#it is illegal to sing this song without the accent | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

x-reader-theater · 3 years

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Inspired by the @katytheinspiredworkaholic Noir AU mood board, Spencer dating Hotches or Alvezes younger brother in around 20's-40's era when it was still illegal. Hotch or Alvez (who ever you choose) would be some sort of important name in the city so obviously the reader would be too, being from a wealthy family. So it is especially hard for the reader and Spencer to sneak around kissing and stuff when everyone has their eyes on the reader. But one day the reader realises that fuck the others, he is wealthy and so known that no-one dared to mess with him anyway so reader and Spencer would publicly announce their relation ship.

(sorry if its too long of a request)

This got away from me a bit, I'm so sorry. I also made a moodboard because I was so inspired. This was soooooo much fun to write. I love me a good noir AU loll. Edited by @mystic-writes

Moodboard by Me

You laugh lightly as Spencer pushes you into the wall right outside of your bedroom, kissing down your neck and sucking right below your collarbone. You chose to have your top three buttons undone tonight, just for this very purpose. You wanted to entice, without making it known that it was your intention. You got a few ladies coming over to try and talk to you, much to your brother's delight, but you rebuffed every single one of them. They weren't who your heart was truly with.

You moan as you grind your hips against Spencer's and pant out, "We- uh- we should get inside. Before someone sees us."

"Let them," Spencer says, kissing your neck more. "Let them see us. I don't care."

You push Spencer away, holding him at arm's length, before saying, "I do. I care. Do you know what my brother would do if he found out who I shared my bed with?"

You look away from Spencer, who sighs. "Maybe I should go-"

"No, wait," you say, grabbing his wrist. "Please don't. Just, hold me tonight?"

Spencer smiles and kisses you.

–

"Hey! Little brother! Come to watch the show?" your older brother Luke asks you from his usual seat. He's the only one in the club, but that makes sense since the sun hasn't even set yet. You walk over and sit down next to him, and he leans over, whispering, "Isn't she a vision?"

he points to the obviously very beautiful woman on stage, with dark skin and black hair curled beautifully on her head. She's wearing a white rhinestoned dress with spaghetti straps and you think you see her pearly white heels underneath . She looks stunning.

"She's not my type," you say, leaning back and listening to her sing.

Luke hits your arm. "No one is! I swear, if Ma and Pa hadn't raised me to be such a gentleman, I would be kickin' the snot out of you to find out."

You snort when he says he's a gentleman, but cross your arms and ignore it. "I do have a type. You just don't know what it is," you snort, and look over at your brother, who's frowning at you. "You're not her type either." You nod to the woman on stage.

"What do you mean? I'm everybody's type!" Luke exclaims and the woman glares at you.

You snort. "She keeps looking over at Penelope at the bar, making sure she's watching. She's singing a love song, but the only person in the entire place that it's for is your bartender."

Luke's eyes go wide, and you smile and slap him on the shoulder, while the woman finishes her song. You give Penelope a wink as you exit.

–

That night, you walk into the club. No one's singing at the moment, but you met the woman, Tara, back behind the stage in one of the back rooms that had been converted into a dressing room for her. She's going to go on stage later, and you paid her something extra to make the first song a love song.

You were good for it after all.

You haven't been keeping up with the family as much as you used to, but you notice your brother doing deals every now and again, and you have to step in to save him from getting his ass beat.

You take a deep breath and walk into the crowded club, the low jazz coming from the band on stage. You walk over to the bar and order a gin from Emily, who smiles at you and takes it from your fingers before you can grab it. She points at one of the tables where you see Spencer, sitting with a woman, ignoring her flirting. You sigh and thank Emily, before going to the table with your drink, and sitting down on Spencer's other side.

"[Y/N]!" he exclaims, a grateful look in his eyes.

"Spencer! Good to see you," you say, clasping a hand onto his shoulder. You squeeze it and he smiles at you. "Who's your friend here?" You ask, gesturing to her, but you don't stop touching him.

"Uh, this is… uh…" he starts to say, but the woman frowns at him when he doesn't say it.

"I'm Lila. Lila Archer," she says. While you're in Chicago, most folks around here don't have any sort of accent. She however has a southern lilt to her words. She's blonde haired and blue eyed, and she looks incredibly uncomfortable in here, surrounded by both black and white folks. There was also the occasional Hispanic person in here, like your brother, but they are few and far between.

Your brother owns one of the only mixed race clubs in town, only because he was adopted into the family as a young boy. He has the money as a non-white to own and run a business. Helps that his "family" is a majority white as well.

Your grandfather was sent to Chicago from New York to make sure the city knew the Italians still ran the place. But, he likes to pick up a lot of strays.

Doctor Spencer Reid being one of them. No one quite knows what he's a doctor of, but he seems to be a doctor of everything. Medicine, the arts, mathematics, you name it, he probably knows it. It's one of the many reasons you fell in love with him.

"Miss Archer. I've never seen you in here before. Is this your first time visiting my brother's club?" You ask.

She nods stiffly. "That's right. My father wants to buy this place, but he can't seem to put in an offer big enough. Says he wants to rid the city of it's filth and reclaim it for the whites once again."

"Well, Miss Archer, as you can see, there are plenty of whites here tonight," you say, gesturing to the people seated at tables and getting drinks from the bar. "And I'm really hoping you don't share the same… convictions as he does, because otherwise, I might just have to get one of my people to throw you out of here."

You make eye contact with Morgan who's sitting at a nearby table and he nods at you, acknowledging what you want.

"I-" she begins to say, before she deflates. "I wanted to see what was so bad, all the voodoo and evil devil worshiping he says he's seen you folks doin'. But, y'all just seem like good honest people."

You smile at her and stand up. "I'm glad to hear it, Miss Archer. I think you'll find we're a lot more human than everyone makes us out to be." She smiles at you and you turn to Spencer, holding out your hand. "Now, my good doctor, would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a dance? Miss Lewis is about to start her singing, and I heard it's going to be *beautiful*."

Spencer grins and takes your hand. You drag him to the dance floor, where there's already a group of people dancing together, swinging them around their bodies, moving and shaking and laughing.

The music gradually changes, and while it does get slower and softer, it is by no means a slow dancing tune.

You start shaking your hips and kicking your legs and Spencer does the same. He spins you around, almost forcing you to go out and in, and it's perfect. The melody is beautifully sung by Tara, and you smile as your back is pulled to Spencer's chest. He loops his arms around you, and you look up at him, smiling.

He's looking at you with a quizzical look, as if saying, "You sure you want to do this?"

Instead of answering, you kiss him. He opens his mouth and you slide your tongue into his mouth, capturing his mouth in a wet and heated kiss. When you pull away, he has the happiest smile on his face.

You look over at your brother, who has the angriest look on his face, and you raise an eyebrow, silently saying, "Just try to stop me."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid #luke alvez #noir au #criminal minds reader insert #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #my writing #my work

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starlightrows · 3 years

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1 — The Innkeeper

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Mention of sex work, mild sexual harassment

Summary: An innkeeper at the edge of the universe has a chance encounter with an infamous bounty hunter.

AN: Special thank you to my biggest cheerleader @ortizshinkaroff

On a remote planet at the edge of the known galaxy, in a settlement carved out of the tall red barked trees stood an inn. A small building that hosted many traders and travelers as they passed through the settlement. That inn has been in your family for over a century, and you took over the care and keeping of that inn at the age of fourteen when your mother died an untimely death.

Things were different after she passed away. Not just because it was now up to you to manage the money, make the repairs to the inn, cook the evening meal for your patrons, and defend yourself from the prying eyes of townsfolk and strange travelers alike. Beyond your control, your settlement became a hub for bounty hunters and bounties alike… trying to outrun their debts and wrongdoings by disappearing into the dense forests and high mountains. Unfortunately, being that yours is the only inn in the settlement, many townsfolk blame you for the shift patronage that passes through the town.

Whispers and rumors run rampant through the town. Nasty rumors that your inn has become a trading post for illegal dealings or that you are a one woman show… brothel keeper and harlot all in one. Of course, none of it is true, you don’t ask questions about your patrons or their business in your town. The less you know about them the better. And you certainly don’t allow them into your private room.

Of course this doesn’t keep them from trying. Pretty young thing like yourself, living on your own, serving anyone who comes across your threshold. You’ve grown used to putting on a neutral mask, grown a thick skin, and take neither complaint nor compliment from your patrons-- either can provoke dangerous responses from men who have had too much spotchka.

Tonight is no different. The summer air is warm but the breeze that flows through the open windows of the dining space downstairs is better. Most of your patrons are in good spirits, singing songs and drinking to their successes in life. As you pass by to replace the decanter of electric blue libation, one of the patrons swats your ass and begs you to join their table. You make no comment and continue about your tasks.

“Come on now girl, we’ve had a long journey and come into great money, drink to our good fortune and maybe we’ll share it with you” the man calls out. You make no comment and go to return to the kitchen. The man is offended by your lack of acknowledgement to his invitation, as so many who proposition you are.

“I am speaking to you girl” he says pointedly “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore your guests”

You turn back to face him, “Congratulations on your accomplishments” you say coldly “Surely you must be exhausted after your journey, perhaps a goodnight’s rest will serve you better than another glass of spotchka”

The man licks his lips… drawing attention to their cracked and crusted appearance. He’s ragged and dirty. He stands too close and you can tell he smells of spotchka and sweat. He reaches out and catches your wrist, gripping you with surprising strength for one so skinny.

“Aye, and why don’t you join me? Tender little thing like you, bet you’d help me get get a good night’s rest”

Before you have a chance to make any sort of retort, pull a blaster or a blade to defend yourself, there is a large, scarred hand on his shoulder.

“That’s enough” The man standing behind your harasser is not particularly tall, he wears a black cloak that covers his head and most of his face. Many who wish to keep a low profile in your establishment dress this way, though you can’t say you’ve ever heard a voice quite like his before.

“Oi, find your own piece of ass” the nasty traveler growls, shirking his shoulder away from the hooded man and turning back to you

The hooded man draws a blaster from his cloak and presses it to the travelers spine “I said, that’s enough”

The traveler visibly stiffens and releases his grip on you. You seize the opportunity to leap backwards away from both of them. This is not the first time someone has stepped in to “rescue” you from an offending patron. Usually they become the next offender, expecting some kind of reward in return for their valor.

“A gift” the hooded man says “Your life. Take it and leave this settlement”

The traveler goes to protest, but the hooded man cuts him off before he can get any words out “Refuse my generosity and you will find that journey ends here”

The traveler raises up his hands and backs towards the door, swiping up his own cloak and satchel before disappearing into the summer night without another word. The tavern is silent, all eyes rest on the hooded man, many craning their necks to get a glimpse at his face shielded by this hood.

You’ve retreated back to the bar that keeps people out of the kitchen and away from your private chambers. Slowly the quiet chatter returns to the dining room, as the hooded man approaches you.

He removes his hood revealing a man with a bald head, dark eyes, age lines and deep scars attempting to hide his true handsomeness.

“I apologize Princess,” says the man, his accent is foreign. Foreign for this system and foreign to your ears, a rare occurrence for you.

“Not a princess” you state, studying his face, watching body language in case he met your expectation of having ill intention. He remains calm, keeping an open posture and surprisingly kind smile “Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you” he replies “May I ask you a question?”

Disappointment floods your heart, here it comes, the question of your marital status or if he can share a drink with you…

“You may” you reply trying not to sound bored or saddened

“Do many of your patrons disrespect you that way?” He asks a question you’ve never gotten before. It surprises you.

“Yes” you reply “He is not the first to speak to me that way, he is not the worst, and he certainly won’t be the last”

“That saddens me princess” he says “Why do you stay?”

“Where else would I go?” you shrug wiping down the counter with a damp rag “I was born in this settlement, I grew up in this inn, it’s all I have and all I know how to do”

The hooded man hums, considering your words “So you serve supper to debtors and bounty hunters”

“And mercenaries and tradesmen and whoever else passes through my town” you agree. The hooded man smiles and gives a warm chuckle

“Does that scare you princess? Mercenaries and bounty hunters sleeping under your roof?” He asks

“Not anymore” you reply “So which are you? The hunter or the hunted?”

“I am Boba Fett. Do you know this name princess?” he asks, shifting his weight to lean on the bar

“No,” you admit. “Are you a famous bounty hunter? Or a known outlaw who’s name and face I should forget the moment you’re gone?”

He chuckles again. His laugh is rich and warm, you have met kinder men before, but he is different. But kind is not exactly the word you would use to describe him at this moment.

“I am just a simple man, making my way in the galaxy” he says

“So a bounty hunter then” you smile, seeing through his well practiced line

“Indeed” he chuckles

“Are you sure there is nothing more I can get for you this evening, Boba Fett?” you ask, worrying again he may try to proposition you for more than he is welcome to.

“No, unfortunately I must be on my way” he smiles “But I will come back to you princess, you have my word”

You quirk a brow, and tilt your head at him “I’m not a princess” you point out again as he walks towards the door

“Says who?” He smirks, drawing his hood back up over his head and disappearing into the darkness.

#Boba Fett #Boba Fett x reader #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x f!reader #The Queen of Tatooine #QT

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helpinghanikan · 3 years

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Hot Date

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Sum: It shouldn't have to be said that SHIELD researchers aren't allowed to date their wards. But that doesn't stop the romantic tension from forming between you. The real question is, whose feelings will be most affected when the tension finally boils over?

Anomalous weapons supervisor was typed out on your paychecks, but babysitter would be a better description. Diplomas, experience and more resulted in your butt on bleachers. Watching the important people play around with powers few in this world understood.

Whoever designed this area probably didn’t know who exactly would be using it. It had the basics; a track for running, mats for sparring and weights for lifting. With more off the wall items thrown in that might be useful to the superpowered individuals using it. Like the massive metal balls being lifted and lowered by the red magic of your charge. Or one of your charges at least.

‘Wanda seems to have complete control of her powers. Whether these powers are coming from her mind or some sort of muscle in her hands has yet to be known.’ You type out just intime to get a guest sitting to your right.

“Can I get an autograph when your book is finished?” Pietro has been working on his accent, so had Wanda. As much pride as the two had they were still looking to adapt. But there were still hints of it on certain words. Especially when he’s this close not really trying.

“Only if I get to sign those tits.” Obviously, a joke, but you still had to take a quick glance to the camera. Just in case you get dragged into a meeting and this comes back up about your unprofessional comments. Not that it would stop your work.

“I can live without the signature,” Wanda’s voice, although distant, echoed in the wide space. “You’ve spelt many things wrong anyhow.”

Few people could say they were as close to the Maximoff twins as yourself. Even after the discovery of an alien/god, of the defrosting of a super-solider and the destruction from a billionaire people were wary of the twins.

It was through simple respect that Wanda had warmed up to you. You hadn’t talked to her with artificial kindness, didn’t look to the guards when her voiced raised even the slightest. No, you had asked how she was (the room was too hot for her), if she needed anything (just wanted to know how much longer she was going to be questioned), if she liked coffee or tea (tea is preferred), and how she was doing, really doing (she was tired, you all were).

It was another story for Pietro. Only trusting you after Wanda obviously saw you as a friend. Taking his own time to warm up after getting the same genuine experience you offered rather the blunt questions and stupid statements. It was the dinner you invited them to that sealed the deal. Nothing brings people together more than a lot of meat, the warm feeling of alcohol and a quiet afternoon with a food coma.

