#as much as i want to boot my sister into orbit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

avintagekiss24 · 3 years

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leave out all the rest | c. beck

→ pairing: chris beck x black!reader

→ word count: 5387

→ warnings: 18+ ONLY, smidge of angst, smut, sex, breeding kink, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, hand job, explicit language

→ square filled: @badthingshappenbingo

flashbacks

→ request: chris beck + breeding kink + "babe, I’m never gonna finish this work if you keep doing that" + "I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that"

→ author note: dr. space daddy is finally here! this is also the first of my 5k celebration fics! all fics will be tagged #5k...holy god. thanks so much for the request @thedarkplume! title from linkin park leave out all the rest (i loveeee this song); line divider by @firefly-graphics; flashbacks are in italics. i also formatted this with the beta text post editor on desktop... so hopefully nothing looks weird and the italics/bold actually work... it is tumblr after all.

oh, hey, there’s a bit of a marvel crossover in this too!

Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel in this moment. Your stomach hasn’t been settled since you got the call two days ago. It’s been flipping and twisting ever since. Sleep hasn’t come easy either, but you’re used to that. Ever since Chris left, you haven’t slept well. It’s been almost seven hundred and thirty days— well, just three days short.

You follow the two tall military men, decked out in their dress blues, through the secure facility, your black leather combat boots thudding against the tile floors. Everything is white— the walls, the floors, the coats of all the scientists and doctors milling about— except for you and your flowery, thigh length sundress. Dark eyes wide, teeth nibbling on a sore, often bloody bottom lip from all the nibbling, small purse bouncing off one hip as a duffel bag bounces off the other.

Winding through corridor after corridor, pausing as the men lift their badges to keypads to get door after door to click open. An eerie quiet looms throughout the entire building, nothing but random beeps, your breathing, and footsteps.

Nervous doesn’t begin to describe it.

The walk gives you too much time to think about the last seven hundred and twenty seven days. All of the crying. All of the anger— the screaming. Chris trying to calm you down, assure you that they were okay— that he had to do this.

"It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?" You sobbed into the phone, staring up into the stars, knowing that he couldn’t but secretly hoping that he could see you.

"This is not easy for me," he choked back tears, his tongue heavy, "Leaving you is never easy but I have to do this, baby. We have to go back for Mark. We have to."

You didn’t answer his calls for over a week. And when you did, your words were quick and harsh.

"I can’t do this anymore. I’m moving in with my sister."

Chris was silent on the other end of the phone— too silent. He sighed after a while and just said, "Ok. I understand."

That was day four hundred and sixty three.

So you moved in with your sister. Got a job at the local bar, picked up every shift you could, sometimes working sixty, seventy hours a week— just so you didn’t have to think about him. It didn’t work. You’d still stare out the window at night, up into the big black sky and through the twinkling little stars, wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was thinking about you.

Unbeknownst to you, Chris continued to call your sister. Just to check on you.

Day seven hundred was when two Air Force officers walked into the bar as you were cutting up lemons and oranges. Your stomach, in a perpetual state of tight and sour, dropped to your feet. It’s never good when the military comes knocking on your door.

“He’s dead,” you spit out, eyes watering, chest starting to heave, “He’s dead, isn’t he? They’re all dead.”

When they removed their hats, your hands flew to your face, covering your mouth to muffle the sobs. You just knew they were all dead. Humans can’t stay in space for this long. It’s not natural.

“No ma’am,” the taller, brown skinned man answered, a small smile breaking onto his face, showing off the distinctive gap between his two front teeth, “They’re back in our orbit. They’ll be landing within the next seventy two hours.”

It was a flurry after that. Phone calls, you moving back onto the base, protocol gatherings, interviews with local and national media. None of it mattered. You just wanted to see him— you needed to see him.

Not before his mandatory three week quarantine that is.

Day seven hundred and twenty five is when they called to let you know that he was ready to move onto the second phase of his integration back on earth. Two weeks cohabitating with another person of his choice, just to make sure that his body and cells can still tolerate, you know, earth— and that he doesn’t give off anything that could make earthlings sick.

They called to let you know that Chris chose you— if you wanted to, of course. If not, he could call his sister.

You were packing your bag before the call even ended.

After two days of getting tested for everything known to man, it’s now day seven hundred and twenty seven and here you are, passing through the last set of doors and stepping into a large observatory room. One of the General’s starts talking, but you don’t hear a word. You just blink slow, lips falling open as you stare back at Chris as he stands at the little square window of his living quarters. He smiles soft, running his hand through his short, dark hair before waving and placing his palm on the window.

Tears cloud your vision. Your chin trembles as a sad smile spreads on your face. A sob chokes in your throat and a warm tear streaks down your cheeks. Despite the talking man, you step up to the window and press your much smaller hand on the glass, spreading your fingers to match his. Chris rests his forehead to it and you do the same as you really start to bawl— shoulders shaking, face breaking, breath rushing fast and hard.

"Baby, don’t cry. Come on pretty, don’t— don’t cry."

Chris’ voice is muffled by the thick glass, but just hearing it— so close, so familiar— after so longs it’s just… it’s almost too much. It is too much.

“Ma’am, we can’t let you in there like this. We need you to calm down.”

Dense thuds shake the glass as Chris pounds on it, "Open the door, Sam!"

Sam grabs your bicep, gently, guiding you towards the door— Chris following you both, still talking to you through the glass.

"It’s okay baby, I’m right here. I’m right here."

“We need you to calm down,” Sam starts again, “He hasn’t been around—”

"Sam! Goddamn it, leave her alone! Open the door!"

“Beck! You cool it in there!”

"Don’t be an asshole! Open the door! She’s scared!"

You hear a scoff, “Step back from the window, Dr. Beck.”

"I swear to God—"

“Step back from the window, Dr. Beck.” Sam is stern now, pointing his finger towards Chris.

Sam pauses for a few long seconds, blinking slow but keeping his hand around your bicep— and thank God, because you honestly need it, “I’m going to badge you into the hallway, okay? You take this keycard,” he presses it into your palm, “And put it up to the keypad at the second door after I close this door behind you. It’s only good for one passthrough— once you’re in, you’re in until the medical staff clears you both. Understand?”

The second half of his speech is softer, his thumb rubbing the back of your arm. You like Chief Master Sergeant Sam Wilson. You nod quick, rubbing at your face with the back of your hand, sniffling hard and focusing a shaky breath out through your teeth as you step in front of the door. There’s a loud click and the metal pops, Sam reaching past you to push it open.

Your body, on autopilot, takes three steps to the second door, eyes staring at the keypad on the wall beside it. Chris is still talking to you through the windows, one hand pressed to the glass, the other on the door handle.

"Just a few more seconds baby. You’re doing so good."

There’s another click— Sam closing the door behind you. Water fills your eyes again, emotion choking up in your throat at the gravity of it all. All of the screaming. All of the crying. All of the hating him and loving him and missing him for seven hundred and twenty seven days all culminating right here, right now, while he’s just three feet away from you. The sky used to be the thing keeping you apart— now it’s just a wall. A door— that you can’t walk through.

"Baby, Chris says gently, "Come on baby. Open the door, honey."

You’re frozen. Eyes locked on the keypad, fingers gripping the keycard so hard they start to burn. Open the door, honey takes you back. Takes you back to the day that he told you he was going up— that he’d be gone for a year.

“Open the door, honey. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” You sniffle, staring at your reflection in the mirror in your small bathroom.

“You knew this was coming. I don’t know why you’re so mad.”

“A year? A year, Chris? I’m just supposed to put my life on hold for you for an entire year?”

He sighs through the door, “I’ve worked my ass off for this, you know that.” You do know that, you’re just being selfish. Needy and selfish, “I know we’ve got plans baby, but it’s just a year. One year and then I’m all yours—”

“Yeah, until the next time you decide to go up there. This is what Melissa warned me about. You get addicted to it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will,” you retort, “I know you.”

That makes him laugh, and then you’re laughing because he’s laughing, “Open the door, please.” Chris sighs again.

As soon as you turn the knob, he’s pushing through it, lifting you up off your feet and twirling you around— to make you laugh again.

You were standing on a precipice that night and neither one of you knew it. Your lives, both individual and combined, would change forever and that was the night that set it all in motion.

The keycard digs into your fingers and palm, bringing you back into the present. Back into the hallway, back in front of Chris. You blink, linking eyes with him again, finding them soft and down turned, his head tilted as he presses his fingers to the glass.

"Let me hold you," he says soft. So soft that the glass between you gobbles it up. But you just know that’s what he said. You just know.

The door clicks in your ear, a breeze is in your face as Chris throws it open, and then you’re consumed. Arms wrapped around you, hard chest against yours as you’re lifted right off of your feet. He’s so warm— he’s always been so damn warm.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, leaning back a little as you push your face into his neck, “This moment was the only thing keeping me going.”

“I’m sorry,” you sob, pushing your face into his shoulder, your tears wetting his NASA sweatshirt, “I’m so sorry, I was so selfish,” the words are clipped and broken, heavy on your tongue, “Chris, I—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that, it doesn’t matter.” He sits you back on your feet, rubbing your back with both of his large hands, “I’m the one that should be sorry.”

You cry openly into his chest, wrapping your arms around him and pushing your hands up into his sweatshirt, under the thin t-shirt underneath— just to feel his skin, “I missed you so much.”

One, two, three, four pecks of his warm lips on the top of your head before he rests his cheek there, holding you tight as he takes a deep breath, “All that’s over now, hmm?” you can feel the smile on his face, “We don’t have to miss each other anymore.”

A yawn pushes out of your mouth as you stretch out tight, sore muscles screaming. Eyes flutter as you shift, another deep breath pushing out your nose as you nuzzle your face into the pillows, body cocooned in warmth. You’re drifting again, quick, when an abrupt panic races through your veins without warning. Your stomach drops, skin instantly flushing with heat as you spring up, eyes as wide as saucers as your breath rushes.

That’s when you hear it, an all too familiar sound. A pencil, tapping slowly, methodically, against something. It calms you instantly. It’s real, you’re real, Chris is real, and you’re here. He’s here.

You swing your legs over the edge of the small bed, tucked in the corner behind a small partition. There’s a soft light glowing underneath it and a single red blinking dot emanating from the corner of the room— a camera. You push your hair out of your face but keep your fingers on your cheeks, closing your eyes as you focus on your breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. There’s a murmur, Chris mumbling to himself and you can’t help but smile.

You stand and start moving towards the noises, padding soft and slow as his mess of brown hair and hunched back comes into view. He stands, switching out an X-Ray on the viewer before he plops back down into the swivel chair, staring at it for a second before he starts flipping through the large, open text book just to his left. There’s a little white board off to the right, leaning against the wall, the days he’s been “gone”, seven hundred and twenty seven, scribbled in his messiest of messy handwriting.

The little slice of time watching him sends you right back to your college years, waking up in his dorm room, finding the bed empty and him huddled over a too small desk, furiously flipping through a thousand page text book. You’d sneak up on him, just as you are now, barely dressed and sleepy eyed. Dig your fingers into his hair, scratch his scalp slow. Giggle as his shoulders slump and his head falls back a little, him moaning all the while.

“God, that feels good.”

“You let me fall asleep.”

“You cried yourself to sleep. Didn’t have the heart to wake you… you look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Hmm, more like two. What are you doing?” you ask, pushing around his side and crawling into his lap, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Looking at our X-Rays from earlier today. I’m working on another paper for the Institute.”

“Trying to see if you guys are still earthlings?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through you, making you smile, “Kinda, yeah. Our body masses have changed dramatically— our bones are longer, I’m not shitting you.” You giggle again at the enthusiasm in his voice, “It’s just a few centimeters, but still. Our brain waves are a little different, metabolism has sped up… it’s incredible.”

You keep the small smile on your face as your fingertips drift over his chest, rubbing slow as you feel his eyes fall to you, “You should get back in bed,” he says, squeezing your knee gently, “You look so tired, baby.”

“Not without you.”

He laughs again, “My circadian rhythm’s all fucked up, I can’t sleep.”

“Then it looks like you're stuck with me,” you kiss his chin and then cuddle back into him, “Don’t mind me.”

Mind you, he doesn't. He just goes about flipping pages and scribbling down random thoughts, marking up his pile of x-rays and fumbling through his and the rest of the crew's medical charts. You push your hand up into the arm of his navy blue NASA sweatshirt, raking your nails up and down his forearm absentmindedly as you breathe him in. Your other hand wanders too, tracing the band of his dark sweatpants before skipping up into his sweatshirt, brushing over his stomach and up to his chest.

The pads of your fingers outline the muscles that are still there, his pecs, down and across his soft abs, before back up and over a cheeky nipple. He jumps slightly, crinkling his nose as he smiles big and hard, “Babe, I’m never gonna finish this work if you keep doing that.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Oh, is that so?”

You bat two big eyes up at him, the weight of going almost two years without catching up with you right at this moment. A hum vibrates in your throat as you stand, taking a few steps away from him before you toss your eyes over your shoulder, licking your bottom lip before sinking your teeth into it. You hold out your hand, wiggling your fingers after a few moments, watching him drag his big eyes down your bare legs and then back up over your powder pink satin shorts and matching camisole.

“Come to bed, Dr. Beck.”

He’s up and on his feet before the words are out of your mouth. Warm fingers interlace with yours as the two of you move back towards the bed, falling onto the soft twin size mattress. His weight dips into the bed as he sinks his knees into it, pulling his sweatshirt over his head as you crawl towards the headboard. You draw your legs up, swaying them gently back and forth, palms flat on your thighs as you inhale deep, watching as he tosses his shirt to the floor.

The smile on your face grows larger as he crawls over you, pushing your legs open with his soft hands before he settles right between them. Chris takes his time looking at you, smiling soft as his eyes drift over your face, his index finger dragging down the bridge of your nose, over two full lips, and down your chin and neck. You let out a quick breath when the pad of that sneaky finger dips just inside your tank top— right into your cleavage.

He cups your face, his thumb resting on your lips, brushing gently, “I’m never leaving you again,” he whispers, blue eyes filling with earnest as they bounce between yours, “I mean it.”

You turn your head into his palm, pressing your lips into the soft, warm skin, planting kisses, “You promise?”

The delivery is breathless. Quiet. Small. Almost begging him to mean it. He takes a deep breath, pushes it out slow before leaning in, closing his eyes as he rubs the tip of his nose against yours. That’s when he kisses you— slow. Deep. Tongue pushing through your lips and into your mouth. Massaging the roof of your mouth before sliding along your tongue. He even moans a little, lets his body— muscles, bones, brain— relax. Lets himself melt into you because it’s just been so damn long.

It ends slow, the kiss. Chris grabbing your lip with his teeth and pulling gently before he rests his forehead to yours. Eyes closed, his big, skilled hands and fingers flirting with your calves—pushing over your knees and then down your thighs to come to rest on your sides and hips.

“I promise.” You slide your hands up and down his sides, letting your eyelids flutter as he continues, punctuating his words with more gentle kisses, “We can start that life you’re so crazy about,” he laughs when you laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, “Buy you a house.”

“On the base?”

“I thought you didn’t like the base?”

“I don’t… but I kinda... do.”

“Then yeah, on the base if that’s what you want.”

Your eyes are still closed as hot lips press against your face— the crook of your nose, underneath one eye, cheeks, and then chin. You push your fingers up into his hair as he forges a path with his lips and tongue— down your neck, over two collarbones, down your arm— all the while his hands move upward. Up into your silk top, nimble fingers playing with two tight nipples before he rucks the silk top up to your chin.

“Wait,”

“What?”

“What about them?”

“Them, who?”

Pointing with your foot towards the blinking red light in the corner, “Them.”

He laughs and you laugh, covering your face with your hands until Chris pries them away, “They’re nerds, babe. We’ve already made them so nervous they’ve left the control room.”

You honestly can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. Not since he left you suppose. It’s a nice sound, for both you and him, filling up the small space, making it alive and lived in instead of clinical and dry, “That’s not nice, Chris!”

He shimmies the thin material up over your head, casting it to the floor, “It’s the truth! I should know. Remember the first time I saw you naked? I couldn’t look anybody in the eye for a week.”

The memory makes you laugh, soft and dreamy-like, “That was so long ago.”

Chris catches the tone. It makes him halt, for just a second, his eyes shifting away from you. Guilt. For holding you at an arm’s length for so long. For making you number two. For making you wait for him for so damn long.

You tilt your head, eyes searching his. Gentle hands claim his face, pulling him back into your strong gaze, “Stay with me,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, “You’re buying me a house.”

“Ah, yes,” with one fell swoop, your shorts are pulled down your legs, right over the tips of your manicured toes and thrown to the floor, “One story? Two?” He asks, back up on his knees.

“Umm, maybe just one,” You answer, sitting up, slipping your hands into the dark sweats still covering his bottom half, “A two story house is too much to keep clean.”

You pull, but not all the way. Just enough to see his hips and that little tuft of dark hair underneath his belly button. You can’t help yourself and lean forward, kissing his stomach, giggling when he jumps a little. When you do it again, kiss him, and then a third time, and a forth, he gives in. Sweeps your locs over your shoulders and pulls them into a ponytail in his hand. That’s when you hook your thumbs back underneath the thick band of his sweats and pull a little harder, pushing the material right over his hard cock, making it bounce.

