#might attempt ghost ponies sometime as well

[pics-pizza-peace]

The Real Ghostbusters Pony Cosplays

#pizza's ponies #if they seem a lil off it's because i haven't been able to watch the show for reference recently #i didn't look up anyone's eye colors and only half-watched like 4 episodes when i still had earbuds #gifset #gonna have to wait for new ones to continue watching #crossover ponies #the real ghostbusters #ghostbusters #mlp #ponytown #pixel cosplay #peter venkman #egon spengler #winston zeddemore #janine melnitz #ray stantz #might attempt ghost ponies sometime as well #cartoon ponies #please don't repost without credit/permission #other outfits & characters & plush toy ghost design possibilities coming soon

[jangofctts]

Mirrored Heart (captain rex x fem!reader)

rated: 18+ explicit 

word count: 5.6k

warnings: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, blow jobs, clone space racism?  

a/n: ANYWAY HERE IT IS. ive had this draft saved since like a year ago and just now finished it. anyway kwjrkejh here YALL GO. also thank you @jango-fettish​ FOR LETTING ME BORROW SYRENA 

It's curious. 

Well, you, as a whole are curious—completely outside the realm of what Rex considers normal. As far as senators go, that is. 

You're grumpy for one—worse than Skywalker and far more snide than Kenobi—a near gargantuan task bordering impossible. Wit and cleverness come to you easier than breathing, but it's your unwavering kindness towards himself and his brothers that sticks out like a blaster burn against alabaster white walls.  

He passed it off as a joke—some sort of mockery. Rex’s existence has been full of them. The past year it’s been made glaringly clear as to what the clones are to the people of the republic—tools. Mindless war machines dressed with flesh and bone, heart and sinew instead of durasteel and a circuitboard. Humanity has been skimmed over with excuses and debates over the hollow argument that clones were created for the sole purpose of war—nothing more. Ignorance is bliss when you are not the one fighting tooth and nail for petty skirmishes and the survival of your family.        

Ithyea, your home monarchal planet, is a newer member of the Galatic Republic—one of the firsts to advocate for clone rights—cutting through each argument with the steel headed javelin of hope and determination. Controversial in the eyes of the galaxy but no less than true. Yet with controversy, comes chaos. 

Wedged between Takodana and the Cerean Reach hyperspace lane—it’s an essential key to accessing more neutral space sectors without stepping on any toes. While the planet does mirror the size of a larger than average moon, there’s nothing but grandeur with the cutting edge advances in space travel and military innovations. An arts district too, one that’s presented multiple times for the Senate apparently. Rex has yet to see it. It’s an easy guess as to why Ithyea has gone under pointed attacks from the Separatists—it’d be foolish not to try.     

And of course comes the intergalactic mess of politics. You are not Ithyea’s first senator. Or second…or third. Just in the last six months, three of your predecessors have been picked off—two disappearances and a suspicious poisoning sandwiched between them. Which sides these assassinations stem from is anybody’s guess—a mix of both perhaps—all to silence and stamp the voice of your people out.

Heavy are the shoulders that wear those abhorrent senatorial robes, and Maker did it take some convincing for another Ithyean to step to the chopping block. It’s just…no one thought  it’d be you. The infamous captain of King Arrian Felian’s elite guard—trained in combat levels high enough to contend some of those within the ranks of the Jedi Order. When your name comes up in conversation, it certainly doesn’t scream diplomacy.     

Rex is not surprised that you hold the current record of Ithyean senators for surviving the longest. Evading an astonishing two attempts on your life by the skin of your teeth. You were just downright lucky the third assassin missed their mark. Sure, the blade of Syrena Aster skimmed the right side of your cheek and left behind a nasty scar to remember her by, but kriff—even with your background and low levels of public presence, you’re a high priced target. Whoever placed an order with the Heretics, really wants to see you six feet under.     

Rex hasn’t been given the full report on exactly who the Heretics are—a rag tag bunch of untrained Force users and skilled assassins from what he’s gathered—but regardless, this attack is just the beginning. Until the Senate and the Jedi are able to retract the price on your head, you’re stuck under protective custody. Usually ushered away into the Jedi Temple or tagging along with General Kenobi and Skywalker. Despondently, no matter the circumstances of your protection, it can’t shield you from the dreadful invitations to senatorial luncheons.

 And yes, you tried to slip by for this one. 

You don't brush elbows with other senator’s like many of the members in the Jedi Order and your own cohort do. In fact, you actively avoid even speaking to them unless necessary, let alone stand in the same room with seven of them. Odd for an elected official of diplomacy such as yourself to be so cold shouldered—Rex would think senators wanted to mingle.    

It's curious because you're standing in plain sight and yet no one pays you any passing thought. General Kenobi and Skywalker hold the majority of their attentions, shoulders already taught with exasperation at keeping everyone from tearing out each other's throats for, kriffing five minutes. Yet you...you are completely at ease, leaning up against a stone pillar, observing the unfolding chaos from afar with a keen eye. 

Before Rex realizes he's stepping towards your position, you glance over and dip your chin in greeting. The ghost of a smirk pulls at your normally grim facade—his heart skips. "Captain."

"Senator," he mimics, posting himself to your right. There’s still a thin, healing scab from the assassin’s blade that extends from the swell of your cheek to your ear. Ouch. “Enjoying the evening?" 

You snort. "Hardly enjoying it, Rex."

Stars—you shouldn't be allowed to say his name. Your words are razor-sharp like a jagged vibroblade, meant to jab and pierce through armor—tear a person to pieces without having to lift a finger. Everything about you is rough, gritty, brutal, unbecoming of what a senator should be, but— 

You mouth his name, purring out the singular syllable with such tenderness that it's like a punch to the gut. 

It's hard to swallow and he needs to clear his throat—an embarrassing act on his part, but your attention has already returned back towards the meandering senators. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," you sigh, "let's just say smalltalk isn’t my strong suit." 

"Aren't you senators s'pposed to like diplomacy n' such?" 

Your thumb smoothes over your bottom lip in thought as you shrug. "Diplomacy? Sure. Politicians? Can’t say I like them. I just—"

You wave your hand around, gesturing vaguely to the crowd. "I just don't understand why they can't say what they mean. Telling someone to have a nice day shouldn't entail certain death, y'know?"

"Speaking from experience?" He teases, gently prying into that harder than beskar wall you've created for yourself. There's fissions in your foundation and he means to tear it down all for just a mere scrap of information. 

Your eyes flick over, your lips curling into a vulpine grin. “Perhaps...Though, it was partially my fault, I have to admit.” 

“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime, Senator.” 

You nod. “Yes, one day—when there aren’t so many political ears jumping at the chance of gossip.” 

A swell of laughter interrupts your chat, your attention gravitating to Obi-Wan—ever the charmer with the crowds. The end of your mouth pulls into a frown as you sigh and carefully scratch at your brow with the back of your thumb. Rex might be pulling at straws, but what he mistook as you being standoffish may just be your nerves. Socially awkward and flustered when speaking in such an intimate setting. 

Rex’s first instinct is to reach out and place a hand over your shoulder in comfort, but he’s not sure how you’ll respond to the touch. Flip him over your shoulder probably—

Instead he forces himself to jumpstart the conversation—something to distract from your anxieties. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—“ His heart beat kicks up into a flurry of wild beats as you turn you head. “What uh..wh—did you want to become a senator?”

He likes it when you smile—like you’re letting him on some sort of coy secret. You shift your weight and shrug. “The king asked me personally. I’m flattered he thinks I’m clever enough—insulted he sends me to these abysmal gatherings like some sort of show pony.”

Rex chuckles. “Yeah, can’t say I like ‘em either.” 

“Although…” Your thumb runs over your lip again, a sparkle of mischief igniting behind your eyes. “As a senator, I do get the occasional tidbit of gossip. Here, I’ll catch you up—“

The captain startles when you snatch his elbow and yank him closer. Maker he’s glad for his helmet because your lips brush against his earpiece as he leans down to reach your height. 

“Look." You whisper, nodding casually in the direction of a particularly young senator with a shock of white hair. She's swathed in a pool of royal blue silk, much too large for her tiny frame, and all but hanging off Skywalker's arm with glittered nails filed into points. "That is Senator Ceci Paare of Corellia. She looks innocent, no?"

She does. Wide, crystalline green eyes stare up at the Jedi Knight as a pretty giggle escapes past her ruby painted lips. Skywalker grimaces. 

"I quite like her," you continue with a sly grin. "Even if she does try to influence public opinion by an invitation to bed." 

There's no time to process as you focus in on an older man. His hazy blue skin, ash white lips and vermillion green eyes cut an almost nightmarish profile, accentuated by mountains of black robes. Rex can’t recall what planet the senator represents. The senator holds his head stiffer than rebar to keep the ornate golden circlet from slipping off, his white lips curling in distaste as Orn Free Taa of Ryloth places a meaty hand over his slender shoulder. 

"He is Lord Tal’en Sol Ra'ah. Cunning, but sympathetic to the pleasures of gambling."

It's a game to you—of perceptions and nuances only a trained eye can roll over. Rex expects nothing less. This sort of thing has been hammered into the very essence of your being since you were little—reading an enemy before they can strike. It works on politicians marvelously well. 

Truth be told Rex should be paying more attention—but the closeness of your face to his helmet is maddening. His heart twists and coils as your bare hand skims along his gloved one—kriff. He’s not gonna make it before he bursts into a thousand little pieces.  

Rex’s spell of lovesick yearning recedes as you swear under your breath. It was only a matter of time before someone approached your little corner.  

"Oh, Maker save me," you hiss under your breath as a young Mirialan saunters over, the swatches of rich red and brilliant gold accentuate his violet skin like a bloody bruise. "Pretend you're speaking with me." 

"I am speaking with you," Rex snorts. 

Your hand waves in dismissal as your brows stitch together, hands balling into fists. Your jaw clenches as the senator in question puts on a dazzling smile. You look downright panicked. Rex has witnessed you face down numerous senators older than dirt and close to blowing away in the wind with plucky fervor, assassination attempts, being held captive, and you're frightened…by this? 

This is too good. 

Rex has half a mind to help you, wheel you away from your little predicament, but his intrigue with seeing your oh-so-solid resolve crumble is much too valuable and entertaining to pass up. He's going to remember this for years.  

"Rex."

"Senator," he mimics, not at all frightened by your poisonous glare. "Some diplomacy might do you good."

You begin to snarl out a threat but are decidedly cut off by your object of horror planting himself before your hiding spot. You cower into the corner like a boxed in loth-cat. "Ah, my favorite Ithyean! I had begun to worry you would not make it, my dear friend."

"Senator Lin," you sigh. The smile you offer is tight and thin; a nervous one much in the same way one would be if presented with a box of toenails for a birthday gift. “How pleasant to see you."

Senator Lin’s deep violet lips part with an easy smile. He waves a hand in dismissal, his silver rings glinting in the warm lighting. "Please—call me Toluka. No need to bother with such formalities between companions." 

Rex suddenly understands your trepidation with the Mirialan—he’s slimy. And, not to mention, not at all ashamed with the lecherous looks as his eyes sweep down your body. Rex clenches his teeth and folds his arms behind his back. He’s regretting not heeding your warning now…  

Try as you might through brutal small talk and chilly answers, Senator Lin refuses to take the hint. A dark plume of venom green lashes through Rex’s chest as the Mirialan places a friendly hand over your shoulder. You grimace as Rex bristles and glares through the visor of his helmet.  

Senator Lin’s lips pull into a gaudy smile as he glances at Rex and then at you.“My dear, don’t you know? It’s not worth wasting your time with a clone. After all, they’re all the same person. How boorish—come join us at the table.”

Your teeth bite into your cheek as your temper, like the silver of blade through the darkness, cuts through your steely irises. With poised nonchalance, you lift your hand and pinch Senator’s Lin’s fingers between your own and pry them off your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Your campaign, valuable as it may be,” Lin continues, “is a useless endeavor. They are not our equals and never will be--you must know that." 

Rex forces himself to remain calm—collected and certainly not imaging a thousand and one ways he’d like to see his fist breaking the fragile bones of the senator’s face.  

"Fine buttons stitched upon your shoulders do not compel your worth, Senator,” the harshness of your words is a blow straight to Lin’s ego. His well-groomed brows furrow drastically as his tongue struggles to play catch up and find words to repair his shattered pride. 

There’s no chance for Senator Lin to regain his footing as your snatch Rex’s wrist and sweep him out into the hall. Rex can feel your anger roll off of you in waves, frighting and holding the same caliber of roaring waves thundering against black, craggy rocks. It’s a miracle the night didn’t end with your hands wrapped around the senator’s throat or a blaster shot through the chest. 

When you reach the lower halls of the cruise ship is when you release Rex’s wrist. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers and release a long, dramatic sigh.   

"You are worth far more than that pompous ass," you say with enough edge to slice through a droideka's shields. "He has no right to say those things to you." 

“It’s alright,” Rex soothes, placing a hand over your bristling shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.” 

Your features scrunch up into a wince. “That...that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through more of it, Rex.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and loosen the heavy outer robes strung around your shoulders. You shrug out of them and fold the thick swaths of fabric over you arm—revealing the under layers of your uniform. You toss the bundle of fabric to the floor with a disgusted grimace and sit on the cargo crate closest to your left. 

“Really—it’s ok.” Rex assures again. “I—“

You hold up a hand and shake your head. His mouth snaps shut. “I won’t hear it. To me you are nothing short of perfect and I refuse to argue about it. Maker knows I already do that for a kriffing living.”

There’s a fragile lull in the hollow space—the distant chatter of voices and strange music collecting in the corners. You stand once again, toe to toe with the Captain and there it is again, that elated pitter patter of his heart thrumming through his veins. The nerves of being so close to you—you sweet face and not being able to touch you.  

“Let me see your face.”

His hands come up to the edges of his helmet without hesitation, a hiss of hair escaping the seal once he pries it off. You smile and take a step closer until the only thing separating you and him is his helmet. 

Rex’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into your hand you gingerly place over his jaw. “I wish the entire galaxy could see you through my eyes,” you whisper, the warmth of your soft palm radiating out and warming his entire body.  

It’s a matchstick to kerosene—his helmet clatters to the ground and there’s only a second to spare as both hands move to cup his cheeks, dragging him into a mouthwatering kiss. 

He hasn’t kissed many people—save for those rare times at 79’s, head swimming under the haze of one too many shots of Corellian fire whiskeys where he could barely distinguish his ass from his hand. Those drunken make-outs were nothing like this. 

No—this…this is what a kiss should be like.   

He dreams about you all the time—so constantly ravenous that all he can feel some days is pure ache. Every and all words that spin around his head starts with you and finishes with his pounding heart close to bursting free from his ribcage. Not in the same way a flood rips through an unsuspecting village—more like the brilliance of a thousand doves, marble white plumage thrashing free from their gilded cage. Your lips taste like the core of a newborn star—scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. You are his first and last everything. 

There’s a certain kind of tragedy hidden beneath your tongue, fragile promises and the eggshell thin shards of hope stapled to the roof of your mouth. Rex will take it—seize any threadbare strand and run with it—spool it into the palm of his hand until you’re wound so tightly together it’ll be impossible to untangle.     

Just when the dizziness sets in from elation and not enough air, you part and leave a sticky trail of warm kisses up his jaw. Rex groans and hugs you closer, you humid breath blooming across his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

The words on his tongue crumble to ash once he nods in agreement. Your kisses dip lower, not even stopping when the reach the edge of his chest plate. Stars, you’re…he never entertained the idea that your lips could look so divine in contrast to the battered plastoid. When you fold onto your knees his heart leaps to his mouth, a flare of arousal flashing through his groin. 

You rest your chin over his codpiece and smile. “Do you like seeing me on my knees, sir?”

Rex huffs and studies at the opposing wall—

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your fingers find the claps over his codpiece. “Can I take this off?”

Rex jerks his head in a yes but grabs your wrist. Not a rough hold—a tentative one as hesitation swirls in his eyes. “Don’t—don’t have t’ do this for me—“

You quirk a brow. “I want to because I like you, Rexy.”

A rosy blush blooms over his sharp cheekbones. The captain nods again.

The codpiece clatters to the ground and immediately you move your hand to palm him through his blacks. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. There we go.      

Biting your lip, you pull down his blacks as far as the plastoid plating allows, greeted with the hard length of his cock, beautiful and flushed a rosy brown. Fuck—he’s thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around the base, delighted by Rex’s airy gasp as he throbs in your palm. A bead of liquid shines at the tip and just the sight of it makes your mouth water. 

Moons—you should’ve done this sooner.

With a stuttering inhale, Rex trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. The pads of his fingertips skim lower and lightly pinch your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Your eyes lift to meet his. “You—you sure?”

You answer with a kiss over the dip of his navel, the skin searing hot under your lips. Rex curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders when your palm slides up the length of his cock and then back down. Your grip is firm and tight as Rex slumps onto the crate, goosebumps rushing up his exposed flesh. Stars, when’s the last time he’s gotten release like this? 

You lean forward and lick a languid line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. Rex’s hips jolt. You purse your lips and suckle at the head, dipping your tongue over the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand rolls up and down his shaft. Rex tangles his fingers into your hair with a hiss. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You you drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the thickness easier to swallow down, but he's still only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—" Rex moans as his hips strain to remain still. “S’good—such a good girl.”

You glance up, eyes devouring the attractive length of his clean shaven throat and the underside of his chin. Rex swallows and let’s out another little sound. You whine softly in return and slip a hand into your pants, pressing your fingertips against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down. Yeah—your jaw already aches just from holding his cock in in your mouth but fuck it—it’s worth it.   

Rex's chest heaves with exertion as he mindfully rocks his hips up, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. Ditching your own pleasure entirely, you swallow around him, forcing down the urge to gag and simply hold him here. Allowing him a moment to just enjoy the soft warmth of your mouth before launching into the main event.  

Rex murmurs your name and strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re beautiful—so pretty like—like this..ah—” 

You pointedly hollow your cheeks and suck, his flattery warming your chest with pride. You swallow around him another time, squeeze his shaft, your fist following your mouth as you lift up then back down to the base. You grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you pull halfway up and let Rex rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans of your name. 

Soon enough he’s twitching in your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back onto his shoulders. The gloved hand sweetly cradling your cheek slips to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers into you hair to anchor himself. He’s close—quiet gasps and broken curses tumbling out, hips unconsciously rocking into your mouth in search of release.

Rex whimpers your name, his leg jolting as you work your jaw wider and swallow him down, the dark curls tickling your nose once it brushes his groin. “Oh, fuck.” 

You hum around him, delighting in the mumbled praises. Almost there…That’s it. 

He’s dangling on the precipice—on tiny shove away from euphoria—

“Wait—“ Saliva dribbles down your chin when his cock pops out from your swollen lips, throbbing from the unintentional tease. “Maker—shit.” 

If not for the gloves covering his hands, you’re sure they’d be turning white from how tightly he grips the edge of the crate. His eyes are squeezed shut, slightly bent forward as he falls away from the edge of his release. Rex sucks in a steadying breath, amber eyes meeting your confused ones. 

“I don’t—can we—“ Rex’s eyes flit and focus on anything but you as he stutters and works up the courage to ask for what he wants. “Do we have time—“

You rolls your eyes and rest your cheek on his thigh. Silly man. “You wanna fuck me, Rexy?”

“Kriff, yes.”

You smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t think they’ll miss us."

Rex doesn’t complain when you take his hands and yank him onto the grubby floor and over your senatorial robes. He props his back against the crate as you shuck off everything below the waste and clamber into his lap. His hands, warm even through the leather, land over the swell of your hips and wrench you closer until your front presses up against his chest plate. 

The rough prickle of his stubble is, in all sense of the word, addictive. He tilts his head to kiss you, the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip adding jet fuel to the fire low in your belly. Rex groans and cups your jaw, holding your mouth open to dance his tongue along the length of yours. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part. 

Rex drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for precious air. His dark lashes sweep up his cheeks when he looks at you. This close you bare witness to the dazzling color of his eyes—crystalized pearls of amber over the crackled bark of pine tree in the midmorning sun. Muted gold threaded through the brown like fine lace and the slow shimmer of the sun dappled through water. To think such a man like him is dredged through the bloodied mud of war is despicable.

You blink away the swell of tears prickling at your eyes and kiss him once more. Sighing, you whisper down, mouthing soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Rex squirms and rock his hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. You need him.   

“Rex,” you groan. You slide your hand between your bodies and grab at his thick length. Rex gasps into your mouth, long fingers clamping onto your waist in a death grip. “I want you.”

“I’m yours.” 

Your nibble at his earlobe as you grind your hips against his length, the folds of your cunt teasingly out of reach. “Touch me, Captain.” 

Rex tears off his vambraces and gloves, hand wedging between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is raw—sizzling electricity that crackles with the deadly promises of your pleasure. It’s as if you’ve had the breath knocked out of your lungs the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing tentative circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly spooled ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly sob as his fingers slip away. 

“So wet already,” Rex moans as you tip your head back when two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re thick and long and perfect. Your hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit. 

Maker you’re seeing stars as Rex rocks his hand into you—the bend of his fingers the perfect angle to catch all the right places that make you tremble. He kisses your cheek and moans your name into your ear, all low and gravelly— 

Your body seizes up tight as you soar, plummeting off the edge only to tumble so fast and so hard that tears prick the corner of your eyes. Rex peppers kisses over your cheeks and runs his free hand through your hair, purring praise and adoration as you shudder—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and dissolve into his hands. 

When you suck in a steadying breath and open your eyes, Rex is gazing upon you with starstruck eyes—pure adoration that makes your cheeks flare hotter than the surface of two mini suns. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You’re not sure you deserve to be looked at like this…

However, you’re impatient and running on stolen seconds. As much as you’d like to just simply stare at him—there’s not enough time. Rex wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and slides the tip of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips means you're stuck here. 

