#How to Install Echo Dot

[addicted-to-dc]

Jekyll/Hyde Part 5 - Taskforce 141 x Reader

<Previous Chapter & Masterlist Link

Content Warnings: PTSD, Violence, descriptions of wounds, previous taskforce betrayal, angst, drugging, revelation of sexual assault. As always, if I’m missing tags do not hesitate to message me or post a comment. 1595 Word Count

Tags for those who encouraged me to write this (: @greeniegreengreen @aeilani  @poetslastdeath

Ghost has kept a visual on you since you were dismissed for the night. Your muscles ache from sitting around for an ungodly amount of hours, but the soreness won't stop you from finding what you came here for. 

The mission led to an outpost near the Russian/Ukrainian border, the same one you spent months recovering hidden in the musty basement. Laswell wouldn't trust anyone, keeping your survival so under wraps that your medical staff didn't have access to anything but the bare necessities. Just a barely alive soldier that survived going through a fucking blender.

A living corpse, one of the doctors had called you. It still feels fitting.

The pups trail after you like they usually do, but you need them to keep the Lieutenant off your ass. You have to do this alone, slowly approaching the familiar sight of four hallways meeting into an intersection. With a click of your tongue, you and the dogs separate. 

Muscle movement leads you to the stairway, the office-like door easily disguising its true face. Your key slides in perfectly, unlocking it with a twist of your wrist that sends pain up your arm. Gritting your teeth, you push on and enter. The automatic lock engages once the door closes, and you descend into the abyss.

Each step is weighted, lead-filled limbs slowing your descent. The echoes penetrate your mind, the sound bringing back too many memories. The quick descent of staff rushing to stabilize. Others run up despite their lungs begging for breath.

Taking in a deep breath, you smell the change in air. Damp and pungent, reeking of compromised concrete and cut corners. You let the darkness wrap around you, leaving most of the lights off until you finally reach it-

Flicking on the farthest light, THE filing cabinet jumps out of the dark. You don't know what to expect, too many unknowns quickly careening into chaotic assumptions that all lead to the same question: How did you survive? 

Sucking in a breath, you push forward and unlock the drawers. Shaky hands pull open the first. Nothing. The same goes for the second. The third opens to reveal a singular, hefty, file. Blinking the unwanted tears away, you grab it and sit at an open desk. It's just paper and ink. It is, but what will it say? The file can't be the answer to all of your questions, but it's a start. You open it.  Your tears fall once you see the choppy medical report at the top. 

Near-fatal trauma to the head, installation of metal plating, or similar in progress at the time of report. Five gunshot wounds, all dressed correctly by the patient. Handled by staff. Broken bones, scarring, superficial wounds... 

Then the drug screening. Your tears blur your vision. No, no, no nononononono.

The patient’s uncommon brain chemistry and hormone levels are likely the result of heavy doses of aphrodisiacs for an unknown segment of time. The medication provided by the investigation corroborates this-

The paper crumples under the force of your hands, the chair screaming against the floor as you back away from the words. The floor gives out, the biting cold of the concrete doing little to ground you. Rage shakes your entire form, the cold only adding to it as the filing cabinet slams onto the ground.

Metal slams against metal as the chair soars into the cabinet, the plastic seat shattering on impact. Your skin splits open with red ichor flowing out. It jolts down your knuckles with each heavy breath you force out of your lungs. Black dots threaten to obscure your vision, but it only tunnels. 

The world falls away as your lungs burn from your screams, but you can’t hear them. Not when you can still feel Dane’s hands on you. Warm and loving touches followed by words of support, of wanting a family with you, vowing to be by your side on and off the field. 

How long were you drugged? When did this all start? How could you be so stupid, careless? You pour through every memory you can, peeling back the rose-colored lens until you see everything properly for the first time. It’s so clear now. 

When did Dane begin bringing you food? How many times has your team fetched your drinks? His fingers sink in deeper, your muscles twitching in reaction to the phantom pain. How did he go from co-worker to lover? Too fuzzy, too out of reach when his hands blind your eyes.

All the digging questions, getting nervous when you reached out to allies behind his back. Distracting you. Making you more reliant on the team until it became second nature. A habit that he curated until you did all the work for him.

Sucking in a breath, you recalibrate and take in your surroundings. Ghost is by the desk, all papers scattered and scanned through. Fuck. Fuck. You couldn’t even make it past the first two fucking pages.

“You couldn’t have known,” Ghost utters, his eyes drifting from the file to you. “Did every dirty trick in the book and they still failed.”

Bile churns in your stomach, nothing but disgust polluting your thoughts. His hands. His hands are everywhere. A comforting warmth that now burns through you like lava. You’d rather deal with the burning pain of heated metal than this. Drugged to act like a bitch in heat, keeping you stupid with false love and lust.

“They did enough, Simon,” you choke out, your throat raw and aching. How long were you screaming?

He’s on you before you realize it, gloved hands dragging you from the ground. Your hands claw at his, trying to break from his grasp as the dogs bark.

You land on the desk, eyes wide as he digs around your pockets until he finds your photo. He takes your knife and takes his time slicing out each person with precision. 

The sisters flutter to the ground first, easily forgotten as he moves on to August who meets the same fate. The worn paper disappears from view until Dane meets his end in the trash. The remaining photo, just you and the dogs,  is gently returned to its resting place. The knife slides back into its sheath without resistance.

Simon Riley is a confusing man, one of a kind that prevents you from coming up with anything tangible to compare him to. An abyss, that’s all you see in his eyes. The very same one that stares back at you in the mirror, yearning to consume what little humanity you have left. 

“Y’know my name. Wanted me, did you?” He teased, invading your space even more. His hand, ungloved, pulls you closer. 

“Wanted th’ best,” you mutter, sagging against the wall. “Price got you before I could.”

“Laswell kept her trap shut about tha’.”

You close your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his hand and finally letting the tears fall unrestricted. Your hands grab his arm, needing some form of control even now. You open your eyes as his other hand drags across ancient injuries.

The patch of hair on your scalp that refuses to fully grow back after Urszula. The divot on the side of your skull where your metal plate resides. Your incomplete ear, eviscerated by Dane’s bullet. Scarred bites on your hands and arms from K9 training. Too much war carved into your flesh, a constant reminder you will never escape. Each touch met with a flinch.

You haven’t let someone touch you like this in so long.

Simon stares at you for a few moments, then he wanders to the door. The lights are getting to you again, his voice no longer distracting you from the screaming bulbs. Your hands shoot up to cover your ears, the papers wrinkling under your legs as you curl in on yourself. They’re going to send you away, you know it. No matter the experience, no matter how decorated you are, you’re going to end up forgotten and-

The lights flick off, killing the screaming and leaving you in darkness. You can see his silhouette approach, getting closer and closer until he’s in front of you again. Consumed by his mass. There’s a rustling of fabric, then it’s in your hand. You run your fingers along the breathable fabric of a balaclava. Then you feel something sewn into it, digging your fingers into the eye holes of a mask. 

“Ruse chewed up your bag,” Simon mutters, guiding your hand to feel the rest of the mask. “Gaz found it. Johnny fixed it up for you.”

Your mask. He guides your fingers along the open mouthpiece, the jagged edges replaced with a smooth texture. 

“‘S not finished, needs paint,” Simon continues, remaining silent when your tears hit his skin. “He removed some features, had to change it, but kept most of its charm. He kept bitching about the sanding. Passed it off to Gaz when his hands started cramping.”

“How long have I been down here?” you ask him, hands squeezing the fabric.

“Nearly half a day,” he responds, helping you down.  He steadies you when you wobble. “C’mon, let’s get some grub in ya. Price has some news.”

He guides you to the door, opening it to reveal Sunshine and Mohawk, no, Gaz and Johnny, resting at the bottom of the stairs with Price above them. The captain gives you a knowing look. 

What did he say in the forest? He’ll take care of you. They all will. You’re starting to believe him… and it fucking terrifies you.

(Next Chapter in Progress)

[rubra-wav]

Why So Blue? Vox x Reader

[ Part 1 - A Like Morning Unlike Others ]

A/N: I have a kind of loose idea of where I'm maybe taking this one, but I am very much open to any suggestions.

People asked to be tagged in what was going to be part 2 to the oneshot. My ideas changed a bit with this tho, and it's being rewritten as a fic from the start - sorry if this isn't what you really had in mind w that request 😭

[ Taglist ] @gigglesandshits @serendipitous-fernweh @valentinosbabycakes @ seriouslyaverage (won't let me @ ???)

[ part 2 ] >>

Cw: SFW, Gn!Reader, slight staticmoth reference

The morning you first showed up was like any other for the Video Star.

As always, Vox awoke at 7:00 am on the dot, staring at the ceiling for a couple of seconds as his system warmed up properly for the day ahead.

After the 'sleep' cleared from his mind, he sat up and then climbed from his bed to quickly change before swiping his phone off his nightstand as he walked to the personal kitchen in his part of the building (he had it installed so he didnt have to see his colleagues before his persona was up to snuff) and began scrolling through his emails.

He opted for those from Carmine rather than Velvette or Valentino.

It was frankly too fucking early to deal with whatever bullshit they were yelling about on seemingly all of his socials in his mind. (a decision he'd come to regret rather soon)

Last night's hangover still clung to him, but he pushed through it. He was rather happy all things considered. Carmine's email confirmed that she was on board with partnering up for personal surveillance systems without much questioning, thankfully.

He was about to get even fucking richer.

He grinned widely at the prospect as he leisurely made his coffee - black, naturally - fantasising about how he'd be able to spy on hell's citizens even more with them literally installing surveillance cameras into their own homes for security purposes.

Those poor, desperate idiots practically exploit themselves!

Vox chuckled at the thought, humming as he walked in the direction of his broadcast room, scrolling to look over the email Carmine sent once again to fully understand all agreements. To try to see what he'd be able to push her into doing potentially.

The hatch to his lair broadcast room opened loudly and closed just as loudly behind him as his footfalls echoed in the silent room against the cold tiles.

Vox didn't look up once as he made his way to his seat.

He didn't need to.

He knew where everything was in here as nobody else was ever in here. And if they were?

Well, those demons wouldn't be 'employed' much longer, we'll say that.

His seat squeaked as he sat on it, sipping his coffee as he swiped through some more notifications.

He glanced at his monitor momentarily as he took a deep sip of coffee that would gross anyone else out, then promptly choked on it, gracelessly spitting some onto his keyboard and lap.

He felt truly chilled to the bone for the first time in a long while.

Wide, red eyes watched in horror as a very drunk version of himself from last night met him. In the video, he was shaking his hips from where he stood on a bar while singing (he assumed) shittily if his memory served right.

The video was muted from where it played on the screen of every monitor in his room, but he expected it.

His frozen present self watched himself in the video as drunk Vox stumbled and then proceeded to topple off-camera to the ground.

His instant assumption was that Valentino or Velvette had posted it online, but that was quickly off the cards when he noticed that not only were both of them watching him while laughing with no phones in their hands, but it was posted from his own fucking Sinstagram account.

It already had over a million likes, and it'd been up for only an hour at this point. His colleagues wrote surprised comments underneath, asking if he meant to post it. Valentino adding that Vox looked cute in it either way.

He could feel his fear and anger rising, loud zaps of electricity emitting from him already as his claws dug into either armrest of his desk chair, leaving long scratch marks on them which exposed the padding within.

