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krreader · 4 years

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good for you | chapter 5.

pairing: teacher!kim seokjin x student!reader fandom: bts warnings: non idol!au ; college!au ; student x teacher relationship ; language ; sex ; dirty talk genre: smut ; crack ; angst previous: 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 word count: 1.8k+

summary: when you’re in dire need for more credits and your roommate finds a course that she wants to participate in but doesn’t want to go alone, you get dragged with her and end up in the class of kim seokjin, the new Korean teacher. suddenly all those stories, movies and shows about a romance between a professor and his student made sense, because how could you not fall for someone who looked like that?

a/n: this is so long overdue, but here it is my friends. finally.

“I have to say,” the waiter brought out your food, you finally having something to focus on other than your extremely handsome teacher Mr. Kim, “This is a little weird. I've never went to dinner with my teacher.”

“If this makes you uncomfortable..-”

Jin understood where you were coming from. He certainly hadn’t pictured himself having dinner with one of his students like this either.

“Oh no! No, that's not what I meant,” you quickly said, shaking your head, “I just mean that this is all new for me.”

“Well, if you want, we can talk about school stuff. Or maybe you could practice your Korean. After all, the test will be very soon.”

“I'm confident,” you said, beginning to dig in without mercy. You hadn't eaten all day because you thought you'd go on that date with Taehyung.. but clearly not, “Not like Perry. All she learns are words that will help her argue with Jeongguk.”

“It's really interesting to me that she was the one who dragged you to my course, yet you're the one that's studying for it and she's not.”

“I need the extra credits.. and I really like the language. I always wanted to learn it ever since I became friends with Jeongguk and Jimin.”

“And.. Taehyung?”

“Oh,” your shoulders dropped, just like your smile, “He's not a friend..”

“You're right. He's not a friend. And he's not worth your time,” Jin narrowed his eyes at you while taking a sip of his drink.

“I try telling myself that, too, you know? But I guess it's easier for other people to say than for myself to understand it,” you shrugged, “Whatever. It's fine.. You seem to be good company too, so I'm content.”

That made Jin smile brightly, almost proudly, “Then a toast to good company, good food and..-”

“..-and assholes who don't show up to dates.”

You both laughed and continued to do so throughout the entire night.

You and your professor had a chemistry that you couldn't deny, you still hadn't forgotten about that time you and him had almost kissed, but tonight wasn't awkward like you feared it would be at first. And maybe that was because of the alcohol that you both consumed and the fact that, by the end of the dinner, all you two could do was laugh and lull, but it was great fun and you really appreciated him being with you, because if he hadn’t, you would have gone home and bawled your eyes out after the guy that you thought you liked so much had stood you up like an idiot.

Him and you talked about your lives, about your interests, about the future.. you actually had really interesting and deep conversations, at least up until the alcohol had gotten to your heads.

Then it was just.. a mess.

“My apartment is soooooo far away,” you complained when you and him were finally out of the restaurant, “That asshole made me drive so much for him. Fuck Taehyung.”

“Yeah.. well, no,” Jin laughed, “Don't fuck Taehyung. He's not worth it.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort-laughed, falling against his chest and Jin, being as drunk as you were, wrapping an arm around you without thinking about whether or not that was ‘proper’.

Though, ‘proper’ was not a word that he thought about at all tonight.

“I'll get you a taxi.”

And see, if you had just said yes in that moment, or if you had just nodded or if you hadn't even said a word and just gotten into that goddamn car that he tried to hail for you, then none of this would have happened.

But you were still upset about having been stood up, your pride was hurt, your teacher was still looking like a sex god and you weren't thinking straight anymore, so what you said next, sounded like a good idea in your head in your drunken state at the time, but never in a million years would you have been so forward if you had been sober, “Nooo, don't. I want to go home with you,” you grabbed the lapels of his coat and came dangerously close to him, grinning seductively.. or tried to, “I want to be with you tonight.”

And see, if Jin was in any other state, he definitely would have pushed you into that taxi, he would have wanted you to say something like that when you were thinking clearly - even if he still tried to deny that -, but his own mind was clouded with lust for you, with alcohol and with.. loneliness, quite frankly.

“My, my, my.. you want to go home with your teacher, Ms. (Y/L/N)? That is quite naughty.”

“I've been thinking about it ever since I first met you, you know?” you whispered, biting down on your lip.

You were obviously both consenting here, that wasn't the issue, the issue was that once you'd cross that line, there was no going back from it. This boundary of teacher/student that could be crossed, but really shouldn’t be.

Neither of you realized that though.

Not when you followed him home, not when he pushed you against his closed door as soon as you were inside and not when he finally entered you after having spent absolutely zero time with foreplay, because neither of you were willing to wait any longer to really feel each other.

“Fuck,” you moaned out, arching your back into his soft mattress, “You feel so fucking good.”

