadn’t thought about Santa being more Yahweh than Jesus,” she says, to enhance it, “and I’m not sure what it says about my position on salvation that I genuinely wish we could have let her keep that pen. Or even better, if we could maybe ferry it around to deserving arbiters... wouldn’t that contribute to the greater good, even if it’s in a judgy Old-Testament way?”

Helena’s face moves as if she’s about to answer, but before she can, a rupturing screech of metal-on-metal complication resounds decisively through the space, and their ear-popping descent slows, slows, slows...

...and stops.

After an appropriately irony-bearing pause, Helena says, “This elevator seems to disapprove of your suggestion. Or perhaps it’s your theological indecision that displeases?”

All Myka can manage is an extremely resigned “I am not surprised.”

Efforts to summon help strengthen the “disapproval” interpretation: they’re fruitless. No one answers the emergency line, and this mirrored box is, according to both their phones, the place where cell service goes to die. Or where that service is interfered with by a theologically offended pulley-based mechanism.

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

After a beat, however, she concedes, “But of course I can.”

Helena casts her gaze around. Once again, exaggeratedly stage-direction-y. “At least it’s reasonably well-appointed. For an elevator in which to be... stuck.” She seems to relish articulating “stuck,” so she’s back to being entertained. Not quite bubbly, but definitely entertained.

Myka can’t get past her annoyance with the elevator’s disapproval, so she says a peevish, “I don’t like mirrors.” She’s painfully aware now that they cover not only the walls, but also the ceiling. She can’t even look heavenward in supplication, sarcastic or otherwise, without regarding herself. It really is too much.

Given that no other communication technology is working, she resorts to the Farnsworth. She gives thanks for Warehouse mojo, or whatever enables it to elude the elevator’s wrath, when Claudia answers with, “No info on ‘lists, making them’ yet.”

“We dealt with that,” Myka tells her. “New problem.”

“Another artifact?”

“Who knows? Maybe Pete’s in an elevator somewhere else in this town making bad decisions, and they’re redounding to our detriment.” She’s vamping. Stuck in an elevator with Helena, she’s vamping. Instead of simply basking in such fantasy-made-fact, she’s vamping.

She doesn’t bother wondering whether Helena knows she’s doing that; if this little adventure has done nothing else, it’s reminded Myka that Helena always knows. It’s both wonderful and terrible to be so legible, particularly to someone Myka so often finds frustratingly illegible.

“I’m not following,” Claudia says.

Speaking of illegible: Myka, heal thyself. “We’re stuck. In an elevator,” she clarifies.

Claudia makes a noise that, impressively, marries a gasp and a snicker. “Are you really? Or did you push the stop button, like people do?”

“Like people... what?”

“When they want to have a little uninterrupted chat,” Claudia says, pedantic, as if now she’s the one who’s “clarifying.”

“Nobody does that in real life,” Steve says from offscreen. Myka is pleased to know he’s around.

“Myka just did,” Claudia insists in his direction. “Didn’t you,” she insists at Myka.

“If I did,” Myka says, “why would I be calling you to get us out of here?”

“Yeah, why would she?” Steve asks, but from farther away.

Don’t leave! Myka wants to exhort. She would never admit to needing backup in a counter-Claudia sense... but she does appreciate when Steve provides it.

“Oooh, because maybe the chat didn’t go so well,” Claudia says with great, and to Myka’s thinking entirely inappropriate, relish.

Trying for calm pragmatism, she says, “Wouldn’t I just... unpush the stop button then?”

“Myka,” Claudia says. It’s the most chiding, disappointment-laden use of her name Myka has ever heard, even when measured against all the times her father has uttered those two designating syllables. “Believe me when I tell you I’m a fan,” Claudia goes on, turning mollifying, “but you really need to lean in when it comes to tropes.” Myka can’t imagine how to respond to that, so she doesn’t. Claudia sighs—seemingly everyone’s preferred go-to when Myka fails to produce words—and says, “Did you try calling maintenance? Pushing the emergency button? Using your cell?”

“Yes, yes, and no service. Do you genuinely think I don’t understand modern communication technology?”

“I think you pretend you don’t understand newfangledness all the time. Particularly when you’re trying to show off how sympatico you are with H.G., who incidentally doesn’t seem to be piping up like I’d expect. Did you knock her unconscious after your terrible chat? Or maybe during it?”

Helena has indeed been very—very surprisingly—quiet while Myka has explained the situation to Claudia. And she doesn’t step in to help Myka out now. So much for any counter-Claudia backup.

“There was not a chat,” Myka says.

Helena is regarding herself in the mirrored ceiling.

“But there could be one now?” Claudia nudges. “Let me see if I can see what’s up. I’ve got cell service.” She disconnects.

Helena abruptly abandons her ceiling self-contemplation, focusing her gaze upon Myka. It’s disconcerting. “Are you attempting to avoid an uninterrupted chat?” she asks.

Myka can’t suss the question’s sincerity. And notwithstanding all her ideas about talking, she suffers a cringing internal “yes.” Externally, however, she says, in what she hopes offers at least a veneer of sincerity of her own, “No.”

She doesn’t follow up by asking “why would I be doing that,” because Helena would probably have a guess. And because that guess would probably be accurate: “You are a coward,” Helena might say, and Myka would regrettably have to either tell the truth and agree, or lie and disclaim any emotional investment in whatever the outcome of such a chat might be.

Silence. Longer than it should be... or is it as long as Myka deserves?

You wanted time together. Don’t bellyache about the form it takes.

“Your objection to mirrors,” Helena eventually says.

“What about it?” Myka asks. Her very soul flinches.

“What is it?”

Myka has never before stated her dislike of mirrors aloud, and she regrets having done so now. To play it off, she says a dismissive, “An artifact.” And yet the truth is that despite the unnerving nature of her interaction with Alice’s mirror and how it continues to prey on her mind, it isn’t really that—or rather, that only intensified her dislike.

But when Helena proposes, “Yet another ‘dealy-thingy’?”, clearly (and preciously) trying the phrase out in her mouth, Myka misleadingly (intentionally misleadingly) nods and says, “They’re all dealy-thingies.”

To that, Helena says, “Interesting.”

Myka would probe that word, but to do so might destabilize the ground, here in an elevator. Instead, for the moment, she tilts her head in the direction of the Christmas muzak, the literal elevator music, being piped in. “Oh, sure, that still works.” She gestures at the speaker, a thin dark stripe between two mirror-panels, from which the sound is emerging. The elevator is nothing if not insistent.

In truth, she doesn’t mind Christmas carols. She does mind the bowdlerization thereof, and isn’t that an attitude the dogmatic elevator really ought to share? O holy night, the stars are brightly... synthesizing? It’s wrong.

Now even her mind is vamping. Great.

Helena tilts her head toward the speaker, however, and Myka appreciates her willingness to be redirected. At least for a moment.

In fact, for all her vamping, mental and otherwise, Myka finds herself absurdly content to simply stand against a mirrored elevator wall and regard Helena... who in that instant of Myka’s acknowledged contentment seems to accept their predicament as unlikely to be resolved in a timely fashion: she sits down, of course elegantly, resting her back against her side of the box and stretching her legs (her legs, Myka’s body notes, just to let her know it’s still paying close attention) out in front of her.

The looking-down perspective is a bit disorienting—although at least this time it has nothing to do with being stuck to a ceiling—but Myka has no time to process it, for Helena’s next salvo, looking up, is, “You’ve been expecting me to remark further on naughtiness, haven’t you.”

Reading, yet again. “I kind of have,” Myka admits. It seems an overly judgmental statement, particularly given that Myka has to deliver it as if from an elevated bench. And yet... she kind of has.

“I’d rather not fulfill that expectation,” Helena says. “If we could speak of other things.”

Myka is a little thrown, but thankful. “That is entirely fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Myka says, meaning it as an answer to either interpretation of Helena’s interrogative: Are you asking what I want to talk honestly about? or Are you asking, with honest intent, what I want to talk about? She hopes Helena will respond similarly.

“Something that interests you,” Helena says.

That’s not in any way what she was expecting. “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s a word similar to, yet very different from, “honestly.” What, in a real sense, interests Myka? In this moment, all she can think to say is “you.” And perhaps because her normal inhibitions are disordered, here in this stopped elevator, that’s what she blurts out.

And that seems, incongruously, to take Helena aback. “What about me?” she asks.

Myka can’t say “everything.” It’s the real answer (really), but it’s far too... big. For an unexpected reunion, an unexpected uninterrupted chat—although Claudia or rescuers could at any point interrupt it, which Myka should hope happens (should)—it’s far too big.

So: smaller. What occurs first to Myka is “where have you been”—but that would most likely seem accusatory. She needs something else. Something something something...

In the aftermath of the Warehouse not being destroyed, she’d felt herself full of hard-earned wisdom and bravery: enough, surely, to stop hesitating. Enough, surely, to act. Or enough, at the very least, to articulate.

“Wisdom” and “bravery” now seem nothing more than labels on empty containers, and so “faintheartedness” is the fullness with which Myka here initially accuses her today self. But as Helena breathes and waits for an answer, Myka revises that, gentling it to “caution.” And she adds “care.” Because she is trying to attend to, to appreciate, that breathing. And that waiting.