Then he read the bottom caption of the looped post of himself and fully lost it.

'For someone who talks so big about being ahead technologically, it was awfully easy to hack old Boxy here.'

Vox lets out a loud, enraged yell, slamming his fist on his desk, promptly causing himself to Bluescreen and knocking out much of Pentagram's electricity in the process despite not being plugged into his set-up.

-

On the other side of the city, you laugh loudly as you watch the press conference where the Tech demon overlord fought to clean up his image.

It began just a few minutes after you were exposed to Vox's rage in the form of your lights shutting off.

It didn't affect your setup, of course. A certain someone you knew had helped you craft it, and it ran on a different server.

While others were still waiting for their shit to get back in order after Vox stopped plastering his rather strained grin on every screen, you were watching the press conference in one window while admiring how quickly his men raced to try and patch up the code you'd gotten through last time in another.

Of course, it hardly would do anything for you the next time around you decided to clown on him.

You shifted into a cross-legged position on the floor, glancing between the mess of old and new monitors surrounding you all interlocking with equally messy and tangled cables.

You passively wondered if anyone had been killed during all this, expecting yes, but not paying much attention to it. You couldn't do anything about what he decided to pull in response to your attacks.

Anything for your entertainment.

You cracked your fingers loudly as you began to prepare for the next bag of shit you'd be leaving on his doorstep.

Snickering with a smile, you watched his hypnosis ability activate, manipulating everyone watching outside of your own eyes.

They would forget this, but you wouldn't. And neither would Vox. You'd make sure all of them remembered you eventually.

Snorts and giggles echoed out in the silence of your small, shitty apartment as you mulled over all the things you had planned for the next few months.

Jesus christ, this would be fun.

Yeah, this reader isn't a good person either. They just wanna fuck around with Vox as much as they can and don't care much who becomes cannon fodder in the process.

I was considering also writing pt. 2 into this as well, but I figured that I would do this as just a taster for this series starting for the first post. Pt. 2 will be soon 🙏

Why So blue Masterlist (not much here yet obv)

Main Masterlist

[of-tatooine]

DULCE PERICULUM | CHAPTER IV - RED

justice the founder of my fabric moved.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

Santino d’Antonio was a man of sheer principle.

Very few things could ever dare come in the way of stopping him, if he decided exactly what he wanted. The world was a simple place, after all, to men like him. There are rules to be followed - and there were men who set the rules for all to obey.

Santino preferred to be the latter.

He knew, from a very young age, that his actions would matter more than most people who had walked this soil before him. Indoctrinated, that some day, one very mighty day that he would come of age and rule the empire his family left him. That the ring adorning his father’s finger would soon be shining on his, the mere sight of it making men take a bow. Taking in Camorra’s teachings, day by day, age by age - the elder’s words gradually surrounding every aspect and second of his life.

A man devoid of routine and disciple could not be trusted to be the maker of the rules.

He liked his suits pressed, every inch of them carefully sewn and constructed - all custom made. He liked his men to report to him with a job well done, as soon as it was complete as he did not particularly enjoy to be the deliverer of punishment, unless the circumstances called for it.

He liked sipping his morning cappuccino early at dawn, watching the sun rise over the Mediterranean.

On the dot, the same exact time, each and every morning.

And one of the dearest ones to him, the one that perhaps brought him the most peace - he adored dinners shared in candlelight with you, his beloved, every single night that he could.

He enjoyed the flavor of the world’s most exquisite red wine trickling down his throat even more when he shared a glass with you. He liked sitting across from you, each night, on either an expansive dinner table or an intimate booth - whatever the night called for. He liked drowning in your eyes as the dessert course was served, savoring the sweetness.

He liked seeing how the wary candle flames illuminated your ever-so-gorgeous face.

“Santino,” came your calming voice, as if calling for him through the void, finally reaching light.

“Sì, amore?”

“Will Tarasov honor his promise?”

Strands of hair fell on your face as you posed the question in genuine conversation, a gentle movement of your fingers pushing them back, then leaning towards the wine.

“He better.”

A small grin adorned your lips, taking another sip as your gaze shifted towards the starry night across Rome, shining over your city.

“One thing I know for sure - men like him will never leave the work, amore,” he would slowly say, the gleaming crystal glass in his hands, crimson liquid shaking ever so slightly after his sip.

His eyes, though, seemed to be the slightest bit of troubled, a little aloof, yet calm and calculated as his gaze wandered over the ornate Caravaggio adorning the vast penthouse wall.

The Taking of the Christ.

It was one of his favorites. One of yours, rather, brought in by his request from the Metropolitan Museum of Art all the way across from the New World, back to where it belonged for eternity. He had noticed your eyes linger on the gleaming armor, masterful brushstrokes to create illusion of light, of hope, of dishonor as Christ was taken upon betrayal of Judas. It had been a marvel to you to see Christ’s halo, ever so gently painted with specks of gold, still be visible even against his upcoming miserable fate - it was an incessant topic of excitement over the dinner that followed the museum visit, your eyes shining move than gold ever could within the glimmers of the intimate flames of the restaurant.

The next day, he had the artwork installed at the Continentale.

He had made a silent pact with himself to keep that spark in your eyes.

After all, it was sometimes the small pleasures that mattered for Santino.

The penthouse echoed with his voice, the waitstaff replenishing bread and empty glasses like ghosts in the shadows - delicate, efficient, barely there.

“You think he can do it?”

“Sì,” your lips let go, not doubting for one split second. Maybe it was the past speaking, etched along the words in their everlasting effect. Deep within you, the voice knew that John would come out of this ordeal at the end of the day. He would find his way, claw through the concrete and raw earth if he had to.

Limping, bruised, bloodied, yet walking still.

Scarred, scathed, yet alive nonetheless.

Alive, and most importantly - a free man.

“Senza problemi,” you added for some good measure unbeknownst to you, nimble fingers cutting yet another piece of your food to savor. The most decadent of dishes as always, the intricate porcelain with gold specks, the polished silverware easily gliding through the veal as you took a bite.

Yet nothing could be done without his help. Without your carefully constructed plan, meticulously arranged meetings, no detail overlooked.

All of it done to aid none other than John Wick.

What would he do without you by his side?

It was a thought that rarely crossed his already convoluted mind, but when it did, it came down on him with a wave of emotions. Feelings that made his heart flutter for the briefest second, his jaw clenched taut for a fleeting moment.

The very life he led molded him into an expert of separating his emotions, dissociating the past from the present. It would not be the first, definitely not the last time that he buried memories to keep from resurfacing.

Santino knew of the past, your past, fragments of memories shared with him over the years. He knew that there was once a time your eyes gazed intimately at another pair but his.

He would be lying to himself thinking that the mere idea did not haunt him when times rolled around, when the name was mentioned.

A capo would be a fool to show his true colors for anyone to pry.

Yet, as he slowly made his way over to your end of the marble dining table - his body language, the mimics and the small movements he was habituated to hide, seemed to tell another story.

Was it jealousy? Need? Greed to keep you right there where he wanted, where you could be safe and protected?

Pulling out the closest plush dining chair to take a seat facing you. His striped three piece, casually chosen for the leisure of an evening meal with a lover at home, parting gently to reveal his crisp white shirt as he leaned over. Head tilted ever so slightly.

The glints in his green hues as his gaze lingered around your features accentuated by the fazing moonlight seemed to indicate a mixture of all.

His thumb slowly reached to lift your chin, now properly facing him. Gentle touches from hands that have bathed in blood. Knuckles that have broken bones caressing your cheek in the softest of touches.

His invaluable artwork, sitting right in front of him, looking up at him with expecting eyes laced with curiosity.

He could not help but wonder just how much longer could he protect you in this world you both were thrown into mercilessly, by blood or by oath.

Your body softened under his touch, habitually, gazing into his eyes and leaning with ease, finding yourself positioning closer to him, your black boatneck dress doing all the favors to your frame.

“I need you to be very careful when you’re in New York again,” Santino spoke with a clear, stern yet whispered soft voice. The ever-so-stray strand of curly black hair adorning his forehead, his clean-shaven skin smooth under the moonlight. The fireplace towards the center of the room cackling as the wood burnt, casting a gentle orange shadow to contrast the silver light of the night.

“Tarasov is one beast, his enemies are another.”

Getting the so-called “impossible task” ready would not have been an easy feat. Santino had no doubt in his head that you would the plans to imminent success, one by one, assembling all the targets right where you wanted them to be. However, like any lower would - he worried.

A nod came from your side as a response, smiling tenderly yet softly at him, leaning your head into his palm as his warm fingers embraced your cheek. Your hand found its’ way to rest softly on his thigh, freshly red manicure in stark contrast against the navy wool.

“Non ti fare problemi per me,” you would say. “I will be just fine.”

“Bene,” he would respond after a short pause of looking for truth in your eyes.

You spoke the truth to Santino - yes, you would be fine. You always turned out to be quite alright after even more dangerous situations that this life had put you through, if your lucky streak did not fail you this time.

To you, deep down, this all seemed to be a twisted return of fate. A little laugh of the heavens above, having a little fun with the both of you. Helping the man who led you astray all those years ago.

It may have been an unthinkable back then, yet it indeed was happening the moment you would step onto that private jet in the hangar the following day, with Santino, as charming as ever, waving you off with the smile on his face.

And only then, would you realize.

John was going through all of this trouble, this mayhem - all for her.

Something he never would have done for you.

“Come here,” Santino would whisper, attempting to silence the rampant thoughts running through with a loving kiss - the familiar exquisite scent of the sea salt, pine and bergamot enhancing your senses.

It felt right.

It had always felt right with him. His warm touch, gentle embrace - his touch so delicate that he seemed almost afraid to break you.

As you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer, you could hear the light as a feather taps of dress shoes against hardwood as the waitstaff promptly took the cue to excuse themselves, the doors clicking shut.

Santino’s rugged hands found your thighs, deepening the kiss as he roamed up to your waist, peppered touches becoming demanding.

The wine fresh on his lips, enticing and inviting to taste more.

And so you did.

You yearned to taste more of him as he effortlessly lifted you up to carry you towards your bedroom, your patent leather heels slipping onto the floor, your hands buried in his hair, nails that would dig onto his back in the following moments of the night.

Santino never ceased to remind you of his attraction towards you, and yours towards him. Times like this, he liked to use it to his advantage, to serve a noble cause.

And as your eyes rolled back out of sheer pleasure - the world besides Santino ceased to exist for a split moment.

He was the only truth. He had been the only truth, the one that mattered. The sole constant in your life, the only one that could make you feel in bliss.

And he vowed to never let you forget it.

[vomitspit2]

concept with dullahan! dire crowley OR dullahan! floyd leech, you can imagine either ⁽(◍˃̵͈̑ᴗ˂̵͈̑)⁽

now playing harley poe’s vengeance the demon / close the door / outcrowd

part i. vengeance the demon.

it always starts with you running. it has never once changed; you, desperate and panting, throw yourself across the earth on two lunging legs.

sometimes, you trip. sometimes, you crash into things. but you always keep running and running away from the sound of clomping hooves in pursuit. they echo in the mine ruins that you always find yourself in, sounding like an army of horses instead of the single one giving chase.

one time, you finally manage to reach the end of the mine shaft as you can see these polka dot patterns of light just ahead. you break out into a sprint.

the air is less humid when you burst out of the mines like a bullet passing through a body. you make a wild run for the houses lit by lanterns. pumpkins are on each porch. you end up stumbling into one, acquiring a new shoe, as you throw yourself against the door.

