#go back to the boots stuart
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stu macher in the alternate shots of scream (the ones that would’ve gotten the movie an nc-17) you will forever be famous




also what the fuck are those shoes man 🤨
#geniunly wondering#but they’re also lowk ugly#go back to the boots stuart#also the first pic that scene is like one frame longer in the uncut 😭#but it still matters to me#billy loomis#scream 1996#stu macher#stuilly#stu macher x billy loomis#stuillyshipping#scream#gay horror
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That Klaus Voormann Interview where he says he might have been a better bass player for the Beatles than Paul
I got curious about this after reading this post about Klaus and Paul by @thewalrusespublicist. I saw that there was some interest in the interview in the comments, but that people hadn't been able to find it.
Original article (German) here (Süddeutsche Zeitung, 2010)
Quick & dirty translation into English by: moi
• Humor translates poorly, especially without audio. I tried my best, but can’t guarantee I captured the tone perfectly.
• Apologies for the n-slur in the quote from Klaus’s grandmother. I left it in because it illustrates Klaus’s background and the spirit of the times.
• Speaking of: context is important, so I decided to translate the whole thing.
• Klaus is 5 years older than Paul — I must have known this, but didn’t realize how it must have impacted their relationship in Hamburg before now.
• I wasn’t able to find other English translations, which is why I did this one, but if you know of any, or have done one: let me know and I will add a link. And sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore anyone’s work.
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Klaus Voormann: I should explain something right away: I have a real problem with dyslexia.
SZaW: Reading the menu?
Voormann: I have to read it out loud. I have to hear it to understand it. If I say "Knoblauchspeck mit Hausbrot" out loud, it’s there right away, and I won’t forget it.
SZaW: Is it an artists’ affliction?
Voormann: I don’t know. But it caused many hang-ups and problems I’m still carrying around with me.
SZaW: Were the 1950’s that bad?
Voormann: It was bad for me in the sense that none of my teachers realized I was dyslexic. The teacher said, “read from the book,” and I wanted to disappear from the earth. Chemistry didn’t interest me, historical dates didn’t mean anything to me, but the teachers wanted to beat it into you.
SZaW: But then you quit school to go to Hamburg, where, in the autumn of 1960, you discovered an obscure band from Liverpool called “The Beatles.” You can’t have been twenty yet [he was 22], I believe George Harrison was only 17. Stupid question: What were they like?
Voormann: Loud. I heard this noise from a basement at the Reeperbahn, and followed it. It grabbed me right away, because this was music I could hear and see right there in Hamburg: not a disc, no radio, but real people playing! I was amazed by the momentum they unleashed with only three instruments.
SZaW: And you just went to them?
Voormann: During the break, I went to them and introduced myself. They looked incredibly strange: Studded jackets, hair in a DA, the boots [with the fur, just kidding]. Back then, I worked as a graphic designer for Hörzu und Kristall, but I wanted to design record sleeves. John Lennon pointed me to Stuart Sutcliffe and said, “talk to him, he’s our artist.”
SZaW: You wouldn’t expect studded jacket music to appeal to a coddled boy from the Berlin upper class.
Voormann: According to my mother, it was boogie-woogie, “negro music,” from the jungle. But to me, the Beatles were a revelation, as if I’d suddenly learned to roller skate or race on a motorbike. Up to that point, there’s been jazz on the one side, classical music on the other. Suddenly, something fresh entered the scene. You could tell they didn’t speak for the elite, but for the simple people: the toilet cleaner getting off in the back [???], the pimp who thinks it’s hot, or a famous photographer who’s obsessed with it.
SZaW: Your family back home must have been pleased. Rumor has it your grandfather owned a whole district back in Berlin.
Voormann: My grandfather basically owned all of Heiligensee. He had shares in oil companies and South African diamond mines. Unfortunately, I didn’t meet him. He died before the inflation of 1923.
SZaW: Lucky for him.
Voormann: That depends.
SZaW: So, all that money became worthless inflation-billions?
Voormann: As children, we were playing roulette with the bills.
SZaW: A pastime fitting your class.
Voormann: My grandmother used to go to Monte Carlo to gamble.
SZaW: With real money?
Voormann: Back then it was real. I would have loved to know my grandfather; he was a great guy. There are stories about him throwing gold coins in the air because he enjoyed the girls screaming and jumping, trying to catch them. He liked to go out, and he had other women. When he came home, he brought back a silver plate of oysters for my grandmother, his “little dove.” My grandmother got angry and kicked the plate out of his hand, and he said, “my little dove, I didn’t know oysters could fly.” Then they made up.
SZaW: It must have been a better world. Obviously, you diligently followed your piano lessons as a child.
Voormann: I played Chopin, performed in concerts, and I might have become a good pianist. But at the time, it felt too risky. My parents didn’t want it, and ultimately, I didn’t, either. And so, it was decided I should become a graphics designer.
SZaW: Coming from this world, entering the sweaty cellars of Hamburg must have felt like a descent into hell.
Voormann: Of course. It wasn't a protest, per se, but I went away, went to art school in Hamburg, and broke free from my family bonds. This music thing wouldn’t leave me alone, this love came from the gut. The Beatles added the heart.
SZaW: The Hamburg Beatles were a five-piece band, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Stuart Sutcliffe and the drummer, Pete Best. Times must have been rough. Albert Goldmann writes in his biography that John killed a sailor on the Reeperbahn. And Stu Sutcliffe’s sister keeps saying Lennon killed her brother.
Voormann: Of course there were fights where Stuart got beaten up, not by John, but by blokes whose girlfriends liked Stuart.
SZaW: And Lennon was supposed to be a closet case, who had an affair with Stuart . . .
Voormann: Complete nonsense. The two of them knew each other since they went to school together in Liverpool, after all. I liked Stuart, too, and we, as guys, would hug each other from time to time. He was a charismatic artist, that was all. In my whole life, I never met anyone who saw and perceived as much as this little boy—no matter if it was a bird or the sound of a train.
SZaW: And why was this good-looking boy so ashamed on stage he stood with his back to the audience?
Voormann: He wasn’t ashamed of his looks; he was ashamed he didn’t know what he was doing on guitar. Not that rock’n’roll has a lot to do with actual music. "Tutti Frutti," for instance, has three repeating chords, and all the bass needs to play is the root note. Great musicianship isn’t part of it. For Stuart, it was difficult, because not only was he not a musician, he didn’t want to be one. Still, his love of rock’n’roll was enormous, and his charisma was on par with Elvis Presley. [KLAUS!!!!]
SZaW: Stuart was posing, whereas George Harrison practiced until his fingers bled.
Voormann: George had a very ambitious way to make licks his own. He couldn’t improvise chords on the spot like Eric Clapton; he had to craft them and put them together. If anyone fit the type of lead guitarist, it was Paul McCartney.
SZaW: Before he became the bassist, Paul played second guitar back in Hamburg.
Voormann: Most of the time. Later, in the "Top Ten" or in the "Star Club,” he also played the piano, simple stuff.
SZaW: Because rock'n'roll isn’t real music.
Voormann: Well, it isn’t.
SZaW: And yet, you wanted to play rock’n’roll at all costs?
Voormann: At some point, I bought Stuart Sutcliffe’s bass for 200 DM, because he wanted to paint. Later, I actually turned out to be a good bass player.
SZaW: because you spent a lot of time watching from the audience?
Voormann: I had the tools from my classical training, but I had no idea how to play on a stage. I played the songs I heard on the Reeperbahn at home, by myself.
SZaW: Stu Sutcliffe couldn’t, and didn’t want to play. Did you want to take his place?
Voormann: Maybe. During their final show together, I went to John and said, “Well, John, would it be possible for me to play bass?” And he said, “Sorry, Klaus, Paul already bought a bass. He’s going to be our new bassist.”
SZaW: Close, but no cigar.
Voormann: Hm.
SZaW: You came close, but when world fame started, you weren’t on board. Is that a good way of putting it?
Voormann: Hm, yes it is.
SZaW: Do you regret it?
Voormann: It would be interesting to know what would have happened. They wouldn’t have been with four, but with five. Would it have worked? Would I have fit in? The Stones were a five-piece.
SZaW: A six-piece, originally. They fired piano player Ian Stewart, because he wasn’t pretty enough.
Voormann: They certainly couldn't have accused me of that.
SZaW: Ex-Beatle Pete Best sometimes goes on revival tours, and still feels cheated.
Voormann: And if he lives to be a hundred years old: Pete Best is not a good drummer. He simply didn’t have the charisma for a band this powerful. Maybe I lacked that charisma, too, but it was Ringo who got things swinging.
SZaW: Like Pete Best, you narrowly missed your chance.
Voormann: If you look at the musical roots of the Beatles, I would have fit better, in some ways, than Paul.
SZaW: Ja?
Voormann: Many people will take this the wrong way if I'm saying it here, but I approach bass playing completely differently. I would have stood for something primitive, earthy. If I’d been in the band, I would have used my influence to push for more rhythm and blues.
SZaW: For the Hamburg cellar dwellers.
Voormann: I know that John could have been closer to these roots, that later came through in a few numbers. But from the moment they became Lennon-McCartney, that disappeared completely—"Please Please Me", "She Loves You", "Help" and everything. They took off towards a completely new style of music, and I probably would have been an obstacle.
SZaW: Unlike Paul McCartney, who seduces the camera with his puppy eyes in Let It Be.
Voormann: The charlatan.
SZaW: But important, because of the girls.
Voormann: Without Paul, Beatlemania wouldn’t have happened. Paul is an entertainer; he can handle an audience. Different from John, who wasn’t a front man.
SZaW: He could be very forward on the Hamburg stage, when he greeted the audience with "Sieg Heil!"
Voormann: He was joking.
SZaW: Nazi jokes.
Voormann: All of that was unprofessional stuff. Professionalism came from Paul.
SZaW: Is it true John and Paul brought the mop top haircut back from Paris?
Voormann: They were there, but still: Stuart had the hairstyle first.
SZaW: Who cut his hair?
Voormann: Astrid Kirchherr. But I don’t want to revisit that story, it’s so embarrassing.
SZaW: Why not? Hamburg’s only contribution to the world’s cultural heritage.
Voormann: I was the first to have his hair cut in this style by Astrid, and then the others wanted it, too.
SZaW: Where is Stu Sutcliffe’s bass guitar now?
Voormann: I needed money at some point, and had it auctioned off at Sotheby’s for thirty- or forty-thousand Mark. Stu’s sister bitched and complained, theft, etc., and that’s why I only got a couple of thousand Mark. I wish I could undo the sale. I would like to have the bass.
#klaus voormann#the beatles#paul mccartney#john lennon#stuart sutcliffe#george harrison#ringo starr#pete best#astrid kirchherr#context is important#my favorite line is when he says the Beatles wouldn't have fired him for not being pretty enough tbh
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30.01
Pairing: Chuck Bass x f!reader
Genre: comfort
Warnings: self-esteem issues, need for academic validation, not the finest of my works
[Author's note: I had a horrible day, so... I wrote this.]



You always were little Miss Perfect'. You always got As throughout school years. You got into Columbia, majoring in your favourite language. All the pieces of life puzzles started falling into places - beloved major, academic performance, perfect boyfriend. Right, Chuck indeed put a lot of work into himself, dedicating his time to working on Empire and your relationship. Everything was perfect. That is, until midterms.
//
You get back back to the penthouse after your classed. You don't say a word, throwing your jacket off and kicking off your boots. You walk over to Chuck, who, seeing you in such state after exam, puts away his whiskey glass. You plopp on his lap, curling up like a little kid and start crying. His arms instantly wrap around you. He doesn't have to ask to know the reason for your tears. His little Miss Perfect. His grip around you tightens, his lips hovering above top of your head, giving you few supportive kisses.
- Hey...? Wanna talk about it? - he asks gently, gently tracing patterns on your back in soothing motion. You shake your head, sniffing against his collarbones. He sighs, knowing that his Paul Stuart suit is probably now dirty with a mix of your mucus and ruined makeup. Yet, he doesn't complain. He just holds you for as long as you need. He knows you overthink a lot, that you have that urge to prove yourself academically. To him, it's stupid since he already sees you as perfect. But it's just the way you are. His little overthinker, Miss Perfect grades, his little future translator. He kisses your temple, gently squeezing your waist to coax out some words.
- Y/N... - he says quietly, his lips brushing against your hair. - I won't help you if you won't talk to me. I need to know what's wrong to help.
His voice sounds soft, yet with the usual hint of darkness, like a sweet dark honey.
- I got a question wrong... - you finally mutter. - I didn't know what 'natural language' is, and instead of answering that it uses 'arbitrary signs,' I said that it used 'indexes'. I'm so stupid. I...
- You're not stupid. - Chuck says sternly, cutting your words. Any time he does it, it feels to him like scolding a little kid. Even when the scolding is used in order to build some of your self-esteem, which is so deeply rooted in your grades and academic performance. Almost as if you forgot about other amazing qualities that you have.
- And getting one question wrong isn't the end of the world, Y/N.
- It is! You don't understand! - you snap a little, pulling away from his chest. His hands still supporting your hips, so you won't fall off his lap. His heart clinches slightly as he sees small trails of ruined foundation that your tears carved on your cheeks.
- You can't be serious. - he says.