Chris kicks out of the sweats, grabs your face in his hands and tilts it upward. Leans down and kisses you again— soft. Sweet. All while rubbing small circles into your cheeks with his thumbs. He stays there, forehead to forehead, eyelashes spread over his buttery, quickly blushing red cheeks as you palm him, dragging your hand from the base right to the tip.

It doesn’t take much— never has. After a few strokes, he’s wet and red all over. Chest, neck, cheeks. Mouth agape, pulling in ragged breaths as his eyelids flutter. He swallows hard, and then hums quick, deep and throaty before inhaling through his open mouth. You push upward, kissing him as you continue slow strokes, sweeping a thumb over his wet tip.

Fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh, down low, first by your knee. Then, slowly, they skirt upward, not groping or kneading, just brushing— flirting with your skin until they reach their destination. You gasp, mouth falling open as adept fingers— not only just in general, but with your body specifically— push through wet folds.

“One story it is then,” he breathes, hot, unhurried, “A dog and a,” he slams his eyes shut, hissing and grunting when you squeeze him, “Fuck baby,” he swallows again, lips trembling as he nuzzles in, rubbing the tips of your noses together, “A dog and a cat.”

Your free hand wraps around his neck, fingertips pushing into his hair as your head tips back, hips start to shove forward, eager for his touch— wanting those fingers inside. When Chris obliges, sinks his index and middle finger into your cunt— touch starved and needy— you mewl. Making a real sound for the first time in seven hundred and twenty seven days. It enlivens you both.

Chris pushes you back, lays you back onto the small mattress, spreads you out. Keeps his fingers inside, pumping slow, curling, massaging. Thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing. He lays between your legs, coming face to face with your most intimate and blows gently. Warm air sticking to balmy flesh. Big blue eyes flick up to yours, then back to your sweet, licking his lips as a squelch fills the room.

His tongue darts out, slips along the inside of your thigh. Your hips react instantly, jutting upward as a sharp breath fills your chest. A long arm pushes up your body, fingers prodding your breast, tweaking a nipple before he palms the skin, but not for long. Within seconds, his fingertips are pushing into a willing mouth. Your tongue, swirling around thick digits as you grab onto his hand, holding it there.

Warm air tickles damp skin again as he blows on you, “Have some babies,” he offers quick, the words muffled by your flesh as he finally laps at you, tongue slipping through sticky folds, flattening against your slit as he massages the delicate, “How many you want, baby?”

Nothing but a bitten-off groan answers him. It comes for many reasons. His fingers somehow delving deeper, lips brushing over your cunt— the thought of babies. Little brown skinned, curly headed babies running in the backyard with that dog and cat. Wide smiles, complete with missing teeth, loud laughter, declarations of love as they jump into mommy and daddy’s arms.

“Oh yeah,” heavy words breathed into your ear, a hunk of man now laying on top of you, cock pressing at your opening, “My pretty girl wants babies,” the wetness makes it easy for him to slide in— all the way in— bury deep, “I’m gonna give them to you. You’ve been so good.”

He’s moving, hips pushing and pulling as he cups your face in his hands, presses his forehead to yours, “I’m gonna fill you up,” he mutters, swollen lips brushing against yours, “Stuff you— full of— my, fuck,” a deep moan, another quick hiss as he bites his bottom lip, overcome by the warmth, the wet— the tight, “Fuck, you feel good.”

Feverish lips are on yours again, teeth nibbling as his hips shove into you. Soft and swift. A palm covering your breast, fingers pressing, kneading and working sensitive, responsive skin. Nipples hardening, heat blooming across an ardent canvas of skin, pulsing hips eager to meet his.

Chris cups your chin, pushes upward so you're forced to keep slitted eyes on him and him only, “You want my babies? Hmm? Tell me baby,” you can only whimper in response, digging your nails into his sides, drawing your legs up and around him as he plunges deep, “Come on honey, use those words. Tell me how much you want my babies.”

He fucks into you hard, jamming his hips just once— the sound of skin on skin slapping out loud and off the walls. It arches your back, the sudden, quick thrust. Sends you right up into his chest. Chris pulls you into his lap as he falls back on his ass, extending his legs, heels digging into the mattress as he wraps his arms around you, holding you close and tight, fingers spreading out on your back.

Hips roll into one another. Fingers grip his calf as you lean back, hot, sloppy lips on your chest, over and between bouncing tits. A taut nipple pulled right into his wet mouth. Slippery tongue swirling and flicking, teeth nibbling before he sucks on the tight nub, teasing it further.

Then he’s holding your hips, forcing you down onto his cock. More rushed, sticky words falling from swollen, red lips, “You want me to fill you up? Hmm? Tell me.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, overcome by it all. The emotion of it, the physicality of you and him tangled together— the words, how many years you’ve waited to hear those words.

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he purrs, thrusting harder, faster, “You want me to come in you, don’t you? You’d love it if I came in you, huh? Knocked you up? Gave you a baby?”

You kiss him hard. Cupping his face, moaning sweet into his wet mouth, “I want it,” it’s breathy— desperate, “I want it, Chris. I want it.”

“Then I’ll give it to you. I’ll give it all to you.”

It’s feverish after that. Pushing and pulling. Grunting, smacking— lips on lips, skin on skin. Large hands gripping, fingers pressing into the meat of thighs and calves and ass and tits. His fingers grip the meat of your thighs, your ass, slide up your back— around your neck as your head falls back. Those fingers find your mouth, push just inside as he wraps his other arm around your waist, pulling your hips closer, helping them rock.

His fingers are out of your mouth, cupping your cheek now. Smoothing hair out of your face as it strains. You try not to get loud, slam your eyes closed, purse your lips as your toes curl and stomach tightens… heart flutters.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your closed eyes before prodding at your lips, “Don’t do that, honey. I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that. Come on, let me hear you.”

“No, I—“

“Don’t be modest,” his tone shifts, going stern and deep, and that’s all it really takes for the noise to flow, “I wanna hear you.”

But he knew that.

It’s a sweet little hum, and then a gasp before it’s clipped by an obscenity— a shaky, desperate, filthy word that dissolves away into a loud groan and then… it’s all downhill from there.

You couldn’t hold it in if you tried. It’s been too long. A pent up aggression, a nervous need all finally working its way out of you. You pull him close— crush your chest against his, wrap two liquid arms around his neck, press your face right against his. Chris loops an arm around your waist, squeezing your opposite hip, pressing his fingers right into the soft skin until it hurts.

But it’s good, the pain of the squeeze. It helps you right over the edge, makes you finally cum after seven hundred and twenty seven days. Slow at first. A warmth just taking its time as it spreads. The feeling sort of foreign because it’s been so long— your brain hasn’t caught up just yet.

When it does catch up, brain and body finding each other, dormant synapses kicking on with a jolt, it’s not just a warmth. It’s molten now, searing and stirring, passing through veins and muscles and skin and bone— it’s that deep. Toes curling so hard they go numb, fingertips digging into his shoulders as you throw your head back.

You’re sure the scientists and military guards can hear you three floors down.

Chris leans in, hot, wet, shiny lips pressing against your chest, over your tits with sloppy kisses, hips still churning into yours until they just can’t. Wet walls closing in, clamping down as they spasm, that molten enveloping him. His hips freeze quick with the first spurt, but find a haphazard rhythm as he comes. Fills you up just like he promised.

He pushes those warm blooms of silk deep with now pointed, long strokes. Not a drop escaping— it’s all for you, after all. Supply and demand and all that.

The mattress is a dream beneath you. Inviting and soft as he lays you into it, still rooted deep as he rolls you onto your side. An arm snakes around your hip, a palm and long fingers anchoring in the center of your chest. A hot, flushed cheek presses against yours as lazy wet lips drag along the back of your neck. Languid thrusts at random intervals keeps you gasping as he tucks his knees and thighs into the backs of yours.

“Say it again,” you whisper after a few quiet minutes, breath still heavy, chest still heaving.

Chris plunges into you again, soft and sweet and deep, “Say what, honey?”

“That you won’t,” the words break off, a moan replacing them as he kisses a trail down your arm, fucks into you once, twice, three times, “That you won’t leave me again.”

“I’m not leaving you again.”

When you wake up the next morning, that little whiteboard with the days scribbled on it is erased. All it says now?

Day one.

#bad things happen bingo #5k...holy god #chris beck #chris beck x reader #chris beck x black!reader #chris beck x you #you x chris beck #reader x chris beck #the martian #chris beck fanfiction

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sylverstorms · 3 years

Text

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch.7

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6

Cassandra gradually starts taking up more of your time. Or, more accurately, demands it like it’s her birthright.

Every day, you wake her up with a kiss to her shoulder or neck and a whisper of her name. She comes to you when she’s bored at random times during your shifts, to either talk –complain— about her sisters or to outright distract you. There are times at night when you’ll feel the chill of her slip into your bed and press up against your back, but she’s always gone by morning light, like a dream.

She used to be just another component to your nightmares. Now… she’s what takes them away.

And you’re afraid.

That you’re growing to like the time with her while she’s just playing around, that it will cut that much deeper when you find yourself on the end on her sickle. Because how else can it end, you reason, between the two of you?

The thought momentarily makes your liplock with Cassandra taste bitter, despite the sweet strawberry taste of her lip balm -and no way she’s putting that on for you, right?

She has you pressed deep into a plush armchair with her palm on your chest, while her thighs are locked tight on either side of yours. You want to tell her that you should stop –both because you’re literally in the open and anyone can walk in on you and because it’s late—but her lips are doing wicked things to your neck and you can’t find your voice long enough.

When Cassandra starts grinding down on you though, rather impatiently too, you have to speak up before she starts something neither of you can finish.

“Cassandra.” you say breathily. A sharp nip comes over your pulse, then slippery lips close around the area. “Ah! Cassandra. You’ll be late for dinner.”

She tsks and pulls back, expression much like a kid that got her hand slapped away from the cookie jar. She dismounts you with the same sour look, smoothing down her robes.

“Walk me there.” she orders.

You rise and fall into step beside her, trying not to linger on how strange it feels. It should be nothing, really, considering all the activities the two of you nightly indulge in, but it’s… something.

Cassandra, uncharacteristically quiet, keeps gazing out the windows as though calculating or pinpointing something while you make your way to the dining room.

She comes to a sudden halt just before you reach it, turns to you, steals a quick kiss and then quickly leaves you behind, a colder aura about her as she strolls inside.

You hear Lady Dimitrescu’s voice, but not what she says. Once a few minutes have passed and you can safely blend into the background, you join the other maids on standby within.

You used to hate it here. Having them all in front of you like that, serving them wine, when they’re all to blame for taking any semblance of normalcy out of your life. You never glance at what they’re eating. You still dislike dinner time.

But.

When Alcina makes a snide comment about Heisenberg and you hear Cassandra’s laugh above Daniela’s giggle and Bela’s chuckle…

It no longer seems so bad.

“Bela, stay a moment.” Cassandra says after Lady Dimitrescu leaves with Daniela in tow.

“Oh, no.” The blonde huffs under her hood.

“I didn’t say anything. Yet.” The younger sibling raises her hands in exasperation.

“When you go ‘Bela~’” You bite your lip to keep your expression neutral as you’re cleaning the table because hearing the normally stoic sister mimic Cassandra’s voice like that is just plain gold. “It’s never good.” her tone turns flat once more.

Cassandra very pointedly rolls her pretty eyes. “I need you to cover for me.”

“See?” Bela sighs. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, it wasn’t really a question, I was just trying to give you the illusion of choice.” Cassandra shrugs. “I’m going out tonight.”

“What?” Bela damn near hisses. “Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s fine it’s, like, thirteen degrees.”

“How is that fine?”

The elder sister’s gaze then flits to you. There is no other maid in the vicinity that can overhear them, but she’s clearly uncomfortable with you picking up the implications of their conversation.

You still don’t get it. You guessed their aversion to sunlight has to do with their mutations… but why would the cold be an issue?

The survivor in you wants to know more. To know if this is something that can be used to your advantage when the time and circumstances are right for a potential escape.

Another part of you… just plain worries.

“I know what I’m doing.” Cassandra says, stern.

“Then you’re doing it alone.” Bela turns to leave…

Except.

“Oh, well. Guess mother should know about that little maid you’ve been orbiting around, lately.” Cassandra comments. “The one you even did a favor for? Just imagine her disappointment in you, the shining example of the family, stooping so low.”

Bela’s back goes rod-straight. The piercing look she sends Cassandra sends ice down your spine. You think she’s going to pounce… yet she exhales.

“One. Hour.” Bela states. “If you’re not back in one hour I’m coming to drag your sorry behind to mother. And she—” A gloved finger points directly to you, “Won’t be coming back with you in one piece.”

Wait.

What?

You didn’t know Cassandra planned to take you with her. But she didn’t deny it when Bela pointed to you. After her sister left, all she said was: ‘Dress well.’

Which brings you to your current position, pacing by the entrance hall of the castle, in a warm coat and two layers of clothes underneath. You turn to look behind when you finally hear her steps descending the staircase.

And— you freeze.

Because Cassandra is not wearing her usual robes. She’s dressed in all black, yes, but the outfit is tight on her form, fitting every curve, hugging her wonderful legs like a second skin. She’s wearing knee-high boots instead of heels and her hooded, gothic overcoat reaches down to mid-thigh.

There’s not a single patch of her skin visible other than her face… and you can’t, for the life of you, explain why it’s that hot.

“You’re staring, plaything.” she chastises, yet doesn’t sound like she minds. Rather, she’s smirking.

“Uh—” you can’t really form words.

“We need to hurry, clock’s ticking.” she says as she jiggles the very key you’ve looked everywhere during work hours for. The key to freedom. To leaving the castle.

Cassandra double-checks her clothes before she opens the door. You file it as useful information for later as you hurry to catch up to her.

The path to the village –or what’s left of it— through the forest is… difficult. Mainly because Cassandra is entirely unbothered by any and all obstacles and moves like she’s on a walkway, leaving you to fight with every rock hidden in the snow.

You manage. Somehow.

Until a distant howl makes you jump and quite literally crash into her side.

Cassandra laughs. It’s a clear, beautiful sound in the dead of night. “My, my. Scared of a Lycan in my presence?”

“I thought it was just a regular wolf!” You whisper, mortified.

Yellow eyes blink at you. Then her gloved hand raises to yours, taking it in a secure grip. You didn’t realize you were shaking, yet the tremors quickly cease when she does that. It’s just your heart that still feels like it’s going to give out on you, but for an entirely different reason, now.

Cassandra safely leads you to the village. It looks more or less the same, except empty, void of life. You don’t linger on memories. You don’t.

“Show me your house.” she says.

You never thought you’d be tracing the steps of your front porch so soon. You only have to push the door for it to open. And the inside is just as you remembered. A quaint little house. It’s simply not… home, anymore.

Nothing is.

Maybe nothing ever was.

And the thought makes a thin, cracked wall inside you finally give. Cassandra is saying something a few paces behind you, but your vision has blurred, your eyes sting and hot, salty rivers roll past your lids.

“Are you listening to me?” she asks. “...Plaything?”

You can’t talk. If you do, you’ll sob and break to pieces on the floor like a pushed glass statue.

Cassandra’s grip is tight and demanding on your elbow when her fingers curl above it, but she turns you with gentleness you’d never think her capable of. You do not meet her eyes.

Her other hand comes up to your neck.

You can’t, you can’t—

“Alexia.”

Your eyes snap to hers when she says it, from the shock. You didn’t think she even knew your name. Cassandra shifts her weight from one leg to the other, then seems to decide on something and wipes the tears beading at your chin away with her thumb.

“Pack what you wish. We don’t have long.”

As you turn into your bedroom and open your wardrobe to pack a few clothes into a bag, just to feel a tad more yourself when you’re in your room in the castle, the sound of your name falling from her lips follows you.

Haunts you.

You have half a mind to get your mp3, phone and chargers before you return to her. Cassandra is holding whatever she wanted to get from the village in a box tucked between her arm and body.

“Come.” she orders. Her hand settles on your elbow again and practically drags you along.

You don’t talk on your way back to the castle.

From one of the many windows overlooking the front yard, you spot Bela’s eyes on the two of you until she retreats into the shadows. Rigidly, Cassandra enters and immediately goes by the large fireplace to warm up. You only then notice how much more fluid her movements get. Or rather, how sluggish she was during the trip.

You shut the door and turn the key and realize it’s much easier to handle your situation when you’re the one locking yourself inside.

You take off your coat and scarf, then make to head for your bedroom —according to your calculations you’ll only get 3 hours of sleep— until… you notice how cold Cassandra looks.

She’s one step away from hugging the flames. And you can still hear her call you by your name in your head.

Great. Another thing to keep me up at night. You think as you approach her.

Slowly, so as to not scare her, you slip your arms around her slim waist from behind. She’s like a block of ice in your embrace, at first. Her body thaws gradually, to the point she’s fully relaxed against you.

“Thank you for today.” the words don’t come easy –they’re like pulling teeth— but you manage to get them out clearly enough.

“You’ll thank me in very many ways, plaything.” she says. “Having your own belongings in the castle is not a privilege any maid gets. But.” her voice, although quiet, hardens the slightest amount. “If, despite my generosity, you harbor dreams of escape… I will turn them to nightmares.”