These might be nothing more than self-indulgently comforting shifts in vocabulary... but then again they might be akin to the shift from “Christmas” to “end-of-year.” Gentle. Inclusionary.

The something something something that occurs to her—because in attempting to avoid her own reflection, she is confronted instead with multiple Helenas—concerns a topic she probably should censor but doesn’t: “When you were a hologram... or a projection, or whatever we should call it... did you have a reflection?” She then reflexively backtracks, “It shouldn’t matter? But I don’t know.” That last, she means both ways. She doesn’t know: whether the reflection existed, or whether it matters. But maybe it’s a sneak-up on things, because she shouldn’t ignore things, and because a seemingly inconsequential tangent might tiptoe toward importance.

“I don’t know either,” Helena says. “I suppose I would have?” Her face contracts. “Or perhaps not, as I don’t know how that holographic projection of myself was... projected. But I do intend to look into it.” She says this last as if Myka has caught her in some inattention, a recklessly uncompleted assignment.

“I never even started majoring in physics,” Myka laments, which is true but also, she hopes, reassuring in an I didn’t do the homework either sense, “so I don’t know the optics of it. Projections. Light and mirrors. “ She doesn’t mention that in the wake of Pittsburgh, she had indeed tried researching such things... she’d got as far as some advanced volumetric displays, ones using dust particles as screens onto which lasers projected light, but at a certain point, a tipping point, the idea of Helena existing as—being relegated to—nothing more than light and dust screamed a surpassing insult, a degradation conjuring death, and it was more than she could bear.

For now she puts that away. She shakes her head, shakes it free, and changes tack. “Anyway, that’s probably the wrong approach. This is Warehousey, so thinking outside physics, the laws... okay, all I know about reflections, unphysically, is that vampires don’t have them. So if you didn’t have one, then maybe all holograms are vampires?” Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. She would have done better to speak of dust, that and light and despair. Going with vampires instead? Talk about vamping...

“Presumably not vice versa,” Helena observes, seemingly taking Myka’s words far too seriously. “Certainly fictionally. Also not overly flattering, in the syllogistic sense of ‘Helena was a hologram, therefore.’”

“They’re very popular though,” Myka temporizes.

“Stoker’s novel was all the rage,” Helena allows.

The chat stalls out. Interrupting itself?

Myka nevertheless feels pressure to fill the silence: it’s her fault. Will a simple truth suffice? “I didn’t expect to be spending the day before Christmas eve with you,” she says. “Or any day with you. In Cleveland.”

A small smile from Helena marks this as a more welcome fill than a question about reflection. As do her next words: “Nor I with you. In Cleveland, or any place. Equally, I didn’t expect to be sent on a mission with you.”

“That part of it went well.” Myka gestures at her bag that contains the artifact.

“We did—and now do once again—make a good team.”

“I’m glad we got the chance to do it again. Glad, but also... relieved.”

“Relieved,” Helena echoes.

That wasn’t a question, but Myka answers anyway, “Well, obviously, first,” she says, feeling herself launching into an explanatory babble that she fears she’ll be powerless to stop, “because you didn’t have to talk anybody out of using Joshua’s Trumpet, so that really makes a difference in terms of how we—”

“‘First’,” Helena quotes, interrupting (stopping), conveying her full knowledge that that too is a vamp. “And second?”

“That we still are.” This, Myka says simple and frank.

“A good team?”

That is a question. Myka knows “yes” is the only sensical answer, so she tries to say it. But the depth and weight of the ways in which she and Helena “still are” choke her: they “still are” in the basic sense of existing, which was never a certainty; and even better, higher, these hours they’ve spent together today have made clear, to Myka at least, that they “still are”... well. She’d like to finish that with something like “in love,” but instead she tries to leave it, even in her head, at “still are,” with their time-crossed, maybe-destined predicate undefined.

“A good team” should be good enough—true enough—for now.

So after a stretch of time during which Myka knows she’s been focusing her gaze far too intently on Helena, she manages that “yes.”

Helena waits to speak.... are her eyes glistening more brightly than usual, or is Myka hallucinating? “I’m relieved as well,” she says, and Myka chooses to simply delight in whatever prompted such a saturated sparkle.

It draws her closer.

She crosses the small-yet-large elevator-width that separates them. “I need to either sit down beside you or help you up,” she says. “Do you have a preference?”

“For?” Helena’s eyes continue to glow.

That shine... Myka has hopes. They may not be realized, but she has them, the product of relief, “still are,” and an unknown predicate. “Whatever’s next,” she says.

A bit of time passes, with Helena now being the one focused most intently. “I’ll stand,” is her verdict.

Myka reaches down with both—both—hands, offering, and Helena reaches up, accepting. Their fingers meet and clasp, and too cold, Myka thinks, for both of them have a chill in those extremities... but first impressions of temperature promptly fall away as the new reality of the clasp roars into precedence.

Myka has never been so certain of, so certain of and enchanted by, what must and will happen next in her life. Never in her life so certain, as the clasp tightens, as their torsos lean, as Myka’s body begins an at-last congratulation, one that will become a celebration—

A voice from somewhere overhead barks, “Everybody okay in there?”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #holiday (but not Gift Exchange) #Bonus #part 2 #you never can tell what mechanisms might be up to #sneaky ghosts in machines #(sneaky ghosts ARE machines) #anyway like I said in part 1 #I wanted to put a couple of people in a clichéd situation #and the way this part ends was probably obvious from the get-go #but really #was that space the right venue for... #anything? #Claudia's encouragement aside

[whumpbby]

Thinking that because it seems that the Demonic Cultivation was mostly something that Jiang Cheng took care of - either as a way to unload his grief or as taking responsibility of his shixiong's mess - it's possible that the Jiang disciples were the ones that were the best versed in dealing with DC.

Now I am headcanoning that - because JC seems like a man that has shit in hand and runs a tight ship - there's a group within the Yunmeng Jiang trained and experienced specifically to deal with Demonic Cultivation specifically. Like their Spec Ops. They are prepared to come in fast and hot, deal with the issue asap and start the clean-up - armed with talismans made to deflect DC, tame the corpses and help send them on.

So, like, one day WWX hears that there's some Demonic Cultivator causing problems in the area he's hunting with the Lan juniors and goes to deal with it. It still pisses him off that his only lasting legacy is not about his genius or his heroics (or even his good looks), but it's this thing he invented out of horrific desperate need and that's now used to cause chaos and hurt people. So, he feels it's his duty to go there and talk some sense into the person in question.

Except, as soon as he arrives at the scene and ascertains that yeah, the issue is serious and maybe it's better for him to send the disciples back home and call in reinforcements (Lan Zhan), because he can take the DC down, but the clean-up will be immense - when suddenly a group of cultivators land in front of them with a swish of purple robes and gets to work.

The battle is almost sad. In no time at all the fierce corpses are tamed, the cultivator thrown down and bound with talismans, and the cultivators are dispersing across the area to set up burials for the corpses and arrays meant to send the ghosts onwards.

It's all precise and quick, sure steps and short commands. A well-oiled machine with soldier-discipline cleaning the area of resentment. So unlike the usual exuberance and free-style of the Jiang.

Wei Wuxian is kinda stumped. How are these people, and why are they getting in his way? He didn't even manage to get any fun! You, baby Lan disciple, explain!

"They're the Red Brigade", the disciple explains in a hushed voice. "Jiang-zonghzu's personal guard. They hunt Deminic Cultivators."

Red? Ah, their uniforms are adorned with a red ribbon on the shoulder. How sentimental of Jiang Cheng. His shidi really missed him! (or wanted him dead, there's also that option). But no time to contemplate that, because these guys are super efficient and if WWX wants to do any investigation of his own (translate: being his nosy self) he has to haul ass before they clean up everything!

So, he goes to the leader of the pack with an intention of comparing notes! The guy is respectful, but so cold! Eh, is he even a Jiang? So much like A-Cheng! Well, he knows how to deal with people like that - everyone will fold when bothered for long enough!

So, he keeps following the leader and talking bullshit, as his brain takes notes on everything he can see around. The talismans they use, the arrays, the spells - that's all pretty high level and super interesting. Huh, even their clothes are embroidered with talismans (a page out of the Lan book, maybe? Sneaky, Jiang Cheng, sneaky!) and their they use ghost flags...

But something is strange. He can see traces of his own work here and there - and he's used to seeing is tools ironically used across the cultivation world, but these are... kind of not? There are traces of his work, but the sigils are not his, the flags are not his, the talismans are not his. Like someone engineered his work backwards and created something that was similar, but entirely different.

As if someone wanted or needed tools to deal with Wei Wuxian's creations specifically, without the risk of being used against them in the heat of battle. One of the cultivators has a qinqin strapped across her back - the strings are made from metal, so it's not for musical cultivation (huh, so that's how Jiang Cheng came up with the idea of disrupting Su She's music in the Guanyin Temple, it wasn't coincidence.). They came in prepared to counter anything a Demonic Cultivator would throw at them.

Hell, he can admit that going through them on his own wouldn't be easy (because he was always helplessly optimistic about his own skills)...

Oh, Jiang Cheng did his homework.

"Wei-gongzi, can I help you with anything? Shouldn't you be taking the Lan juniors home?"