- I am! You don't understand! I can't fail! I can't fail! I can't disappoint my professor! I can't disappoint my family, myself... you. You fucking pay for this college, I don't want to waste your money on me, not when I'm not even able to pass damn linguistics exam!
-Y/N... your tuition is the last of my concerns. My main concern is my girlfriend throwing a tantrum over the possibility of scoring 95% instead of 100%. - his voice is a bit more stern. His left hand lets go of your side and gently touches your cheek.
- You're not a failure. It's one question. One. It doesn't define you. I could've asked the most ridiculous thing about the language and you'd know the answer...
- You don't understand! I got questions wrong! I won't have perfect GPA, I..
- I don't care about your GPA. - his voice is still calm, but his patience is wearing off slowly. - However, I do care about having my girlfriend in her right mind. I care about my girlfriend not living off one meal a day because stress keeps you from eating. I care about my girlfriend getting nine hours of sleep instead of crying yourself to sleep as getting less sleep than I do. I care about you. - he says, his gaze locked on your teary eyes. - Your grades are secondary. Grades don't tell how smart you are. So what if the questions on the test were ones that you didn't know. There's always a second try, right? Your friends...
- Classmates... - you correct him. He rolls his eyes and sighs.
-... your classmates are probably laughing at their bad scores, that's what college students do.
- You don't understand. They don't understand... - you mumble.
- Y/N. - he cups your cheeks and makes you look at him. - You're right, I don't understand. I'm a businessman, not a college student, nor I ever really cared for the little letters next to names of the subjects. So yeah, I don't have grounds to understand your need for academic validation. - he sighs, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. - But I love you. And in case that's what your little heart is after, I'm proud of you. I really am. You ace every single test in English and your target language. One tiny linguistics exam that you can retake won't change the fact that I'm so damn proud of my girlfriend for getting in Columbia and majoring in something she'll love to work with. - he says, finishing the sentence with a gentle kiss. Your face twists into a grimace as you start crying again, this time merely from those five words 'I'm proud of you'.
- Shh... you're okay. It's okay. - he murmur, pulling you back into his embrace, his fingers gently caressing your back of your head. - I got you, love. I got you. And I'm damn proud of you. - he whispers, his warm breath hitting delicate skin on your ear. After a couple of moments, your breathing slowly settles. You rest your chin on his shoulder, still yearning to be close to him, your safe space. Seeing you slowly calm down, Chuck gently pushes you up, just so he can see your face.
- There she is... my amazing, smart, skilled, funny, sexy girlfriend... - he hums, gently cupping your cheeks, hoping to make you smile. Corners of your lips do lift slightly as the last adjective he used, but that would be it for smiles today. He carefully wipes any remaining tears from your cheeks, kissing you once he's done.
- How about I get you to bed? Or draw you a nice bath? - before you even open your mouth, he answers himself. - Bath. I bought those essential oils you like. Ones that you religiously used for whole month before SAT's. - he says, placing his hands under your thighs, slowly starting to get up. You wrap your arms around his neck, so you won't fall. He picks you up, taking a moment to glace at you.
- I'm proud of you. I really, really am. - he says softly before carrying you to the bathroom.
- So, which essential oil does my love want today? - he asks before closing the bathroom door.
#fluff#gossip girl#gossip girl fanfiction#gossip girl x reader#chuck bass#chuck bass fluff#chuck bass x reader#comfort#academic validation comfort
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Publicity (Introduction)
Gorillaz 2D/Stuart Pot x Music!Artist!Reader
Warnings; language
A/N: Alright so I’ve gonna back to one of my old hyper fixations and was distraught by the lack of Gorillaz content(damn me for not the best writer and a damn child back 2009🥲😂)
ANYWAY! I might crack out a few of these while I’m still obsessed with it (I made a FAWKING oc and everything-) I also might make this a multi-part cause every fanfic I found was from 3-6 years ago and unfinished lol
PS> Bear with me sometimes i like writting the accents in and sometimes if drives me insane-
ENJOY!
Link to Publicity Pt.1
Being a singer, songwriter, and all-around musical artist was a lot harder to accomplish than people gave you credit for. Demands were all you'd grown used to from fans and your record label as you had gone on a 5-year hiatus.
Scrolling away on your phone you sigh, at an influx of fan emails, comments, likes, and shares on each platform your social celebrity presence graced.
However one in particular had caught your eye...well ear more accurately. Tik tok was one of your favorite pastimes, and on this specific post, \ there was someone mashing together two songs. One of your own, and one from a separate band You immediately fly to the comments, taking in the nice, familiar melody as your vocals come in paired with the lead singer.
-Holy shit this is actually really good -Wait this eatttsss -someone tag her in the comments i NEED them to -collab like yesterday- reply: yeah if she ever hops her ass outta retirement- WE MISS YOU QUEEN reply: honestly i dont see this hype this mashup kinda ass -Gorillaz x Y/n Collab whennn???
You chuckle, scrolling past comments as you note the artists. Huh, when was the last time you'd heard from Gorillaz? Last you heard they were on hiatus far longer than you had been and-
Wait....
Taking a breath you press the record icon, fluffing your hair and testing a 'glamour' filter before filming. And right as you posted, the glorious internet we WILD.
-Somewhere in Los Angeles-
"Check this out," Noodle smiles, turning her phone screen to the two gentlemen before her.
"Oh, that's that one girl uhhh, Y/n?" Russel confirms as Noodle nods, your stitch of the video playing amongst their conversation.
"If we get this all the way to the UK...I'll collaborate with Gorillaz to commemorate the end of our hiatus. That is if they are accepting of my invitation!" You challenge, with a smile.
"Ah, we don't need to do all tha'" Murdoc grumbles, plopping into the seat before kicking his boots up on the table. No decorum.
"What're you talking about? You know how cool that would be?" Noodle is already convinced, turning the phone back to the group.
Despite the bickering, 2D's eyes are glued to the screen. Pretty girl from the States. Her hair was wow...and that smile? The way she lowkey called them out for being gone but also herself...the confidence to request a collab?
"Noodle's got a point. We could add her to the new album before it drops." Russel includes, a smile already over his features
2 outta four convinced
"Y'know how expensive collabs are? You runnin' my pockets into the groun' " Murdoc grumbles again, glancing back down at the screen as the video loops.
He presses the stitch icon to watch the original before folding his arms over his chest in thought.
" Think we should 'ave a go at it? I mean, she invited us?" 2D finally pipes up, gaining his bandmates' attention.
Murdoc's been overrulled with a whopping 3 outta 4.
"Oh you would wan' to collab you dog-" Murdoc scoffs, despite being one to talk.
That man probably had more illegitimate children than there were stars on the flag- 2D opens his mouth to bicker and respond back but Noodle beats him to it.
"Well, we don't have a choice because I already contacted her team." Noodle interrupts, flashing the email.
"Since when the hell 'ave you had control over media and collabs?!" Murdoc shrieks
-Meanwhile-
You'd gone from vanished to trending in a matter of minutes. People in your comments were thriving off the fact that their favorite artist/artists would possibly be coming out of their hiatus over some silly mash-up! It didn't take long for word to spread from the States all the way to the UK because, within 2-3 hours, you received an email.
It was fairly simple and friendly acceptance to your collab invitation...something you knew was a possibility but, fuck it was happening now!?
Apparently, the Gorillaz guitarist, Noodle, said the whole band had seen your video and were wondering if you were serious about a collab. The combination of your talents would surely kickstart your careers once again and besides, what kind of celebrities would you be if you didn't give the people wanted?
Good fuckin music.
You pause for a moment, thinking this could easily be a scam, but upon further examination (and a brief chat with your media team who hadn't approved your video at all (yeah they were pissy about it)) you were sure you had the right people.
According to your coordinators, you’d been booked to fly out to LA within a day! Fuck things were happening fast and the sudden dread from 5 years prior managed to worm its way into your chest, sinking further into your stomach.
Shit.
Shit this was actually happening
SHIT!
You stand from your bed, now pacing as your breath quickens. When was the last time you wrote a song?! Hell, when was the last time you touched a fucking keyboard, or a microphone, or a fucking synthesizer?! When was the last time you'd opened your lyric book?
You scramble, thinking of the next best thing to distract yourself but the notion was cut short when your phone rang. With a deep breath, you answer, the fate time call immediately revealing a woman with dark, black hair and large round 3D-esque glasses. She has this huge smile on her face and faint bickering can be heard in her background.
You both speak,
"Hi!"
"Helloo!"
The two of you giggle and the woman who you soon learned to be THE Noodle who had contacted you prior, was wondering about your travel dates.
"You'll be headed this way in a day or two?" She confirms as you nod.
"So soon I know but, good to get started while the creative juices are still flowing. It's an honor to be able to work with such talented artists like yourselves." You compliment, hearing a gruff, more rugged voice call out,
"She's a nice one in' she? All in the day's work darling all in the day's work-" in the back before swiftly being cut off.
"We can't wait to have you! I'm sure we can all come up with something together, you've got quite the skillset." Noodle compliments back, the bond between girls only growing by the minute.
The two of you would get along just fine.
The conversation didn't last much longer though, because your team works damn near fast as the speed of light. Before you knew it you were being escorted onto a plane with a nice first class seat on its way back to your home state. With the occasional photo and autograph, the airport went a lot smoother than usual.
Once the plane had taken off, your 6 hour flight was filled with the very band you'd be collaborating with. From the discography to lore, history, and drama, you were determined to know as much about these guys as you could...
-6 grueling flight hours later-
It had been a while since you'd been home. The salty sea air of LA warms you to your core and the sun paints the sky a vibrant blue. Your luggage is carted away and just as you manage to shuffle past fans down an escalator. There, someone with a sign is already waiting for you.
Scribbled in chicken scratch damn near is your name on a large white sign. Holding said sign is a lanky-looking guy, hair bright blue and eyes black as night.
Part of you considers walking past him and pretending you dont know who it is, but your stupid 6 hour research journey told you everything you needed to know. Besides, your heart knew that would be quite rude to ignore the lead singer going out of his way to grab you from the busy airport.
Don't they have people for that though? To transport celebrities without making a fuss? This guy might as well be walking around with a target on him with his rather defining features. And what's up with that sign?! Isn't the whole point to avoid attention and a swarm of fans???
"Hi! I'm uhh, assuming you're-"
"Oh my god is that 2D!? AND Y/N?!?! She was serious, oh my god look!"
The speed at which your head moves to the direction of the sound ought to have given you whiplash. A swarm of people began to grow, and the flash of cameras and video surrounded the two of you as your heart raced. This is why you hire people for this shit.
A sea of fans demand autographs and pictures as they closed in, each of them asking different questions faster than you can process them
"Are you happy to be back in LA?"
"Over here Please can I get a picture!"
"Is there a reason you two are here alone?"
It's hot, the breath of now hundreds circling as your stomach turns, each poke and taunt making it harder to breathe as the airport terminal spins. Fuck you needed to get out. NOW.
"Why isn't the rest of Gorillaz here?"
"Are you nervous about your new song?"
"What happened at your last show?"
"Why did you run away y/n?"
Turning almost comically, your eyes narrow, sweat beaded and falling down the side of your face.
"What?"
You're soon being dragged, the one faceless figure in the crowd not bothering to follow the swarm as they rush after you and the blue-ette. Speaking of which, that was who was dragging you now, trying to run away from feral fans.
His fingers are long and cold against the skin of your wrist as he tries to navigate not only out the airport but also away from the swarm that is slowly dispersing.
So, this was the man behind those gorgeous vocals? You couldn't help but recall the entirety of their discography, that echo, something so unique about his sound. Like a distant, melancholic megaphone.
But when he opened his mouth-
"Murdoc 'ad me come pick you up! I-" You can't help the sound that comes out of your mouth. It's like a mix of complete shock and your face is about the same. You had no idea what you were expecting. The accent was a given, duh. But, there was no way that was his voice?! How could you have missed this in your research???
"Y'ok miss? Look like y' seen a ghost?" He asks again, his voice snapping you back to reality.
Oh that was 100% his voice, he was NOT fucking with you. And this was gonna be a long car ride.

Author's Note: OKAYYY so im gonna make some more parts this is definitely gonna have some smut and hopefully while I on winter break I can update my masterlist- Ayway see yall next chapter, yes I know this is cringe but I am free lmao
#x reader#reader is black#i don't care he's hot#2d gorillaz#gorillaz#stuart pot#gorillaz x reader#murdoc gorillaz#gorillaz noodle#gorillaz russel#eventual smut#stangers to fling to lovers#stuart pot x reader#2d x reader
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An S-Class Connection | Hhj
Pairing: Hyunjin x reader
Warnings: language, smut, friends to lovers
Word Count: 1.7k
𖠫Summary: Seeing your best friend perform at the VMAs stirs some feelings in you that you had been pushing down for years. Upon congratulating Hyunjin on his award and amazing performance, the dynamic of your friend takes a sharp and unexpected turn into territory you were never expecting but gladly welcome.
✎A/N✎: It’s been a hot minute since I wrote a full on smut piece. I have one with Seungmin out there called “The way you Make Me Feel” but it’s mild really. This one isn’t particularly spicy, but it is my first go at a sexual encounter in a fic in a long time. It’s also my first time writing Hyunjin so I hope it isn’t massively disappointing! Your feedback is always greatly appreciated.