“What have you written?” Pietro asks, your laptop now in his hands.

There’s no point in trying to stop him when he snatches things. A child who had to move fast for food and safety makes petty theft a hard habit to beat. Not to mention Wanda already knew everything that went into your daily reports with a blink of her eye, it was seemingly only fair that Pietro got to know to.

“Same stuff I was doing yesterday, and the day before and the day before that and the-.”

“Yes, yes, thank you!” Pietro says, used to the child like taunts and knowing to stop you early.

With nothing of interest on said laptop he turned it back over to you. Taking his place leaning against your shoulder as you begin to work once more. Only speaking up to ensure you add in the correct description of his improvement.

These reports were supposed to be done without the twins knowledge. You were supposed to be a spy on the side of the government. Although it was blamed on Wanda’s mindreading in reality you had never tried to hide them. These friendships were genuine, resulting with the man practically putting himself in your lap to try and keep your attention.

"How much longer do we have to do this ‘training’?” Although a grown man Pietro could act like a little boy sometimes. When he’s done, he’s done. Taking whatever actions needed to get through his current situation and move on.

“For as long as the door is closed, Pietro.” Wanda has set the metal down. Taking slow steps to reach her brother and friend. “She would likely go faster without you hanging on her.”

There is no smooth way to say this; Pietro is a big spoon. Any chance he gets a hug or to hold someone results in being overwhelmed in lean muscle. Pietro was the only warmth during those impossible cold nights as newly orphaned children. His legs and arms creating a shelter that protected his chosen from any harm from ever happening. You were one of chosen now, which explained the face made at having to get up.

“Alright kids, let’s head home.” You say, slapping the laptop closed for effect.

You were one of several who kept an eye on the twins throughout the day. Wanda and Pietro pretended not to notice how certain employees just happened to always be in the hallway when walking through. Or the little cameras that were hidden in plain sight among the decorations in their quarters. And that’s not including all the mom aged agents “just checking in” at random times, complete with the sing song voice and overuse of the word “sweetie”.

On any other day you would have followed them into their quarters. Give them a recommendation for the TV and even stay awhile to watch it with them. A chime from your phone changing the day’s proceedings. It’s only a second-long hesitation that announces this change to the twins.

Pietro says your name in a tone different than the one earlier. It’s a tone of concern that snaps your head up at him. Wanda hanging around the quarter’s entryway, staying close enough to be apart of the conversation.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, now with your attention.

“What? Yeah, yes, I just got a…you know, a hot date.” You turn your phone to face him. Not long enough for him to read the entire message but enough to know that you weren’t completely hiding anything “I’ll see you guys later. Brush your teeth before going to bed, I’ll know if you don’t.”

Before Pietro or Wanda could give a retort the door slid shut.

“Who were they talking to?” Pietro asked the only other person in the room.

Wanda didn’t answer. Rather tilting her head towards her brother. Rolling her eyes when he asked “what? Wanda, what?”

Although officially a desk agent there were times the field required someone of your talents. When this happened, all other duties had to be dropped in exchange for an outfit change and a fancy car shared with your accompanying field agent. Natasha has been your designated agent since the first field mission and could now be considered a friend.

It would seem the babysitter had become the baby. Including having your clothes laid and being helped into them before reaching the car.

“You’re an heiress looking for some expensive decorations and I am your lovely assistant and translator for the evening.” Natasha says, holding the under-suit’s legs open for you to slip into. “We’ll show up fashionably late. You are incredibly rich and important and better than all of them. So, don’t make eye contact with anyone, and try not to say anything, they’re below you.”

Unlike fulltime field agents you weren’t trained enough to go without serious protection. Not just in the form of an accompanying agent but also in a (jokingly called) bullet proof onesie. So, fitting it was essentially a bullet-proof wetsuit that stopped at the knees and elbows. Making the clothes to wear over it something with long sleeves, past the ankles and covers the neck. Sunday school appropriate for this event.

“Can I fake an accent? Like, German?” It was a dumb question for you to ask, but the ride to the gallery was already taking longer than it should.

“Hmm, Let’s hear it.” Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone but still sounded interested.

“Vell-,”

“Stop.”

Very special pieces were being auctioned off tonight. Invite only without any advertisements to say what’s up for grabs to outsiders. Although the windows were blacked out and authorities were paid off (but obviously not enough) supposedly nothing for sale was illegal. But if that were true you wouldn’t have found a seat in the front row.

The language of the night was deeply European. One or two words you could maybe guess what they meant but there was no way you could name it. Nat knew it though; it kept her ears perked to the room and her mouth right next to your ear for most of the night.

First items up were the typical rich people arty stuff; vases and paintings that probably represented something to someone if you squinted. Those went for a year’s paycheck in minutes. It was after the third portrait of some lady now long dead that Nat placed a hand on your back, just below the neck.

“Next up is ours,” she whispered. “you’re doing good and you’re doing great.”

The entire night was spent with better manners than an office setting could ever be. Back straight, eyes forward, and no one is allowed to make eye-contact. It’s only when the target was wheeled in that your mask was starting to slide.

Genuine HYDRA blueprints for a titanium prosthetic. White ink on blue paper with decades old coffee stains and tiny tears, spread up and out under protective glass like a butterfly. Although Mr. Barnes had a serious upgrade with the Vibranium he now used. But these blueprints showed just how advance the original was for the time.

Sitting forward as it’s wheeled by wasn’t enough to authenticate the prints. Something you easily communicated to Agent Romanoff with just a look.

It was a bad idea, it called why too much attention, but Agent Romanoff whipped her head towards one of the several employees of the auction. Curling her finger at them to get them over and in her speaking line.

She speaks quickly, and with an edge to her voice, to the employee. With only a few words back that same employee returned to his post and spoke to the next man in charge.

“They going to invite a few of us up to inspect the piece,” Agent Romanoff whispers, “You’re going to have to be fast, we’re going on stage.”

Others in the audience made their way onto the stage when invited. Agent Romanoff ensures that you are somewhere in the middle of it. Heels and heavy shoes making creating white noise for your work to be done.

In all HYDRA’s documents, blue-prints and almost everything else their symbol was hidden throughout it. A little game of where’s the octopus in two places. A large, but translucent, icon covering the center. And a smaller one in the bottom right-hand corner, hidden behind the creator’s signature. Reproductions never had the smaller symbol, but the stains and fingerprints ensured you were right.

Later, during the debrief, you would be lectured about the importance of subtlety and espionage. But how was the look you gave Agent Romanoff any different than how others were looking at their people?

After that (completely natural and not at all suspicious) nod Natasha’s arm was around your back. This was part you were suddenly feeling ill. This was the part your assistant/translator/arm-candy would escort you out with just enough urgency and demands for the bathroom that you’d be gone before everyone was in their seats. Apparently this was also the part a sudden security guard fires twice into your chest.

“Watch your head.” Although not yelling Agent Romanoff’s voice was firm.

It's hard to say which was scarier; the bullets aiming firing for your death or how calm and professional Agent Romanoff was about it all. Although, few rounds were actually fired inside the auction hall.

Agent Romanoff shot an arm out to the first security. Pushing his gun up and inward quick enough to catch his jaw and take him out of the game. Agent Romanoff keeping the downed man’s sidearm for herself.

That was really the only bit of action you clearly saw that night. When things go wrong in the field it’s the agents job to remove their ward from the situation with minimal injuries. As the researcher your job was much simpler; don’t die. “Keep your head down, use your arms to protect yourself and trust your agent.” Was hammered in during field training. With this mantra running over and over you weren’t in the position to watch the mess happening all around.

“Someone, call the police!” It takes a second to realize it’s Agent Romanoff yelling this. In a panicked, almost shrill, voice that practically screamed ‘we’re being victimized!’

With all the guests now properly riled up it was easier to exit the building. Allowing the oncoming mod to carry the two of you out of the building without much more fuss from security. Trying to kill an agent was one thing but killing a rich connected person (or worse their spouses) would be on an entirely new issue.

Someone stepped on your foot. Another put an elbow in your rib harder than the bullets. And a third open hand pushed you, and your agent, right out the door and onto the street. It was only through the strength of Agent Romanoff, and your handling of flats, that this mission could be considered successful.

The blueprints were already being tracked and followed by the time you’re stripped down to underwear. The pretty clothes had to be taken removed, the makeup wiped off, hair undone, and the bullet proof onesie had to be taken away. Simple tank-tops, shorts and a coat were worn on the journey home. By the time it’s all off, and you’re finally walking into the apartment, it shouldn’t be surprising how you looked to others.

“Have a good time?” It takes a second to realize it’s just the roommate asking the question.

It’s expected that any roommate a SHIELD employee takes on would also be with SHIELD. The two of you weren’t in the same division or even security level part of why living together worked out so well. She was in the know enough to hear you complain but enough in the dark to keep any secrets from getting out.

“Yep, had a real banger of a night.” Although a friend and technical coworker you couldn’t disclose too much about the missions. At least not until the green light is given by the higher ups. Instead, you can only give the people something to speculate about. “Can’t wait to see what the bruises are going to look like tomorrow.”

Spoiler alert: the bruises looked like hickeys. Something noticed by Roommate but keeping quiet about it in exchange to heading out early. Ready with the latest thing to share with the office mates.

Just like any working environment gossip is always somewhere underfoot. After being dragged in by someone who couldn’t leave it at home it’s then latching onto everyone who came close enough to hear it. Most ignore it, others listen then forget and others drag carry it further into the workplace. Until researchers leaning against the wall talk too loudly and Pietro catches a few too many words.

“Who were they talking to?” Pietro asks once the housing area’s door shut. Quickly clearing things up with the use of your name.

“I’ve haven’t seen them yet.” Wanda doesn’t care enough to close her book but does enough to look up.

“No, yesterday. Before they left, someone messaged them. Who was it?”

Wanda shrugs and returns to her book, but there’s a smile there.

“You know who it is,” He says, now on beside her. “Tell me.”

“I can’t say for sure,” She’s smiling again. Only a slight glance at Pietro. “but I think he may be very handsome.”

The siblings argued as siblings do. With Wanda teasing as sisters do. All of this could be heard before you even made it to the door. Standing at its threshold to listen as the two go at it.

“Natasha will tell you the same, Pietro.” Wanda says, probably aware that you were in hearing distance. “And she says he can do more than simply be handsome.”

Although you say nothing Wanda grins at you.

The gossip overheard is just words without evidence. Just enough to get Pietro thinking but not enough to create any serious emotions. But the “evidence” to create those emotions was now standing in the room. Small marks darker than your natural skin was peaking out from the lower neckline.

To you, they were simple bruises, nothing worth trying to hide, even something to brag about to the other desk workers. To Pietro it was marks of another person, something that pursed his lips and marched away from. Doing so slowly, to be sure that both you and Wanda were aware of how upset he was.

“I missed something.” You say, setting everything down on the counter.

Wanda has a habit of sneaking into other people’s minds. The mission, the shots and the everything was slowly being filed through in the back of your head. A pressure at the base of your neck screaming that there was an intruder.

“Stop it.” You snapped, but Wanda only smiles back.

“How was your ‘hot date’?” She finally asks.

“Is that what he’s…sonofabitch. Pietro!” There are only three rooms in this section of the compound. One being Wanda’s, another Vision’s and the third Pietro. Making it easy enough to find the pouting grown man.

“What?” He asks upon your entering.

There isn’t a response on your part for moment or two. Spending that time going to the room’s corner. Standing on tiptoes to find that switch that definitely doesn’t exist on the camera. Shutting it down for the time being before turning to start your explanation.

“You can turn that back on.” He says from his place on the bed. “There’s nothing bad we need to talk about.”

“So, you don’t wanna hear about how I was shot in the tit?”

Manners were out the window at this point. Pietro openly looking towards your chest. Back up to your face, and back down to your chest. “You were shot? They look more like…”

“They’re not hickeys, I was shot a few time through a suit.” Frustration was starting to build up. It was overflowing when you finished with “You really should know about being shot.”

The hurt on his face screamed. He didn’t look away but stayed staring forward right at you. “Pietro, I’m so…I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It hurts,” He says. “Being shot, it really hurts.”

“I’m sorry.” Even as you walk around to sit beside him Pietro stares at where you were. Listening to your apology but not saying much else. Until he dares to lean against you. Something more than cuddling with a friend this time around. “I get it, I get you’re scared and all that. And I really like you, Pietro, I like you more than I am allowed to.”

It’s hard to say who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. It was happening, and it was so much more than a something between friends.

“When that camera comes back on this didn’t happen.” You say in a moment of separation for air.

“What happens when the camera goes off again?” He asks, thumb rubbing over the bruise.

#reader insert #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #quicksilver x reader #Pietros' alive au #One shot #Fluff kinda #Angst kinda #This is based on that window between 2012-2016 when everything was happy for the Avengers #Requested on my AOW #Not used to writing these kind of stories

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probably-haven · 3 years

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can i just... choir AU..... hear me out because this is the funniest shit.

Bard boy first, Venti is a soprano, no i dont take criticism. He’s actually really good at singing from natural talent alone and he knows it but he also loves attention and you cant get that by staying in line. He’s that bitch who ignores the sign to stop, sings the high notes just a wee bit higher to stand out, add random notes that definitely were not in the sheet music. He’s a prodigy but the teacher is just so fucking done.

then there’s Bennett, He’s probably a tenor. He’s really into it- and he really loves being a part of the class but he’s- really fucking bad at singing, and it doesn’t help that his voice keeps cracking loudly at the worst possible times every time without fail. They were doing one of their performances once and Bennett fell off the raised platform thing and ‘broke a leg’ literally. his chair keeps breaking every time he sits on it. always shows up to concerts at least 15 minutes late and covered in who knows what.

Razor can’t read. He can’t read the notes for the music and he cant read the lyrics for the music, he’s just trying to do everything by ear and it is- not working. He probably howled during a concert because he got exhausted from trying to imitate everyone for the past two songs. Somehow is better at following along when the song is in a different language. they made him a tenor too. tried to sneak one of his dogs into class once.

Jean has like 5 different extra curriculars and still manages to practice choir more than almost any other kid in the class and is probably gonna burnout before long. She was a soprano during first year but asked to be switched to alto when Barbara was put in soprano because she wanted to be able to harmonize with her sister.

Barbara is a soprano, as stated, wants to be an idol and is one of a couple who actually practice harder than Jean at it. She studies music theory in her free time which Jean tries to help with but Barbara resists because please Jean has enough on her plate already. The ideal choir student, helps everyone with their stuff and actually memorizes all the different parts so she can do that better, though she has to raise it an octave for the lower parts. Beautiful singing voice.

Fischl is another alto. She’s... technically good- like she could be good if she just... sang... but every time she does she does it with the most over the top exaggerated voices/accents because she thinks it makes it sound better. A lot of the time when she walks into class tho theres this big ass raven just perched on her head or shoulder and its intimidating as fuck. It keeps following her and she calls it her familiar. It’s only fitting as the prinzessin der verurteilung afterall.