Rex pauses and cups your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “You want this?”

You place your hand over his and turn your head to mouth a kiss over the lines of his palm. Oh, fuck yeah. Kind of him to ask as if hadn’t just cum over his fingers but—no. “I need you to fuck me, Rex. That’s an order.”

Rex huffs out a low chuckle and bumps the crown of his forehead against yours. “As you wish, Senator.” 

Rex runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds again, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the hard plastoid as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s in no small. You’ll feel him for days, you’re sure of it as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his blonde hairline—Stars above, he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Desire tickles up your spine, tugging at the fabrics of your being until all you can focus on his how Rex isn’t moving. You shift your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him. 

“Damn—“ A ragged moans slices through his words as your gentle rocking morphs into needy jolts. It’s easy to fuck yourself onto his cock like this, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. “Fuck, cyare, you’re tight.” 

You smirk and grab at his sculpted shoulders—it’s the push he needs. Rex snarls your name, cups his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls you off his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Rex sets a pace, fevered and rabid All pent up energy collecting over the weeks you’ve known each other. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what feels like ages. 

You squeal in surprise as Rex pushes you onto your back and hoists your legs around his hips. Rex buries his nose into the crook of your neck and moans your name like a sweet prayer wrapped in honeycomb. Rex shifts his weight, widening his knees to sink deeper into your cunt—his stubble tickling your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin. 

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the catastrophic brilliance of an imploding star. Shit—

“So good t’me—so perfect,” he huffs into your ear. Rex turns his head and steals a kiss. “Feel fuckin’ good stretched around my cock."

You clench around him hard as Rex’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of devastating warmth that sweeps through your body, from your aching center down to your toes. It steals away all the air left in your lungs and leaves your clutching his arm and shuddering for a hold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body that’s unburdened by armor a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you. 

His gentle, and pliant kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth over your neck and collar bone as his hips struggle to keep a definitive pattern. Rex’s curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star.   

“Where can—can I?”

You grab at his head and whine his name. “Anywhere—in me—you can cum in me.”

With a loving caress over back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he reaches release. Rex’s moan is airy as his eyes slam shut and captures your mouth in a sizzling kiss. He’s twitching in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over your robes you lay over. Whatever. 

Rex nips at your skin as the last dregs of pleasure jolt up your spine. Neither of you say a word as Rex’s hips come to a slow. Time trickles through your fingers like sand through an hourglass half empty but instead of rushing to dress, you choose to lie on the ground—two halves of a mess someone’s been meaning to clean up for the better part of a long while. You feel at home here—content as your fingers run up and down the back of his head, a bit irked by the armor still covering his back. You’re terrified of the months to come—but at least you have each other. After all, gardens will bloom and flourish with fresh blooded love and wild mistakes sculpted from passion forever if you believe hard enough…wont they?

#we out here #yeehaw #my writing #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #ct-7567 #captai rex #clone x reader #clone trooper x reader #the clone wars #tcw #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars #sw

[leiascully]

Fic: Citius, Altius, Fortius (MSR, T)

This ficlet is dedicated to the commercial about the adopted Paralympian that makes me sniffly every time.  I don’t even know what they’re advertising.  All credit to AAVE for the “hip” slang Mulder uses and basically all cutting-edge words in American English.

The Olympic theme was more of a suggestion than a fanfare, but Scully still leaned forward and turned the volume down a few more notches.  She could feel Mulder giving her that crinkly-eyed smile.  She knew the remote worked just fine over the distance between the tv and the couch, but it felt like it worked better when she leaned.  It was like Jackson and his video games, a sympathetic movement.

“I don’t want to wake Gracie,” she said.

“Good plan,” Mulder said, and put his arm comfortably around her shoulders as she leaned back.  Jackson snorted and looked away, but peeked back at them to check in.  Scully was glad she was there for him, the Ginger from his journals, she and Mulder solid presences in his life, bracketed by the ghosts of his adoptive parents.

“I didn’t think you two would buy into all this jingoistic shit,” Jackson said.

“We are still employed by the United States federal government,” Scully pointed out.

“They’re basically our coworkers when it comes to repping the flag,” Mulder said laconically.  “Gotta respect the hustle.  Besides, compared to a lot of national anthems, ours kinda slaps.”

Jackson winced, predictably, at Mulder’s attempt to use slang.  Scully sensed Mulder mentally adding a few tallies to his side of the imaginary scoreboard.  It was all so sweetly familiar, a song she hummed in her dreams.

“Still,” Jackson said.  “It’s all so fuckin’ rah-rah America.  I thought you knew better.  Like you said, you work for the government.  You know all the shit they pull.”

“For two weeks every two years, I support the finest athletes that wealth, health, grueling training, and the opportunities inherent in living in the country possessing the world’s largest economy can produce,” Mulder said, a trace of irony audible in his voice.  “And also anyone competing against Russia.”

“It’s a distraction from all the shitty things happening in the world,” Jackson said.

“It’s a damn good one,” Mulder countered.  “At least they’re not supersoldiers.”

“Some of them might be,” Jackson grumbled.

“Those abs,” Mulder said, sounding a little mournful.  He patted his stomach.  “I should have gone for the upgrade when I had the chance.”

“When I was little,” Scully said slowly, “my mother would tell me that the prowess of Olympic athletes was proof that God loved us.  She said that their bodies were miracles.  I don’t think about it exactly the same way now, but there is something almost holy about that quest to go farther and faster than anyone else ever has.  In a sense, we fly without wings.  We climb higher than we thought we could.  We run faster and farther than early humans imagined.  We lift heavier burdens.  We test our nerve and our resolve in feats of endurance.  We subject our bodies to almost-unbearable forces and conditions.  We test the laws of physics, twisting in the air or gliding over the ice.  For a moment, we defy expectation, gravity, and in a sense, mortality.  The athletes of the Olympics show us the potential of the human body and the human spirit in a way that our daily lives don’t, and we feel like we are there with them as we perch on the edges of our seats, our bodies echoing their movements as if we could lend them our strength.  It’s possible that sometimes a distraction is a welcome respite.  For a short time, the world is focused on something other than war.  Many of the results may be predictable, but astonishing things happen and we learn to expect the unexpected.  Athletes from nations and peoples that have been overlooked and exploited dazzle us.  A runner falls and someone pulls them up.  Someone may shatter their leg and because of that tragedy, someone else realizes their lifelong dream.  The Olympics are a microcosm of our own attempts to strive for perfection, a supercondensed spectacle that reminds us of all our potential.  In pitting us against the people of other nations, the Olympics somehow unite us in the pursuit of a singular goal, reached by various paths: a gold medal, and the accolades of an awestruck world.”

“I love it when you give a dissertation on everyday life,” Mulder murmured, kissing under her ear.

“A spectacle that displaces the people who are already the most fucked-over,” Jackson said, but there was a little less disdain in his words.  “A profit machine for corporations and a propaganda outlet for governments.  It’s a slippery slope from athletic superiority to eugenics.  Only the strong survive.”

“George Orwell said that athletic competitions were essentially a proxy for war games,” Mulder told her.  She craned her head to look at him.

“I thought you liked the Olympics.”

“I do,” he said, “but Jack has a point.”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Jackson said.

“I wasn’t saying the Olympics are perfect,” Scully argued.  “Just that they could be perceived as creating a net good.”

The broadcast cut to commercial, sentimental strings music welling quietly from the speakers.  Mulder looked away, rubbing at his eyes.  Jackson chuckled.

“It’s that easy, huh?” he said.  “All they need to get into your psyche is footage of someone winning something and some sad music, maybe a Morgan Freeman voiceover.”

“Wait until you get old,” Mulder said.  “Then you’ll be welling up at every Visa commercial.  These ads are designed by experts in psychological warfare.  The Olympic mindgames.”

“They remind us of you,” Scully told Jackson.  “You weren’t supposed to exist.  You weren’t supposed to survive.  And here you are, capable of things your father and I could never have dreamed of.”

“Whatever,” Jackson muttered, looking away and definitely not dabbing his face on the shoulder of his t-shirt.

Scully settled back into the couch.  Grace would be waking up soon - she wasn’t an Olympic-level napper - but until then, she had a moment to enjoy the half-scripted pageantry of the Games, savoring the bittersweet combination of impossible victories and unpredictable defeats.  It wasn’t unlike her own life, in a way: she’d accomplished things she’d never imagined, uncovered truths too painful to endure, run up against her own limits over and over and overcome them all to be sitting here, in her comfortable home, with her stalwart partner, dragged back from the dead, and their miraculous children.  The glint in Jackson’s eyes as he argued with Mulder was more precious to her than any medal; the sound of Grace’s sleepy sighs stirred her heart more than any anthem.  She stood atop the podium of her destiny.

She leaned her head on Mulder’s shoulder and watched the marathon swimmers cut through the water, one stroke after another, keeping themselves afloat for hours. She understood their exhaustion.  She understood their triumph.

“I like the dressage,” Jackson said unexpectedly.  “It looks like mind control if you do it right.  I’m not, like, asking for a pony.  I just think it’s cool.”

“I knew we could find some common ground,” Mulder said.  “What’s your opinion on medals for horses?”

“Horse-sized medals,” Jackson said immediately.  “Bankrupt the IOC.”

“That’s your son,” Scully told him.

“No denying it,” Mulder said in a smug voice.  The broadcast changed to gymnastics and they all sat forward, watching in awed silence, as history was made.

#xfiles fic #my fic #leiascully fic #msr

[roswelldetails]

RNM 2x06 - Sex and Candy

EPISODE SUMMARY:

Maria’s (Heather Hemmens) investigation into her mother’s disappearance leads her and Alex (Tyler Blackburn) to the home of a mysterious boot maker named Travis (guest star David Anders). Meanwhile, on her journey of self-discovery, Isobel’s (Lily Cowles) night out leads her into the arms of someone unexpected. Finally, after making some major scientific strides, Liz (Jeanine Mason) is dealt a devastating blow. Geoff Shotz directed the episode written by Rick Montano & Vincent Ingrao (#206). Original airdate 4/20/2020.

DETAILS:

Max and Isobel's fight:

Lights start flickering when Max starts getting aggressive and then get brighter as he gets more worked up.

The first attempt to expel it seemed like he was causing an earthquake.  He blew out all the windows in the gym, knocked Isobel down, and there was shaking.  But it didn't seem to go beyond that room - no damage is seen when Michael arrives or around town.

Note, after the earthquake thingie the lights go out 

His hands are doing the electric power thingie and THEN he also grabs the lightning.

I think Isobel used her telekinesis to stop it and then push it away, which seemed to work...but if so then why couldn't Noah do that last season? 

Was it the sheer volume of electricity? There was definitely MORE than with Noah.

Michael uses his telekinesis to manually reset Max's heart.  This is very smart of him. Note that he's using his own heart/pulse to get it right.

They are using the antidote to Liz's serum to try to heal Max's mind. 

Michael says that they've been giving him antidote injections for three days (time jump).

Three days of antidote and no new memories for Max.

Isobel remembered her blackouts within a few hours of getting injected with the antidote in 1x10.

Note: Liz hesitated using the antidote this way in 1x10 because Isobel could still be dangerous and they didn't know about the 4th Alien yet.  There doesn't seem to be a similar hesitation with Max. Because Liz trusts him more? Because him forgetting her is more personal? It's not like there isn't a chance that Max is still dangerous…

Maria arranged a Mexican market in the Pony parking lot to subsidize her income.

Buffy the Beagle is Forrest's dog!

Maria comments that the meteor shower makes animals act strange. And humans too.

Forrest and Maria are organizing an open night mic at the Wild Pony.  Free drinks for performers.

Maria clearly approves of Forrest and Alex getting to know each other.  She smacks Alex for his awkward flirting.

The bootmaker's farm is about an hour outside of town.

The Science:

Kyle and Steph are watching a "surgical separation of craniopagus twins".

Craniopagus Twins = twins attached at the cranium/head. (Aka not a heart surgery).

"Did you know, ever since 1947, twin births in Roswell are higher than the national average? Maybe it's aliens."

Speaking of awkward flirting…. "You're just my favorite person I can't stand."

The Spanish:

Le cambio una bolsa de chiles para mi papá...for the free fries next time you come to the Crashdown.

Liz is bartering.  She says basically, I'll trade you a bag of chiles for my papa for free fries next time you come to the Crashdown. 

Note, the captions for this are wrong and use the Spanish word for grasshoppers instead, but you can clearly hear Liz say chiles. Thanks to @rosaortecho for pointing that out to me.

Max says:

I'm trying to eat clean. Uh, tiene carne seca sin como se dice, preservativos.

He's trying to say, basically, does the jerky have preservatives. 

Quiere carne a sin preservativos?

Basically, you want meat without condoms?

Lo siento. Uh, no lo entiendo.

I'm sorry, I don't get it.

Él quiere decir conservantes.

He means preservatives.

Gracias. Estoy embarazado.

Thank you. I'm pregnant.

Michael asks Max who he's texting. Max says everyone has been messaging him but Cameron is the only one who hasn't responded, which isn't like her.

Wildly curious who he was texting though.  It's not like he's a social butterfly. His mom? The sheriff? Who? As I pointed out to some friends the other day, he spent his 21st birthday getting trashed with his SISTER. This is not a trait of a guy with lots of close friends.

Just as another note, Michael says he ghosted her. When exactly was that? Yes, Max ran out on her in the middle of a handy in 1x03, but they addressed that the next day.  She "broke up" with him in 1x07, but they were still good right up until she left town. 

Isobel:

"Does he seem different to you?"

Alex and Maria playing "Never have I Ever" in the car. Good way to do background on characters.

Maria has never cheated on a boyfriend

Alex has never been in a real relationship. Not even "Kellie Sommer-something".

Alex says that whenever he was with a woman he was trying to disappear.  Except for Sophomore year after Battle of the Bands. Seven Minutes in Heaven in Haley Moore's hall closet. Alex and Maria kissed and it was Maria's first kiss (and boob graze).  She always thought she'd marry Alex. Had to come up with a new plan after he came out. 

Alex says "I did too."

"Kissing you in that closet was the first time in my life that I enjoyed touching someone."

Max picks up Liz for their first date…

Just as a note, Save Tonight was the opening song in the pilot of OG Roswell. During the "oh, Max Evans is staring at you again." exchange between Liz and Maria.  So, it might go well with new beginnings or something ;-)

The Science:

"Psychogenic amnesia limits retrieval of stored memories, but if we light up your limbic system and gustatory cortex with some familiar signals…"

"Your milkshake might bring all my memories to the yard?"

**Note, second reference to this song in the context of Liz bringing Max milkshakes. First was in 1x06 by Isobel. Hmm. 1x06 and 2x06… maybe they should crack this joke in 3x06 too.

"Sometimes when people wake up from comas they have different personalities, different tastes even…"

Everything you ever wanted to know about psychogenic amnesia:

But, my main takeaway is that it's a specific type of amnesia where there's abnormal memory function but no brain damage or other clear cause of it.

Limbic system:

Basically the part of your brain that stores emotion, behavior, and long term memory.

Gustatory cortex:

Basically the part of your brain that processes taste.

Maria compares Michael to Chad because he starts fights and lies.  Alex disagrees and lists ways that he was doing good things:

He lied to protect his family from Alex's family.

He shouldered the burden of a murder he didn't commit for ten years so that Isobel didn't have to.

He pushed Maria away to protect her - which might be a good thing too because of all his baggage. 

First Date:

Max went to Ranch camp one summer and dislocated his shoulder while trying to read Lord of the Rings on horseback. #nerd. 

Liz references the gala as not their first date, but there was also the desert in high school.  I guess she doesn't count that either. 

Side note: Cam and Liz talked about him peacocking in 2x03, but that kinda felt out of character at the time to the Max we knew.  This Max DOES seem like he's peacocking a bit. Got dressed up, taking Liz horseback riding. He admitted to trying to one up whatever they did together before. Just an interesting (to me) observation.

Liz looks panicky when Max suggests truth serum (because Science!Liz probably could make truth serum), but once she realizes he means whiskey she's like, "oh yes, that's fine." Oh Liz… 

Diego details:

They were engaged just last year

Liz left without saying goodbye

Bioengineer 

They were working together on the Denver study

They would come home and keep talking about work

He had ideas to help improve it

They both spoke The Science

He pushed her to get better at The Science

When the funding was cut she realized she loved the work more than him

Liz couldn't figure out how tell him that so she packed her things in the middle of the night, hit the road, changed her phone, and blocked him on Facebook.

**This is the first time LIZ has mentioned social media. Interesting given the crap Maria keeps giving her about it!

Travis and fresh warm milk. What is up with it??

"Nice ring. Does it keep you from burning up in the daylight?"

David Anders introduces himself as Travis.

Just as a point of interest, Maria researched enough to find the bootmaker, figure out where he lives, but she didn't get his name??? 

Vampire Diaries/Originals reference.

Travis says he can't help with car stuff.

The milk was from a cow named Jennifer.  He milked her for the last time today. (Creepy).

Weird contradictory statements from Travis:

"You're the best thing I've seen in a long time."....

"Mm, I'm sorry. So many customers and all their ugly faces get all sewn up and stitched together in my mind."

"Yeah, that's the woman that bought them boots. While back. Nice lady. She paid cash."

Second reference to animals behaving strangely during a meteor shower:

"Meteor shower's got my girls singing a bit off key tonight.  Jennifer, she likes a good lullaby."

"Okay this guy is going to turn us into skin suits." (OG reference? Or just general sci-fi?)

Meteorchella at Planet 7 (Coachella-style party during meteor shower?) with any excuse to add sparkles!

Kyle says he's at Planet 7 because he's trying not to hang out with people from high school.

Isobel says she's trying to have fun without feeling like prey.

Don't think the details of Kyle/Isobel dancing matters all that much, but as a point of amusement I'll share that in the panel on Tuesday night they shared that Lily whispered something different to Trevino on every take...And they got progressively dirtier to the point that she finally felt like she crossed a line and profusely apologized.  Also the lick was a Lily addition. 

Max's confession about killing the drifter:

Kind of an interesting thing, comparing the first version of the drifter story in 1x06 to the 2x06 version. 1x06 was more dramatic, but 2x06 was more personal, I think. 

1x06

"There are moments that define our lives, and there are moments that divide our lives. Incidents that separate us into two different people: who we were before and who we will be after. Forever…One day we were children and the next we were something else. I was a killer. Michael an accomplice.  And Isobel...Isobel was broken."

2x06

"I killed a man once, on a camping trip. This drifter came out of nowhere, attacked Isobel.  I wasn't even thinking. I killed him. With this. I arrest people who kill people. Most of them usually regret what they did. You know, you can just tell that they're forever broken. It's like a piece of them dies with their victims. So when I could feel that darkness, like I had to kill, I wanted Isobel to let me die. Because I couldn't risk hurting even one innocent person. Cause life just wouldn't be worth living."

Kind of an interesting narrative choice to confess to murder on a first date and then have the girl just brush it aside. 

"No, it just hit me why you're so happy and idealistic, and I feel like an idiot. You are that way because you don't remember me. It's a clean slate.  It's like when you got out of the pods with whatever memories you had erased it's probably for your own good."

"Last I heard you were the love of my life."

"Your cohorts, they left out some details. Cause if you had your memories I'm positive the worst thing that's ever happened to you is connected to me. And I can't bear the weight of making you remember that again."

**Note, second time this has been implied.  Last time was by Michael in 1x08 regarding the alien symbol.

"...it's gotta have some connection to us right? Maybe it was something we saw somewhere before the crash."

"Sorry, are you, Max Evans, acknowledging that we must have had lives before we hatched out of the pods? You never want to talk about home."

"Hey, Roswell is home. Look, I'm sorry man. You're right. I've spent a lot of time not talking about where we come from or why we're here.  Keep thinking I can pretend the past away and just be normal. But if Isobel's blackouts are some alien thing, then I need to know more. Okay, and this symbol? That's all I have to go on. I mean don't you think it's strange that we don't have any memories? I mean, no parents, no language. We weren't infants, man. We were seven."

"I just figured our memory faded. Over 50 years in those pods. Maybe it was just time. Or maybe whoever put us in those pods doesn't want us to remember."

Travis and Trevor's house...with added bonus of his ring that Alex comments on.

Leather ribbons/strips on the wall are for (from?) Hayley and Gertrude. More cows, I presume. 

There's also a framed Purple Heart on the wall next to a photo of Travis?

"War really messes with a man's mind.  Gets it all twisted up.

Timeline issue!! Alex says Mimi was missing for 3 weeks, but according to the clearly established timelines in 201-203 it was 4 weeks (or a month ish).  I wrote about this here:

Maria put her jacket on a scarecrow to trick Travis. And did she leave it there?

(Answer: yes. She doesn't wear it for the rest of the episode. Smart of her, actually).

Michael sees Trevor come out of the house and is about to shoot him. Maria immediate knew it wasn't Travis and threw herself in front of Michael's gun

Trevor shoots Travis.

A bullet from the Crashdown shooting falls out of Max's journal.  Does it look like it has blood on it? Or maybe just ketchup? If it's THE bullet it would make a lot of sense that he kept it hidden - evidence that Liz was shot. See this comparison between one of Wyatt's bullets in 1x02 and the one Max finds in 2x06

"Sorry about my twin here. He's had a rough go."

"Combat does not make you an axe murderer."

"No, it wasn't the combat. It was the R&D. If a paramilitary group ever asks you to take part in a study, you run the other way. He showed up a few weeks ago. Locked me up out back. Lucky y'all showed up when you did. Gave me a chance to escape."

R&D is a military acronym for Research and Development. (Aka...The Science.)

Priscilla - the cow Mimi's boots were made from.

This is literally the only direct information gained about the boots from this little sleuthing excursion. 

Well, and that Mimi paid cash, which isn't like her.