◠ ◡ ◠᭚ιαᵕ̈
「© September 23, 2023 by mysweethannie」
✘MDNI✘
Smut Warnings: Fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (stay safe, homies), creampie
The moment his eyes meet yours from the stage, you feel your feelings fundamentally shift in a way you aren’t going to be able to stuff back into a box or a closet or wherever else they had been previously hiding.
The S-Class performance ends and you are escorted backstage as the crowd roars its appreciation for Stray Kids. You are so proud of them getting to perform at the VMAs. But at the current moment that accomplishment is secondary to whatever the feeling is that is stirring inside of you.
You haven’t seen the boys since you had departed from your hotel in the morning to get ready for the evening at the VMAs. You had separate presser events to get to yourself and those didn’t align with their schedules. You’d been with Hyunjin when he got his haircut the day before, but the stylist had done a next level job with his hair tonight. The tight undercut, the short ponytail pulled up in the middle of his head. The strands of hair that fall perfectly on his forehead, framing his intense stare in a way that have your insides burning with desire. Something you had not felt, or at least not acknowledged you felt, about your best friend before.
You round a corner backstage and see the boys thanking their backup dancers. Their smiles and energy are both contagious. Then you spot Hyunjin and it feels like all the air is punched from your lungs. As if he feels your presence, he turns around and once again his eyes fall on you. The look in his eyes is something you’d not seen before, and it makes your stomach twist into knots, the heat of his gaze making your legs tremble slightly.
He slowly moves toward you, his eyes raking over your form and you suddenly look down at yourself, taking in your appearance. You are in a skin tight black dress that hugs your curves, showing off your small waist and making your hips look delectable. The dress is short, barely covering your ass, coming to rest just below it on your thick thighs. You are wearing a pair of Black Highland Stuart Weiztman boots that came up thigh high and accentuate your leg’s best features and a simple black garter visible on your left thigh.
“Damn,” Hyunjin breathes once he is within earshot. His large hands rest on your hips, pulling you into his. You can’t help the tiny gasp that escapes you. “You look fucking incredible,” he adds. You hardly register the compliment because his fingers are dancing along your hips as he rubs them gently.
“Y/n?” Hyunjin questions when you don't respond. “Anyone alive in there?” he jokes, gently tapping his knuckles against your temple.
This brings you back to reality.
“Me? look good?” you scoff incredulously. “Have you seen yourself?” you ask. “Your hair alone would be enough to part legs like the Red Sea.” The words are tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them.
Hyunjin narrows his eyes at you, his hands on your waist, pulling you into him so that he can whisper in your ear.
“And what about your legs? Would the hair work on them too?” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin causing goosebumps to rise up on your neck.
You pull back from him with a start, looking at his face to read his expression. Your eyes search his for any sign that he may be joking or looking to get a rise from you. You are met with a look that says he would devour you right there in front of everyone if he could.
You swallow thickly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a step off a cliff you know you won’t be able to take back once you utter the words. You place your hands on the base of his head, your fingers dancing along the undercut, eliciting a shiver from him.
“Most definitely,” you finally respond, your voice breathy and desperate.
You barely have the chance to get the words out before his plush lips are pressed against yours, his tongue licking into your mouth insistently like he was in fact trying to devour you. His large hands are sprawled across the expanse of your back, pressing you tightly against him as he kisses you breathless.
Just when you start to feel a little lightheaded, you break apart both of you heaving in heavy breaths.
“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing your hand and dragging you down the hall away from the prying eyes of the others and all of the people attending the awards show.
“Fuck,” you whisper as he pulls you into a dressing room, closing the door and pushing you up against it, this time his perfect pink lips finding a home on your neck and sucking a mark there.
“I’ve wanted this for,” he kisses your neck and moves along your jawline. “For so fucking long. You have no idea,” he admits before kissing you hard. His hands are groping your ass, squeezing hard as he presses you against himself. One of your legs is wrapped around his hip, making your core come in contact with his hard length. He groans against your lips at the contact, his hand moving to push your dress up over your hips, exposing the small black thong you are wearing. “I could make you feel so good,” he teases, his fingers running over your barely clothed core. “Do you want that?”
You nod frantically.
“Your words, baby,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Fuck me, Hyunjin,” you beg, your lips leaving a trail of wet kisses along his jawline as your fingers continue to dance lightly along his freshly shaved hairline at the nape of his neck.Your lips meet again. He bites your lip and you can’t help but gasp. He pushes aside your thong, his long middle finger running between your folds, gathering the wetness that has gathered there. He circles your clit a time or two, causing you to moan out against his neck as he moves to enter you with his long finger. You hold tightly to his neck, your mouth hanging open as you fuck your self first on one finger, then two as he works to open you up.
“Need. Fuck.” the words are punched out of you as your hands move to his pants, trying desperately to push them away from his hips as his fingers continue their assault on your wet cunt. “Need you inside of me.”
“I am inside of you,” he teases.
Your hips still as you successfully push his pants over his hips, his long, hard cock springing free against your leg. You wrap your hand around his length and stroke him gently.
“I need this,” you whine, your hand holding him firmly, giving him a gentle squeeze.
Immediately his fingers leave your sopping hole as he grabs his cock, running the head against your wet folds and tapping it roughly against your clit, causing you to shiver. He lines himself up with your hole and presses the head of his cock into you, looking into your eyes and he pushes deeper into you.
“Shit,” you groan, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders as your warm walls welcome him in.
He bottoms out, his pelvis pressed firmly against your pussy as he picks your legs up off the ground and wraps them around his waist. This causes his cock to hit that sweet spot inside of you, an involuntary moan spilling for your lips. He kisses you then, and this kiss is wet and dirty, desperate. It is all teeth and tongue as he pulls his hips away from yours, only to push back into you. He wastes no time repeating the movement, pulling his cock out to the head only to shove it back in as quickly as it left your aching cunt.
“You’re so fucking tight. Absolutely perfect for me,” he praises against your lips, and that causes your pussy walls to clinch around his hard member. “Shit,” he gaspes, feeling you grip him tight.
His hips begin to piston harder and he pushes back into you, shoving your back up the door a little bit from the force of the blow. He keeps his pelvis pressed against you as he pounds his cock into you relentlessly. You can feel every delicious inch of him, his veins brushing along your walls causing you to clench around him.
“Fuck,” you moan. “I’m gonna come,” you warn. “Come inside me.” Your words were tumbling out of your mouth again as if you had no control over them whatsoever. “Please,” you beg, squeezing your walls against him as his thrusts became more erratic.
“You’d like that, yeah?” he asks, one of his hands moving between you, his fingers moving in circles around your clit. His forehead is pressed into yours, his breath fanning across your lips as he speaks. “I’m gonna fill you up so good baby,” he promises, suddenly pressing his fingers hard against your clit as hips stutter against your pelvis, the head of his cock nailing your g-spot.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin moans desperately, his movements stilling as he suddenly comes, spilling into you ropes of hot, white ecstasy. He is still twitching inside you when you come hard, your legs squeezing around his body as your own body quakes from the pleasure of your release. His lips find yours again as he helps you ride out the high.
“Holy shit,” you breathe against his lips once your body stops shaking against his. “I can’t believe we just did that,” you voice aloud.
“But I’m sure as hell glad we did,” he said, kissing you hard and pressing his body against yours once more.
“Me too,” you agree. “That better not be the last time either,” you add.
He smiles against your lips then and chuckles softly.
“I’m never getting enough of this now that you’ve given it to me,” he admits, his voice low. “I’m yours, baby,” he says, kissing you tenderly.
It is at that moment you realize what the feeling you had felt earlier in the night was. You had fallen in love with your best friend. It only took him fucking you in a dressing room at an awards show for you to figure it out.
There were worse ways to come to that conclusion, you think to yourself, thankful that no matter where or how it happened that it did. Things will definitely never be the same between you, but in the best way possible.
#stray kids#stray kids x reader#Hyunjin x Reader#Hyunjin Smut#Hyunjin fanfic#Hyunjin one shot#Hyunjin Drabble#Hyunjin fanfiction
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On or around June 28th 1685, Richard Rumbold was executed in Edinburgh.
To begin with I would like to go back about 380 years to the execution of Sir William Wallace, many point to it as a barbaric act, but being hung, drawn and quartered was the normal sentence for being found guilty of treason back then, although Wallace was never an English subject, so never a traitor. The same could be said about Rumbold, who was an English subject.
Rumbold was accused in 1683 of being the main instigator of a plot to kill King Charles II and his brother James, Duke of York, in an attempt to assassinate the royal couple as they passed by Rye House, on their return from Newmarket Races, it became known as The Rye House Plot.
Historians still debate each other on the actual plot but most agree Rumbold was a minor character in a very widespread plot, involving many leading Republican members of the British aristocracy. In fact, some historians believe the plot was fabricated by King Charles in order to execute his opponents in the Whig party, which he did, and although some were no doubt guilty of conspiring, several innocent men were put to death. This was mainly part of English history, hence few of us here will know a great deal about it, so I will get to the Scottish part.
When the conspiracy was discovered Rumbold fled initially to Holland, home of many exiled opponents of the Stuarts. In 1685, after the death of Charles a further plot was hatched among the émigrés to dislodge King James VII/II, his Catholic successor, from the throne. This was to take the form of a two-pronged attack on the British Isles: the first on Scotland under the leadership of Archibald Campbell, 9th Earl of Argyll (who shall crop up again in a post in couple of days) and the second on the west of England under The Duke of Monmouth.
Rumbold accompanied Argyll to Scotland, and was made a colonel in the small army. But the whole enterprise, badly mismanaged, fell apart. Argyll and Rumbold were both captured. Rumbold was executed in either the June 26th or 28th, there are differing accounts.
The following is an account of his execution…..
In a cart, bareheaded, and heavily manacled,he was conveyed from the Water Gate to the Castle, escorted by Graham’s City Guard, with drums beating, and on the 28th of June he was hanged, drawn, and quartered, at the Cross, where his heart was torn from his breast, an exhibited, dripping and reeking, by the executioner, on the point of a plug-bayonet, while he exclaimed, “Behold the heart of Richard Rumbold, a bloody English traitor and murderer!”
Afterwards his head,was placed on the West Port, then sent to London on the 4th of August, while his quarters were gibbeted in the four principal cities in Scotland.
Rumbold made his own defiant declaration on the scaffold:
“This is a deluded generation, veiled in ignorance, that though popery and slavery be riding in upon them, do not perceive it; though I am sure that there was no man born marked by God above another; for none comes into this world with a saddle on his back, neither any booted and spurred to ride him...[1]”
You can find the condemned mans full speech on the link below, although he didn’t finish it, complaining that the drum beats (were) “so disingenuous as to interrupt a dying man.”https://www.bartleby.com/268/3/15.html
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When the Beatles came back from Hamburg without Stuart in December 1960, Pete asked Chas Newby to play bass for them and he was on stage at that historic gig at Litherland Town Hall on 27 December 1960. Chas Newby says, “I had played with them at the Casbah and the reception had been really good. Then we had been to the Grosvenor Ballroom in Liscard with the Litherland Town Hall gig being the third. There was no inkling that it was going to be any different from the others when we started. Bob Wooler was on the microphone and the curtains were drawn on the stage. He was on the middle microphone and he said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Direct from Hamburg, the fabulous…’ and he was about to say ‘Beatles’ when Paul nudged him out of the way and screamed into ‘Long Tall Sally’. The audience, who were used to dancing, were suddenly confronted by this group in cowboy boots and leather trousers and jackets, stomping on the floor and singing classic rock ’n’ roll. Everyone shouted, ‘Yeah’ at the end of ‘Long Tall Sally’ and we just carried on. We finished with ‘What’d I Say’ and the response was great.” <…> And what did Chas remember most about the evening: “The fact they wore cowboy boots and they were stomping around the stage. I had normal shoes on but I had to copy them. I felt as though I’d been crippled when I came home.”
(Best of the Beatles: The sacking of Pete Best by Spencer Leigh, 2015)
#want to read more about bob wooler#spencer leigh#bob wooler#early days#the beatles#1960#chas newby#long tall sally#paul mccartney
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S17e8 live reactions!
Spoilers…obviously
- lol I could not see anything in that first scene
- is he…Stuart?
- GS-1??
- okay gruesome scene but soundtrack killing it
- lol Luke’s face ‘I’m not getting close to that’
- luke, come on, you know that in the BAU universe, ‘friends’ really means ‘lovers’
- damn this is so fucking funny
- “oh, yeah” / “sorry…no?” HAHA that’s so fucking funny
- Aw is Rossi crying? :(
- “I could never get it right with anybody” :(
- lol wouldn’t the team have seen this animosity at Gideon’s funeral? they were both there, I assume?
- REBECCA?!?
- “his office” lmao I love these lil Tyler moments
- bff and boyf moments!!
- I said it once and I’ll say it again - S17 is really impressing me with the mystery
- Tyler’s getting paid??
- aww, it’s Kai!
- pen’s outfits this season are killing it!
- why ….. don’t they bring the files back to the BAU?? Is a he not safer there?
- Luke’s outfit is 💯 💯
- Luke’s the one that made it sexy though…right?? Right?
- Tyler’s so fucking hot man
- I love this duo!