Sucrose is a soprano and sings beautifully, shes another one with a decent grasp of music theory... but she doesn’t have the most confidence in her singing ability so she does it really quietly or sometimes just mouths the words on bad days. Also she tries not to but she keeps zoning out and accidentally missing the sign to stop- a truly terrifying experience as she’s left the only one still singing, though most of these times Venti will quickly resume singing loudly and obnoxiously to take away some of the attention.

Mona is here for the easy A. She’s an alto but doesn’t really pay attention to what any of the notes actually are, alto parts tend to be pretty monotone anyway, so its fine, right? She has more interesting things to worry about like memorizing everyone’s birth charts and reminding the teacher every single time one of their planets is in retrograde. Skips performances if the astrology says its an unlucky day.

Noelle not the best singer but a sweetheart and the unofficial TA probably. She’s a soprano and she always auditions for solos but- when her competition is Venti and Barbara... lets just say she’s still trying. Probably takes professional voice lessons or something to be able to improve. overall takes it way too seriously for an elective.

Rosaria is an alto and she’s actually really fucking good... if she tried. The songs are stupid and what is this- fucking latin? and she says exactly how she feels about it. probably suggests that the choir sing a Billie Eilish song instead or something- like seriously why are all the choir songs so religious isn’t that illegal or something? she does sing the right notes but ensures that every single word sounds like a chore. She wouldnt have bothered at all but Barbara is oddly convincing

Lisa is an alto as well. Very pretty voice and is good at getting the notes and stuff but she doesn’t look at her sheet music at all- she’s just really good at doing it by ear. She’ll get the packet and be like ‘aww, thanks’ before just closing it and putting it behind her without a second glance and then still somehow manages to get it right.

Amber is a soprano and she loves it, her voice is about average but the energy she puts behind it make her really fun to listen to. not the best voice for a choir but that’s okay because she’s having fun and makes other people have fun Probably the type to randomly start singing choir song during passing period, it helps her remember them afterall!

Eula’s family probably had her join. She’s an alto as well and definitely 100% has voice lessons. Probably assumes that everyone does and talks about them like everyone knows exactly what she’s talking about. Always declares vengence every time someone gets something wrong enough for the teacher to point out... or whenever someone tries to help her.

I’m sorry but Albedo is tone deaf. He’s a tenor because honestly- mondstadt’s tenor section is doomed anyway with Bennett and Razor. He does very much understand music theory though and has a tendency to suggest changes to the music that somehow end up working better than the original piece- and yet he sucks at performing it. doodles on his sheet music.

deep breath

Diluc is a baritone... the only one- but to be fair mond doesn’t have a lot of dudes and choirs dont usually have a lot either. Joined choir because he thought he wouldnt be in the same class as Kaeya and he was very disappointed. He does try though since he’s the only one in his section and if he messed up they would know exactly who it is.

Kaeya is a tenor. makes comments about how since tenor is higher than baritone it means that Kaeya is above him. Taking full advantage of the fact that the date to transfer classes passed. He’s actually pretty good at singing but he’s not the best at reading music, which Diluc is quick to remind him of whenever the need for a comeback arises.

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strikercannon-archive · 2 years

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ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴅɪᴠᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ : ꜱᴛʀɪᴋᴇʀ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴ .

i wanna be great like elvis without the tassels , hire eight bodyguards that love to beat up assholes , sign a couple autographs so i can eat my meals for free . i'm gonna dress my ass with the latest fashion , get a front door key to the playboy mansion , gonna date a centerfold that loves to blow my money for me . i’m gonna trade this life for fortune and fame , i'd even cut my hair and change my name . i'm gonna sing those songs that offend the censors , gonna pop my pills from a pez dispenser . get washed-up singers writing all my songs , lip sync 'em every night so i don't get 'em wrong .

( @rocketfm )

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Full Name: Stephen Cannon Jr.

Reason for name: Stephen is his father’s name and, unluckily for Striker, the family name was passed down to their first born son.

Nickname(s): Striker, Strikes, Cannon

Date of Birth: 22nd April, 1982

Age: 40

Gender + Pronouns: Male + He/Him

Place of Birth: Clarksville, Tennessee

Parents: Georgia Marie Cannon (née O’Reilly) + Stephen Ray Cannon

Siblings: Two younger brothers, upcoming WC.

Relationship with family (Close? Estranged?): The most estranged you can get. His mother left the boys when Striker was ten years old in the incapable hands of their father, which only led to a barrage of bad treatment and abuse. As soon as he was old enough to fend for himself he left the family trailer, too, and has been riding solo ever since. Contrarily, though, he is extremely close to his siblings, and would do anything for them.

Pets: N/A, although he does seem to have a penchant for the bulls at the ranch.

PHYSICAL

Height: 6’1”

Build: Slim, lean.

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: White

Distinguishing Facial Features: Dark, heavy-rimmed eyes, stubble, dimples.

Hair Color: Dark brown (grey underneath - don’t tell anybody!)

Usual Hair Style: Slicked at the sides, gelled into a messy quiff.

Complexion: Often blemished from cuts or scrapes, earned through the total disregard he has for his body.

Disabilities: N/A

What do they consider their best feature?: I don’t think you want to know the answer to this question.

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: Striker has been injured so many times that he can’t quite recall which was the ‘worst’. They were all the worst in different ways — being hit by his father was traumatic emotionally, however he’d have to list one of the bull encounters as the worst physical hits of his wrangling career.

APPEARANCE

Favorite outfit: Red plaid shirt, blue jeans and either tattered converse or tan cowboy boots. Sometimes his shirt might be unbuttoned to reveal a worn graphic t-shirt.

Glasses? Contacts?: Striker needs glasses, although refuses to wear them.

Personal Hygiene: It’s best not to ask. Let’s just say there’s a certain musk that Striker brings with him when he enters a room.

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: No piercings or jewelry, however he has multiple tattoos over his hands, arms and torso. Most of them are illegible as his skin has aged and stretched, or where ink has fallen from his skin. None of them have been done professionally.

What does their voice sound like?: Husky & deep.

Style of speech: Often slurred, due to intoxication or concussions.

Accent?: A rather unique deep-South drawl.

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: Over-exaggerated expressions & gestures, nail-biting.

Left handed or right?: Left

Do they work out/exercise?: If you count trying to play buckaroo with a donkey, then yes. Striker doesn’t ‘conventionally’ work out, though, and doesn’t have a gym membership.

BELIEFS & INTELLECT

Known languages: English

Zodiac: Taurus

Gifts/Talents: Striker can drink anybody under the table, and is like Dr Doolittle when it comes to speaking to animals, or at least trying to get them from one place to another. It helps when it comes to his profession, where the majority of his day is spent redirecting livestock beneath a blazing sun.

Religious Stance: Atheist

Political Stance: Left-leaning - he doesn’t watch television nor engage with social media, so is wildly unaware of any affairs happening outside of Roswell.

Pet peeves: Diligent safety precautions.

Optimist or Pessimist: Pessimist

Extrovert or Introvert: Extrovert

INTIMACY & RELATIONSHPS:

Relationship status: Single

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Ideal mate/qualities they look for in mate: When looking for a mate, Striker needs somebody that can balance him out. He’s impulsive, dangerous, like a whirlwind, and so he needs somebody who is the opposite to keep him tethered to reality. In return, he could be the one to show them how to live their lives a little closer to the edge.

Ever been in love?: Yes

What’s their love language?: Physical touch, and Striker shows love through acts of service/protection.

Most important person in their life?: His brothers.

Level of education: High school level, barely.

Profession: Ranch Hand at Puhlman’s Ranch

Past occupations: Small-time drug dealer, petty criminal, gas station clerk, employee at Fornax Hardware.

Dream occupation: To get paid for doing absolutely nothing.

Passions: Dangerous animals, whiskey.

Attitude towards current job: It does the job, in the way that he can afford essentials and a hot meal at the end of a long day. Of course, Striker would much rather be doing nothing, but if he has to spend his time working himself to the bone he would pick the ranch over anywhere else.

Spender or Saver? Why?: He doesn’t have enough money to save it, so the cash is often spent the same day (or night) he earns it.

Which is more important - money or doing something they love?: Doing something he loves, that’s why he’s very rarely present at work. There’s nobody else willing to throw themselves, quite literally, into the ring, and so the ranch owners can’t feasibly fire him.

SECRETS:

Phobias: His father, rats.

Life goals: To make a life for himself that he enjoys, away from the pressures of society or the trauma his father left him with.

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to them: Hooking up with some of the less-favorable Wild Pony patrons after having one too many to drink.

Something they’ve never told anyone: Striker has never confided in anybody about his real name outside of his family. It’s his biggest embarrassment but, although he knows he has the power to change it, there’s always an excuse or a reason for why he hasn’t yet. Often it’s lack of money, or at least he claims that’s the reason, but perhaps he doesn’t want to get rid of it, not really.

Biggest regret: Not standing up for himself, or his brothers, sooner than he did. Striker moved away when he was seventeen, but he wishes every day that he grabbed their belongings and dragged his brothers out of that trailer the second he was old enough to walk on his own two feet.

Police/Criminal/Legal Record: Messy, and as long as a grocery receipt. Striker has spent many an evening in the Sheriff’s department for drunk and disorderly behavior, trespassing and public indecency, to name a few crimes beneath his belt.

Vices: Drinking to excess, indirect bodily harm.

PREFERENCES:

Hobbies: Bull riding, drinking, illegal shenanigans.

Favorite color: Red

Favorite smell: Freshly mown grass, motor oil, whiskey.

Favorite food: Anything greasy.

Favorite book: Striker doesn’t read - I’m not sure he’s ever actually indulged in a book.

Favorite movie: Big Trouble in Little China

Favorite song: I walk the line - Johnny Cash

Coffee or tea?: Coffee

Favorite type of weather: Warm humidity - it’s best for the animals.

Most prized possession: A horseshoe necklace, left behind by his mother. It’s all Striker has of her now.

Most used word or phrase?: “Yeehaw.”

#roswelltask #drug mention tw #trauma tw #abuse tw #body image tw

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wangxianficrecs · 4 years

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WangxianFicRecs Presents:

Merperson AUs

I know that it’s ‘Mer-May’, and I’ve seen so much lovely merperson wangxian fanart, but I haven’t read many current fics lately while I try to catch up on my To Read list ... *cue insane laughter and a few tears*

Here’s what I have so far:

Do not waste your pearls for me

by moonwaif (G, 9k, wangxian, my post)

Summary: Lan Wangji is rescued by a young human with a talent for woodwind instruments, a gorgeous smile and eyelashes that go on for days.

Or, that one time Wei Wuxian snuck a whole-ass fish person into Lotus Pier.

Sinking

by mondengel (T, 1k, wangxian, my post)

Summary: A mer’s kiss was precious. Sacred.

When fish soar

by mondengel (G, 2k, wangxian, my post)

Summary: The second Wei WuXian hit the water Jiang Cheng knew it was over.

In Water, In Air

by Elara_Moon (T, 11k, wangxian (series, 25k, in progress w/2 works complete, my post)

Summary: During a bust on an illegal semi-human trafficking ring, police detective Lan Wangji meets merperson Wei Ying

Frog, Beast, Fish, Idiot

by Attila (T, 3k, wangxian, my post)

Summary: Jiang Cheng ground his teeth together so hard Wei Wuxian winced in sympathy for his dentist. “Lan Wangji’s brother,” he bit out, “left him with you and asked you to try to break the curse, and you decided that meant you should go—go pimp him out to attractive women?

Or, three fairy tales Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are absolutely not allowed to participate in.

Buried in the Sky, Hallowed by thy Depths

by themunchking (T, 9k, wangxian, my post)

Summary: If you listen, the mountains of Gusu sing in the evening, as the sun is going down.

That’s what they say in Caiyi Town, where the clear and cold mountain streams flow into the lake. The streams are deep, the locals know. They say they carry the melody down from up high. From Cloud Recesses.

There are reasons it is forbidden to enter the Cloud Recesses after dark.

I Sea You

by Achromos (T, 10k, xicheng, my post) - This one is xicheng where Lan Xichen is more of an aquatic shapeshifter than a merman. (The forms he runs through are hilarious.)

Summary: Jiang Cheng works as a glorified fish janitor at a run-down aquarium. He likes fish because they don't talk smack about him - but he has one very special, very favorite resident of the aquarium, who is not part of the exhibits.

There is an actual MerMay tag on AO3, and you can currently find 24 MDZS MerMay stories here. And here is a 96-works sorting for Alternate Universe - Merpeople.

(Don’t forget that some authors use The Untamed instead of MDZS: you have to do a different sort in case they didn’t use both; or use a pairing tag rather than a fandom tag. This fandom is really rough for tag searches, because of all the accent marks (it won’t fill in the blanks for you without them) and the different sources authors can choose for ‘fandom’. For example, there are over 2k works tagged the Untamed that won’t show up in a MDZS search.)

Ones I haven’t read yet, but have been recced by followers:

claws of steel, hearts of glass by SnowyK (E, 26k, wangxian, siren wwx, merman lan wangji)

The Treasure of Maroon Bay by skulltoki (M, 31k, wangxian)

A Secret Place by SerenadeStrong (ninja_orange) (E, 2k, wangxian)

Tears of Pearl by FleetofShippyShips (T, 34k, wangxian, series in progress)

sun beneath the sea by cringewerewolf (M, 19k, wangxian)

The Pirate of Lotus Pier by antebunny (G, 56k, wangxian)

never love an anchor by tardigradeschool (T, 31k, wangxian, selkies)

bring you home by Alasse_Irena (T, 28k, wangxian, selkies)

there & there & there, the sea by bleuett (M, 7k, wangxian)

Secrets of Yunmeng's Lotus Lakes by Cy_anne (G, 73k, wangxian)

The Ocean Between Us by catbrainedschemes (M, 42k, wangxian)

you're a bird in the water / i'm a fish on the ground by plonk (not rated, 9k, wangxian)

Even Lovers Drown by uponmountains (M, wangxian, 81k, WIP)

Song of the Sea by LaMachina17 (E, 48k, RPF - yizhan)

"Wellerman" but it's Hanguang Jun Going Wherever The Chaos Is by evilhobbitqueen, theleakypen, westiec G, <1k, sea shanty, sung as a filk here - doesn’t exactly fulfill the theme, but the maritime setting sure makes it Mermay-compatible. )

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for these authors if you like -- or think others might like -- these stories.)

#WangxianFicRecs Presents #wangxian #wangxian fanart #merman lan wangji #merpeople aus #wangxian fic recs #mermay #merman wei wuxian #mermaids #merpeople

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kyndaris · 2 years

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Once a Guerrilla, Always a Guerrilla

Revolution is not an easy feat. It is not so simple as being idealistic. Nor is it simply seeing who has the most guns and the bigger army. To be a guerrilla takes grit, good leadership and an end goal. It also means having combat training, the funding and connections to ease the way. Just because you managed to defeat a tyrant, without sending our a counter-message, it is just as easy to be seen as a replacement dictator. For a revolution to truly take hold, one has to change the hearts and minds of the people. Those are the lessons I learned when playing through Far Cry 6 as the lucky one: Dani Rojas.

Now, I am no stranger to the problematic issues of supporting Ubisoft. The company, much like several other major publishers has been embroiled in controversy. NFTs, toxic workplace environments...the list goes on.