Side note - I didn't really know what Paramilitary meant, so just in case any of you are also not good with military stuff, Paramilitary groups are like private armies. Like, I dunno, the private security firm that Jesse and Cam discussed in episode 2x04. 👀

Male doctor operating on Steph clearly states:

"All right we're approaching an arterial junction."

A female doctor replies and its less clear.  What I hear is...Blood gasses are back? Anyone else hear something that makes more sense than that?

He replied something like...the stint through here

She says something about pH levels.

Max admits that he didn't know what would happen when he decided to bring Rosa back.  He just wanted to fix the worst thing that ever happened to all of them.

"I can't believe we were Shyamalan'd by an evil twin."

I think Alex is referring to the twist ending? Or maybe just the insane axe murderer stuff.

M. Night Shyamalan wrote and directed the Sixth Sense, Signs, Split, etc…

During this scene is the first time we see Michael's tattoo… it's on his arm. I struggled with getting a cap of it, but I know there are gifs going around.

I had every intention of detailing the dialogue in the trailer scene, but before I could get to it, Carina posted the script, so I didn't think it was a good use of my time. Here's the script:

The next morning, Alex calls the Sheriff from outside the trailer for an update.

The Sheriff tells him that Travis and Trevor burned their home and ran...weren't caught by the sheriff.  Which means we may not have seen the last of them.

The Spanish:

"Oh my God. Dios mio, Max. I took off your pants before I even said I love you. I'm some kind of zorra."

Dios mio basically is Oh My God! So Liz really was spiraling. She went, "Oh my God, Oh my God..."

Zorra - female version of Zorro. Basically a vixen, bitch, prostitute… the internet has all sorts of fun words that it translates into. 

"I call this one Visceral Werewolf Part 2, dedicated to my boy Chee Chee, may he rest in peace."

Can we have more Bert? Bert is the best. Also kudos to his goofy friend who is wayyy too excited about this.

Forrest's slam poem:

Locked up for days,

Time slipping away,

On my knees I would pray to break free from this cage.

But bargaining for keys, you forget hidden fees.

And wishing for what you’re missing ain’t the same as living the dream. 

And now I’m fighting to stay on this side of the cage.

Even though I know a part of me wishes I’d stayed. 

Ain’t no prophet or rebel or savior or devil

Could have predicted, fought, cheated or leveled. 

A life with potential that’s squandered, 

A comfortable cell is a question I ponder. 

Am I a free man or a prisoner wanderer?

Max's memory flash:

Young Max, chained to the ground as described in 2x03. 

Max looks scared.

He's dressed all in white like the 1947 aliens after the crash (As shown in 1x12 and 2x03).

He's in a cave or something like a cave. 

Holes in the wall are glowing an orangey red color.

The ceiling is like the alien ship material with the alien symbol in it.  

A figure approaches from behind him, bends down, and places a hand on his shoulder.

It mirrors the figure approaching Nora in 2x03 and touching her shoulder before burning the military men...probably the same person? Noah? The stowaway? Someone new?

After the figure touches Max, he looks at the hand, and then a red glow lights his face.

MUSIC:

1. Xocoyotzin Herrera "Esperanza"

2. Jose Luis Lepe "La Carreta"

3. Eagle Eye Cherry "Save Tonight"

4. Lousiana Red "I Done Woke Up"

5. Whissell "Magnetic"

6. Stop Dead "Alchemistress Dance"

7.  Orville Peck "Turn To Hate"

8. Kim Petras "Close Your Eyes"

9. Orville Peck "Queen Of The Rodeo"

10. Moontricks "The Fall"

11. Years & Years "Hypnotised"

12. Jordan Critz Feat. Birdtalker "Through Your Eyes"

This time I couldn't find the Whissell and Stop Dead tracks on spotify - however the Stop Dead track is referenced at being by Chelsea Dawn in the closed captions.  Which I did find. Trying to confirm this. Let me know if anyone else had better luck!

#roswell new mexico #rnm season 2 #rnm spoilers #rnm 206 #sex and candy #episode details #long post

[d3-iseefire]

She Walks in Shadow Chapter 18

The scar on Bilba’s back hurt, and it was pissing her off.

Largely because, up to that point, it had been about the only thing that didn’t hurt.

Having her younger body, free from scars and other wounds she’d picked up over the years, had been nice at first but the appeal was quickly fading. Every muscle hurt from her attempts to get back in shape, and the gait of the pony constantly reminded her that this body had virtually no riding experience whatsoever.

It was a miserable experience, and all of it was compounded farther by the ever-present feel of eyes boring into her back.

She shouldn’t have slept with him.

She knew that, obviously. She’d known it then and knew it doubly now. It was just that, at the time, the idea had been that she’d be the one suffering the consequences for it.

It had never occurred to her that he’d have any lasting hang-ups.

Just further proof of how little she’d known him to begin with.

In any event, sleeping with him had not had the desired effect. She’d expected it to settle her down, prove that neither of them was the same person. She’d expected it to help her stop wondering, cheapen it all even. Take it from the lost fantasy in her mind to the grounded reality, to the knowledge that what was lost could never again be found.

She’d expected it allow her to move on.

Or at least…she thought that was what her intention had been.

Instead she’d just ended up hurting him which, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised her. That was what she did, after all, wasn’t it? Hurt him. Failed him when he needed her most. It only made sense that ---

Bilba cursed quietly. Stop it, she ordered herself. Stop thinking of him as him. Even if he felt the same, smelled the same, even if the sun brightened his hair to the same burnished gold and his smile lit the same fire she’d felt back then.

It wasn’t him.

 He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

 Now if he’d just stop staring at her all the damn time.

He was probably still convinced he’d gotten her pregnant.

He hadn’t, of that she had no doubt. She’d been sent back to accomplish a task, and it wasn’t to give her a second chance. The Valar didn’t care a single, small hobbit and, even if they did, that hobbit certainly was never going to be her.

She was there to accomplish a task. A pregnancy would get in the way of that task which meant, simply put, she wasn’t pregnant.

He’d relax eventually, breathe a sigh of relief and place the entire incident in the back of his mind, under the label of “Mistakes Not to Be Repeated.” His interest would wane and turn elsewhere and…that would be that.

The discomfort in her back spiked unexpectedly and she tensed, unconsciously pulling her shoulders back as if she could somehow squeeze the pain out of her body.

“Are you all right?” Dwalin asked quietly from where he rode next to her.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly.

Dwalin’s gaze went to the horizon where the sun was in the process of sinking toward the earth. “We should be stopping soon.”

Bilba tsked. “I don’t care.”

He chuckled. “Sure you don’t.”

Bilba considered throwing a knife at him, but decided it wasn’t worth losing the progress she’d made in trying to gain Thorin’s trust. She’d ridden next to him nearly all day, simply chatting and trying to forge a relationship. If she wanted to get anywhere with him in the future, if she wanted any hope of changing things, having his trust and respect would be vital.

Dwalin settled back into silence next to her. He knew better than to try and push her, especially when she was in a bad mood.

The pain in her back spiked again, like a severe pinch she couldn’t relieve, and she let out an annoyed hiss. Her younger body was fast proving to be more of an irritant than her battle scarred one had been.

She forced herself to study the landscape, watching for potential threats. There hadn’t been anything this early the first time around but, then again, there hadn’t been orcs in the Shire the first time either.

They were still traveling through a mostly open plain and would continue to do so until they reached the Trollshaws.

The Trollshaws, and the actual trolls they’d met there the first time. Bilba still hadn’t decided what to do about them. As things stood at present, she had the advantage of knowing everything that was coming. The second she started to change things she would lose that advantage and be as blind as if she had been back then.

Movement came up on her left side and she turned her head to see Bofur riding alongside her. He grinned and reached up to tap his hat. “Lovely day we’re having.”

“It’s no different than the one that came before,” Bilba said, pain making her temper short, “or the one that will come after.” At least until they got closer to Erebor and winter began to set in. A cold breeze seemed to rush through her veins and, in the back of her mind, echoed the splintering sound of ice cracking on a frozen river.

She tensed, and her fingers curled around the reins.

Beside her, Bofur was chattering about something or other and she struggled to focus on him in the hopes it would take her mind off where it was trying to go.

It took her only a few minutes to become completely enthralled.

He was just so…alive.

It was such a stark contrast to how he’d been the last time she’d seen him. There’d been no light in his eyes then, and the few smiles he’d managed to dredge up were brittle and false.

None of them had come out of that last battle unscathed.

From Bombur who’d lost himself in the monotony of work, to Ori who’d found a second quest and followed it to the same bitter end as the first. Nori who’d given himself to the streets, Dori to the dark halls of his mind, and Balin who’d fled Erebor in search of something he could never find. Even Gloin who’d come out the best of them all with family and fortune awaiting him back in Ered Luin. He’d never spoken of the quest after returning, and stories she’d heard from others spoke of his struggle with nightmares, moodiness and flashes of temper.

It made her wonder sometimes, just what they had all hoped for that first time around. What would drive someone to set out on a mission where, going in, they knew the most likely outcome was death. Was it loyalty? Hope? Desperation?

What was it that had driven her to go? To give up the comforts of home and hearth to set out with a lot of strangers on a quest doomed to fail?

Whatever the case might have been, there was one thing she knew without question and that was that all their hopes, dreams and fears had been bound up in the figure of Thorin Oakenshield.

Bound with him, and died with him, and as Thorin had gone so had they all.

She rode now with a company of ghosts.

Fourteen souls had marched to Ravenhill, and eleven husks had left it.

Bofur cleared his throat awkwardly next to her. “Ah, I’m sorry, Lass. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll leave you alone.”

Bilba blinked in confusion, and then reached out and put a hand on his arm before he could drop back. “No, wait.” She hesitated as something inside her almost overwhelmed her, nearly desperate to replace the last image she’d had of Bofur with the one riding beside her now. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not used to riding. It’s put me in a foul mood.”

He grinned; a genuine one that poked at some dark corner of her heart and threatened to open a door she’d long since shut. “Well, it just so happens cheering up pretty lasses is a specialty of mine.”

The barest hint of a smile tugged at Bilba’s lips. “Is it?”

He nodded sagely. “That it is. If you’d like, I’d be happy to do my best to get your mind off—” he stumbled slightly, face reddening slightly, “—other things, that might be distressing you.”

He made a vague gesture in the direction of her saddle and, again, Bilba felt that ghost of a smile along with an almost desperate desire to recapture, if even for only a moment, some small piece of what that first journey had been.

Minus Thorin glaring at her every five seconds. That she was happy to do without.

But, as for the rest, what little of it that could be recaptured…that she was happy to entertain for however long it might last.

***

They traveled for several more hours, finally stopping only as the light began to change to the brilliant oranges and red of sunset.

By that time, she’d gathered quite the little group around her. Apparently, her willingness to have Bofur riding next to her had made various members of the company decide she was…approachable.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like them, or that she didn’t want to spend time with them. It was just that she was so out of practice. Out of practice with small talk, being in groups, being around more than just herself and her own thoughts. Before, she could go weeks without seeing someone, days without remembering to say a single word and then only to her pony.

She was out of practice with hospitality. She’d been bad at it to begin with and was worse now. Knowing when to smile and laugh and make small talk, thinking of questions to ask or answers to give. She had tried, a little, at first. There were just so many of them, though, and they were all crowded about her and it felt like the air was being sucked out even though they were all outside.

She’d eventually stopped trying and lapsed into silence, eyes focused on what little of the landscape she could see through the people around her. They hadn’t really noticed, or perhaps had simply allowed it, their conversation flowing around and over her in a cacophony of sound she couldn’t begin to follow.

Thorin finally called a halt on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the forest that lay before Rivendell and the foot of the Misty Mountains. Said mountains loomed before them even now, a craggy rock face rising up hundreds of feet into the air. When she’d been younger, her mother would sometimes take her on trips to see the elves and Bilba had always loved the sight of the mountains. They called forth a feeling of mystery and romanticism that would have her awake late into the night dreaming up epic tales of what fantastical sorts of creatures might live there.

She’d never told anyone but at least a tiny part of her decision to go on the quest had been a desire to finally set foot on those rocks and see for herself what lay beyond.

The answer, she’d soon found, was apparently rocks. Giant, rude rocks that couldn’t be bothered to tell you when you were standing on them and that liked to play catch…with other rocks.

She really was not looking forward to a repeat of that. Judging by the look on Dwalin’s face as he gazed up toward the not-so-distant peaks neither was he.

They set up camp under a low overhang very near to the edge of the cliff. Bilba had a vague memory of it from the first time but it was overshadowed by everything else that had happened and was preparing to happen again.

She did remember the sight of Fili and Kili huddled up under the overhang, mostly because she could recall being mesmerized by how the firelight played off Thorin’s oldest nephew.

The reality now, when compared to the memory still lurking in her mind, did not disappoint.

She waited until most everyone else had set up their bedrolls before unfurling hers on the edge near where Thorin’s was. It was far from the chatter of the rest of the Company and, after listening to them for the entire day, she could understand his desire for some peace and quiet, as much as could be found under the circumstances.

She wasn’t surprised when Dwalin dropped his bedroll next to hers.

He headed off to speak to Thorin and Bilba wandered over to drop down next to where Gandalf was seated on a large boulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked as she dropped down next to him.

Bilba’s eyes tracked over the company, watching as they laughed and chatted amongst themselves, joking and carrying on as if they were on a lark and not a suicide mission. “No,” she said finally, eyes going toward where Fili lounged against the rock shelf next to his brother, “but sometimes I wish I was.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper on the last, but she wasn’t surprised that Gandalf caught it anyway.

“And, what, pray tell,” he prodded gently, “is keeping you back, my dear?”

Fili’s eyes shifted toward hers, as if he knew she was looking, and Bilba turned away. “You know the answer to that, old man.” She pushed to her feet. “Neither of us is who we once were.”

“And is there a reason you can’t begin again?” his voice questioned from behind her. “As you both are now?”

Bilba didn’t answer. Instead she went to stand at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the forest far below. Night had fallen and there was little to see but a black void stretching out beneath her feet.

“What’s so fascinating about the dark?” an amused voice asked from behind her.

Bilba barely reacted. She’d felt him approaching, like a too tight string suddenly going slack.

Fili moved to stand next to her, arms crossed in an unconscious mirroring of her pose. A breeze coming up from below brushed an errant strand of hair over his shoulder and she had to clench her teeth against a surge of irrational jealousy.

It physically hurt to not be able to touch him. She’d ridden ahead of him all day, and had barely seen him outside of rest stops, but she’d been aware of him every second. She was convinced that, if pressed, she could have turned and pointed to his exact position without a moment’s hesitation.

“What will you do at the end?” The words came out of nowhere, born from a sudden need to give him a reason to keep standing beside her as long as possible. “After reclaiming Erebor?”

He shrugged. “Same thing I’m doing now, I suppose, just in a different place.”

“Oh.” She forgot sometimes that Fili already had a life well before he ever met her. That he’d been a prince in his own right, helping to rule Ered Luin alongside his uncle. In her mind, only the journey had existed. An independent world separate from the rest of Middle Earth.

She’d never met Fili outside of that. Had no idea about his life in Ered Luin. What his daily responsibilities had been, things that had annoyed him or made him happy, what he’d done in his free time.

If there had been a girl he’d had his eye on.

How she could have gone nearly an entire year without knowing any of that showed just how shallow their relationship must have been.

Just a dream, one that would never have survived the light of day. If they had retaken Erebor, he would have realized it. Seen just how poorly she measured up against those he’d left behind, just how out of place she was in the life he’d long ago established.

He’d have grown tired of her, and she’d have ended up in the same place she had the first time around.

But at least he’d have still been alive.

She’d have traded it all for him to have still been alive.

Would have traded it then and would trade it now.

“What are you planning to do?” Fili asked, breaking into her thoughts. “I heard that you sold your house before leaving.”

“I haven’t decided,” Bilba lied. “Perhaps I’ll go stay with the elves.”

“Because life in the Shire wasn’t boring enough?” Fili’s lips twisted. “My apologies, that was uncalled for.”

Bilba surprised herself by chuckling. “But fair. Life in the Shire isn’t exactly known for excitement. As for the elves—” she frowned. “I’ve been to Rivendell and I have to say that I have no idea what it is they do all day.”

“Right?” Fili asked. “Perhaps they simply wander about and practice looking pensive.”

Bilba’s lips quirked into a smile. “Perhaps, and let’s working on sounding grave and mysterious.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. “I wonder sometimes if Gandalf might not be part elf.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Fili said dryly. “He does seem incapable of simply speaking straight. I think we could be in mortal peril and he’d waste time trying to cryptically tell us how to defend ourselves.”

“So he would,” Bilba murmured. Her good spirits flagged a bit at the thought of them being in mortal peril. They would be going through that soon enough.

Her eyes went to Thorin who was still resting against the edge of the stone. The last time around he had been the one standing here, staring out over the darkness while Balin had recounted the story of how he’d gotten his title, Oakenshield.

Disquiet moved through her. Why was it different? She tried to think back, and a hazy memory began to form. He’d been asleep back then too, but then he’d awakened…for dinner? No…it had been something else, but she couldn’t remember what.

Beside her, Fili raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“No.” Bilba shook her head. She was being ridiculous. She was so used to living in constant danger, so used to paranoia, that she was seeing danger where there wasn’t any. Everything was fine. It was a miniscule change that could have been caused by any number of small, infinitesimal actions. It didn’t mean that –

A loud screen came from somewhere behind them, off in the darkness, and both she and Fili half turned to look.

“Looks like an owl got its dinner,” Fili mused.

“I suppose,” Bilba said slowly. The memory of their first trip pressed forward again.

A screech, she remembered. There had been a screech that time too, but from down below, in the valley. Fili and Kili had made a joke about orcs and that had…

She twisted back to look down into the darkness that masked the valley floor. Why would that have changed? She could understand other things, things that might have changed because they rode at a different pace or she said something different or a host of other things. She, Dwalin and Gandalf all remembered the first trip, it made perfect sense for some things to change no matter what they did or did not do.

But not this.

Nothing had delayed them that long, and they were in the same place so what could change –

Realization hit.

Ice ran through her veins and her heart thundered so hard in her chest it was a wonder it didn’t burst right through.

She spun, mouth opening to raise the alarm…and it was already too late.

Dark shadows stepped into the flickering firelight, and quickly resolved into orcs.

At least a dozen of them, if not more.

A shout rang out, she had no idea from whom, and then a flurry of activity broke out as everyone dove for their weapons at the same time. Thorin went from sleeping to standing at ready, sword clasped in hand all in one, simple move.

Bilba stood frozen. Her blood thundered in her veins and her heart threatened to burst right out of her chest. She felt cold, ice cold, and her eyes remained helplessly fixed on the empty spot between two of the larger orcs.

Orcs didn’t travel alone, and they didn’t travel without a leader. The bigger the group the more important the leader and for this one to be here…to be here when they shouldn’t be, when they hadn’t been…

Please don’t be him, she thought desperately. Please don’t, not yet. I’m not ready yet.

Please.

A new orc stepped into the light. One bigger, and stronger than any she’d seen in a very long time.

An albino, a condition so rare and unique amongst the species he was often referred as the pale orc.

One she hadn’t seen outside of her nightmares, in what felt like an Age.

One she’d have been grateful to never see again.

 Azog.

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547237/chapters/38767136

#Writing #My Writing #Fanfic #Fanfiction #The Hobbit #female bilbo baggins #Romance #Bilbo #Angst #Happy Ending #time travel fix it #Fix It #tolkien

[nightunite]

I'm the soft sibling but... A-all of them??

I’ve been waiting, my sibster...

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

Probably @safetyfirstbiatch

 2. Are you outgoing or shy? 

Shy in the beginning, outgoing afterwards!

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing? 

@safetyfirstbiatch @tricksandmagix

4. Are you easy to get along with? 

Sometimes

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you? 

Probably not

6. What kind of people are you attracted to? 

Loyal, funny, can tease me like I tease them, won’t mock my anxiety, etc.

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now? 

Nope

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind? 

Gonna say Bucky Barnes

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable? 

Nah

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with? 

@binkysteebnpewter @breadgenie892 @fuzzy-cloud-head-queen @andyl394

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say? 

“I might post this on tumblr”

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now? 

Blink-182: Black rain

Halsey&Marina Mashup: Gasoline and Savages

Saweetie: My type

Dermot Kennedy: Power Over You

chillpill: Fuck the Club

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair? 

Nope

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles? 

Yep

15. What good thing happened this summer? 

SHAVED ICE AND THE FAM

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? 

Nah

17. Do you think there is life on other planets? 

Yes

18. Do you still talk to your first crush? 

Nah

19. Do you like bubble baths? 

Yes

20. Do you like your neighbors? 

Nah

21. What are you bad habits? 

Impulsive, loud, awkward, dont like vacuuming

22. Where would you like to travel? 

Yes

23. Do you have trust issues? 

Yes

24. Favorite part of your daily routine? 

Nap time

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with? 

Thighs

26. What do you do when you wake up? 

Play Animal Crossing

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker? 

No but I wish it was healthy

28. Who are you most comfortable around? 

@safetyfirstbiatch

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up? 

Yup

30. Do you ever want to get married? 

Sure

31. If your hair long enough for a pony tail? 

It’s always up so yeah

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

None?

 33. Spell your name with your chin. 

(Cant attempt this tbh I have a big ol hormone zit about ready to pop)

34. Do you play sports? What sports? 

Nope

35. Would you rather live without TV or music? 

Without TV

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them? 

Of course!

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

Some stupid joke or story

 38. Describe your dream girl/guy? 

I’ve answered this in previous asks but see #6

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in? 

Lush, Barnes&Noble, Candy Stores

40. What do you want to do after high school? 

I’m already a college graduate, but lab work

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance? 

No

42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean? 

I’m either busy, sleeping, or anxious

43. Do you smile at strangers? 

Sometimes

44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean?

Outer space

 45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning? 