- I LOVE this duo.
- Jill is the only one who has light in her house
- was she wearing leather boots without socks?? girl, no
- okay I know they’re gonna kiss bc I have seen the posts / scrolled thru tumblr but god damn I really don’t want to see it - why does it feel like it’s gonna happen soon
- WHAT? He didn’t go to the funeral??
- aw man they’re gonna make out aren’t they
- damn, girl JUMPED on him
- GROSS
- Penelope knows that when JJ and Luke go somewhere they’re in danger - she’s one of us
- why did they not give her protective custody god damn
- emily when she has to deal with her employees kissing witnesses/consultants to huge cases 🤬
- dang, Jill is smart as fuck
- WAIT IT’S THE CABIN
- THEY DID WHAT
- she kinda reminds me of Maura Isles
- she convinced him of something he’s believed for so long in like…5 mins??
- never thought I’d say this, but poor poor damian :(
- oh god is he going to die??
- NO!! I KNEW IT
- SUCH A GOOD EPISODE
#criminal minds#garvez#luke alvez#criminal minds evolution#tyler green#david rossi#emily prentiss#dr. jill gideon#penelope garcia#jenifer jareau
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My immortal (Charles II ver)
Hi my name is Charles Francis James Douglas Stuart and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) with a wig made of pubes that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like I have syphilis (AN: if u don't know what that is get da hell out of here!). I'm not related to Charles I but I wish I was because he's a major fucking hottie. I have pale white skin. I'm also the king of england, and I go to a magic school called exile in England where I'm in the ninth year (I'm 395). I'm a goth (in case you couldn't tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. And of course i was wearing my wig. I was walking outside. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
"Hey Charles!" shouted a voice. I looked up. It was... Oliver Cromwell!
"What's up Oliver?" I asked.
"Nothing." he said shyly.
But then, I heard my friends call me and I had to go away.
#my immortal#harry potter#i am charles ii#horrible histories#history#fanfic#fanfiction#2000s#2000s nostalgia#early 2000s#emo#goth
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2018 | Aura; Vanished Like a Snuffed Flame
Date: Wednesday, 17 January 2018
Location: New York, USA
Fashion: Blazé Milano 'Resolute Everyday' Wool Blazer in Ivory; Blazé Milano 'Revolution' High-Waisted Trousers in Ivory; Max Mara 'Manuela Icon Coat' in Camel Wool and Cashmere; Loro Piana ‘Grande Unita’ Cashmere Scarf in Flannel Melange; Dents ‘Felicity’ Leather Gloves in Black; Stuart Weitzman 'Demibenari' Suede Ankle Boots in Slate; Strathberry 'Midi Tote' in Clay/White/Black; Rock Candy Teeny Teardrop Earrings 18k gold in Amethyst (a gift from her parents on occasion of her Ordination); Monica Vinader Beaded Chain Bracelet; Timex Gold Watch (Vintage).
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The wind clawed at the hem of their coats as they crossed the street, half-laughing, half-freezing. The clamor of horns, heels, and winter slush painted the city in its usual palette of gray urgency — but to the three Aetherai priestesses, this stretch of lunchtime freedom felt like rare sunlight.
“I’m telling you,” said Livia Vettora, adjusting her white scarf as she stepped over a puddle. “I’m done with these Wall Street studs. They all think shagging a priestess is some kind of revolutionary kink. Like it makes them deep. Or dangerous.”
“Oh no,” murmured Aura, grinning as she pushed open the door to their favorite lunch spot — a modest Chinese restaurant tucked beneath an acupuncture office. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious!” Livia huffed, flicking a hand in mock outrage as the trio filed inside. “I’m not a nun. I made no vow of celibacy. I didn’t even major in guilt.”
“Unlike the men you date,” added Melisande, the third of their little circle, her accent soft with Belgian cadence. “They always look like they’ve just cheated on a bible.”
The three women burst into laughter, shaking the snow from their coats as the warmth of the restaurant enveloped them — all velvet lanterns and warm steam, the air laced with five-spice and fried ginger.
The place was nearly empty, as always at that hour. It was part of the charm. They made their way to their usual table by the window, under the painted dragon that watched over their lunch dates like a silent blessing.
From the back emerged Jim, a long-limbed, mop-haired fifteen-year-old whose family owned the place. He approached with a notepad in trembling hands, shifting nervously on his feet.
“I’ll have the usual, Jim,” Aura said warmly tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
He looked like she’d just proposed marriage. His pen wobbled. “Y—yes. Of course. Right away.”
As he scurried off, Livia gave Aura a sly look. “Please. Tell me you saw that. The kid’s going to faint into the fryer one of these days.”
Aura rolled her eyes. “He’s just awkward. He’s fifteen.”
“Exactly,” Melisande added stirring her tea. “Prime crush age. Especially for ethereal diplomatic priestesses.”
“I am not ethereal.”
“You are the definition of ethereal,” Livia said, deadpan. “Honestly, it’s offensive.”
Aura chuckled, shaking her head as her phone buzzed gently in her pocket.
Then Melisande’s buzzed too. Then Livia’s.
A strange pause fell over the table as they all reached for their devices.
Aura frowned at the message lighting up her screen.
Domina Saerina: Emergency convocation. All stationed priestesses to report to the New York Chapterhouse within the hour. Cordisager will address us. Come in ceremonial dress.
She barely had time to exchange a glance with Livia when a sound from above caught her attention — the low murmur of the TV mounted near the register, where Jim’s father usually watched sports or Cantonese dramas.
Only now, the screen showed a white and gold banner. A photograph of Antistia Octavia filled the frame. Regal. Serene. A face every Aetherai child knew.
And just bellow it, in harsh, too-solid text:
BREAKING: Antistia Octavia of the Aetherai Dies at 43
“Jim,” Aura said softly. “Can you turn that up?”
The boy, wide-eyed, grabbed the remote without a word.
The anchor’s voice rose, solemn and clear.
“...confirmed by Cordisager’s Press Office at 7:41 p.m. CET. The Antistia, spiritual and political leader of the Aetherai, passed away in her sleep last night after aprivate battle with cancer. Though rumours of her declining health had circled in recent months, the illness was never made public…”
None of them spoke.
The table stilled. The scent of ginger and jasmine thickened.
Aura stared at the screen. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, every sound muffled by disbelief.
“No,” whispered Livia. “No. She wasn’t…”
“She was fine,” Melisande murmured. “She gave a New Year’s blessing just two weeks ago. She smiled.”
The screen showed footage from last spring — Octavia at Cordisager’s Palace balcony, her hand raised in an elegant wave, her voice low but unshaken.
And now…
Gone.
Aura’s fingers curled around her prayer beads without thinking. Her mouth had gone dry.
She hadn’t even known she was holding her breath until she heard Livia whisper, “This can’t be real.”
A tear slipped down Melisande’s cheek. “She’s not supposed to die. Not like this.”
Aura didn’t cry. Not yet. She was still somewhere between dream and memory, staring at the face of a woman she had never met but always felt was watching. Guiding.
The Antistia was supposed to retire, like the others before her. Step down with dignity. Become a Summamater. Conduct ceremonies and advise the next generation’s Antistia.
Not vanish overnight like a snuffed flame.
Aura stood, quietly.
“We need to go.”
Livia blinked up at her.
“To the Chapterhouse,” Aura said, already pulling on her coat. “Now.”
Jim’s mother emerged from the kitchen, eyes wide and confused, but none of the women paused to explain. The three priestesses stepped into the cold again — the city’s blare oddly distant — their footfalls fast and uncertain as the news of the Antistia’s death unfurled across the world.
And somewhere in the sacred heart of Cordisager, a fire was being lit — one that would soon change everything.
#2018#aurelia XVIII#aura pov#the antistia and her consorts#royal rp#original story#fiction#oc writing#worldbuilding#aetherai#royal oc#fictional royalty#political fantasy#modern royalty au#alt history#oc lore#reverse harem
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This looks fun, here we go! Thanks for the tag @fandomsmeantheworldtome!
My top ten characters of 2023 (2023 Character Wrap)
Alex Claremont-Diaz, Red, White & Royal Blue: Listen, who couldn't love Alex? Both book and movie him are treasures but I'm mainly focusing on movie Alex. Like...who said he was allowed to be that pretty?! He's so aesthetically pleasing it's almost annoying. I love him very much.
Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor(Hanover-Stuart-Fox), Red, White & Royal Blue: You can't have one without the other! Henry is just so precious to me, book and movie Henry both. But movie Henry's pathetic wet cat energy has capitivated me. What can I say, I love big sad eyes. He's babygirl.
Nick Nelson, Heartstopper: Listen...listen. I love 'em all. I do! The main group of this show are all my children, and I adore them. Charlie and Tara a lil' bit more. But Nick has a special place in my heart that I can't explain. I love him so much.
Jesper Fahey, Shadow & Bone/Six of Crows: I only got into the show and books this year (yes I'm devastated it's gone), but they're both soooo good! And Jesper is just the best, like, he's so funny and complex and badass. I love him very much.
Wylan Hendriks, Shadow & Bone/Six of Crows: They're cutie pies, book and show Wylan. They're also dangerous badasses and sassy to boot. I love them both, but I fell in love with show Wylan first and honestly, I'll never look back. How can I.
15th Doctor, Doctor Who: So far we have had about 20 minutes of the 15th Doctor, and I am already in love with them. IN LOVE. I just...I am so ready for their series, and I can't WAIT for the Christmas special!
Muriel, Good Omens: How could anyone hate this bean?! Honestly a fantastic addition to the cast of characters in this show, and definitely a breakout star to me! I hope Muriel returns for season 3 because they truly were a delight, anytime they were on screen.
Jaskier, The Witcher: In it's last season (to me), The Witcher finally decided to give Jaskier the respect he deserves. As always, his songs were fantastic and his character being in it prompted me to watch spin-off Blood Origin (which I loved!). Jaskier has been my character since I began watching The Witcher, and he remains my character.
Eddie Kaspbrak, IT franchise: Fell deep back into my IT hyperfixation and actaully managed to write loads of my fix-it fic I started back in 2019. Both young Eddie from 2017 IT and adult Eddie from the 1990 movie are my babies, I adore them both. Eddie Kaspbrak is just such a fun and interesting character, especially to write!
Inej Ghafa, Shadow & Bone/Six of Crows: Yes I know, the 3rd character from this show/book series. But I can't help it, I only discovered it this year! Inej is a wonderfully complex, tragic yet strong character, and I wish the show had time to explore her and her story more. She's fabulous, and brought to life so wonderfully by Amita Suman.
Tagging (no pressure): @peacockfeatherbookmarks @mxliv-oftheendless @lunarmultishine @lonelygodsmuse @sunshinereddie @fanboy-sloth @sparklespirit @gobblegang @every-aj-needs-an-angel @hcarshipper @theredrenard @xstick-noodlesx @virginiaisforvampires @thefairylights and anyone else who wants too!
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Task 004: Claire Stuart's Wardrobe
How important is fashion and staying current trends to your character?
Not at all important. Claire marches to the beat of her own drum, and that is indicated by the way that she dresses. While the style of the century is more stiff fabrics, bigger skirts, and tighter bodices, Claire's wardrobe has inspirations from Celtic and Elvish styles.
What colors does your character typically wear? Why do they choose that particular color?
Green is perhaps her biggest motif, representative of the Earth at its absolute healthiest. She will also play with other softer natural colors found in florals like white and accents of pink.
Does your character like to wear a lot of embellishments? Or do they keep it more simple?
Claire's dresses are always adorned with some kind of floral embroidery or 3D floral embellishment, as she has such a deep connection to nature. The idea is that nature is very much as one with her as she is one with it.
What does your character wear when they go to balls and social gatherings?
For fancy parties or balls, Claire deviates away from the greens and gravitates more to the pink and white tones and will also pile on the accessories a bit more, like bigger earrings, necklaces, gloves, and a choker style necklace.
What does your character wear in their day-to-day life?
While the fashion trends of the era are more about solid, sturdier fabrics and tighter bodices, Claire wears flowier, more translucent fabrics that move with the wind and allow her to move a bit more freely about the world. Typically, her sleeves are also tight down to her elbows and flow out either down to the ground or just to her wrists, depending on the occassion.
How does your character style their hair?
She switches it up from up and down depending on how busy she is. When she is most relaxed and care-free, her hair is down with braids scattered throughout. When she's busy, determined, stressed, angry, etc. her hair is up and tight with braids interwoven. When she is focused, yet solemn, her hair is pulled back into a simple braid. She also does like to wear real flowers in her hair as much as possible, but it is important to take note of what kind of flower she wears.
What shoes does your character usually wear?
Lace up boots that are embroidered with flowers and ivy with a little heel. She likes structure amidst the natural world and it also keeps the dirt from outside getting into her toes.
Does your character like to wear jewelry or any other accessories?
If she ever does wear earrings, they are very small and simple. The only necklace she wears is a chain that reaches beneath her neckline that has her departed husband, James's, wedding ring.
What does your character wear to sleep?
A white cotton nightgown, something very basic and simple that allows her body to move freely when she tosses and turns.