In so saying, the messaging from Far Cry 6 feels like a cry for help. And perhaps it is time for something to truly shake up the culture of game companies so that they can retain staff and make the games that everyone loves so much.

But, back to Far Cry 6, shall we?

The game starts with Dani Rojas and their friends planning to escape to America. They enjoy one last drink, only for it to be interrupted by several soldiers. Alejo antagonises a group and is shot dead. Fearing for their lives, Dani and their friend: Lita flee for the boat that would be their ticket to a world of poor pay and being judged for their accent and colour of their skin. Sound familiar to any real-world examples? But even being paid to stock supermarket shelves can be seen as a blessing for many illegal migrants to the USA. And even if they might never achieve the dream purported by the land of the free, at least they are free of the conflict that might engulf their very lives.

Unfortunately, their escape via boat does not go as planned. El Presidente boards their little fishing boat to reclaim his son, Diego. After a tense conversation, the two leave and everyone else is condemned to a watery grave.

Somehow, through the powers of plot convenience, Dani survives, washing ashore on the Isla Santuario. There, they meet Clara Garcia and the rest of Libertad. So begins their bloody journey to retake their home from the power-hungry Anton Castillo.

From a narrative standpoint, Far Cry 6 keeps many of their serious moments quite light. Yes, there’s plenty of murder and gunning down soldiers of Anton’s regime, but there are many lighthearted moments such as the Yaran Story missions in order to recruit amigo: Chicharron. Then, of course, there’s Bicho, or Paz as he is later called.

Thank goodness for not having Hurk, or a version of him, being inserted into this title.

I did, however, like seeing the interactions between La Morale, Libertad and the Legends of ‘67. They brought a sharp contrast to the different factions that fuel why people may seek change, but they also highlight all the similarities between both revolutions. Many of the main players were students hoping to make changes to the country that they love.

Bella Ciao is also a great song given its history and how the game is also focused on routing out fascist leaders. As I was playing through one operation that involved burning tobacco leaves, my mother overheard and she did as the Leonardo DiCaprio meme. Sometimes I forget that she’s actually lived through quite a few things and what sounds novel to me is something she actually knows from real-life history.

Also, on a musical front, I really liked how Dani would sing to several songs on the radio. I did a double-take when I first heard them sing to Havana by Camila Cabello before subsequently YouTubing it to see if others had noticed.

From a performance perspective, I liked all the little vignettes with Anton and his son, Diego. But from a story standpoint, it never felt as if Anton had much bite. Giancarlo Esposito shines in the role, but it is always far removed from Dani’s actions. There were only a few occasions where the two crossed paths but none of them had me sweating in my seat as much as the confrontation between Vaas and Jason. Nor did I get terrifying but sexy chills like I did with the Seeds.

(Kyndaris, you need to stop reading Jacob Seed x Deputy and Joseph Seed x Deputy fanfiction!)

On a gameplay front, Far Cry 6 is a lot more streamlined than previous titles. No longer are there radio towers to visit to reveal all the dots on the map. Rather, missions can be discovered by chatting to guerrilla fighters at camps or liberated outposts. There’s also no skill tree. Nor does Dani Rojas have to go hunting in order to craft more weapon holsters, healing syringes and ammo pouches for specific weapons.

Everything else played out as smoothly as one could expect from the franchise. The guns were weighty and packed a decent punch. The wingsuit was a great tool to soar through the skies and most of the vehicles handled quite well. My one gripe was the default controls for planes. After fiddling with them, I was able to fly much better and smashed through Yami’s race.

Far Cry 6 doesn’t stray too far from the formula established in the previous titles. There’s nothing that’s incredibly innovative and the twist at the end with Diego made some kind of sense. The Far Cry series is never content to give players a ‘good’ ending. In the worlds that they create, nothing is ever truly black and white. Just because one despot has been overthrown, it doesn’t mean that the world can right itself. Look no further than Far Cry 4 or even the apocalyptic ending that came when the Deputy fought back to save Hope County.

While I never quite connected with Diego as I would have liked to, it also felt like he was an authentic thirteen-year-old boy that was out of his depth and who wanted to live in a better world. And hey, who wouldn’t want that?

On a side note, the whole Jose threatening to poop on something belonging to Diego as he slept reminded me of something I read once. Probably something from the annals of Horrible Histories. But at least we got to underscore what a terrible and entitled person he was.

#far cry 6 #video games #the right tool for the right job #I'll be quoting Juan's lessons for a while #sad that there aren't any good ships for Dani

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

for the mermay fills: indruck, 25, any rating

Here you go! I went with SFW for this one.

The thing no one tells you about journeys of self-discovery is that they’re really fucking boring.

Duck’s been on this highway for days, and another highway for the days before that. He wanted to see the desert in the spring, but it’s involved fewer super-blooms and more butterflies dying on his windshield than he hoped.

Now he’s on some two lane strip of barely paved road in the vast expanse between Las Vegas and Reno. Green catches his eye to his left; a ribbon of well-watered trees shines in the distance. Closer to the road are dueling picket signs shoved into the ground, some demanding the preservation of the tiny pocket of wetlands and others proclaiming this the site of the Hungry Man Casino expansion. The signs continue all the way to the tiny town of Kepler, where he pulls into a gas station in front of Tarkesian’s General Store.

After filling the tank and chatting with the owner and his incongruous New York accent, Duck decides to stop in Kepler for the night. The road north is mostly open range, and he’s already had one near miss with a cow on a pitch black stretch of asphalt. The lone place to rest is the Reconciliation Motel Court and Casino. He gets his key, pulls up to the chipped door, and flops onto the burnt orange bedspread for a nap.

He doesn’t wake up until eight at night, wondering what the hell is wrong with the other guests that they’re all playing music loud enough for him to hear. He counts at least six separate voices, their overlap meaning the lyrics turn to gibberish. It’s still hot and stuffy in the room, and maybe outside will be quiet. He pulls on his swim trunks and rash guard; a peek out the window at the pool shows it’s empty and that, plus the general sparseness of the parking lot, makes him confident enough that he won’t bump into anyone and try to make up some lie about being shy or mormon or whatever the hell else would explain a dude keeping a top on to swim.

But, just his luck, when he latches the pool gate shut, he discovers he’s not alone. A man with silver hair floats in the pool, eyes closed. When Duck sets a towel on the chair, his eyes fly open and he dives under the water, giving Duck twin shocks: glowing red eyes and a long, jet black tail.

“What the fuck?” He says aloud in case someone else is watching and can explain why there’s a fucking mermaid in the pool.

The merman resurfaces, blinking at him, “How in the world did you get in here?”

“Uhhhh…” Duck points to the gate.

“You...you see the pool? Do you see the motel as well?”

Duck turns, wondering if this is some kind of prank, “yeah?”

“Apologies” the merman swims to the edge of the pool nearest him, “it was such an unlikely future I am having a hard time processing it.”

“You’re havin a hard time”

“Oh, oh of course, this is all very confusing to you. Here, have a seat.” He gestures to one of the pool chairs. Not knowing what else to do, Duck sits.

“Now, have you heard singing while you have been here?”

“Yep. Thought it was the other guests.”

The merman shakes his head, “They are sirens. As am I. We are the descendants of sirens who lived here in the days when there was far more water in this area. As the water dwindled, we made our home in that river and wetlands” he points towards the south end of town, “and then the founders of this fine establishment decided to catch us and use us to lure people to their rundown casino. Since you are about to ask, a siren song shows you what you want; turns out many people want the promise of easy money, food, or sex. But you...somehow you do not seem to respond to it.”

Duck shrugs, “Guess not.”

“I wonder...hmm, perhaps you do not want anything?”

“Don’t think that’s it. Been drivin up and down the country lookin for somethin I want but can’t name.”

The merman rests his arms on the concrete, “You must tell me everything about your travels.”

“I mean, uh, they ain’t all that excitin-”

“I have been stuck in this pool for three years.”

“Okay yeah, more excitin than that. Also, what the fuck?”

“There are ones like it in almost all the lower level rooms. I get stuck out here because I will not sing, but due to having future sight I am too valuable to do away with.”

“This ain’t gettin less fucked up.”

The merman laughs, “Perhaps that is why you don’t fall prey to our song; you are just very honest.”

“That a nice way of sayin I can’t lie for shit?”

“I suppose so.” He grins, sharp teeth glinting in the yellow streetlights, “regardless, I am glad you are not susceptible. I haven’t spoken to anyone aside from the owners in months. They even keep me from my own kind.” His tone is breezy, but Duck sees the flash of pain in his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Indrid. Yours?”

“Can’t you see it comin?” He teases.

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it. I get ahead of others often enough as it is.”

“Duck. It’s a nickname.”

Indrid flips his tail once, “Care to join me for an evening swim, Duck.”

“You ain’t gonna eat me or anythin, right?”

“I only taste humans when offered” His tail undulates hypnotically as he pushes into deeper water. Then he pauses, “that was meant as flirtation and not as a threat.”

Duck slides into the water, smiling when he meets Indrid’s nervous gaze “Yeah, I got that.”

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

“See, you can tell it’s a saguaro because--fuck” the camera slips from Duck’s hand, only for Indrid’s to shoot out and catch it before it hits the water.

“Thanks, ‘Drid, startin’ to wonder what I’d do without you.”

The mer, cheek resting on the warm concrete, shifts sideways so he can bump Duck’s knee with his forehead, “The feeling is mutual.”

For the last two weeks Duck’s stayed at the motel, watching his fellow occupants walk zombie-like through doors or stagger from them in a daze when their money runs out and the owners kick them to the curb to make way for new targets. Following Indrid’s instructions, he delivers messages between the trapped sirens, the kind they dare not sing aloud, brings them things they’re missing, like favorite foods or things to do, when he can manage it.

He’s also careful to spend time in town, away from any lingering influence of the siren songs. Leo Tarkesian gives him a job in the store, and he strikes up a friendship with a woman going by the name of Mama, who comes in once a week with beautiful wood carvings for Leo to set out for sale. It turns out her family used to own the motel before Reconciliation swooped in and stole it in what Mama insists was an illegal move.

“Worst part is, they crowed about creatin jobs, bringin’ in more tourists. But they won’t let no one outside their inner circle work there, and folks who stop never leave and visit the rest of town. Now they’re gunnin for the state park. But they ain’t gonna get away with it this time.”

More than anything, Duck spends his time with Indrid. The siren tells him stories about life in the wetlands and river, Duck tells him about his travels, about his home, talks with him until the stars come out, would stay until they go away again except the mer tells him he needs his sleep.

Indrid is a very encouraging conversation partner, disdain and aloofness only appearing when he has to speak to the owners of the motel. He’s also very affectionate, resting his head in Duck’s lap or winding his tail around him whenever he stands in the water. Which is why, when he asks Duck if he’s made up his mind about what to do come fall, his fingers are stroking the humans back and his tail is lazily petting his legs.

“I dunno. I could go back and finish my degree, become a ranger and all that. But what if I’m only doin that because I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do?”

Indrid brushes Duck’s hair from his forehead, “When you think of the future where you meet that goal, how do you feel.”

“Happy. Content. Like, like there’s a thing I can do to keep the world healthy and whole. Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to be out there savin the world, solvin every problem, makin everythin better. And that’s too damn much. But when I think about havin some forest or park or somethin where part of my job is to care for it, help it grow...yeah, think I could do that.” He smiles at the image of his future self those words conjure.

Indrid smiles at the current him, brushes their noses together, “It seems to me that you have your answer.”

Duck loops his arms around Indrid’s waist, “Then again, could just stay here, look after you and the other sirens forever.”

Chlorine stings his eyes as Indrid zips backwards, looking as if he’s been slapped.

“‘Drid? What’s wrong?”

“You cannot stay here any longer.”

“What do you mean? I wanna stay. I wanna be with you.”

“No! Don’t you see? This is how the song gets you. It is making you think that your greatest wish is to stay in this crumbling motel, looking after a siren who has seen better days.”

“Hold the fuck on” Duck tries to swim to him, only for Indrid to swim further out of reach, “‘Drid, it’s real fuckin insultin to tell a fella that the only reason he feels how he feels is because of a magic song. Maybe I am startin to feel the effects, but I know that when I think about you, no matter how near or far to this fuckin pool I am, I wanna be with you. I’ve fallen in love before, I can recognize the feelin from a mile away. And it’s what I’m feelin now.” He crosses his arms, daring Indrid to argue.

The siren swims to him, cups his face in cool hands, “It’s what I feel too. Why do you think I cannot ask you to stay? I am a prisoner here, Duck. If you remain for my sake, you will be one as well. I cannot do that to you. I know the agony of being cut off from the world you love, and you have so much love yet to give it I cannot, will not, rob you of the chance to do so.”

“I…” Duck he mirrors Indrid’s touch, runs his thumbs along his cheeks.

“Please” Indrid kisses him once, softly, “please, if you love me, don’t stay here and make me watch you decay.”

Duck pulls Indrid as close as he can, kisses him until his lips ache and the siren is pliant and purring in his arms.

“I’ll go. I fuckin hate the idea of leavin you here, but I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s just one thing you gotta let me do first. Will you let me introduce you to another human? She’s got almost as much cause to hate Reconciliation as you do, and I got a hunch you two might be able to help each other out.”

Indrid cocks his head, then nods, “Of course, my love. Just tell her to wear earplugs and bring something to write on.”

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

The cottonwoods rustle in the summer breeze as Indrid floats lazily down the river on his back. A family is picnicking outside the visitor center, but only the youngest member of it sees him. She waves. He raises his tail in reply, smiling when she spills her drink in delight.

Most sirens give the heavily trafficked parts of the park a wide berth, still wary of interactions with humans. Indrid doesn’t blame them; Reconciliation was chased out ten years ago, but their memory lingers like smog. He himself stays clear of unfamiliar groups of humans whenever possible.

But today, the futures show him the park is welcoming a new ranger. And so he swims back and forth, hoping the recent arrival will see him. Hoping he remembers.

“I’m sorry sir, but swimmin ain’t allowed in this chunk of the river.” A teasing drawl drifts over his shoulder.

He spins in what he hopes is an elegant way, accidentally splashing the figure on the bank behind him.

“Of course.” He grins, swimming over and resting his arms on the bank and batting his eyelashes as the ranger crouches down to meet him, “how very rude of me. I am terribly sorry.”

Duck’s smile is brimming with years of stored up affection, the lines on his face hinting at stories Indrid cannot wait to hear, “S’okay. For my favorite roadside siren, I’m happy to make an exception.”

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #mermay

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notyourdayrdream · 3 years

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Summer’s Almost Over (So Come Spend it with Me)

Day Twelve, Side A: Exacerbate

read it here on AO3!

Blaine Anderson’s never been lucky in love.

His first crush was in third grade on Jim Hawkins from Treasure Planet. Oh he’d almost burned the DVD out from watching it too much. His crush ended when his brother accidentally broke the disc and Blaine couldn’t watch the animated teen anymore. Plus, all of the other little boys were crushing on girls, ones that were real and not animated. Most importantly they were girls. So he put crushes on the backburner for a while.

His next crush was in seventh grade, on Joey Partmon. Joey was new from Texas, which may have well been a foreign country to him and the other private school kids Blaine went to school with. He was tanned under his school mandated uniform, with dark freckles and floppy red hair. Blaine loved his deep southern accent and the way he twirled his pencil around in his hand when he was bored. They weren’t close, Blaine wasn’t outgoing enough to say ‘hi,’ and Joey moved away that summer. But he did dream about kissing him on more than one occasion. That’s when he realized he was gay.