Animal Crossing and food

46. What are you paranoid about?

Everything tbh anxiety sucks 

47. Have you ever been high? 

No

48. Have you ever been drunk? 

No

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about? 

No but I’ve been hella simping

50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore? 

Grey and yellow, my hufflepuff hoodie

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

Nah

 52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself? 

Have healthier skin aka no genetic issues

53. Favourite makeup brand?

Dont wear any

 54. Favourite store? 

Barnes&Noble

55. Favourite blog? 

@bunjywunjy

56. Favourite colour? 

Periwinkle

57. Favourite food? 

I’m a slut for pretzel bites right now

58. Last thing you ate? 

Cheese ravioli

59. First thing you ate this morning?

Sour cream&onion chips

 60. Ever won a competition? For what? 

Won a ribbon for a literary contest

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what? 

Nah

62. Been arrested? For what? 

Nah

63. Ever been in love? 

Don’t know tbh

64. Tell us the story of your first kiss? 

Already answered this on previous asks, but it was after a movie in his car

65. Are you hungry right now? 

Nah

66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends? 

Nah, they’re equal

67. Facebook or Twitter? 

Twitter

68. Twitter or Tumblr? 

Tumblr

69. Are you watching tv right now? 

Nah

70. Names of your bestfriends? 

@safetyfirstbiatch @tricksandmagix

71. Craving something? What? 

Shaved ice, blue raspberry and lime flavor

72. What colour are your towels? 

Salmon pink and mold green, got em real ugly

72. How many pillows do you sleep with? 

2, one under my head and one against my side

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals? 

Yup a Totodile

74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have? 

Like 80+

75. Favourite animal? 

Frogs

76. What colour is your underwear? 

Black

77. Chocolate or Vanilla? 

Chocolate

78. Favourite ice cream flavour? 

Chocolate

79. What colour shirt are you wearing? 

Black

80. What colour pants? 

Black

81. Favourite tv show? 

Masterchef

82. Favourite movie? 

James and the Giant Peach

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2? 

Mean Girls

84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street? 

Mean Girls

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls? 

Janis

86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo? 

Dory

87. First person you talked to today? 

The fam

88. Last person you talked to today? 

The fam

89. Name a person you hate? 

Trump

90. Name a person you love? 

@safetyfirstbiatch

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now? 

Anti-vaxxers

92. In a fight with someone? 

Nah

93. How many sweatpants do you have? 

2 pairs

94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have? 

like 6

95. Last movie you watched? 

Sky High (I regret nothing)

96. Favourite actress? 

Zendaya

97. Favourite actor? 

Sebastian Stan

98. Do you tan a lot? 

Nope

99. Have any pets? 

A cat and a corgi

100. How are you feeling? 

Pretty alright

101. Do you type fast? 

Yup!

102. Do you regret anything from your past? 

A couple things, time I wish I had listened better

103. Can you spell well? 

Decently

104. Do you miss anyone from your past? 

Not really

105. Ever been to a bonfire party? 

Nope!

106. Ever broken someone’s heart? 

Probably but I was never told

107. Have you ever been on a horse? 

Nope

108. What should you be doing? 

Sleeping

109. Is something irritating you right now? 

My back

110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt? 

Yup!

111. Do you have trust issues?

Of course

 112. Who was the last person you cried in front of? 

@safetyfirstbiatch while laughing I’m pretty sure

113. What was your childhood nickname? 

‘Hey you’

114. Have you ever been out of your province/state? 

Yes, been to several other states and the Bahamas

115. Do you play the Wii? 

I used, played so much Harvest Moon Animal Parade

116. Are you listening to music right now? 

Yup, mothra’s theme

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup? 

Nope

118. Do you like Chinese food? 

Nope

119. Favourite book? 

The Serpent King is one of my favorites

120. Are you afraid of the dark?

Nah

 121. Are you mean? 

Sometimes

122. Is cheating ever okay? 

In extreme extenuating circumstances like ‘You refuse to let me out of this marriage despite knowing we don’t even like each other’

123. Can you keep white shoes clean? 

Somewhat yeah

124. Do you believe in love at first sight? 

Yeah

125. Do you believe in true love?

Yeah

 126. Are you currently bored? 

Nah

127. What makes you happy? 

Little things; rain, smell of a new book, soft sheets.

128. Would you change your name? 

Nah

129. What your zodiac sign? 

Leo

130. Do you like subway? 

Nah

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 

Either let em down easy or see if it works

132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 

The fam

133. Favourite lyrics right now? 

Dont have any honestly

134. Can you count to one million? 

Sure but it takes a while

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

‘Can’t go, Mom needs me to watch the dog’ -Dog is in fact being taken to daycare in plain view of person

 136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed? 

Open a crack

137. How tall are you?

5′6

 138. Curly or Straight hair? 

Wavy

139. Brunette or Blonde? 

Brunette

140. Summer or Winter? 

Fuck both, Fall

141. Night or Day? 

Night

142. Favourite month? 

July

143. Are you a vegetarian?

Nope

 144. Dark, milk or white chocolate?

Milk

 145. Tea or Coffee? 

Neither, soda

146. Was today a good day?

Yeah it was pretty great

147. Mars or Snickers?

Snickers even though I have a peanut sensitivity

 148. What’s your favourite quote?

Don’t have one, sorry

 149. Do you believe in ghosts? 

Yup! 

150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page? 

“This is madness” - Sorcery of Thorns

[jabbers-wild-world]

Name: Cryptic Night

Age: Adult?

Gender: Stallion

Breed: Nocturne Pony, but shh! That’s a secret!

Talent: Communicating with the dead, seeing ghosts (if that counts as a talent), necromancy (but that’s a breed specific ability, really)

Cutie Mark: Gold coffin

Personality: quiet, gloomy, and generally reclusive, Cryptic has a good heart but a pretty morbid sense of humor. He’s awkward with most ponies, and doesn’t really quite know how to interact. He comes across as a bit of a loner, but the truth is that he longs to join in and be a part of the community, but.. he fears what they might do if they knew the truth, and so he keeps to himself, with only a crow and a black cat as company

Backstory: Cryptic is the last of his kind, as far as he knows, the rest were slaughtered many, many years ago in what has been noted in many history books as Equestria’s Darkest Night, or in more limited texts, as the day the dead walked. It is not a day remembered fondly, even by those who truly remember the events at all. But it was all started by one particular perceived problem.

Nocturne Ponies like Cryptic have the ability to summon the dead, to perform necromancy, and this is an ability that terrified Unicorns, Pegasi, and Earth Ponies alike. Though it is an ability Nocturnes typically used in ceremonial rites of a final goodbye to loved ones, or even in the occasional (but very rare) cases in which there were questions that still needed answering even post-mortem, it was something that still unsettled many other ponies, and led to what could by all accounts be considered a crusade against them.

It was a violent and bloody time nopony likes to look back on. Even the most knowledgeable historians often avoid the topic, largely due to the rather terrifying and brutal nature of the accounts. After a period of around ten years, that consisted almost solely of war, unrest, and even the unsettling ‘hunts’ that occured around the later years, Nocturne Ponies were effectively wiped out, almost completely, only a few surviving members attempting to rebuild their populations, but unfortunately without much success.

As it is known now, the remaining Nocturnes slowly grew ill, afflicted by a condition seemingly only carried among their breed, and eventually they died off as well as a result, leaving only Cryptic, who was barely more than a foal himself at the time of this mass extinction, as the sole survivor of the breed, or.. at least as far as he knows.

But, if there are any still out there.. They are no longer purebred Nocturnes, forced to interbreed with other ponies, just to survive at all. Still, none have ever been seen or even heard from, with not even the barest mention of any recent sightings. Even Cryptic prefers to hide what he is, for fear of death, and the extinction of an entire pony breed.

Nowadays, he spends most of his time in Canterlot, or.. rather somewhere just outside of Canterlot, guarding the Catacombs and the secrets within it, as Princess Celestia tasked him to do, the day she discovered there was one Nocturne that still lived, and she pitied his lonely existence, and felt guilt for the harsh truth of how he ended up so alone.

Very rarely does Cryptic ever venture into Canterlot, but he does do so if by chance he needs to run the occasional errands, or if he is summoned to speak with Princess Celestia or Princess Luna. Or.. in a worse case, if there is something wrong with the secrets he is guarding, and it needs to be reported urgently.

Trivia: 

Cryptic’s animal companions are Grimoire (the crow) and Lady (the cat)

Though Cryptic tends to hide his goat-like horns, they are constantly growing, and he can’t hide them forever

Cryptic’s favorite kind of cake is mint and white chocolate, with a dark chocolate ganache

Cryptic is very fond of lilacs and lilies

He thinks roses are overrated, as are diamonds

He is partially blind in his right eye

He has a pattern on his left hind leg that looks like a skull from a certain angle

He hates Nightmare Night, despite his dark sense of humor

He is, oddly enough, terrified of rabbits

His usual hobbies are reading and deciphering ancient texts, even those in the most obscure old languages

Occasionally on Nightmare Night, some of the local fillies and colts in Canterlot like to dare each other to try to sneak into Cryptic’s house, saying it’s haunted. Usually Lady wards them off with her wild hissing, but sometimes Cryptic himself has to scare off the little ones

Cryptic sometimes sings to himself, but he’d prefer it if nopony else ever heard him

#;; guardian of equestrian secrets (cryptic) #jabber's pony files

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

I Believe In A Thing Called Love, Chapter 2: Touching Me

Schneider’s not the only one who is good with his hands. Blatant wish fulfillment, the sequel. 

Penelope x Schneider, One Day At A Time. Also on AO3. Chapter 3 will go up on 2/26.

“Maybe I can help you another way.”

“If you’re offering to put me out of my misery...not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I’m really looking forward to the next Deadpool movie.”

“Shut it.” She squeezed his hand. “I was talking about professional help. I might be able to ease up that muscle spasm, at least enough so you can breathe.”

Schneider blinked teary eyes at her from behind his glasses. “If you could, I would be eternally grateful. I’ll buy you lunch. No, dinner. No--a pony. Do you want a pony?”

Penelope was studying in her empty apartment when the knock jolted her out of her reading.

Well, it wasn’t a knock so much as a thud. The sound alarmed her enough to have her off the couch immediately, leaving her books splayed across the cushions.

“Schneider!”

He was breathing hard, holding himself up with a hand braced against the doorframe, and even whiter than usual.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

“Can...can I come in? I need to sit. Or lie down. Yeah, lying down sounds better.”

Schneider staggered past her when she stepped out of the way, dropping gracelessly onto the free couch cushion as she shut the door.

“Schneider, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Because I’m dying.”

He groaned, and Penelope gathered up her papers to make space next to him.

“You’re not dying. Are you sick, though? Because I have a major math test coming up and I’d rather not add a fever to the mix.”

“No, I’m not contagious. Just in pain. I thought I could make it back from the McGurbs’ but I couldn’t walk any more.”

“Too much spinning again? Are your...” Penelope decided to leave that question unasked. “Are you numb?”

“I wish.” He tried to take a deep breath, but winced and hissed the air back out. “I think I pulled a muscle in my Bikram yoga class this morning. I never should have tried to hold that handstand for so long.”

“Handstands? Isn’t that more like gymnastics than yoga?”

Schneider sighed, clutching his torso. “It wasn’t an official pose. More...aspirational.”

“Stupid.”

“Yeah, not my proudest moment. There were pretty girls there, in clingy athletic wear. Anyway, I thought I was fine, I figured it would work itself out.”

“And?”

“Now I can barely walk. It’s like...it’s like the muscle knotted itself around all my other muscles and keeps squeezing tighter, and tighter...I just want to stay in the fetal position until it stops. Or I die.”

Schneider squeezed his eyes shut. “That would also be acceptable at this point.”

“Well, like I said, I have a test,” Penelope replied firmly. “You can’t die here.”

“Can I stay in the fetal position?”

“You mean, moaning and crying in my living room? No. Studying, Schneider. Reading and highlighting and attempting to retain information. What part of that says ‘please come disrupt the process with your whining?’”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I never should have--” He tried to stand and fell over, half on top of her. “Oh, my god. It’s bad, Pen. It really hurts.”

“Oomph. Get off me, you Canadian maple tree.” She helped him back down to the couch cushion, listening to his labored breathing.

“You’re not kidding, are you? It’s really that bad.”

“It’s like I’m being stabbed with one of those grabber claw machine things, and then it’s twisting--”

Penelope clapped her hand over his mouth. “Okay. I get it. No more word pictures.”

Schneider sank into the couch, slumping a little while she frowned in his direction.

“I think you need to go to the ER, Schneider. If you’re having trouble breathing, it must be a really bad cramp.”

“No hospital.” He shook his head. “It’s just a muscle thing, it’ll stop eventually.”

“Will it stop in the next twenty minutes? ‘Cause that’s all the time I have before Mami should be back with the kids and my quiet study night is over.”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “I’ll go.”

Schneider managed to stand, visibly sweating from the wobbly effort. Penelope couldn't ignore the sharp pang of guilt.

“No, don’t do that. You’ll pass out in the elevator and Mami will find you stuck there in the morning when she leaves for Mass. You’re sure you don’t want to go to a doctor?”

“They have so many questions at the ER, Pen. 'What’s your insurance company?’ ‘Do you have any allergies?’ ‘Why did that pain pill we gave you result in your arrest for public nudity and vandalism?’ I don’t want to have to go through the whole thing...again.”

She nodded, resting her hand over his, where he was trying to push the pain back by force. “I get it. No hospital.”

“Thank you. I don’t want to wreck your night, though. Could you just help me up to my place?”

The thought probably wouldn’t have occurred to her if it were any other man on her couch, but when it did...she realized it wasn’t as crazy as it sounded in her head. Schneider had been there for her when she needed it.

“Maybe I can help you another way.”

“If you’re offering to put me out of my misery...not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I’m really looking forward to the next Deadpool movie.”

“Shut it.” She squeezed his hand. “I was talking about professional help. I might be able to ease up that muscle spasm, at least enough so you can breathe.”

Schneider blinked teary eyes at her from behind his glasses. “If you could, I would be eternally grateful. I’ll buy you lunch. No, dinner. No--a pony. Do you want a pony?”

“I just want my living room back,” she replied dryly. “Okay, easy now.”

Penelope pressed him into the back of the couch so that he was leaning away from her. Slowly, she pried his hand off his side, then tugged up the bottom of his t-shirt.

“Is this where it hurts?”

Her fingers were hovering near the skin he had reddened with pressure from his hands, but not touching. He flinched anyway. “Yeah. That’s the spot.”

“Okay. I’m not gonna lie to you, Schneider. This is going to hurt. But then it should get better. Ready?”

He squared his shoulders a little and nodded, fixing his trusting eyes on hers. “Ready.”

Later, she would tell that part of the story by comparing his scream to a wounded hyena. ‘A female one,’ Penelope insisted on adding, each and every time.

In the moment, Schneider nearly blacked out. But she was right, he could breathe again, after a few moments of her careful attention to the group of muscles that were seriously pissed at him.

“Okay. Okay--I’m okay.”

“I know you’re okay.” She smirked at him, with a fond sort of amusement. “It’s just a muscle cramp, Schneider, it’s not like you got shot.”

“A really, really bad muscle cramp.”

“Yes.” She brushed her thumb over his side, checking out the area now that he was taking deeper breaths. “Very bad, but I think you’ll survive. Just maybe lay off the handstands for a while.”

Penelope rubbed slow, firm circles around the place he’d hurt, noting his sharp intake of breath. “Just need to make sure it’s not going to go back into spasm. There, how does that feel?”

His voice was tight when he replied. “It’s fine. Thanks, Pen.”

“Are you sure?” He didn’t sound fine. The edge in his tone worried her.

“Yeah. I’m good now.”

When she frowned and angled her fingers down a little, brushing them testingly over his skin, Schneider reached up and gripped her hand.

“Stop. Please.”

“What...”

Her eyes moved past his lap on their way to their joined hands, and Penelope was suddenly very aware of a different muscle group that was clearly in perfect health.

“Oh.” She pulled her hand back like he was on fire and stood up.

“Yeah. Um, sorry. I didn’t-I don’t--”

It didn’t have to be weird if they refused to make it weird, she decided. And she desperately wanted things to remain not-weird between them.

So Penelope ran a hand through her hair and chuckled. “Schneider, you know, it’s no big deal. You’re a guy; it happens. If I had a dollar for every patient that reacted that way during a basic physical exam...well, I’d be you.”

“I...” His brow furrowed, but he changed his mind about whatever he was originally going to say. “Okay. Um, I think I can walk now. In a minute.”

She nodded. “Good. I’m glad. You’re not sweating anymore,” she added, pleased.

“Nope. That I am not,” he agreed. “You’re a miracle worker, Penelope Alvarez.”

“Ha. I’m just a nurse.”

“Miracles,” he countered seriously. “Working them. Often.”

Penelope waved it away, but a happy flash of warmth spread through her. "Alright,” she declared after giving him another minute to recover. “Let’s get you home. Can you stand on your own?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Slowly, Schneider straightened up to that ridiculous height of his--offering her a weak smile when he succeeded.

“Good. That’s good.” She led the way to the door, holding out a hand just above his waist in case he decided to do something terrible, like fall over.

“I highly recommend a heating pad,” Penelope advised him as they walked down his hallway. “No ice--you don’t want the muscles to cool down and tighten up before they’re ready. But a low heat, that will help them stay relaxed while you recover. And not too much moving around. You hear me?”

“Yeah, Lupe, I hear you. Heat good, cold bad.”

They were outside his door before Schneider realized she was staring at him. The familiar nickname had fallen off his tongue by accident; he called her that in his head sometimes, though it felt too personal to actually say out loud.

He blamed the pain. Clearly, it shut his brain right off.

“So...thanks. I’m feeling much better. I’m gonna buy you that pony,” he added faintly when Penelope just kept staring.

That seemed to snap her out of whatever she was thinking. She smiled when she registered his words.

“No, thanks. What would I do with a pony?”

“I don’t know. Braid its tail? I thought every little girl dreamed of having a pony when she grew up.”

“Some of us prefer flowers,” Penelope told him, grinning, before she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek in farewell.

“I’m not kidding, though, Schneider,” she added as she backed down the hall, facing him until she disappeared around the corner. “Put some heat on that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

#alvareider #odaat #one day at a time #penelope x schneider #schneider x penelope #alvareider fanfic #alvareider fic #odaat fic #odaat fanfic #one day at a time fanfic #one day at a time fic #my fic #ps okay i recognize i may have a pony problem #idek #it's a cute idea

[a-d-n-d-journal]

Game Session #22

Characters:

Rysiel "Riceboy", half-elf druid (Circle of the Moon)/barbarian

Zastu, dragonborn rogue (Thief)

Mirri in the wind, tabaxi bard (College of Worship)

Kix, changeling rogue (Arcane Trickster)

NPCs:

Olivai and Lukai; ~25 & 15yrs female & male humans; sibling barbarians of the Elk tribe on a quest

Today we tried something a little different, and the players each wrote down/told each other (and me) what they wanted to see happen during the session. Zastu's player has to take a little break while they go do some intense schooling this semester, so we wanted to get to a place where the character was taken care of, but not "taken care of", if you get what I mean. I am very glad to say that it worked out!

This session kicks off with a fight! At the end of the last session, Rysiel transformed into a giant elk, and led the one troll off into the moors on a chase. The rest of the party members—plus Olivai—fight the giant for a few rounds before Rysiel makes it back. During the fight, Kix makes good use of the terrain, hides behind a boulder, and uses his Uncanny Dodge to survive the devastating blows from the Fire Giant’s sword. Rysiel distracts the Fire Giant with his size, and Olivai has a hard time hitting with her bow. When the giant is dead, they divy up the strange loot in her sack—the scale from a red dragon, loaves of mouldy bread, and a bunch of gold and silver. They also take a closer look at the strange rod she was carrying. What is this? ((I tell them it's a Rod of the Vonindod, but nothing more, they'll need to attune it in order to use it, or make sense of it)) The rod is around 100lbs, so it's not easy to handle. They tie it to Rysiel, who is still in Elk form.

As they travel, Olivai answers Mirri’s questions about the different barbarian tribes in the north. The 10 tribes are collectively called the Uthgardt, and descend from a single god-hero.

The Elk tribe chief is old and stuck in his ways. Olivai and Lukai are from this tribe, and have left (were kicked out?) due to their progressive views on magic (believing the barbarians are being held back by their superstitions).

Black Lion raids homesteads if the winters are bad; their great chief (Stellok) wears Orc hide armor and has a fearsome reputation. His younger sister (Tysis) is a powerful shaman; They hate civilization; Don't try diplomacy

The Grey Wolf are werewolves, if you fight them, leave none alive—they will hunt you down to prevent their wolf blessing being passed to outsiders

The Black Raven also hunt down those who wrong them, as well as caravans, and ride giant ravens

Great Worm live in caverns in the mountains, hoarding treasure

Griffon clan rides griffons… Sometimes raid homesteads north of Triboar and Yartar

Red Tiger, raids along the Rauvin river, attacking Elves these days

Sky Pony and Thunderbeast are the most superstitious of the tribes, Olivai thinks they're tragically ignorant and they may have hidden magical item

Tree Ghost protect the Grandfather tree

That night, Olivai continues training Rysiel in the ways of the Barbarian. The sex jokes reach a climax, then peter out... There’s a lot of yelling (Rysiel is learning Barbarian Rage).

Each tribe has a sacred space—called a ‘spirit mound’—where they meet at important times of the year to perform ceremonies. The Elk Tribe spirit mound is Flint Rock, and their destination. Flint Rock is a series of mounds with cairns and standing stones perpetually shrouded in fog. Olivai reminds them not to harm or touch any animals they might see, lest they become cursed. They proceed to a giant stone slab, which Olivai says covers a coffin with the relic she needs, as well as the party’s reward for helping her. ((I have the players roll a series of Atheltics:Strength checks, and it takes a while for them to realize//me to explain that if they wish to keep trying, they can—but they need to continue rolling until there are ‘enough’ successes during an attempt. This represents the characters trying over a period of time.)) The stone is impossibly heavy, so they eventually bring in the horses to help with ropes, bardic inspiration, and cast some spells as well. Still, it takes some time before the slab moves and uncovers the coffin.