Uh-oh, he was getting on someone's nerves. Better retreat for now.

But he wasn't about to drop the matter.

The Jiang Sect had a SPECIAL OPS! how was he supposed to leave that be?

He was invested, he wanted to discuss! He needed to compare notes!

#headcanon #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #mdzs #yunmeng jiang spe cops #XD

[deakyjoe]

Somebody’s Watching Me Part 7

Paring: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (“Sarge”, she/her pronouns, British, backstory)

Category: slowburn coworkers to friends to lovers with grumpy x sunshine dynamic/idiots in love

Summary: You and Simon take the next step towards happiness.

Warnings: smut (18+), f receiving oral, handjobs, vaginal fingering, unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, praise kink, slightly sub!ghost, slightly dom!reader, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, swearing/cursing, British terminology/slang, the mask is off, domestic Ghost, brief mention of scars and stretch marks, this is just smut and fluff, *** to indicate where smut starts and ends

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: EJ doesn’t write and publish smut. EJ is a virgin who doesn’t know what sex is like in real life. EJ is nervous about posting this. Please be nice to EJ.

Part 8 here!

Consider buying me a coffee :)

The first time you met Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley you were rather disappointed. You'd heard tales of the mysterious killing machine who showed no mercy. But then, when you finally did come face to face with him, you discovered he was just a regular guy in a mask who complained when his tea was too hot to drink and when the chocolate digestive biscuits had run out. Hardly the legend everyone cracked him up to be.

And then you saw him in the field and your perception changed slightly. He was damn good at what he did. You'd be mildly impressed if you weren't already surrounded by the best of the best, yourself included. You weren't entirely convinced he was the scariest man ever to have lived, as everybody told you, but you could appreciate his skills. Sure, you were fearful of him in the way that he was your superior and you didn't want to make a bad first impression or have him kick you off the team. But you didn't think he was going to kill you in your sleep or anything as your new friend Sergeant MacTavish, better known as Soap, liked to joke.

However, your view of him changed again when he caught you and Soap in the rec room one evening. It was totally innocent. The two of you were unwinding from a long day by eating snacks, listening to music and sharing stories. You were in the middle of listening to a particularly good one from your fellow sergeant when your lieutenant walked in and his mouth snapped shut.

Ghost barely glanced at the two of you, face hidden by his infamous mask. It looked rather silly when he didn't have the rest of his tactical gear on.

"Carry on, Soap." You encouraged him, not put off by the presence of another person in the room. "What happened next?"

The Scot's eyes snapped back to yours and he cleared his throat. "Right, right uuhhh..."

He was cut off by Lieutenant Riley suddenly standing over the two of you behind the sofa, cup of tea clutched in his gloved hand. He was very sneaky. "No drinking on base."

You looked up to him, confused by what he was talking about before realising he was looking at the drink clasped in your hand. "It's apple juice, sir."

He said nothing, eyes burning through his mask into yours. You wouldn't back down from a stare off if that's what he wanted. If his game was intimidation then you wouldn't let him win. You'd grown used to men trying to put you down and you weren't going to let a man who hid his face behind a mask try to do the same.

"This music is inappropriate. Flirting between members of the team is forbidden." He really was trying to get you in trouble. But why? Did he already not like you?

You snorted at him. "I hardly think Sir Mix-a-Lot is the pinnacle of romance, lieutenant."

Soap's jaw hung open opposite you. He couldn't believe you were arguing with Ghost Riley. Especially as a new member of the team. It was risky. He respected it.

"Don't answer back, sergeant." He snapped, fist clenching at his side.

You just held your chin higher despite him towering over you. "I'm not, sir. I'm sure Sergeant MacTavish is a lovely man but, believe me, I have no interest in pursuing anyone on the team. And Sir Mix-a-Lot is certainly not my main means of seduction. I'm here to work. Nothing else."

If only you knew.

***

The kiss was feverish as Simon stumbled into your flat, not letting you go for a single second as he kicked the door shut harshly behind him and pushed his jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor. There was a passionate clash of teeth and tongues as you slammed him back against the wood, needing to be as close to him as possible. You were not going to let him go full Ghost on you in this situation and take complete control of it. You wanted Simon. And you wanted some power.

But Simon was kissing you.

Simon was kissing you.

It finally dawned what was happening.

He tasted like the bourbon he'd been drinking earlier, not that you were complaining, and you wondered if you tasted of the apple martini he'd made for you. The apple martini he hated.

You pulled back suddenly. "Oh, god. Do I taste like the apple martini? I'm sor-"

He chuckled lowly, leaning back into you. "Stop talking for once, Sarge."

The kiss resumed and his hands roamed every inch of you that he could reach, not neglecting any point of your body. You clung to him desperately, never wanting to let go. You wanted to consume him. And let him consume you.

He was too tall, always too fucking tall. So you grabbed at his shirt and dragged him down to meet you halfway, legs sliding up the outside of his almost as if you were trying to climb him. And maybe you were.

Simon groaned lowly into your mouth, breaking away for a mere second to catch his breath and stare longingly down at you before diving straight back in. As your arms snaked around the back of his neck, he turned the two of you around so you were up against the door. And you needed the support as he started to pepper kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He found your weak spot as you whined and began to lick and suckle there repeatedly for good measure.

As much as it felt good, you needed more of him so you threaded your fingers through the back of his hair and guided his lips back to yours. "More kissing, Simon."

He obliged happily.

You'd never get enough. There would never be enough Simon Riley in this world to satisfy you. And he had a sneaking suspicion of that so he was going to do his damn best to give you as much as he could.

When he broke away again, you huffed in protest but quickly stopped when he sank down to the floor.

Having Lieutenant Simon Riley on his knees in front of you was the most exciting, and unexpected, moment of your life.

You'd store away the image in your memory forever.

He looked up at you with his wide, dark eyes and started unbuttoning your jeans. When he glanced back up at you again for permission to take them off you just nodded. They were pulled off and discarded, his stare fixing on the underwear you were wearing. It wasn't your nicest pair but Simon didn't seem to care much as he parted your thighs with his hands and stuck his head between them, inhaling deeply.

Before you knew it, they were torn off and Simon's mouth was latched onto your clit. The man did know his targets well.

"Oh, my- fuck!" You slapped your hand across your mouth, head thrown back and slamming against the door, as he sucked and flicked at it in utter desperation.

When you dared to look down at him, even more arousal stirred in you to see his eyes - his pretty, pretty eyes - were fixed on you and your reactions. He seemed to be concentrating on what felt good for you. People pleaser.

Moans and other pleasured sounds tumbled from your lips as he lifted one of your legs and manoeuvred it over his shoulder so you were spread wide for him, hand planted on your thigh to knead the flesh there. He changed positions after that, moving so his mouth was closer to your opening and his nose bumped against your clit for stimulation instead.

And you couldn't help yourself when your hips started grinding against his face of their own accord, pure lust powering you forward.

"Simon." A gasp of his name left your mouth as he lapped up everything you were giving him, hands laced in his hair to pull him impossibly closer to you.

The thought that you were doing this against your front door and that any of your neighbours could hear you if they simply walked past was long gone as the burning feeling of your impending orgasm built up within you. But, then again, it was past midnight on New Years. Any of your neighbours still awake would probably be partying and having too much of their own fun to take any notice of loud noises coming from your flat.

"So good." You said, chest heaving and face glistening with sweat. "So, so good, Simon."

He groaned into you, eyes closing for just a second making his fair eyelashes flutter, and went harder. He devoured you like a man starved.

And with a final buck of your hips that had the tip of his nose hitting your clit just right, you were speeding over the edge into blissful oblivion. It took every ounce of willpower for you not to scream as your legs turned to jelly. He kept you upright with his hands on your hips as he slid back up to his full height.

"You. Taste. Heavenly." Every word was punctuated by a kiss to your lips, each one tasting distinctly of you.

Your voice was ragged as your eyelids became hooded and you grabbed his hand. "Bedroom."

"Yes, ma'am." He had no ounce of protest in him as he allowed you to drag him through your flat and to your room. Now things were started he wasn't going to hold back at all. He'd been denying himself of this for too long. He felt like it was deserved. Both for him and for you.

What he didn't expect was for you to take complete control as soon as you got there, pushing him onto the bed and demanding him to sit up against the headboard as he kicked his shoes off.

And when you crawled over to him and straddled his lap, lips immediately landing on his to kiss him even more, he felt a tingling inside of himself. It was a kind of buzz, almost like he was drunk but not quite. Maybe drunk on you. And the feeling of you against him.

You were underwear-less now, only a bra and shirt covering you, so when you started to softly grind against him Simon thought his brain might explode. Or other parts of him.

But you didn't give up, even as he grew painfully hard underneath you, you just kept going. You just kissed and kissed and kissed at his swollen lips, not being able to stop yourself.

But then you suddenly pulled back and looked down at him, head tilting to the side slightly. Your hands tapped along the hem of his shirt, barely grazing the skin of his stomach. "You're wearing too many clothes. May I?" You asked and he nodded, breathless. "Out loud."

"Yes." He was never going to say no to you. Especially not now. He'd lost the ability to deny you of anything a long time ago.