Freshman year’s candidate was Ryan Night.

He went to a public school then. He and Ryan were the only two boys in their choir, which already put a huge target on their backs, not to mention the fact they were both gay. Blaine still doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, but he was able to hide it. Ryan wasn’t as lucky. But it didn’t matter, they were friends, brought together by this horrible thing they had to deal with. The whole situation turned into something beautiful. So when Blaine asked Ryan to homecoming, he expected everything to go fine.

He’d be proved wrong, of course. So he took a break from crushing for a little while. In fact, he took a break on everything, for about a year.

Everything was different when he came to Dalton. The kids, the students, the zero tolerance bullying policy. It all kept him safe. So he joined the Warblers and became their leading man, not because he was gay or straight, but because he was good. They kind of idolized him, and he suddenly had this giant group of friends. That’s when he met Jeremiah.

Maybe it was because he was finally out and proud, but his crush on Jeremiah felt so different. It was almost like love. He was older and wiser than Blaine, and so so cute. And as the days ticked on and the boy was all he could think about, he decided he had to do something, and he had to do something big.

Safe to say that totally backfired. Blaine promised himself to never let a crush get that serious again, not until he was sure. And that plan had worked, until now. Because he met Kurt Hummel.

They actually met at NYADA, at a Midnight Madness competition.

Blaine had been dragged there by his friend Leslie, who wasn’t actually a singer but a dancer, she just liked drama. So he went, dressed in sweatpants and a Dalton hoodie, and sat in the back. The whole place was honestly just a giant fire hazard, and the heat from the candles was making him sweaty. They were waiting on someone apparently. Rachel Berry, the senior who had won last year. Blaine knew she had a reputation of being a diva, but good Lord she was taking forever. The crowd of theatre geeks was becoming antsy.

“Wait!” The door opened and shut in a swift motion, blowing out a few candles by the entrance. The young man’s chest heaved, like he had just run all this way. “Rachel’s out sick. But I’m here, I’ll do it in her place. The dim light blocked out most of his face, but Blaine could see the outline of him; slim and tall with a smile that lit up the room. Was it weird to be attracted to a shadow?

The moderator nodded. “That’s fine, Kurt, we just need someone to challenge you,” he said. Kurt stepped into the ring in the center of the room and took Blaine’s breath away.

It had to be illegal to look this good at twelve in the morning. Whereas everyone else was dressed in casual clothes and pajamas, Kurt wore tight jeans and a cream sweater so soft Blaine wanted to reach out and touch it. His pale skin was painted tan from the candlelight and his hair stood so high and perfectly coiffed on his head Blaine was sure it must have taken hours to fix.

“I’ll do it,” Blaine offered, cringing at himself when every pair of eyes turned to him. He could have smacked himself in the forehead. He didn’t come here to compete, he didn’t even come for the drama. He was going to horribly embarrass himself and be forced to switch careers. Slowly and on shaky legs, he made his way to the center of the room.

Kurt smirked and said, “You’re going down.” But his eyes were gleaming with mischief. Blaine almost smiled himself, but the moderator whispered that Kurt will go first and Blaine could sit back down. The song is announced, or whisper-yelled, to be “On My Own” from Les Mis.

The music started and Kurt took a moment to close his eyes, drinking in the silence before performing. And then he sings. He floated atop the song like a leaf across water, dipping in and swirling through the melody. He sounded like he might cry, and Blaine felt a tear threatening to slip out of his eye. That’s when he knew he wouldn't win. Emotional ballads had never been his thing. And when only fifteen people gathered on his side of the room and waved their hands in silent applause, he didn’t care.

“Hey, Blaine is it?” Kurt asked when Midnight Madness had ended and students poured out the doors and back home or to bars. Blaine’s eyes went wide. Leslie spotted his fear and left without him, blonde braids swishing behind her. He was going to kill here.

“Yeah,” he replied, breathily as he turned around and finally got a good look at Kurt’s eyes. Icy blue and gorgeous, Blaine felt stripped down under his gaze. “You were really amazing, I mean obviously since you won but…”

Kurt bit his lip to hide his smile, and Blaine guilty pocketed the moment for a later time. “Thanks, but you were great too. I couldn’t imagine being a freshman and being able to sing like that.”

“Ah, I’m actually in my third year,” Blaine said, rubbing at the back of his neck. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do too many extracurriculars at NYADA, not any he imagined Kurt would also be a part of.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Kurt apologized, face flushing pink. “Um, I was wondering if you wanted—”

“I should go,” Blaine interrupted, feeling more and more embarrassed as this whole ordeal went on. He honestly just wanted to go home and forget the whole thing even happened.

Kurt actually looked a bit upset for a brief second, but he caught himself quickly and went back to his bright smile. Props of being an actor. “Right, well, it was nice meeting you, Blaine.” He nodded and walked off and out of the glass double doors.

This time, Blaine did smack himself on the forehead. He was so stupid. Kurt was going to ask him out, wasn’t he? Or at least for coffee, everybody drinks coffee super late. He trudged out of the doors and down to the subway, trying his best to not think of himself as a total screw up when it came to love. But he did check Kurt’s Instagram on the ride home. Just to look.

“I’m going out! It’s my grandmother’s birthday and she misses me,” Leslie said even though Blaine already knew she was leaving. The red party dress he helped pick out popped against her dark skin.

He closed his journal and glanced at his roommate.“Tell her ‘happy birthday’ for me!” Leslie just kissed his cheek in response and shut the door behind her, leaving Blaine alone for another quiet evening.

It was finally summer, another year of college completed. Blaine had decided to stay in the city instead of going back home like a lot of students did. Not that he didn’t enjoy Ohio or his parents, he just didn’t feel like the cold small talk that would follow him the entire summer. The only thing he missed was the weather. It was a scorching summer this year in New York City, and Blaine had always preferred the cooler months. The whole city felt as though it had been placed in a boiling pot, and Blaine and Leslie spent most of their days inside at work or avoiding the heat. Their nights were spent partying on Leslie’s part, or curling up to watch a movie for Blaine.

If he were being honest with himself, he had no idea what he was going to do after college. Being a Broadway actor was no guarantee, if he would even make it there. He had heard of graduates from NYADA, bright eyed and filled with dreams, fizzle out like burning stars and end up in jobs that they didn’t even major in. Blaine couldn’t end up like that, he’d be proving his dad right.

So he had a moleskine journal filled with songs. The kind of music he sang in the shower. Poppy love ballads and short and brash breakup songs, even though he had never been broken up with before. The other people who had ever heard them were Leslie and Will, an ex-fling who he had mistakenly let get closer than he should have.

A set of sharp knocks at the door snapped him out of his thoughts.

“You have keys, Les!” Blaine yelled but got up anyway. She probably forgot her keys. The knocking didn’t stop until Blaine swung the door open, gaping at the sight.

“Hi,” Kurt gasped, looking just as surprised as Blaine probably did. His hair was dripping wet, and he had...shower shoes on?

“Are you okay?” Blaine asked. “How do you know where I live?” He ushered Kurt inside.

“I don’t, and I am,” Kurt said, running a hand through his hair. “I saw Leslie leave and asked if she could help me and she said her roommate was home? I didn’t know you two lived together…” He glanced around their living room.

“Oh, we’re not dating, I’m gay.” Kurt’s eyebrows knitted together, that wasn’t what he was asking at all. What was it about this guy that turned Blaine into a complete idiot?

“Um, what did you need help with?”

“My shower isn’t working, and I have a date in an hour,” Kurt groaned. Blaine tried to make his heart stop freaking out at the mention of a date. They hadn’t spoken beyond Midnight Madness, save a nod in the hallways on the off chance they passed each other. “Can I use yours, please?” He pouted and poked his lip out, as if Blaine wouldn’t have said yes before.

He gulped. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He squeaked despite his best efforts and led Kurt to his bathroom. At least he didn’t have to worry about it being dirty. Leslie was a bit flighty, but they both shared their germaphobe tendencies.

“You just turn the water on like this.” Blaine twisted the knob left then right until it clicked to get the water to the hottest setting. When he turned back around, Kurt had already taken his shirt off. Blaine’s mouth went dry. When his biceps flexed when he moved to unbutton his pants, Blaine covered his eyes and shut the door as fast as he could, not wanting to further exacerbate the situation.

He was almost at his room, ready to bury his head into his pillow and just scream, when Kurt knocked on the bathroom door and said, “Stay?” So soft and barely loud enough over the rushing water that Blane just had to stay.

“I’m here,” he smiled and slid down the other side of the door until he was sitting. “What’s up with your date?” he asked, trying not to sound so bitter.

Water splashes the ground and Kurt yells through the door, “Oh, some guy kept asking me out, for like months. And I eventually just said yes.” Blaine heard a groan from inside the bathroom, and ignored the way all the blood rushed to his face. And other places.

“Do you even want to go out with him?” He didn’t mean to be nosey, truly. But the way Kurt described him, the guy kind of sounded like a dick.

It was a moment before Kurt responded. “I guess. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date, so…” There was a soft click and the water stopped pouring.

“I get that. I’ve actually never had a boyfriend before, so the only dates I’ve had are usually followed by a messy hookup,” Blaine said. He didn’t know what it was about the whole ordeal that made him want to spill all of his secrets out. His head eventually caught up to what he said though. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

“Come in here.”

Blaine shook his head from the narrow hallway. “No, no it’s, that’s–”

“Blaine. Come inside.” Kurt’s voice was deep and stern, but when the door opened, he was laughing softly. Blaine thanked God he was dressed, because he was totally prepared to faint if he wasn’t.

“I have a deal for you,” Kurt said, drying his hair with a towel. “If my date goes terrible, I’ll call you. If it goes well, I’ll still call you.” He grinned and handed Blaine his phone.

It was crazy how contagious his smile was. Blaine felt his lips tug upwards as he typed a smiley face next to his name. “What’s in it for you?”

Kurt rolled his eyes with that same smile on his face and took his phone back. “Getting to hear your voice, or course.” He squeezed past Blaine, who’s limbs had temporarily planted into the floor. “Thanks for the shower, Blaine.” He winked, freaking winked, and Blaine heard the door shut softly behind him.

He smiled alone to himself in his foggy bathroom and turned his ringer all the way up.

#spaceorphan’s sophisticated challenge: exacerbate #tan lines and tan hands #glee #blaine anderson #kurt hummel #two shot #klaine fanfiction #i’m back to writing oblivious blaine #my specialty

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madwoman14 · 3 years

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it should be illegal to sing any of the songs on ts debut without an out of control country accent

#CUZ ITS LATE AND HIS MAWMAW DONT KNOW #asking gawd if he can play it agaWN #taylor swift #taylor swift debut

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natromanxoff · 4 years

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Queen live at Capital Centre in Landover, MD, USA - November 29, 1977

(x)

A fan filmed the first couple minutes of the show on a silent Super 8 camera, but he was caught by a security guard and the film was confiscated.

Another fan recalls the band took a 30 minute break in the middle of the show, and started the second half of the show with Tie Your Mother Down. He also says they performed both Spread Your Wings and It's Late.

Here is a review of the show from the next day's Washington Post. It reveals that the band have swapped Keep Yourself Alive with Now I'm Here. The former now follows Bohemian Rhapsody in the setlist, as it had earlier in the year.

There is a great story on Brian May's website by Tracy Chevalier, who attended the show as a youngster:

It started with a champagne toast and ended with a limo pulling away into the night. In between these two gestures symbolising glamour and sophistication, I lost my virginity. Not in the technical sense (that would take another few years), but in other ways. At my first ever rock concert — going with four friends to see Queen at the Capital Centre in November 1977 — I got an eye-opening peek at elements of the adult world, with its power and its limitations, its glittering artifice and dirty reality, and it demonstrated how little I knew and how much I had yet to learn about life.

I was ripe for it; overdue, really. I had turned 15 the month before the concert, and though people thought I looked older than I was, I was remarkably naive and unworldly at that age. Despite a few character-building events in my childhood — the death of my mother when I was almost 8, the experience of being a minority in DC public schools — I was so unsophisticated, so unaware of the world, that I didn’t even realise Queen was an English band until the lead singer Freddie Mercury appeared in a tight white catsuit on stage at the Capital Centre, raised a glass of champagne at 18,000 screaming fans, and toasted us with “Good evening, Washington” in a fruity English accent. I was stunned. Then I started screaming.

I had been a Queen fan for a couple of years by then. A Night at the Opera was the first LP I bought, and I could sing every word of every song. I don’t remember how I was introduced to Queen — though I do remember hearing their biggest hit, Bohemian Rhapsody, on the radio and being impressed by its audacity. It sure beat the hell out of the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Neil Young, which had been my older sister’s staple music diet. By 14, I was writing Queen lyrics on the desk where I sat for algebra class, swapping them back and forth with a boy I had a crush on, and daydreaming of guitarist Brian May kissing me.

The concert was part of Queen’s News of the World tour. While not a great album, especially after the double whammy of A Night at the Opera and its follow-up, A Day at the Races, it did produce two of their best-known songs, We Will Rock You and We are the Champions, which drop-kicked them firmly into stadium anthem territory. Appropriately, the concert began with the lights going down and the primitive, effective, impossible-not-to-join-in-with BOOM- BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI intro to We Will Rock You rolling over the audience. Everyone immediately jumped up out of their seats and began to stomp and clap along. I, too, stood and stomped and clapped, watching in awe as people began flicking their Bic lighters, a gesture I had never seen before. What, were they going to set light to something? I had tried not to act surprised earlier when people nearby started smoking grass in public, but now was there going to be a riot? What other illegal things would go on that night? Then a spotlight picked out Freddie Mercury, who began to sing, “Buddy you’re a boy, make a big noise, playin’ in the street, gonna be a big man someday . . .” and I thought, “Jesus H. Christ, that is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard! Is that legal?” The wall of sound terrified me, and I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn’t dare, as it would have been a very uncool thing to do. I think I looked around for the exit, wondering how many people I would have to climb over to escape the sound. It was just so goddamned loud — exhilarating, yes, but painful, too, dangerous and overwhelming. I wavered between loving it and hating it, but knew it would be uncool to hate it, so I’d better try to love it.

Towards the end of the song the single note of an electric guitar began to hum louder and louder under the chorus we were all singing and shouting, and Brian May stepped into the light to add his distinctive sound, ending We Will Rock You with low, long-sustain, three-part harmony chords, overlaid with a high melody he made fuzzy and metallic by using a coin as a guitar pick. I adored Brian May. He was the reserved, straight guy (literally) to Freddie Mercury’s camp high jinks — tall, dark, good-looking, with long curly hair and a melancholy pensiveness that made every teenage girl want to comfort him. At this concert he was wearing a silvery white jacket with long, pleated wing sleeves; that combined with his mop of curls should have made him look effeminate, but instead he was deeply sexy.