Your blood goes cold in your veins. You can only nod against her shoulder.

Cassandra turns in your arms to look at you.

“And if you ever try to leave me alone here… I will find you and kill you myself.”

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x oc #resident evil village #bela dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #fanfiction #because i've read on spoilers of sadness and heartbreak and we all need something soft to take the pain away #cue our fav pillow princess being mega darling to her girl

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badgirlcovenrep · 3 years

Text

The Goddess' Blessing (of a daughter)

Chapter One

(NOTES: the raylla adopts Tiffany fic everyone's been asking for

this is going on AO3 once I get home from my sister's but I wanted to post here first. If you'd rather read it there follow me and I'll post once it's officially in there.

Obs: Tiffany is six in this. Mostly because I wanted to write our witch moms carrying their baby and canonically she's like ten so..... and she's also like severely traumatized. We'll get to the healing soon enough though.

+ Edwin is the best papa. And Scylla has p much already adopted this kid, she just doesn't know it yet.

It's half past six p.m when their train screeches to a halt at the Chippewa station. In all the chaos of the last couple of weeks, Scylla hadn't realized Yule was well on it's way. It is still mid November, but the station has been prematurely decked in civilian Christmas decorations, and almost every wall and corner twinkles in golden speckles and fake pine.

Tiffany had been dozing in and out of sleep on the bench next to her, holding tight to her stuffed parrot as well as Scylla's coat sleeve with her restless small hands that spasmed in pure energy even as she slept. Since coming back from Nicte's mission, Scylla had been in a frenzy to get everything ready for their trip, and Tiffany had followed her around the (no longer safe) safe house, clinging on to her attention with wide blue eyes. She'd always liked kids. Before everything happened Scylla even used to babysit for dodger families.

It was never a lot of money, but she appreciated the levity and humor kids carried. They had hope Scylla prayed she could one day get back. Hope that could only come from the fleeting innocence of childhood. But even then, Tiffany was special, she still had all those wonderful, bright things, and she carried them in bulk, spilling out of her tiny little hands for anyone to see.

Yet she was also touched by things so horrible Scylla sometimes shuddered awake in the dead of night, when her mind conjured up terrible nightmares of being in her place. Of being squeezed into a tiny cage, fed dog food, strung up on a stage as masked psychopaths snickered and passed around stones bigger than fists. It showed, sometimes, in how every once in a while her expression became somber and reserved. How she stopped mid-sentence, and Scylla could see the glint of tears in the corners of her eyes.

It reminded her of Raelle - Raelle, who'd sat in her bed just yesterday and snacked on the stupid expensive popcorn her mother had bought - Raelle, who also carried so much darkness behind her strong, steady demeanor - those were the parts of her Scylla couldn't help but want to protect, and as a result, those feelings also extended to Tiffany. Scylla lost a lot of people in her life, and she'd decided the day she found the child's parents that she would do whatever it took to keep her safe. Just like she wished someone might have done for her. Because that sort of hidden, desolate pain could just as well transform itself into something entirely awful if exploited the right way.

People around her start getting up from their seats, reaching to the compartments for their luggage, there aren't many of them making their way up North this time of year but they still fill the cart in humming conversations, deciding on what to do next or where to get dinner. Scylla takes this as her cue to skim her fingers through Tiffany's hair, gently nudging her awake, "Hey, T, wake up, we're here."

The little girl sits up, bleary eyed, and yawns, looking around at the commotion, "it's already Christmas?" She asks, catching a glimpse of the boisterous decorations set up outside.

"Not yet, no." Scylla chuckles, getting up from her seat to retrieve their own bags - they had everything the two could think to bring, and yet were still not much. A duffel bag for Scylla and purple backpack for Tiffany, with unicorn stickers and colorful buttons sewn to the front. Scylla had retrieved it, along with some toys and clothes, from the girl's home, "People just love decorating early."

"Oh." Tiffany quips, as Scylla helps her fit her arms into the straps of her backpack, then takes her hand in a steady grip once they are done, pulling the young girl towards the door to leave the train, "The lights are pretty!" She exclaims happily, blinking in wide eyed wonder.

Outside, November has definitely made itself known, and Scylla is glad they are both warm in their coats as the wind bites her cheeks until they turn a dark blush. She looks around for Edwin, not sure she'll recognize him from the pictures she'd seen Willa scatter around the house, but still willing to try.

For a second, in that moment, she thinks this might not have been a good idea. When Scylla agreed to it, she'd admittedly not been in her full faculties, brain too preoccupied with seeing Raelle again after so long to completely comprehend what she'd been offered.

After everything that happened, she can't help but be a little nervous to meet the father of her ex (?), the same girl she still very much loved. The girl who had run back to her in that dark forest a day before and clung onto her face until all they could breathe was each other.

If she thought too much about it, Scylla could still feel the soft, almost painful impact of her lips as Raelle knocked her off her balance and breathed fire into her chest like molten lava. It'd been so long, she almost forgot the kind of power Raelle had when she kissed. Like she was always on the verge of tasting your very soul. Their whole day back together before was so very delicate and tentative, air fizzling with electricity like the tension of a bow, pulled tight with an arrow ready to shoot.

The time they've been separated her heart was squeezed tight under an elastic band. Whenever she stopped to think, even for a minute, she could feel it taught, so very strained, reaching from the very inside of her ribs. It was there from the very start. The tightness was what propelled her diaphragm into breathing Raelle in that very first night they spent together, even if she knew she shouldn't, and then, it was what kept them orbiting around each other like their very own solar system. Never too far apart. Always wishing to be closer.

When they kissed in the clearing, hairs messy with the wild strumming of the bat just a few feet away, for the first time, she felt like the band released. The invisible string, so very tight, loosening from under her heart to extend around the both of them and wrap them in what Scylla could only describe as exhilarating, shaking relief. The touch of Raelle's cotton gloves, that she never thought she'd feel again - the taste of her lips, like blood and rain droplets and a mouthful of just her.

It left Scylla running on a high since she walked away from Raelle just the day before, in the early hours of the morning.

It's not how she hoped she'd meet Raelle's dad. Deep down, no matter how much she tried not to, Scylla had imagined herself, more than once, coming to the Cession hand in hand with the blonde fixer. In love and together, going home to meet the parents. It's bittersweet to be here with Tiffany instead, and she has to squeeze the young witch's hand slightly to ground herself from the urge to run.

To just take the child's small body in her arms and run- leave the station in lieu of a cheap motel, one with vending machines, where they could hide from the world a little longer.

When the witch looks down, however, Tiffany smiles reassuringly back at her, squeezing her hand slightly in return, and Scylla can't help the wave of affection that washes over her.

"Excuse me? Are you Scylla and Tiffany?" A voice coming from behind wakes them back from the moment, and when they turn, both come face to face with Edwin Collar.

Scylla's sure it's him. If not because he does still look quite a lot like the pictures she's seen, then because the necromancer can definitely see the telltale signs of Raelle written all over his face. It's mostly there in the kind drop of his eyelids, and the way his mouth creates tiny wrinkles of soft skin when he smiles, but it's there, nonetheless.

"Yes, we are, nice to meet you, Mr. Collar." Scylla greets, settling down her bag to shake his hand.

"Of course, it's amazing to finally meet you. Raelle talked you up a storm," he declares, chuckling proudly, "only good things, I assure."

"Oh, I'm sure I don't deserve that." She let's out, hoping it sounded more playful than it feels for her.

"Nonsense. You seem like a kind girl." The man decides, with a solemn nod, before turning to Tiffany, "and you- Tiffany, I'm very happy to have you with me this week as well, I'm sure we'll have lots of fun together."

"Thank you, Mr. Collar." The small blonde replies, half-hiding herself behind Scylla's pant leg.

"Let's go then. It's getting cold." Edwin finally declares, taking Scylla's bag from the floor without a question. The girl goes to complain, but he cuts her off before she can - "and don't fight me on this. Raelle also never let's me carry her bags, for once I'd love to help."

Scylla still wants to protest. Mostly because she feels that they have already asked so much - and she doesn't quite deserve the kindness - but he seems sincere, so she nods instead, and with the affirmative, all three begin their way to the parking lot.

"Is Raelle your friend?" Tiffany asks innocently, skipping happily over her boots.

"Uh- she- yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Well, you said we were going to a friend's dad's house." Tiffany notes. "Where is Raelle then?"

"About that-" Edwin stops in his step, "did you see her? How is she?" He asks, an uneasy tension settling over his demeanor as he studies Scylla for answers, "they told me she was alive but that was it-"

"She's okay. I saw her yesterday, she was well." The brunette assures, and that seems to send a wave of relief over the man, who breathes deeply before continuing their walk along the various cars.

"Oh, thank goodness." He sighs, "when those people took her I thought- I'm so glad she's okay."

"Yeah. We were all worried." Scylla declares. And this, she can relate to. The way he cares so much for Raelle, it spills into the very movement of his expressions. It's familiar, and it warms her heart. She decides right then that she likes Edwin.

"Did the bad people take Raelle too?" Tiffany questions, frowning in scared surprise as they reach Edwin's old truck.

Scylla sighs, not having revealed much of the mission she'd gone on the day before. She knew it'd be scary for her. Tiffany was still very much traumatized, and rightfully so, after everything she'd been through. But Tiffany was also very smart- and observant. She'd catch up eventually and Scylla feels stupid for not dealing with this before coming.

"Yeah. They tried to hurt her, but me and her other friends didn't let them." The necromancer assures, as she helps the girl into the backseat and clicks in her seatbelt, "she's okay now. We're all safe here."

"Oh- Okay." Tiffany nods, but Scylla can see the doubt shining under her eyes.

Scylla wishes she knew what to say, but words fail her, so she squeezes the girl's hand reassuringly once more, winking in what she hopes is humorous solidarity, before closing the door.

***

Raelle's house is just like she imagines- small, rustic - surrounded by a thick canopy of trees and bushes. It reminds her of the places she used to stay with her parents, scattered over random cities all over the U.S. Scylla likes it.

"It isn't much, but we always have warm dinner and pancakes in the morning." Edwin quips, humbly, as he leads the pair of witches to Raelle's room, "you can stay here. Hope it is comfortable."

"This is more than enough, Edwin." Scylla smiles gratefully, "it's too much, really. Thank you for letting us stay."

"Nonsense." He waves his hand with a half embarrassed chuckle, "It's good to have people here again. After Rae and Tally left everything feels a lot quieter." Scylla nods in agreement, as the man turns to leave the room, the two witches inside watching him carefully, "You guys should change and rest a bit- I'll call you for dinner.

Scylla thanks him, and waits until the door clicks behind his back to turn her attention to the luggage that had been settled over a random chair. The room is filled with so much Raelle, she can't help but notice the letters, pictures, memories and song lyrics, glued to every single wall, from a time before Fort Salem, before them.

The blonde used to leave notes on her dorm walls back at Fort Salem. Lots of silly things like "I'll be back after training" or "You fight people in your sleep. It's cute.". Scylla wonders if they are still there or if they've been taken by the army when she was captured. It doesn't matter anymore, the necro realizes, and she shakes her head in an effort to bring her attention back to the room.

"You should put on some pajamas." Scylla says toward Tiffany, who sat, grievously quiet, at Raelle's bed.

She looked thoughtful, in a way regular six year olds don't quite show unless they have to go through way too much. Her small, bright eyes hide barely concealed darkness as she shifts her looks everywhere but at the older witch.

Scylla sighs, finding this place - this relationship - so very painfully familiar. She'd been the scared little girl last time, feeling so very small and alone. And now, as the adult, she was definitely going to try her best not to fuck it. As difficult as it might be. The world didn't need another suffering witch.

After a few minutes of silence, Scylla realizes she was not going to get an answer, so she opens the girl's backpack and fishes out a pair of mermaid themed leggings and t-shirt, along with the small bag that carried her tooth and hair brushes along with some other toiletries. Scylla places the items by Tiffany on the mattress, kneeling in front of the young witch and studying her clear, soft little face.

"Hey. Are you feeling alright?"

"Are the bad men coming here to hurt us?" Tiffany asks, instead of a response, and Scylla frowns in worry.

"No, of course no-"

"They came and took Raelle too." Tiffany notices, tears escaping from her eyelids that Scylla dries up with her thumb, "and they hurt Miss Willa, the other kids' at the office and my mommy and daddy. What if they come here again? What if they really hurt us this time?" As the questions stumble out of her mouth, sobs begin to wreck across her throat until she's shaking, ever so slightly, with the force of her tears and heavy, panicked breathing.

Scylla sighs and rises from the ground to cuddle the girl close to her chest, squeezing tight until she can feel Tiffany's little arms squeeze her back. Scylla's afraid too - most of the time, if she allowed herself to be honest - Ever since watching Raelle leave her in that cell the year before, the girl could feel even more perfectly the path of death and destruction that marked their (the witches') way through the world.

One of the bad things about being a necro - Death didn't like not being known, and it showed itself insistently, to anyone able to notice.

"We don't know whether or not they'll come again." Scylla ends up responding, sincerely, as she squeezes her arms even tighter around the little girl, "but I won't let them hurt you, you hear me? I dealt with them before, I can deal with them again."

"No" Tiffany shakes her head, frowning up at her in teary-eyed fear, "You too. You're safe too. I don't want you to get hurt either."

"Hey." Scylla forces out a chuckle, trying to lighten up the situation for the young witch's sake, "don't be silly, ok? I'm pretty much invincible."

Tiffany doesn't laugh, her breathing having somewhat returned to normal. The girl just stares back at Scylla with a seriousness that's all too unfair, coming from a six year old, and she reaches out, her pinky finger lifted in expectation, "Pinky promise you'll be safe too? Please?"

Scylla knows she shouldn't. The truth is, she doesn't know what will happen. After their plan to capture Nicte was said and done, Scylla barely had any idea what she would be doing now. But Tiffany obviously needs the reassurance, from the way she stares ever so desperately at the necro's face.

"Okay, I pinky promise." Scylla smiles, trying to convey some calm toward the other girl as she let her pinky link with the smaller one. It seems to work, as Tiffany's expression softens and her tense posture falls, "now let's get you under a shower and into some pajamas, ok? You're a very smelly little witch right now."

"Am not!" Tiffany replies, and Scylla can't help but full on laugh this time, pulling the small girl to Raelle's bathroom as she mockingly protests.

Second chapter is almost done, just needs to be read over for mistakes. For C2, Raelle calls home, Scylla meets old dodger friends and she also has an important conversation with Edwin.

Hope you guys enjoyed!

#motherland fort salem #scylla ramshorn #raelle collar #raelle x scylla #motherland: fort salem #raylla #taylor hickson #amalia holm #mfs tiffany #tiffany mfs

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the-obiwan-for-me · 3 years

Text

Clan of Two

I had every intention of participating in Bo-Katan Week 2021 for the whole week. But real life is tough, and so is my main fic right now, and it just didn’t happen. But I got struck by inspiration when I realized last night what the prompt for today is. So, here’s my single contribution for Bo-Katan Week!

She found the boy in the tiny galley of the stolen gunship, nursing a mug of weak looking tea. The poor kid's face was swollen and angry looking. She wouldn't be surprised if his orbital bone was fractured. She knew from experience that that brute of a traitor, Gar Saxon, packed a punch.

Physically, he looked rough. But he was a Kryze, and he wore his emotions loudly, just like she did. Just like Satine. And he looked shell shocked and angry and drowning in grief, just like she felt.

She slid into the bench across from him and took a long pull off a bottle of tihaar she'd found stashed away. She passed it to him. He looked at it incredulously for a moment, then took his own swig, surprising her when he didn't wince like she expected. Perhaps the kid was tougher than she thought.

"How's your head?" she asked.

He picked at the label on the bottle for several heartbeats. "She was my mother, you know."

Bo-Katan swallowed the stone that seemed lodged in her throat, then nodded. "I know that."

He looked at her, dumbstruck, his unswollen eye blazing the same fierce crystalline blue as his mother's. He took another swig from the bottle, handed it back. "How did you know?"

Bo-Katan snorted a humorless laugh. "First of all, bleaching your hair only makes you look more like your mother." He glanced away, sheepish. "But mostly, it doesn't take much to spot a Kryze. And Satine is-" a sob she had not anticipated caught in her chest- "was my only sibling. You're no foundling."

He studied her for a while, working something through in his head. She sat quietly, giving him the room he needed to process. Then he finally sighed, squaring his broad shoulders. "Why didn't you try to kill me when you were with Death Watch, if it's that easy to tell?"

Bo-Katan sighed herself. "I wouldn't allow it."

He gave her another astonished look. It was becoming a habit. "You had that much power?" he scoffed.

She shrugged. "I was second in command. But, no, it wasn't like that." She picked at the label herself, recalling memories, some still too fresh to even feel like memories. She drowned them with a heavy drink of tihaar, then handed it to him. "Vizsla was tenacious, but he also could have the attention span of a Corellian grass squirrel. You would come up, and I would distract him."

He drank from the bottle and stared at her, his gaze hard. "Couldn't you have done that for my mother? Your sister?"