You tugged the shirt off of him and over his head, eyes immediately landing on his bare torso that was only very partially obscured by his dog tags. He was toned, that was for sure, but you knew that already and you admired the tattoos dispersed up and down his arms, encroaching onto his chest. However, you were more focused on the subtle things. The small freckles scattered in various places, scars marking the pale tone of his skin, a patch of hair on his lower abdomen that trailed off in a little path underneath his belt. Even the faded stretch marks dotted across the plains of his body.

You sighed happily. "You're so gorgeous it's unfair, Simon. Blond and pretty."

He flushed at that, blaming the heat in his cheeks on being turned on, and pulled you back in to kiss him to distract himself from it.

Your nails raked down his chest, arms lifting up when he pulled your own shirt off of you. His large hands explored the expanse of your skin, trailing up and down your sides before going to your back, undoing your bra and tossing it to the side. Like him, only your dog tags were left to cover the bare skin of your chest.

His eyes were drawn to the dog tags hanging around your neck, the chain settled in the valley of your breasts, and you both knew what you were thinking. The fantasy Simon had confided in you. But, silently, you agreed it was for another time.

His hands were warm when they landed on your chest, which you were thankful for, as they kneaded, pulled, tugged and tweaked. It felt good but you wanted to give him more.

"Can I touch you, Simon?" You asked, smiling when he nodded eagerly.

Your hands fumbled with his belt buckle, no patience left within you, and you pulled his trousers and underwear down just enough to release him once the belt was undone.

You stared at him.

Simon felt self-conscious.

He had no reason to.

He was long and thick, your mouth watering at the sight. Oh, how you longed for him. To have him in your mouth. To taste him. To feel him inside you. But that was for another time.

As soon as your hand wrapped around him his eyes screwed shut and his head was thrown back against the wall, soft sounds leaving his mouth.

"Mm-mm. Eyes open and on me, Simon." You said quietly, watching his chest heave and his breaths come out raggedly.

His eyes shot open at the mention of his name, cheeks pink and rosy as he made eye contact with you.

"So pretty..." You trailed off, smiling at him. He really was beautiful. Especially like this. "Come on, pretty boy. Keep making those pretty, little noises for me."

He whimpered, actually whimpered.

"Oh-ho-ho! Do you like praise, Simon?"

He nodded frantically, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Please."

"You like to hear how well you're doing for me? How beautiful you look? Hm?"

Your hand tightened around his tip before you sunk it back down again to the base, twisting your wrist to give him more friction.

A garbled sentence left his mouth, something incoherent he was saying to himself.

"Speak up, Riley. I need to hear you." You looked away from his face for a moment to where your hand was pumping him, speeding up the action slightly.

"Fuck, so close. I'm gonna- gonna-"

"Already?" You raised your brows at him. You weren’t disappointed, just surprised and rather flattered.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry." He apologised profusely, face scrunched and hands clawing at the bedsheets on either side of him. "So, so sorry. Fuck-"

"It's okay. Come for me." And all it took was a swipe of your thumb over his tip.

He groaned lowly as hot ropes of cum spurted from him, coating your hand and his stomach. More laboured breathing from him had you placing your clean hand on his chest to calm him down.

***

"Breathe, Simon. Inhale... Exhale... Good." You leant forward and kissed his cheek before looking down at the mess beneath you. "Umm..."

"Shit, uh..." He reached for the tissues next to your bed and frantically wiped away what he could. "You might need to wash your hands."

"Probably." You smiled at him.

"I'm sorry that I... so fast." He panted, face scrunched in... embarrassment?

"Don't apologise. If I'm sitting here calling you pretty and encouraging it, then I want you to come." You revelled in the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes widened a fraction.

"But we didn't- you didn't-"

You shook your head, crawling off of him to go to the bathroom. "You already made me come."

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts." You tutted and called over your shoulder one last time before disappearing out of the room. "I'll be back in a minute."

You could feel his stare on the back of you as you left, smiling at the idea of him watching you. When you returned a couple of minutes later with a damp cloth in your hand to clean him up, you found him staring at the wall opposite and twiddling his thumbs together. He looked anxious.

"What's wrong?" You asked softly as you sat down next to him and wiped his stomach.

"Nothing." He answered too quickly for your liking.

"C'mon, Simon. I know you now. Don't lie to me. Please. You can tell me." You glanced back up at him as you finished, turning slightly to throw the cloth into your laundry hamper in the corner of your room. You managed to get it in, you did have impeccable aim.

He didn't answer as he watched you crawl over him to the unoccupied side of the bed and get under the duvet.

"At least take off your jeans and get in here with me." You sighed, propping yourself up on your elbow. And when he still did nothing, you had a sudden realisation. "Unless you want to leave. Because you were leaving before you came back..."

The idea broke your heart. Maybe he wanted this to be a one time thing to let off some steam, to alleviate the tension that had been growing between you. What if this wasn't what you hoped it would be?

He snapped out of his daze at that, standing and pushing off the rest of his clothes before diving in next to you and sidling up close. "No, no. Don't say that. I don't want to leave."

"Okay, good." You smiled at him, getting slightly closer. "Tell me what's wrong."

He chewed absentmindedly on his inner cheek. "Overthinking."

It was a simple answer that didn't explain much. But you understood him.

"Okay." Your hand lifted to his face, thumb swiping over cheek softly as you kissed him gently. "You can tell me whatever you need to whenever you need to."

He nodded, kissing you again.

Your fingers moved to the back of his head, carding through the blond strands. His eyes fluttered shut, a relieved breath leaving his mouth.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I overthink. Especially with this."

"Don't apologise, Simon." You chuckled, wanting to lighten the mood. "Thought you told me you were more dominant in bed."

"Nuh-uh. I told you it depends." He smiled back, one of his proper smiles that was reserved only for you to see as his eyes snapped back open.

"Lucky me then."

There was a short moment of silence before you approached the topic that was eating away at you.

"Why now?" You asked, shifting so your noses grazed against one another.

"Because I've wanted to for a while." He kissed you quickly, hand tracing over your hip. "And because I'm selfish."

Curious. "Selfish?"

"Too selfish to think about the consequences because I want you too much."

Huh. "Meaning?"

He paused, thinking about his words carefully. "I'm prioritising my wants, pleasures, needs over logical arguments."

"You make no sense, Riley. But I'll take it if it means this." You sighed into his mouth as you kissed him again. "I wish you'd done it sooner. We've been spending time together for months."

"I wouldn't let myself. It's not allowed. Technically." He added the last bit on hastily. "And I wasn't going to allow it to happen."

"You were going to ignore your feelings?" You couldn't judge him exactly. You'd been doing the same.

"Have been for months. Unsuccessfully." He grunted, winding his hand around your waist and tugging you closer so you were chest to chest. "But you wouldn't leave me alone."

"Hey! I offered you an out." You protested weakly, smiling widely at him still.

"Didn't mean literally." He huffed. "Just constantly on my fucking mind."

Your eyes brightened at that and Simon felt himself fall just that little bit farther. You, on the other hand, were trying to control yourself. There were three options: jump him again, confess your undying love or just stay quiet in the hopes he'd say a little more.

Option three was the safest.

He kissed you again, lingering for a moment this time. "Couldn't get you off my bloody mind. Always ticking around in there."

"I'm flattered, Riley." You whispered. "Does that mean I'm the last thing you masturbated to which is why you refused to answer during Truth or Drink?"

"Classified." He paused. "But yes."

You giggled and pressed your lips against his, moaning quietly when he rolled the two of you over so you were underneath him.

He pulled away for a moment, mumbling into your mouth. "Definitely worth any consequences."

You were wildly inquisitive about the whole thing, unable to stop yourself from inquiring. "What are the potential consequences?"

"Dishonourably discharged."

"Wait, really?" You pushed slightly on his chest, suddenly panicked at the idea.

"Nah." Dickhead. "Could be reassigned."

You whined quietly. "That's shit."

"Mhm, don't think Price would let it happen though." He lowered himself down again and planted an open mouthed kiss on your jaw, grazing his teeth against your skin. "I wouldn't let him let it happen."

You sighed contently, arms snaking around his back. "Hmm, and why's that?"

"I'm rather fond of you."

"Rather fond of me... what are you? Eighty?" You cackled, chest rumbling against his.

He rolled his eyes at you. "Ever the charmer, Sarge."

"I'm sorry." You mock pouted. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Shut up." He silenced you with his own mouth, tongue curling against yours, and revelled in the sigh you let out against him.

But you weren't done with your interrogation, forever wanting to know more. "Why did you tell me happy new year before you kissed me?"

"Because I wanted to kiss you at midnight." He said it like it was obvious. It wasn't.

"Why didn't you?" Your nose scrunched so Simon smoothed it out with his thumb.

"Didn't think it'd be a good idea." The warm brown of his eyes flickered as his gaze roamed your face, finally taking in how lucky he was being able to look at you so close up.

"But you changed your mind." You offered, assuming that was right.

It was. "I did."

"Why?"

He chuckled. "So many questions."

You cowered slightly. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Sarge." He bumped his nose against yours. "You looked sad when I didn't."

Oh, bollocks. "You noticed that?"

He nodded, looking as if he pitied you. "You're not very good at hiding your emotions. Your face speaks volumes."