“please! he’ll kill me! he’ll kill me he’ll kill me!”

the only response you get is the window by the door opening just slightly. you almost miss the motion, so focused on pounding your fist against the wood. but through your eyes and the blood and the mud, you manage to spy it. two fingers opening up a crack in the blinds and one single eye peeking at you.

“please … please …” you sniffle, blood and snot a thick mélange running down your lips.

the eye stares at you. it looks like an immovable stone, something that has already made its decision. the light of the glowing pumpkin and lanterns pale in comparison to how bright the eye is.

“i can’t help you, yous folk is marked.”

ii. close the door

the girls and boys at your university hate you. your parents don’t hate you but they don’t like you either. you’re not even sure you like yourself.

the only person (and he’s not even a person) who loves you is your black cat, grim.

grim purrs at you which you take as validation as sweet as boyfriend saying he loves you or as validation as heartwarming as a best friend saying she’s grateful that two of you have become friends because no one gets her like you do. in him, you find validation that you have been missing since you were seven and that boy died at your birthday party.

it wasn’t your fault. your hands were only on the reins because the handler asked you, the birthday girl, if you wanted to hold and guide the horse. you must’ve fucked it up somehow because the horse reeled up, a black stallion of huge proportions looking like something carved into a monolith, before the stallion kicked back his legs and struck a boy in the head.

blood paints over the grass as the first adult came outside with the cake, the beginning of happy birthday on his tongue.

which is why some girls corner you in the bathroom, one wearing a party city horse mask and getting in your face. another kicks the stall, mimicking clop-clop noises with her mouth.

because the town hates you. everyone has always hated you.

it causes you little stress besides tears. what causes you the biggest stress is returning to your dorm, finding your window open yet not finding grim.

you search the streets like mad, shaking tuna treats in your hands.

eventually, you come across paw prints that have found their way into a water storm drain tunnel, those ones cities and towns install to minimize flooding risk. the paw prints are wet and small but you know deep down grim’s in there somewhere.

after some hesitation, you walk in.

it’s dark and humid. and you mean dark as in the only way to tell where walls are is to move your hands outward to check where they lie, you can barely make out shapes in this nebulous black. and you mean humid as your hair is starting to stick to the back of your neck and the place where your inner thighs touch are sweating with a passion.

but you have to find the only person who loves you.

you keep going till your foot catches on something. you don’t trip but you feel around with the sole of your foot, coming to conclusion you are stepping on none other than mine-tracks.

you have to go back. you have to go back! you think with a blinding panic.

but then you hear a meow, soft and faint. gradually, you calm down and call out for grim. please, grim come, you have been traveling too far down this rabbit-hole, both of you need to go home safe and sound.

but he doesn’t come, continuously meowing. a little farther, you can risk going that much for grim.

so you keep going, one of each shoe placed on the sides of the tracks, shaking your bag of tuna treats.

eventually, you come across light. not sparse light like polka dots but bright light that almost blinds you.

they’re celebrating something in a town just a two minute walk away. they are celebrating halloween.

the door on your old life is permanently shut.

iii. outcrowd

grim, you see him. just a bit down the way, he’s weaving through the crowd of people lined up on each side of a giant parade.

you pass by a man breathing fire, another on an elephant, one who is clipping roses from his skin and handing them out to children, another who is — your sight suddenly blurs when two forces hit you with surprising force.

“mama!!” they cry in unison. and two twins with your face but golden eyes gaze up at with love you have never been shown to before by human features.

“i told you two, not to run off during the parade; must i keep you on a leash,” a man with hair split black and white breaks through the crowd.

“oh well now i see why they ran so swiftly,” this mysterious man says as he addresses you. “welcome back, (name); i was worried you weren’t going to make it this year.”

“mama was gonna come this year! dad promised!” the twin on your right says, taking the easy opportunity to slip his hand into yours.

“dad never breaks his promise, uncle crewel! never!” the one on the left clings to your entire arm like a snake.

“i see,” the man tuts, giving you a mischievous wink. “come on then; he also promised to attain this parade,” mumbled under his breath, “if only he stays in the mood to attend this one and not chase his beloved wife around.”

the twins, with a surprising amount of strength, drag you along.

so, against your will, you watch this halloween parade pass by. finally apart of the crowd, loved and cared about by people. not part of that outcrowd that has kept you isolated.

it comes and goes until finally the star of the show arrives, a man cloaked in black, a pumpkin as a head, riding the black stallion from your childhood.

you try to pull away. the twins hold on tight. you watch in betrayal as grim walks up to the horse, only to be scooped lovingly in the arms of the rider, purring away.

that man is going to kill me, you think as he draws closer on that ebony stead of nightmares.

then, finally, he stops his horse in front of you and offers his hand up to you like a man offering up his entire heart, body, and soul. the twin on the right slots your numb hand into the rider’s easily. you are lifted onto the horse, sandwiched between the neck and a warm body, resisting the urge to cry like a baby.

“my wife,” the man behind you breathes amorous on your neck, removing the pumpkin from his face.

a single gold/two gold eyes greet you with such love you almost cry. “how lovely of you to finally join us.”

when he kisses you, you do cry.

[exquisiteserotonin]

Precious Possessions, Chapter 3

Here we are folks, the final (maybe?) installment of Precious Possessions. I might be a little biased, but this might be the hottest chapter yet.

Series Summary: Defense intelligence conferences are always the same informative but also always boring. You didn't expect anything different for this one, but an unexpected meeting with a man named Dave York, changes the trajectory of your conference experience and maybe even more.

Previous | Next

Pairing: Dave York X F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3K

Rating & Warnings: HEAVY E! (This one is definitely absolutely not for minors, MDNI!!! 18+ ONLY) This fic contains, but are not limited to the following, dom!Dave, semi-sub reader, spanking, bondage, overstimulation, PiV sex, creampie, oral (f! and m! receiving)dirty, dirty talk.

A/N: Not beta'd, very little use of y/n. I really really enjoyed writing this. I hope you love reading it! Thank you to my magical sluts for all the encouragement <3 Love you bbs. @legendary-pink-dot @imalrightllama @sparklefarts38 @blueheat1-blog @best-little-secret @redhotkitchen @basicoccult

Yes there is a playlist could listen to while reading this.

York Times Playlist

Chapter 3: Disclosure 

Keeping your hands off each other was a battle that neither of you were keen on winning,  knowing the pleasure that would be in store once you made it upstairs to your room or his, you didn’t care which. With discretion still at the front of your brain as you suggested to Dave that you walk in first to avoid suspicion and accusatory glances. The lobby still buzzed with some conference attendees coming and going to enjoy evening revelries outside the conference hotel. A handful of others still flitted around the bar drunkenly networking and schmoozing.

You found your way to a quiet spot, tucked away from the lobby. Still drunk with the memory of his fingers inside you, the knot inside you tightened in anticipation of him and how your pussy would feel after he sunk every inch of himself into you. The sound of footsteps echoed to your ears, and you turned expecting to see Dave standing before you. Instead, you found Brad, face red and splotchy with drunkenness. He leaned over at the wall over you, the smell of too much hair product and cheap beer wafting to your nose. You rolled your eyes so hard that you swear it could be heard. 

“Hey you,” his voice was loud, nasal, and badgering like a bad car salesman, “where have you been?”

“Out...networking,” you stated, “you know how it is.”

“You go out networking looking like that?” He formed his thin lips into a whistle as he looked you up and down, “You are seriously holding out on all of us.”

“No, I’m really not,” you shrugged, beginning to look at your phone, “I’m just super selective about who I network with.”

“Come on, we all know it’s not about what you know,” Brad said moving in so close that you felt his humid breath stew on your skin , “it’s about who you know.”

“And who the hell are you?” You said coiling away from him, your skin itchy and crawling with a slow worm of disgust. 

“Are you serious?” The entitlement he held in these words as he spoke them disgusted you. “Do you know who my father is?”

“Oh we’re going there?” You scoffed. “Please, I didn’t need to rely on my daddy to get where I am today.” 

“But I bet you like fucking powerful men don’t you, you whore!” He grated, grabbing and shaking you by the arms. 

Grabbing ahold of his arm, you shoved him off you back into a wall. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling into the potted plant behind him. Dave’s timing could not have been more perfect, as you saw him round the corner. 

“Fuck you, you brainiac bitch,” he cried and you nearly laughed at the entitlement weeping in his voice. 

“We have a problem here?” Dave's eyes were like lasers on Brad.

“It’s fine, Brad’s just drunk and disappointed,” you explained with nonchalance, “let’s go.”

“Have fun fucking a married man, you two-bit whore!” he bellowed. “Wouldn't it be fun if his wife found out about you two?”

Unblinking, you bounded forward with one foot ready to lunge at him until Dave held you back with nothing but a gesture of his hand. Silently, he walked towards Brad until he stood face to face with him. He leaned forward like a predator sniffing its prey. You watched mesmerized as Dave took a commanding hand to force Brad backwards by the base of his neck. He hit the wall with a loud thump. Dave’s eyebrows narrowed downward and his chocolate brown eyes faded to deep black pools void of any sparkle that you found in his eyes earlier that evening. You could see as he whispered something to him through growling teeth. Whatever it was, it was enough to have Brad stumbling away, dumbfounded and cursing something under his breath about how his father would hear about this. He turned back to you giving you a look that said: Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of. 

A tight excitement percolated in your stomach, up to your chest, and neck when you noticed no one was following you into the elevator.  As the doors closed behind you and after Dave pushed one of the floor buttons, you grabbed his sweater and pulled his body to yours until his lips crashed into yours in a fervent kiss.  The heat between you intensified as his massive hands made their slow journey over every curve of your body, slipping past your waist until they found a firm grip on your ass.

“What did you tell the poor bastard?” you asked, between wet, needy kisses. 

“Nothing serious,” as he brought his hand to your face, down to your clavicle and then cupping your breast, “just that I would find him and kill him if he made threats like that again.”

“Understandable,” you breathed,  as you felt his soft lips and his tongue dip onto your neck to your cleavage. 

He pulled down your bra to expose your breast evoking a desperate cry from your throat, “You have to protect yourself--keep up appearances.”

He pulled you close, licking and biting at your nipple. 

“Besides, no one’s going to talk about my dirty, pretty, little slut like that,” he said as he pressed you into one of the walls of the elevator. 

The elevator came to a stop on his floor, something you hadn’t expected. The thought of entering a space that was private to him sent a tingle throughout your body, emanating from the center of you. He was clutching your hand tightly in his, your fingers intertwined with his in a libidinous daze. The moment he pressed the keycard to his room door, your pussy pulsated for him. 

Inside, one bedside lamp illuminated the room, everything clean and presentable for you. Your heart began pounding in your chest in anticipation, until he reached behind wrapping his arms around your waist, his hands traveling upwards to massage your breasts. Every nerve ending in your body vibrated at his touch, his hands reaching down the front of your dress into your bra to play with your nipples. Your mind was spinning, your thoughts unable to keep up with the moves your body made. With a strong grip, Dave spun you around to face him, pushing you back to his bed with such force that you bounced when you hit the mattress. 