I loved Freddie, too, for his outrageous antics, his riskiness, his joy at performing and glorious indifference to how ridiculous he looked wearing glittery leotard jumpsuits, eyeliner and a mullet, prancing and strutting and posing, twitching his hips, smacking his lips and otherwise hamming it up. But even without being conscious of Freddie’s sexual preference — I hadn’t yet met anyone who was openly gay — I instinctively sensed he was not to be lusted after. For all his extrovert, welcoming stage presence, he was clearly playing a part, which served to hold us at arm’s length; whereas Brian May’s taciturn moodiness was clearly himself served up raw.

Thank God for Freddie, though. Without him, no one would have moved on stage: Brian May was not a dancer, John Deacon, in time-honoured bassist tradition, stood solidly in one place throughout, and Roger Taylor was trapped by his drum kit.

To set us at our ease, after We Will Rock You Freddie toasted us with a glass of champagne — “Moët et Chandon, of course,” after the reference in the hit Killer Queen. My friends and I heard this and screamed and clutched one another. He mentioned Moët et Chandon! That was our champagne! He was acknowledging us! I swear he made eye contact with me, 200 yards away and over the heads of thousands.

For we had done what we thought was the most original and extravagant gesture (for 15-year-olds) a fan could make: we had sent a bottle of champagne backstage. We’d pooled our money and gotten an older sister to buy it for us — the same sister who had been obliged to drive us all the way to the Capital Centre, smirking at our overexcited fandom. We’d even made our way to the stage door down a loading dock at the back of the arena and reluctantly handed over the precious bottle to a bored roadie, who said he would take it to the band. We’d had our doubts about his reliability, and his jadedness had dampened our enthusiasm a bit: had we really blown all that money — $20, which in those days meant 20 hours of babysitting — to have some unshaven jerk with a beer belly swill the precious liquid? But clearly the roadie had pulled through for us, for there was our champagne in Freddie Mercury’s hand, and he was referring to Moët et Chandon in his pretty cabinet, the lyrics we had so cleverly quoted in the note we sent along with the bottle. We were sure we — among the many thousands — had managed to get through to the band.

If we had bothered to look around rather than feast our eyes on Brian and Freddie (I’m afraid John Deacon and Roger Taylor never got a look-in from me), we probably would have seen other clusters of fans also screaming and clutching one another during Freddie’s toast. But we didn’t look around or harbour doubts, or we ignored them. It was only much later that I allowed myself to consider the veritable champagne lake that must have existed backstage at every Queen concert. Tip to rock stars: want a free truckload of champagne wherever you go? Sing a song that mentions some — preferably name-checking a more expensive brand to ensure better quality — and watch it pour in backstage every night from adoring fans. There must have been a hundred bottles from fans back there, not counting the stash the band may well have brought with them in case Portland or Houston or Detroit weren’t so generous. No wonder that roadie looked so bored — he’d probably been put on champagne duty that night.

Freddie’s toast worked its magic, though, giving me the connection I needed to negotiate a place within the strangeness of the concertgoing experience itself: the weird, scary power of a crowd; the mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment at collective participation; the physical discomfort of standing for two hours when there’s a perfectly comfortable seat behind you. It is one of those tricky, unresolved tensions at concerts: are we there to listen to the music or actively respond to it, participate as a group or answer our needs as individuals? It’s an issue I’ve never entirely resolved — from Queen onwards I have spent concerts going in and out of myself, losing myself to the music and spectacle one minute, the next minute overly conscious of myself clapping or singing or screaming, and wondering why concerts have to be such an uncomfortable physical ordeal.

I was taken aback by the sound of Queen’s music live: not just the volume, but the familiarity and also the strange rawness of the songs. Studio albums have all the mistakes airbrushed out, the layers added in, the balance between players carefully calibrated, like clever dialogue in a play without the awkward pauses and unfinished conversations you get in real life. Queen albums were highly produced, multi-layered affairs. Live, the music was necessarily stripped of a lot of the choral mixing, more raucous, simpler and much messier.

The band wisely didn’t dare attempt to reproduce in its entirety the long, baroque confection that is Bohemian Rhapsody. For the infamous operatic middle section, the band members left the stage as the studio recording played. Freddie and Brian then changed costume, and, at the word “Beelzebub”, all four men popped out of a door in the stage floor and joined live again for the heavy metal section, fireworks going off, dry ice pouring out, everyone going berserk, me in tears of excitement. It was one of the best live moments I’ve ever witnessed. Indeed, I was spoiled by seeing Queen play live before anyone else; for sheer exuberant theatricality, no one else has come close.

The concert ended with an instrumental version of God Save the Queen and once more the flicking of the Bics, which, no longer the virgin concertgoer, I understood now as a gesture of tribute. My friends and I weren’t finished, though. Emboldened by Freddie’s toast, we decided to go to the stage entrance again and say hello. I still choke with embarrassment when I think of it. When we got there, a black limousine was pulling away, our heroes and their entourage inside, and we were left with the detritus: older, dolled-up, hard-bitten groupies who had followed the band around and not made this night’s cut. I stared at one, at her long, bleach-blond hair, her miniskirt, her bright red lipstick. She glared at me briefly; then her face went slack as she dismissed the idea of me being any sort of competition. In fact, I had not really taken in that there was a competition, that the girls (and I?) were here to spread our wares and catch the attention of one of the men, and then . . . And then? I hadn’t thought it through at all. I wouldn’t have known what to do with such a man as Brian May if he even so much as looked at me. All I knew was that I was way, way out of my depth, that even if I had eluded the roadie minding the door, there was no way I was ever going to get past a woman like this.

The contrast between the sparkling theatricality of the concert and the gritty reality of the backstage, with its dirty concrete, anonymous faces and unfulfilled dreams turned my stomach, and almost ruined the night. I wished I hadn’t seen it, because it reminded me that the show was a fantasy, while it was my aching feet and the roadies’ boredom and the groupies’ hard desperation that constituted real life. As I stood watching the limo pull away and the unsexy women stand about, licking their wounds, looking for a ride to the next city and another chance, I felt as if a door had been kicked open a crack on to a world I knew nothing about: the seamy underbelly of the concertgoing experience, a mix of sex and power and exploitation, of cigarettes and poorly applied make-up and long, cold nights waiting to be noticed and defining yourself by someone else’s attention. If that was grown-up life, I didn’t want to know about it. I wanted the champagne toast, but not the limo. Not yet.

Fan Stories

“I had just turned 16 a few weeks earlier. I was absolutely 100% in love with Queen (since age 13 when first hearing Killer Queen on the radio) and therefore could hardly believe my sister's friend, who worked with her at the Roy Rogers restaurant at the mall, who said she knew Freddie Mercury's girlfriend, Mary, and that she was going to get a backstage pass and would try to get one for us as well. Well, just before the concert she met my sister at a pre-arranged point (inside the venue) and said that she was unable to get us the backstage passes. You can imagine my disappointment and my thinking at this point that this girl was not telling the truth about knowing Freddie's girlfriend (it seemed too good to be true to me to begin with). Then after the concert, which was great of course, we were depressed (my sister and I - but especially me) at not getting to meet them, so we decided to wait for their limo to come out of the underground parking area at the Capital Centre. When it emerged we got so excited we decided to sprint to our big blue station wagon and follow them. With my learner's permit only, I followed them at probably over 80 miles per hour - I remember it being the fastest I had ever driven but I was determined not to lose them - to a restaurant somewhere in DC. At that age, I didn't have my bearings around the city. We didn't want to freak them out so I think we just watched them go inside from our car. Then we ended up waiting outside in the cold air for I think around 2 hours - anyway - enough to turn my nose red and make my lips and toes numb. We weren't allowed in the restaurant - and there was a bouncer from Liverpool out front that prevented us from even going in the lobby to warm up. At one point Roger came down the stairs into the lobby and I smiled at him and he smiled back and started over to the door - but was stopped by another man who grabbed his arm. So then he just continued downstairs to the bathroom, and ignored us when he went back up the stairs. When they finally emerged from the restaurant, I was frozen in more ways than just the temp. Brian said, "It's a bit cold out here". One of them (I don't know who because I think I was in shock) said, "So, were you at the concert?" And we said yes. My friend who was hardly a Queen fan grabbed the attention for herself by shouting "That was the best concert I've ever seen!" or some such thing. I was so embarrassed not being able to think of anything to say in my stunned condition. Freddie looked at me briefly then looked over at my sister. He nodded at my sister but he never stopped walking to the limo. Brian walked over to me and said something like, "Did you enjoy the concert?" and I think I mumbled something like, "Yes. It was fantastic." Then all I could think to say was "Can I have your autograph?" He said "Sure" and ended up giving me the autograph and his pen. So I had to tap him on the arm to get his attention to give him his pen back. "Here's your pen." Can you imagine - here I am meeting my idols and all I can say is this? This all happened within about 20 or 30 seconds it seemed, and they all got into the limo quickly - they seemed pretty tired. I can't remember if they had one or two limos. All four of the members were there and I think a couple of other men - probably manager and driver(s). Freddie didn't say anything, just acknowledged us without a smile and got into the limo. John did the same. I remember thinking Brian was pretty tall. I stood very close to him. I am almost 5 foot 9 and he towered above me it seemed. Of course the hair probably added several inches! The best part of the story I guess is that my sister's friend, the one who knew Mary, said that when the band got back to the hotel they said there were some "nice working girls" waiting outside the restaurant. I guess they thought we were older - we were only 16 and 17 and still in high school of course. We were dressed very conservatively and with long coats.

My sister's co-worker said that she was good friends with Mary, because their families had been neighbors, and so was happy to get to visit with her. Also she said she thought that Freddie was the nicest member of the group, but very shy.” - Donna13

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #queen concerts

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nearlymanaged · 4 years

Text

10. Des Mots Magiques

The last few weeks of the term seemed to fly by at the speed of light before the world came to a screeching halt. Remus felt not only pleased with himself, but also proud of his three best friends for how they finished their first half of their sixth year at Hogwarts. James and Peter had been doing better than just alright in their Potions lessons, and Sirius managed to scrape up an E on their mock History of Magic exam.

The four boys arrived at the Potters’ residence in the late afternoon on Christmas Eve. They spent the whole day playing two-a-side snow fight. James’ dad would occasionally join them, without leaving his study, by charming some snow balls to pelt whichever side was doing better at any given moment. They eventually got called back inside by James’ mum for some of the best dinners Remus had ever had the pleasure of eating - especially after exerting all his energy, trying to bring James and Sirius down.

He had been a guest of the Potters a few times before, and he always thoroughly enjoyed it. He would have never said a bad word about his own parents, but Mr. and Mrs. Potter seemed to love nothing more than caring for their son and his friends. Remus silently wondered if he could ever have such a home - full of love and laughter, instead of anxiety and quiet resentment.

He enjoyed chatting with James’ mum immensely; they would discuss topics ranging from Herbology to the ongoing war against Voldemort and his supporters. And James’ dad had such warmth about; Remus had never truly realised that dads didn’t have to be distant and strict and vague until he met Fleamont Potter.

Since Sirius now lived with the Potters, he had his own bedroom in their house, and he insisted that Remus take his bed that night.

“Your body gets wrecked enough as it is, we shouldn’t subject you to sleeping on that,” he pointed at the camping bed that Mr. Potter had set up in the room.

Remus had tried to argue but Sirius swiftly turned into a black dog on the spot, dragged a blanket off the foldout bed and onto the floor, and, after turning in circles a handful of times, curled up in the middle of it. “Thanks, Pads,” Remus had smiled at him and climbed into the empty bed.

On Christmas morning they all gathered in the sitting room to open presents and drink hot cocoa together (James had added a liberal splash of firewhiskey to each cup).

“Sirius, your hair is getting so long,” Mrs. Potter lightly brushed her hand over the top of his head as she walked past, collecting everyone’s now empty mugs.

“Yeah, I suppose it is…” Sirius tugged at a dark strand looking self-conscious all of a sudden, which didn’t happen all that often.

“It suits you, you look very handsome,” she beamed at him, effectively putting a proud grin on his face.

“I like it too,” Remus mumbled, more so to himself than anyone else.

“So what have you boys got planned for today?”

“We’re more than happy to help you cook!” Peter looked up at Mrs. Potter eagerly.

“So very sweet of you, but I’ll be quite alright. It’s your Christmas break, you should be having fun!”

“Well, actually,” Sirius got up from his chair and stretched. “I’ve been wanting to go to a record shop.”

“Great! Remus can come with you,” James grinned without skipping a beat.

“I suppose I can,” Moony agreed, albeit a little confused by James’ insistence. “What are you two going to do?”

“We’ve got...stuff, school stuff.”

“Oh really?” Mr. Potter peered at his son, but Remus never heard the rest of the conversation because Sirius grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the room, evidently extremely eager to get going.

“It might not even be open today,” Remus pointed out but proceeded to put his shoes and coat on nonetheless.

“I know how to pick locks, remember?” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows.

“That is very much illegal, remember?”

The walk to the Muggle town took about thirty chatter and laughter filled minutes, towards the end of which Sirius started complaining about being cold. Of course, that was to be expected since he was wearing a leather jacket and no gloves or scarf or hat. Just as Remus was pointing this out, they rounded a corner and saw the record shop on the other side of the street. They could hear music coming from it, but when they walked up the steps leading to the door, they saw a ‘closed’ sign. Just for good measure, Sirius rattled the handle, but it unsurprisingly didn’t budge.

They could clearly make out now that the music coming out through the open window on the side of the building was some kind of a french song.

“What are you doing?” Remus asked slowly as he watched Sirius walk over to the window that was set in the wall just above his head, and, keeping his eyes on it, started walking backwards.

“I’ll just take a quick peek. Maybe they’ll let us in.”

“Sirius, that’s a bit creepy,” Remus laughed, watching him jump up a couple of times before turning into a massive dog. He could jump a lot higher as Padfoot and so when he leapt up again, he used his strong front legs to hang over the windowsill. “At least technically not illegal, I suppose…”

“Oh merde!” A surprised yelp came from inside the building. “Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?”

A brown haired boy, probably around their age, poked his head out the same window; after glancing around quickly, his eyes fell upon Remus. “Is this your puppy?” He asked squarely, a noticeable accent clinging to each word - French, Remus was sure.

“Er, yeah…” He pulled his lips into a smile, wondering how Sirius liked being referred to as a puppy.

The answer to that came in a loud, angry growl when the stranger tried to pet the dog. Then, Sirius leapt down to the ground and, having no choice at this point, sat down next to Remus looking rather like an obedient pet.

“Not very friendly? But ‘e has good taste in music.”

“Apparently so. We uh, didn’t mean to bother. Didn’t realise the shop would be closed.”

“Ah you are not bothering me. Come in...” The boy disappeared and seconds later opened the front door. “Please.”

Remus glanced down at Sirius, barely able to contain an amused smile, and gave him an almost imperceptible shrug before walking over to the boy. “Is it alright if my puppy comes in?”

“Of course. I don’t think my uncle would be pleased but ‘e is not ‘ere.”

“Does your uncle own this place then?” Remus asked, brushing his fingertips against the covers of records as we walked deeper into the shop, followed by Padfoot.

“Yes. I am only ‘ere for the ‘olidays. My parents think it would be charmant to spend Christmas in the English countryside. But I think it is so boring ‘ere. I only like this shop,” the boy motioned around as he stopped in front of a record player. “Do you know this song?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it…” Remus mumbled.