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[non-canonical Elmsbury Vampyre]
Chapter Two
“WARNING: Though the generator is turned off, the current may still be running. Steer clear: Electricity Kills”
***
“You hear about Maisie Bailey’s dog?” Kat set their plastic tray down on the table in the crowded dinner hall, three weeks back at school and they were already treating uniform rules more so as guidelines reserved for people with no fashion sense, though some could argue that included those who wore skirts on top of trousers.
“What about it?” Trent was neatly picking the pieces of what looked like some form of red vegetable, probably chili peppers, out of his no longer steaming chicken tikka and arranging them in a pile on his paper napkin. It was Curry Wednesday.
“It’s apparently run away, I saw a missing poster for it on the noticeboard outside Professor Holly’s.”
“That sucks, I’d be devastated if Sir Pounce ran away,” Amy conferred. A flash of a memory of the rabbits from the graveyard popped up in her head, but she quickly dismissed it. She hadn’t had cause to think on it since it happened, and the three hadn’t seen anything like it since on their more recent explorations, which were becoming few and far between as school had started up again.
Kat laughed, “Sir Pounce would come sprinting back as soon as he realized the great outdoors doesn’t have home-baked treats or a three-tier cat tree.” They grinned, ripping a bite from their lukewarm naan, now speaking through the bread, “You’ve not got anything to worry about there.”
The dinner hall was very loud and very full; despite it being the Sixth Form area, some GCSE students had snuck their way in to get their hands on the better-quality food and wider selection of vending machines. It was an irregularly shaped room, technically a hexagon which became known to Amy when on a boring clean-up detention a few years back she had counted the walls and tried to calculate the total area of the place; the conclusion she came to was that it was not nearly big enough to contain all two-hundred-and-seven Sixth Form students plus unnoticed intruders. She pulled her chair even closer to the table they were sat at, so the edge jut into her stomach nearly slicing her in half, as a group of loudly-chattering members of the Netball team squeezed their way through the winding labyrinth of gaps between chairs, tables, and students. Amy noticed Kat’s gaze flick to a spot just over her shoulder from where they were sat on the opposite side of the table:
“Would you two ladies mind coming with me?”
The voice of Mrs Sharpe the lunch monitor was droning and monotonous, though high-pitched and nasal enough to cut through the buzzing background sounds of the cafeteria. Kat made a face when they saw the staff member’s line of vision focus on Amy, and stuck their two fingers up at Mrs Sharpe from under the table. Amy looked back at Kat, “Uh.. sure, like, now?”
Mrs Sharpe pursed her lips and nodded mock-solemnly, “Mm-yeah, just you two, Trent needn’t come along.” She waved a dismissive hand at the boy, who shrugged to his friends and continued working on deconstructing his curry back into its base ingredients.
Amy stood up, taking Kat’s blazer sleeve and dragging them up as well, assuming they were both being taken to the Sixth Form Office for another uniform violation. She could maybe see where they were coming from with Kat, though they had read through the rules that morning and nowhere did it say anything against wearing trousers and a skirt- which they were itching to bring up whenever they would be told to go home and change- but Amy didn’t think she was doing anything too out of pocket with her own clothing: maybe it was because she was wearing boots?
The two were marched through the winding corridors of the school, ducking under wooden doorframes that stood as the only remnant of the building’s original Stuart-era structure after the rest was totally rehashed in the late 60’s. It didn’t take Amy long to realise that herself and her friend were being taken up to Mrs Pratchett’s office; a round room with a shallow raised platform on which she conducted meetings and tellings-off located right at the very top of the school- led up to by a winding spiral staircase behind a ‘Staff Only’ door.
“Why’s she taking us to Pratchett’s?” Kat whispered to Amy, speaking out loud the very next thing Amy was going to wonder. Amy shrugged, mouthing a concurrent ‘I don’t know’ as she fought off the light dizziness one gets when climbing an annoyingly tall spiral staircase.
Mrs Sharpe knocked briefly on the large oak door, her narrow blue eyes reflected in the polished copper plaque on the front, watching the two students behind her intently. The door swung open and Amy and Kat were filtered inside.
Amy sat in a little grey chair opposite the desk, trying to smooth her skirt down as close to her knees as she could get it without having to noticeably roll it down. Kat tried their best not to slump huffily into their chair beside her, but still fell back into it with a little too much force, causing Mrs Pratchett to shoot them a stern look through the lenses of her crescent-shaped glasses, “I never thought I would have to have this conversation with you both,” she began a pre-written, but well-practised, speech, “but it has apparently come to this.” She clasped her hands together and leaned forward on the desk, her well-manicured fingernails shiny in the light of the desklamp, “But I think you both may know why I have called you in here today.”
The two students shook their heads.
Mrs Pratchett raised an eyebrow, “I would like to start off by saying that Elmsbury-Gallows Secondary has a zero-tolerance policy on violence and bullying—”
Kat concealed a scoff.
“—and that we take matters like this one incredibly seriously.”
Amy felt her stomach sink a little as her mind connected the dots on why they were both there.
“We received a report,” Mrs Pratchett continued, “from a student, whom I will not name but I believe you both know who I am talking about—”
Amy and Kat nodded hesitantly.
“—this student has put in a report of physical violence that resulted in physical injury and we, as a faculty, have a due diligence to follow up on his claim.” She was focusing her pointed stare on Kat for the most part, but Amy felt a twinge of telepathic blame seeping into her shoes. She looked down to check.
“Now, need I remind you both that this is assault?” she punctuated the statement with a drawn-out disappointed sigh, “and that you are very lucky indeed that the victim’s family have not chosen to pursue legal consequences.”
He bullies us since Primary but as soon as we do one thing to fight back you’re up in arms? Amy felt the thought radiating off Kat, whose head was turned away from her to focus on looking out a window to prevent themself from leaping over the desk and throttling their hexagenerian headmistress. Though their expression was obscured, Amy could see the pulsing muscles in their jaw.
“However,” Mrs Pratchett called the two’s attention back with the adverb, “that is not to say we haven’t decided on an in-school consequence,” she was clearly avoiding the word ‘punishment’, “for you both to face.”
Dammit.
“Myself, Mr Robins- head of Sixth Form, and the victim’s family have decided that you both will attend after-school detentions with your form tutor for the rest of the academic year.”
Kat muttered something that rhymed with ‘puck cough’.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said we deeply regret doing it and won’t do anything like it again.”
Amy couldn’t deny that she felt the same way as Kat, no matter how much of a stoicist outlook she tried to have, she was angry about this.
“Good. And I am sure you both find this a reasonable consequence for your actions.” This was a command, not a request.
Amy and Kat motioned up and down with their heads, achieving something close to an agreeing nod.
“So, the detentions start today after school,” Mrs Pratchett continued, “and your form tutor is…” she flicked through a file conveniently placed to her right, “Professor Holly?”
A small twinge of relief soothed the ache in Amy’s stomach. At least this would make things more bearable.
The two nodded again.
“Okay, so you won’t have to move classrooms since you have History last period.” She smiled with something that could almost be identified as sympathy, “so your detention is an hour: 3:30 until 4:30.” She snapped the file shut, “glad to have this talk with you- honestly you two, I never expected this from you.” She took off her glasses and folded them neatly in her hand, “less than ten behaviour points between you both- excluding uniform violations- and from nowhere you have this outburst?” she tutted, before motioning that they were free to leave and Amy had never felt more at liberty to do something as quickly as she did then.
***
“Well I think it’s a bloody pisstake,” Trent was astutely ignoring the research task, a blank word document open on his laptop, “remember when he poured milk over Kat in year ten? He got like a week’s detention for that- tops.”
“Yeah and the time he and his little nitty mates followed Amy back from school— I swear they didn’t even follow up on that one.” Kat’s eyes were the only part of them visible over the top of the table, they had slouched in their chair to an almost horizontal point, “should’ve got his whole head in the door as well.”
“You three better be getting on with the work.” Professor Holly looked over the top of his PC, his mouth obscured but his eyes smiling through his glasses, “and I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that from you Kat.”
“I know you’d never snitch on me Sir,” Kat gave him a comically large wink, shimmying upward, and leaning into the laptop and textbook- pretending to read it at first but eventually actually getting some work done. The lesson passed as quickly as it had started, Amy managing to get at least something written up, though not as much as she would have liked, finding it hard to divert her annoyance away from the whole Mike Gregory situation.
The sound of the class diminished as they filtered out to leave, Trent being the last to go, sticking next to his friends until he was forced out, “Should I pop to Cery’s or wait for you guys outside?”
“Go Cery’s- I’ll give you my fiver,” Amy fished around in her blazer pocket, retrieving the crumpled note, “wait at the place if you want but if you wanna go home and change you can.”
“Nah I’ll wait- I’d never run off from you guys.” He smiled, wished them both luck, and went on his expedition to get their snacks for the week from the little corner shop on Abbey Way. The door closed behind him, leaving Amy and Kat alone in the now silent classroom.
3:28.
“You guys want to tell me what happened?” Professor Holly swiveled himself away from the computer screen to face the two sat next to each other at the front of the class, on the table next to the one nearest to his desk.
“Mike Gregory’s a ratty little snitch is what happened.”
Amy kicked Kat under the table.
“Another thing that I’ll pretend I didn’t hear, Kat,” Holly very deliberately concealed a smile.
“He was trying to get into my house after, uhm, failing to scare us,” Amy was careful with her words: the last thing she wanted after this was to admit to her and her friends’ sordid past and active present of trespassing, “so Kat kicked the door to slam him out and accidentally got his fingers trapped.” She shot Kat a pointed glare, “didn’t you.”
Kat shrugged, “I can work with that, yeah.” They sat forward, “It’s just so unfair because, like, he never got in any proper trouble for that time he put Trent in a bin, or when he tipped milk over me, or following Amy home, or ‘accidentally’—” they gestured airquotes, “—dropping the ball on my toes on the year seven bowling trip—” Kat was now ranting quite exasperatedly, “—or, y’know, bullying us since literal Primary School. But noooo, all of a sudden when we react to it we get a year’s after school detention,” they laughed, “What’s worse is that Amy didn’t even do anything wrong! Like I get putting me in here, I probably maybe shouldn’t have actually reacted like I did,” they quickly caught themself, “and, uh, not realized my actions may end up physically hurting someone, despite the lack of intent to harm,” they took a huge breath in, “but c’mon Amy did nothing!”
Professor Holly took a moment to process the excess of word vomit that had just poured out of Kat’s mouth. He absently pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “that is a very fair point, Kat- but I’m not allowed to voice my personal opinion on this, uhm, consequence.” He folded his arms, “but I can say that I definitely see where you’re coming from.”
Kat gave him another one of their comically exaggerated winks, “eh, I see Sir, I see.”
The pealing, shrill ring of the bell signified 3:30, and as if she had been stood waiting in the wings, Mrs Pratchett came coquettishly into the room, “Uh, Kat can you just move over there, so you and Bellamy don’t talk?” Mrs Pratchett pointed to the chair furthest from Amy in which Kat sat, making sure to show all their teeth in their best-practised passive-aggressive smile to the headmistress.
“Attitude.” Mrs Pratchett warned. She moved to sit in a chair under the whiteboard at the front of the class getting out her laptop, her acrylics making a spider-foot tapping on the plastic keys. This, for an hour, Amy groaned inwardly, God help us all.
***
The walk up to their little spot was not a difficult one if you knew where you were going: a quick stop at Cery’s for snacks, then a thirty minute walk up through Church Close, past Elmsbury Common and down Gallows Trail to the old 1950’s radio tower that stood overgrown and bronzed with rust on the peak of a hill in the middle of the farmland. Up until Gallows Trail it was all pavement, afterward they had to hop a fence to get into the field by the hill, which was a little more offroad; but with the right shoes on it was just as easy as the previous twenty-minutes or so. This trip had always been a little more tiring in the heat, but the view from beneath the tower had been worth it for the three of them since year seven.
The entire span of Elmsbury-Gallows rolled out in front of them like a map, and Amy could point out every nook and cranny in the town from the spot on the hill- the first few times they went up there she would trace her route home as to avoid getting lost. The sun had slowly begun it’s descent behind the curtain of clouds in front of them to the West, dousing the town in a meek, diluted, sandy-yellow glow. From the top of the hill Amy could see on one side the small pocket of land where Johnson’s Farm sat, and over to the other the churning site of the mine renovations- once greys and browns overgrown and untouched, now spotted all over with bright yellow excavators and diggers.
The radio tower itself was overgrown with shrubbery and ivy, rusted an orangey-brown the same colour as the wooden fence around it, the only splash of colour being the faded yellow warning sign peeking out from the leaves on the fence. It pierced up into the sky, it’s needle-like form wobbling slightly as wind passed through it. Amy sat on her blazer in the grass, taking off her tie and putting it in her backpack’s front pocket.
“Well I’m just as mad as you are about it, Kat,” Trent cracked open a can of off-brand coke and handed it to them.
“I know right! It’s like, first they make the sixth-formers wear the GCSE students’ uniform and then they go and wrongfully persecute me and Amy for basically defending ourselves,” they slurped their soda before tumbling down to sit next to Amy, “I mean, persecute me for it, that’s fine I guess- wrong but fine- but, and I literally said this to Holly: Amy did literally nothing and she has to do detentions as well.”
“No, no Kat you don’t get it,” Amy reached up to take her can of coke from Trent, “I was a bystander- and as Mr Greensmith said:” she straightened up, putting on her best Devonshire accent, “I can’t stand a bystander, students! A bystander is like a bully who doesn’t even need to bully!” she reverted to her normal voice, “I was complicit in your heinous crime.”