Inside the coffin is a giant-sized spear tip, barely wrapped in an old cloth. It appears to be quite heavy, but Olivai manages to hold it with two hands. She becomes nervous and impatient as the party stands around panting, and she points at the cloth she’s accidentally dropped, asking someone to hand it to her. The strain of moving the slab must have garbled everyone’s brains, because they have a hard time understanding her, and she loses her temper before Zastu finally hands her the cloth. But she gets to close. A stale chill washes over Zastu, and she starts to feel strange. Mirri and the horses start to notice the strange smell first. The horses shy away, and as Mirri stiffs the air to get a better sense of it, they’re overcome by a sudden sickness. The tabaxi doubles over, retching, and the horses run away into one of the valleys. One by one, the party detects a horrible stench, and they all vomit—except for Zastu, who deduces that she is the source, and retreats to another hill top. ((The characters are incapacitated//unable to move for 1d6x10 minutes, and Poisoned for another 1d4 hours)) It takes about an hour for everyone to recover enough to be able to move. The characters discuss what to do. Olivai explains that his must be a curse, because Zastu got too close to the ancient relic without being a tribe member. She feels bad, and tries to take some responsibility—Zastu will have to keep her distance from everyone, including them and other outsiders, but Olivai and Lukai will set her up in a cave they know of (to the south, along the Dessarin river), and bring her food for a while. Meanwhile, Zastu experiences the feeling of bugs and creepy crawlies along her skin. She manages to stifle her visceral reaction, but the feeling comes back periodically, threatening to erode her sanity.

Rysiel attempts to remove the curse by casting ‘Dispel Magic’ on Zastu at a distance, but she doesn’t feel any different. A cast of ‘Detect Magic’ on the giant spear head doesn’t reveal much—just a faint transmutation aura. After much prodding (by me, the GM), Kix takes a look at the creepy-looking back in the coffin, which is their prize, their loot. The bag is a magic bag of holding--capable of holding a lot of weight without weighing more than 15lbs. There's a magical coil of rope in there, along with a magical butterfly wing pendant, and a couple potions. No one else seems interested, so Kix keeps it all (though he gives one healing potion to Mirri). They also stow the very heavy Rod of the Vonindod in there. Eventually they gather up the horses—Bobble and Boris—and begin their journey back to the road.

The session ends at the road between Yartar and Calling Horns, where the barbarians leave to take Zastu to where her curse won’t harm anyone.

#5e #D&D #A Party Most Queer #Storm King's Thunder #session

[wordsonpages1-blog]

Could I please request a hot smutty one where betty and jughead have a deal where they can't touch each other for like 48 hours, but they are both teasing each other in that time and one of them breaks (you can decide who) followed by lots of smut. I feel slightly embarrassed to request this 😂

love, love, love this one! Again sorry for the wait, i want to do all your ideas justice so sometimes it takes a while to churn them out! Anyway I hope you enjoy this love and thankyou for your support and encouragement on my work! I love you x

warnings: SMUT!!!!

YOU CAN LOOK BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH:

HOUR ZERO:

It was hot.  More thanhot actually, in fact Jughead was almost positive this summer was more akin tohell on earth.

It was early July and the heat had already exceededRiverdale records, making it clear they were on track for a sweltering,unbearable few months.

And for the teenager whose wardrobe mostly consisted oflayers, flannels, denim, and leather and of course the renowned beanie the heatwasn’t exactly a cause for celebration.

Jughead groaned, head hitting the back of the vibrantleather booth he was sprawled across. The curser on his laptop screen blinkedat him obnoxiously- a reminder of the words that would not come.  

The agitated boy glanced around the crowed diner, findingeven more cause for frustration. It seemed as though half of Riverdale’spopulation had decided to seek refuge in the Chok’lit Shoppe, making it alittle harder for Jughead to enjoy the air conditioned space he felt even moreat home in than his foster house.

Just as he was spiralling into another brooding monologueabout the woes of wanting to get a refill but dreading losing his booth, thebells at the entrance chimed, signalling the arrival of another patron.

It wasn’t just any patron though; it was the one bright spotin this god awful summer. It was the one thing that was making all hissuffering, completely and utterly worth it.

And that was Betty Cooper, clad in a tiny sundress thatshowed off her gorgeous, long, tan legs.

Her eyes scannedbriefly around the crowded space before landing on Jughead; lighting up whenthey met his and skipping happily over to his booth.

“Hey you,” he greeted, unable to keep the smile off his facein her presence.

“Hi,” Betty returned sliding in beside him before placingher lips over his.

Jughead relaxed into the kiss, savouring the taste of herlips which were much more refreshing than any cold beverage could have been.

As she pulled away Jughead couldn’t help but notice the dewyglint on her skin, the heat obviously affecting her too.  He licked his lips, unable to resist theenticing sheen and wanting nothing more than the trace the column of her neckwith his tongue.

“How are you coping?” the blonde asked in mock concern,shifting in the booth so that her back was pressed fully against the coolleather and revelling in the relief in brought her.

Jughead rolled his eyes at her obvious teasing, pulling hislaptop shut.

“I didn’t think I would find hell this early on but here weare,” he drawled sardonically.

Betty snorted, shaking her head and sending the curls of herpony tail bouncing

“It’s not that bad Jug, and it’s air conditioned in here.”

“I was talking about the crowd not the weather Betts.”

She couldn’t help but laugh properly at that, turning herbody toward him and basking in the light humour in his blue eyes, thrillstripping down her spine at his inviting smirk.

“So you’ve warmed up to the heat then?” Betty asked with a wrysmile at her own pun.

Jughead quirked a brow, amused at her awful attempt athumour.

“Well there are certain aspects of it that I’m partial to…”he trailed off, his tone full of implication as was the hand creeping up her thigh.

“Oh really? Like what?” Betty asked innocently, inchingtoward his lips again.

The rest of the world was melting away- figuratively orliterary they weren’t sure- as the booth became their little haven of younglove, flirtatious banter and steamy infatuation. The air was becoming thick asBetty placed one leg on the seat so that her shin was flat against the leatherand her body was nestled between the table and his black ripped jean clad legthat was bent and resting behind her.

Jughead’s hand came to rest on her hip, fingers teasing the heatedskin even through the thin layer of fabric.

Betty’s eyes closed at the feel of his lips ghosting againsthers as he spoke.

“I’m not complaining about that dress.”

She grinned against his lips, before they fully connectedwith her own and they were locked in a languid kiss. Their lips moved over eachother slowly, sensually, passionately. It was teasing almost, the heady yetrestrained push and pull of their mouths as they tried to quench their thirstof each other without putting on an inappropriate public display.

One of Betty’s hands came up to clutch the v neck of hisblack t-shirt, while the other rested against his cheek. Jughead’s tongueglided nimbly over her lower lip, prompting Betty to open her mouth wider. Heswallowed her sigh and each of them revelled in the moment of teenage bliss,unaffected by the tragedy and treachery of the town that seemed to constantlyfollow them around.

“Really guys I came in here to cool down not heat up,”Veronica’s feigned exasperation broke the pair from their little bubble.

Jughead rolled his eyes at the comment, as Betty bit her lipshyly and repositioned herself to lean against him, facing their companions.

“Betty Cooper what would your mother think?” Kevin added,clambering in next to the raven haired beauty with a playfully scandalisedexpression.

“At least their just kissing and she’s not pregnant?”Jughead suggested earning a smack on the chest from Betty, while Veronicachuckled and Kevin looked absolutely delighted at the remark.

“No but in all seriousness how can you guys stand to be soaffectionate when it’s like a billion degrees outside?” the New Yorkerquestioned fanning herself with a perfectly manicured hand.

“He just can’t keep his hands off me,” Betty quippedcheekily poking her tongue out at her boyfriend.

Jughead raised his eyebrows at her.

“Is that a challenge Betts?”

Shit, Bettythought, noting the darkness swirling in his irises, making her heart stutterand her thighs clench with excitement. It was that and her competitive streakthat manufactured her answer.

“If you think you’re up to it Juggie,” the blonde repliedsweetly, faux innocence exuding her persona.

“Ohhh! I love a good bet! What are the stakes?” Veronicarubbed her hands together mischievously.

“48 hours. No touching. Loser funds milkshakes for the restof summer. Both parties agree?” Kevin added, leaning in conspiringly.

Jughead glanced down at Betty, their eyes met in a headyembrace.

“I’m game if you are Cooper.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal Jones.”

HOUR 12:

It shouldn’t have shocked him how difficult it would be tokeep his hands off of her but it did.

Jughead had registered the difficulty of not touching her ina sexual sense, and knew that would be hard, but decided he was up to thechallenge. He had gone the better part of seventeen years without knowing whatit was like to explore every inch of Betty Cooper’s glorious body so he figuredhe could go 48 hours, no matter how agonising those hours might be.

What he hadn’t factored in was how challenging it would beto keep his hands off of her in the literal sense of the phrase. Only once hewas deprived of the luxury did her realise how innate and engrained into theirrelationship the little gestures had become.

It took actual physical restraint not to lace their fingerstogether as he walked her home and conscious effort to refrain from placing hishand on her knee, her shoulder, her thigh, anywhere whenever she was within afoot of him.

It had only been 12 hours and it was already killing him.  But he could not lose this bet.

And it didn’t help that at this current point in time he wasin the epicentre of all things Betty; her bedroom.

Her parents, Polly and the twins had gone to visit Betty’sgrandparents for a few days leaving her house empty. So of course they hadpre-planned to take advantage of that situation- a plan that was now going towaste.

It was 1am and Jughead was lying on her bed, the summerbreeze filtering through the window creating a sultry air, accentuated by thefeel of her white satin sheets pressing against the bare skin of his back.

It had been a long night. And while Jughead was entirelycontent to just be around Betty- laughing with her, talking to her, eating withher, watching movies with her- he couldn’t help but think just how much morecontent they would both be after engaging in certain more rigorous and explicitactivities.

“Betts?” Jughead called out, wondering where she haddisappeared to for so long.

“Yeah?” Betty replied casually, striding back into herfloral and pastel covered room.

Jughead lazily raisedhimself up onto his forearms at the sound of her voice, but his eyesimmediately bugged out of his head as he took in her profile.

Leaning against her door frame was Betty clad in his black t-shirt which was riding dangerouslyhigh up on her thighs. The hem was taunting him, teasing the smooth skin of herthighs the way his fingers itched to do.

Jughead collapsed back on the bed, closing his eyes andtaking a deep breath. His skin was feeling hot for an entirely different reasonto the raging summer now, and his every nerve was thrumming with electricity.

“Nothing,” he sighed trying desperately not to think aboutall the times she had climbed on his lap wearing nothing but his t-shirt,running her hands through his hair and whispering all the dirty things shewanted him to do to her while circling her hips just so-

Fuck. Jugheadthought, trying with all his will to ignore the twitching in his pants.

“Okay…” Betty said, moving into the room.

She was putting on a show and they both knew it.  

Betty knew she wasn’t playing fair but she couldn’t help it.She wanted him but she also wanted towin.  It was driving her insane not beingable to be close to him while they watched movies and hung out, wanting hisarms around her or his hands in her hair. But now with him in her room in theearly hours of the morning, shirtless and muscles mocking her inability totouch them, all she wanted was to climb on his lap and litter his skin withpurple bruises, run her hands over his broad shoulders and move her hips…

But she couldn’t do that until he broke. So she brought outthe big guns. She could see on his face that he was tempted. He had always hada weakness- a hormonal, possessive weakness- for her wearing his clothes. Aweakness that she loved- so of course she was going to exploit it

A smirk rose on her luscious lips, making Jughead loathehimself more for agreeing to a bet so stupid. But nothing could have preparedhim for what happened next.

Locking eyes with him Betty drew her bottom lip between herteeth and put on her best innocent face; wide eyes and all. Jughead gulped atthe devilish glint in her eyes, an air of danger further igniting his senses.

And then in a devastatingly sinful manoeuvre she pulled thehand that had been behind her back into his view and dropped something on theground. Breaking away from her electrifying gaze, Jughead’s eyes moved to thefloor.

His breath caught in his throat and his pants becameuncomfortably tight. There on the ground contrasting the pale carpet were hisgirlfriend’s damp, black, lacy panties. Jughead’s eyes stayed trained on thesultry garment, his resolve slipping away. He then moved his stare back up hersmooth, slender legs to where his t-shirt rest against those legs. His mouthwent dry as his mind connected the dots.

“God Betty, why aren’t you wearing panties?” Jughead groanedout, a light sweat breaking out of his brow as he fisted the bed sheets so asnot to pounce on his girlfriend, lift his t-shirt and see exactly what she wasmaking no attempt to hide…

Betty shrugged, the evil glint in her green eyes remainingin-tact as she took a graceful step over the lingerie on the floor and towardwhere he lay on her bed. The primal tint in his voice had sent delightfulshivers down her spine, and heat flooding through her veins.  And Betty was more than willing to test hisself-restraint if it ended in their hands all over each other’s bodies.

“It’s too hot for layers… what’s that matter? Will you findit hard to sleep now?”

Jughead’s hands flew to cover his eyes as another tortured noiseleft his throat; strangled and agonised. She was too damn erotic for her owngood that girl. And well he deserved a freakin medal. His girlfriend waswearing his t-shirt and nothing else, while they were alone in her room whileher parents were out of town and he was somehow refraining from fucking hersenseless?

“Jesus Betty you are going to kill me.”

But he didn’t touch her that night. And while Betty found avery tiny part of herself respecting his self-control, the majority of herbeing was absolutely devastated by his well exercised will power, and steelresolve.

HOUR 24:

Betty’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, prompting herto veer her attention from the television screen. Picking up the device, ahappy wave crashed over her body as the name “Jughead” lit up the lock screen.

Quickly, putting in her passcode Betty opened his text. Shewas currently sprawled across the couch in her living room, armed with a tub ofice cream and the remote, basking in the peace of her empty house and stayinghidden from the harsh rays of the sun.

The blonde was feeling the epitome of relaxed, especiallywith the bet between her and Jughead seemingly lax today with him working forFred Andrews at the construction site and therefore, not around to tempt herhormones and dirty urges.

I’m on my lunch break and there is no sufficient entertainment here

Betty snorted at the message, clearly picturing his lipspushed outward in a faux little pout and a twinkle in his eyes as he typed thewords, sighing dramatically at his surrounds.

Poor thing! So gladI’m at home binging Netflix and eating ice cream, dodging that dilemma…

She tapped quickly back. A few moments later her phonebuzzed in her hand again.

Actually in an unexpected turn of events, I’ve found a source ofattraction after all.

Betty’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as she triedto decipher the cryptic meaning of his words.

Enlighten me.

It’s quite a vision picturing all the ways I want to corrupt you righthere.

The words bore through her body, flooding her system withwant. Her breath coming out in a shaky exhale as her nerves thrummed with thetemptation of his touch which she was sorely missing.

My hands sliding up your thighs, my lips on your neck…

He was the one playing games now and damn if it wasn’tgetting to her. Her breaths were pants now and her thighs clenched at thethought of what his fingers could do between them.

Betty let out a groan, throwing herself back on the couch asher heart pounded erratically in her chest. She waited a moment beforereplying. She wanted to resist. She didn’t want to know what he wanted to do toher…

But god yes shedid.

Is that all?

The blonde pulled her lip between her teeth, anxiouslyawaiting his reply.

Not a chance in hell. I’d sit you up on the desk, spread your legs andfeel how wet you’d be for me… then I’d drop to my knees and taste you.

Betty was practically panting now, her legs rubbing togetherin wanton anticipation. Her body flooding with a heat to rival the outsidetemperature and the air conditioned house doing nothing to estop it.

Juggie…

And then only when you were begging me too would I bend you over andfuck you.

Her hand crept down her stomach as the feeling of arousalbuilding up within her became too much. Her eyes closed as she pictured all thesinful things his words had crafted. Whythe hell had she agreed to this bet?

Fuck Jug. Don’ttease me like that.

Betty could almost feel his smirk through the words thatappeared on her phone next.

All’s fair in love and war Betts. See you later ;)

A glare took over her usually soft features at the thoughtof only seeing him later and notbeing able to run her hands all over the lean muscles she loved so much.

HOUR 30:

It’s 7pm when Jughead arrives at the Cooper residence. Ithad been a long, draining day. Working construction for Mr Andrews was great inthe sense that it lined his pockets with some extra cash, but was brutal in thesense that it was manual labour in treacherous heat.

He spent the day taking out some of his pent up frustrationfrom not being able to lay a hand on his girlfriend on some dry wall. Jughead,although proud of his little teasing routine earlier in the day wasapprehensive about seeing Betty now. He was sure she had more tricks up hersleeve and was beginning to seriously doubt his body’s ability to resist her.She was like a drug and he was well and truly addicted and having withdrawalsfrom the cold turkey quit.

Hopping out of his truck and making his way to the frontdoor, the dark haired boy began mentally preparing himself for another nightspent in sexual agony with no release. He was past the point of telling himselfat least he still got to see her; he would never take any part of Betty and herpersonality for granted but it was hot, and so was she, he was riled up and hewas a hormonal teenager, as much as he despised the stereotype.

Just 18 more hours…

Knocking on the door, Jughead took a steadying breath. Amoment later Betty appeared in the threshold. She was clad in a simple pair ofrunning shorts and a t-shirt and Jughead was simultaneously disappointed andrelieved to see she had given up wearing his clothes for the day. Her blondehair was hanging free around her shoulders, her mile long legs again on displayand her full lips once again begging for his attention.  Jughead’s hands gripped the door frame hard tostop himself from reaching for her.

“Hey, come in,” Betty’s tone was easy with a smile to matchthough her insides were bursting into flames.

He looked so unjustly good standing before her in a pair ofworn jeans and a white wife beater that pronounced the muscles of his chest,abs and arms so perfectly. His beanie was hanging in his back pocket and thatone traitorous curl was hanging over his forehead, mercilessly teasing her. Hisolive skin was smudged with dirt and the evidence of a hard day’s work was makingher knees weak and her skin and core heat.

“So hospitable,” Jughead teased as he moved through thedoor, kicking off his boots.

Betty rolled her eyes walking ahead to the kitchen and gettinghim a glass of water.

“Thanks,” he supplemented taking the glass from her, bothcareful not to let their skin brush, afraid the electricity would exacerbatethem.

The air was tense, both their shoulder’s matching and theirusual easy conversation was severely lacking.

Betty was careful to stay on the opposite side of thekitchen to him, clutching the counter to stop her hands from reaching for thehem of his shirt, or yanking on his thick hair.

Awkwardly clearing her throat she attempted conversation.

“So how’d you cope in the weather today?”

Jughead shrugged, tongue darting out to lick his lips as hetried to refrain from conjuring up all the naughty things he wanted to do toher right here in this kitchen.

“It was okay, the afternoon got pretty hot though.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Betty’s eyes went wide as the words slipped out of her mouthbefore she could register them. Jughead quirked an eyebrow at her, both clearlyon the same train of thought- their earlier text encounter. She hadn’t meant totease him tonight as she was fairly certain her own resolve wouldn’t be able tohandle any more games either. Meanwhile, Jughead did his best to remain aloofwhile inwardly his body was burning in desire for her.

“Something got you worked up Betts?”

“It did. But don’t worry I took care of it.” Jughead chokedon his water at the implication of her words.

Betty shot him a challenging look, though really she wasbeginning to panic internally. Every fibre of her being yearned to reach forhim, pull his bottom lip between her teeth, suck the skin on the juncture ofhis neck and shoulder, taste the sweat that lingered and clutch his biceps asher hips ground against his.

Jughead’s eyes darkened and her breath hitched inanticipation. Their gazes stayed locked for a prolonged moment. His dangerousand warning, hers antagonising.  The airwas charged and crackling and both their chests were heaving a little.

Eventually Jughead looked away nodding in the direction ofthe stairs.

“I’m going to take a shower if that’s okay?” His voice wascoated with lust and Betty felt her skin prickle with excitement at the sound;she wanted it closer, breathed in her ear.

“Yeah that’s fine,” she confirmed dazed and desperatelytrying not to think about the last time they had decided to save water byshowering together. A move that had ended with her pressed against the tiles,legs around his waist and his name on her lips.

Jughead nodded and hastily moved toward the stairs, needingto exit the situation as to not lose the bet, by wrapping her in his arms and inhalingher scent, tasting her skin and ravishing her body.

Once he was out of sight, Betty let out a shaky exhale, runninga hand through her hair and hopelessly searching for her control. Her heart wasracing and her nerves were humming. She closed her eyes and clutched at thecounter, seeking solace in the cool surface.

After a few minutes Betty was satisfied that she hadsomething akin to control over her hormones and primal urges and headed for thestairs as well, seeking out the sanctuary of her bedroom.

As she lays on her bed, humming a mindless tune she can hearthe sounds of the water running and it calms her a little… as long as she doesn’tthink about him standing under the spray naked, and glistening… and fuck.

“Betty?” Jughead’s voice makes her body snap to attention.

“Yeah?”

Silence.

Betty hesitates before hopping off of her bed and paddingdown the hall toward the bathroom. Somehow the only and last thing she wants todo is chance walking in on him naked when she’s in such a vulnerable state offrazzled nerves and insatiable hormones. But it’s unlike him not to follow upon something. So she rolls her eyes and chances the encounter.

Bad idea.

“Jug?” she asks gently as she carefully opens the door.

She is immediately dispossessed of all rational thought atthe sight she’s greeted with though.