“I imagined this so many times,” Jin chuckled against your throat, pulling out and then pushing into you as hard as before, biting down on your neck when you almost screamed his name, relishing in the feeling of how tight you felt around him.

“Me too,” you gulped down hard, “My best friend is going to kill me for this though, you know? She wants you so bad.. everyone wants you so bad..”

“Hmm,” Jin pushed himself up a little and then kissed you in an almost sweet manner, before whispering, “I only want you, though.”

And he really meant it, even if you couldn’t comprehend it and he wouldn’t remember having said it.

The sex wasn't rough, but it wasn't soft either. It was the perfect middle ground that made you both moan out each others names for a surprisingly long amount of time.

You would assume that being drunk would make him cum sooner, but nope. Your teacher proved to you that he had stamina and was rather creative when it came to positions.

And you and your three – yes, you heard that correctly, first time with him and he managed to make you orgasm three times, your ex-boyfriend should have signed up for a fucking class with him too – orgasms were very grateful.

Naturally the act was also a bit clumsy, but that almost made it even better. Sex didn’t always have to be super passionate and rough, tonight was fun, you two laughed, you two moaned, you two screamed eventually.. it was a good time and your sober self – if this weren't your teacher – would agree with you. In that moment, you wouldn’t have wanted it to be any different.

You've never had better sex in your life and never had a more handsome looking partner.

Thankfully, even in your drunken state, you hadn't been stupid and Jin had used a condom, eventually spilling everything he had to offer inside of it and moaning your name over and over again, like it was some sort of prayer.

Both of you were completely drenched in sweat, the sheets beneath you felt disgusting, but you yourself didn't.

Your legs were still wrapped around him, you could feel him soften inside of you, yet neither you nor him wanted to move, both too tired and too comfortable in the current state.

Your breathing was heavy and so was his weight on top of you, but instead of pushing him off, you actually pulled him closer, your fingertips gently running over his back.

You didn't say anything for a long time, only when he pushed himself up and looked at you did you ask, so low, as if you were afraid of the answer – which you didn't understand why: “Do you want me to go?”

But Jin's smile was soft and his lips on your forehead even softer, “No. Stay.”

And so you did. After you had washed up, you had cuddled into his chest and he had wrapped his arms around you, something so domestic that made both of you giddy like teenagers.

You had sobered up a little at this point, but not enough to realize that what you had just done would have immense consequences.

In that moment, you were just a normal woman and he just a normal man who had enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

And you both wished this moment would never end.

But it did.

It ended when you fell asleep.

It ended when you woke up and accepted that call from your best friend.

“Do you need me to come and get you?!” Perry was immediately alarmed, “Where are you, tell me, I'm already there!”

“No, no, no,” you whispered, tiptoeing into the bathroom with your clothes, “No, fuck, no. Just.. I'm okay. Give me.. thirty minutes, okay?”

“(Y/N), I really..-”

“I'm fine, Perry!”

You couldn't very well tell her where you were, or why you were there.

She might be your best friend, but she would certainly not approve of this. The man she had wanted to fuck – even if only to get back at her ex-boyfriend – as well as your teacher having been your sex buddy last night?

Nah, that wasn't a good look. You couldn't tell anyone about this and you were sure that he’d feel the same way once he’d wake up.

What the fuck were you thinking, (Y/N)?! This was such a bad idea!

You put on your clothes in a hurry, then checked and made sure Jin was still asleep, before hurrying out of his apartment and jumping into the first taxi that was free.

You barely remembered last night.

You remembered Taehyung standing you up, you being upset and then Jin coming along. You remembered him and you having dinner and then things started to get foggy. After that there's only snippets.

You remembered..-

You pressed your eyes shut as well as your thighs when heat rushed back between your legs at the memories of what you had done.

You still felt him on your body. His lips on your throat, his hands gliding over your legs, his dick pushing in and out of you.. and.. it felt so good that you felt ashamed.

He was your teacher. Your fucking teacher!

And even though this wasn't against the rules, didn't mean that it had been a good idea.

Especially because.. you.. kinda wanted to do it all again.

#bts x reader #bts imagine #kim seokjin x reader #seokjin x reader #kim seokjin imagine #seokjin imagine #jin x reader #jin imagine #bts #bangtan boys #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan #kim seokjin #seokjin #jin #reader #mine

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ellewritesathing · 3 years

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Faking It - Epilogue

Summary: You’d done plenty of dumb things in your life, but the dumbest had to be picking Greendale’s latest bad-boy to pretend to be your boyfriend.

Masterlist Part 6 | Epilogue

Word-count: 2.3k+

A/N: okay so about a million years ago @corishirogane3 sent me the cutest headcanon for this series and i had to make it canon. i’ve rewritten the ending so much that i’m not sure how i feel about it anymore but!! i wanted to post this sugary sweet ending after my finals so 💕💕 i hope you guys like it

Caliban hated birthdays. His mother would always try her hardest to make each year better than the last, with more outrageous parties in the hopes that he would forget he was a bastard whose father cared more about his reputation than his son. It never worked.