“Did you fantasize about me earlier this afternoon?” Dave voiced with a gruff whisper in your ear, as he crawled over you coaxing more sweetness to drip from your center. “When you had a headache, did you touch yourself? Make yourself come wishing it was me?”

“Yes!” you moaned. “I did.” 

With a firm right hand, he squeezed your face, forcing your gaze towards his, “Yes, what?”

You bit your lip before providing the response you knew he desperately wanted, “Yes, daddy.” 

A low moan vibrated in his chest and the feeling of his hardening bulge against your thigh had you lightheaded. You opened your mouth, presenting your tongue for him. He took it with a groan of satisfaction. Teeth, tongue, and lips intertwined together, so hungry that you could swallow each other. Your lips and his were red, hot, and swollen once they parted to find one moment to breath. Dave stood up from the bed, pulling his sweater over his head, almost taking the V-neck t-shirt he was wearing underneath with him. It gave you a small peek of his belly as it clung to his defined abdomen. 

He switched places with you, spreading his legs wide as he sat down to unbuckle his belt, setting it neatly beside him on the wrinkled sheets. The freckles on his chest peeked out from the deep v of his shirt, making you yearn for more. You watched as his massive hands caressed the fabric of his jeans. The way he made a show of taking off his wedding ring before you set off something carnal inside you. He placed it on the nightstand next to the bed, a gesture so erotic that it forced you to erupt with an involuntary moan. He looked up at you with heavy eyelids as he grabbed you. He left a kiss at your pelvis as he slipped his hands underneath taking hold of your ass.

“Take off your clothes.” He ordered. 

You complied, feeling the soft knitted fabric of your dress cascade down your skin like a waterfall, pooling on the floor. You stood before him, inhibited only by the strapless bra and cheeky underwear you wore. With one gesture of his hand he beckoned you to him. His hands were supple yet powerful as he massaged his hands up your thighs. 

“C’mere baby,” he gestured to his lap, “lean over.”

It was like second nature to obey him. You leaned on your abdomen over his knees with an automaticity that was so unlike you. He used his hands to push his hair off your shoulders, tracing down the shape of your waist, until they rested on your ass. The anticipation of what he was going to do next was burning your body.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he groaned, massaging your ass, approaching closer and closer to your center. 

“Please,” you begged, wiggling for him. 

Before you could say anything else, you heard a low chuckle rise out of his chest followed by the sharp pain of his hand slapping your ass. The initial stinging quickly transformed into pleasure with just enough respite for him to slap again, but with more force eliciting from you a loud, long moan. Your center grew more wet by the second and between slaps you felt Dave’s fingers graze over the soft fabric of your underwear, teasing you. Another loud, strong slap met your ass giving you pain and pleasure while tears formed at the corner of your eyes. 

“Fuck, my gorgeous, dirty girl.” 

Another smack.

And another moan. 

“Who do you belong to?” He asked as you heard the familiar ringing of his belt buckle. 

Pants of your anxious anticipation were all you could muster andyou failed to answer him.

The crack of his belt came down on your ass and you cried out into the back of your hand. 

“I said, ‘who do you belong to?’”

The hedonistic crack of leather stung you again, leaving your ass hot and quivering.

“You, Dave,” you answered your moans mixed with tears of ecstasy, “I belong to you.”

And then came one, two, three more whips of his belt sweeped down on you. 

The audible sound of Dave taking in a long, deep breath of your essence was a moment of blissful respite. Two deep breaths of your own was all you were allowed before you felt his hands ripping off your underwear. A slap of his hand to your pussy was nearly enough to make you come, writhing over his knees. The tips of his fingers caressed your folds before he entered your center with two long fingers. You gripped furiously at the sheets on the bed, feeling your center throb as he pumped, moved, and twisted in and out of you. You could feel your climax rising, but all he left you with was a desperate cry and a feeling of emptiness as he pulled his fingers from you. 

“You’ll come when I let you, firefly” his voice rumbled. 

He stood up, letting you roll to the center of the bed. It was a desperate scramble for you to remove your bra, bare and open for him. Every move of his electrified you as he pulled off his shirt, revealing broad shoulders and chest, lines forming at the sides of his abdomen, but with a softer belly.  The anticipation sparked inside you as he removed his pants and you saw his hard cock, a twitching, veiny god ready for you to worship.

“I knew you’d be big,” you felt like a lioness ready to pounce on her mate. 

You crawled towards him ready to grab his cock, to show him how much you wanted him, to show him how well you could please him. Instead he shoved you back down on the bed, crawling up your body with his hands tracing up your curves until he had one hand gripping the base of your neck. The pressure with which he held your neck was exquisite and the heat that blazed from him to you had you bucking your hips in desire, longing for him to thrust into you. The ravenous look in his eyes told you that he was completely in control. He quickly bound your wrists together over your head using his belt. A breathy moan escaped you as he rolled his body against yours, feeling your nipples press against his broad, firm chest before he kissed you. The sudden feeling of the silky fabric of his tie covering your eyes had you panting and your heartbeat thumping into your ears. 

All your senses heightened as you twisted in anticipation, every hair on your body raised with the electricity he sparked in you. An indignant pout and whimper left your mouth as you lay in wait for any touch he decided to bestow upon you.

“Please, please Dave!’ 

“I like you like this, firefly,” he growled into your ear, “open and begging for me.” 

Your breaths and your pulse grew faster as his hands massaged your breasts before his fingers pinched your nipples. Your yelp filled the air as you felt his capable hands explore your body. The warm air of his breath reached your mound and his muscular forearms spread your legs open wide for him. You heard him breathe your scent into his nose, his loud groan vibrating your folds as though he’d been presented with the sweetest smelling fruit. Not a second later, you felt his broad tongue lick a firm, slow stripe from your center all the way to your clit. You cried out his name as he masterfully explored your folds, pulling the smaller petals into his mouth and then letting go to focus the front of his tongue to swirling, flicking, and lunging at your clit until all you could do was sob and fight against the restraints on your wrists. 

You knew his tongue would be heaven but didn’t expect just how adept he would be at finding your pleasure. It couldn’t get better than this. It just couldn’t. His next devotion was to wrap his lips around your clit and savoring it as the most delectable fruit he’d ever tasted. The blazing desire creeped up your chest to your neck, and your breaths were heaving, your center trembled as he refused to take his mouth off you. A loud, long scream of his name filled the room, as you bucked your hips from the overstimulation of his tongue as it brought you to orgasm. 

His lips released you and you lay on the bed, blissful, dizzy, and unresistant. He took off your blindfold, permitting you to see his handsome lust-filled face. His lips were painted with your slick. He brought his lips to yours, the taste of you mixing with the sweet taste of his lips. His massive hands explored your body until he held his grip at your throat. 

“Do you see how good you taste, you dirty slut?” He said through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna make you mine, completely.”

He unbuckled the belt around your wrists, and he pulled you up to him, pressing your bodies together. Sweat dotted your body as your heat intertwined. You needed to keep your lips held to his  in a messy and hungry kiss. Pulling him as close as possible to you, you wrapped your arms  around him, gripping him and feeling his cock grow thick and long with the need for you. You dug your nails into his back, a groan of pleasure vibrating from his chest. Yet he pushed you back to the bed, his expression mixed with anger and intrigue. 

“Naughty girl!” He said with a low roar shoving you away from him. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.” 

You grabbed his face with a smirk before you kissed him again. 

“Your wife would never do this for you,” you sucked his lip. “She’d never succumb to you the way I do.” 

You laughed as he tossed you face down onto the bed. Your cunt was weeping and ready for him. He grabbed your arms behind you, looping his belt meticulously around your wrists, tightening it to make sure you could not loosen it on your own. 

You wiggled your ass at him, straining your wrists against your restraints.

“Fuck, do you feel how hard you make me, baby?” He slapped his cock onto your pussy, drawing a loud yelp from you. “Look at how pretty your pussy is throbbing and wet for me, I wanna fill you up with so much of my cum that it’s dripping down your legs.”

“Please, give it to me!” You begged. 

Another yelp echoed in the room as he gave your ass a hard smack. You smiled to yourself knowing you’d have marks from him, too. 

“I need you to be more specific, firefly,” he uttered as he slapped his cock against your pussy again. “Tell me what you need, baby.” 

The way you wanted him was so intense that you were nearly in tears and you responded breathlessly, “I need you to stretch me and ruin this pussy with your big, fat cock. Please fuck me.”

He was unexpectedly gracious and rubbed his cock along your folds before pushing in and stretching you out slowly. You moaned feeling his dick throb inside you and your pussy clenched around it. Together you moaned at the feeling of each other, desperate and depraved for whatever the other would give. Your pussy quivered each time he pounded into you. The wet sounds that came from your cunt as he thrust into you were obscene. 

“Fuck, you’re taking my cock so well, you’re so fucking wet,” he growled, grabbing onto your hips with an iron-like grip. “This tight little pussy is mine. It was made for me.” 

The familiar tingle was beginning its eruption, undulating around in your body and brain. 

“I’m gonna come daddy!”

You could feel that he was close, too. His thrusts became harder and more urgent and his already tight grip became impossibly tighter. His breaths came out ragged and through gritted teeth as the tip of his divine cock pushed in deep to meet the spongy part of your core that set off the chain reaction that erupted first in your body and then in his. You squeezed  him and heard him growl out for you feeling his cock throb inside you as his hot, white cum coated your walls. You thought quietly to yourself that the IUD was the best medical discovery ever made as he released you from your restraints. 

As you lay there, his cum dripping from you he surprised you with the soft gesture of brushing your hair out of your face. You were giddy in the afterglow of how well he fucked you and you pulled him close kissing him and tugging on the sweat-soaked waves of brown hair. You stared at him for a while as he recouped the energy you had expended, examining each line on his face and the story behind it. His body held scars from secret stories you knew he wasn’t ready to tell. You kissed them and he flinched and you intertwined his fingers with yours, a silent encouragement that you would listen to those stories if he ever felt the urge to tell you.

“Shower with me,” you said, between greedy kisses that left both of your lips swollen. 

You stood up from the bed, knowing your body would draw him to you like a magnet. LIke a confirmation of your bet, he followed you into his shower. You closed your eyes letting the warm water cascade over the expanse of your body. It wasn’t too long before he joined you, immediately running his hands over you, massaging your breasts, worshiping your nipples, taking the pussy he had claimed as his own and making you fall apart all over again over his fingers. With one quick slap of your ass, he left you to finish your shower and dry off. When you were done, you stepped out, dried off,  and wrapped yourself in a plush, white hotel towel. The color stood in stark contrast to the dark deeds and desires you and Dave had for each other. 

“You can use my comb if you need to,” he walked in to stand just behind you, his naked figure taunting and tempting as he gestured towards the comb placed neatly on the bathroom vanity. 

The gesture seemed almost too domestic, but he quickly made up for it by grasping your hips to his pelvis. He pulled the towel from your body to admire your naked figure with his eyes and his hands. You leaned back into him and he turned your face to his to draw you into his ravenous lips. 

“Come back to bed,” he ordered. 

You obeyed him as he sat on the bed, drawing you to him by your waist. He blessed your breasts with kisses and then took your nipples into his mouth, biting at them with fervor. You tossed your head back moaning as he venerated your body with his. Your core was growing wet again at each touch. 

