There I was, innocently minding my own business in a country full of polar bears and moose hide bikinis, when a wormhole appeared and sucked me into tumblr. Now I've fallen into Bering and Wells and I can't get up.
Warehouse 13, Lost Girl, Defiance, Castle, Star Trek, et al.This blog also features random bursts of tv-shows, movies, books, quotes, and photography that I like.
[Disclaimer: I blame this entire blog on Jaime Murray and Joanne Kelly.]
Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!
DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING
I NEVER REALIZED
are you serious
I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.
FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD
YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD
can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too
like voldemort couldnt even do that
molly weasley couldnt do that
who are you
Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!
PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT
Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.
Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.
“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“
Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.
“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”
Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.
Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”
“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”
Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”
“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.
“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”
“What’s yer point?”
“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”
“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”
Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”
And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.
“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.
Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…
This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.
“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.
“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”
“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”
Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”
“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”
Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.”
“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.
“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”
The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”
IT GOT BETTER
Did I just read an amazing fanfiction based on a guy that has 2 seconds in a Harry Potter movie?
Where was the fight as Helena stripped her of her blouse; where was her voice as her body was used to slam shut the door to her room? Her head fell back with a solid thunk as Helena palmed her through her trousers, pressing the seam roughly against her already overly sensitized clit.
Myka groaned, reaching up to push her away, but instead her fingers slipped into the collar of the woman’s shirt, ripping every button free in one vicious yank. It was all pulling and taking; of clothes, of hair, of breath. There was no giving.
Helena would make her need and beg until Myka was graced with a climax that made her knees buckle and brought tears to her eyes. And then Helena would return to her domesticity with Nate and Myka would remain, still hopelessly wanting until Helena snuck into her room again offering only skin and heat but not the heart and soul she craved, that which tragically unbeknownst to Myka, was already hers.
The walls were painted white this time, and perhaps may times over, but over the years the old building had seen many layers of new paint fade to something closer to dingy eggshell. The radiator in one corner had been painted the same color at some point, though the thing seemed to still have its original, leaden paintjob for how weathered and beaten it is. The radiator dates the room, and radiators in other offices date the building back to before central air conditioning was even a consideration.
At the back of the room was a framed, paneled window, free of any curtains or treatments though evidence that they had been installed once was still present. Through the window was an open field of green dappled with short trees and students on beach blankets reading in the sunlight. The old, heavy wooden desk was turned away from the scene, toward the door, as was the woman sitting at it.
Her visitor faced the desk — faced the sun — and frowned at her.
"You’ve been here for two years, Professor Bering," the young redhead said, "and you’ve never really bothered to do anything with this great space. I mean, this is what academics like you grow up aspiring for, right? An office with an actual window in one of the prettiest buildings on campus. You don’t even have your diplomas hanging on the wall. It’s just…"
Myka Bering looked at her assistant over her round glasses, green eyes hard and narrowed, and the girl trailed off mid-sentence. It wasn’t that the grad student didn’t have a point — the space was perfect for so many reasons, and everything she had imagined her office would look like when she was offered a tenure track.
She had been the one to change. She fell in love and gave her heart to someone whose carelessness had shattered that gift.
White. Colorless. Drab. The color scheme fit her world.
Based off of the “Moments To Come Spoiler Clip”
The woman poked her head inside the office, taking note of a young redhead typing furiously on her computer. Her fingers were moving incredibly fast, and her eyes were darting between the screen and some old books laid out across…
Helena thinks she’s doing rather well, and has an advantage to Claudia’s generation of the calculator, but when she looks up to see Claudia’s first page completely full and a second one already started, she wonders if she might lose this competition.
It takes her another moment to notice Claudia isn’t hesitating with her writing, and she realizes the little sneak has Pi memorized.
"Well that’s just unfair,” she murmurs offendedly as Claudia pauses in her transcription to stick out her tongue at Helena with a smirk.
Oh fuck, I made that AU, didn’t I?