“I must play it for you from the beginning then!” And with that, the boy lifted the needle of the player and repositioned it at the edge of the vinyl disc. “It is a well known love song in France,” he added before lowering the needle again, allowing the music to fill the air.

The song was beautiful, Remus had to admit, even though he had no idea what they were singing about. He liked the sound of a beautiful language that seemed like it possessed magic beyond anything he’d ever learnt at Hogwarts. That night when Sirius was speaking French, talking him to sleep, Remus thought his heart was going to explode. He had listened to the hypnotising crooning of his voice, dreaming up images in his head of the words he was hearing were those of professing love. Of course, he was sure, Sirius was probably talking about how boring that week’s History of Magic lesson had been or something just as mundane. But he felt like he could have curled up in his voice all the same and spent a hundred years lying there, on that sofa, so close to him.

The boy wasn’t saying anything so Remus started pacing down the rows of boxes full of records, getting lost in the memory that the song had brought back in his mind. Sirius was striding alongside him the whole time, up until the song ended.

“‘E is comparing ‘is lover with the wind and smell of roses,” the boy spoke again right behind Remus, who hadn’t noticed him come up and flinched slightly. “‘E is saying that she is a beautiful love story, that ‘e will not stop reading it.”

“That’s...very poetic,” Remus blurted, feeling a bit out of the water discussing the topic. “What is she saying?”

“She says, it’s all just words. She does not believe ‘im anymore. She thinks it is only sweet, euh...fragile words.”

“So it’s a sad song?”

“Yes and no. Is it better to have passion that is very short and go away, or is it better to never have it at all?” Again, Remus didn’t really know how to answer such a question, and posed by a stranger no less, all while Sirius was listening to them. “You are turning red,” the boy stated to add to it all. “British boys are so shy sometimes, I have noticed this.” A strange smirk played on his lips.

“You ask complicated questions, I suppose,” Remus answered, growing a little annoyed by the boy's obvious enjoyment in making him feel uneasy.

“Red suits you. I am called Vincent,” he turned around on his heel and strode over to the record player before glancing over his shoulder. “What is your name?”

“Remus,” Moony shoved his hands in his pockets and cast a glance at the black dog who was starting to squeal and whine a little.

“Remus… I like it. Do you live here, Remus? I’ve never seen you.”

“No, I’m just visiting for the holidays as well.”

“Ah, I see. ‘Ow long will you be ‘ere?”

“For another week or so.”

“Were you looking for something specific? To buy?” Vincent casually changed the topic, again.

“Er, not really. Just wanted to browse around, I guess.”

“Then what should I play now?”

Remus looked at Sirius out of the corner of his eyes, hoping he’d indicate to him somehow which record he wanted to hear; instead, he was peering at Vincent with unyelding intensity, almost glaring, if his canine snout allowed for such expression.

“H-how about Velvet Underground? Do you know them?” Remus looked over at Vincent from across the shop.

“I do not think so.” Regardless, he strode over to the box labelled ‘V’ and pulled out a record. “You can come closer, I will not bite,” he uttered once he stood in front of the player again.

“I might,” Remus mumbled without thinking as he shuffled deeper into the shop again.

Vincent lifted his face as the first notes of Sunday Morning filled the room; there was that same peculiar smile etched in his features. “Who are you visiting for the ‘olidays? Not a girlfriend--” his breath caught, eyes gleaming, before he added, “or a boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend and his family…” Remus answered, wondering if it was the language barrier that made the whole interaction so strange. “So how long will you be staying here for?” He asked, more out of politeness than anything else.

“Two weeks. Maybe this trip will not be so boring in the end?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Remus shrugged with a small smile, not really understanding what the boy meant.

Sirius seemed to be eager to get out of there, his whining growing ever louder, but Remus didn’t want to seem rude and walk out right then, when Vincent had just put on the record for them. He shot Sirius a quick, somewhat exasperated look and turned back to the French boy. “What do you think? Bit different than your music, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is very different. Is this your favourite artist?” He looked vaguely put off.

“Not really. I like a little bit of everything.”

“Ah, I see. I like the first song more. ‘E sounds, I don’t know… ‘ow do you say? Aggressive maybe, no?”

“I suppose Lou Reed doesn’t have the most pleasant voice…” Remus laughed a little, bobbing his head.

“Your puppy doesn’t like it?” Vincent looked over at Padfoot who, for all the boy knew, was agitated by the music.

“Oh, he likes it alright.”

There was a pause that stretched while the song went on; an awkward pause, Remus felt, as his smiling eyes kept wandering from Vincent to Padfoot, to boxes of records, to the player. He started wondering if maybe the boy was growing bored, maybe he regretted letting them in, maybe it was time to leave...

“How did you get these scars?” Vincent spoke softly, yet unexpectedly, and lifted his hand, as if intending to touch a long-healed mark on the side of Remus’ face; instead, his fingers hovered inches from Moony’s’ skin before he retracted them.

“Er…I-- It’s...” Moony stumbled over his words, surprised by the bluntness.

“Forgive me, I did not want to offend,” the boy pressed both hands to his chest; now it was him who seemed to be blushing. “I think they are beautiful.”

“You...what?”

The boy let out a small giggle. “They look very unique...in a good way. I think they make you more ‘andsome.”

Remus felt his ears get hot as he stared at the boy; it was as though he only now took a good look at him since he had entered the shop. Vincent was shorter than him, probably a little shorter than Sirius. He had brown hair and eyes that were so dark, they almost appeared black. He had perfectly straight teeth and a tanned glow to his skin, even in the middle of winter.

Before Remus could respond, Sirius bounded across the length of the shop and put his giant frown paws on his shoulder, nudging Vincent out of the way as he did so.

“‘E is very funny dog!” The boy chuckled.

“He is…” Remus pushed the dog off himself; Padfoot wasn’t relenting, however - he snatched the sleeve of his coat and started tugging at it, slowly inching backwards, towards the door. Remus wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave now. He was overcome by a kind of curiosity - this French boy seemed to be flirting with him. “I er...I think I ought to get going,” he breathed out, trying to shake Sirius off. “Thank you for...er, thank you.”

He felt a rush of excitement as the boy gave him a rather disappointed smile. Remus had become so wrapped up in his feelings for Sirius that he was taken aback by how nice it felt to have this stranger notice him, how flattered he was by it.

Just then, Vincent took Remus’ hand in his. “Come back again before you leave, Remus?”

“I-- I’ll try,” he beamed at the boy before giving in to Sirius and getting dragged outside.

Sirius didn’t waste any time before turning back into his human self, which Remus found a bit reckless, considering the boy might have been looking out the door or one of the windows.

“Well that was a drag,” he folded his arms over his chest as they started walking back the same way they had come. “What a pretentious little git.”

“I think he was alright…”

“Zis is a song about love, eet is not aggressive but full of passion. But you wouldn’t know anything about eet, British boys are so pudibond,” Sirius did a cruel yet rather accurate impression and rolled his eyes. “Fils de pute prétentieux.”

Remus gaped at him, his whole upper body turned towards Sirius. “The fleas bothering you again, aren’t they? I’m telling you, we can get rid of them very easily,” he let out a melodious chuckle but Sirius merely pouted, hugging himself tighter.

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #peter pettigrew #marauders #hogwarts #fanfic

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starfirette · 4 years

Note

Hello! Can u please write Helena Bertinelli with a Fem!reader tomboy that's a muay thai fighter and look like super cool and cold,but in the apartment its a very soft and lovely girlfriend with Helena? (And how the birds will react when them met her) Thank you,I Love you writing and HELENA IS SUCH A BAE!!! THIS GAL NEED MORE LOVE AND SUPPORT!❤

masterlist | word count: who fucking knows | 🏷 @kurreapormaranet @emofairygay | a/n: ;0 There are some things you might want to look up on youtube so you have a general idea of what’s happening. Clinch positions, tactical stand ups, thips

The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

The overall mission seemed simple, but it had Helena dreading this moment since Harleen explained what needed to happen.

The trust fund brat of the devilish Rossini family kidnapped the Rossini’s pride and joy: their little baby girl, Ayala. Ayala Rossini, four years old, is the Brat’s younger half sister and the new written in heir of the Rossini fortune. The Brat, Carmen, had been written out of the will after she kidnapped the new little bird Batman was keeping under his wing. She’d been sloppy and left behind all marks of her family’s (unbeknownst) involvement. She made serval costly mistakes which included Batman’s uncovering of the Rossini family’s plans of Gotham, Star, and Jump city. Half the family became arrested.

Carmen was all but disowned by her father, whom she already resented for marrying another woman so quick after the death of her mother. To get her revenge, she kidnapped Ayala.

So, Mr and Mrs Rossini employed Harley and her rag tag team of anti-hero thugs.

To get Ayala back, the girls would have to go undercover.

Their heroic deed would get them 30k each, so that was good enough. The Rossinis are precise and focuses; they’d been willing to pay as much as they had to in order to ensure the safety of their little crime lord baby.

Now Harley had her connections. She knew a guy who knew a guy who saw a friend with a girl outside of the 31 Flavors ice cream shoppe, and this girl just happened to know that Carmen spends her free time hosting epic fights in the secret tunnels of Smallville.

It’s a long ways away from Gotham, but is a perfect place to host such gatherings. The fights are frightfully violent and brutal. Also very illegal. No one would ever know that beneath the wheat and corn fields of Lil’ Ol’ Smallville county lays an intricate mafia maze.

Carmen Rossini is notorious for entertaining the winners to a “fine dinner with wine”. The rumors go that she runs an entire harem of Thai Fighting women, using them for sexual favors and personal security.

The entire mission is actually depending on that rumor.

The plan was to send in Dinah as a participant in the rink and hope she would win and earn the attention of Carmen.

But then Dinah got bronchitis. It was a nasty case, too, in which she wouldn’t stop coughing and hacking up green stuff into tissues.

The entire thing would have been called off if you hadn’t admitted that you are, in fact, trained in Muay Thai.

You’re positive that Helena would have rather kept this a secret, because she doesn’t like putting you in harms way. It’s a nuisance to have the world’s most protective girlfriend. Heaven forbid you even get a paper cut, else she’d make you wear rubber gloves while you read a book.

The entire group (save Helena) jumped for the chance to replace Dinah with you. You’d do perfect, Harley said, sounding so confident.

You intended to be flawless in the ring.

You’d not competed since high school, when Muay Thai was still just a recreational hobby. You’d had your wins and losses, but that was before you grew up to spend majority of your time fighting mafia crime lords.

Once Dinah officially relinquished her role of the mission, you took to the heavy bags. The repetitions became intense and harsh in the following weeks. You spent every night limping into bed.

Your sweet whispers that begged Helena for a soothing massage fell onto her deaf ears. She is stubborn, and she had been attempting to force you out of this competition since the day you’d agreed to it.

You were not afraid of Carmen, or anyone else she’d make you fight against. For the sake of the little Ayala, you would do this. Besides, you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? With the Birds and their abilities, there isn’t much that could happen.

Nothing would slide through the cracks.

Hopefully.

The day did come faster than you’d imagined, though. The drive to Smallville was tense, especially in the backseat where Helena was frostily ignoring you.

Harleen was road raging, passing every trucker on the two way road that didn’t exceed 65 miles an hour.

“You know the speed limit is 45, right?” Montoya asked after she had taken a long drag of a cigarette. She had her legs propped up on the dash. Between her and Harley sat Cass, who was oblivious to the chaos around her as she sang along to a pop Spanish song. “Yeah, and?” Harley quipped. She cast her bright eyes towards Montoya, a wicked smile playing on her lips.“You gonna arrest me?”

Montoya couldn’t do much but sigh in defeat. If Harley didn’t mind crashing, then she didn’t either.

Between the bickering and the loud singing of the three front passengers, you and Helena were sitting silently in the very back seats. Your head was leaned up against the window which rattled as the tires of Harley’s ‘64 Starfire rolled across the gravely road.

Helena had been refusing to speak to you since the fight you got into last night. It was a real fight. She’s made it clear that she’s against you fighting in Carmen’s ring, and is especially against you joining her harem.

You’d first thought she was afraid of disloyalty; you had promised her that you wouldn’t ever cheat on her, even if it was for a mission. But it became revealed that’s not what Helena was worried about.

She feared for your life. She fears for your life every single day. No matter how small of a task, she can’t help but worry. She lost her mother, father, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles; everyone. She’d been so helpless. She could only watch as she became the sole Bertinelli.

Helena couldn’t live on if something happened to you.

The fight ended on a confusing note. It didn’t end, per say, and you two did sleep in the same bed. However, neither of you has said a word to each other. You tried this morning, but she’d given you the snippy, cold shoulder.

As much as you hate putting her through so much anxiety, you know that you can’t back down. A girl’s life is at stake; it’s not the money you care about. Not to mention Carmen Rossini is about to make the top 50 worst criminals in Gotham County.

Harley rolled the car to a stop around a patch of gravel and dust. Everyone climbs out, rocks crunching under their shoes as they stretch and look around.

“Where is it?” Cass asks, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose denim jacket. Her chapped lips are stained blue from the tootsy pop that she’d crunched on in the car. The soggy stick now hung from her lips, as if she had been imitating Montoya’s cigarette.

Harley locked, double checked, then re locked, then triple checked her car. She turned around, using her hands to shield her vision as she scanned the open wheat fields. “Dunno,” she admitted. “I guess I supposed someone woulda been here to meet us.”

You shifted on your feet. You wanted to try and make Helena happy before you’d at least go inside and get in the ring. The only issue is, she’ll only be happy if your forfeit now.

You would not.

Across the way, by a few yards at most, a rustling came through the wheat that came at least up to your hips.

A young man emerged; he approached the Birds with a guarded look that furrowed his thick, blond eyebrows. “You are Carmen’s guests, yes?”

He spoke with a thick accent. His honey blond hair contrasted his coffee brown features. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw, but something about him seemed off. He seemed intimidated despite being taller and broader than most.

“We are,” you answered for the Birds. “I am Y/n. I am the contestant.”

The man beckons you all forward. Helena glared at him, her hand steadily tapping the outside of her thigh. She was prepared to draw her gun and shoot anyone that could get in her way. In your way.

You tasted a bitter foam in your mouth as you attempted to stop Helena without raising too much attention.

“We––I––am here for the Carmen’s...event.”

The honey blond man tallied the Birds on his fingers, visibly distressed. “I do not thinka’ Miss Rossini expected so many of you...”

After a brief, strangled silence, the man shook his head and waved his arm along to escort you. “The bunker is just this way,” he explained. Harley and Cass walked after him.

Helena meets your eyes. Her gaze is firm, and maybe even angry. No way could you defuse that situation while still heading into the rink.

The wheat and grass crunched under your boots as you marched across the pace-by-pace clearing. A trap door in the ground lifted up swiftly, silently, as if they grease the hinges every damn day.

You remembered how this turned out for Suzie Salmon; casting one more look over your shoulder, you assured yourself with the presence of Helena.

Down the hatch, under the ground, you, Harley, Cass, Helena, and Mr Cannoli over here shuffled down the hall to a big dressing room. The entire layout felt more like a stadium then an underground crime rink. The dressing room has lush sofas and fur blankets; in the corner a SodaStream is mounted on an Ikea book table.

“Miss Rossini will join you shortly,” Cannoli-guy told you, nodding his head regally. He bowed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door after him.