"Listen, kid, I never intended for that to happen!" she shouted, jumping to her feet to pace, gesturing wildly back in the imagined direction of Mandalore. "None of this was supposed to happen! I didn't even want to deal with those monsters! I tried to talk Pre out of it, especially once I knew that one had such a thing for Kenobi." The sob worked itself loose from her chest and she fought back the hot tears that wanted to follow it. The heat of her anger sparked the fire of her grief. "None of this was supposed to happen. I tried, Korkie. I tried." She stopped, staring down at her boots, wondering absently whose blood splattered them. "At least I got you out."

"I know." It was said softly, almost a whisper. She raised her gaze to meet his. "I….I just know."

"How do you know? Why should you trust me?"

"I mean, you did get me, and my friends, out. And I saw what you tried to do for others in the aftermath. You do care about Mandalore." He stood and moved toward her, resting a hand on her shoulder. He was tall, and broad chested, and in many ways reminded her of her father. But in so many ways, he was so completely, uniquely different. "And Mum trusted you immediately. She forgave you, instantly. I don't know much. She didn't talk about you except about when you two were small. I don't know what happened, but whatever it was, it wasn't so bad that she couldn't forgive you." He squeezed her shoulder, let his arm drop. "So, I should probably try to do the same. I'm going to try, ok, Auntie?"

She reached up and tenderly brushed a hand along his cheek. She was so rarely tender. She had so rarely been shown tenderness. But she could be gentle for him. He was all she had left, now, and he was too much like his mother to be treated like every other ruthless brute that had shaped her. "This is how I know you're her child, ad'ika. You could dye your hair purple and grow a beard and cover your face with tattoos. But that, right there, is how I know."

He smiled sadly, his eyes shiny with the threat of tears. He took her hand from his face and squeezed it. "Vor entye, ba'vodu."

She squeezed back before letting his hand go. "No debts here, Korkie. I am in your debt."

He turned, rubbing his chin as he made his way back to the table, deep in thought. "What do we do now?" He drank from the bottle and handed it to her as she passed him, moving around the small space until she found a medkit.

"First, you let me patch up that face of yours," she said, sitting next to him before taking her own drink. "Then, if you're willing, we fight for our home. We fight for your mother's legacy."

He nodded once as she gently began to clean the cuts and scrapes along his face. "I am willing." He hissed in pain as she prodded along his orbital bone. It was definitely fractured. "But I don't know if I want to fight like you."

She picked up the bacta spray and gave it a shake. "Fair enough."

"And after that?"

"Well, we're family. We'll take care of each other."

He huffed out a breath. "You had a chance to be my family for eighteen years." He said it with a sharpness and bitterness she hadn't expected, sounding more like a petulant, angry teenager. He was an angry teenager, she reminded herself. Beyond that, even. The world as he knew it has been destroyed. Burned to the ground, in large part due to actions she had taken, or, at the very least, been able to prevent.

She had once been a teenager whose world had been burned to the ground, too.

So, she decided to try and take a page from her sister’s book. She forgave his sharp words.

She sighed, cupping his cheek softly, turning his face to hers. “I am beginning to regret that I didn’t take my chance more and more each day,” she said quietly. “We’re a clan of two, now, and we have to take care of each other. I won’t lose you, too. I plan on keeping you safe.” She rummaged through the medkit, pulling out the skin adhesive. “Now sit still while I glue this shut.”

He looked apologetic, took a sip of tihaar, and sat quietly, letting her work.

They sat like that for a while, Bo-Katan, working gently to glue shut a cut across Korkie’s temple. Korkie hummed a tune that Bo-Katan recognized as a lullaby her father sang to her and Satine when they were small. She mused to herself that she and Korkie would have nearly matching scars as she worked.

He suddenly jolted, looking up to meet her eyes. “If you knew she was my mum, can you tell me who my father is?”

Bo-Katan fought the urge to grimace, then gave herself a moment to compose herself, plan out the right thing to say. “Your mother and I weren’t really speaking when she would have been pregnant with you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not at all.

But it also wasn’t the absolute whole truth, either.

She knew who the father was. Or, at least, she had strong suspicion. She didn’t need to be a mathematician to realize Satine had to have become pregnant during her year with the two Jedi. One of which had the same nose, the same strong jaw, the same auburn hair that was just beginning to show in the roots of Korkie’s bleached hair. It was an easy enough guess. She was surprised he hadn’t guessed it already, really.

But, for now, she’d keep it herself. This boy didn’t need to know that the man who had come to save his mother, but, instead, caused her death, was his father. One day, maybe. Maybe when he wasn’t so fragile. When the world didn’t feel so utterly destroyed for the both of them.

He seemed to accept her answer. He nodded once, closed his eyes, and settled back into letting her repair the gash on his temple, humming softly to himself.

There was very little she could do to make amends for all the horror she had allowed to be wrought on their home. But she could do two things: she could fight to get it back, and she absolutely would protect her sister's son until her very last breath.

#bo katan week #bo katan week day 6 #bkw 2021 #bo katan and korkie #bo katan kryze #korkie kryze #satine kryze #post the lawless #fudging the timeline a tiny bit #korkie is a kenobi #if you're reading something I wrote you KNOW he's going to be a kenobi

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

Humans Are Space Orcs, “A Visiting Delegation.”

Writing on another request I received a few times. I hope you like it.

Government officials filed into the room one after the other speaking quietly. Their voices raised towards the ceiling and echoed off of the walls. Little drops of water glittered in the darkness as the mass of packed bodies caused a heat that disturbed the thin layer of ice which covered most of the room.

The ice itself lent to excellent acoustics, and the dull roar of voices never seemed to fade as the delegations slowly filed down onto the staggered platform seats.

There was a buzz of nervous energy about the room, emanating from all corners as they sat waiting for the meeting to start.

Off in the corner a white furred scientist clad in a heavy winter coat sat meekly to the side.

She was very nervous.

It had taken months to convince the Tricarian council that the creature existed, and even with the proof it had provided, things had gone very slowly. Only after the vaccine was synthesised and distributed did they even begin to consider what she said to be true, even then, she knew they didn’t really believe her, and who would. An alien had broken into their polar research fort and handed her a cure for the the plague?

Even saying it to herself seemed crazy.

When she handed over the device to other government scientists, they had managed to make contact with…. someone , but they spoke too well for the leaders to really believe that they were another species. Most just thought it was some sort of elaborate prank or conspiracy.

Either way, today was the day they were going to find out.

Their world was slowly recovering, and now they could turn their attention to other matters.

The first lunar launch would be happening within the week, if all things went according to plan, and if there was something out there… something already capable of space travel, they would like to know about it.

Again she shifted nervously in her seat.

What if this supposed….. GA delegation never showed up.

She, and her colleague were the only ones to have seen the creature in person, and he refused to come forward and speak about it, so that left only her. IF the creature didn’t show up she had no doubt they would have no problem pointing fingers at her and calling her insane.

She glanced towards the window, which looked out over the icy tundra and towards the coast, where large fishing barges were slowly creeping up through the ice, their nets cast into the sea.

No matter how today turned out, it was going to change everything for her.

Either alien would descend from the sky and walk into the council chamber for peace talks, or she would be labelled as a crazy loon committing conspiracy against the government, and her life would be ruined.

She slumped back in her seat, the fur of her chest bunching up under her coat.

She flicked her large ears in annoyance, and wrapped her tail tight around her legs nervously.

Oh please strange alien visitors come and help me.

It was a very strange thing for her to be thinking. The first time she had seen the creatures, she wanted nothing more than for it to go away and back where it had come from, but now, well now she wanted nothing more than to see it again, if not to prove to everyone else that it had been real, but to prove to herself that it had been real.

The noise around her died down, and she looked up to see members of the trichar head council filing in to the other side of the room and taking their seats.

There was some discussion between them for a few moments and then one of them stood and the entire room went silent.

“Brothers and sisters, I welcome you today, today of days, to an unscheduled interanual meeting under…. Very strange circumstances.” He looked around the room, eyes scanning up and down the seats, “For the past few months we have slowly been recovering from the virulent plague that wiped out fifty percent of our population.”

There was a sad murmuring about our room.

“A plague that was well on it’s way to taking ninety percent of us from the face of this planet.”

The mood in the room grew somber.

“Now, I know we have all heard the circumstances around how the cure was discovered…. Or given as the story goes, and I am sure most of you, just like me, are questioning the validity of these statements. Today is the day whether we learn if these are true or not.” He glanced around the room, his tail swishing slowly over the ice, “As of now I am still skeptical that anything of the sort happened.” he glanced over at her and she wilted back in her seat.

“Regardless of what happens today, perhaps we can be assured that we will survive, life will go on and we will rebuild, though we mourn for those we lost.”

There was another soft muttering around the room.

She sensed some anger in the air knowing that the chancellor had failed to mention that the fifty percent of people who had died mostly came from the lower uneducated classes. There were those whisperings in the government, that many didn’t see it as such a great loss. The uneducated masses were gone, leaving behind them only the elite to live upon the face of the earth. They no longer had to think about sustaining such a large and useless population.

Not all of them could be used on the fishing barges, and many of them didn’t have the skill to harvest ice fruit, so what use were they really.

The thought made her sick.

“According to our preliminary discussions with the entity that calls itself the Galactic Assembly, we have agreed to meet today with one of its ambassadors to discuss peace talks and joining the galactic community.”

There was laughter from around the room.

The Chancellor smiled, “I myself am skeptical of course, and the words shock me even as they come out of my mouth. It would be an amazing day if intelligent life existed out in the universe. For it would change our fundamental understanding about how we see ourselves. We would no longer be alone, but If I am being honest with you, I am more inclined to believe that this is some sort of clever and audacious ploy from our enemies trying to take over our power after our sudden weakening due to population loss. If that is the case we must plan accordingly, and since I have seen no aliens up and walk through that door, I am inclined to believe the latter argument.”

There was a chorus of agreement from around the room.

She wilted even further in her seat.

“The agreement was to meet at this time and this place, and our scientists have been monitoring radio activity out of orbit, and we have detected no such alien vessels in or around our orbital ring, and neither have we seen any strange alien ships descending from the sky, no Unidentified flying objects as it were.” He turned his head to look in her direction, and by this time she had sunk so far into the cavern of her coat that only her ears and eyes peered out.

“What have you to say for yourself.”

She took a deep breath and straightened, “Chancelor, I am sorry, but we must give them time. The creature made it very clear to me that it was not meant so readily for cold weather conditions like us. They probably had to make special preparations and lost track of time, I am sure they are going to be here.”

There was a great rumble about the room mostly chuckling from skeptics who thought her to be just another hystric member of the lower class.

She knew what they thought of her.

She had come from the uneducated masses originally and her climb to the top had been arduous.

In many ways she didn’t really consider it to be over.

She stood.

“Please, I implore you, the creatures are five minutes late in arriving and already you doubt the truth of what you saw on that drive. There was information there, images and pictures of all different kinds of lifeforms, and sounds and videos. WHat reason would another government have to fake all of that, especially at a time like this. No one had the resources to be working on such a thing, and when it was given to me much of the world was sure we were going to be dead in the next ten years, it hardly makes any sense.”

As she spoke, voices in the crowd rose and she was drowned out as groups began shouting over each other to be heard.

She curled up tighter inside her jacket, tail wrapping around her legs again in a self soothing gesture as the uproar grew louder and louder. On the ceiling above, decorative ice moldings vibrated and shed water.

This was going to be a disaster.

She melted further into her coat, expecting for them to take her away to a sanatorium at any moment.

And then the door opened.

Clean unfettered light spilled in from the outdoors, and across the ice encrusted floor causing it to glitter like a billion tiny diamonds encased in blue and fractured ice.

The entire room went quiet and then looked up.

Anger was replaced with gasps of shock, as the entire room pushed back in their seats.

She felt a sudden and marvelous wave or relief wash over her as she looked up and saw the strange alien creatures step into the room.

They were tall, almost a foot taller than most in the room, and just how she remembered them, with their long arms, and legs.

When they walked their boots thudded heavily on the ice.

The front rows shied away as the creatures entered in a small group of four.

They were dressed, from head to toe in thick padded gear with artificial fur sticking up around the neck and face.

Their noses and mouths were covered by another layer of covering, leaving only their eyes peering out from the inside of their hoods.

Behind them, the door swung shut.

For the longest moment, there was nothing but silence in the room, until the lead creature slowly reached up and pushed back his hood, causing it to fall over his back. When he did he first revealed the top of his head, covered in a thin and unproductive layer of light yellow fur that seemed to have no other purpose than to rest on its head.

The rest of its face, once it pulled down the front of the mask was clean from hair, and cold air bit at it’s skin as it breath plumed up and around it.

It had no ears of which to speak, unless perhaps, those strange folded…. Things on the side of its head were ears.

As she remembered, the creature itself had a very flat face and a large jewel-like emerald eye. Based on the others standing behind it, it should have had two eyes but one of them was covered.

It turned its head to look around the room, before falling on her with a depression of recognition.”

It showed its teeth at her, teeth surprisingly similar to their own. Sharp teeth for tearing at the front and flat teeth for grinding at the back.

“I am glad to see you well.” it said, and its voice echoed across the room for all to hear and understand,

There was a murmuring of surprise. Underneath the strange voice, she could hear the even stranger grunting and hissing of it’s natural language.

It walked forward with its companions in tow, “Forgive our tardiness, but we had to prepare ourselves for your child weather.”

The room remained silent.

The creature looked around at them and tapped its foot on the ground, “Ok then, introductions are in order. I am Admiral Adam Allen Vir of the Galactic Assembly and United Nations Space Corps, leader of the Galactic armada, ambassador of the Galactic assembly and explorational representative. A few months ago I was sent by my benefactors to provide a cure to your people and sew the seeds of invitation to the galactic community.” He looked around at them, “Our other delegates apologies for not being able to visit with you today, but your planet is very very cold, and we are the only species that may survive with any sort of….. Regularity on the face of your planet.”

Even as she watched, the skin on the side of the creature’s ears were beginning to turn red, and then purple.

Finally after many long minutes the chancellor stood, staring and wide eyed.

“So it is true.”

“Yes.”

“How can we be sure this is not some elaborate hoax.”

The creature stepped forward over the ice,which popped slightly under his weight. He walked closer to the chancellor who cowered back in his chair.

He paused just before the desk and pulled off the coverings on his hands, and then unzipped the front of the jacket, allowing it to fall open.

WHen he pulled it off, the skin of his arms and hands were bare, leaving only another thin covering over his chest.

He held out a hand.

“Feel for yourself, and tell me if any of your enemies could prejudice a facsimile of life that is so convincing.”

Not sure what to do, the chancellor reached out a hand and gingerly touched the creature drawing back in surprise and some measure of disgust. When he came back again, he took the hand in both of his and turned it over, palpating the structure of the bones and flesh underneath, examining a fine layer of useless hair on the back of the hand and arm.

“I…. see your point.”

The chancellor gave the creature his hand back looking on nervously as the creature began to spasm and vibrate. He pulled back, but the creature shook its head, “Forgive me chancellor, it is very cold here.”

He reached out and pulled his jacket back on, followed by the gloves and pulling his hood up around his ears.

It stopped its strange vibrations a moment later.

“As it is, the GA has invited you to join in peace talks with them. They are eager to trade resources and knowledge for precious combinations of minerals found in your ice. They would provide the means of space travel, or assistance in building your own, and offer protection from unknown factors in the rest of the galaxy. We simply desire to be allies in a far reaching cooperative conglomerate.”

The Trichar eyed him, “And why would your people be so interested, there is nothing that we can offer you that surely you could find somewhere else.”

“We are not so arrogant as to think we have a monopoly on knowledge and experience. For example your ability to live in such cold climates intrigues us. This entire room is made of ice and steel, hardly worth keeping out the cold. Even I cannot remain here for too long. I believe there is much we can learn from each other.”

The Chancellor sat unblinkingly staring at the alien.

“There are many opportunities that we can provide you. There are icy worlds ripe for the picking that much of the GA hasn’t bothered to touch considering their harsh conditions. There is plenty of room for industry and the transfer of knowledge. We would do nothing but benefit from you joining with us. If you so choose we would be willing to take one or a small group of your number to meet with the entire assembly on the capital, though there is no pressure to do so. We also have broadcasting and camera equipment which would suffice for you to meet them over long distances. There are many ends and possibilities, but…. Out of my own experience, I believe you would do well to take this offer.”

There was silence around the room.

She could hardly blame them. A strange alien benefactor seeking peace with them and offering opportunities and a great wealth of knowledge was certainly too good to be true. Also, the creatures were kinda…. Strange looking. In the full light of day and with the sun streaming in through the windows, she would have sworn that she could see little circulatory structures peeking as blue veins from it’s skin.

Almost as if it was partially translucent.

She shivered, it really creeped her out that she could see its interior structures from the outside.

No wonder it wasn’t meant to survive on such an icy planet as their own. Granted it had looked a lot stranger and more intimidating in the dark, but there was something about seeing the whole thing in it’s true form in daylight that still threw her off.

Looking around at the rest of the room she saw a mixed bag of emotions.

Awe.

Disgust.

nervousness .

Excitement.

The alien tilted it’s head casing its wide eyes about the room. She turned her head away, feeling that if she looked for too long, she might fall into that depthless green pool. That was the strange thing about it, though it had a body and physical presence like the rest of them, it seemed so….. Strange and….. Other, as if it was only showing them a part of itself.