Double bollocks. "Then you must've known how I felt for ages."

"Suspected. Thought it was wishful thinking."

There were a whole array of words to express how stupid he was. You refrained from using all of them and stayed silent.

Unlucky for you, Simon could read it on your face. "I can tell you're itching to insult me."

"But I'm not going to." You shook your head, readjusting on the pillow beneath you. "All I'll say is... you're so pretty, Simon."

"Oh, bugger off." He moved to push away from you completely.

But you had other plans as you tightened your hold around his back. "Never!"

***

He landed on top of you with a groan and a mumbled apology. It was fine. You were trained to drag about three fully grown men out of a burning if you had to. He felt like nothing on top of you despite being six foot four and muscly as hell. It was rather nice actually, feeling all of him pressed up against you. And yes, that meant all of him.

Skin heating up at that, you hoped he didn't notice how you were suddenly burning as he lifted himself back onto his elbows and looked down at you. Nothing was said on the matter, which you were glad about. What you were even more glad about was him mumbling something about wanting more orgasms out of you and then proceeding to lower himself down your body, trailing tender kisses across your skin as he went.

When he got far enough down, Simon situated himself between your legs. It seemed to be his favourite place in recent times. Secretly, he'd admit it was. You didn't protest when he placed a large hand on either thigh and opened you up for him again, just let him do what he wanted. And he seemed very happy to spend his time pleasuring you and making sure you felt good even though he appeared to care very little about himself.

So, that's how you spent god knows how long. You writhing underneath his firm grip and him spending a countless amount of time between your legs as he drew out orgasm after orgasm. Even when you became sensitive and the overstimulation was getting to be too much, he just cooed and encouraged you further.

"Come on, Sarge. I know you can do one more for me. Just one more." He comforted you, fingers of one hand stroking the soft flesh of your inner thigh and the fingers of the other hand inside you. "Good girl. Come on."

Maybe he wasn't the only one with a thing for praise.

And after what seemed like hours of pure delight for you, he was finally satisfied with what he'd done and tentatively returned to his space next to you in bed.

He fell asleep quickly after that, you wrapped in his arms, with a relaxed expression on his face. And when you finally joined him in his state of unconsciousness after watching him breathe deeply for a while, you dreamt only of him. His face, his touch, his eyes roaming your mind. It was peaceful. And you were happy.

When you awoke to Simon placing lazy kisses along your shoulder you thought maybe you'd died and gone to heaven. The only reminder that this was still reality was the soreness between your legs and the dull ache you still had for him, craving him.

He was behind you, spooning you, and you could feel he was already hard against your back. "Good morning, Sarge."

Morning voice. Husky. Deep. Delectable. You could drown in it.

"Good morning." You returned, pressing back against him and loving the hiss he let out.

And before you knew it, your head was angled awkwardly to look over your shoulder so you could kiss him and he was sliding into you. Finally. You gasped into his mouth when he did, immediately urging him to move. His hands gripped your hips tightly, using you to help the friction.

You rocked against each other, the position not being one of your favourites as you couldn't see his face or reactions properly, but he made up for it with the sounds he was letting out right next to your ear. And it was intimate, you were still practically cuddling.

"Fuck, Sarge." He groaned into your shoulder, biting down slightly to muffle himself.

That only set you off further, grinding yourself back harder against him. You could do this forever, never wanted him to stop. No, you needed him to never stop. This was perfect. The two of you alone forever in your bed, not a care in the world. Just rounds and rounds of sex and the occasional conversation here and there.

You were caught off guard by his hand snaking around to your front and his fingers suddenly circling your clit.

You gasped and bucked against his hand. "Simo-" His name was cut off by another choked sound leaving your mouth. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

It didn't need to be said, the promise of not stopping was silent. But he gave you verbal confirmation anyway. "Never, Sarge. Come on. Come for me. That's it, good girl.”

The climax was approaching rapidly and he knew that from the way you were beginning to spasm around him, his own also crawling up on him. But you were priority.

So he held off until you were spent, head thrown back against him and eyes screwed shut as you let out breathless pants in a mixture of soft sounds.

He didn't stop, just quickened his pace as he hips began to falter. "Where, Sarge?"

You knew what he meant. "In me. Please, in me."

So he did. His warmth filled you up as he came inside you, immediately relaxing behind you with more kisses scattered along the skin of your shoulder.

After he pulled out of you, it took a few moments before you managed to catch your breath again. God, you'd never get enough of this.

***

There was suddenly heavy breathing behind you. Simon had fallen asleep again. Typical man.

With the remnants of him dripping out of you, you rushed off to the toilet to clean up and get partially ready for the day - you brushed your teeth and put on some clean clothes. When you were done, you returned to your bedroom to find him still fast asleep. You could leave him for a while longer. He always looked tired.

You trotted to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea, getting out a second mug and teabag for Simon when he finally woke up for good.

With your cup of tea in one hand and your phone in the other as you checked all your messages from friends wishing you a happy new year, you leant against the counter and failed to notice a certain someone waking up in your room some time later.

Simon awoke to a cold bed, his arm stretching out to find you only for you not to be there. He felt disappointed for a moment before remembering the events of earlier in the morning. Shit, had he really fallen back to sleep instantly?

A sense of embarrassment flooding through him, he sat up quickly and looked around. His clothes were tossed to various places around the room, as were yours. You really hadn't bothered to clean up. He liked that for some reason.

He had nothing else with him so just pulled his t-shirt and boxer briefs back on from the day before, hoping they weren't too crinkled. But he doubted you'd care if they were.

Then, before leaving your bedroom, he thought of you. And what had finally happened between the two of you. Even though he probably should've, he didn't regret it one bit.

Simon Riley had been torturing himself for weeks over you. The feelings had started growing as soon as you smiled at him in the goddamn cheese aisle, before you even knew who he was. And whilst they hadn't solidified until a little more down the line, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go after that. And when you actually seemed to like him - him, not Ghost, not Lieutenant Riley, just Simon - he knew he was inevitably screwed.

It didn't help that you looked at him so adoringly, never a glimpse of hostility in your sparkling eyes, with an ever permanent smile on your lips. It's like you were daring him to try not being head over heels for you. And he'd hate himself for breaking every rule ever laid out to him by Price and other higher ups if you didn't make him feel so good, so warm inside.

And that's exactly what he felt as he walked in on you in your kitchen, humming to yourself as you rifled through your fridge for something to eat. The usual tingling sensation you set off in him was in full power as you turned to him, smiling spreading at the sight of him and eyes twinkling. It didn't help that you looked flushed and glowing with your slightly messed up hair and shaky legs. Freshly fucked, he'd describe it as. And he was the cause.

He approached you without a moment of hesitation, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you. "Good morning, Sarge."

You smiled against his mouth. "Second good morning, actually. We already did this once."

"Mhm, and what an amazing first good morning it was." He hummed against you, kissing you again. And again. And again.

Reluctantly you broke away, not fully out of his grasp though. "Do you want tea?"

"I'd love tea." He replied, still not letting you go.

"Simon, I need my body to make you tea." You chortled.

"And I need your body for other things." He whispered into your ear.

"Cheeky." You scoffed and pushed him away. "I will make you tea. Go sit down."

He agreed only after planting another lingering kiss on you and left for the living room. This was surreal to him. He was with someone he liked. Who liked him back. And you were... happy together. There was no underlying venom or bitterness fuelling the feelings, specifically the lust, between you. This kind of thing didn't happen for Simon Riley. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he'd wake up in some cold safe house a million miles away from here only to find out this was some sick fantasy his mind conjured to play cruel tricks on him. But you were so warm and so good, so everything Simon didn't deserve. Which is why he'd selfishly keep you for as long as he could.

And when you emerged out of the kitchen, precariously balancing two cups of tea, with a look towards him full of adoration, he knew he was so screwed that it was almost funny. Simon decided then that if you thought about him half as often as he thought about you, with just a pinch of the infatuation he felt for you, that he was a very lucky man.

"I haven't got much for breakfast, I'm afraid. Probably got a box of Cheerios or something in a cupboard. Or we could go out to eat. If you'd like." You suggested, stood in front of him with your hands twisting together in embarrassment. You weren't used to hosting company in the mornings and having him here was so strange after him leaving before daybreak all the previous times he'd slept on your sofa. This was different though. This time he'd slept in your bed.

Simon stared up at you, intensity gone from his gaze to leave only affection. "I don't care." He really didn't.

He didn't need some fancy breakfast cooked up for him. He didn't need the probably stale cereal you offered. He didn't need anything aside from one thing.

All he needed, for now, was you.

A/N: I’ll let them be happy… for now. Please don’t comment on the smut if it’s bad. And full disclosure: Sarge and Soap were listening to Baby Got Back.

Thanks to @ramadiiiisme for consulting with me on the smut 🙏🥰

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fanfiction #simon riley #ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x you #ghost riley #ghost riley fanfiction #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fanfiction #ghost #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #ghost riley smut #ghost smut #ej’s fics #ej’s writing #deakyjoe’s fics #deakyjoe’s writing

[the-likeable-wizard-mack]

Modern Fantasy Monsters: Monster Roommates!