Standing before her is Jughead, a white towel sitting low onhis hips, making her mouth water at the prominent v lines enticing her line ofsight downwards. A drop of water slides down his chest and between the ridgesof his abs, her tongue darting out to lick her lips as her eyes follow it down.His dark hair is wet and his hands are pushing through it sexily, making heryearn to yank at the tresses. Heat pools between her thighs and she forgets howto breathe. All she can feel is a rush of adrenalin and hormones and want and-

“Sorry, I was gonna ask for a towel but I-“ Jughead stopsshort.

His eyes on her nowlike a spotlight. She’s panting, her green eyes dark and shining in ahelplessly turned on stare as she nibbles on her bottom lip. She wants him. And god can he tell. Hisnow indigo eyes lock on her form. His features turning dark as he practicallydevours her with his gaze alone. She feels much too warm and before she caneven register what she’s doing, Betty finds her hands tugging at her clothes.Her shorts drop to the floor and she quickly steps out of them while pullingher t-shirt up and over her head. She’s left in matching blue lace.

It’s his turn now to be captivated. His eyes hungrily roamingthe expanse of exposed tan skin, still littered with fading marks from hishands and lips from what seems like an eternity ago but was only days.

“Betty,” he groans out, the sound low and rough.

The air is practically humming with sexual tension and sheswallows thickly.

Fuck it she thinksas her mouth says “shut up.” And within seconds she’s crossed the space betweenthem and has her mouth sealed over his.

It’s a clash of teeth and tongues; ferocious and bruising asthey try and satiate themselves of almost two days’ worth of pent up desire.

Her hands are gripping at his hair roughly while his have afirm grip on her jaw, angling her head so that he can devour her mouth better.

She tastes sweet like the fruit she had been eating earlierand it’s such a delicious contrast to the bitter tobacco that lingers in hismouth.  Betty groans and tugs harder onhis hair as his tongue moves sensually along hers. The sound makes one ofJughead’s hands drop to grip her ass, pleasure pulsating through her body atthe feeling.

“Fuck,” he breathes into her mouth as her hips seek thefriction of his own and their mouths move a breadth away to breathe the sameair.

Her head is spinning, drunk off of him as he picks her upand repositions her on the vanity, his mouth latching onto her neck and suckingpurple bruises and she groans and pants beneath his ministrations.

“Juggie,” she moans as his teeth nip at her pulse point; thepitch of her voice is the frequency of sex and shoots straight to his groin.

That earns her a growl and the clasp of her bra undone, ashe makes quick work of the garment, discarding it on the floor. As Jughead’smouth continues down the slender column of neck, one hand runs over her throat-the gesture primal and making her damp with need- while the other moves tocaress her chest. Betty’s ankles lock around his hips, her hands gripping hisshoulders as her hips pick up a sinful rhythm that’s leaving him breathless andachingly hard.

His lips move further still, encasing a nipple between themand making her gasp as she loses herself in the pleasure. Her hips buck towardhis and he groans, the vibrations making her feel even more on edge in such adeliciously raw way. She needs him and she’s not ashamed. Her body is aching tobe connected in the most primal way, needing to feel every inch of him to feelwhole.

Betty’s hands blindly trail down his chest and abs,revelling in the feeling of the contracting muscles and hot skin beneath thembefore coming to rest on the knot of his towel. She tugs and it comes loose.His head drops to her shoulder at the liberty, his breath warming and teasingher skin as her hands pull him closer and his own hips thrust toward the moltenheat he can feel radiating from her core.

“Betts,” he groans, the sound strangled and passionate asher hand snakes between them and begins to pump his length.

Jughead feels as though his every nerve has been shot, hisbody feeling entirely consumed by the electricity she cloaks him in. He’senraptured by her scent, enthralled by her voice, addicted to her taste andlost without her touch. He needs her and he needs her now.

One large hand traps the both of hers above her head againstthe mirror and her head falls back as her hips lift at the dominant display. Hereyes are wide and pleading with him to move, to show her some mercy.

His other hand tugs her panties down her long legs, untilshe can kick them off, before moving back up to run through her slick heat. She’ssoaked in desire for him and the knowledge and sensation makes his head spinand his heart pound as his member throbs.

His finger teases her entrance before pushing in, Betty inhalingsharply at the sensation of finally having him touch her. She whimpers as histhumb rubs tight circles over her clit, her hips bucking up to meet hismovements.

“Fuck your so wet,” he growls in her ear and the sexdripping from his tone makes her body desperate for more.

“Please Jug, I need you.”

He’s in no mood to be patient, deciding to make her beglater, after he’s had his fix of her.

He’s inside of her before Betty can even protest the loss ofhis fingers and fuck it feels god.She almost loses it from the feel of him entering her alone and he has toexercise all of self-control not to do the same. Their pace is furious. The pushand pull of their hips urgent and rough, climbing the way to their peak ferociously.He hitches her leg up higher on his waist as her head drops back against themirror and her moans echo through the room.

It’s needy and raw and fast and hard, and when his handcreeps between them to toy with her sensitive bundle of nerves she’s gone, plummetingover the edge and crashing harshly into the precipice with a scream of hisname.

Jughead follows closely behind her, the feel of herclenching around him being too much to bear and a loud groan falling from hislips. She shudders at the feeling of him spilling inside her. Her eyes closingas she basks in the bliss of their union.

Jughead thinks they’re like the summer storm he’s waitingfor; an agonising build of heat and tension that eventually explodes in arampant and wild display of electricity and thunder. He drops his lips to hercollar bone, gently kissing the skin before smiling into it. Betty runs herhands through his hair affectionately, before pulling his eyes up to meet herown soft and sated gaze.

“I missed you,” she states simply and Jughead grins,dropping a sweet kiss to her lips. He knows exactly what she means. This wasthem, the touching and affection and passion. Not the reserved glances andgaping distance between their bodies as the last few days had been.

“I missed you too,” he replies easily and Betty’s grin makesthe fluorescent lights of the bathroom seem dull.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath andrevelling in the feeling of skin on skin and being as close as they couldpossibly get before moving to tidy themselves up.

“Hey Betts,” Jughead throws over his shoulder as he slips onhis boxers.

“Hmm?” she returns, fingers detangling her hair.

“You owe me a milkshake.”

#bughead fanfiction #bughead smut #bughead #jetty #jetty fanfiction #betty x jughead

[promptbomb]

Ink and Paint

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Chapters: 1/? Word Count: 1,751 Prompt:  You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven't quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door.

It was the silence that really bugged you about working the graveyard shift.

When you had apprenticed under your uncle back home at his parlor there was rarely a dull moment to be had. Old timers coming in for touch ups usually had great stories to tell, occasionally you’d see a couple get into a heated argument over matching designs, there were even times when business was slow so your uncle would pull out his guitar and have a small jam session. It was the life flowing through his parlor that inspired you to take your art seriously and become a tattooist.

So when you came to Los Santos, fresh off the bus with bright eyes and portfolio in hand, you were somewhat discouraged when you found few openings and fewer owners wanting to take a chance on a no-name artist from the sticks. The money your uncle had loaned you dried up quickly and you found yourself forced into a parade of entry level jobs that kept you afloat as you continued to comb through every dark alley with a neon sign that flickered Tattoo. That’s when you found Pandemonium, the darkest of dives located between a disco tech warehouse club and a late night dry cleaner that, you were almost positive, was the front for some money laundering scheme.

Phil, the guy who ran the place, was hesitant on hiring you. You were sure that when he offered you the graveyard shift that he meant it more as a throw away offer. You’d be working alone and if anything went wrong it would take the cops about thirty minutes to get there. You didn’t care about the danger, not if it got you a chair. So with the promise that, if you did well they might be able to find a place for you in the day, you began your tenure as a pseudo night guard for Pandemonium Ink.

For the most part, it was pretty...unfulfilling. During the week the streets were like a ghost town and you found yourself marathoning cooking shows in some attempt to offset your hunger for a real meal. One could only live on take-out and ramen noodles for so long. The weekends didn’t offer much more in the way of clientele. Sure, you’d get the occasional roaming flock of beach bros stumbling down from the disco tech, bursting into the door so one of their friends could get a fifty dollar flash tattoo. You should be grateful but by the end of it, between having to almost lay on top of them to get them to sit still and their friends howling in the background, you’d wish for the silence that usually drove you crazy.

Most nights you’d think about giving up. You knew if you went home you could work for you uncle no problem. There was no shame in failing and maybe, after a few years and a nice cushion of money and a hefty portfolio, you could try again. But your pride kept you there, sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and dreaming of the day you’d see your own art there on the pages.

As fate may have it you were having one of these internal conversations on a night that you first met the infamous Vagabond.

The door opening made its usually broken down and thirsty for oil sound, a trainwreck of a noise that you had become accustomed to by this point. You didn’t even look up from your magazine as you heard the slow shuffle of footsteps making their way in.

“Hey.” Your greeting was...less than enthusiastic. Already you caught the light scent of liquor; perfect, nothing you liked better than inking a drunk. Even as you half-assed pointed to the wall, where several flash tattoos were hanging, you were already thinking up some excuse to get out of dealing with it tonight. “Everything on the wall is fifty. Words are five a letter. Anything else you’ll have to-” As you looked up your words came to a pause, catching sight of the man that had walked in. He looked like hell; long hair falling out of a loose and drooping pony-tail, clothing dirty and torn up as if he had just walked away from some vicious street fight. You thought for a moment that he may have been bleeding but on closer inspection, and noticing a smudge on the sleeve of his jacket, it appeared that his face had been painted.

Your lips thin, what was up with this guy? Sometimes you had to deal with addicts that stumbled in blitz out of their mind, it was one of the reasons you kept a baseball bat under the counter, just in case things turned violent. Aside from smelling like a brewery he didn’t seem the sorts to fly off the handle suddenly, he even moved as if he was completely sober. “Hey man.” you call again, trying to get his attention, “You ok? You need to use the phone or something?”

He glanced at you, blue eyes bloodshot but focused. The look on his face made it appear that he hadn’t slept in days. “I want a tattoo.”

“Welp, you’re in luck.” You reply while standing, clapping your hands across your thighs as if you were dusting them clean. “We do, indeed, do tattoos here.” No response. Given his appearance it was probably a bad idea to try and make things humorous, so you opted to move the conversation along, “What are you thinking?”

"Roses."

Before you can stop yourself, you snort. It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t what you were expecting. His eyes narrowed, though, clearly annoyed. “Sorry.” You cough and shove your hands deep into your pockets, “Just not...something I imagined you would- right. Roses.” You can feel the heat in your face as you continue to make a fool of yourself. So again you motion to the flash art, at least to divert his hard stare away, “There are several different options, layouts. We can do whatever color you want-”

"Is that all you can do, just copy and paste?"  You probably deserved that. Still, it didn’t stop you from shooting daggers at his back as he inspected the wall. "I was thinking something more personal."

“I can do original pieces!” He lifts a brow as your eager reply send you shifting quickly through the stacks of portfolios on the table until you find yours, thrusting it into his hands. You can’t even remember that last time someone looked at your original works. “I mean, there's usually a consultation. We sit down, I get an idea what you're wanting-” He sits and you find yourself holding your breath as he begins to flip through your folder. His listless expression is torturous and you begin to talk again if just to end the awkward build up of silence. “So, why roses if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I had a friend.” There is a slight crack to his voice, a tightening of his jaw that you do not miss. “They were sort of his things. I just thought I’d get something to remember him by.” He comes to the end of your portfolio and gives it a quick flip through once more. “You drew everything in here?”

You nod to which he puckers his lips in some sort of sign of approval. “So, this is sort of like what, a memorial thing?”

“You could say that, yeah.” He replies as he tosses your portfolio back onto the stack. “I’ve never had a tattoo before but this just...it’s something I want to do.”

Virgin skin. Looking him over you doubt the pain would be a problem, though you’ve seen grown ass men cry like babies when getting inked before. But he seemed to be a sort of guy who could take it. Still, something doesn’t sit right with you, something you can’t quite put your finger on. “Can I offer you some advice?” No reply, yet the look he sends your way signals for you to continue. “Hold off on getting it.”

The look he gave you could have turned your blood to ice. His brows furrowed, “What?”

You try to convey sympathy; you sit near him to which he immediately puts distance between the two of you as if you had the plague. “Look, it’s just a bad idea to get something like this done when you’re not thinking clearly.”

“And how do you know that I’m not thinking clearly?” You can see him seething, his hands fist against the bend of his knees.

You continue, though, “What I mean to say is that, whatever is fueling this need, it deserves to be looked at with a clear head. Don’t take this the wrong way but I could smell the liquor on you when you walked in.” His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Doing something like this is...it's special. It should mean something to you, yeah? So maybe don't make a decision on it when you're not thinking clearly. You owe it to your friend that much."

"Seems like bad business, refusing a customer."

He was probably right. If Phil was here right now you’d likely be following whoever you refused out the door. “Look nothing and no one is stopping you from getting up and going someplace else.” You stand and take on the short distance to reach behind the counter, grabbing your sketchbook and a pencil. “But if I didn’t care I wouldn’t ask you to wait. Just enough to sober up, yeah?”

He stands as you approach him again, hesitant as you hand him a piece of paper where you had jotted down your name and number. “What’s this?”

“In case you take my advice.”

He doesn’t take it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything else to you. You crumpled the paper up as he brushes past you, your shoulders making light contact before he set off through the door. You heave a short but heavy sigh. Oh well, you tried. Maybe you should have just given in and done whatever it was he wanted.

You shoot the ball of paper into the bin and return to your magazine, though you find you can’t concentrate on it clearly. The entire exchange stayed with you and you wondered if you could have said or done something different. Too late now, at least you wouldn’t have to see him again.

Or so you thought.

#ryan haywood x reader #fake ah crew #achievement hunter ff

[faewinds]

SHANE RANT COMING THROUGH

I very rarely write anything on my tumblr, but today that changes, because yesterday I got 7 hearts with Shane and did all of this events one right after another due to my admittedly meandering path.

(There are spoilers, you were warned)

First Event: You wander up to Shane getting shwasted on the dock in the woods, and in a decidedly uncharacteristic act of charity and friendliness, he offers you a beer, but then you realize, no, he's just paying for you to sit through his sad!drunk ramblings. Starting disguised as a pseudo-intellectual conversation about life and our place in the universe, it quickly becomes a depression reveal, WHICH HE IMMEDIATELY DEFLECTS FROM by commenting on the fact that you chugged out beer, decreeing you a farmer, "after my own heart." He then, following the weeble-wobbling drunken tone of this dialogue, warns you against making it a habit, as you still have a bright future. Shane immediately has to leave, as he has a rumbly tummy, and ghosts.

Why This Annoyed Me: Thanks, dude, did Santa tell you that the only thing that beat out a pony and a will to live on my Christmas list this year was some asshole who will greet any attempt at conversation with some version of "Don't you have a job you should be doing?" until you get to 6 hearts, where he'll start asking why you're still hanging around because HE WAS BEING AN ASSHOLE ON P U R P O S E. That's def someone whose advice I can take seriously.

Second Event: Fucker is found in a pile of bottles in his room by his aunt who only comes in to his room after (it is implied) spending a hot minute trying knocking and having him open the door, which considering the amount of personal space this game usually handwaves for cutscenes, stood out. When you splash him to get him awake, he freaks and gets up, at which point his aunt, clearly nearing the end of her patience, asks what his deal is. It is more than a little worrying that in the little over 3 months since he moved in with Marnie, she has found him in either this state or one like it enough times that she so clearly at a loss for what to do, as Marnie's cutscenes and dialogue suggest that she is too practical a person for her to have just been ignoring it and hoping it'd go away. Shane, faced with his Aunt expressing her concern for him, counters with the classic, "You wouldn't understand," because that's a mature remark from a grown ass man in his late 20s. When Marnie, clearly desperate to try and get through to her nephew asks about his plans and goals, clearly trying to give him something to hold onto, Shane's reaction is so filled with drama that him getting ready to deliver his big line is distracting enough that he doesn't hear Jas walking in the room.

"Plan?" He stares off towards the book on raising chickens laying forgotten at the foot of his bed. "Hopefully I won't be around long enough to need a 'plan'-"

His artfully delivered line is not interrupted by his aunt or by you as he was probably expecting, but by his goddaughter running sobbing out of the room at her godfather's declaration. As Marnie goes running after her niece in an attempt to console her, Shane instead opts to halfheartedly calls out her name and an apology and fall to his knees in a hair-tugging temper tantrum.

Why This Annoyed Me: Homeboy, as someone who is also suicidally depressed, I understand that grabbing on to the lifelines people throw you is hard, and you don't always have the spoons to fix things. That being said, there is a fine line between 'my mental illness absolves me of all wrongdoing' and 'I'm entirely responsible for everything that happens due to my mental illness' and you, Shane, are wayyyyy too drunk to balance. I'd be more sympathetic to your plight if your response to everything that got you down was a vast array of things; drinking yourself to death is not one of them.

Third Scene: Wandering through the woods, you happen upon Shane yet again passed out in a pile of bottles, this time at the top of the cliffs next to the entrance to the cave. Shane, drunk as all hell, apologizes for not having the balls to throw himself off the cliff before you got there. He complains of having a worthless life - "All I do is work, sleep, and eat" - and demands that you give him a reason he shouldn't drunkenly roll off the edge right now. Amongst the options you have are;

There's so much to live for!!!!!!!!

JAS, YOU ASSHOLE

Suicide is a SIN against YOBA-JAYSUS

Hey, man, this isn't really a decision I can make, but I can be here for you.

His responses to these are as follows;

We very obviously disagree on this, as my main hobbies include raising chickens and drinking myself to death, fuck off.

HOLY SHIT, I SOMEHOW FORGOT I HAD A WHOLE GODDAUGHTER, THIS JUST BRINGS TO THE FOREFRONT HOW I AM TOTALLY THE PIECE OF SHIT THE WORLD REVOLVES AROUND.

A, that is the worst possible way to convince someone not to kill themselves as if you're at the point where you're literally talking them off a ledge, one can probably safely assume that they give no shits about the scriptures of Yoba-Jesus (Who will be henseforth referred to as Yosus, because I can). B, that is also possibly one of the least comforting ways to try and talk someone off a ledge, as it implies that you care more about Yosus' opinion than about your supposed friend's wellbeing, as well as highlighting that you very obviously didn't read the YoBible very closely. One of Yosus' big things was that you should leave the judging to Yosus and his Dad and concentrate on being nice to people. Guilting people about making Yosus unhappy when they're going through major personal trauma? Seriously uncool. And C, the religious character are very clearly denoted as the ones who file into the shrine at the back of Pierre's. I am notably absent from those four whole people.

Wait...people actually care about my wellbeing? Marnie and Jas being visibly distressed by my drama in no way clued me in to this.

Regardless of what you say, or his opinion, you carry his ass to the hospital, where Harvey thanks you for bringing him in. The good doctor reassures that physically (though extended alcohol abuse has already started fucking him up visibly and that would take work to rectify) Shane is doing very well, and that Harvey expects him to make a full recovery in time. Harvey goes on to comment on the more lasting effect on mental illness and tells you that he is gonna recommend a counselor in a local city for Shane to see.

The next morning, the first thing you are greeted with on your way out the door is Shane, who apologizes for you having to LITERALLY TALKING HIM OFF A CLIFF and informs you that he's going to visit the counselor that Harvey suggested. You have three responses to this;

Well, thank fuck I decided to take the the long way to Krobus' huh?

Hey, maybe now you'll stop being such a fucking dick, amiright?

I'm just happy you're still here.

To which he answers;

RIGHT YOSUS YOHRIST

Wow, yes, thank you, that's why I am currently regretting coming to update you, cause I had been under the impression that was good form for someone you forced to help you through a suicide attempt, but you're a douche, never fucking talking to you again.

...that got heavy real fuckin fast, I was blitzed, it was that bad? Yosus, sorry.

Why This Annoyed Me: This is actually the point where Shane started becoming less two dimensional for me. He does have Turd At The Center Of The Universe Complex, but depression sometimes comes with the feeling that everything's the worst specifically around you and everyone in your immediate vicinity would be immediately better off without you around. That being said, Shane, you live with Jas, she is at most 6, how did you manage to forget her? You are obviously important to her, and she obviously feels comfortable just wandering into your room. Maybe pay her more attention.

I was super pumped after that heart event, because that gave me hope that there was gonna be a nice, happy recovery story. I was further enthused by the next one.

Forth Scene: Shane walks in to the Ranch, and Marnie comments on his good mood, which she immediately ruins by suggesting it's because there's a sale on beer. Shane looks unhappy, but bounces back, telling her he's switched to soda water and he feels a lot better before giving Jas a new pair of play slippers that he can now afford because his entire disposable income isn't going into booze.

My Issues: Marnie, we can understand that he's apparently been pulling this shit for a hot minute, so it's understandable that you're patience is wearing thin, but maybe starting that particular fight with him while he's looking happy and, above all, sober, right after he got out of the hospital for a suicide attempt that alcohol and being drunk played a big role in might not be the best of ideas.

5th Scene: Shane is filming an ad for a Joja Mart competition, and asks you to walk through the back of the scene to make it seem less fake. Clint chugs a bottle of soda because Emily makes him nervous. He turns blue.

Issues: Nonexistent, his character is developing and this is the first cutscene that isn't centered around his addiction and is evidence of him actually trying to start moving on and doing better.

6th Event: You walk into the ranch and Jas takes you to the back, where Shane has a heart to heart with his favorite chicken, Charlie, carrying her around while doting upon his fancy blue chickens.

Issues: FANCY. BLUE. CHICKENS.

Salty, Salty Conclusion

They didn't change a n y of his dialogue as his hearts increase. So, if you talk to him right after he comes to you about going into counseling, he'll tell you that he's going to the bar because there's nothing else to do.