It isn’t until they’re all here, all 9 of them crammed into the B&B, that it really hits Myka that these women are clones, and clones of Helena.
Two of them are British and 3 are American and one’s from Romania, and oh god, what if she can’t tell them apart, what if she can’t find the differences, what if-
"Myka?" comes the quiet call behind her, and something loosens in her chest because it’s Helena, and she knows it, and somehow everything else will be alright because she’ll always know which woman is the first, no matter how many copies there might be.
Title: Earning It
Pairing: Bering & Wells
Summary: Myka always did know just what to do to score the way teachers wanted her to.
Note: Multi-prompt fill for Warehouse 13 After Hours kink meme: 13 (spanking), 32 (student/teacher), 35 (roleplay), 49 (going commando).
all our own ⇀ epilogue
“Tell me,” Mrs. Frederic starts, eyes twinkling curiously. “Who could’ve lasted as long as you did? Who was as strong as you?”
“Pete or - or Claudia. His family needs him and she had such a life ahead of her… And - and…” /Helena/. “She saved my life,” Myka says quietly, forgetting for a moment that the woman across from her was the one who allowed it. “She deserves it ten times more than I do. She deserves life, not… not to get shit on by the Capital. More than once.”
a bering and wells au set in the hunger games
trigger warnings: ptsd
"Do you ever feel lost?" Helena had asked her, breaking the silence that had been tailing them as they walked the aisles of the Warehouse. Her tone had been careful and cautious, but layered with a veil of calculated airiness in an attempt to belay any underlying feeling the…
the aged leather gave as she leaned on her knee Myka was burning., Not from the hottest summer london had seen in a century. Not from being half naked in the study of her wife’s memorialized home., But from the nearly tangible heat at her back,dancing down her exposed spine with the same finesse and devotion she’d come to expect from helena, come-ever so slowly- to believe she deserved., she hadn’t lied when she’d told pete that she never felt like the pretty one., But here…dressed in naught but a mostly undone black dress and a pair of 4 inch heels, she didn’t feel any of that awkwardness she’d had with past lovers., Just a woman bending just so to taunt her lover., she could almost hear the swallow just before lips descended to kiss the line of her shoulder blades, two hands palming the barely covered curve of her ass., I didn’t realize this is what you meant when you said there was an emergency at my old home.’, 'Disappointed?' myka's amused tone fractured slightly as long dexterous fingers parted her thighs to slide against copious slick heat, 'Not in the slightest.' 'Happy anniversary Helena.', (Gigi)
Handcuffed together coming right up! I will give you Warehouse 13, and because I know that you don’t know much about that, let me give you the shortest summary of my favorite show that i will EVER be able to give because my heart is bleeding as i reduce it to this:
The Warehouse: America’s attic, place to store artifacts with supernatural features
Myka Bering: kickass secret service agent who read the manual and is a lovely giant nerd
Pete Lattimer: Myka’s best friend and partner, professional giant goofball who is easily bribed with cookies
HG Wells: not dead, actually a woman, 100% smitten with Myka
A metallic clicking sound, something cool at all four of their wrists and a faint smell of fudge. There was a moment of silence in which Pete sighed deeply.
"Well", Helena commented dryly, "you did find the artifact.”
"Hey! Are you saying this is my fault?!”
"As far as I can tell - and I’d like to argue that I am in a position to tell quite well given the fact that your hands are currently in close proximity of my own - you are not wearing gloves."
"Neither are you!"
"Except I did not touch anything!"
"Neither did I!"
"You must have."
”You must have”, Pete mimicked her, “Maybe you must have, you big brilliant-“
"Agent Lattimer", Helena interrupted him in a biting tone, "of the two people in this room, who do you think is more likely to accidentally touch something in a room filled with sweets?”
"Okay, dried fruit does so not count as sweets."
"It is edible, however arguably so, and sweet tasting, so my point still stands."
"That’s idiot logic. It’s definitely your fault."