That was silly of course.

She was just being paranoid.

And focusing on that paranoia because another part of her was very excited.

She wanted to see what this creature was talking about.

She wanted to experience it.

She wanted to go with them.

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dailytomlinson · 4 years

Link

A bathroom figures significantly in the origin stories of at least two classic One Direction songs. The first will be familiar to any fan: Songwriter and producer Savan Kotecha was sitting on the toilet in a London hotel room, when he heard his wife say, “I feel so ugly today.” The words that popped into his head would shape the chorus of One Direction’s unforgettable 2011 debut, “What Makes You Beautiful.”

The second takes place a few years later. Another hotel room in England — this one in Manchester — where songwriters and producers Julian Bunetta and John Ryan were throwing back Cucumber Collins cocktails and tinkering with a beat. Liam Payne was there, too. At one point, Liam got up to use the bathroom and when he re-emerged, he was singing a melody. They taped it immediately. Most of it was mumbled — a temporary placeholder — but there was one phrase: “Better than words…” A few hours later, on the bus to another city, another show — Bunetta and Ryan can’t remember where — Payne asked, maybe having a laugh, what if the rest of the song was just lyrics from other songs?

“Songs in general, you’re just sort of waiting for an idea to bonk you on the head,” Ryan says from a Los Angeles studio with Bunetta. “And if you’re sort of winking at it, laughing at it — we were probably joking, what if [the next line was] ‘More than a feeling’? Well, that would actually be tight!”

“Better Than Words,” closed One Direction’s third album, Midnight Memories. It was never a single, but became a fan-favorite live show staple. It’s a mid-tempo headbanger that captures the essence of what One Direction is, and always was: One of the great rock and roll bands of the 21st century.

July 23rd marks One Direction’s 10th anniversary, the day Simon Cowell told Harry Styles, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson that they would progress on The X Factor as a group. Between that date and their last live performance (so far, one can hope) on December 31st, 2015, they released five albums, toured the world four times — twice playing stadiums — and left a trove of Top 10 hits for a devoted global fan base that came to life at the moment social media was re-defining the contours of fandom.

It’d been a decade since the heyday of ‘N Sync and Backstreet Boys, and the churn of generations demanded a new boy band. One Direction’s songs were great and their charisma and chemistry undeniable, but what made them stick was a sound unlike anything else in pop — rooted in guitar rock at a time when that couldn’t have been more passé.

Kotecha, who met 1D on The X Factor and shepherded them through their first few years, is a devoted student of boy band history. He first witnessed their power back in the Eighties when New Kids on the Block helped his older sister through her teens. The common thread linking all great boy bands, from New Kids to BSB, he says, is, “When they’d break, they’d come out of nowhere, sounding like nothing that’s on the radio.”

In 2010, Kotecha remembers, “everybody was doing this sort of Rihanna dance pop.” But that just wasn’t a sound One Direction could pull off (the Wanted only did it once); and famously, they didn’t even dance. Instead, the reference points for 1D went all the way back to the source of contemporary boy bands.

“Me and Simon would talk about how [One Direction] was Beatles-esque, Monkees-esque,” Kotecha continues. “They had such big personalities. I felt like a kid again when I was around them. And I felt like the only music you could really do that with is fun, pop-y guitar songs. It would come out of left field and become something owned by the fans.”

“The guitar riff had to be so simple that my friend’s 15-year-old daughter could play it and put a cover to YouTube,” says Carl Falk

To craft that sound on 1D’s first two albums, Up All Night and Take Me Home, Kotecha worked mostly with Swedish songwriters-producers Carl Falk and Rami Yacoub. They’d all studied at the Max Martin/Cheiron Studios school of pop craftsmanship, and Falk says they were confident they could crack the boy band code once more with songs that recalled BSB and ‘N Sync, but replaced the dated synths and pianos with guitars.

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The greatest thing popular music can do is make someone else think, “I can do that,” and One Direction’s music was designed with that intent. “The guitar riff had to be so simple that my friend’s 15-year-old daughter could play it and put a cover to YouTube,” Falk says. “If you listen to ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ or ‘One Thing,’ they have two-finger guitar riffs that everyone who can play a bit of guitar can learn. That was all on purpose.”

One Direction famously finished third on The X Factor, but Cowell immediately signed them to his label, Syco Music. They’d gone through one round of artist development boot camp on the show, and another followed on an X Factor live tour in spring 2011. They’d developed an onstage confidence, but the studio presented a new challenge. “We had to create who should do what in One Direction,” Falk says. To solve the puzzle the band’s five voices presented, they chose the kitchen sink method and everyone tried everything.

“They were searching for themselves,” Falk adds. “It was like, Harry, let’s just record him; he’s not afraid of anything. Liam’s the perfect song starter, and then you put Zayn on top with this high falsetto. Louis found his voice when we did ‘Change Your Mind.’ It was a long trial for everyone to find their strengths and weaknesses, but that was also the fun part.” Falk also gave Niall some of his first real guitar lessons; there’s video of them performing “One Thing” together, still blessedly up on YouTube.

“What Makes You Beautiful” was released September 11th, 2011 in the U.K. and debuted at Number One on the singles chart there — though the video had dropped a month prior. While One Direction’s immediate success in the U.K. and other parts of Europe wasn’t guaranteed, the home field odds were favorable. European markets have historically been kinder to boy bands than the U.S.; ‘N Sync and Backstreet Boys found huge success abroad before they conquered home. To that end, neither Kotecha nor Falk were sure 1D would break in the U.S. Falk even says of conceiving the band’s sound, “We didn’t want it to sound too American, because this was not meant — for us, at least — to work in America. This was gonna work in the U.K. and maybe outside the U.K.”

Stoking anticipation for “What Makes You Beautiful” by releasing the video on YouTube before the single dropped, preceded the strategy Columbia Records (the band’s U.S. label) adopted for Up All Night. Between its November 2011 arrival in the U.K. and its U.S. release in March 2012, Columbia eschewed traditional radio strategies and built hype on social media. One Direction had been extremely online since their X Factor days, engaging with fans and spending their downtime making silly videos to share. One goofy tune, made with Kotecha, called “Vas Happenin’ Boys?” was an early viral hit.

“They instinctively had this — and it might just be a generational thing — they just knew how to speak to their fans,” Kotecha says. “And they did that by being themselves. That was a unique thing about these boys: When the cameras turned on, they didn’t change who they were.”

Social media was flooded with One Direction contests and petitions to bring the band to fans’ towns. Radio stations were inundated with calls to play “What Makes You Beautiful” long before it was even available. When it did finally arrive, Kotecha (who was in Sweden at the time) remembers staying up all night to watch it climb the iTunes chart with each refresh.

Take Me Home, was recorded primarily in Stockholm and London during and after their first world tour. The success of Up All Night had attracted an array of top songwriting talent — Ed Sheeran even penned two hopeless romantic sad lad tunes, “Little Things” and “Over Again” — but Kotecha, Falk and Yacoub grabbed the reins, collaborating on six of the album’s 13 tracks. In charting their course, Kotecha returned to his boy band history: “My theory was, you give them a similar sound on album two, and album three is when you start moving on.”

Still, there was the inherent pressure of the second album to contend with. The label wanted a “What Makes You Beautiful, Part 2,” and evidence that the 1D phenomenon wasn’t slowing down appeared outside the window of the Stockholm studio: so many fans, the street had to be shut down. Kotecha even remembers seeing police officers with missing person photos, combing through the girls camped outside, looking for teens to return to their parents.

At this pivotal moment, One Direction made it clear that they wanted a greater say in their artistic future. Kotecha admits he was wary at first, but the band was determined. To help manage the workload, Kotecha had brought in two young songwriters, Kristoffer Fogelmark and Albin Nedler, who’d arrived with a handful of ideas, including a chorus for a booming power ballad called “Last First Kiss.”

“We thought, while we’re busy recording vocals, whoever’s not busy can go write songs with these two guys, and then we’ll help shape them as much as we can,” Kotecha says. “And to our pleasant surprise, the songs were pretty damn good.”

At this pivotal moment, too, songwriters Julian Bunetta and John Ryan also met the band. Friends from the Berklee College of Music, Bunetta and Ryan had moved out to L.A. and cut a few tracks, but still had no hits to their name. They entered the Syco orbit after scoring work on the U.S. version of The X Factor, and were asked if they wanted to try writing a song for Take Me Home. “I was like, yeah definitely,” Bunetta says. “They sold five million albums? Hell yeah, I want to make some money.”

Working with Jamie Scott, who’d written two songs on Up All Night (“More Than This” and “Stole My Heart”), Bunetta and Ryan wrote “C’mon, C’mon” — a blinding hit of young love that rips down a dance pop speedway through a comically oversized wall of Marshall stacks. It earned them a trip to London. Bunetta admits to thinking the whole 1D thing was “a quick little fad” ahead of their first meeting with the band, but their charms were overwhelming. Everyone hit it off immediately.

“Niall showed me his ass,” Bunetta remembers of the day they recorded, “They Don’t Know About Us,” one of five songs they produced for Take Me Home (two are on the deluxe edition). “The first vocal take, he went in to sing, did a take, I was looking down at the computer screen and was like, ‘On this line, can you sing it this way?’ And I looked over and he was mooning me. I was like, ‘I love this guy!’”

Take Me Home dropped November 9th, just nine days short of Up All Night’s first anniversary. With only seven weeks left in 2012, it became the fourth best-selling album of the year globally, moving 4.4 million copies, per the IFPI; it fell short of Adele’s 21, Taylor Swift’s Red and 1D’s own Up All Night, which had several extra months to sell 4.5 million copies.

Kotecha, Falk and Yacoub’s tracks anchored the album. Songs like “Kiss You,” “Heart Attack” and “Live While We’re Young” were pristine pop rock that One Direction delivered with full delirium, vulnerability and possibility — the essence of the teen — in voices increasingly capable of navigating all the little nuances of that spectrum. And the songs 1D helped write (“Last First Kiss,” “Back for You” and “Summer Love”) remain among the LP’s best.

“You saw that they caught the bug and were really good at it,” Kotecha says of their songwriting. “And moving forward, you got the impression that that was the way for them.”

Like clockwork, the wheels began to churn for album three right after Take Me Home dropped. But unlike those first two records, carving out dedicated studio time for LP3 was going to be difficult — on February 23rd, 2013, One Direction would launch a world tour in London, the first of 123 concerts they’d play that year. They’d have to write and record on the road, and for Kotecha and Falk — both of whom had just had kids — that just wasn’t possible.

But it was also time for a creative shift. Even Kotecha knew that from his boy band history: album three is, after all, when you start moving on. One Direction was ready, too. Kotecha credits Louis, the oldest member of the group, for “shepherding them into adulthood, away from the very pop-y stuff of the first two albums. He was leading the charge to make sure that they had a more mature sound. And at the time, being in it, it was a little difficult for me, Rami and Carl to grasp — but hindsight, that was the right thing to do.”

“For three years, this was our schedule,” Bunetta says. “We did X Factor October, November, December. Took off January. February, flew to London. We’d gather ideas with the band, come up with sounds, hang out. Then back to L.A. for March, produce some stuff, then go out on the road with them in April. Get vocals, write a song or two, come back for May, work on the vocals, and produce the songs we wrote on the road. Back to London in June-ish. Back here for July, produce it up. Go back on tour in August, get last bits of vocals, mix in September, back to X Factor in October, album out in November, January off, start it all over again.”

That cycle began in early 2013 when Bunetta and Ryan flew to London for a session that lasted just over a week, but yielded the bulk of Midnight Memories. With songwriters Jamie Scott, Wayne Hector and Ed Drewett they wrote “Best Song Ever” and “You and I,” and, with One Direction, “Diana” and “Midnight Memories.” Bunetta and Ryan’s initial rapport with the band strengthened — they were a few years older, but as Bunetta jokes, “We act like we’re 19 all the time anyway.” Years ago, Bunetta posted an audio clip documenting the creation of “Midnight Memories” — the place-holder chorus was a full-throated, perfectly harmonized, “I love KFC!”

For the most part, Bunetta, Ryan and 1D doubled down on the rock sound their predecessors had forged, but there was one outlier from that week. A stunning bit of post-Mumford festival folk buoyed by a new kind of lyrical and vocal maturity called “Story of My Life.”

“This was a make or break moment for them,” Bunetta says. “They needed to grow up, or they were gonna go away — and they wanted to grow up. To get to the level they got to, you need more than just your fan base. That song extended far beyond their fan base and made people really pay attention.”

Production on Midnight Memories continued on the road, where, like so many bands before them, One Direction unlocked a new dimension to their music. Tour engineer Alex Oriet made it possible, Ryan says, building makeshift vocal booths in hotel rooms by flipping beds up against the walls. Writing and recording was crammed in whenever — 20 minutes before a show, or right after another two-hour performance.

“It preserved the excitement of the moment,” Bunetta says. “We were just there, doing it, marinating in it at all times. You’re capturing moments instead of trying to recreate them. A lot of times we’d write a song, sing it in the hotel, produce it, then fly back out to have them re-sing it — and so many times the demo vocals were better. They hadn’t memorized it yet. They were still in the mood. There was a performance there that you couldn’t recreate.”

Midnight Memories arrived, per usual, in November 2013. And, per usual, it was a smash. The following year, 1D brought their songs to the environment they always deserved — stadiums around the world — and amid the biggest shows of their career, they worked on their aptly-titled fourth album Four. The 123 concerts 1D had played the year before had strengthened their combined vocal prowess in a way that opened up an array of new possibilities.

“We could use their voices on Four to make something sound more exciting and bigger, rather than having to add too many guitars, synths or drums,” Ryan says.

“They were so much more dynamic and subtle, too,” Bunetta adds. “I don’t think they could’ve pulled off a song like ‘Night Changes’ two albums prior; or the nuance to sing soft and emotionally on ‘Fireproof.’ It takes a lot of experience to deliver a restrained vocal that way.”

“A lot of the songs were double,” Bunetta says, “like somebody might be singing about their girlfriend, but there was another meaning that applied to the group as well.”

Musically, Four was 1D’s most expansive album yet — from the sky-high piano rock of “Steal My Girl” to the tender, tasteful groove of “Fireproof” — and it had the emotional range to match. Now in their early twenties, songs like “Where Do Broken Hearts Go,” “No Control,” “Fool’s Gold” and “Clouds” redrew the dramas and euphorias of adolescence with the new weight, wit and wanton winks of impending adulthood. One Direction wasn’t growing up normally in any sense of the word, but they were becoming songwriters capable of drawing out the most relatable elements from their extraordinary circumstances — like on “Change Your Ticket,” where the turbulent love affairs of young jet-setters are distilled to the universal pang of a long goodbye. There were real relationships inspiring these stories, but now that One Direction was four years into being the biggest band on the planet, it was natural that the relationships within the band would make it into the music as well.

“I think that on Four,” Bunetta says with a slight pause, “there were some tensions going on. A lot of the songs were double — like somebody might be singing about their girlfriend, but there was another meaning that applied to the group as well.”

He continues: “It’s tough going through that age, having to spread your wings with so many eyeballs on you, so much money and no break. It was tough for them to carve out their individual manhood, space and point of view, while learning how to communicate with each other. Even more than relationship things that were going on, that was the bigger blanket that was in there every day, seeping into the songs.”

Bunetta remembers Zayn playing him “Pillowtalk” and a few other songs for the first time through a three a.m. fog of cigarette smoke in a hotel room in Japan.

“Fucking amazing,” he says. “They were fucking awesome. I know creatively he wasn’t getting what he needed from the way that the albums were being made on the road. He wanted to lock himself in the studio and take his time, be methodical. And that just wasn’t possible.”

A month or so later, and 16 shows into One Direction’s “On the Road Again” tour, Zayn left the band. Bunetta and Ryan agree it wasn’t out of the blue: “He was frustrated and wanted to do things outside of the band,” Bunetta says. “It’s a lot for a young kid, all those shows. We’d been with them for a bunch of years at this point — it was a matter of when. You just hoped that it would wait until the last album.”

Still, Bunetta compares the loss to having a finger lopped off, and he acknowledges that Harry, Niall, Liam and Louis struggled to find their bearings as One Direction continued with their stadium tour and next album, Made in the A.M. Just as band tensions bubbled beneath the songs on Four, Zayn’s departure left an imprint on Made in the A.M. Not with any overt malice, but a song like “Drag Me Down,” Bunetta says, reflects the effort to bounce back. Even Niall pushing his voice to the limits of his range on that song wouldn’t have been necessary if Zayn and his trusty falsetto were available.

But Made in the A.M. wasn’t beholden to this shake-up. Bunetta and Ryan cite “Olivia” as a defining track, one that captures just how far One Direction had come as songwriters: They’d written it in 45 minutes, after wasting a whole day trying to write something far worse.

“When you start as a songwriter, you write a bunch of shitty songs, you get better and you keep getting better,” Ryan says. “But then you can get finicky and you’re like, ‘Maybe I have to get smart with this lyric.’ By Made in the A.M. … they were coming into their own in the sense of picking up a guitar, messing around and feeling something, rather than being like, ‘How do I put this puzzle together?’”