[spooky-froll]

You’ve heard it all before: there were the various “surges” (though once upon a time sold as paths to victory, not simply to break a “stalemate”); there were the insider, or “green-on-blue,” attacks in which Afghans trained, advised, and often armed by the U.S. turned their weapons on their mentors (two such incidents in the last month resulted in three dead American soldiers and more wounded); there were the Afghan ghost soldiers, ghost police, ghost students, and ghost teachers (all existing only on paper, the money for them ponied up by U.S. taxpayers but always in someone else’s pocket); and there was that never-ending national “reconstruction” program that long ago outspent the famed Marshall Plan, which helped put all of Western Europe back on its feet after World War II.  It included projects for roads to nowhere, gas stations built in the middle of nowhere, and those Pentagon-produced, forest-patterned camouflage outfits for the Afghan army in a land only 2.1% forested. (The design was, it turns out, favored by the Afghan defense minister of the moment and his fashion statement cost U.S. taxpayers a mere $28 million more than it would have cost to produce other freely available, more appropriate designs.)  And that, of course, is just to begin the distinctly bumpy drive down America’s Afghan highway to nowhere.  Don’t even speak to me, for instance, about the $8.5 billion that the U.S. sunk into efforts to suppress the opium crop in a country where the drug trade now flourishes.

And considering those failed surges, those repeated insider attacks, those ghost soldiers and ghost roads and ghost drug programs in the longest conflict in American history, the one that most people in this country have turned into a ghost war (and that neither of the candidates for president in 2016 even bothered to discuss on the campaign trail), what do you suppose Donald Trump’s generals have in mind when it comes to the future?

For that, let me turn you over to a man who, in 2011, in one of those surge moments, fought in Afghanistan: TomDispatch regular Army Major Danny Sjursen, author of Ghost Riders of Baghdad: Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge. Let him remind you of how that war once looked from the ground up and of what lessons were carefully not drawn from such experiences. Let him consider the eagerness of the generals to whom our new president has ceded decision-making on U.S. troop levels in Afghanistan to... well, let’s not say “surge,” since that word now has such negative connotations, but send thousands more U.S. troops into that country in a... well, what about a “resurge” in already vain hopes of... well... an American resurgence in that country.

 Tread Carefully   The Folly of the Next Afghan “Surge” By Danny Sjursen

We walked in a single file. Not because it was tactically sound. It wasn’t -- at least according to standard infantry doctrine. Patrolling southern Afghanistan in column formation limited maneuverability, made it difficult to mass fire, and exposed us to enfilading machine-gun bursts. Still, in 2011, in the Pashmul District of Kandahar Province, single file was our best bet.

The reason was simple enough: improvised bombs not just along roads but seemingly everywhere.  Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Who knew?

That’s right, the local “Taliban” -- a term so nebulous it’s basically lost all meaning -- had managed to drastically alter U.S. Army tactics with crude, homemade explosives stored in plastic jugs. And believe me, this was a huge problem. Cheap, ubiquitous, and easy to bury, those anti-personnel Improvised Explosive Devices, or IEDs, soon littered the “roads,” footpaths, and farmland surrounding our isolated outpost. To a greater extent than a number of commanders willingly admitted, the enemy had managed to nullify our many technological advantages for a few pennies on the dollar (or maybe, since we’re talking about the Pentagon, it was pennies on the millions of dollars).

Truth be told, it was never really about our high-tech gear.   Instead, American units came to rely on superior training and discipline, as well as initiative and maneuverability, to best their opponents.  And yet those deadly IEDs often seemed to even the score, being both difficult to detect and brutally effective. So there we were, after too many bloody lessons, meandering along in carnival-like, Pied Piper-style columns. Bomb-sniffing dogs often led the way, followed by a couple of soldiers carrying mine detectors, followed by a few explosives experts. Only then came the first foot soldiers, rifles at the ready. Anything else was, if not suicide, then at least grotesquely ill-advised.

And mind you, our improvised approach didn’t always work either. To those of us out there, each patrol felt like an ad hoc round of Russian roulette.  In that way, those IEDs completely changed how we operated, slowing movement, discouraging extra patrols, and distancing us from what was then considered the ultimate “prize”: the local villagers, or what was left of them anyway.  In a counterinsurgency (COIN) campaign, which is what the U.S. military was running in Afghanistan in those years, that was the definition of defeat.

Strategic Problems in Microcosm

My own unit faced a dilemma common to dozens -- maybe hundreds -- of other American units in Afghanistan. Every patrol was slow, cumbersome, and risky. The natural inclination, if you cared about your boys, was to do less. But effective COIN operations require securing territory and gaining the trust of the civilians living there. You simply can’t do that from inside a well-protected American base. One obvious option was to live in the villages -- which we eventually did -- but that required dividing up the company into smaller groups and securing a second, third, maybe fourth location, which quickly became problematic, at least for my 82-man cavalry troop (when at full strength). And, of course, there were no less than five villages in my area of responsibility.

I realize, writing this now, that there’s no way I can make the situation sound quite as dicey as it actually was.  How, for instance, were we to “secure and empower” a village population that was, by then, all but nonexistent?  Years, even decades, of hard fighting, air strikes, and damaged crops had left many of those villages in that part of Kandahar Province little more than ghost towns, while cities elsewhere in the country teemed with uprooted and dissatisfied peasant refugees from the countryside.

Sometimes, it felt as if we were fighting over nothing more than a few dozen deserted mud huts.  And like it or not, such absurdity exemplified America’s war in Afghanistan.  It still does.  That was the view from the bottom.  Matters weren’t -- and aren't -- measurably better at the top.  As easily as one reconnaissance troop could be derailed, so the entire enterprise, which rested on similarly shaky foundations, could be unsettled.

At a moment when the generals to whom President Trump recently delegated decision-making powers on U.S. troop strength in that country consider a new Afghan “surge,” it might be worth looking backward and zooming out just a bit. Remember, the very idea of “winning” the Afghan War, which left my unit in that collection of mud huts, rested (and still rests) on a few rather grandiose assumptions.

The first of these surely is that the Afghans actually want (or ever wanted) us there; the second, that the country was and still is vital to our national security; and the third, that 10,000, 50,000, or even 100,000 foreign troops ever were or now could be capable of “pacifying” an insurgency, or rather a growing set of insurgencies, or securing 33 million souls, or facilitating a stable, representative government in a heterogeneous, mountainous, landlocked country with little history of democracy.

The first of these points is at least debatable. As you might imagine, any kind of accurate polling is quite difficult, if not impossible, outside the few major population centers in that isolated country.  Though many Afghans, particularly urban ones, may favor a continued U.S. military presence, others clearly wonder what good a new influx of foreigners will do in their endlessly war-torn nation.  As one high-ranking Afghan official recently lamented, thinking undoubtedly of the first use in his land of the largest non-nuclear bomb on the planet, “Is the plan just to use our country as a testing ground for bombs?" And keep in mind that the striking rise in territory the Taliban now controls, the most since they were driven from power in 2001, suggests that the U.S. presence is hardly welcomed everywhere.

The second assumption is far more difficult to argue or justify.  To say the least, classifying a war in far-away Afghanistan as “vital” relies on a rather pliable definition of the term.  If that passes muster -- if bolstering the Afghan military to the tune of (at least) tens of billions of dollars annually and thousands of new boots-on-the-ground in order to deny safe haven to “terrorists” is truly “vital” -- then logically the current U.S. presences in Iraq, Syria, Somalia, and Yemen are critical as well and should be similarly fortified.  And what about the growing terror groups in Egypt, Libya, Nigeria, Tunisia, and so on?  We’re talking about a truly expensive proposition here -- in blood and treasure.  But is it true?  Rational analysis suggests it is not.  After all, on average about seven Americans were killed by Islamist terrorists on U.S. soil annually from 2005 to 2015.  That puts terrorism deaths right up there with shark attacks and lightning strikes.  The fear is real, the actual danger... less so.

As for the third point, it’s simply preposterous. One look at U.S. military attempts at “nation-building” or post-conflict stabilization and pacification in Iraq, Libya, or -- dare I say -- Syria should settle the issue. It’s often said that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Yet here we are, 14 years after the folly of invading Iraq and many of the same voices -- inside and outside the administration -- are clamoring for one more “surge” in Afghanistan (and, of course, will be clamoring for the predictable surges to follow across the Greater Middle East).

The very idea that the U.S. military had the ability to usher in a secure Afghanistan is grounded in a number of preconditions that proved to be little more than fantasies.  First, there would have to be a capable, reasonably corruption-free local governing partner and military.  That’s a nonstarter.  Afghanistan’s corrupt, unpopular national unity government is little better than the regime of Ngo Dinh Diem in South Vietnam in the 1960s and that American war didn’t turn out so well, did it?  Then there’s the question of longevity.  When it comes to the U.S. military presence there, soon to head into its 16th year, how long is long enough?  Several mainstream voices, including former Afghan commander General David Petraeus, are now talking about at least a “generation” more to successfully pacify Afghanistan.  Is that really feasible given America’s growing resource constraints and the ever expanding set of dangerous “ungoverned spaces” worldwide?

And what could a new surge actually do?  The U.S. presence in Afghanistan is essentially a fragmented series of self-contained bases, each of which needs to be supplied and secured.  In a country of its size, with a limited transportation infrastructure, even the 4,000-5,000 extra troops the Pentagon is reportedly considering sending right now won’t go very far.

Now, zoom out again.  Apply the same calculus to the U.S. position across the Greater Middle East and you face what we might start calling the Afghan paradox, or my own quandary safeguarding five villages with only 82 men writ large.  Do the math.  The U.S. military is already struggling to keep up with its commitments.  At what point is Washington simply spinning its proverbial wheels?  I’ll tell you when -- yesterday.

Now, think about those three questionable Afghan assumptions and one uncomfortable actuality leaps forth. The only guiding force left in the American strategic arsenal is inertia.

What Surge 4.0 Won’t Do -- I Promise...

Remember something: this won’t be America’s first Afghan “surge.”  Or its second, or even its third.  No, this will be the U.S. military’s fourth crack at it.  Who feels lucky?  First came President George W. Bush’s "quiet" surge back in 2008.  Next, just one month into his first term, newly minted President Barack Obama sent 17,000 more troops to fight his so-called good war (unlike the bad one in Iraq) in southern Afghanistan.  After a testy strategic review, he then committed 30,000 additional soldiers to the “real” surge a year later.  That’s what brought me (and the rest of B Troop, 4-4 Cavalry) to Pashmul district in 2011.  We left -- most of us -- more than five years ago, but of course about 8,800 American military personnel remain today and they are the basis for the surge to come.

To be fair, Surge 4.0 might initially deliver certain modest gains (just as each of the other three did in their day).  Realistically, more trainers, air support, and logistics personnel could indeed stabilize some Afghan military units for some limited amount of time.  Sixteen years into the conflict, with 10% as many American troops on the ground as at the war’s peak, and after a decade-plus of training, Afghan security forces are still being battered by the insurgents.  In the last years, they’ve been experiencing record casualties, along with the usual massive stream of desertions and the legions of “ghost soldiers” who can neither die nor desert because they don’t exist, although their salaries do (in the pockets of their commanders or other lucky Afghans).  And that’s earned them a “stalemate,” which has left the Taliban and other insurgent groups in control of a significant part of the country.  And if all goes well (which isn’t exactly a surefire thing), that’s likely to be the best that Surge 4.0 can produce: a long, painful tie.

Peel back the onion’s layers just a bit more and the ostensible reasons for America’s Afghan War vanish along with all the explanatory smoke and mirrors. After all, there are two things the upcoming “mini-surge” will emphatically not do:

*It won’t change a failing strategic formula.

Imagine that formula this way: American trainers + Afghan soldiers + loads of cash + (unspecified) time = a stable Afghan government and lessening Taliban influence.

It hasn’t worked yet, of course, but -- so the surge-believers assure us -- that’s because we need more: more troops, more money, more time.  Like so many loyal Reaganites, their answers are always supply-side ones and none of them ever seems to wonder whether, almost 16 years later, the formula itself might not be fatally flawed.

According to news reports, no solution being considered by the current administration will even deal with the following interlocking set of problems: Afghanistan is a large, mountainous, landlocked, ethno-religiously heterogeneous, poor country led by a deeply corrupt government with a deeply corrupt military.  In a place long known as a “graveyard of empires,” the United States military and the Afghan Security Forces continue to wage what one eminent historian has termed “fortified compound warfare.”  Essentially, Washington and its local allies continue to grapple with relatively conventional threats from exceedingly mobile Taliban fighters across a porous border with Pakistan, a country that has offered not-so-furtive support and a safe haven for those adversaries.  And the Washington response to this has largely been to lock its soldiers inside those fortified compounds (and focus on protecting them against “insider attacks” by those Afghans it works with and trains).  It hasn’t worked.  It can’t.  It won’t.

Consider an analogous example.  In Vietnam, the United States never solved the double conundrum of enemy safe havens and a futile search for legitimacy.  The Vietcong guerillas and North Vietnamese Army used nearby Cambodia, Laos, and North Vietnam to rest, refit, and replenish. U.S. troops meanwhile lacked legitimacy because their corrupt South Vietnamese partners lacked it.

Sound familiar?  We face the same two problems in Afghanistan: a Pakistani safe haven and a corrupt, unpopular central government in Kabul.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, in any future troop surge will effectively change that.

*It won’t pass the logical fallacy test.

The minute you really think about it, the whole argument for a surge or mini-surge instantly slides down a philosophical slippery slope.

If the war is really about denying terrorists safe havens in ungoverned or poorly governed territory, then why not surge more troops into Yemen, Somalia, Nigeria, Libya, Pakistan (where al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri and Osama bin Laden’s son Hamza bin-Laden are believed to be safely ensconced), Iraq, Syria, Chechnya, Dagestan (where one of the Boston Marathon bombers was radicalized), or for that matter Paris or London.  Every one of those places has harbored and/or is harboring terrorists.  Maybe instead of surging yet again in Afghanistan or elsewhere, the real answer is to begin to realize that all the U.S. military in its present mode of operation can do to change that reality is make it worse.  After all, the last 15 years offer a vision of how it continually surges and in the process only creates yet more ungovernable lands and territories.

So much of the effort, now as in previous years, rests on an evident desire among military and political types in Washington to wage the war they know, the one their army is built for: battles for terrain, fights that can be tracked and measured on maps, the sort of stuff that staff officers (like me) can display on ever more-complicated PowerPoint slides.  Military men and traditional policymakers are far less comfortable with ideological warfare, the sort of contest where their instinctual proclivity to “do something” is often counterproductive.

As U.S. Army Field Manual 3-24 -- General David Petraeus’ highly touted counterinsurgency “bible” -- wisely opined: “Sometimes doing nothing is the best reaction.”  It’s high time to follow such advice (even if it’s not the advice that Petraeus himself is offering anymore).

As for me, call me a deep-dyed skeptic when it comes to what 4,000 or 5,000 more U.S. troops can do to secure or stabilize a country where most of the village elders I met couldn’t tell you how old they were.  A little foreign policy humility goes a long way toward not heading down that slippery slope.  Why, then, do Americans continue to deceive themselves?  Why do they continue to believe that even 100,000 boys from Indiana and Alabama could alter Afghan society in a way Washington would like?  Or any other foreign land for that matter?

I suppose some generals and policymakers are just plain gamblers.   But before putting your money on the next Afghan surge, it might be worth flashing back to the limitations, struggles, and sacrifices of just one small unit in one tiny, contested district of southern Afghanistan in 2011...

Lonely Pashmul

So, on we walked -- single file, step by treacherous step -- for nearly a year.  Most days things worked out.  Until they didn’t.   Unfortunately, some soldiers found bombs the hard way: three dead, dozens wounded, one triple amputee.  So it went and so we kept on going.  Always onward. Ever forward. For America? Afghanistan? Each other? No matter.  And so it seems other Americans will keep on going in 2017, 2018, 2019...

Lift foot. Hold breath. Step. Exhale.

Keep walking... to defeat... but together.

#Freeblr #Afghanistan #U.S. Foreign Policy #Middle East

[foxhenki-blog]

Goblin Space

FRONT MATTER

“My endless descent and swinging flight through goblin space…”

This phrase from Lovecraft’s ‘Under the Pyramids’, a ghost written story for his friend Harry Houdini, is one of those that remind me why I want to be a writer. 

We all know that Lovecraft is known for ‘purple prose’ or excess embellishment, at least, that is what his critics say, but sometimes…

Now, I don’t know if you’re a writer, or if you create anything on a semi-regular basis, but if you do then you’ll understand the feeling I’m about to describe. Last month I participated in the NaNoWriMo challenge, and as such, I did a lot of writing. There are these moments when you are creating that the creation seems to take over. You normally never recognize that it is happening, right, until it actually has. The above fragment speaks to me with that same quality. There is a freshness, a quickness to it that tells me that Lovecraft was in the throws of what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi describes as a ‘Flow State’ in his book 'Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience'.

I’ve written lines like this, sometimes, if I’m lucky, a few lines, where the ideas get out ahead of me and come at me from some future state, or are given to me from something not myself. If we need evidence that Lovecraft was inspired from beyond, this and other prose of this ineffable quality are as good as any evidence that I’ve seen.

I’m going to pick up on his phrase, ‘Goblin Space’, and start to use it to describe the place that I go when I am praying, invoking, divining, and especially when applying magical timing. It reminds me of the inbetween space that the goblin’s are packed into to while waiting for Sarah to banish her baby brother to the land of the Goblin King, and as we magical practitioner’s know, the inbetween spaces are where the best magic is done.

Speaking of magical timing, I wanted to talk a bit about some progress I’ve made in the area of sigilmancy. As I mentioned last week, I planned on riding on my friend Ghostly Harmless’ success with timing, using Jupiter’s day to appeal to Saint Cyprian. I followed suit last week, and also created my first six sigils and a robofish in many months. It was a good morning, starting in Jupiter’s hour and completing the sigil’s in Mars’ hour. I added in a Babylonian time stamp and then packed them away into my journal following the Cyprianic ritual given to Rune Soup premium members in the Sigils course at the beginning of the year.

That day was good, I had that ‘I’ve done magic, you Normals’ buzz all the way into the evening. The next morning I practiced no magic and, as is the way of things, my anxiety grew. This usually affects me the most during my commute to the office. There is something about being inside the cave-space of the car, following along with all the other humans, that environment always exacerbates any type of bad mood that might have taken root. It wasn’t overwhelming but I did not feel good by the time I pulled into my spot in the parking garage. 

Taking one of the sigils out of my bag, I reminded myself of Pete Carroll’s outlines for how to charge a sigil, intense emotion being one successful way. Instead of heading straight inside I turned off the Skinny Puppy cassette that I had put on to distract me, structured my breath, and re-focused on the sigil I held in my hands. It was certainly still active, buzzing with life from what I see now is a birthing ritual from when it was first created. After about twenty breaths the sigil’s life dimmed and my anxiety noticeably dissolved. 

Now that day was filled with magic.

I received a message completely out of the blue on LinkedIn from a recruiter that wanted to talk to me about a position in New York. Remembering Gordon White’s words, ‘do it all’, when it comes to odd opportunities when performing sigil magic, I agreed to a phone call over lunch. At lunch, there were a couple of cell phone drop outs in the place where I was eating, so I decided to move outside. As I was walking out, there on the ground was a ten dollar bill. I felt very much like Cap’n Jack Sparrow spinning to grab the bill, placing it in my pocket, and heading outside to complete the call. The discussion with the recruiter went well, laughter, understanding, and in the end he gave me a ballpark figure for the position, which was a ludicrous six figures. When I got back to the office, there were free pies on every floor.

Now, a recruiter saying they are going to call you back after the initial phone call is about as believable as using a My Little Pony to summon Hecate, but I recognize that probability was absolutely starting to bend. The streak continued through the week when a job I applied AND sigiled for contacted me to set up a phone interview next week, this after nearly a year of nothing but form emails thanking me for my time. Last night, since I was up binging on the second season of The Magicians, I paused around 11:45 PM, shut everything down, lit candles, offered up some new black rum, and gave thanks to all my saints, timing it so that I was addressing Santa Muerte in her hour of midnight. Let’s see how those to probability enhancements progress next week.

TUNING INTO GOBLIN SPACE

This week I am going to replace the Imbrications section with some Tech Share. Now this, like my Babylonian Time Stamps and the Carrollian sigils-as-coping-mechanisms secondary emotional charging ritual, will be a magical hypothesis. That means, I have not tested this method out yet but I’m sharing it here in the interest of keeping an accurate and useful magical record.

I got so much out of the Rune Soup Sigils Course, not the least of which was a solid introduction to magical timing. Like many other premium members, I dove into it whole hog, filling my calendar with corresponding astrological houses, zodiacal days and hours. It was, after awhile, a bit difficult for me to keep up with and after so much planning and daily rituals with no break, I got the feeling that my efforts weren’t having much effect. I did, however, really enjoy tracking the moon’s phases. This didn’t have too much to do with the magical timing outlined in the course, but I got the feeling that paying such close attention to the moon was creating cracks in the manufactured reality of my Monday through Friday 9 to 5 existence. After a few months, I let my sigilmancy lapse, however, and didn’t pick it up again until recently. 

While studying the Hygromanteia these past couple of weeks, I came across a list of the 29 lunar days and what they are good for. This is the exact same tech I had been applying to the days of the week, but for some reason this felt more comfortable to me. My idea is to begin mapping my magical rituals and sigil casting to the 29 lunar days in the hopes that I can not just crack, but break, the hold the Gregorian calendar has on my life. I consider this a ‘Tuning into Goblin Space’.