“Ohh, right of course,” Kat leaned back on their elbows, “you deserve a million years of detention for standing doing nowt in your own house.”
“In all seriousness, you probably shouldn’t have done it, Kat.” Trent joined them both on the grass finally, “no matter how ‘just’ it was.”
“You’re right, you’re right, violence is never the answer,” they conceded and sipped their coke thoughtfully, “it’s the solution.”
“Kat no!”
“Kat yes!”
The three of them laughed, mock-panicking at Kat villain laughing and rubbing their hands together as if plotting their next devilish scheme. Before the laughter died into silence, Kat spoke again, “I’ll have to add it to my list of things to protest against.”
“That why you’re wearing the skirt-over-trousers combo?”
“Hm?”
“To protest the uniform change?” Amy added.
“Oh my God did I not tell you guys? I can’t believe I didn’t tell you guys,” Kat then launched into a spiel about how the uniform change for the older students was infantilizing and wrong, and simply unprofessional, with that usual hint of unserious, straight-faced irony that tinted all of their protesting exploits- always for the sole purpose of entertaining themself and the want to create a common goal between students. The roleplay of a real thing in a fake environment; it had been like this since year eight debate club.
When asked if the skirt-trouser combination would be too stifling for the, now dwindling, summer heat, they simply replied that “justice has no temperature.”
“You should make it a thing,” Amy offered, “get the whole school repping the trouser-skirt in solidarity with your cause.”
Kat wiggled their finger at their friend, saying how that was an excellent idea.
***
Neil always stayed behind after hours in the school. He didn’t quite know why, most likely a combination of his inability to keep track of time and his love of evening drives; the twilight dwindling a blue sheen over everything, illuminated only by his daytime running lights, not dark enough to need any more illumination. It was the only time of the day that Elmsbury didn’t look completely brown. Most times he would not leave the premises until told to. He also found that leaving so late made it so he would have minimal interaction with other people on the way to his car.
“Neil, can I ask you something quickly?”
He had almost forgotten Mrs Pratchett’s presence in the room, her ability to move in near silence was almost impressive. He nodded to her to proceed with her question.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on those two, a little more closely? It’s just—” she sought and found the words she was looking for, “—I hear sometimes violent outbursts are a result of poor mental health is all, maybe you could try talking to them, see if anything’s up?”
This was odd to Professor Holly, he always thought Amy and Kat were quite happy people, albeit a little strange sometimes but never ill-spirited. Definitely more happy since GCSEs, which is what made this apparent spur of violence even more out of character. He made a noise of confirmation anyway, “Uh, sure of course, I’ll make sure they feel safe to talk if need be.”
Mrs Pratchett smiled in thanks, before leaving him alone in the room to tap away at his keyboard until dusk.
Though it was the evening and now mid-September, the air was not much less thick nor hot than it had been at the peak of the day; Neil caught a glimpse of a sliver of blood orange disappearing under the deep phthalo horizon, and crammed himself into his brown VW beetle before the fog and the gnats could make their way after him. He blasted the air conditioning, the cold wafts making him sigh in a near euphoria after being stuck upstairs in his stuffy classroom full of students and their signature pubescent stench, “Home, home, home.” He muttered to himself, as if he were afraid he’d forget where he was going next. He turned the key, forgetting he had left his Peel Slowly And See CD in the slot, and he took off out of the staff car park and down the indigo streets around the northward-going-eastward part of Elmsbury to the tune of Run Run Run.
This was the newer part of the town, one might add, where the classic suburban houses with their modernist slanted rooves topped with roosting crows, and floor-to-ceiling windows glowing yellow with light and movement inside. He snaked his way past the outskirts of Elmsbury-Common, which was a little less inspired by mid-century American suburbia, home to those more classically British red-brick mining village homes, though the same yellow glow seeped out of the windows in small square patches on the pavement; he turned sharply onto the older, narrower body of Deerfolk Way, lined on either side by tall, bristling hedges with white flowers peeking out between the leaves like stars. He flicked on his dipped headlights as the sky darkened from dusk to evening.
And then he hit something. Hard.
Neil slammed his foot on the brake, his whole body seizing in rigor-mortis-like panic. Did he hit an animal? He tried to remember what the impact had felt like- as if he were recalling a far-off childhood memory and not the events of thirty-seconds ago.
Should I get out?
What a stupid question to ask himself- whether it was alive or not he would have to move it out of the way to get through the road.
He clambered out of the car, praying for some form of rock or cast-off bag laying in the middle of the tarmac, closing his door and standing with his silhouette illuminated by the headlights behind him, the sound of the next song muffled and constrained to the inside of the car. He slowly moved his eyes to look down.
The body of a white bichon frise lay at his feet, unmoving and half obscured by fog, its fur made opalescent in the deep blue of dusk. Neil suddenly felt very hot, like that rush of feverish heat you get when you’re about to throw up, “Oh God, oh God, oh God—” he paced up and down, looking about himself for any witnesses, trying to tell himself he was hoping for one, not praying there were none. He hadn’t killed the dog, right? There wasn’t any blood on it so he mustn’t have killed it, just run it over after it had died. He tentatively put three fingers to the chest of the thing, maybe he had hit it and it was injured? He grimaced, reeling back as the his fingers sank through the tufts, not concealing the icy coldness of the dog’s skin which he pressed into, feeling rigor-mortis under his fingertips like a false rubber prop. Neil wondered then why the animal looked somewhat familiar, before suddenly remembering the noticeboard outside his classroom.
It was that girl’s dog- the student. What was her name? He can’t have forgotten her name not here, not like this, not whilst standing over her dead dog. Millie? Maisie? That was it, Maisie— Maisie Bailey. God, she would be devastated. Was he going to tell her?
“Christ, what would I even say,” he chided himself under his breath, “’Oh sorry Maisie I know I haven’t taught you since year nine but here’s your dead dog?’” he paced back and forth in front of his headlights, “’no, no I promise I didn’t kill it, I just found it like that.’” He almost forgot what the thing looked like, and found himself glancing down to look at it directly again, making eye contact with one of it’s glassy, doll-like black eyes.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Neil hadn’t even fully resolved on what he was doing, feeling a choked sob escape him as he gingerly bundled the dog up in his jacket and put the neatly wrapped package in the boot of his car. He felt like a murderer. It wasn’t on purpose, so technically speaking he was just a manslaughterer. He didn’t like the joke. It didn’t even make sense- he hadn’t killed the dog. Just found it dead.
Am I really going to take this home?
***
The sky was almost completely dark when Kat was on lookout for Professor Holly’s car: the three had a ritual since they found the tower that they would go home when they could see his car headlights turning into Deerfolk Way. Behind them Amy and Trent were talking about the new mine renovations, and how much they miss doing nearly nightly explorations and ghost hunts: “we should all go out soon, I think,” Amy called over to Kat, beckoning them to come gather to line up timetables, “or at least for half-term,”
“Ooh!” Kat grinned, “We could go out on Halloween!”
Their friends seemed to like that idea, penciling in ‘hunt’ on their planners for Halloween.
“Yeah, but we should go out a little sooner before that,” Trent was flicking through the pages, “what about, uh— oh, look there’s Holly.” He pointed to a pair of round yellow spots in the distance, turning into Deerfolk Way, “we should get going.”
The three resolved to talk about it on the walk back when Trent suddenly shushed his two friends, freezing in place crouched low to the ground, his eyes starting to move around the top of the hill, scanning progressively faster until they focused on what was making the soft, padding footstep sounds coming up the brow of the hill.
“Holy shit, speak of the devil.” The loud, slightly rasping voice of Mike Gregory barked in the direction of the three, “well, devils, cause y’know there’s three of yous.” He was flanked either side by Harrison Burke and Henry Clarke, both taller than him, all turned out in beige or white sweatpants and Off-White and Lacoste t-shirts, single silver chain necklaces gleaming about each of their necks and pairs of white trainers on their feet: Mike in Yeezys, Henry and Harrison in Airforces. Their hair was well-trimmed and groomed, and was cut in the exact same style as if it had been copy-pasted onto each of their heads. In Mike Gregory’s left hand, the red tip of a smouldering joint glowed in the dusk, puffing out thin trails of smoke, his right was hanging casually at his side, the white bandages that wrapped his broken fingers together into a mitten almost luminous in the dusk, “Aren’t you guys like emo or something?” he took a draw from the joint then passed it to Henry, a small smile cracking up his face, “thought you’d be at the graveyard summoning demons or whatever.” He blew smoke in Trent’s face, laughing and getting his two friends to join in with him. Trent said nothing, turning to his two friends to leave, taking Kat by the arm and whispering to them to leave it before they had the chance to jump on one of the three boys and start gouging their eyes out. They were glad of this, albeit a little disappointed.
“Oi!” Mike called after them, causing Kat to turn around from habit. The three had gotten a few metres down the hill so that when Kat saw him, the bottom halves of his legs disappeared under its brow, and his teeth were white in the deep blue of dusk, the only light source between the three boys was the end of the joint glowing a deep cadmium red, reflecting faintly in his pupils. Mike Gregory held it out towards them, “don’t be rude: come hang out.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Kat called back, met with howls of laughter and coy jeering. Trent managed to steer them back towards the path home before they could run up the hill and put the joint out on Mike Gregory’s eyeball.
***
Neil was trying his best not to look out of the window. It had been hours since he got home, and therefore hours since he buried the dog, yet whenever he looked down at his hands there seemed to be dirt under his nails despite him having taken a nail clipper to them, almost to the point that there was now not even much nail for there to be dirt under. His glasses steamed up when he looked back to the pot of soup he had been stirring almost reflexively, he tried his best to focus on anything else but his newest suspicion. He had been thinking about it since the mine opened, and since the missing poster appeared on the noticeboard it had lodged itself in the back of his mind consciously or otherwise; it may have been confirmation bias to begin with- starting to see more roadkill than usual didn’t feel at all logical which is why Neil pushed that feeling away, as he was currently doing with the sickness in his stomach that the state of the dog had given him. But something was still out of place for him; his eyes wandered from the small patch of newly re-packed dirt just outside the window to the doors on the cabinet in the hallway.
The books had come from his mother- she had found them in a garage sale in the Antique Books section whilst looking for things to pad her bookshelf with. He remembered her telling him the story of how she had been almost about to leave when a misplaced magnifying glass in a box next to the pile had highlighted in its lens a single name: ‘Phillip Fairfax’. What had struck her about it was that it wasn’t embossed on the spine like the other antique books she had seen, rather it was written in a spidery cursive on a sticker, which upon closer inspection, had been glued onto the book itself, and around its edges there had been faint fingerprints in ink. She had picked it up, of course, and it being the late 60’s she was delighted to see scrawled on the pages what looked like a mixture of old alchemic science and 19th Century mysticism. There had been two textbooks in total of what appeared to be handwritten notes on experiments and findings revolving around some flavour of occultism. Neil’s mother had never been able to devise exactly what denomination of religion it was, and she never extensively read the work as whenever she did she found she would suffer weeks, even months, of night terrors.
It was a good story, though Neil had come to understand as he grew up before he read the books himself, that the last part was most likely an embellishment. When he got round to reading the work, it was during the new age spirituality phase of his early-twenties, he found he got splitting headaches after flicking through the pages, and would see the words from the page imprinted into his vision as if he had been staring into a bright light; he often had to blink for a few minutes to shake the hallucinations completely. It was why he often got Jim to read them to him to make notes on: he never seemed to get the same affliction. Most of the knowledge from the time was lost on him: out of practice and stored now underneath the mounting pile of his subconscious.
He did remember a little from what he had skimmed however, namely the words on the page that he was rifling though delicately to find at this moment. He finished his soup, took off his pink ‘Kiss the Cook!’ apron, then sat down in an armchair to read:
***
18th March, 1841.
My brother Alexander and I have been circulating theories for a while now on the existence of a supernatural being in the forest and farmland about the house. It has been a few weeks since we commandeered the library from Cassandra, and have both decided to conduct a rather dangerous experiment on what locals call ‘The Deer Man’. I would have been inclined to dismiss this superstitious myth as simply the imaginations of the peasantry, but ever since Alexander has been reading from the Collection, he has become quite obsessed with the presence of this potential entity. Although I myself am a man of Christian science and new head of the parish, I do not wish my brother to come to any spiritual harm in his experiments and am acting as a guide to deter him from witchcraft or any conjuring of daemons or the occult.