“Show me what your mouth can do,” he demanded as he pushed you down to your knees.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, pumping him to grow just a little before you wrapped your lips around him. It grew in your mouth as you swirled your tongue at his tip, sliding into the small space between the head of his cock and his foreskin. He called your name as you gently rolled his foreskin back and down the base of him and adjusted your throat to take in the veiny, girthy length of him. The saltiness of his precum washed over your tongue as you let him fuck your mouth. 

“Fuck, baby, your mouth takes me so well,” he moaned his voice gravelly and unhinged.

You sucked on him hard, pulling on his cock as you let him go, leaving it standing at attention as he left your mouth. 

“I need to bounce on that cock, baby,” you pleaded with him, “please, can I bounce on your big--fat--cock.” 

“Yes, baby, take it all in.”

He moaned as you positioned yourself over him, bouncing and rolling your hips over him. You started slowly, your hands grasping and digging at his waist and chest with your nails as you felt his cock thrust into you. His thrusts became more erratic as he pushed himself into you deeper and deeper. Your tits bounced as you called out his name. 

“Oh god yes!” You cried feeling your climax approaching as he bucked his hips up. “Dave, oh, god yes, yes, it’s so good.” 

“Yes, firefly, you have the best, tightest little cunt,” he praised as you rode him. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to, tell me it’s mine.”

“It’s yours, daddy, only yours.” 

It was all he needed to hear as he rocked into you with all his strength, leaving you moaning out your adorations for him in the form of his name as you came undone over him. The heat of his cum filled you again and he gifted you with one last smack of your ass before he pulled out of you with a whimper that left you gasping. 

You rolled over with breathless ecstasy, gasping in surprise as he pulled you in possessively close to him. He kneaded the skin of your curves as he held you while you danced your fingers around his chest, belly, and pelvis where evidence of your scratches remained. You propped yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at his handsome face, keeping your gaze on his rich brown eyes. Instinctively, you brought one hand to brush through his damp waves. 

“You know, your cock isn’t going to be easy to forget,” you murmured, feeling the slightest bit of sentimentality edge into your voice. 

“You say it like we’re never going to fuck again,” he said with a raise of his eye brow, his hands exploring where you had left your mark, like he was memorizing them. “You left these for me after all.” 

“Think of them as reminders that your wife could never fuck you the way I do.”

He moved in on you tugging at your hair as he brought his face to yours.

“I told you, I would own this pussy,” he kissed you as insurance, “just as much as you own this cock.”

“I like that proposition,” you said, biting your lip at the thought of feeling his cock between your legs again.

You turned around and felt his arm wrap around you to pull you to him again. His hands rubbed up and down your body, occasionally pinching your nipples. You knew it would only be a matter of time before you were fucking each other yet again.

His face was so beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful you had ever seen. Your nerves were getting the best of you, but you knew you had to ask. You hadn’t gotten far in your career without knowing a thing or two, not without doing your research. He wasn’t the only one who could make things happen by grand design. Though, needing his cock had not been a part of your original plan.  

“Dave, I want in,“ you whispered, caressing his forehead and running your hands through his hair.

“What are you talking about?” He said his voice lowering an octave as he squeezed your hand to stop your fingers from caressing his hair. 

And then you let the request fall from your lips, “When are we going to kill Brad?”

***

A/N 2: I realize this has was left on a huge cliff hanger. I was not sure if I wanted to or if this would be enjoyed enough to warrant a continuation. Please let me know your thoughts and as always comment and reblog. I swear I'm nice. ;)

[aladaylessecondblog]

Solstheim Start

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53198734/chapters/170592799

Author's Note: this fic is basically Vivectrollface dot jpg. He's installing follower mods and making it dragonborn's problem. Not that she knows that yet

----------------------------------

It wasn't all that bad here at Raven Rock. Some people, when Sadrith went to Windhelm, asked how she could bear the boredom...but really, she found she liked the quiet after so much excitement in the whole situation with Alduin. She'd declined to side with either Ulfric or Tullius, saying to them at the peace talks that she had no intention of fighting either of them considering they weren't the real enemy to worry about. That when they realized that, THEN she would be ready to fight.

Three years in, and she felt she was really settled. Each Redoran Guard had been taught FUS, and it had really helped with the piles of ash outside of town. Captain Veleth had asked her to refrain from teaching them anything further - it was best, he said, not to tempt men prone to drunkenness with the ability to spit fire.

She would use the brush of Truepaint and several landscapes had been sold in Windhelm to other folk - pictures of Sovngarde, of Shor's Hall and the feasting within. Such paintings were quite popular with the nords, and several jarls had asked for them or for paintings of Alduin's death.

It left her with quite a sum of gold and not much to do with it, a thing she was pondering as she brought yet another Heart Stone over to Tel Mithryn.

She could always expand Severin Manor, but then, what would she do with the room? She'd sent a letter to her mother inviting her to come live there, only to find that Kogolanu had returned to the Urshilaku. She had gotten the wandering out of her blood as far as the rest of Tamriel, and now seemed to want to stick to Vvardenfell. To live among her tribe, and be put to rest there among her ancestors when the time came.

Even though she enjoyed the quiet more...

It was in her nature to seek SOMETHING out to do, and painting was good, but it couldn't hold her attention forever.

There was fuss from the platform above when she opened the door, and she wondered if she'd chosen a bad time. Even more so when she was lifted up to the next floor.

"Oh, good, you're here," Neloth's aged voice was heard, and he approached as he went on, "Here, I'll take that Heart Stone. You can take this fool out when you go."

"What fool?" she asked.

He gestured, and she looked, feeling a chill go down her spine when she laid eyes on Dagoth Ur.

"Well? Take him and go. I don't want Tel Mithryn burned down because he had a tantrum, get him out."

"How is he here?"

"How should I know?"

Dagoth Ur was quiet, but when she told him to follow her after her exchange with Neloth, he did so without question. It seemed to surprise him.

"And who, exactly, are you? A Telvanni?"

"No, I'm the dragonborn."

"The what, exactly? Are you some descendant of Tiber Septim? Have the imperial dogs polluted your blood?"

"No, it's a--wait, why am I telling you anything? How did you even GET here?"

"I woke up in the graveyard. Your Telvanni mage was VERY inhospitable."

"He's a Telvanni, what did you expect?" Sadrith asked. "No, but really, who put you there?"

"I haven't the faintest clue." He made a sound like a huff that echoed slightly, due to the mask.

"You shouldn't be here at all. The Heart of Lorkhan is gone. This doesn't make any sense. Look," she groaned. "Take the mask off, if you're going back to Raven Rock with me you can't be wearing it out."

"And why should I obey you?"

"Because the entire island is full of people that hate you, and right now I'm more interested in figuring out WHY you're here rather than ending your life. I doubt you can do anything without the Heart anyway."

Grumbling, he listened, and by the time she returned to Raven Rock she had a story ready as to what was going on. He was being held prisoner by some Reavers who'd robbed him.

Not knowing what else to do she'd given him the second bedroom and was praying to every Divine and even some daedra that this wouldn't go as poorly as she thought it would.

Gods above. The Sharmat, in her house.

My mother would kill me if she knew!

[lorenacalderon]

𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀 “𝐋𝐎” 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑Ó𝐍

“i’m not looking to be understood. i’m just hoping someone knows where to put the volume knob.”

── ( maia reficco. twenty4. cis woman. she/her. ) thank god you’re here, man - have you seen LORENA CALDERÓN anywhere? i totally lost them after their rendition of teardrop by massive attack last night. no? they’re like, aye - high and go to PALLADIAN - i think they’re a SENIOR level studying MUSIC PERFORMANCE & COMPOSITION? but who knows, these days. all i know is that they’re RESOURCEFUL & INDEPENDENT and a SAGITTARIUS . last night they kept going on and on about how they won MOST LIKELY TO GHOST YOU THEN SEND YOU A PLAYLIST ABOUT IT last year, which is cool and whatever, but i just wouldn’t expect it out of them, considering they’re so, like, INTUITIVE & HYPERCRITICAL, you know? anyways - i’m going to check down by the ruins, i think that’s where they like to hang. text me if you see them, okay? bye!

BASICS

Full Name: Lorena Marisol Calderón

Nicknames: Lo, Lory (by her grandmother), Ghostlocked (stage name)

Age: 24

Birthday: December 5, 2000

Zodiac: Sagittarius Sun, Gemini Moon, Virgo Rising

Gender / Pronouns: Ciswoman, she/her

Orientation: Pansexual, greyromantic — she’ll love anyone, but not often, and not without ruin

Relationship Status: Emotionally celibate, allegedly

Nationality / Ethnicity: Argentine-American

Birthplace: Echo Park, Los Angeles

Languages: English (native), Spanish (fluent), conversational ASL

Playlist: HERE

ACADEMIA & ART

Institution: Palladian University

Major: Sonic Arts & Experimental Composition (with a focus in psychoacoustics and spatial sound theory)

Year: Senior

Occupation: Undergraduate researcher in audio cognition and immersive sound architecture; Archival assistant in the Audio Ephemera Wing of the campus library; Performing artist under the pseudonym Ghostlocked — known for eerie, cinematic soundscapes laced with corrupted vocals, field recordings, and live looping that's garnered a cult following online

Creative Ethos: “Not all sound wants to be music. Some sounds just want to be heard.” Lo’s work lives in the in-between: audio diaries disguised as compositions, live installations where nothing is “performed,” and projects that feel like eavesdropping on a ghost. She’s obsessed with silence, distortion, reverb decay. Uses pain and absence as instruments.

APPEARANCE & AESTHETIC

Faceclaim: Maia Reficco

Hair: Dark chestnut with homemade bleach streaks, usually messy and tucked behind one ear, or claw-clipped up.

Eyes: Deep brown, quiet but observant. Rarely emotive unless she wants to be.

Build: Compact, graceful, athletic in that unintentional way — strength in the places it counts.

Height: 5'6"

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Dark academia meets urban grunge — thrifted maxi skirts, layered thermals, steel-toed boots with worn-out soles; Wears heavy rings on every finger (each has a meaning she won’t explain); Minimal makeup aside from a clear gloss and kohl liner when she’s working; Always has noise-cancelling headphones (usually dead), and a cassette recorder on her hip like a weapon; Leather harnesses over clean white T-shirts; Silver chains with a cheap religious pendant she never takes off.

Tattoos: A broken metronome on her ribs — "it’s still ticking, but not for anyone else"; A dotted sine wave behind her ear

Piercings: Standard lobes and a conch piercing

Distinguishing Features: Slight scar on her bottom lip; Freckle beneath her left eye; Always smells like a blend of frankincense, sharp mint, and copper— like walking into a cold studio right after something loud happened. Like silence that knows what it's recovering from.

FAMILY & BACKGROUND

Mother: Belinda Calderón — an underground DJ and producer who vanished when Lo was 9. Last known alias: SCORPION/DAWN

Father: Unknown; possibly a touring sound engineer, but unconfirmed; vanished when Lo was 7

Guardian: Raised by her Abuela, Magdalena, in a one-bedroom flat filled with plants and radio static

Upbringing: Lo grew up on cumbia, power outages, police sirens, and old magnetic tape. Her abuela believed in the cleansing power of sound — would play Gregorian chants and harsh noise at 3AM to “clear the bad spirits.” Lorena learned how to isolate, observe, and analyze noise before she ever learned how to express her own feelings.