Werewolves having to disclaim to their human/ non werewolf roommate that they get a bit cranky when it gets close towards the full moon so the roommate can prepare for it.

Vampire's who are almost always home during the day due to the sun so they can let you into the apartment/ dorm. Also going out at night with the vampire at night since they might know were all the fun night-life spots are.

Rooms that have a mimic living there for a while only to be discovered by a collage student who accidently almost smothers the poor thing with a pillow on the collage furniture in the dorm. They sorta have truce were the collage student will allow the mimic to stay only if they can keep their shared space well guarded.

Elves who's room smells completely like a forest and morning dew. They use diffusers to make their room and the shared space smell like you're walking through a dense wooded area to make it feel more homely.

Mermaid, naga and centaur accommodating rooms that have areas were they can rest their bodies and have more space. Similarly centaurs having stable like doors rather than regular doors.

Ghosts of collage students who have been living haunting in the dorms for a long time giving small tidbits of advice to incoming students who are moving in on stuff they've seen. Such as Ghost: "They never check for stuff under the bed man. You a can hide your stash there." Human: "Are you sure? I think they might be suspicious." Ghost: "You just gotta be sneaky with it. Like really sneaky with it. I snuck in so much shit and I turned out fine." Human: "....But, you're a ghost." Ghost: "Oh, uhh...died for different reason

Demons who place a pentagram portal to the underworld in the basement right next to the laundry machine of their shared small home. The roommate realized that there was a portal in the laundry room when they saw a hellish monster ripping up their bedsheets.

Angels who bless every single part of their shared room plus their roommates room so that they always at least feel a bit warm and fuzzy on the inside whenever they feel sad. They're a great roommate despite their feathers getting everywhere.

#urban fantasy #suburban fantasy #modern fantasy #fantasy #my writing #urban magic #writing #werewolves #werecreature #vampries #vampire #vampyr #elves #high elf #elven #merfolk #mermen #mermaid #centaur #centaurs #ghost #naga #angels and demons #demons #angels and devils #angels #writer #fantasy writing #writeblr #writers

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

hehehe solomon for the trick or treat event 👀🎃✨

Hi Ven! By the grace of the spinner god's, you get a treat! I wrote yours with an idea I've had since the beginning of October that I never got around to writing. I really hope you enjoy! 🖤

Solomon x GN! reader

Scary Stories

Cocytus Hall is shrouded in shadow, both inside and out. Anyone unsuspecting would believe no one was home if they passed by the darkened windows. It seemed vacant; although within its walls is the low vibrato of a voice, making sure each syllable is sharp and perfectly articulated as it recounts a chilling tale.

It’s in the common room that a flashlight shines from beneath Solomon’s chin, casting shadows on the valleys of his features, yet highlighting an eerie grin that tugs on his lips. He’s created the perfect ambience for you - a small crackling fire, a mist floating along the floor that ghosts over your feet and legs, and the occasional creepy sound in the background that punctuates any scene he deems worthy of fear - all with the help of his magic.

Rounding on the climax of his story, his words grow slower and quieter, wanting to drag out the suspense for as long as he can. And then…right at the pinnacle…a phantom hand grabs your shoulder from behind! The sorcerer’s sneaky scheme causes you to jump practically ten feet in the air; and the spooky ambience dwindles as laughter echoes through the dormitory at your distressed state. You scramble to check behind you, finding nothing but mist while giving him a piece of your mind. Ah, but don’t worry, he reminds you that the night is still young and it’s your turn to share a scary story. You have a chance to get back at him.

And while Solomon knows he’s not easily startled, he's excited to hear the story you’ll come up with, and if you’ll follow in his footsteps to attempt setting the scene with magic. If it’s good enough, he might just play along for his adorable apprentice.

Songs: Mysterons ~ Portishead, Run ~ Air, Seven Devils ~ Florence + the Machine

#trick or treat event #obey me #obey me solomon #obey me solomon x reader #jo writes

[pupstim]

The portal entrance yawned open in front of Danny, hungry and waiting. It was dark, the earlier attempts to turn it on failing as his parent’s magnum opus failed with barely a cough. But Danny knew better. Danny could feel it waiting for him, calling to him.

The inside of it was dark and still, Danny’s hazmat covered hand laying gently on the side. He could feel the machine’s anticipation, making the hair on his head stand on end, before realizing that was actually the machine powering on.

He had no time to scream as the portal ripped open. Reality shattering around him as his soul was flung into the thin membrane between realities. He saw himself, several of him selves, some wearing crowns, others in space, all of them ghosts.

His view fracturing, splintering, shattering as his conscience was flung to far corners of the infinite realms only to rebound back.

Danny fell from the portal, gasping as his mind scrambled to reorient itself. He quickly sat up, the glowing green of the portal casting everything into shadows. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he watched as what looked to be several copies of himself sat up groaning. They all had glowing green eyes as they looked to him and as Danny looked to a mirror he could see the same green reflected back to him. So he did what he always did whenever a ghost was involved, he fainted.

====

Dannymay Day 21: Shatter

Not going to lie was not looking forward to this but as I wrote this story it grew on me. I added in some sneaky elements of the one idea I had while I was sick  a while ago. With Danny being terrified of ghosts and I really liked how it came out. A little clumsy but I feel like I’m getting the hang of it. Been really enjoying the switch from drawings to writings, its like being a mixed bag, dunno what im gunna do for the day until I’m doing it.

I wanted this story to be about Danny shattering reality hence several of himselves being thrown into his reality. I imagine the portal is actually quite sentient and since this Danny is scared of ghosts it just flings as many ghost boys at the ghost boy as it can.

This came quite close about 245 words out of 250, but I am satisfied with it.

Thanks to everyone who looks at my funny little things. It warms me up to see even a like on my stuff. I didn’t think I’d get any interaction at all but ya’ll incredible. It makes me smile :)

I am giving all of you who accept it a gentle kiss on the forehead.

#Dannymay2023 #Danny Phantom

[thisisnotthenerd]

fuck it bell’s hells leverage au

all of these people, endless collateral damage under the thumbs of the rich and powerful, come together in a found family story that features several heists and the opposition of powerful people. a group of not-totally moral people looking to help when they can. sound familiar?

they don’t all fit into easy categories. but this is where i see them going.

ashton: hitter. very much the eliot spencer, but in more of a punk rock way. less traditional masculinity and more dealing with the repercussions of being beat up on and abandoned for an entire lifetime. okay at stealing because it came from necessity, but more efficient at doing their ’extremely useful damage’, much to their internal displeasure. was working with the nobodies and got burned--cracking the shell after that takes a lot of time.

fearne: thief. very much like parker, but better at the flirting. her upbringing, much like parker, plays into her lack of moral code and attachment to the first person/people she opened up to. her general chaos makes doing heists a fun thing for her, but she starts running into responsibility as her loose cannon nature is matched by the rest of the team. known for a lot of arson and random unexplained animals in places that they should not be.

imogen: grifter. gets a shitton of information passively and communicates it throughout the team. their main liaison with other people e.g. clients, other groups. started out trying to find her mom by digging further into a research study and stumbled on something bigger than she had ever imagined. starts questioning whether what the RV is doing isn’t so bad, but gets her head on straight after realizing she’s compromised. starts using that inborn charisma to get people to not question her. maybe they do a job where she pretends to be a fake psychic but actually is reading minds?

laudna: hacker. came into it after being used to fake vex’s death. don’t question the details--it gets too complicated and she doesn’t like to talk about it. lots of little bots e.g. sashimi & pate. i imagine that she’s still creepy and does a lot of the intimidation work that chetney & ashton don’t get to. becomes a ghost in the machine. i think it would be quite interesting to consider delilah as a computer virus that laudna just carries around on her laptop all the time. maybe laudna’s in a coma for a bit and they notice something’s up with all the machines that she’s hooked up to.

fcg: grifter-assassin turned hacker. (haha the robot is the hacker very funny) only for technology though: hardison and breanna do a ton of other stuff that deserve other titles. it’s more coming into play with their recent activity with the warders. realistically they play the role of a grifter/assassin to begin with, and start to come into other specialties later on, like working with food and with hardware, much like hardison did.

chetney: thief/mastermind. he does a lot of group reconnaissance and the necessary sneaky stuff to get them into and through places and less stealing than fearne does. will randomly fuck with people to get into their heads, but sometimes it’s only for his amusement. smart enough to influence the strategy of the group (in battle at least). his old toy mafia sets them up for couple of takedowns and potential for a sterling-type character, as well as past partner interactions the way we saw with eliot.

orym: hitter/mastermind combo. general moral compass--he points them where they need to go next and keeps the group on track to do what they need to do. in this scenario, he’s not like nate ford in terms of seeking revenge, but more searching for answers outside of the system. he just also does 200 crunches every morning and will beat the shit out of people who attack/slow the team down. i imagine he would do the thing eliot did pretty often and go be a generic background person in order to get on location and do recon/remove obstacles. i can’t see him being antagonistic to keyleth and the ashari, so maybe it starts with him taking a sabbatical from his work with them and getting a loose mission to look into the activities of the ruby vanguard, and he runs into the rest of the group over the course of the investigation.

no one really plans the heists alone--they do big debriefs together that never result in the plans that actually get executed. lots of on the spot ideas and impulses--the orgy plan definitely becomes a contingency that is closer to the forefront than some people would like.

and of course, the members that aren’t with them any longer:

dorian: grifter, but in more of a distraction way than an intimidation way. multitalented, so he ends up doing face work the way sophie did. eventually has to return home to deal with his family crisis and reunites with the crown keepers, who are more sent in to cause chaos in the lives of many people.

bertrand: old gentleman thief, out of his prime. regales them all with tales of his youth and old exploits very often. gets them into shit just like nate did, but is murdered quietly in an alley after their first heist, which sets the tone and gets the group into investigation along with the general heist shenanigans.

dusk/yu: thief/grifter. rival to fearne, though she’s not aware at first. successfully manipulates the group into working with them until they find the calloways. working under the unseelie court, which is maybe an organized crime syndicate? who knows. they’re very good at body transformations by way of prosthetics, and do a good deal of infiltration.