Alexander’s theory is that the entities in the surrounding area are of Celtic origin as they are spoken of in many texts from the earlier years of the Library’s existence in relation to creatures such as Pixies, Gnomes, or Imps. I, myself, conflate this notion and believe the creatures in the surrounding woods to be spirits or, more worryingly, daemonic creatures; however, where both of our theories overlap is in the notion that to encounter whatever entities there may be, one must first directly disturb them. So, my brother proposed that we must take note of the rate of activity as it is right now, and then take action to provoke the entity(s) and record on whether there is an uptick in happenings or not. Below are the notes taken on our small experiment on this hypothesis:
18th March, 1841
-Ventured into the forest surrounding grounds with Alexander; brought with us a rifle but no hunting dogs
-Made note of tracks which looked like hoof markings in dirt near reservoir, antlers shed in a tree, and what appeared to be feathers shaken off in a violent manner as if attacked by a predator upon a manmade dirt track; all of which are expected in a forest
-Nothing more of note, though this is expected
***
19th March, 1841
-Day two of observation: took hunting rifle into forest; explored with Alexander
-Mostly same occurrences: hoof markings, pawprints of what looked like a form of fox, feathers, pieces of old wood (possibly man-made but unlikely), and sheep’s wool on a wire fence
-Nothing more of note, though this is expected; all is in way with our hypothesis
***
20th March, 1841
-Final day of observation: took hunting rifle and Alexander
-Most things remained the same, however one occurrence of note being upon overturning a log I was swarmed all over by a nest of tiny silver spiders; managed to shake them off but found a few in my hair whilst writing this
-Nothing more of note, though this is expected; am nervous for the provocation stages, may take Bible; all is in way with our hypothesis
***
21st March, 1841
-First day of provocation stage, took hunting rifles with us into the forest, took extra ammunition
-Read up this morning on local legend, apparently you must not take from the forest lest you provoke the spirits; we have resolved to take back with us a stone each to test if this is a large enough provocation
-Took stones with no hassle, got back to the house without any hindrance whatsoever- may need a harsher provocation; may bring dogs out with us tomorrow
***
22nd March, 1841
-Second provocation stage day; took rifles with us though Alexander refused to bring the dogs much to my own protest
-Took paint and brushes with us to the forest today, marked two trees with red X markings; didn’t see much of note though did hear the sound of a tree being felled nearby without evidence of the occurrence itself (though this is chalked up to echoes and acoustics, my brother is going to ask around his tenants in case someone was felling a tree, since they cannot do so on his property)
-Nothing of note happened on the walk back to the house, however when placing my hand in my coat pocket I found a single milk tooth at the bottom of it, I assume placed there by one of my sons
***
23rd March, 1841
-Third day of provocation, I have persuaded Alexander to let me bring Merrylass and Vidge though not out of fear of the forest, just from my hearing of padding steps nearby us yesterday which I assumed belonged to a boar or fox
-Went out with intention to snap branches from trees as disruption, and to pick flowers since this feels a more violent taking than the stone method
-Ran into a hunter out in the forest, when Alexander warned him off his land the man smiled from a distance through the trees, whistling a tune to himself; this angered my brother who aimed his rifle at the man, threatening to shoot him for trespass; the man bolted away at a speed I thought inhuman; maybe he was the one felling a tree yesterday
-Undisturbed on the walk back, though we did come across a nest of those spiders again, both of us run over by the creatures and needing a bath once we got in
-The dogs did not like the forest and after supper I found Merrylass dead in a way I could not bear to show Alexander: guts spilled, flesh ripped, but no apparent presence of blood, as if it had been all but washed off of her body. She was sprawled out almost methodically, displayed like a diagram. I suppose some animal must have tracked her scent back in the forest and followed us back, for I found her dead outside I hypothesise that she must have escaped the house and been killed by the thing. What nags me is that she was not partially eaten whatsoever.
***
In our observation since, some strange occurrences have taken place, favouring our initial hypothesis to what I thought would be my apprehension but instead I find is to my own morbid sense of curiosity. The nights have not been kind to my brother, I can hear him shuffling about the house from my chambers, a deep muttering taking root in his throat; on nights especially bad I can hear the grinding sound of the hinges of the first Gate, and know he is ventured into that library to use the hours of the night to study as well as that of the day. He has told me to note down occurrences that have happened solely to himself, and that I will do:
-Nightmares
-Hearing the sound of a pianoforte playing outside the house
-Visions of a large dog with flaccid teeth that flap like paper in its breath
-The sound of swarms of bees in the house
These are what he has asked me to note down, however from my own observation of him he seems to be a lot thinner, as if he is not eating. I have also noticed a new-founded, worrying, obsession with the Library and this ‘Deer Man’ that the locals speak of in particular. He keeps speaking of a great tree with the cave to the centre of the earth beneath it- he knows I do not like his talk of it, so he has stopped mentioning it as often. But I can see him thinking of it and in sparing a glance at his own textbook, it is vacant of notes and scrawled all over with the crooked illustrations of the branches of a wych elm.
#chapter 2 be upon ye#horror#horror writing#internet horror#short horror story#original horror story#original story#original horror#creepypasta#nosleep#the elmsbury vampyre
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esStephan ShemiltChief cricket reporter1 hour ago60 CommentsIt is reasonable to wonder where this England team and the entire Ben Stokes-Brendon McCullum project might be without Chris Woakes.Two years ago, with England 2-0 down in a home Ashes, reputations and possibly jobs were on the line. Woakes was recalled when England were staring into the abyss.Alongside his good mate Mark Wood, Woakes engineered victory at Headingley, the pair in the middle together when the winning runs were hit, then it was Woakes who did most of the work in Stuart Broad's send-off at The Oval. A 2-2 draw, Woakes the player of the series despite only playing three Tests."There are sliding doors moments in sport, even more so in Test cricket," the Warwickshire man tells BBC Sport after a gym session at Edgbaston. "A lot had probably written us off. It was great to have such an impact on such a big series when the team needed it the most."On Friday, Woakes returns to Leeds for the beginning of England's five-Test series against India. At 36, the oldest player in the squad, he has perhaps never been more important to an England team.Amid the lust for high pace and an attack to win in Australia, it will be Woakes who bowls the first over for the home team, his accuracy and movement most likely to torment an Indian line-up lacking experience in English conditions.In 2024, Woakes played nine Tests, his second-most in a calendar year in a career that began in 2013. Sam Cook's indifferent audition against Zimbabwe last month only served to enhance Woakes' importance.Not that Woakes, with a well-deserved reputation as the nicest man in cricket, will talk up his role."I'm not a massive fan of 'attack leader' chat," he says. "An opener faces the first ball, but we don't say they are the leader of the batting."Woakes prefers the idea of being the "senior" bowler, a mantle inherited when James Anderson retired last summer. Even then, Woakes would often give choice of ends to pacey rookie Gus Atkinson, or allow Anderson to get involved in choosing the ball when he moved into the role of bowling consultant.After much prompting, Woakes finally concedes he will choose the ball at Headingley, then catches himself: "If I'm around," he says.Woakes is returning from an ankle problem he first felt at the end of England's tour of New Zealand in December. He says it might have been down to a switch in the boots he was wearing, which he has now changed back.To go straight into the England XI is a contrast to much of Woakes' career, when he was often competing for the one pace-bowling spot behind Anderson and Broad.In the summer of 2022, the birth of Bazball, he did not play at all because of a knee injury. Before he underwent surgery, Woakes wondered if his red-ball career was over."When a team is winning without you, your first thought is how hard it will be to get back in," says Woakes."I was just worried my red-ball stuff was done and if I could get back to the level that was needed to play Test cricket. To stay on the field, to slam your leg down for 25 overs a day. Thankfully, since then it's been pretty good."Since Woakes returned, England have won 10 of the 12 Tests he has played and he has taken 51 wickets at an average of 21.88. In the same period, only India's Jasprit Bumrah, Australia's Josh Hazlewood and South Africa's Kagiso Rabada have taken as many wickets at a better average.Overall, with 1,970 runs and 181 wickets, Woakes is closing in on becoming only the sixth Englishman to do the 2,000-200 double in Tests and will probably do so as the second-fastest in terms of matches, after Ian Botham.He is part of an exclusive club of England players to have won the Ashes and both 20- and 50-over World Cups, including Stokes, Wood, Moeen Ali and Jos Buttler. Eoin Morgan also sneaks in if you count his squad role on the 2010-11 tour of Australia.There is a legitimate case to ask whether a player of Woakes' record and achievements has been underappreciated."At some points I might have been, but it's n
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Banquo Orbit 5K
"Banquo Orbit 5K" is the first mission of Wreck Runner.
Welcome to Solfleet! A routine salvage mission to a debris field reveals more than you bargained for and threatens to turn deadly.
Cast
Duffy - Christina Greatrex
Eats - Sarah Griffin
Peter Cassidy - Philip Nightingale
Control - Julianna Kurokawa
Drone - Beth Eyre
Wreck - You!
Crew
Writers - Alasdair Stuart and Mur Lafferty
Director - Matt Wieteska
Sound Designer - Mark Pittam
Plot
Race You!
Duffy welcomes you to the team, and apologises that you're being immediately thrown into a mission. Eats will partner with you for this, and tells you that you're checking out a shuttle trapped in debris. Recover any survivors, and salvage anything useful. Better get going!
Follow Those Drones!
Eats wonder what such an old shuttle was doing this deep in the Boneyard. You enter through a hole in the hull. Eats doesn't register any survivors, but it looks like life support is still working on the other side of the airlock. Time to get to work.
Circuit
The shuttle is huge, but Duffy says that it apparently had only had a skeleton crew of three people. Duffy seems to be hiding something from you, and tells you to just bring the crew home. The drones sense a life sign and it seems agitated. You head through the next door and find the room trashed. There's a man standing outside an occupied stasis pod. Duffy tells you that's Peter Cassidy. Cassidy says that he won't go back, and then comes after you with a knife.
Debris Ring
You lose Cassidy and hide in the ship's kitchen where you are confronted by Kurokawa, the ship's Control. They tell you that Cassidy had lost it a week ago, and the struggle caused the ship to crash. A drone notifies you that one life-sign has left the ship. Control says it's probably Cassidy trying to steal your shuttle. You can run through the ring of debris to try to catch him.
Short Cut
Duffy needs you to do one more thing; Cassidy has something that you need to recover, and you can't let it fall into the wrong hands. Control has a short-cut in mind for you.
Emergency Action
If you jump from the hull, inertia will carry you straight to the shuttle, and you should be able to beat Cassidy there. Eats is uncertain because of the lack of a tether, but Control insists that it's the only way. You release you mag-boots, and manage to make it across open space to the shuttle, just in time to catch Cassidy. You try to get the data off him, but he jumps into space rather than give it up. And worse news! Eats missed the landing.
Swarm
Eats is still out of reach and your suit is going to run out of air soon. Duffy suggests turning back so you don't lose two crew members. Thinking quickly, you separate one of the drones from the swarm and throw it to Eats. The drone manages to drag Eats back towards you when it tries to return to the others. Duffy worries about the efficacy of the drone swarm, but they seem to have taken a liking to Eats. You'd better get back to the shuttle quickly though.
New Family
You make it back to the shuttle and close the airlock. You can remove your space suit. Control is welcomed to the team, and says that she has a copy of the data that Cassidy took. Eats demands to know why she didn't say that earlier, and Control explains that Cassidy was listening in and they couldn't risk him sending the data to anyone else. Eats demands answers considering you're all going to be working together. Control shows you some of the documents, much of which is redacted. It seems to be about a ship called the Minerva, which vanished in a possible first contact situation.
Transcript
Race You!
(Ongoing ambient sounds of a space shuttle)
Duffy: Codename Wreck. I'm glad you were able to join our team on such short notice. We're sorry to throw you into your first mission so quickly, but this is extremely time sensitive. Dock with the other shuttle and rendezvous with your team for briefing. Welcome to the runners, Wreck.
(Door opens)
Eats: Wreck! About time, we were about to go on without you.
Drones: Untrue! No human embarks on a mission alone!
Eats: You drones ruin everything.
Drones: Untrue! A mission is impossible without us!
Eats: God, you're annoying! Anyway, hey Wreck! Seems we're gonna check out a shuttle caught up in a stretch of hot debris. Gonna be around 5 kilometres to do the whole run.
It's just you and me, you know. Mission's not important enough for Circuit or Control.
Duffy: We haven't hired a Control for the team yet, and Circuit is still recovering from Martian flu. For now, the drones will brief you.
Drones: You'll go recover survivors and salvage from derelict Shuttle, Diana, currently moored in the ring of debris orbiting the South Pole.
Eats: A. K. A. the Boneyard, right? And these floating cricket balls come with us! Let's go, Wreck! Hey, race ya!
Follow Those Drones!
Drones: You have travelled one kilometre.
Eats: Look at that, Wreck! That's an early Zeus shuttle. Still space worthy. Well, not so much now. What was she doing so deep in the boneyard?
Duffy: The only question you need is, can you find survivors and salvage?
Eats: I suggest we enter through that burning hole in the hull. You go first, Wreck.
Uh, sorry you missed the Meet Your Crew And Get Drunk party. In short, my story is, I'm a runner because I'm a terrible shot. But I can cook, and I keep a mean inventory spreadsheet. So, I'm your Eats runner …
(The sound of burning)
And we're in! I'm seeing no survivors, Duffy.
Duffy: That's not surprising, Eats, since you're in the burning cargo bay.
Eats: I guess we keep moving.
Hey Dronie, can you unlock this door?
Drones: Ooo! Whee!
(Drones open the door – presumably with laser and little robot hands)
Eats: Brilliant. Looks like life support is working on the other side of this airlock.
(The airlock opens)
We are into the ship's living area now. This hallway has lights and gravity.
(Eats and Wreck land on the ground. Eats takes off her helmet. She is much clearer to hear now)
Phew. Which way are the quarters?
Duffy: The drones have a map of the old Zeus style shuttles.