Cass jumped on the sofa. She sprawled out over the furs, kicking her muddy Chuck Taylors up. “Luxury.”

Harley snipped to Cass to get her dirty little feet off the merchandise.

You took a seat in the swivel chair in front of the large mirror. It looked like pure Broadway with the heavy lightbulbs that wreathed the glass.

“Can’t say they don’t know how to entertain a guest,” Harley squealed as she migrated to the SodaStream. “They got homemade cream soda!”

Cass jumped off the sofa to run after Harley.

Instead of facing you, Helena took a heavy seat on the couch. Her legs spread out, looking spectacularly muscular in her tight, black pants.

Unfortunately, you’re too annoyed with her to go lounge in her lap.

As much as you’d like to make amends, you know the only way to do that would be to back down. You’re going into that rink.

The door flew open at the second Harley had poured herself and Cassie a drink.

Carmen Rossini strutted in and you stared in awe. You tried not to let your jaw drop. Tall, voluptuous. Her hair is wavy auburn, her eyes deepest green.

She looked at you immediately. Reaching out for you as if you were the messiah, she chuckled. “You’re even cuter in person! Oh, sweetie, you––you do know how to drive a hard bargain. Your agent Harleen contacted me, where is she?”

Harley waved her hand from the corner. “That would be me. Ain’t Y/n a real figure?”

Scowling, Helena crossed her legs. She glared up at Carmen, and you remembered that Carmen is doing what Helena hates the most; complimenting you.

It’s not so much that Helena doesn’t like that you receive compliments; it’s just that she prefers giving them to you.

“I’m so happy to see you all here tonight,” Carmen said, clapping her hands loudly. “There’s nothing more exciting than tonight’s event. Did you know,” she cooed as she ‘boop’ed your nose, “that I’ve got people betting about two million dollars that you’ll win? I am so, so pleased that you’ve chosen to make your debut in my arena.”

You nod, your neck stiff. “I guess I’m excited?” you mumbled.

Carmen snapped her fingers. She signaled to one of her lackies to come forward. A box Is presented at your feet.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a little something. A uniform of your own, courtesy of moi. Don’t you love it? I had your photos analyzed by a fashion expert, and they designed your shorts to compliment you perfectly.”

The high waisted, Thai shorts are a deep ivory shade, with black flowers sewn into the design. They’re the most beautiful Thai shorts you’d ever seen! Your own were cute, but simple, considering that you didn’t usually think to be a fashionista while working out.

“They’re amazing,” you admitted. Over the top? Definitely. Did you expect anything else? Honestly, you’re not sure. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Carmen, as she smiled, reached into the deep pocket of her red silk kimono-blouse. In her hands is a thickly wound prajoud, made of fine threads and paracord. The black and red jumped out at you like an old friend.

“I hope I got the rank right?”

“You did,” you say as you took the prajad from Carmen. “I could have brought my own if you’d asked.”

“It’s really not a big deal, my darling,” Carmen purred. She ran her hand through your hair, taking note of the silky feeling of each strand. “I will be watching. There will be people outside the door waiting to escort you to the arena when you’re done dressing.”

Her fingers are heavy with her bejeweled rings. The heavy tear shaped gems get tangled in your hair.

“You have ten minutes,” Carmen adds.

Helena glowered after her as she flitted out of the room. Her heels clacked down the hallway following the click of the door shutting in place.

Montoya took a long drag of her cigarette before she chortled.“You just gonna let her mark her territory like that?”

Helena didn’t say anything.

“Oi, Katniss,” Harley said loudly.

Helena’s cloudy eyes finally look to her friend. “What?”

“Carmen Rossini basically stole Y/n from you, and you let her!”

As you pulled out of your jeans, you sent Harley a little glare. “No one owned me to begin with,” you snapped.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s rights,” Harley exclaimed. “But it just seemed like—,”

“I know what it seemed like,” you snapped. “That’s the entire goddamn point, isn’t it? Get in her good graces?”

Case choked back her soda. “If that’s your idea of getting in Carmen’s creepy ‘good graces’ you gotta do better than that. You didn’t act sexy or flirt back at all!”

Helena stood to her feet. She brushed down the front of her black zip-up sweater. “I’m waiting outside,” she declares before stomping out with a frown wrung on her mouth.

Harley grimaced as the door slammed shut.

“Kid, come on,” Montoya sighed.

“I’m right,” Cass scowled. “You know that I am. We knew from the start that in order to get the little girl back, sexual favors would probably have to be granted.”

You pulled up your shorts. “Can everyone shut up?” You asked.

“What’s that?” Cass proceeded to ask, given she couldn’t talk about Carmen anymore. She pointed at the arm band that lay over the counter.

“Prajoud,” you tell her. Thank you pulled out of tour shirt. The heavy duty sports bra was already in place, but it gave you major uniboob.

“What does it do?” Cass asked again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed it off the vanity and fiddled with it.

“It’s like a belt,” you explained. “Instead of wearing a black belt, I wear a black prajad.”

“Who come up with that?” Cass asked.

“Uhm, Thai people?” Harley said as though it should be obvious. She snorted and jerked her thumb towards Cass. “Get a load of this guy.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s alright to ask questions, guys, just try not to be annoying. ‘M a little stressed out already.”

Harley took a final gulp of her soda. “Well, I guess we know who’s not getting action tonight. And that’s Y/n!”

“Why is Helena so upset anyways? Because Carmen was flirting?”

“No,” Harley explained. “See, she’s angry because Y/n’s going out and doing this fight, one, without asking her to begin with, two, for some other little kid, and three, with a evil Italian mafia tigress. She’s projecting her childhood fear that she’ll never be able to protect anyone she loves. She’s also rash, irritable, and possessive, so it’s just a cherry on top that the plan includes Y/n using her charms to sway Carmen.”

“Bravo,” you plainly say. “It’s almost like you’re a doctor or something.”

“Yeah,” Harley grinned. “Or something.”

You pulled the prajad over your forearm. You pulled the band tight, holding the laces in your mouth so you could knot it tight with one hand. You looked in the mirror, unsure of what to think of yourself.

You kicked your boots off next.

In socks, you turned to look at Harley and Cass. “Let’s do this,” you sighed.

Helena had been waiting loyally outside, leaned up against the jamb. Her eyes flitted up and down your figure, before rolling up towards the ceiling. “Let’s do this,” you said, sounding as if you’d already lost.

Marching down the hall in tow of the honey blond Italian, you tried to make eye contact with Helena. She was good at ignoring you. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s angry, stressed, or both.

Riddled with anxiety, you wish that she would look at you, or hold your hand at the very least.

At the entrance of the arena, you could see it was filled massively to the brim of its walls. You hadn’t realized how far underground you really are until you looked at the expansive seating. The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

You stepped to the stairs that wound up to the cage. You could smell the sweat and the matts; above the sound of the crowd cheering, you could hear your blood rushing fast in your ears.

“Find Ayala,” you muttered in Harley’s ears. “I don’t want to be here longer than we have to be.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but they were momentairly dulled by a silent question. “I thought...?”

“No,” you said firmly. “We shouldn’t be here any longer than we have to be,” you tell her. “I’ll stay here, I’ll do my thing; you take everyone and look for that girl. If you’re not done by the time the match is over, I’ll distract Carmen.”

Harley couldn’t respond by the time you were dragged up the stairs. Outside the cage’s gate, you were given a little table at which you could rest at. It had a pitcher of ice water, some glasses, a washcloth, and a bottle of brandy. You took a large drink of the brandy first. You peeled off your socks.

It felt like a blur as you stepped into the cage.

Your opponent was your size; she looked your weight, too. You suppose that’s fair, at least. It’s not like in the movies. The real competitions are done by weight and height.

You turned your head to give one last glance to your friends.

Helena stood beyond the cage, her hand resting over the gun holster. Her eyes were fixated on you.

You had to look away.

Tying your hair up in a tight bun, you walked out onto the mat. Your opponent did the same; meeting you half way, you two shook hands.

You didn’t exchange names; that would only make it harder.

“The rules,” a voice boomed around the stadium, “are there are no weapons to be permitted in the arena. Please watch as the fighters return to their corners then begin the match on the sound of the bell. The match will consist of two rounds, each lasting seven minutes.”

You hovered in the corner of the cage. You stretched and jogged in place. You have enough training for this. You do. You know that you can do it; hopefully, you will.

The bell rang. You take a massive sprint out into the middle of the ring where your opponent had already paced out.

You wound up a punch. Your feet lifted off the mat as you leap into the air, and you delivered the blow to the side of her face.

Her teeth crunched under the impact. It was such a hit that you saw it spew out of her mouth, and hit the cage.

The crowd exploded into a frenzy.

Hovering at your face your hands remained in constant motion. Her kicks were well calculated and her movements tactical. She gave away all of her tricks, though, by looking twice at the target she would next go for. If she looked at your side once too many times, you would crouch and use your arms to block your ribcage.

The sweat that built up made the more precise attacks difficult. Your punch began sliding off her face, keeping you staggering forward, and in her wide open range.

You were struck once, twice, then thrice on your left cheek. It sent blood and saliva dribbling down your chin.

Your prajad began to slip as you struggled to regain your balance.

The girl’s long leg extended forward. Her foot jabbed a strong thip into the center of your stomach, practically digging against your bladder.

The bell rang, then, marking the end of the first round.

You fell into your corner with a wheezing gasp. You crawled for the little table. You drank directly from the pitcher.

You looked back to the crowd, half expecting to see a flash of unfamiliar faces.

Helena still remained at the ringside. Her hands are clenched through the cage, and her eyes are desperate to meet yours. You were confused. Why hadn’t she left with Harley? Did Harley not need her? Or did she want to stay and watch?

You felt stronger with her just a few yards away.

You staggered to your legs, where your knees wobbled like jello on a plate.

The two minutes of rest time had ended, and the bell rang once more. You slid back rather than go for her first.

She sauntered to you like a bear, her shoulders hunched and her fists close to her face. She swung hooks and uppercuts that you could just barely dodge. You were close to slipping backwards a few times.

“Y/n, watch out!” Helena shouted suddenly.

You couldn’t see the girl racing towards you like a battering ram through your blurry vision. Her fist slammed over your temple. You swore you could feel your brain tumbling around your skull as you fell to the floor.

You clutched your ear with your bare hands. Pain gushed out of you like water. You thought you could see it, visibly, as it poured down bright green and crystalline.

It wasn’t there; it was the spots dancing in front of you. Disorientation is a real bitch.

One tactical standup later, you’re back up on your feet. You pushed yourself forward, forcing the remaining energy you had out of your hands. You grabbed the girl by her long pony tail and dragged her into a tight clinch. She attempted to swim out of it; the friction of her wrists against your neck burned.

You tugged her down, driving a sharp knee into her stomach. She stayed in your clinch for a long time, gasping for air as she couldn’t evade the knees. You finally released her. She staggers back. She falls onto her ass, visibly shaken up and at a loss for breath.

The crowd began to scream at you. Some did a countdown, others urged the other girl to get back up.

It was too late for her.

The bell rang, marking the end of the seven minutes, as well as the second round. She had lost, and you had won.

You limped towards her. Despite your own pain, you lifted the girl onto her feet.

“Good game?” she rasped.

“Hell yeah,” you wheezed.

It felt like the ultimate orgasm to go back and gulp down the water. The cold, damp washcloth made a good compress for your busted lip. You judged by the twitching of your left eyelid that you had a pretty sizable welt there.

Helena ran to meet you as you limped down the stairs out of the cage. She threw her arms around you tightly. “You’re alright,” she gasped.

You tried to hug her back. Your arm hung loosely over her lower back as you tried to laugh. “Did you doubt that I would be?” you asked her. “Where’s Harley and Cass? Montoya?”

“They went to find the girl,” Helena said in your ear. “I couldn’t leave you...I had to stay and watch. I had to make sure.”

She pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “Let’s go,” you said firmly, “before Carmen comes for us.”

Helena helped you leave the arena. By the time you vanished, the stadium was already announcing it’s second match, featuring a woman named Selina. The people went into a hectic frenzy of excitement when Selina’s name was announced over the speakers. You knew as you were walking out she would never be able to escape this place.

Honey-blond-haired Italian guy jogged to keep up with you. “Miss Carmen asks that you wait in the dressing room,” he called out. “Yeah, yeah,” Helena called out. “We’ll be there.”

He followed you down the hallway, keeping several paces back to maintain a steady watching distance. He paused as he watched you and Helena head straight into the dressing room.

Sitting on the sofa inside is Harley, Cass, and a little girl sleeping in Harley’s arms. You were shocked. For a four year old girl, Ayala was incredibly small and fragile looking. Her olive skin and auburn hair is just like her elder sister’s. The hollows beneath her eyes are dark and colored by her greenish veins.

“Let’s scadadle,” Harley hissed as she rose to her feet, though struggling to keep Ayala in her arms.

You all rushed out of the hallway, quickly as to make it before Carmen could come back from the arena.

“Where’s the exit?” Cass asked.

“It’s this way,” Helena says. She pointed straight down the hallway. “The car’s waiting for us above the trap door.”

“Yeah, unless someone stole it,” Cass mocked. “What if we get locked in? Like in Hotel California?”

You could hardly begin to understand what Cass was saying. Her words were jumbles of sounds and her figure a blur of her dark hair and red jacket.

“We’re not getting locked in,” Harley exclaimed. “Let’s just get outta here!”

Helena climbed up the ladder first. She punched the door up, then open. “Give me the kid,” she said quietly.

Harley struggled to lift Ayala up.

Helena scooped her easily into her strong arms. Ayala stirred awake and whined as she became more and more aware. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, her voice quiet and empty.

“We’re taking you home, pumpkin,” Helena assured the little girl. “I’ve got you.”

As Cass was going up the ladder, a loud clatter arose down the tunnel. “Uh oh, spaghetti-os,” Harley whistled. She pushed you up the ladder next. “I’ll meet you guys up there,” she promised, sounding entirely confident. “Montoya,” she whistled between her teeth. “Feel like doing some target practice?”

It was the first time all day that Montoya smiled.

As you climbed up, you heard Harley’s shrill laugh between the shots of two, little handguns.

“Into the car,” you wheezed to Cassie. She looped her arms around your waist to help you limp into your seat. “Buckled in?” you heard Helena ask the little girl. She looked so shy despite all that’s going on. The curls of her hair were brushed behind her ear as Helena held her tightly. “You’re going back to your parents.”

Harley came running out seconds later. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she exclaimed.

“You have the keys!” Cassie shouted back.

Harley jumped into the drivers seat. She honked the horn loudly. “Renee, let’s move it!”

Montoya was limping a few feet away, struggling to keep up Harley’s pace. She crawled inside and as soon as she did, Harley pressed the gas, and sped away.

“Smoking is so bad for you, you know that, right?” Harley chastised. “Maybe if you just used the nicotine patches I bought you for Christmas, then you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up with us.”

“Take the patches,” Montoya huffed, “and shove them up your ass.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. You leaned back into the headrest of the rear seats. Helena held Ayala beside you, stroking her hair gently as she held her cellphone to Ayala’s ear. Her parents were on the other end, and you could hear the cries of relief.

You met Helena’s gaze, and you managed a smile on your busted mouth.

“I love you,” you mouth to her.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

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