#critical role #bell's hells #leverage #ashton greymoore #cr ashton #fearne calloway #cr fearne #imogen temult #cr imogen #laudna #cr laudna #fresh cut grass #cr fcg #chetney pock o'pea #cr chetney #orym of the air ashari #cr orym #dorian storm #cr dorian #bertrand bell #cr bertrand #yu suffiad #cr yu

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Twenty: Blanky 

Hickey’s background machinations continue and Blanky has absolutely no time for them: “He knew that some of the less educated men - centred around the caulker’s mate, Cornelius Hickey, whom Blanky has never liked nor respected - were spreading the word that the Thing on the Ice was some sort of demon or devil... some around Hickey were already making sacrifices to the monster, setting them outside the forward cable locker in the hold where everyone now knew Lady Silence, obviously an Esquimaux witch, was hiding. Hickey and his giant idiot friend, Magnus Manson, seemed to be the high priests of this cult - or rather, Hickey was the priest and Manson the acolyte...”

Not too much else jumps out at me in this chapter, to be honest. It’s mainly Blanky ruminating on recent events but it finishes with him dwelling on his own part in things and on his own guilt which is always interesting to me. 

Chapter Twenty-One: Blanky 

This chapter covers Tuunbaq’s attack which is much the same as the show for the most part. Blanky is out on deck with different men in this case and Tuunbaq chases him not only up the mast but then out onto the ice. 

He is, of course, a consummate and sweary badass throughout - here’s a little quote that really made me laugh:  “God-damn your eyes!” roared Thomas Blanky. “If you don’t retrieve that weapon this gob-fucking minute, a flogging of fifty from the cat will be the least bugger-fucking thing you have to worry about, John Handford. Now, move!”  Just scolds the poor guy like a big angry mother hen, full name and everything! Outstanding! And he carries on doing it!  “Just stay where you are,” snapped Blanky... “Don’t shoot me when I come back with Leys or I swear to God my ghost will haunt you ‘til you die, John Handford.”

He is wrong about one thing though - he fully believes that Tuunbaq won’t be able to climb the mast which makes the moment it does start clambering up after him all the more gut-wrenching. Interestingly, Blanky himself also ends up doing various heroic things and climbing up various ropes that he admits himself shouldn’t be possible to do which is a great and sneaky little parallel between him and Tuunbaq. 

Ooh actually, there is one more thing he’s wrong about:  “At that instant Thomas Blanky realized that the seaman whom he’d silently cursed as being superstitious fools had been right; this thing from the ice was as much demon or god as it was animal flesh and white fur. It was a force to be appeased or worshipped or simply fled.”

That being said, by the time it chases him out onto the ice he’s not all that bothered after all about appeasing it:  “Blanky’s last prayer was that one of his bones would lodge in the thing’s throat.”

Interesting, it’s Hickey to the rescue again though he’s not bashing caulk off a door this time, he’s slipping through the tiny gap into the ice-cave Blanky’s found himself in because he’s the only man small enough to fit. Blanky thinks it’s “like watching a gimlet-faced gnome being born.”

Two last little minor things, one that feels very out of place and anachronistic - Mr Reid cajoling Blanky saying “Your grandkids will love them scars”- and one that punched me right in the gut - mention of Blanky reading ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’ which we may remember was later found torn, exposed, and windblown out on King William Island IRL. 

#The Terror #The Terror AMC #Observations #Random Observations #Meta #Rereading The Terror #Thomas Blanky #Cornelius Hickey #Tuunbaq #Can we start calling him a gimlet-faced gnome instead of a caffeinated saint please?

[propertyofwhitney67]

I break your door in

I sneak in the basement

It is my home now

But you never find out

Cause I am sneaky

I am the rat man

I go up at night

And eat your cheese!

Aaaah!

[Bridge]

But one day you find out there is a rat man inside the basement and you call the cops

But the cops don't take it seriously

So you call the Ghöüstbusteirs™ instead!

The Ghöüstbusteirs™

Are ill-equipped

They only have ghost busting weapons

But they should’ve brought a shotgun

But I have a gun so I kill them instead

Oh no, it's murder!

That's fine, I don't even like cheese. Also I will find you, we check the crawlspace often but you are right that the cops are ill-equipped so I wouldn't bother calling them. I just get out the pistol or the old Chinese machine gun /j

#asks

[leomonae]

Summary:

An undercover illithid, their vampire partner, said partner's family, and an Underdark camp filled with thousands of starving vampire spawn none of them actually asked to be responsible for keeping alive. Apart from the illithid's ghost in the machine, of course. Tav POV. Updates Saturday.

Next chapter is up! Featuring: Astarion being so, so sneaky, you guys (and also more Jaheira and some BG2 references, wooo)

My thanks to @brabblesblog for betaing!

#baldur's gate 3 #hyperfixation ahoy #my writing #astarion x tav #illithid tav #we shall not all die verse

[sleepyowlwrites]

you 🤝 me

birthdays at the end of October

I'll follow your countdown!! also hiii how are you???

- Cozy

I finally moved my summer clothes into their bins and my winter clothes into the closet. I also filled up a basket of clothes for donation or consignment - it's mom's problem now! - I listened to Florence + the machine the whole time and used up playlist so I'm listening to PHILDEL now. Also a haunted voice singer, so the vibes are carrying. I'm eating dinner now and while I'd like to say I'm going to work on my OPLA fic after, I'm probably just going to play wizard101 and chat with Klove or something.

Last week was SO EXHAUSTING but I'm hoping that the current insomnia phase is going to break soon. If not, well, I'll just make it through like I always do. I think I've successfully managed to make two of my coworkers bake treats for my birthday because I'm sneaky like that.

I was about to morph to something else 'cause I was feeling like such a ghost, but the weekend off helped a lot. I also was a good kid and unloaded the dishwasher, put away and washed the other dishes, and uh, broke a glass. And stabbed myself a teeny bit. Oh well.

At least I have apple pears, apple cider, and apple kombucha to comfort me. Also macarons.

How have YOU been, my love?

#sleepy answers #warm and cozy friend

[arkhavens]

a brief intro to my(developed) swtor toons alongside what tma entity they would serve+why

Orion Caesus-Kallig

Mostly human, DS Sith Inquisitor, Lightning Sorc, absolutely batshit crazy mad scientist man i love you<33, scary smart but entirely willing to let people underestimate him in that regard. im hovering somewhere between end, eye, and extinction for him. the end is the obvious one for any inquis tbh, given that its all about both literal and metephorical endings(death, ghosts/spirits, abandonment, silence, etc). Eye as well is incredibly on the nose for any inquisitor, with it being mainly knowledge(knowing+being known, being watched, secrets, etc). Exinction is the most interesting one for him, and the one im leaning towards the most. Considering the inquis is literally remade i think twice over the course of the story, technically being part bug bc of the balmorra mission, and technically being part rakata bc of the mother machine, the whole Massive change/ Something Other thing really fits him. and personally idk why but ive always associated the extinction w/ lightning and smog which is just really fun for a ds lightning sorc

Athanasius(full/actual name pending lol)

Sith Pureblood, LS/Neutral Sith Warrior, allowed himself one(1) moment of insanity[befriending orion], the only one of my swtor characters that is even remotely chill. on a line between hunt and buried for him. on one hand, literally HUNTS down enemies of the empire, and was baras' assassin for the duration of his apprenticeship. on the other, has nearly gotten buried alive so many times, the immense pressure of being unwillingly thrust into the position of Emperor's Wrath. im settling on a mix of both for him but really it could go either way.

Tsali Aluin

Mirialan, DS Jedi Consular, sneaky little cunt, hes so tall so he can fit more horrors inside of himself, evil bastard jedi the beloved<3, has managed to trick the entire council into thinking hes mostly a good person, is ABSOLUTELY NOT, is at a point in his life where hes honestly just seeing exactly how blatantly evil he can be before they notice. web/slaughter 110%. manipulative, a bitch, kills people just to get away with it.

Zalos Kahe

Togruta, Neutral/DS Jedi Knight. had a major fall from grace, wanted to be good So Badly and tried So Hard but being steeped in the darkside and having the literal sith emperor in ur head for 6months leaves a MARK. after that whole Thing™️, he's so So angry at everything, and the council only seems to acknowledge him when They need something of him, and Scourge is right there saying everything he "needs" to hear. mans didnt just fall he lept off a cliff. definitely Desolation/slaughter. The burning rage, everything he lost/had ripped away vs being forced for months to kill and kill and Kill, and then once youve broken free of that control still turning to that violence because with everything stripped away its the one thing thats still familiar.