Time to run, Wreck. Follow those drones!
Circuit
Drones: You have travelled two kilometres!
Eats: This Zeus shuttle is huge!
Duffy: Early Zeus class shuttles were the largest in the fleet.
Eats: Do you have a plan of how we're to bring a huge shuttle crew home in our little shuttle?
Duffy: Intel says the Diana crashed because it had a skeleton crew … three crew members.
Eats: I'm feeling like there's something you're not telling us.
Duffy: Just … bring them home.
Drones: Sensors indicate one life signature inside. Copy [sic?] is agitated.
Eats: Agitated? Wait a second!
Drones: Open!
Eats: Whoa! Shouldn't we come up with a plan or something?
(The airlock opens despite Eats’ protests.)
Duffy: Who's inside?
Eats: This place is trashed! Equipment smashed. Glass all over the floor! I think that's blood on the walls. Two people, one in a stasis pod. The guy outside is … tall? White guy, white hair, about 60.
Duffy: That is Peter Cassidy. This crew's Circuit.
Eats: Mr. Cassidy, I'm Eats, and this here's Wreck, and I'm sure that's not blood on the walls, right?
Cassidy: Uh ... No! I won't go back! You can't take me back!
Eats: He doesn't look happy to see us and he's got a knife! Oh God. Run Wreck!
Debris Ring
Drones: You have run 2. 5 kilometres.
Duffy: Runners, report.
Eats: We ended up in the kitchen. Crazy guy stopped chasing us. We have to get out of here!
Duffy: Not until you confirm the whereabouts of the third crew member.
Control: Psst. Over here.
Eats: Gah! You Diana crew just like scaring people, don't you?
Control: No, no, I need a lift. I'm Kurokawa, but you can call me Control.
Duffy: Oh, I was hoping you'd find Kurokawa. Are they alright? Get them an encounter suit so we can communicate.
Eats: Yeah, they're okay. I'm Eats, this is Wreck, and Duffy's yelling in my ear to report how you're doing?
Control: I'm alright. Just a bit of a stab wound. Cassidy lost it about a week ago. We were at the shuttle in the fight. Kept talking about his 'mission'.
Eats: Duff, Control says 'alright' and 'stab' in the same sentence.
Drones: Alert! One life form has exited the ship!
Control: Cassidy's probably off to steal your shuttle and abandon us all here to die. That's just like him.
Eats: We still need to get you a suit! There's no way we'll catch him!
Control: We can run through the ring of debris. Won't be easy, but we don't have a choice.
Run!
Short Cut
Drones: You have run three kilometres!
Control: Hey, Duffy, I'm good to go.
Duffy: Good to have you Control. Runners, you need to do one more thing.
Eats: What's more important than beating a psychopath back to our shuttle?
Duffy: There's something in that shuttle Cassidy didn't want us to have. We can't let it fall into the wrong hands.
Eats: Not only no, but Hell no.
I'm getting out of here and back to Earth and then … I'm gonna become a chemist! Chemists don't get stabbed!
Duffy: Wreck? I'm cutting communication with Eats.
Control, did you get the data we were looking for?
Control: I didn't get it, but it's something Cassidy would have taken.
Duffy: Why? Who … is he working with?
Control: He wouldn't tell me.
Duffy: You must stop him from getting it into the hands of anyone other than us.
Eats: Hey, are you talking to Duffy without me?
Control: She wanted to talk to us while you were busy planning your new career. We need to get going. I have a shortcut in mind. Let's run.
Emergency Action
(A door opens, we hear the creak of the wreck and debris. Everyone’s helmets are back on)
Drones: You have travelled four kilometres!
Control: This debris forms a ring. If we jump from this hull, inertia will carry us in a straight line to the shuttle, beating Cassidy.
Eats: Across open space without a tether?
Control: It's the only way. Grab onto something to stop your fall. Duff, we still have a chance. Cassidy's had to slow down.
Eats: I don't see -- Oh, wait, there he is. Wow, he's got terrible running form.
Duffy: Focus, Eats. You're trained for this. Disconnect your magnetic boots. Jump, and you should reattach to debris on the other side.
Eats: (groaning with apprehension and discomfort) When did 'should' get so scary?
Control: Come on, we have to go now.
Eats: Go ahead, Wreck.
(Wreck disconnects their magnetic boots, takes the leap, and lands with a thump.)
Hey, you made it!
Control: Let's move! Cassidy is coming around that old rocket shell.
(Wreck – and maybe Control – detain Cassidy, keeping him from going further)
Cassidy: Get off me!
Control: Cassidy, we're taking you back to Earth. SolFleet has some choice things to say to you.
Cassidy: Someone has to turn SolFleet over and reveal the worms wriggling underneath.
Control: That's poetic … and gross. Wreck! Get the data! Rip the suit if you have to!
No! Cass - Cassidy! Don't!
Cassidy: Give my regards to Duffy. Be seeing you!
Control: Duffy. He's jumped into space and the data's with him.
Eats: Hey team! Team! Help! I missed the landing!
Duffy: Runners! Emergency action! Now!
Swarm
Control: Eats is still just out of reach. We've followed them for half a kilometre. We can't keep up.
Duffy: You have to turn back. Wreck's suit is going to run out of air soon. We can't lose another team member.
Eats: Oh God. No! Don't let me suffocate out here, Wreck! Please!
Drones: [sic] This is highly embarrassing! The swarm hasn't -- Whoa!
Control: Hang on, Wreck. You're not supposed to separate the drones. Oh. I see. Eats, heads up!
Eats: Why'd you throw me a drone? What's a freakin’ cricket ball gonna --
Drones: Gotta get back. Gotta get back. Be the Swarm, swarm, swarm!
(The Drone continues in the fashion until it is reunited with it’s pair, heard in the background saying things of this nature.)
Control: Hang on, Eats!
Duffy: Don't separate the drones.
Drones: Gotta get back. Gotta get back.
Duffy: They could act unpredictably.
Control: The drone is returning to the swarm and is pulling Eats back.
Drones: Gotta get back. Swarm, swarm, swarm!
Swarm, swarm, swarm! Ooo! Whee!!
Eats: You saved my life, little buddy! Quick thinking, Wreck! I didn't know these things could drag a human!
Duffy: I'm glad you're safe. But I'm worried about the efficacy of the swarm now.
Eats: Aw, they seem alright. Except they're swarming around me now. Oh, how cute! They think I'm their mama!
Duffy: This debriefing is gonna be a nightmare.
Just run back to the shuttle quickly.
New Family
Drones: We have run our maximum of 5 kilometres! Our air will run out shortly.
Eats: Made it! We're at the airlock, Duff.
Duffy: Good work. Get inside. Take off your suits and cool down.
(The team does just that)
Eats: You know, untethered spacewalks weren't in the job description. I thought we'd see new places, meet new people!
Duffy: You just did both of those things. Plus you got a new drone family. I'm gonna have to ask Circuit about how this happened. Control, have you seen any sign of Cassidy?
Control: Long gone, I'm afraid. Let's get autopilot going.
Wreck, check life support in the engines. Eats, make sure the crew have water.
Eats: Wait a second, who died and made you boss?
Duffy: Her call sign is Control, Eats. She's part of the team now.
Eats: Finally! Another crew member! Welcome to the Athena, Control. We can have a drink and swap stories when we get back to Earth. I guess you two know each other from Duffy sending you on a super secret job that she decided not to tell us about, huh?
Duffy: I'm glad you're coming home safely, Control, but the loss of that data is huge.
Control: Don't worry, Duff. I have a copy.
Duffy: Why didn't you say that earlier?
Control: Because Cassidy had to be listening in and the real threat was him delivering the data into the wrong hands.
Duffy: I forgot how insufferable and pedantic you were sometimes. Come home safely, crew.
Duffy out.
Eats: Ooo-oo! I think I'm gonna like working with you. So, what's in the file?
Control: Classified.
Eats: Wreck and I nearly died today saving your life. And if we're on the same team, you gotta trust us.
Control: Mmm, That's true.
Here's the scan.
Eats: Great. Hang on. Half the words are blacked out. We risked our lives for this?
Control: Duffy will have to decipher the redacted words.
Eats: Good Lord. Is this document about the Minerva?
Control: Yes. It covers Captain Mallory's last mission. The official mission was to find scouts lost in the irradiated wormhole sector, but SolFleet really expected a first contact situation, which they intended to escalate into a military incident. Before she disappeared, she sent three messages back.
Eats: I heard she sent only one. ‘Crew is safe’.
Control: The second one was, ‘I can't wait for you.’ The third is blacked out, but it looks something like, ‘peace through any means necessary.’
Eats: That's ominous. So, we're returning redacted SolFleet data to them? Don't they have this already?
Control: Um, not to SolFleet per se. We're returning it to Duffy.
Eats: I see what you're doing. Sort of. Hey, Wreck, did you think you'd be landing in such an adventure when you joined the Runners? I sure didn't.
Control: So Eats, are you still going to quit the Runners and be a chemist?
Eats: Are you kidding? This just got interesting! Besides, I can't leave my new family, can I?
(Eats sounds like she’s hugging a drone in gratitude. The drone exclaims in pleasant surprise.)
Drones: Oh!
Control: Good. Take us home, Runners.
Mission completed.
Codex - Bonus Features
Letter
FROM: Control TO: Wreckrunner Team 01 SUBJECT: Saving My Life
So, thanks for saving my life.
I’m not one for speeches. Never know who might be listening.
Look, here’s the thing. You folks took the call on your first day out and pulled me out of the fire. You had no reason to, no reason to trust me even. And even then, when I told you the worst news people in our business can hear, you took it in your stride. SolFleet may be not be honourable, but you sure as hell are. You ran towards the burning building. You put yourselves to one side in return for saving me. That’s not something I can forget. I’m not sure I know how to. Or how to express my gratitude.
My hope is that serving beside you, having your backs when you’re out there on the edge, will be enough. Because I’ll always be there. Right next to you.
Thanks, folks. Stay sharp.
Control
#wreck runner#banquo orbit 5k#transcript#sci fi#Duffy#Christina Greatrex#Eats#Sarah Griffin#Peter Cassidy#Philip Nightingale#Control#Julianna Kurokawa#Drone#Beth Eyre#Wreck#Alasdair Stuart#Mur Lafferty#Matt Wieteska#Mark Pittam#sic
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Day 28 The Solstice Spirit (Katrina Stuart)

Y/N'S POV
The snow crunched beneath my boots as I trudged through the park, the crisp December air painting my cheeks a rosy hue. Katrina walked beside me, bundled in a navy peacoat and a knit beanie that matched her hazel eyes. Despite the chill, her laughter warmed the space between us. She had always been my partner in holiday mischief, and tonight was no exception.
"Do you think it’ll work?" Katrina asked, her voice full of excitement and just a hint of skepticism.
"It has to," I replied, gripping the old book tighter under my arm. Its worn leather cover held the key to our plan—or so I hoped. "If what this says is true, then tonight, the Winter Solstice, is the perfect time to call the Solstice Spirit."
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "You’re really going all in on this, aren’t you?"
I shrugged, a smile tugging at my lips. "You said you wanted a Christmas miracle. Let’s make it happen."
The park was nearly empty, save for a few bundled-up couples and kids dragging sleds behind them. We found the spot—an open clearing surrounded by towering evergreens—and laid out the items we’d gathered: a wreath of holly, a candle, and a small bell.
Katrina crouched beside me, her breath forming clouds in the air. "So, we just light the candle and ring the bell? That’s it?"
"Pretty much," I said, flipping through the pages of the book. "Then we say the words."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "You and your love for the supernatural. I swear, one day we’re going to end up summoning something we can’t handle."
"Not today," I said with a grin. "Ready?"
She nodded, her smile lighting up the night.
I struck a match and lit the candle, the flame flickering in the gentle breeze. Then, together, we rang the bell and recited the words from the book.
For a moment, nothing happened. Katrina glanced at me, her expression a mix of amusement and pity. "Well, that was—"
Before she could finish, the air shifted. A soft glow enveloped the clearing, and a figure appeared—a woman draped in a shimmering cloak of starlight, her presence both calming and awe-inspiring.
"You have called, and I have come," the figure said, her voice like a melody.
Katrina’s jaw dropped. "No way. Is this real?"
I could only nod, too stunned to speak.
The Solstice Spirit smiled, her gaze warm and kind. "What is it you wish for this Christmas?"
Katrina hesitated, then glanced at me. "I just want this one to feel special," she said softly. "For us to remember it, you know? Something magical."
The spirit nodded, raising her hand. A gentle wave of light swept over the clearing, and suddenly, the snow sparkled like diamonds. The evergreens shimmered with an ethereal glow, and the air filled with the sound of soft, chiming bells.
Katrina grabbed my hand, her eyes wide with wonder. "This is amazing," she whispered.
The Solstice Spirit looked at us, her smile knowing. "Cherish this moment, for it is the love and laughter you share that makes this season magical."
And just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished, leaving us standing in the enchanted clearing.
Katrina turned to me, her face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. "Okay, you were right. This is officially the best Christmas ever."
I laughed, squeezing her hand. "Told you the supernatural isn’t all bad."
As we walked back through the park, the memory of the Solstice Spirit lingered, a reminder that sometimes, the most magical moments are the ones we share with the people who mean the most.
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