After Zayn’s departure, Bunetta and Ryan said it became clear that Made in the A.M. would be One Direction’s last album before some break of indeterminate length. The album boasts the palpable tug of the end, but to One Direction’s credit, that finality is balanced by a strong sense of forever. It’s literally the last sentiment they leave their fans on album-closer “History,” singing, “Baby don’t you know, baby don’t you know/We can live forever.”

In a way, Made in the A.M. is about One Direction as an entity. Not one that belonged to the group, but to everyone they spent five years making music for. Four years since their hiatus and 10 years since their formation, the fans remain One Direction’s defining legacy. Even as all five members have settled into solo careers, Ryan notes that baseless rumors of any kind of reunion — even a meager Zoom call — can still set the internet on fire. The old songs remain potent, too: Carl Falk says his nine-year-old son has taken to making TikToks to 1D tracks.

“Most of them weren’t necessarily musicians before this happened, but they loved music, and they found a love of creating, writing and playing,” Kotecha says

There are plenty of metrics to quantify One Direction’s reach, success and influence. The hard numbers — album sales and concert stubs — are staggering on their own, but the ineffable is always more fun. One Direction was such a good band that a fan, half-jokingly, but then kinda seriously, started a GoFundMe to buy out their contract and grant them full artistic freedom. One Direction was such a good band that songwriters like Kotecha and Falk — who would go on to make hits with Ariana Grande, the Weeknd and Nicki Minaj — still think about the songs they could’ve made with them. One Direction was such a good band that Mitski covered “Fireproof.”

But maybe it all comes down to the most ineffable thing of all: Chance. Kotecha compares success on talent shows like The X Factor to waking up one morning and being super cut — but now, to keep that figure, you have to work out at a 10, without having done the gradual work to reach that level. That’s the downfall for so many acts, but One Direction was not only able, but willing, to put in the work.

“They’re one of the only acts from those types of shows that managed to do it for such a long time,” Kotecha says. “Five years is a long time for a massive pop star to go nonstop. I know it was tiring, but they were fantastic sports about it. They appreciated and understood the opportunity they had — and, as you can see, they haven’t really stopped since. Most of them weren’t necessarily musicians before this happened, but they loved music, and they found a love of creating, writing and playing. To have these boys — that had been sort of randomly picked — to also have that? It will never be repeated.”

#rolling stone #ROLLING STONE SAID ROCK BAN SO ITS A ROCK B AND PERIDOT #220720 #10years1d #one direction

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bitchfitch · 3 years

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this is my first attempt at sci fi and its an au for my dnd characters lmao.

The pin pricks of stars blurred together as Babylon's speeder cut through the clear ink of space away from his home, The Jackalope, a well loved but sturdy clunker of a station that drifted had filled its place in the Capital Belt for decades, and towards the long abandoned station that drifted aimlessly just beyond the Capital's pull.

Babylon would return eventually but his curiosity was going to kill him if he didn't follow this lead through. His sisters had said it was a bad idea, that Sanctuary was a death trap, but if it got him one step closer to finaly finding out the truth of his existence then whatever he had to deal with would be worth it.

Docking his speeder was easy, mostly because Sanctuary was big enough that he could just land on one of the loading platforms instead of worrying about proper procedure.

The lights buzzed on as he climbed out of the speeder, bathing the open docking chamber in blotchy yellow light.

Probably an old automated procedure, Babylon reasoned to himself. Whatever, it saved him from having to waste battery on the flashlights built into his helmet.

While still tethered to his speeder he fussed with the controls of his mag boots, bracing himself on one of his speeder's wings as he found the right settings to let him walk instead of float.

The bay had already been long picked over by other explorers, everything that could be pulled up and carried off had been, but the doors to the airlock, despite their being heavy damage along their faces from where others had failed to cut through them, still stood firm in their place. A busted scanner panel beside them still blinking slowly. Babylon regarded it for a moment and sighed before taking off his helmet.

The vacuum of space stung, it always did, but whatever he was seemed to be made to handle it. The lack of air wasn't much of a problem either, thankfully. Still it was a struggle to get high enough for the panel to see his face, whoever was responsible for this station had been Annoyingly tall, which did mesh well with everything else he knew about his birth family, which was that they were annoying, and tall.

Usually it took a few moments of morphing his face to trick a scanner into letting him pass, but this one folded after just a second, the old doors shuddering open with a groan that was silenced by the empty vacuum of space.

Weak, the software must be ancient to fail that quickly. Babylon grinned to himself as he got his helmet back on, hopefully all the biometric shit in this hell hole will be that easy to fuck with.

Getting through the airlock and into the station itself wasn't difficult, and that was concerning. Airlocks on this type of station either needed a full AI controlling them or a lot of input from whoever was trying to get through, plus someone on the other side to help out if it's needed.

As far as Babylon knew, he was the only person on this ship, yet the interior locks were initiated and opened without his input. He tried to connect to the comms and even found the right channel, but his tentative hello was met only with static.

He paused before finalizing the sequence. Sanctuary was suspected to be an old experimental station, or it had been before it was abandoned, so maybe this weird airlock system was just a form of automation that never caught on? He told himself that as he let the outer doors slide shut, trapping himself in this airlock as it pressurized before the main door whirred and groaned in protest of having to slide on long unused rails.

People who managed to get into Sanctuary rarely came back, but those that did all talked about two things.

The first nearly stole Babylon's breath as he drifted into the lobby. The entire room was verdant. Every inch flourishing with thick grey green plant growth. Every wall had moss and weeds spreading from the cracks in the plates, vines climbed twisting trees and crawled along the floor. Shrubs and flowers and strange little ferns sprouted from the thick bed of rich soil that spilled accross much of the floor.

Babylon's mag boots weren't strong enough to reach through the thick earth, leaving him to drift in zero g and having to pull himself along by the untamed branches as he explored. He'd never been in a jungle, or a forest, or any type of planetary terrain really, so this was completely unlike anything he'd ever seen outside of videos and shows about planets.

The second thing survivors tended to mention was the feeling of being watched. A constant nagging that they had Somethings attention.

Babylon certainly felt that. Even with no cameras visible, and no signs of non plant life, Something was watching him.

"Hey, Like, the silent treatment is cool and everything but maybe we can talk?" He tried, the comms buzzing as he spoke, still only static answered,

He tried again, a different tongue weighing the words, this one being the one his sisters spoke, then another, the one he learned from the rich johns who would visit the Jackalope sometimes, and another, this final one being the one he never used but had always known.

"What would you like to talk about?" came the response, not through the comms, but from the green surrounding him,

He nearly launched himself out of his skin at the sudden voice, it was strange and artificial yet rough around the edges like a persons',

"Oh crap. Hey, Hi! I'm Babs, and uh, what language are we speaking?" He asked, "And uh, who are you?"

"We are speaking High Genyt, and I am EVR-RD, Sanctuary's AI,"

"High Genyt? What race is that from?" Babylon asked, he could feel his skin crawling with excitement. High Genyt, that was the name of the language he'd always known, the one that he'd never met another speaker of.

"The Genytar," came the simple response,

"And what can you tell me about them Ardy?" This was it, Finally after years of searching he was getting dome answers,

"Ardy?"

"Yeah, EVR-RD, RD, Ardy. Its a nickname, anyways, Genytars?"

"Ardy. I like that, But yes, The Genytar are a now extinct race of hyper adaptable lifeforms from sector FY-Wilde. This station was their last ark. A series of Critical System failures resulted in a total crew wipe out about 20 orbital sweeps ago,"

"Total- Oh," Babs floated in silence for a moment, "They're all gone? or- Are the... the bodies still here?"

"Yes, they are all gone, and no, their bodies are long gone. Why do you want to know?"

"Because nobody taught me this language. They might not all be gone because I am still here, but I don't- Do I look like them? I want- I Need to know, please,"

"Are you attempting to find out if you are a Genytar?"

"Yes, Or I don't know, or like, I know that I do not know what I am and no one has been able to give me any answers. And like, I heard about this ship and that it was super weird, and that it showed up already abandoned around the same time my parents found me- I'm rambling, sorry,"

"Please do not apologize Babs. I do not believe you to be Genytar, but, I can not identify what you would be otherwise,"

"Oh," Babs sighs, "Thanks anyways,"

"What will you do now?"

"Strange question to get from an AI, but I don't know. I guess I'll just go home, try to find another clue or something,"

"Is your home part of the Capital belt?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it far?"

"Ardy, what are you getting at here?"

"There are not many people who speak Genyt. You are the first I've met since they died. And Genyt is the only language I have," there's a pause, which is strange for an AI, "I would appreciate it if you would consider returning,"

Babylon laughed, "Yeah big guy, I'll visit again,"

#there is no universe in which everard isnt obsessed with plants.

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stylesnews · 4 years

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“The guitar riff had to be so simple that my friend’s 15-year-old daughter could play it and put a cover to YouTube,” says Carl Falk

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“You saw that they caught the bug and were really good at it,” Kotecha says of their songwriting. “And moving forward, you got the impression that that was the way for them.”

“We could use their voices on Four to make something sound more exciting and bigger, rather than having to add too many guitars, synths or drums,” Ryan says.

“A lot of the songs were double,” Bunetta says, “like somebody might be singing about their girlfriend, but there was another meaning that applied to the group as well.”

Bunetta remembers Zayn playing him “Pillowtalk” and a few other songs for the first time through a three a.m. fog of cigarette smoke in a hotel room in Japan.

“Most of them weren’t necessarily musicians before this happened, but they loved music, and they found a love of creating, writing and playing,” Kotecha says

#rollingstone #july20 #10years1d

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panicinthestudio · 2 years

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She's gone. We spent Saturday with family at her home. I had hoped that we'd see my great aunt at Lunar New Year, but this second pandemic Christmas would be her last and unfortunately one we missed spending with her. It always felt like she had an affinity for the whole extended holiday season, her Catholic faith separate-but-alongside Chinese tradition.

She was part of the Interwar and heyday of the Colonial-era generation: university educated, a white collar career as a teacher, fiercely independent, and embracing the cosmopolitan landscape of the time. I have never heard an ill word said about her; story after story that I have heard or witnessed were demonstrative of her firm but kind and generous spirit. Excitedly taking her sister--my grandmother--out on the town to watch Western-import films. She brought her modern manner and candid sense of humor, hosted holiday and dinner parties that are still talked about and the recipes much-coveted. Former students would visit, or welcome her on her travels near them through the decades since. Her nieces and nephews were treated like her own children, she doted on my sister, myself, and our cousins at every opportunity.

I can directly trace threads in the stripe within me that people identify as an old soul to her as a de facto grandparent, the only person of her generation I spent an extended and consistent amount of time with. There was more than a fair share of mid-century American big band standards, Lawrence Welk, Golden Age Hollywood, and Agatha Christie adaptations for a 1990's childhood. Auntie sat patiently with me through my fidgety and fearful years, ready with a resource or book to encourage when she saw the spark of interest, a full plate of everything and leftovers to boot, and always made sure to fill my pockets with candied preserves from the cut glass candy bowl. She insisted on being present for all our achievements, out of a clear fondness and love for each of us.

Her health had been in decline even before her dementia diagnosis. She still wanted to go places, see family and friends overseas, but the changes were becoming more keen. During the pandemic, programs were shut down, opportunities to socialize and interact with a variety of people and care disappeared, and she was able to communicate and recognize even less. She struggled to keep pace with a conversation that had already changed, or with sudden clarity remember unexpected details or a tidbit of family lore she had to share before it escaped again.

Simultaneously heartbreaking and aware she still held fast to some memories even as names faded. She never lost her love of music, playing back for her the songs and artists that were simply part of her orbit was a surefire way to wipe away the terrors and tears. Sitting quietly with her, holding her hand, and returning the warmth she'd gave unconditionally. The way she would light up when she'd recognize familiar faces and be palpably pleased by your presence; and before we ended a visit in the fall, she let us have one last dance.

Her passing is not a void in our lives, she is a keystone and integral piece of our family, having enriched our lives and of an even greater circle of friends, colleagues, and students. She is loved, missed, and present.

#family #real life #obituary #notes #writing #personal

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hlupdate · 4 years

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The second takes place a few years later: Another hotel room in England — this one in Manchester — where songwriters and producers Julian Bunetta and John Ryan were throwing back Cucumber Collins cocktails and tinkering with a beat. Liam Payne was there, too. At one point, Payne got up to use the bathroom, and when he re-emerged, he was singing a melody. They taped it immediately. Most of it was mumbled — a temporary placeholder — but there was one phrase: “Better than words …” A few hours later, on the bus to another city, another show — Bunetta and Ryan can’t remember where — Payne asked, maybe having a laugh, “What if the rest of the song was just lyrics from other songs?”

“Songs in general, you’re just sort of waiting for an idea to bonk you on the head,” Ryan says from a Los Angeles studio, with Bunetta. “And if you’re sort of winking at it, laughing at it — we were probably joking, ‘What if [the next line was] “More than a feeling”? Well, that would actually be tight!’”

“Better Than Words,” closed One Direction’s third album, Midnight Memories. It was never a single, but became a fan-favorite live-show staple. It’s a midtempo headbanger that captures the essence of what One Direction is, and always was: One of the great rock & roll bands of the 21st century.

July 23rd marks One Direction’s 10th anniversary, the day Simon Cowell told Harry Styles, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, and Louis Tomlinson that they would progress on The X Factor as a group. Between that date and their last live performance (so far, one can hope) on December 31st, 2015, they released five albums, toured the world four times — twice playing stadiums — and left a trove of Top 10 hits for a devoted global fan base that came to life at the moment social media was redefining the contours of fandom.

It’d been a decade since the heyday of ‘NSync and Backstreet Boys, and the churn of generations demanded a new boy band. One Direction’s songs were great and their charisma and chemistry undeniable, but what made them stick was a sound unlike anything else in pop — rooted in guitar rock at a time when that couldn’t have been more passé.

Kotecha, who met 1D on The X Factor and shepherded them through their first few years, is a devoted student of the history of boy bands. He first witnessed their power back in the Eighties, when New Kids on the Block helped his older sister through her teens. The common thread linking all great boy bands, from New Kids to BSB, he says, is, “When they’d break, they’d come out of nowhere, sounding like nothing that’s on the radio.”

In 2010, Kotecha remembers, “everybody was doing this sort of Rihanna dance pop.” But that just wasn’t a sound One Direction could pull off (the Wanted did it only once); and famously, they didn’t even dance. Instead, the reference points for 1D went all the way back to the source of contemporary boy bands.

“Me and Simon would talk about how [One Direction] was Beatlesque, Monkees-esque,” Kotecha continues. “They had such big personalities. I felt like a kid again when I was around them. And I felt like the only music you could really do that with is fun, poppy guitar songs. It would come out of left field and become something owned by the fans.”

To craft that sound on 1D’s first two albums, Up All Night and Take Me Home, Kotecha worked mostly with Swedish songwriters-producers Carl Falk and Rami Yacoub. They’d all studied at the Max Martin/Cheiron Studios school of pop craftsmanship, and Falk says they were confident they could crack the boy-band code once more with songs that recalled BSB and ‘NSync, but replaced the dated synths and pianos with guitars.

“You saw that they caught the bug and were really good at it,” Kotecha says of their songwriting. “And moving forward, you got the impression that that was the way for them.”

“We could use their voices on Four to make something sound more exciting and bigger, rather than having to add too many guitars, synths or drums,” Ryan says.

Bunetta remembers Zayn playing him “Pillowtalk” and a few other songs for the first time through a three a.m. fog of cigarette smoke in a hotel room in Japan.

#harry styles #louis tomlinson #one direction #1d ten #220720

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alexannah · 4 years

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MLB Crack: The Story of Gabenath

This was originally titled “One Theory on How Gabenath Will Happen”, and intended to just be a collection of quotes from the relevant episodes followed by the ending section. But I got a bit carried away … especially on certain episodes … and now it’s this. Enjoy me lovingly making fun of my two precious idiot villains.

~*~

***HEROES’ DAY***

Hawk Moth: *for once doesn’t look excited as he akumatizes his assistant, despite it being the beginning of his first big plan he’s so confident in*

Hawk Moth: *gives Catalyst an outfit that is completely accidentally complimentary to The Collector’s*

Hawk Moth: Oh, no, I can’t believe I’m cornered!

Mayura: I’m going to give you a giant butterfly to literally blow away your enemies.

Hawk Moth: No! Don’t do that! I don’t want a giant butterfly!

Mayura: Seriously? Who wouldn’t want a giant butterfly? Also, you’re getting one. Accept it. It’s that or prison.

Hawk Moth: Okay, fine. As it’s just the once and if I go to prison I won’t be able to get my wife back.

Hawk Moth: *escapes*

Nathalie: I was willing to risk not just my health but being identified as an accomplice if you’re ever unmasked to keep you from being defeated, but I am most definitely not in love with you.

Gabriel: My assistant/just-a-friend, thank you for helping me escape so I can continue my plan to bring back my wife.

***REFLEKDOLL***

Nathalie: Let me risk my life and prison again to help you. Still not in love with you, by the way.

Gabriel: Okay, that’s fair. But as long as I get to cradle you in my arms in a concerned but completely platonic way afterwards.

Nathalie: Ooh, yeah.