PERSONALITY

“Lo has this way of speaking where it feels like she already knows what you’re going to say — and is deciding whether you’re worth letting finish.”

Temperament: Melancholic-phlegmatic; Holds the world at a careful distance and watches it burn.

MBTI: INTJ-T

Enneagram: Type 5w4 — The Iconoclast

Alignment: True Neutral ("I'm not here to save you. I'm here to be honest.")

Positive Traits: perceptive, grounded, resourceful, independent, emotionally intelligent, analytical, stable, hyper-articulate, loyal beyond all sense, deeply intuitive (especially emotionally)

Negative Traits: emotionally avoidant, hypercritical, stubborn, passive-aggressive, occasionally elitist, self-isolating, passive-aggressive when pushed, prone to long silences of unclear meaning

Core Wound: Abandonment and being misunderstood

Defining Trait: Stillness with a storm behind it

MENTAL / PHYSICAL HEALTH

Neurological Notes: Highly sound-sensitive — likely neurodivergent, though never diagnosed; Prone to sensory shutdowns when overstimulated — wears earbuds even when they're not playing anything, as a psychological barrier

Physical Notes: Suffers from chronic migraines, worsened by light and heat. Uses custom pink-tinted glasses in some classes.

Substance Use: Almost entirely sober. Will pretend to drink at shows.

Eating / Sleeping Habits: Eats methodically, mostly pescetarian; Sleep is inconsistent — tends to fall asleep in 90-minute bursts between projects

NOTABLE ITEMS / EFFECTS

An old-school voice recorder she inherited from her mother. Filled with tapes labeled only by dates.

A ring of keys she doesn’t use. No one knows what they open.

A worn cassette labeled "FOR WHEN YOU CAN’T BREATHE.” She doesn’t let anyone listen to it.

Five notebooks, filled with diagrams of rooms and where sound travels. Annotated in two languages.

A small silver lighter engraved with “MARISOL” — used more for ritual than fire.

HEADCANONS

Manages chronic migraines through experimental sound therapy. Keeps a white noise generator in her dorm, refuses to explain why.

Enjoys building synth rigs from broken machines

Partakes in soundwalking at night (records the city’s noises and rearranges them into lullabies)

Always archiving silence — the moments in audio recordings where “nothing happens.”

Her favorite time is 4:17 AM; The hour when the world is still enough to hear the difference between silence and absence; The time her mother left (confirmed only by the blinking timestamp on an abandoned tape recorder); She calls it “ghost hour” — the only time she can mix tracks without interruption.

She thinks microwave beeps are audibly aggressive; She covers her ears before the last beep every time. Claims it "disrespects the space."

She has a very specific tea ritual; Never drinks coffee. Instead, she has 14 kinds of loose-leaf tea organized by emotional frequency. ("Lavender verbena = ghost processing. Ginger = rage containment.")

Her voicemail is just 30 seconds of TV static; She claims it’s “a deterrent for anyone who doesn’t really want to talk to her.”

Secretly really good at claw machine games; Can win on the first try. Says it’s “just about understanding machine rhythm.” Uses this skill to win weird plushies and gift them to people without explanation.

Writes backwards when she's stressed; Not for security — she says it “slows down her thoughts so they don’t collapse on the page.”

Believes ghosts are real, but only in audio; She doesn’t think they’re visual. Thinks they’re tones. Frequencies. Stuck in the wrong room at the wrong time. She calls her field recorder “the net.”

NOTABLE QUOTES

“You don’t need to be louder. You need to be clearer.”

“If I wanted to be saved, I’d do it myself.”

“Sometimes silence isn’t peace. It’s pressure. Learn the difference.”

“I am not your project. I am not your redemption arc. I am what happens when you run out of excuses.”

HER STORY, SO FAR...

Lorena Marisol Calderón was born at 4:17 AM in a second-floor apartment in Echo Park, Los Angeles, during a blackout. Her mother, Belinda — an underground DJ known on pirate frequencies as SCORPION/DAWN — cut the cord herself with a pair of studio scissors sterilized in vodka. There was no music playing, only the static lull of a broken radio and the hum of a dying generator downstairs. From the start, Lo was introduced to the world as a waveform, not a daughter.

Belinda was a brilliant and erratic presence, known for her dark techno sets layered with field recordings from train stations, protests, and séance circles. She was always vanishing for gigs, leaving behind only scribbled setlists and unlabeled cassette tapes. Her music was legend; her parenting, myth. Lo never met her father — a name never offered, just a voice captured once on a tape marked “I Didn’t Stay Because I Knew You Wouldn’t Let Me.” Lo has never listened to it. By the time she was nine, Belinda was gone. Disappeared mid-tour. No funeral, no explanation — just a message looped once on their answering machine: “The silence is coming. Don’t follow me.” Her father? Well, rumor on the street is that he is a sound engineer for a band and went on tour with them when Lo was 7, only to never return. Lo was taken in by her Abuela Magdalena, a retired housekeeper with a quiet holiness and a fierce belief in sound as a form of spiritual hygiene. Their one-bedroom was filled with plants, half-working radios, windchimes made of old keys, and cassette tapes labeled like prayers — “Cleansing Noise for Grief,” “For When the Police Helicopter Hangs Too Long,” “Rain on Tin with Heartbeat (Looped).” Abuela played Gregorian chants and harsh industrial noise at 3AM to “shake loose the demons.” Lo learned how to read silence the way others read facial expressions. At school, she was the weird girl with the headphones and the bruised kind of genius. The one who dismantled the intercom system to record its feedback. The one who walked home counting how many steps between birdsong and sirens. She never fit in, never wanted to. Emotionally, Lo sealed herself in like insulation foam — soft-spoken, hyper-articulate, utterly unreachable. She was the quietest person in the room, but she always made the loudest exit. She built her first sound rig out of broken Walkmans and an old amp she found in a gutter. Her music was raw, jagged, eerily personal — not something you listened to so much as encountered. She’d play basement sets under the name Ghostlocked, her voice shredded beyond recognition, accompanied by the sound of rain hitting an aluminum roof and her own heartbeat pitched down to 60 bpm.

Her following was cult-like. Her online presence, elusive. No photos. Just sound.

She applied to Palladian School of Art & Design on a dare from Silas Vega, a community audio technician who once caught her sneaking into the studio after hours to use the reel-to-reel. He said she reminded him of a burned-out metronome — broken, but still keeping time for someone. Her application was unorthodox: - A collection of annotated field recordings titled “What Absence Sounds Like in a Room with No Corners.” - A sonic diary of her childhood, built entirely from found sounds. - A note that read: “If this doesn’t count as music, then I’m exactly where I belong.” She got in. At Palladian, Lo found herself both revered and resented. Professors praised her for being “genre-untethered.” Peers called her an “emotional cipher.” She didn’t care. She wasn’t there to be understood — she was there to hear something that hadn’t been heard yet. Now in her final year, Lo’s senior thesis is less a project than an exorcism: a full-sensory sound installation titled “Silence, Revisited,” where participants are guided through a series of echo chambers tuned to her personal frequencies of loss, memory, and speculative love. She says it’s not finished. She says it might never be. But every morning at 4:17 AM, she wakes up, opens her recorder, and tries again.

[artvinyl]

Uncovered: PJ Harvey - I Inside the Old Year Dying

We continue to delve into the detail of the creative process for some of The Best Art Vinyl 2023 shortlisted album artworks and today we take a look at this seemingly simple cover design for PJ Harvey’s tenth studio album that, in fact, couldn’t be less so. The final image is actually a result of months of preparation, awaiting perfect weather conditions and a combination of multiple photographs and techniques. We were lucky enough to get the whole story from artist Michelle Henning.

Henning’s background is in fine art, she started as a painter and installation artist. As well as being a Professor in Photography and Media in the School of the Arts at the University of Liverpool, Michelle works for PJ Harvey as art director/creative director, and as such is very much involved in decisions relating to many of the visual assets.

Michelle explained to us how the creative process starts and about her collaboration with PJ Harvey; “The way I approach the work is to listen to the music. Polly and I don’t discuss visual ideas at first, instead, she gives me everything to do with the album: recordings or demos, poems and lyrics, drawings and notes. I then immerse myself in it and try to get a feel for it and start working. I already had a way into it because I was familiar with her poetry book 'Orlam', which is connected to the album, and I had a strong sense of the world of the album. What matters most to me is trying to find a visual equivalent for the music, not to illustrate it or directly reference lyrics, but sense the atmosphere and convey that.”

Michelle elaborates, “In the case of ‘I Inside the Old Year Dying’, this album has a strange and interesting feel, on the one hand it’s about a twentieth century rural childhood, with references to Curly-Wurlys and Coca cola but also there are soldiers who appear from a much more ancient past, and there’s a strong presence of nature."

PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying concept gatefold (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023) with photographs by Steve Gullick and drawings by Polly Harvey

"I started by thinking I would try to put wildlife cameras in a forest, not to capture animals but to get infra-red photos of trees. So I did that for a while but I wasn’t satisfied with the results. Then I started to paint forests, but that didn’t feel right either."

Early Forest concept ideas for PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023)

"I had a sudden realisation that I didn’t need a whole forest, I just needed one stick and such a simple single object would give it the feel of the classic album covers I admire. Now I realise an unconscious influence was Polly herself, because she had chosen to use drawings she had made of single twigs (“twiddicks”), to break up the sections in 'Orlam'."

Orlam by PJ Harvey

"I think the idea of giving the stick a shadow emerged from the process of finding twigs on the ground and photographing them — the shadows seemed to bring them to life and make something very ordinary suddenly seem almost animate."

Concept ideas for PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023)

"The back cover is a photograph of Polly by Steve Gullick, onto which I superimposed a scan of a tissue and plastic envelope, so it has a slightly battered, used look. I chose this photo because I loved the way her legs echoed the shape of the twig, and also how it could be cropped so that it seemed as if she was almost kicking the edge of the album away."

Front and back cover artwork for PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023)

Michelle has produced three album covers and a number of singles for PJ Harvey as well as several for other artists, including for John Parish, Mazgani and Dot Allison. She works with a wide variety of techniques; photography, clay models, printmaking, drawing in ink and watercolour and moves between analogue and digital, with a lot of work in Adobe Photoshop, creating very complex layered files.

Michelle Henning: PJ Harvey, Let England Shake (Island Records, 2011)

Michelle Henning: PJ Harvey, A Dog Called Money 7" Single

Centre label of Hope Six vinyl | PJ Harvey (Island Records 2016)

Expanding on her techniques for this current album cover artwork, Michelle tells us, “I photographed a lot of sticks in bright sunlight on different coloured and textured backgrounds. At a certain time in the afternoon the sun started to cast really interesting shadows. I remember Polly’s manager Sumit calling me and asking me when I would have something ready to show them, and I said I wouldn’t be ready until we had had more sunny weather. He was very patient with me but he must have wondered what on earth I was doing.”

She continues, “The stick that worked best, that I felt had the most mysterious shadow, I then rephotographed under plastic. The final image is a composite of about three or maybe more photographs of this twig, both under the plastic and not. The orange sticker is based on the sticker stuck on this piece of plastic — which was a large transparent folder in which my film photographs were returned to me. I liked the way it brought a pop of colour to the cover.”  

"In Photoshop, I changed the lighting on the plastic, added more layers of plastic lighting, superimposed Polly’s handwriting onto the sticker, and created the fake embossed text in the centre (which is a mixture of hand-painted ink drawing and a lot of digital editing)."