#i feel like this is a fun way to introduce my current developed swtor pcs #bc tma is that one media that once you consume it #it haunts you for the rest of your life and you cant consume any other media w/o linking back to it #swtor #swtor oc #tma entities #i know this is like uber niche but hey it was rattling around in my head so #my posts

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Hello! I hope you are having a nice day (or are about to be). I am here because you have an OC named Artanis Felagund, and I simply cannot let that pass without comment. I am sending you the equivalent of,

Sans threat, of course. Please take this as an invitation to speak about what inspired her.

HHHEEEEYYYYY!!!!! I love Arty. She is my babiest baby.

So when I made Artanis, I already had Leara Rose-blade and Jolinar Aren. Leara was the heroic spellsword and Jolinar the sneaky mage. I made Artanis to fill in where I saw as the last remaining gap of Companions + Dark Brotherhood. Artanis was always a Companion first and the Listener second. Like she came to Skyrim as a mercenary and ended up joining the Companions, but as time went on, she strayed away and was recruited into the Dark Brotherhood.

Artanis is initially a noble character, but she has a lot of baggage and trauma that makes her easy prey for the machinations of others. That's probably why I paired her with Farkas: He is kind and doesn't have any backhanded schemes that would hurt Arty. Farkas is honest, and because he is honest, Artanis can be honest with him. They trust each other — even if Farkas has to get her out of some of the more burly situations that a five feet tall Bosmer has no business getting into.

I consider Artanis to be my first well-rounded and multifaceted character with fears, traumas, and a fall from grace. She's afraid of wisps because they've hurt her before. She has pyrophobia (which made Kodlak's funeral . . . fun). She joins the Dark Brotherhood because Sithis sent Lucien's ghost to recruit her when Astrid wouldn't. Really, the main arc of her story hasn't changed much since I made her in late 2014/early 2015.

Well, except for her and Farkas's adoption of Lucia. I think that makes the whole family happier.

#i didn't even mention how she's been friendzoning cicero since she was like 16 #oc: artanis felagund #azura's ask box

[krissiefox]

Adventures of Sonic The Hedgehog - Super Robotnik (Screenshots and Review)

In today's episode, we get to see what happens when Robotnik gets mutant superpowers, as you might guess from the title!

The episode starts with Coconuts cleaning up in Robotnik's lab, when he knocks over an entire shelf of chemicals into a tub! As Robotnik enters the room, he slips and falls right into the tub of mixed chemicals. Luckily for Robotnik, instead of getting dangerously ill, he ends up getting big muscles, and superpowers! As an added bonus, his clothing transforms into a snazzy little supervillain outfit "Sailor Moon style". To show his appreciation, Robotnik promotes Coconuts, and then demotes Scratch and Grounder, just to be petty. Those poor badniks can't catch a break! Robotnik tasks Coconuts with creating more of the new chemical mixture before heading out to do dastardly things.

Robotnik quickly heads off to attack Sonic, whom is relaxing at a nice little town park with Tails, enjoying some chili dogs that some unnamed fellow has made for them. Robotnik shows off his new strength by knocking the entire town airborne, and then using his new ice breath to freeze Sonic and Tails before flinging them all the way to the Frozen Wastelands of Mobius!

All the world leaders are old white guys? That’s a big “yikes”, as the kids would say... Returning to his fortress, Robotnik stands up on a balcony window while Coconuts fails on his first chemical batch, accidentally making a slime monster that chases him and the other badniks around. Thanks to his newly enhanced hearing, Robotnik is able to hear the Mobius' world leaders gathering together to discuss what to do about him. Apparently Mobius' world leaders consists of….4 old white guys? Who may also be ghosts? I'd kinda expect...or hope.. for some more diversity than that! Whether they're ghosts or not, Robotnik soon arrives at their location and easily captures them all, carting them off to his dungeon.

This art style is just too cute!

As this has all been going on, Sonic and Tails have finally managed to get  out of all the snow and ice they'd gotten buried under, only to run into Robotnik again. The doctor challenges Sonic to a competition of athletic feats, saying if he wins, that's the only way the world leaders will be set free (which is probably a lie, knowing Robotnik). After Robotnik departs, Sonic and Tails go to find Professor Von Schlemmer and get his help with training Sonic. It was around this time I noticed that the art and animation in this episode had a bit of a different feel to it, making me wonder if they'd had a special animator guest this time , and I was more or less right upon looking it up- this was one of the few episodes of the show that was outsourced to a Japanese animation studio called "TMS Entertainment". Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the story!

The Professor eventually appears after having difficulty "finding himself". Oddly, he seems to have two lazy eyes in this episode where he doesn't in others, and this never gets addressed. He also seems really disorientated and tired, which makes me wonder if he got beat up by Robotnik or something? I hope he'll be okay!

Poor Robotnik ends up sitting on a thumbtack, which is how Tails finds out about his one weakness. He’s very self-conscious about his bottom, referring to it as his “unmentionable” area.

As Sonic begins to train with the Professors exercise machine,he also sends Tails off to spy on Robotnik. Thankfully, after a bit of sneaky peeping, Tails finds out that Robotnik's bottom is his one weak point, because it's the only part of him that didn't get submerged in the chemicals. Amusingly, we also find out that Robotnik is squeamish about his own butt, as he refers to it as his "unmentionable area".

With this information, The Professor cooks up a special powder that is supposed to dissipate Robotnik's powers, and puts it into a seat cushion that Sonic gives to Robotnik while in disguise.

Since Coconuts couldn’t figure out how to recreate the chemical formula, he gives Robotnik a “rump protector”, much to the Doc’s embarrassment. Scratch and Grounder are eager to polish that fine booty.

Seems we have a cameo appearance by Willie Nelson in this episode! And that little guy on the far right looks like a tiny version of Japanese Eggman... Later on, the coliseum event begins. It seems the coliseum is no longer abandoned - there's a great big crowd, and an announcer there! Sonic and The Doc begin competing in various challenges, and.... hey, is that Willie Nelson in the crowd booing Robotnik? Nice! (There's also a little guy on the far right who has kind of a Japanese Robotnik look to him, too!)

In the final challenge, they have to fight on a plank over  a pit of brown, uh "yuk" as the announcer calls it. Is it poop? mud? expired chocolate pudding?! We'll probably never know! But whatever it is, Sonic successfully knocks Robotnik into it, just as his powers wear off. Sonic is able to snatch the dungeon key from Robotnik and free the world leaders. At the very last scene, an angel that Robotnik threw Sonic into earlier zaps him with lightning. Yep, apparently gods exist in the Sonic universe! Hopefully Sonic and Tails won't have to deal with any of Yahweh's temper tantrums…

In the Sonic Says sequence, Sonic tries to teach Coconuts about chemical safety. This is definitely a good lesson as it's something that gets brought up sometimes in my own workplace in regards to safely dealing with chemical spills. I suspect they might have also added this PSA out of concern that someone's dumb shitty kid might watch this episode and actually believe they'll get super powers form dousing themself in a bunch of random chemicals. That's no good!

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This episode was really neat! It was fun seeing Robotnik flex his badass superpowers, and the use of a different animation team also gives this episode a unique feel at times. There's plenty of action and humor to enjoy too, especially when seeing Robotnik rather pitifully fretting over his own tushy. Definitely a recommended view!

#Super Robotnik #Aosth #adventures of sonic the hedgehog #Sonic #sonic the hedgehog #Tails #Miles Prower #Robotnik #Dr. Robotnik #Scratch #Grounder #Willie Nelson #Eggman #superpowers #TMS Entertainment

[waterparksdrama]

had a dream a few daysago thet i was an arcade machine but like i was also a ghost but also sneaky and i looked like that one person from steven Universe (i have never watched steven Universe) and awsten was a cat (or a phone maybe, i fhink he was probably phone) and he was also a ghost thing but luke it was bad and we made out sloppy style in a basement that i am either directly above rn or have never seen in m life, also he tried to literally bite a hole in my shirt at some point (as the cat phone garvage can fence shelf thing)

-iz

#so what i'm getting is you made out with a cat phone that kept biting you #and awsten was the cat #wow. what do i even make of this

[blastikmusik]

sunny side down 646

CULK - Flutlicht Midi Memory - Give Up The Ghost Casket Cassette - Gravity Beachside talks - Boring Train Oddy Knocky - Dreamt PAUL EISEN - WELTRAUMSPAZIERGANG Aze - Sneaky Link Jaakko Eino Kalevi & Alma Jodorowsky - Palace In My Head KLEZ.E - Düster NewDad - Nightmares figaro - Save Yourself The Number Red - Beautiful Human Casket Cassette - Weatherhead R. Missing - Heavens Lower Morning Silk - Which Side Are You On Mind Shrine - Runner Love Spells - Obsessed With Your Mind Nick Zubeck - Time Machine

#music #dreampop #dream pop #shoegaze #bedroompop #bedroom pop #postpunk #post punk #mixtapes #mixtape