Here is an abridged version of the tech straight out of the Hygromanteia:

“1. Birth: Good for every attempt 2. Light-Bringer: Bad for everything 3. Rising: Beneficial for every affair 4. Increasing: A good day for Socialization, Buying, and Selling 5. Raising Up: Attempt Nothing 6. Elevating: Good for Fishing, Hunting, Traveling, Sowing, Planting, and Buying 7. Bisecting: Good for any action, especially educating children 8. Prancing: Do not travel 9. Fleeing for Refuge: Good for merchants, buying, selling, planting, building, lending, and asking favors of powerful  friends 10. Gibbous: Good for everything, especially travel, educating children, and buying houses 11. Bulging: Good for every action, especially buying, sowing, planting, harvesting, and building 12. Rotating: Good for trading, planting, building, and storing food 13. Nigh at Hand: Dangerous for fighting 14. Full Moon: Good for anything you may attempt, especially socialization, lending or borrowing. 15. Turning About: Be Careful on this day, do not lie or cut wood, do not sell or buy. 16. Elevating: Good for education, planting, building, buying, selling, trading, and socializing, beneficial for everything. 17. Restoring: Good for every attempt. 18. Uncompounded: Good for buying, selling, trading, sowing, reaping, planting, and harvesting. 19. Unprofitable: Whatever attempt you start on this day you will finish quickly. 20. Decreasing: Good for planting, building, buying, traveling, and trading. 21. Bisecting: Do not do anything. 22. Bisecting with Deficient Light: Every attempt you start will finish quickly. 23. Alone: Good for being taught, for selling and buying and trading. 24. Dark: Beneficial for military expeditions and trading. 25. Grudge: Not good for merchants or taking oaths. 26. Grabbing: Good for traveling and making friends 27. Obscuring: Good for buying and many other things. 28. Moonless: Good for selling, buying, sowing, reaping, and educating. 29. Accompanying: Good for merchants and every action, especially family affairs. 30. Conjunction or Thirtieth Day: Occurs on the eighth and twelfth hour of the day, beneficial for many things”

p. 142-145 of the Marathakis edition

This cycle begins counting on the day after the New Moon, for example, Dec. 19th. The New Moon (Dec. 18th) is referred to as the Accompanying Moon (No. 29 in our list) through this system and, contrary to what I had always believed, is beneficial for every action, especially the family. I had always understood the New Moon as a day to do no magic, but according to the Hygromantiea, the Lunar days that you should attempt no magic are the second, fifth, fifteenth, and the twenty-first.

Two days of particular interest to me are the 19th and 22nd lunar day, which states that anything begun on those days shall be completed quickly. Those sound like great days for emergency sigils and appeals to quick working saints like Santa Muerte and Saint Expedite.

Taking this one step further one can keep track of the Moon Rise over your specific location counting moon rise to moon rise as one lunar day. Calculating the exact lunar days should further help to break my consciousness from the tempore mercatori (merchant time) or homo fastis (human calendar) and align my magical rhythms with luna diebus, tuning me into a vast and ancient form of Goblin Space.

LOVERCRAFT'S SPHINX

This week’s Lovecraft tale is called ‘Under the Pyramids’ in my collection and was ghostwritten by Lovecraft for the one and only Harry Houdini. With Mr. Houdini heavily involved with his friend Lovecraft’s creation of this tale, which is partially based on Houdini’s actual experiences in Cairo, I didn’t have to lay down a spread for the Tarot archetype to jump out at me as I usually do. 

The Tarot card associated with our protagonist, Mr. Houdini, can only be that of the Hanged Man.

More on that later.

In ‘Under the Pyramids’, Houdini embarks from Marseilles, France to Cairo, Egypt by way of Alexandria in the year 1910, just six years after Crowley had visited (which, to me, is more evidence to refute Peter Levenda’s claim that Lovecraft could not have known or been aware of any of Crowley’s work — if he was acquainted with Houdini, who was traversing the the Beast’s footsteps and was a magician himself, how could he not?). He mentions staying at the Shepheard’s Hotel, which if anyone is in Cairo and has the mind to associate our Lovecraftian Magical aesthetic with another landmark, the hotel Houdini stayed in is still there.

Lovecraft packs so much tech into this tale, it was hard to keep up. Take the following quote:

“There are unpleasant tales of the Sphinx before Khephren, but whatever its elder features were, the monarch replaced them with his own that men might look at the colossus without fear.”

and foreshadowing of a link between his Elder Gods and the Sphinx. Lovecraft continues in his description of the mythical beast:

“It was then that the smile of the Sphinx vaguely displeased us, and made us wonder about the legends of subterranean passages beneath the monstrous creature, leading down, down, to depths none might dare hint at — depths connected with mysteries older than the dynastic Egypt we excavate, and having a sinister relation to the persistence of abnormal, animal-headed gods in the ancient Nilotic pantheon.”

I had never heard of the Nilotic people, their culture, or their religion. In this story is also the first mention I have come across of the Pharoh Nitokris:

“I recalled that the Arabs whisper things about Nitokris, and shun the Third Pyramid at certain phases of the moon. It must have been over her that Thomas Moore was brooding when he wrote a thing muttered about by Memphian boatmen — 

‘The subterranean nymph that dwells Mid sunless gems and glories hid —  The lady of the Pyramid’”

and love the quote from Thomas More, which shows Lovecraft pulling tech from other literati, much like I am doing with him today. 

Houdini, after going through the regular 1910 tourist areas of turn-of-the-century Cairo decides that he has not had enough intrigue to satisfy his adrenalin addiction. He proceeds to get himself involved in a ritualized fist fight on the top of the great Pyramid at midnight by way of the worst neighborhoods in Cairo. This doesn’t turn out well for him and, in fact, appears to be a kind of set up, the indigenous Cairoans having already decided that they are going to test the foreign magician’s mettle:

“It gradually dawned on me that the elder magic of Egypt did not depart without leaving traces, and that fragments of a strange secret lore and priestly cult-practices have survived… to such an extent that the prowess of a strange ‘hahwi’ or magician is resented and disputed… Suddenly something happened which in a flash proved the correctness of my reflections and made me curse the denseness whereby I had accepted this night’s events as other than the empty and malicious ‘frameup’ they now shewed themselves to be. Without warning… the entire band of Bedouins precipitated itself upon me; and having produced heavy ropes, soon had me bound as securely as I was ever bound in the course of my life…”

Enter the Hanged Man.

At this point, Houdini is lowered down into a pit, which is where Lovecraft invokes the description of Goblin Space, a pitch black void, neither up or down, neither conscious or unconscious, in which our hero swings by an impossible long hempen rope. ‘Under the Pyramids’ contains some excellent exposition detailing sensory deprevation journeying informed by ‘too much’ (according to the narrator, not me) armchair research in Egyptology. There is a fogged up window pane view of how materialism can frustrate the mystical that I can frankly identify with though. Houdini, once conscious (a fact he tries to convince himself is false throughout) eventually stumbles into a vast, seemingly limitless, underground chamber, in which he experiences the following issues from some place even more chthonic:

“From some still lower chasm in earth’s bowels were proceeding certain sounds, measured and definite… the flute, the sambuke, the sistrum, and the tympanum. In their rhythmic piping, droning, rattling, and beating I felt an element of terror beyond all the known terrors of earth — a terror peculiarly dissociated from personal fear, and taking the form of a sort of objective pity for our planet…”

I really like this and think it belongs in visualization work or as a seed for journeying. It reminds me of the orchestras and musician that precede the four Goetic spirit kings. The terror component connects well with the initiatory qualities of extreme fear in the face of spirit contact. Houdini’s witnessing in the lower chamber also intersects with my current visualizations while performing Decan invocations:

“I would not look at the marching things. That I desperately resolved as I heard their creaking joints and nitrous wheezing above the dead music and the dead tramping. It was merciful that they did not speak… but God! their crazy torches began to cast shadows on the surface of those stupendous columns. Heaven take it away! Hippopotami should not have human hands and carry torches… men should not have the heads of crocodiles…”

The degraded and mismatched combinations of animal and man are very similar to the descriptions of the 36 Decans.

It is interesting to me that Houdini and Lovecraft were friends. As we have seen in past close readings, the trope of an impassable barrier being smashed is seen again and again in Lovecraft. For him to ghostwrite and befriend a magician, one who is arguably the most famous for his own subverting of barriers and restraints, is quite telling. It offers insight into Lovecraft the man and how chaos magic can approach his tales, building a grimoire out of his body of work. 

Which brings us to the final relevant aspect of ‘Under the Pyramids’, the appearance of a new Lovecraftian spirit:

“The monstrosities were hailing something which had poked itself out of the nauseous aperture to seize the hellish fare proffered it. It was something quite ponderous, even as seen from my height; something yellowish and hairy, and endowed with a sort of nervous motion. It was as large, perhaps, as a good-sized hippopotamus… It seemed to have no neck, but five separate shaggy heads… in a row… Out of these heads darted curious rigid tentacles… Its locomotion was so inexplicable that I stared in fascination, wishing it would emerge further… Then it did emerge… and at the sight I turned and fled… The Great Sphinx!… what huge and loathsome abnormality was the Sphinx originally carven to represent?… the Unknown God of the Dead… The five-headed monster that emerged… that five-headed monster as large as a hippopotamus… and that of which it is the merest fore paw…”

Lovecraft’s Sphinx, is a colossal creature, with a lion’s body, five eating tentacle tongued faces on every paw, and not the face of a man, as is seen now, but something else indescribable, which man cannot gaze upon. This is the oldest God of the Dead, a cosmic horror unknown, unnamed, older than the Dinka, older than time…

As was mentioned in the beginning of this section, our Tarot archetype for ‘Under the Pyramids’ is The Hanged Man. If we are to use our Etteilla deck, however, there is an added complication, for there is no Hanged Man in our deck, but his precursor, Prudence.

Prudence, from what I can tell, is a trump that Etteilla likely borrowed from the Minchiate Fiorentine deck. From the 18th c., somewhere in the neighborhood of 1725, the Minchiate Fiorentine deck had 41 trumps. The extended trumps for this deck included all twelve zodiac signs, the four virtues (of which Prudence is one of them) and the four elements. Etteilla also includes the element Air as one of the replacements for the traditional trumps. 

Prudence holds a book and a mirror with a serpent coiled on it. She represents silence, caution, and a solitary search for wisdom. She represents knowledge, the danger of vanity, and how vanity can lead to boredom. Houdini, in ‘Under the Pyramids’, feels that he was not challenged enough by Egypt and is vain about his own prowess, which is how he allows himself to be trapped and bound. 

The mirror and the serpent are important here and are a vector into Houdini’s chthonic experience. I will reference James Hillman again and his work, ‘The Dream and the Underworld’:

“‘Entering the underworld’ refers to a transition from the material to the psychical point of view. Three dimensions become two as the perspective of nature, flesh, and matter fall away, leaving an existence of immaterial, mirrorlike images, eidola… [The] eidola… are not substantial… We may not just say they are this or that, or say that existence in the underworld is so and so. We may speak of eidola only as they ‘seem,’ ‘appear to be,’ or what they ‘liken unto’… Eidola may be distinguished from ikons, which are better compared with pictorial copies, visible things out-there that we can touch, even make. The word eidolon relates with Hades himself (aidoneus) and with edits, ideational forms and shapes, the ideas that form and shape life, but are so buried in it that we only ‘see’ them when pulled out in abstractions.”

In our tale, I think that Queen Nitokris is the representation of Prudence, the eidola, and Houdini is the representation of The Hanged Man, our ikon.

Benebell Wen’s Holistic Tarot describes the Hanged Man as an icon of self-sacrifice, Wen states that:

“The mob has metaphorically hung the Seeker because they do not approve of the Seeker’s beliefs or what the Seeker has done.”

The Hanged Man is a card that represents the need for self-trust, for confidence, for prophecy. He is the processor of Death and represents the initiation or painful transition into the underworld. All of which are made manifest by Lovecraft in his treatment of his friend Houdini’s tale of his descent into the goblin space where he comes face to rotted half-eaten face with his own eidola, the ephemeral Queen Nitokris.

BONUS ROUND

It wouldn't be a Gnome School post without a little metal, and we can't talk about Egypt without referencing the below classic from fellow Lovecraft fan, James Hetfield: 

#Egyptology #Underworld #Decans

[jabbers-wild-world]

;; Welp. It’s self-doubt hours over here, I guess. I normally don’t post stuff about this, because I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining. After all, too many ooc posts about my own feelings are (at least in my personal belief) what ultimately led to me being kind of dropped and pushed out of a fandom I used to enjoy rping in years ago. Because.. honestly, I guess there were just people in that fandom who didn’t like what I said and decided to witch-hunt me for what they perceived as ‘complaints and needless drama’.

Anyway, I just.. I’m feeling like there might be a few fandoms around here that.. I don’t belong in? Or.. that people don’t really want me in? No one has actually said anything of the sort to me, or anything like that. No one has really done anything to make me feel this way, honestly, except.. Well. That’s also kind of the point. No one has done anything. Despite my attempts to reach out in at least a couple of these fandoms, I.. get nothing back.

No one telling me not to interact with them, and.. no one responding positively either. There’s.. just silence. I get that people are busy, or that maybe they forget, or they missed it, or.. something like that, but.. The radio silence is honestly just making me a little anxious, and wondering if I’m just annoying people, but they don’t want to be mean and so they just sort of.. tolerate me? Like, I just want to say that.. guys, if I’m bothering you, please tell me to my face? I’m a little slow on the uptake and don’t always notice the right social cues, or.. I misread the wrong social cues.

Just- be blunt with me and if you don’t want me replying to your opens, or.. tagging you in stuff, or talking to you.. If you don’t want me interacting with you, please just say it to my face. I can handle the direct truth, okay? Please don’t just ghost me and leave me confused and still trying, only for me to get disappointed and anxious.

This also goes for me doubting my portrayals too, since.. There are some people I see around with the same muse as me in these fandoms, and the people I try to reach out to.. respond so quickly to them instead, and.. I’m not even acknowledged. Just.. it’s kind of discouraging, you know? Anyway, the fandoms I’ve been having these feelings in are as follows under the cut.

Camp Camp (this one isn’t about portrayal anxiety, since I mostly have ocs here, but.. I do feel like I’m left out of things, and.. maybe even sometimes ignored)

Tales of Arcadia (this is both feeling left out/unnoticed, and also feeling a lot of self-doubt and anxiety regarding my portrayal of Douxie. I love my wizard boy, but.. any threads I have with him are in other fandoms, and.. never the actual one he comes from)

My Hero/Boku no Hero Academia (I have had a few interactions here, but it’s really only with one person at this point, and.. I dunno. I feel like I’m annoying people here, mostly with all my ocs, and.. I’ve been doubting my portrayal of Bakugou too lately.)

My Little Pony (again, not really about portrayals because I mostly have ocs, but.. this one is where I get the most radio silence. I have no threads in this fandom. And it’s not for lack of trying. Am I just bothering people?)

#;; out of dreams (ooc)

[smokeybrand]

I Mustn’t Run Away

I’ve been binging through a bunch of youtube stuff lately and i stumbled across a guy named Bennett the sage. He reviews and explains old timey anime. I think he has a ten year rule or whatever I often disagree with his synopsis but he’s literally a neckbeard beta so i guess he HAS to hate everything. That’s the most 4chan thing i’ve ever said but it kind of describes him perfectly. Sometimes he’s on point and experly executes his argument but he hates EVA. It’s hard for me to take his arguments, academic or not, to heart. If you don’t like EVA, you don’t understand anime. Watch his episode about it. Cat is on point. Everything he says is pretty accurate. The thing is, kid glazes over all of the reasoning behind why EVA is the way it is.

Sage ignores Anno’s mental breakdown and spiral into depression, causing the tonal shift in the later episodes of the series. After Anno’s mom died, cat had an existential crisis and that uncertainty bled into his show. HIS show. Sage ignores the fact that Japan is not a christian country so everything about the dominate American religion is window dressing there. it’s not taboo to use the superficial imagery to convey a story about humanity being self destructive and fickle because, to the Japanese people and Anno, himself, that’s all we are. Christianity, and Instrumentality by extension, is shallow because we, as a people, are shallow. Instrumentality is our lazy attempt to better ourselves, to evolve beyond the fickle human existence as a means to be more, and the 1r4 year old boy who supposed to Jesus us into the nest stage, reneges. He opts for the biggest “F*CK YOU” in human existence because he’s an obtuse, unlikable, whining, douche-nozzle who chooses to force everyone into dealing with his teenage angst rather than accept people into the omni-bubble of the hive mind of evolution. EVA is a scathing, cynical, and relatively apt description of what it means to be a growing adolescence in Japan, conveyed to us in the form of a post apocalyptic mecha series, wrapped in a healthy dose of Judaeo-Christian imagery. Or, at least, that’s one interpretations and the one i personally gleaned from the series. You get what you put into Eva and he refused to make the effort. Interestingly enough, FLCL could be the same goddamn story, just seen from a different set of eyes which makes sense because Tsurumaki was Anno’s junior at Gainax way back when. Fooly Cooly just went light on the depression and religion but WAY heavy on the sex.

 Neon Genesis Evangelion is a goddamn masterpiece and it’s wild to me that people are too lazy to invest in it enough to understand why it’s a goddamn masterpiece. Listening to Bennett the Sage go in on it was ridiculous. Every one is entitles to their opinion and i get that but i almost immediately knew this cat was full of sh*t. Dude doesn't like Eva. He doesn’t like Tenchi. He doesn’t like Vampire Hunter D. He doesn’t like The Big O. He doesn’t like Elfen Lied. He doesn’t like Inuyasha. It’s almost as if you have to actually participate in the narrative, kid isn’t interested. But he LOVES Ninja Scroll. Ninja Scroll is awful! it’s all murder and rape. Literally, that’s it. If that doesn’t tell you what this kid is about, you’re not paying attention. s i watched his critiques err toward “Classic” Toonami anime, everything made sense as to why he was so goddamn ridiculous; He’s a Toonami kid. His first foray into anime was, apparently, Pilot Candidate when he was 12. In 2002. I have been watching anime since 1988.

The old stuff he reviews, your Gusmith Cats, Bubblegum Crisis, and Burn Up!,i was watching fresh. I remember when i first got a bootleg of A.D. Police. I thought it was brilliant! When Bubblegum Crisis Tokyo 2040 came out, it was nostalgic for me and became one of my favorite shows. I grew up with the popularity of anime. I grew with the culture. I enjoy Bakuretsu Tenshi because it feels like an updated piece of the Bubblegum franchise. I imagine Bennett would hate it because he’s a goddamn Toonami kid. Toonami kind of killed anime for the generation after me because of the insipid shows that were put on. Don’t get me wrong, DBZ is a force. It’s culturally relevant and Goku might as well be Japanese Superman, but, let’s be honest, it’s a one trick pony. That trick is dope as f*ck but it’s a trick that has hindered the culture ever since. Because of DBZ, we got Naruto and One Piece, and BLEACH and, more importantly, Weeaboos. Weeaboos take the most superficial, the easiest to digest of anime, and hold it to such high esteem, it’s crazy frustration. These are the cats the regale Attack On Titian like it’s high art. It’s not. These are the cats that made SAO a thing while slighting it’s direct inspiration, the Dot.Hack franchise. These motherf*cking children are the types of people to try and convince me that Samurai Champloo is the greatest thing since the second coming because of Hip Hop music and Watanabe. Look, i get it. Bebop and Champloo are great. I don’t care for them though. The Fandom is too fervent to tolerate and they’ve ruined the experience for me. Just like they did for Inuyasha. Just like they did for FMA. And Bennett the Sage is like a lightning point for these first generation weeaboos. It’s wild to see.

He apparently doesn’t like Dragon Ball Z either. This f*ckboy, man...

It’s wild to think that there are anime fans that have never seen Ghost In The Shell. It’s wild to me that there are kids, now, getting into the culture, think that Kirito is the greatest anime protagonist ever. It’s wild to me that Akira, one of the most influential movies ever created, get slighted because it came out in the 80s for more “mature” subject matter in shows like Tokyo Ghoul. Cats nowadays think that anime has to follow a formula but, when i was coming up, the only formula anime had was the boundless creativity of it’s creator. There wasn’t a saturation pussy harem antagonist, insipid Slice of Life tropes, or Travel to another world and be a bad-ass nonsense. Production values were generally on point and the wild creativity of early anime was tantamount. I mean, there’s no way Angel’s Egg gets made today. You want to talk about being saturated in Judaeo-Christian imagery, go watch that sh*t and come talk to me about it.

I adore anime. All of it. I’ve watched it long enough to appreciate all facets of it. There are moe-blob shoe i adore like Chobits and Lucky star. Some of my favorite shows are mad pretentious and crazy convoluted like Elfen Lied or Evangelion or Deadman Wonderland or Mirai Nikki. Still, other like Erased and A Silent Voice get a spot on my all-time list because of their raw emotion and gentle portrayal of what it means to be vulnerable. Of course Space Dandy, Onepunch Man and BLEACH all have a special place in my heart and even the grand daddy of mainstream anime, Dragon Ball Z gets recognition. My point is, i love this sh*t man. Love it. All of it. So to see someone who jut adopted it as a hobby in 2002 but acts like he’s been in it for decades is wildly infuriating to me. His analysis for most of these shows is the analysis of a child. Because he IS a child. Because he came up in that Toonami era of anime where everything had to be profitable and accessible. I didn’t have that. I saw Gilgamesh and Melody of Oblivion before i saw even one episode of Naruto. I saw Evangelion and Guyver for the first time when i was 12, way back in, like, 96. This kid was watching Pilot Candidate and f*cking Blue Gender. He was at the mercy of the Cartoon Network zeitgeist. I was not. And it rains through almost all of his reviews. He’s looking at shows i watched with fresh eyes, through first generation weeaboo goggles and it’s frustrating because of how shortsighted that view can be. It’s cats like this, i think, that have slowly strangled the life out of anime. They choked the creativity out of a once wild and unique medium because of their narrow, pedestrian, tastes.

Toonami did a lot for making the culture accessible but i don’t think that was a good thing. I thing. Toonami created a culture of formula and profit rather than creativity and uniqueness. And cats like Bennett the Sage eat it up. Cats like Bennett the Sage fuel this crippled machine. Cats like Bennett the Sage are what’s wrong with anime.