"The gatefold is a scan of a 1980s sticky photograph album complete with the blue lines of glue and the plastic layer, and the inner sleeve is based on photographs of red kitchen linoleum superimposed over photographs by Polly of a lamb and a forest. I did a rough layout for the body text and type, and then handed that over to Rob Crane of Rob Crane Design, who did a brilliant job of making the typography on the inside and back covers look elegant and balanced, and made all the files print-ready."

Inner gatefold for PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023) with typesetting by Rob Crane, and photographs by Steve Gullick gatefold pic

Michelle told us she looked at a lot of great album covers when creating this artwork and there are subtle references to some of them, both in the inner gatefold and the front cover. She says, "I love the idea that there are record cover geeks like myself who like to figure out the echoes of other designs, so I won’t say what they are!" (two iconic late 60s LP covers spring to our record cover geeky minds!)

Michelle Henning: PJ Harvey, I Inside the Old Year Dying concept (Copyright © Michelle Henning, 2023)

I Inside the Old Year Dying by PJ Harvey on Partisan Records is shortlisted for the Best Art Vinyl 2023 Award. Art Director, Design and front cover photography by Michelle Henning. Additional design and typesetting by Rob Crane.

[sdcrevolver]

I finally got around to listening to the recent tson and honestly it’s uhhhhh okay? I have a bit to say about it

The shopping center seemed like it’s in the pale city, nothing specific but with what was described in the building, the mannequins in the theater ( remember the mannequins in god’s forsaken hospital level lmao 😔 ), a lot of it seemed to be taken from the 4th chapter of LN2 where we meet the viewers. I found the idea of some non child characters trying to protect kids from characters like the ferryman interesting, it’s maybe the first time we see someone who’s not a kid try to protect the main character.

The walls echoing that the brain needs someone to keep him company reminded me of the flesh walls in LN2 but this is probably not intentional, maybe just me overthinking things and connecting dots that aren’t there. Noone feeling like she was in good hands and the speaker giving her discounts was honestly nice I thought it was kinda funny. The doctor’s desperate need to learn about the ferryman kinda put me off especially when he starts kinda hurt Noone about it :/

So uhhhh the Multiverse aspect, I’ve seen some opinions about it before listening to the 3rd part so I may have had some doubt when I jumped into it but tbh I’m a little okay with the multiverse thing? I say a little because I’m a little disappointed that LN had this scary world to work with that’s become well loved among its fans and with the managerial changes they just went “ it’s another world!! “ it felt cheap. I honestly understand why Tarsier Studios kept the world/characters/lore open ended with a very heavy emphasis on show don’t tell. If they went one way they would disappoint a group of people so they decided to allow the player to decide what’s going on in their head. I do have hope that Bandai and the Writers of TSON can bring interesting ideas to the franchise but this was a little sour.

I hope it’s only 2 worlds and not a whole multiverse where The Maw and The Pale City are in one universe and the Nowhere is in another I feel that can get confusing and funnily enough less interesting to explore since Marvel and other franchises have done that concept to death ( no hate to the spider movies I love them with all my heart I just don’t think the multiverse idea fits for a franchise like little nightmares ). The places from the first two parts seemed like they could be from the same world, the point of it was the world is fucked up and you play as kids that learn how to cope with it and try to survive, that idea immediately dies when you give them the option to just.. wake up. I get that it’s literally called Little Nightmares but that name originally seemed to refer to either the kids or the monsters based on your perspective of the characters.

Maybe they’re going with the idea that at some point kids won’t be able to wake up anymore and have to scarily accept that now they’re part of the nightmare they might die in, im not sure. I’m interested on what TSON and LN3 will take the lore of the franchise, maybe it’ll get better with later installments and the Doctor’s multiverse theory is wrong but eh seems like wishful thinking. I’ll see what happens before I say anything else

[twomindsbrokenheart]

A Life in RUIN || Closed RP @80s-pizza-party

It had been a summer of both good times and uneasy stresses. Good times because the Security Breachers went to the beach for a week, installed a mid-sized pool outside, and generally enjoyed themselves; uneasy stresses because in June, the trailer for their long-awaited DLC dropped, and it was not a reassuring-looking trailer.

Until that moment, the DLC hadn’t even seemed real to Vanessa; it was just a tenuous promise that would happen sometime in the vague future. But with the release of the trailer, she realized that she was going to have her work cut out for her, maybe even more so than when their game first got installed. The release date was in July, and throughout most of that month, the programmers kept her frustratingly in the dark. She only learned the release date eleven days beforehand, along with the rest of the world, and the dossier explaining the basic plot, new characters, and necessary troubleshooting processes — AKA the Day One Dossier — arrived only three days before release. She hadn’t slept very well during those eleven days, tossing and turning for hours in her spot between Sun and Moon, her mind crammed with worries and what-ifs.

Reading about the shit that was about to go down was one thing. Watching said shit go down was another thing entirely. She and Freddy, neither of them scheduled for an appearance in the DLC, sat in a security office all day and tracked Cassie’s progress throughout RUIN with horror. During the daycare section, when Vanessa heard Sun’s wailing and Moon’s shrieks of pain, she had to struggle not to flee from the room; she had never seen them that low, not in the whole eighteen months she’d known them, and knowing how it was all going to turn out didn’t make it any better. Freddy had to grip her shoulders pretty hard at that part to keep her grounded. And then, not long after, Cassie went through the Monty dark ride and there were all those Bonnie references, which hadn’t been in the dossier (it only said “Cassie passes through a dark ride above Monty Golf”) and which got Freddy visibly choked up, and she reached out and took his hand even though she didn’t know shit about his relationship with Bonnie. Those were the worst parts…which wasn’t to say that the other parts were okay by any stretch of the imagination.

That day, the player got the first two endings (elevator and Fredbear) and tried for a while to figure out how to get the third ending, but they didn’t succeed. They poked around for a while, then gave up and shut the game off. It was early evening by then. Vanessa only waited a couple of minutes to make sure they were really gone before springing into action.

Not long after the player left, her voice echoed uncertainly throughout RUIN’s intercoms:

“Uh…hi, everyone. This is Vanessa. Looks like the player’s done for the night. I’m opening up the gate between the DLC and the base game — it’s in the lobby, and I’ll be standing right in the doorway with a flashlight so you can find it easy. The through-ways are open and lit up, so please make your way to the lobby now. Oh, and, um…welcome to our new characters, I guess.”

And, just like she’d said, secret passageways dotted with emergency lights appeared in previously impassible passageways, providing quick exits from everywhere, all the way down to the basement…

[asexual-hugger]

Chapter 14: Narrow Escape

TELEVISION STUDIO

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Agent Michaelson lowered the tracking device and gazed across the street at the Studio 24 building. This had been the last location that Test Subject Number Twenty had been detected, and judging by the blinking blue dot on the digital map, her tracker was still working. He and Abrams had feared somehow that they had permanently lost the signal after the hours-long flight out of St. Lucia. There had been radio silence, until the world map simulation in the command center had suddenly flashed out a location in California, USA.

Boss was right to have used the world map rather than just the one of the island. He always knew when to plan ahead.

“You sure this is it?” Abrams stepped up beside him. “I'm getting a signal around this area, but there are a lot of studio buildings out here. Your map seems different from mine.”

“It should be the same,” Michaelson answered. “The signal is pointing at this location. There’s a security guard outside Studio 24. That has to be it. Take caution. Studio security is right.”

“True, but we’re tighter,” Abrams responded.

The two men put their tracking devices back on their shoulder straps and approached the lone guard standing outside.

The scene flashed through Twenty’s subconscious. She jolted. Two armored men were walking up to the security guard outside the television studio. She let out a small moan.

“T, what is it?” Everett reached over and placed his hand on her knee.

The two of them were back in Everett’s car, and Everett had one hand still on the steering wheel, watching the road and tossing glances over at her. Alarm showed clear on his face.

“The men,” Twenty wheezed.

“What men?”

“From IWWA,” Twenty explained. “They’re at the studio. They're looking for me.”

“What?” The car squealed as Everett pulled over on the side of the street. He cut the engine and stared at her. “What do you mean ‘they’re at the studio?’ They’re here?? In LA??”

Twenty nodded.

“How do you know?” Everett demanded. “What...how are they even HERE??”

One of the armored guards held up his phone. “We’re looking for this girl,” his voice echoed.

“They must've tracked my last location,” Twenty responded. “It’s my tracking chip. The one they installed in me.” She touched the back of her neck.

“Ah, HELL!” Everett suddenly remembered the story Twenty had told him the night at his restaurant, and he shouted a bit too loudly. “Damn; I completely forgot about that tracking device! Is there a way we can shake these guys?”

“I can try,” Twenty responded. “I haven't actually done this outside the facility walls, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Anything helps,” Everett answered, starting the car again. “We’ve got to get as far away from these guys as we can. What are you going to do?”

Twenty centered her gaze on the direction the studio was, and she went still, slightly cocking her head.

The two armored guards suddenly winced in pain, one dropping his phone as they moaned and clutched their heads. The security guard started to back towards the studio door.

“Gah! Dammit!” Michaelson yelled. “My head!”

“What’s...happening?” Abrams gasped.

“Drive,” Twenty commanded, her voice a monotone. Her eyes stayed centered. “Get us out of here.”

“What are you...?” Everett started, but he didn't finish. Twenty knew what she was doing. “Right,” he answered, pulling back on to the road. “You’re the boss.”

A few minutes later, Twenty broke her telepathic trance and shifted back in the passenger seat. “That should hold them off for a while,” she stated. “Where are we going?”

Everett’s eyes stayed on the road as he answered. “I'm taking you somewhere where you won't have to deal with being tracked again.” Silence, then he turned to face her. “What exactly did you do?” he asked. “How did you know those guys were in LA?”

“I connected with them telepathically,” Twenty replied. “I sensed their presence in my subconscious. I could hear them talking. They were asking the studio security guard if he had seen me. Michaelson has a picture of me on his phone.”

“Damn.” Everett shook his head. “That must be one hell of a telepathic connection. We left the studio a long time ago. We’re nowhere near it. What did you do to hold them off?”

“I pushed into their minds,” Twenty answered. “I used a psychic force that I was sure would give them a splitting headache and make them forget what they were doing. We were trained on all this back at IWWA.”

“Using what you were taught against those who taught you.” Everett nodded, understanding. “Genius. I've really gotta get used to these powers of yours. It’s gonna take a lot of time, but I will. I will, T. I'm not there yet, but I will get there. Just be patient with me, okay?”

Twenty nodded.

“Pushing into their minds, huh?” Everett asked. “That sounds like what you did with me the night we met. It felt like my head was splitting open. You probably already know this, T, but you are hella strong. Stronger than the average human. You could do amazing things with those abilities. Don't fall down the wrong path.”

Twenty didn't respond, but she pondered what he said, looking almost puzzled at his strange words.

The doors to the nearest hospital flew open as Everett practically pulled Twenty behind him into the large lobby.

“We need to use an X-ray machine, stat!” he shouted, causing looks from patients and staff.

“Whoa, there, what’s going on?” A nurse came over, looking frazzled.

“We need to use one of your X-ray machines,” Everett panted. “It’s urgent.”

“May I ask what for?” the nurse asked. “I have patients to tend to.”