Duusu: *is the cutest thing ever*

***FEAST***

Nathalie: *drops Gabriel*

Gabriel: Ouch! Oh, wait, that was just a tablet. Never mind. I guess I just like being held by Nathalie so much that it felt like it hurt.

Adrien: Nathalie, are you okay? Are you sure? Maybe we should go home. Yes, I’m acting like the parent now even though you’re basically my mom.

Gabriel: She’s fine. Well, not really, she could end up in a coma and unrevivable short of a wish to change reality, but obviously I’m not going to tell you that because that opens a whole can of worms that I’m not going to try and address for another few episodes. Ask me again when we get to Félix.

Nathalie: I’m fine, Adrien. I don’t care what happens to me because I want you, and your idiot dad with whom I am definitely not in love, to be happy. And I’m telling you I’m fine now because I don’t want you to worry about me. Also I’m touched that you’re concerned because although I’ve basically raised you throughout most of your life, I’m still lingering under the delusion that I’m only an employee and don’t have a real place in this family.

Adrien: *leaves but worries about his mom anyway*

Nathalie: *excited at the thought of a new plan to get the Miraculouses*

Nathalie: *or maybe she just enjoys criminal activity*

Gabriel: I am definitely not looking at you in a loving way. Nope. Just admiring your dedication. Which is completely within the norms of what an assistant will do for her boss.

Nathalie: Can I break into the museum now?

Gabriel: Maybe later when you’ve had a break. And I have the excuse of watching you sleep because you’re adorable but, you know, I’m just doing it because I need to make sure you’re okay.

***STORMY WEATHER***

Gabriel: I’m doing all of this so Adrien can be happy again!

Nooroo: Er, Adrien is happy. And I thought you were doing this because you wanted your wife back?

Gabriel: … Yeah, that too.

Nooroo: So, you haven’t fallen in love with Nathalie then.

Gabriel: Don’t be ridiculous.

Nooroo: I’m not the one in denial.

Gabriel: Shut up. You’re not right.

Hawk Moth: Is Nooroo right? *thinks about all the times he’s inadvertently put Adrien in danger*

Hawk Moth: I’ll just be a bit more careful. After all, I’m basically doing this for Adrien now. So he can have his mother back. Because I can’t understand that Adrien has moved on with his life and Nathalie is a better mom to him than Emilie ever was. Also obviously I want my wife back because she’s my wife and I’m still in love with her and definitely not with anyone else.

Hawk Moth: I have to succeed, at any price.

Hawk Moth: Which is clearly a stupid thing to say that I don’t really mean, because I am definitely not willing to sacrifice my son or my assistant-with-whom-I-am-definitely-not-in-love.

Hawk Moth: So, I’m going to make a volcano that will push the whole planet out of orbit and freeze us all to death now.

Hawk Moth: Nathalie, fetch some blankets and hot water bottles. It might get a bit chilly if Stormy Weather doesn’t get Ladybug and Cat Noir’s Miraculouses in time to stop the world plunging into a new ice age.

***LADYBUG***

Nathalie: I want to be the one to give Gabriel what he believes will be his happy ending!

Duusu: *cries* It’s so romantic!

Nathalie: I’m not going to correct you on that.

Duusu: I’m the Kwami of emotion. It would be pointless to try.

Duusu: Would it be pointless to try and tell you that Mr Gabriel is falling in love with you?

Nathalie: Yes, because I’m in my own form of denial.

Duusu: Fine. I guess if you keep risking your life long enough, maybe he’ll realise how he feels about you.

Duusu: Eventually …

Hawk Moth: Release her! Emphasis on ‘her’ not just because Ladybug just said “Release him” in reference to Cat Noir, but because I’m extra-concerned for my ailing assistant/accomplice who went behind my back because she’s stubbornly insistent on risking her life to help me!

Mayura: Don’t mind me. Hawk Moth winning is more important than my life. Although I probably should be concerned because if Ladybug unmasks me, it won’t take a genius to work out who Hawk Moth is.

Hawk Moth: I will willingly give up my opportune moment to get Ladybug and Cat Noir’s Miraculouses to protect you! I’m not even thinking about my identity being exposed.

Hawk Moth: But we’re definitely not a couple.

Ladybug and Cat Noir: *sensing Hawkyura*

Gabriel: Don’t do that again. You’re more important to me than bringing my wife back.

Duusu and Nooroo: *sensing Gabenath*

Nathalie: *completely misses the meaning of his words*

Nathalie: I will keep risking my life to help you if you give me permission to.

Duusu and Nooroo: *facepalm*

***FELIX***

Nathalie: *watches Adrien remember Emilie, feeling so sorry for him, labouring under the delusion that he hasn’t moved on either*

Nathalie: You should tell him. Before he gets some crazy ideas about us in his head.

Adrien: Too late.

Adrien: Gabenath.

Gabriel: How dare you!

Amelie: Hello, brother-in-law. Happy anniversary of the day your wife mysteriously vanished. Can I have your wedding rings? I’m assuming she left hers behind when she skipped town because, unlike you, I don’t put her on a literal pedestal and I know she was a selfish bitch like me so I assume she just left you and the son she doesn’t deserve.

Gabriel: I’m too proper to tell you to shove off. And no, you cannot have them.

Félix: Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll steal them for you.

Félix: Right after I’ve had some fun pissing off Adrien’s friends for no reason, because I’m a brat that way.

Lila: *does the only good thing she has ever done in her entire life (that she wasn’t persuaded to do by Adrien) by sending a copy of the video to Nathalie*

Nathalie: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Gabriel: Yes. A perfect opportunity to boot my bitch sister-in-law out of the house. One of the perks of being a supervillain is so much potential for being vindictively petty, and they won’t even know I’m the one behind it. Mwahaha.

Hawk Moth: *sends out an akuma which gives Lady Wifi digital teleportation powers*

Hawk Moth: Hang on a second. Nathalie, why didn’t you remind me that Adrien is in the same room as Félix and therefore in the line of fire when the villains come after him?

Nathalie: Oops! I’ll see to it now.

Lady Wifi: Too late, we’re here! Hang on, two Adriens?

Nathalie: *displays impressive combat skills*

Hawk Moth: *trying to focus on his mission and not get distracted by how awesome she is*

Félix: Hey, Hawk Moth! I’m about to prove not just what a sneaky little creep I am, but also demonstrate that I’m willing to make a deal with a supervillain just to get yours and my aunt’s wedding rings. Not that I know it’s you I’m talking to, obviously.

Hawk Moth: Yeah, okay. I’m definitely not going to help you get MY rings, but I’m willing to promise anything in order to get what I want.

Gabriel: *shakes hands with Félix even though he knows Félix wants his ring*

Gabriel: Oops. Shouldn’t have done that.

Amelie: Ah, my little criminal in the making! I’m so proud of you for doing something so cruel to your grieving uncle.

Nathalie: So, what did Adrien say earlier?

Gabriel: Er … nothing I currently accept as reality.

Nathalie: …?

***BATTLE OF THE MIRACULOUS***

Whole Episode: Hawkyura Hawkyura Hawkyura

Gabriel: Nooo, Nathalie!

Nathalie: It’s okay. Now we can fix the peacock Miraculous so Mayura can be a full-time partner.

Nathalie: And give the Parisians even more reason to think Hawkyura.

Gabriel: Stupid Parisians.

***SEASON FOUR***

Adrien: Gabenath.

Gabriel: Never!

***SEASON FIVE***

Adrien: Gabenath.

Gabriel: Stop doing that! She’s just a friend!

***SEASONS SIX TO ONE HUNDRED AND SIX***

Adrien and the majority of the rest of the cast: Gabenath

Gabriel: JUST! A! FRIEND!

Parisians: Hawkyura

Hawk Moth: JUST! A! FRIEND!

Adrien: Huh, that’s exactly what Father says about Nathalie …

***SEASON ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN***

André Glacier: *spends five minutes alone with Gabriel*

Gabriel: Okay, Gabenath.

#miraculous ladybug #mlb #miraculous lb #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #GabeNath #hawkyura #villain love square #gabriel agreste #gabriel x nathalie #nathalie sancoeur #Adrien and Gabriel #adrien and nathalie #mlb crack #gabenath crack #miraculous crack #miraculous lb crack #miraculous ladybug crack

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veridium · 4 years

Text

Commission: “Not A Word”

One of my lovely commissions, and if my memory serves me right my first Solas x Lavellan commission, @noire-pandora asked me to write for him and her delightful Elluin Lavellan. Thank you for introducing me to her!

I am pleased to share the final piece, “Not A Word,” with you all tonight.

“If it is quiet you wanted, why did you have me come with you?”

She provoked him with her question after the third time his brow creased at the sound of her boot beginning to tap on the stone floor. These old libraries had many perks to them -- including fair acoustics.

“Not in the least,” Solas replied. Standing in the left-hand side of the rounded, aged shelves. One book opened in his dominant hand, the other bent at the back of his waist. Well, until the third disruptive sound. He turned to the side. “I am used to such habits and their echo, or else my placement on the ground floor of the library below Lord Dorian and Sister Leliana would seem rather fruitless, yes?”

Elluin had blanketed herself across the chair paired with a wide and ornamentally designed table. Such a relic seemed rather fragile and yet it endured while most everything around it decayed. Protected and secure, a description she could not apply to the far they found this place so many months ago. By Solas’s demeanor, however, she could swear he was one of the artifacts found with them, and at the very least, dubious to having his age-old routine tampered with.

She switched which leg crossed over the other and smirked. The book she had chosen rested against her curled lap, contoured to its place as she was to hers.

“For some reason, I do not quite believe you.” She almost breathed it in a sigh whilst turning the page. A volume on Nevarran history, inspired by curiosity for a culture Seeker Cassandra was wary to share anything other than rancor.

“What stakes are there, Inquisitor, in identifying dishonesty?”

Her coyness was just as brief as her peek upward. Her glasses had slid down the ridge of her nose. Half of him was life-size and the other was magnified twice that, and she bit her lip to stifle a laugh. “I am a simple woman, I prefer my knowledge free of distortion.”

“Distortion.” He repeated it back as if a clever endearment. He reversed his turn from her in favor of facing her head, his book hand falling away from his view of it. Then, by virtue of curiosity, their eyes locked on one another.

“Yes. Distortion: the act of distorting something, or being in a state of being distorted.”

“You are quite correct, in the most literal and erudite sense.”

“I know.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “That is the knowledge of a definition, but is it the experience of your own self?”

She slid herself up against the chair, shoulders rolling as her elbows hooked behind her for leverage. She slid her glasses back to their proper position. He was always sneaking these needles, so much so they had begun to change what her idea of “troubling” really was. Rather strange, for someone who could take little grief from recruits or bureaucracy from diplomats. Talking with him was not like an argument or an insubordination so much as a book in and of itself: a course that began with a curiosity that unfolded its true extent the more she turned pages, ended and began chapters, and reached the back cover. There only was one difference: with Solas there never seemed to have an ending to the narrative that satisfied.

How fitting, for a woman -- for an Inquisitor -- who never rested on reaching one very long before going elsewhere.

Her book snapped shut. “Why would you wish to know?”

“Is it egregious to encourage the matter that brims at the surface?”

“No more criminal than disturbing one’s quiet reading, I imagine.” Her words were vitriolic but framed by a soft smile. One that was met by his own, conservative grin. She would see this match through.

“I can imagine for someone who has traveled most of his life alone, having someone nearby is off-putting.”

Solas approached the table and set the book down, open and beholden. She could almost read from it, herself, if she was well-versed in upside-down texts. She leaned forward just enough to where he even noticed, and slid the book forward just a few inches.

“Though I have been alone in my travels I would not say it has made me hostile or apprehensive to company. As we have discussed before, I was rarely ever alone where I wandered, my companions were simply of a different kind than I have found here.”

“Yes, and we talked at length about those companions.”

“We have.”

“So then, what remains to be seen is what the “sort” you have found here, is.”

He took a half-step back from the table, his arms joined at his back in confidence. “You are enamored with my perceptions of the Inquisition and those in service of it. I see no reason as to why it would be a mystery to you now, especially since it appears your true intention is to get a rise out of me as I appear to elicit from you.”

“It is just that you strike me as the sort of person who is gratified from provocation.”

“My capability of conversation does not mean I do not have preferences for it.”

“Preferences?”

“Do you enjoy being needled and demanded-upon by people at all hours of the day, for all causes both on the forefront of your mind as well as those you could care little for, Inquisitor?”

Her legs slid off of the armrest, the balls of her feet landing on the floor. Her hands gripped the edge of her seat but did not tense. Rather, the lean of her locked elbows and slightly-bunched shoulders signaled increased fervor.

“Not in the least,” she answered.

He remained still for a moment longer than her reply required. He must have expected a quip as lengthy and exacting as his was -- or as much as she was known to give when pressed.

“One could ask, then, why you see fit to impose the expectation onto others.”

“Onto others?”

“...Onto me,” he refined.

“Maybe there is no expectation at all, Solas.”

“How do you mean?”

“You have said it yourself in the past that it is strange for you to think others would simply wish to talk to you in order to just get to know you better -- to have some kind of friendly understanding, rather than an exchange of information. Maybe that is what is afoot, now, in my ‘choice’ to bother you, and not anything more. Maybe it is...it is because...”

There was more frustration in her tone than she would have liked. The slight spark of light in his eyes further damned her for it. It was then she realized without a doubt the indictment he had for her was also the lure intended for her. Maybe she knew all along, and that was the pit in her stomach orbited by the butterflies. A wonderful concealment, but ultimately lacking in opacity.

“I have had enough,” she concluded as she stood. The book remained in her death-grip, for it was coming with her. She did, however, remove her glasses from her face. Folding them quick but carefully in her hand she took one last look -- one attempted last look -- as her boot heel ground into the floor.

Solas concurring was not fully convincing. Rather, it was drenched in astute formality as it most always was. “Perhaps you are, and these are not best practices for our respective needs of study.”

“I will be finding another place to continue mine, then.”

“Very well, Inquisitor. I hope you find a place that is most compatible.”

“I will.”

“I am...sure of it.”

She spun toward the hall where the doors and stairs would take her back up. In the speed of her heart and thoughts she couldn’t care, either. She walked until she was concealed in the dimness of the corridor and the corner they shared looks like an island of light left in her wake.

But when she was far enough away to believe he couldn’t see her turn to look, she did exactly that. When she did, she saw him as anything but victorious. He does not carry on or act like he is relieved. Instead he is pensive, head hung slightly over the book before him. It isn’t focused or exact. It’s contemplative of anything but the literature. He even went so far as to press a hand to his face. It almost makes her smile, first out of triumph, and then out of flattery. But flattery is too shallow of a word for the way she truly feels.

A minute went by of his solemnity before he looked up from the table. Elluin returned out of the dark, book held against her waist. For a moment she feared he would have something to say, something vindictive, or callous even. But he said and did nothing of the sort. She resettled back to her chair, sliding in in almost the same shape she was in before. She avoided eye contact with him while she did so, crossing her legs and finding the right page. With glasses slid on she skimmed to locate the proper section.

Solas took his book into his hands once more. She thought she heard an observant hum, a commentary on her choice. But when she next caught a glimpse of him, she saw what she both longed to see and feared most at the same time: warm smugness.

“Not a word from you,” she remarked. But surely there would be many words to follow in the days and weeks to come.

#commission #noire-pandora #elluin lavellan #solas x lavellan #comission fic #thank you!

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Strays

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship Characters: Parker, Lady Penelope, John Tracy, Gordon Tracy

Taking a nice little break from whump to jump back into @gumnut-logic‘s #irrelief - which is still going! I know a lot of people seem unsure about that, but it is :D This one is (somewhat) based on a prompt from @eos-in-orbit: “John and Penny being close friends (bonus if there’s a suspicious Gordon in the background)”

Her ladyship collects strays.

His errant ward had quite the knack for picking up strays. Not that one Aloysius Parker could really talk when he himself was a ‘stray’ collected by her father, but it appeared that this was a case of like father, like daughter.

At least Lady Penelope had yet to pick up any former criminals amongst her collection, although Parker suspected she counted him despite not being the one to gather him herself. A gifted stray from her father, perhaps. That being said, one of her strays was the sort that Parker thought would do very nicely in the underground, if given half a chance.

He hadn’t taught the boy any more of his tricks than he had his ward – or the boy’s brothers, because they were all so, so eager and maybe he liked the rapt attention from all of them, no matter what their father had to say about them learning to pick locks and pockets whenever he met them – but he sat and watched as a certain redheaded Tracy made his own choices about the law, and whether or not the law should be followed.

Back when he’d first met John Tracy, a gangly beanpole of a teenager attending language classes with her Ladyship and finding himself added to her collection of strays – not her first, but in Parker’s opinion, by far the best (and not just because he didn’t even give the beautiful young woman a second glance; Parker might not be her father but that didn’t stop him feeling the urge to chase away any and all potential suitors until she was old and grey herself) – he hadn’t thought much of it. One more stray. One more charity case to be added to her posse of connections.

But Master Tracy wasn’t any old stray, it transpired. While her Ladyship kept in contact with all of her strays, it was the awkward redhead who shied away from contact and stayed far, far away from any social events he could possibly avoid that stayed.

That was when Parker started to take notice, and saw what his ward had probably seen all along.