"Now, don’t be ridiculous, Peter, I am far too responsible to mishandle an artifact-"
"-yeah right, I’m gonna go ahead and remind you of that time you snuck an artifact out of the Warehouse-"
"-that was my own invention-”
"-pretty sure if we’d ask Artie he’d side with me-"
"-since you two obviously have some sort of arrangement that involves baked goods-"
Pete gasped. “I’m so telling on you-“
The two of them stopped mid-bicker. “Yes! Yes! Myka! Myka, we’re in the basement!" "Down here, darling!"
There were steps on the stairs and then Myka opened the door.
"Any luck finding the-"
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw them, her expression shifting. Her hands on her hips, she raised her eyebrows.
"I didn’t touch anything-"
”Pete’s fault, dear-“
Myka held up her hands. “Save it.”
She stepped towards them and crouched down to have a look at their joined hands.
"Huh", she said after a moment. "That’s curious."
"What is, love?"
Myka got up and with a click, they could finally take their hands from their backs.
"The key was in the lock. You two didn’t by any chance waste a lot of time by bickering like three year olds?"
"We’d never, Mykes."
Myka sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
Did someone ask for a comment!fic?
If it weren’t for the fact she works at the Warehouse, Myka probably wouldn’t have noticed. Maybe Pete’s vibes are rubbing off on her, because she’s taking the subway back to the crummy motel in Brooklyn she’s sharing with Pete when all the hair on the back of her neck stands up and she shivers.
Myka’s a cop, H.G. keeps getting arrested, and the rest of the department thinks it’s hilarious.
Myka Bering/H.G. Wells cop!AU. Written for the Femslash February Trope Bingo.
Oh man, oh man, this is the best thing ever. Seriously, it’s hilarious.
“So you’re a Valkyrie.” Myka’s eyes scan the run down apartment before returning to where the blonde sits on the couch. She’d followed her after seeing the blonde leap off a building and take flight on a pair of large, beautiful white wings. She lowers herself onto the other side of the couch, oddly comfortable now that she knows an artifact isn’t involved.
“A type of Fae, yes. What, do I need to have Bo come back in and prove it again?”
“No!” The word comes out a little too ardently so she backtracks, “no, I believe you.” Myka’s still feeling unnervingly lightheaded- not to mention moist below the belt- after enduring her brief exposure to the succubus’ touch.
Tamsin’s smirk suggests she’s very much aware of this, ”You’re oddly calm about the whole thing.” Myka pulls a package of Twizzlers from her bag, choosing not to acknowledge when Tamsin reaches across the couch to pluck one for herself, “Adapt or perish… nature’s inexorable imperative.”
“Who said that?” It is only with this question that Myka realizes she has muttered the words aloud. She rubs her hand awkwardly along the back of her neck as she pushes the name past her lips, “H.G Wells.”
“Oh? She still owes me 35 pounds and 8 shillings for ruining my dress…you do not,” the blonde emphasizes the words, tracing the end of the Twizzler along her lower lip, “want to know how much that’d be now.”
"£3,300," Myka answers automatically. She pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat as she continues, "I think she’s still good for it."
Tamsin’s grin turns more friendly, losing that predatory edge ever so familiar to a time before Wisconsin and Adelaide and promises of coffee. It looks like the blonde might laugh, seems to swell in her chest for a moment, but instead she just shakes her head and tilts it to the side, looking up at Myka through her lashes, “You’re more than you seem, Agent. Myka. Bering.”
Tamsin does laugh then, but there’s little humor in it, “I didn’t used to think so.” There’s pain in these words, a pain to which Myka is intimately familiar. She remembers now, the look Tamsin had given Bo earlier, having been previously overshadowed by Myka’s suspicion and curiosity.
“How about you fork over a few more of those sweets, and I rustle us up some booze?” And it is with this awareness, with the way she watches Tamsin avoiding her gaze as the vulnerability is hastily smothered under layer after layer, which has Myka saying yes.