“This woman needs it.” Everett gestured to Twenty. “There’s a tracking chip implanted somewhere in her body and I need to find where it is. Her life is in danger. I'll pay you if I can use it for just a little while.”

“Now slow down there, sir,” the nurse said sternly. “We don't just let outsiders stroll in and use our machines. You need to set up an appointment like everybody else.”

“Her life is in danger!” Everett repeated, growing irritated. “You don't have to abandon your patients. I'll take care of things. I just need to use the machine to find the tracker. I'll pay you for your time. Look. Here’s my ID.”

He dug into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet, showing the nurse his card.

“Here’s my driver’s license,” he told her. “I've got money. How much do you need?”

“Everett Flynt?” The nurse peered at the name on the card as if she couldn't believe it. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Everett responded. “I'm the chef from ‘Taste of the World.’ In the flesh. I'll pay you a generous amount if you can get that machine for my friend here. She’s being tracked by some bad people and I want the tracker removed. Where’s the room you keep them in?”

He scanned the hallway over her shoulder.

“Now hold your horses, Mr. Flynt,” the nurse demanded, holding out a hand to stop him. “You’re not medically trained. You wouldn't be able to operate the X-ray without a professional in the room. I need more information before I administer your request. Preferably from your friend.”

She turned to Twenty. “What’s your name, young lady?”

“Twenty,” Twenty replied shyly.

“Twenty?” the nurse repeated. “Your name is Twenty?”

Twenty nodded and held up her wrist, where the number “020” was clearly branded into her skin.

“Wh...I don't understand.” The nurse gently took her wrist in her gloved hand. “Is this a tattoo?”

“It’s a brand,” Twenty replied. “It’s the number I was given when I was taken. I don't want to talk about it, if that's okay. These people that are after me are very powerful, and I want to get the tracker taken out as soon as possible. We just need your machine and someone with surgical experience. We won't waste any more of your time.”

The nurse looked back at Everett, overly shocked.

“You heard her,” Everett said. “We need that equipment now. Those bad people could already be heading over here to find her. Do you want your entire staff put in danger?”

“I'll see what I can do.” The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “Wait here.”

She walked over behind the desk and spoke into a speaker.

“Paging Doctor Stark to the lobby. Doctor Stark to the lobby. We have a patient in distress.”

Twenty fidgeted, rocking from side to side. Everett reached over and gently gripped her hand, and the gentle touch sent a spark of electricity through her. She stopped moving and relaxed, allowing him to keep his hand where it was, although her eyes roved over to the doors as if expecting armored guards to burst in at any moment.

“Hey.” Everett’s voice was soft. “We’re going to take care of this, okay? I'm not going anywhere. Soon you'll be free of all this insanity. It looks like they’re going to get someone to remove the tracker for you. I'm right here.”

His voice washed over her, reassuring her. Knowing that he was there with her made her feel safe. She wasn't alone. She would never be alone again.

Movement in the hall. A young man wearing surgical scrubs appeared around the corner. He looked flushed, as if he had hurried.

“Doctor Stark, there you are.” The nurse greeted him. “Sorry to have pulled you away at the last second.”

“I have one of my teammates filling in for me,” the young man said. “You said there was a patient in distress?”

“That one there.” The nurse nodded towards Everett and Twenty. “Number Twenty. Brand on her wrist. Something about a tracker and using the X-ray machine.”

The young surgeon’s gaze landed on Twenty. He walked quickly over to the two of them.

“Did one of you call for an emergency surgery?” he asked.

“She did.” Everett gestured to Twenty. “We need to use one of your X-ray machines to locate the tracker and someone to surgically remove it. Are you Doctor Stark?”

“I am,” the young man replied. “Not to brag, but I'm one of the best surgeons at this hospital. And you’re Everett Flynt.” He seemed to notice Everett for the first time. “Dude. I watch your show like every week. I super idolize you. You taught me how to cook.”

“Oh, did I?” Everett seemed intrigued. “It's nice to meet a fan. I wish I could chat more, but I’m just here on behalf of my friend. Can you get us what we need? I'll pay you a huge sum, bonus considering you’re a fan and all. It would really help both of us.”

“Pfffff, I don't need your money.” Doctor Stark waved off the request. “I'll do this for free. For you. I'm not going to charge my cooking idol a ridiculous sum for a simple request. If this is for you and your friend, I'm happy to do it. Follow me.”

[mydnsdubai]

Home Automation Installation Company in Dubai To Getting Started on Any Budget

Home automation installation company in Dubai believe that home automation is no longer for high-end homes or tech enthusiasts. As technology is evolving, you must invest in a smart home setup to fit your needs and budget.

Whether you plan to enhance the security or improve the energy efficiency of the home, you might find the right solution in automation. However, the question is whether you can consider home automation while on a budget. The answer is yes! We are going to tell you exactly how you can automate the entire house while staying on budget.

1. Home automation involves multiple smart devices and technology that is used to control all aspects of your home. It can help you manage the lighting, security, climate and entertainment. In most cases, the smart home devices can be controlled via smartphone applications or voice assistants. They would create automation rules that trigger with certain conditions. In a smart home, you are likely to find smart hubs and voice assistants. Additionally, you will also find smart lighting, plugs and outlets. You may also find thermostats and security devices along with entertainment systems that run on smart features. Make sure to use an access control system Dubai for the entire setup.

2. Your next step is to set the budget for how much you are ready to spend on home automation. You can start small and go big or you can actually work on a bigger budget. This depends on how much you actually have for the home automation. In case you are working on a tight budget, you must automate the key areas in your house. You can use smart plugs that can convert regular appliances like lamp and coffee makers to be controlled by smart devices. next, you use smart light bulbs which are not too expensive. You can also use smart speaker on a hub by using devices like Amazon Echo Dot and Google Nest Mini to control the home. If you have a bigger budget, you can expand the automation.

You can go with a smart thermostat and doorbell camera to ensure you have enough security. You can also install smart door locks, according to the home automation installation company in Dubai. Smart light switches offer great convenience to you. if you have over $500+ in your budget, you can go with full home integration. You can use them to create all security aspects such as cameras, sensors and monitoring devices. you can also use this budget to install automated blinds and curtains. Lastly, you can also use them for smart appliances.

3. You must choose the best ecosystem for building your smart home. You could go with Amazon Alexa or Google Assistant. You should look at the pros and cons for each of these options before you decide what you want. Make sure to check it is compatible and makes way for a good ecosystem.

4. Your next step is to install and setup the smart home. You can either do-it-yourself or you can go with a professional installation. In some cases, going with a professional installation can help, especially when you are planning access control system Dubai.

[pyxisastronautica]

Q: Heyyyyyy guys it's me, Quebec. I've got internet back! It's uh. It's been a little bit, huh?

A lot has happened. Our team got kinda...split up about what to do about our situation, and then I got separated from them. Abandoned infrastructure can be dangerous, who knew! Haha.

I'm totally fine though.

The humans here, they speak like, a really old form of a bunch of languages? One of the main ones is actually closer to the language that I have to type to you guys. They kinda think I have a weird accent but I guess not too weird? So I've been blending right in!

I even got a job at this little computer repair shop. Man these things are basically dinosaurs but it's so cool! Also makes things pretty simple for me. And...I've even learned more about the one I have! Sometimes they do little custom installations like putting UVA lights inside the towers, and when the light caught over my own I could see like, glowing lines! From invisible ink!

Man I'm so dumb, I shoulda realized the magic laptop would follow like, magic rules rather than normal physical ones. Anyway there's a little panel that didnt seem to do anything or be wired to anything but was connected to a glowing red light, I knew that, but then under black light I could see that the panel had all sorts of little symbols on it that connect to the light. There's like, a mesh globe (multiversal internet maybe?), a distinctly Tumblr shaped T connected to both the globe and the light, a little like, ship-shaped glyph? I think that's our ship. Annnnd. A crescent moon that's not connected to anything.

So I've done a little experiment by using a little swab of alcohol to sever the line between the dot and the ship, and so far I haven't heard anything from TCCAI! So, it looks like it works. Apparently black light ink isn't super uncommon here either, so I could reconnect that line any time if I had to. But right now I want to see if there's some way I could spread multiversal internet to the rest of the city. I don't...know the glyph for the city's internet, is the thing. I'm connected to it on WiFi, but that doesn't seem to be enough to bridge the gap. But given how simple the rest of the symbols are, maybe I just need to draw the logo or something? I'm going to try later today. I've gotta do some infosec first and also...I'm kinda nervous about it actually working. Captain and Echo are gonna be like, rrrrrrrrreally pissed at me I think. Until then I'm "sleeping" in this chair. It's really cool my new boss doesn't mind me chilling here until I get enough money to like, rent a place.

[no-future-mudwasps]

[stream resumed]

Okay! Now to show my new mech, I'm very proud of this one. Apologies for the break, I had to go take care of something midway through cleanup.

[The slate is picked up, now filming from a handheld position. Saleh manages to hold it from a relatively still, only a little jitter as she shows off the construction. Hell Is Other People stands at Schedule 1, taller than her prior chassis, and gives the affect of a great stooped figure, stood wide and skirted in hanging curtains of lens-ablative armor. Upon a curving neck two heads are born, each serpentine and grinning. It carries upon its back a huge, armored carriage in the shape of an urn, whose mouth is plugged with a crowd of smaller serpents' heads. All the mech is painted in deep blackish-greens, with the faint glimmering of blue and white lights denoting a whole host of sensor arrays dotted about the urn.]

There she is! Ah, my beautiful creature, I have been hard at work sculpting the main body. My cockpit is actually in that fuck-off jar, there is a gyro-stabilized chamber-- the figure beneath is just a motive system. I've had to think quite hard on how to adapt the many, many drone systems on this Chimera to a manual control scheme, and I think I've got it. Particularly, after some reading on the Swift Flock phenomenon? It is a kind of emergence simple drones will exhibit under the right circumstances, and this is perfect. Because, once again, my Cloudburst nanites from the Swallowtail license will work just fine.

[Saleh reaches out with her free hand, swiping her hand and clicking the laserpaint feature on her glove. The mech hums and rumbles, and after a second a dull pomf echoes through the air-- a canister of quickly dispersing mist shot from a small compartment, saturating the high clearance of the hangar with microsensors. Moments later, Other People shifts and bows at an even steeper angle, angling the urn's mouth towards the ground-- and with a graceful, sinuous motion, two sleek and snakelike robots emerge forth from its depths, curling at their destinations and scanning the room with a bristling cluster of cannon barrels.]

Now I just need to set up some intuitive way of relaying this data to the monitors in my cockpit, and I will be able to play the battlefield like a video game! Between this and the leftover Kobold systems installed, there will be very little safe ground for those that wish us harm.

For now that is all! Perhaps I will show further updates if there are any, but as it is I just wanted to connect and show off my work-- it's always quite relaxing. Take care everyone!

[stream terminated]

[S H]

Okay omninet you deserve to see some of the things I am working on! Come come along with me and I will show you my wonders what the fuck did you people DO

[S H]

[alexasetups-blog]

If you are facing any issues in setup amazon Alexa Echo dot and connectivity with WIFI. Our support team will guide you for installation, setup, and connectivity with the phone with easy way. You can call to support team on toll-free number at 1-866-651-4555.

Visit here: https://independent.academia.edu/AlexaSetups