Master Tracy had looked at the laws of the world, and their variations from country to country, where the World Government’s reach was greater or lesser, and much like Parker himself, a young whippersnapper in the streets of London, had found them wanting.

Laws were simply… guidelines. Almost two generations apart, from different sides of the great Pond some called the Atlantic, Parker saw his mirror.

He’d wondered what Mr Tracy had been thinking, after he’d been brought in on the secret that was International Rescue, giving his second eldest son a space station with the capabilities to hack into anything and everything. Did Colonel Jeff Tracy, world famous astronaut and billionaire businessman to boot, know what he’d done? Up in space, cut off from the world and with a super computer at his disposal, the young Master Tracy who hacked into his lecturer’s computers for more work to do, or the library when there was a book out of his access, had the power to do anything.

And no-one could stop him.

Oh, Master Tracy was careful, of course. Not once did Parker ever hear him refer to what he was doing as hacking. “I’ve obtained access” was a favourite phrase of his, and Parker was never sure how many people could hear what he was really saying: I hacked my way in. Maybe they’d question more if it wasn’t to save lives.

He’d learnt that wording from her Ladyship. Americans didn’t do finesse like the British, talking without saying, silence and omissions speaking louder than the words that spilled from their lips. That much was obvious from the redhead’s brothers – if there was one brother that knew Master Tracy’s methods weren’t legal, it was the eldest, the “John, can you hack this” leader of the pack. No, no subtlety at all.

It could be said that her Ladyship had obtained herself six strays from that family – five brothers and a sister who had been hurt by the world but refused to hurt it back. Parker disagreed. Friends, perhaps, as much as Lady Creighton-Ward could permit herself to have friends, rather than associates and acquaintances, but there was only one stray to have wormed his way into her affections.

Parker wasn’t the only one that knew this. Amber eyes narrowed in jealousy whenever his older brother was earthside and in the comfort of FAB1. Younger, louder, brasher, American. He saw it – saw the way Master Tracy no longer shied away from her Ladyship’s touches and let himself be led into his own personal lion’s den over and over again. He watched, and knew that he’d never have that relationship with her.

Or anything of the sort, if Parker had anything to do with it. Master Tracy had proven himself time and time again to be no threat to his paternal instincts, but the younger Master Tracy had threat oozing from every pore. Not on Parker’s watch.

Let it not be said that he disliked Gordon Tracy. All of the Tracys, including the elder, wiser generations, were perfectly fine people and Parker had shown them all too many tricks from his misspent youth for them to be anything other than friends – Parker was not a Lady, Parker could have as many friends as he wanted. He was just a caretaker, second father, and it would be remiss of him to allow Lord Creighton-Ward’s greatest treasure to slip carelessly through his fingers into a world that she would always be too young for, in the eyes of her guardians.

Master Tracy – John Tracy, it got confusing when there was more than one of them around, and at some point Parker switched to calling him Master John, just to make it easier – was by no means her Ladyship’s first stray, but he was the one that Parker approved of the most. For a Lady, the law was rigid, harsh and unmoving. She had to follow it to the letter, even when it didn’t suit her purposes.

For Parker and Master John, the law was flexible, guidelines, rather than a shackle. When they were on the case, the law always suited their purposes. Maybe they’d been collected for that exact reason, but Parker was happy to serve, and he knew Master John well enough to know he felt just the same.

#irrelief #irrelief2020 #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #aloysius parker #lady penelope creighton-ward #john tracy #gordon tracy #thunderfluff

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hexlikesramennoodles · 5 years

Note

If you’re still doing kissing prompts? #4

4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

Author’s note: this is rated M for suggestive content and violence. Inspired by this beautiful work of art by @kelpie-earnest.

“It’s my brother. He can’t know I’m here,” Max said. “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill us.”

Steve gazed through the gap in Joyce Byers’ curtains, out to where the Camaro was tucked in the driveway like some gigantic waiting spider. The noise generated by the engine was tremendous, a powerful, vibrating thrum of tectonic force that could be felt through the walls. Right through to the marrow.

“Lock yourselves in,” he said.

Four pairs of disbelieving eyes swiveled around to stare at him. Steve felt the strange urge to laugh. Before he could, though, they all started arguing at once:

“Steve, no—”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? He’ll kill you—”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Steve said in a loud voice, clapping his hands. “Did I stutter, you boneheads? Lock yourselves in, I said. Don’t open the door until you hear me say so.” He gestured vaguely to the window. “If it goes south—”

He heard Dustin’s intake of breath, registered Lucas’ eyes growing large and round in their sockets, but couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge them both, lest he start thinking too hard about what it was he meant to do—

“You run like hell, okay?”

It was fine, he told himself. He had survived the Demodogs. He could survive this, too. One carrier was chump change compared to what lurked in Hawkins’ cavernous underbelly. He was going to be completely fine.

It wasn’t until he stepped out onto the porch that he realized he’d forgotten to bring his bat.

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

As always, the cherry of Billy’s lit cigarette preceded the rest of him. Steve watched its slow orbit in the gloom, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Something made him uncross them, straighten his spine. A mnemonic echo. Billy’s fangs jutting wetly from the bed of his mouth, his hand held out. Plant your feet.

“I didn’t know carriers could dream,” he said evenly.

Billy lowered his hand. The cherry descended like a miniature comet, trailing embers and smoke. “I’m looking for my step-sister,” he said. The words were casual, almost friendly. They didn’t match his eyes. “Little birdie told me she was here.”

“I haven’t seen her, man. Sorry.”

A sudden explosion of glass made him jump: a beer bottle, flung from Billy’s hand into the gutter. Foam bubbled sluggishly from its broken neck, spreading across the blacktop in jagged white lines.

“You know,” Billy said. The driver’s door slammed shut, but the headlights stayed on; they cut a bright, glaring swath through the trees. “I was meant to be goin’ on a date tonight, amigo. I had it all planned out. Sure, his face wasn’t much to look at, but his neck? A whole meal. He had his own donor card, too. Certified and everything. But then what happens? Maxine goes missing, and I get told—I get told that I have to find her sorry ass, because she’s my responsibility. Which means my night—all that hard work—is down the toilet. Fucked.”

He smiled, then. Or snarled. The cherry of his cigarette rose, a wandering red star, a demon’s eye that kept lazily opening and closing on each inhale. Billy opened his mouth, still smiling, and doused the cigarette on his tongue. There was an angry hss of cooking flesh, like animal fat rendering over an open flame.

“As far as I’m concerned, you took my fuckin’ food, Harrington,” Billy continued, dropping the butt under his boot. “Are you gonna pay for it?”

“Will you leave them alone if I do?”

He could tell by the way Billy paused that whatever he’d been expecting when he stepped out of the Camaro, it hadn’t been that. Steve watched him flick his tongue over his teeth, telling himself that he was used to the sight by now. It was generally considered to be bad etiquette for carriers to flaunt their fangs in public, the same way it was considered indecent for non-carrier women to breastfeed in shopping malls. Billy was either unaware of the unspoken social laws of his kind, or he considered himself to be above them. Steve would bet all the money in his wallet on the latter; whether it was on the court or in class, the locker rooms or at house parties, Billy always had his fangs out.

“If the price is right,” Billy said. He was silent for another moment, his tongue between his teeth, studying Steve with an expression that was difficult to read. Sizing up the merchandise, Steve thought. “Have you been tested?”

He nodded. “When I was with Nancy, I—”

“Oh, that’s right,” Billy exclaimed, his smile turning into a sneer, “you were her blood bag.”

Steve gritted his teeth through the mockery. “I was her donor.”

“Please. We both know what you were, Harrington. What you still are. There’s no use denying it.” Billy moved with frightening agility; one moment he was on the other side of the road, the next he was breathing down Steve’s neck, his teeth—both incisors, each at least an inch long—hot and hard against Steve’s pulse. His pupils were two scorch marks, deepest obsidian ringed in flaming red and orange. “You and everybody else in that house, you’re all just meat. Prey. And I’m the hunter.”

“Not tonight,” Steve said. He turned his head, willing himself to stare into the darkest center of the red. The rage and hunger there. “Not ever. You can have me. But you can’t have them. They’re off limits from now on, you understand?”

Billy’s lips peeled apart. “Like I said. If the price is right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the Camaro. “Let’s have a taste.”

“Don’t you wanna take this elsewhere?”

“Why? I’m already dressed up for it.” In the blink of an eye, Billy was standing on the opposite sidewalk, holding the passenger door open. “Get in the car, blood bag.”

The inside of the Camaro was surprisingly clean, save for the smell: hot ash and hot blood. Visceral and vital. It was the smell of a fever that had yet to burn itself out, cloying and oppressive; the smell of a cancer ward. The word vampire was outdated. Vampire was for old Christopher Lee movies, for actors with powdered faces and plastic fangs smeared with sticky, ketchup-looking fake blood. Carrier was treatable; vampire wasn’t. Carrier made it sound akin to plague; carrier and medical emergency and regressive behavior. Carriers—not vampires—still retained their humanity somewhere inside, despite their monstrous symptoms. Steve knew better. Billy, like Nancy before him, was nothing human.

“Where did Wheeler like to have her fill?” Billy asked. “From your neck?”

“No. From my thumb.”

“Your—seriously?” Billy threw back his head, letting out a quick, yipping laugh. Steve followed the needlepoint gleam of his incisors with nauseated fascination. “How fuckin’ chaste. And you—you were okay with that, pretty boy?”

“You know, they don’t recommend you drink from the neck, typically,” Steve said. “Because it’s so close to the artery—”

“That’s what makes it feel so fuckin’ good, though. Like, really good.” Billy caught his eye in the rearview mirror and smirked, then leaned across to squeeze his knee. “Better than getting your finger sucked by some prissy bitch in her daddy’s pillbox McMansion.”

Steve pushed his knee out of Billy’s grip. “Don’t call her a bitch.”

“I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want, Harrington. She deprived you, and she did it on purpose. I bet she knew that if you had it elsewhere, you’d leave her in the dust.”

Something about Billy’s eyes, this close—how the red surrounding his pupils fluctuated as he spoke, shifting and dancing like real flames—had loosened Steve’s tongue, made him less aware of himself and his surroundings. Hadn’t there been a warning in the pamphlets about looking directly into carriers’ eyes? He couldn’t remember.

“It doesn’t matter,” he heard himself say. “She left me in the dust first.”

(Why not? Steve thought. Underneath the blood and ash and sickroom smell, he could just make out Billy’s cologne, a hint of sweetness to offset the bitter. The world was going to hell in a handbasket, but Billy looked like the closest thing to a model from a Calvin Klein magazine spread. Pretty. Hair spilling down his shoulders in soft, stylized waves, his muscled arms sitting snugly in the sleeves of his maroon shirt; Steve had always envied him for his arms. Why the fuck not?)

“She did, didn’t she?” Billy made a soft, sympathetic noise that was as bogus as it was scathing. “Oh, and she hurt you, too. She really hurt. But it’s okay now, though, because you’ve got me. And I can show you what you’ve been missing out on.”

He leaned across, so abruptly Steve didn’t have time to parse what was happening; panicking, he blurted out: “Is it gonna hurt?”

Billy’s smile paused inches from his neck. “It will, and then it won’t,” he said, “but you gotta relax first.”

Steve thought of Nancy. Billy’s hand was creeping up his arm, over his shoulder. Pulling the collar of his jacket and T-shirt to one side. Moving slow, like he wanted to savor it. Steve fixed his eyes straight ahead, on the outline of the driveway just outside the reach of the Camaro’s headlights. The engine growled and shuddered underneath his feet like an animal that wanted to throw him off. He thought of Nancy, or he tried to. Every time he pictured her smile, he came up short.

Billy let out a shaky breath. “Beautiful,” he said.

“What?” Steve said, distracted.

“Nothing, Harrington. Just relax.”

With Nancy, it had been like getting a flu shot. A quick jab, minimal pain, no mess. If Steve became lightheaded, she would stop. If he told her to stop, she would stop.

He didn’t know if Billy would extend him the same courtesy.

Minimal pain, no mess. Billy’s thumb caressed his neck, soothing the hoofbeat clatter of his heart. He was no longer smiling. Steve closed his eyes.

It was quick, he’d give Billy that—the initial pain. Steve shifted in the passenger seat, tilting his head as far back as the headrest would allow; Billy moved with him, cupping his jaw. He bit down lightly, suckling on Steve’s neck. Pain blossomed like a flare in the dark. Fading as Billy’s teeth probed deeper. He made a noise against Steve’s skin. It might have been a sigh of relief. A moan. Steve couldn’t tell.

“Let me know when you see the colors,” Billy said thickly. He sounded drunk. His hand was back on Steve’s knee, massaging the bone, anchoring them both.

“The—”

Billy bit down again and Steve cried out, shocked, his spine bowing. Not from pain. The pain had subsided entirely, morphed into a distant, warm prickling. It was actually kind of nice. Steve let the tension in his shoulders slacken, giving Billy’s mouth more leeway to rove over his skin. He was sucking hard, lapping at Steve’s neck like a dog with a bowl of water, his Adam’s apple working as he swallowed, paused to breathe.

“Knew you’d taste good.”

Billy’s voice, faint. Prickling like pins and needles. Steve was starting to feel as though he’d fallen asleep with his arm trapped underneath his body; the tingling, pins and needles sensation had spread from his neck down to his wrist. Numb and blissful. The heat from Billy’s mouth was building, tightening into a stranglehold. The car was getting warmer.

“I’d think about it,” Billy’s voice said. Still faint, still distant and removed. Steve fought to open his eyes; he was dimly aware of someone watching him, the hand on his knee parting his legs to run up the inseam of his jeans. He was too warm to do anything about it. “You know, when we were in the showers together and you’d … you’d just stand there, ignoring everybody else, I’d look at you, and think about what it would be like if I just …”

“Tore my throat out?” Steve slurred.

The prickling had turned into an itch, restless, fierce. Billy latched onto his neck, sucking with a junkie’s greed for his next fix, like he would die if he didn’t have it, like there was nothing in the world that mattered more. “No,” he said, laughing. Pulling off his neck with an obscene, theatrical pop that should have made Steve retch. Instead, it sent desire licking down his spine. “Hey, I’ve never killed anybody. Ask Laurie. Ask Tina. They both came to me begging for it. You know, I’ve always thought there was somethin’ in the water here that drove people crazy horny. Maybe you’re all just bored. Too wimpy to turn to meth. I was doing them a favor, man. There are worse things to get hooked on.”

“You were doing them a favor, huh? Wow. What a hero you are.”

“It was a mutually beneficial partnership,” Billy insisted. “You can feel it, right? It’s like … fuck, it’s like we’re fucking, almost. Or doing poppers. Except there’s no come down, no limit to how high you can get … you just keep flying … and flying …”

“Uh,” was all Steve could say. It did sort of feel like he was flying. He could no longer feel his arm, or his leg; the left side of his body seemed to have dissolved, become incorporeal. He didn’t have any sense of where the roof of the Camaro had gone; he was rising, being steadily submerged into the night sky. There came another moan. Billy’s teeth were thumb tacks pressing into the grooves of his palms, pins and needles, prickling and itching and stoking the fire between them.

“Can you feel it, Steve?” he was panting. His hand clutched at Steve’s leg in ecstasy and desperation. “Can you see me?”

“I—I can see you,” Steve mumbled. He was hot all over, floating in an ozone layer of swirling blues and greens and pinks. Each color was its own self-contained galaxy; each color reminded him of Billy’s eyes, ever-changing. Rings hot with lust. “God, the colors, Billy … I didn’t know …”

“It’s called a glamour,” Billy said. “I told you, baby. It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Good? It’s—it’s incredible. God, I’m—”

“Yeah?” Somewhere back on Earth, Billy’s smile had returned, wide and cannibalistic. “Yeah, baby? Are you close?”

“I’m—” Steve said, swallowing. His hands flapped at Billy’s chest like maimed birds. “I’m—I’m—”

It came at him out of nowhere, all at once. When it did, his mouth was still straining to form the words that he could no longer speak, pleasure robbing him of all ability to do so: I’m, I’m, ohmyGod, Billy, Billy, I’m gonna. Something soft brushed his cheek and he automatically turned towards it, his mouth opening, searching for comfort like a newborn’s rooting reflex searched for the nipple. He met the soft something halfway, and tasted himself.

Billy kissed him hard, his mouth tasting of Steve’s blood. The kiss was without fangs, without hunger or violence. His hand caressed Steve’s neck, played with his hair. His grip was lax and boneless.

He was well fed.

“Like we’re fucking,” Steve repeated. His voice sounded husky and raw, his vocal chords crippled. He was still coming, still high; his wrists trembled through the ghostly aftershocks. “Did you dream about that, too?”

He knew Billy was watching him. The prickling in his neck was all but gone; the wound had already sutured itself closed, and it would only reopen the next time Billy came for him. And he would come, Steve thought, with an odd sense of pride. Billy was the one who needed him, now. He wouldn’t be able to find it anywhere else. Not the way Steve tasted.

Billy reached for the steering wheel. He turned the key, and the headlights stuttered. Then, like a candleflame guttering out, they went dark.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #vampire!billy #blood drinking #my writing #writing prompts #it has just occurred to me that i could have done this for the neck kisses one and it would've made more sense #i only realised i wanted to write vampire!billy like 2 days ago so

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