Kinkle: Happy Bday man! You’re still an asshole but I’m glad we’re friends again

As if his childhood confusion wasn’t hard enough, Caliban’s teenage angst almost burned everything to the ground. He was angry at his family for abandoning him and his mother, at the people around him for being conceited and boring, and at California for being too goddamn sunny.

Theo: happy birthday to my gay awakening 💕

Birthdays made Caliban infinitely aware of his precarious loneliness in the world. He’d stopped telling people when his birthday was long ago, but somehow they’d find out and ruin his plans to spend the day alone and screaming at the sky. Year after year, it was just the same hollow wishes from people who didn’t really care about him.

Rosalind ✨: happy birthday old man. i got you a haunted portrait so you don’t wrinkle

But this year was different. Caliban still wasn’t sold on the perfect greeting card birthday, but he’d been less angry since moving back to Greendale. Dating you - real or not - meant he got a group of friends as part of the deal, and the lot of you had extorted his birthday to draw up his astral chart. Apparently, he was an Aries sun, Capricorn moon - whatever the fuck that meant.

Sabrina: Happy Birthday Cal 💞

Still, Caliban could move across the country and collect as many friends as he liked, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever enjoy his birthday.

With a sigh, Caliban threw off his covers and padded across to his closet. He pulled out his usual dark clothes and scrounged around for his leather jacket before realizing he’d loaned it to you. He smiled to himself and set to make himself presentable.

This first hour of his birthday was always spent alone. It was one of the many birthday traditions he and Isobel shared, along with birthday pancakes, ditching the last half of school, and triple chocolate cake with Sour Patch Kids stuck to the icing. He was thankful for all the things his mother did for him, but that first dose of silence and solitude was crucial if he was going to deal with all the birthday bullshit that lay ahead.

Caliban’s phone dinged with yet another notification and he stopped in the middle of the hallway to dig his phone out of his pants pocket. Sure, Caliban talked a big game about hating birthdays but he still checked every text he got, hoping for ... something.

Fitch: Happy non-birthday to the best not fake boyfriend I’ve ever had ❤️ I love you and I’ll see you soon

He always read the texts, but he almost never responded. He leaned against one of the door frames and started typing something in the way of a reply. The only problem was that Caliban was only gifted in the way of words when he was lying, and he never wanted to lie to you. Caliban sighed and locked his phone without sending anything. He’d figure out what to say once his stomach was full of pancakes.

Expecting to come downstairs to the low hum of Isobel singing along to music, the smells of cinnamon, sugar, and melted chocolate, and one very messy kitchen, Caliban was surprised when he reached the bottom stair and heard your voice. Everything else was as expected, but you stood out among all the chaos.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly.

Isobel stopped her humming for a second. “Oh, yeah! That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

The pancake batter sizzled in the pan and Caliban decided to brave the kitchen. It was still as messy as always, but there you stood, clad in a borrowed, sunflowered apron and brandishing a spatula.

Since you and Isobel were whispering and watching the pancakes rise with your back turned to the entrance, Caliban walked over as quietly as he could and got a better look at the assortment of toppings on the counter. He'd just bitten into one of the strawberries when you turned to grab something off the counter.

You jumped sky-high and Caliban laughed. “Jesus. How long have you been there?” you asked.

“Long enough.” Caliban tried to sound nonchalant, which was difficult to do with all his curiosity. His cool facade was also ruined by Isobel rushing around the island to hug him and kiss his cheeks.

Isobel settled slightly after sitting Caliban down on one of the stools and promising to be right back with his present.

With your new-found solitude, Caliban turned to with an amused smile. “When you said you’d see me soon, I didn’t think you meant quite so soon,” he said. He reached for another strawberry.

You were happy to have caught him off-guard. “That’s kind of the point of a surprise.” You turned back to the stove to keep the pancake from burning but looked over your shoulder to add, “I mean, I can leave if it’s a problem?”

“You would deprive me of your company on my birthday?”

You set a plate in front of Caliban that had a single, oddly shaped chocolate-chip pancake. “I'd never dream of it, Abercrombie.” You took a step back, pulled out a knife and fork, and set it in front of him. “Tell me how it tastes?”

Caliban cut a piece and held his fork out to you.

“No way. That’s your birthday pancake.”

“You would really make me beg on my birthday?”

“You can’t play that card the whole day-”

“Yes, I can. Because it’s my-”

“Don’t say it-”

The word was on the tip of his tongue, but Caliban didn’t get the chance to play his birthday card another time because Isobel rushed back into the room holding a wrapped present and grinning wildly.

Isobel set the present down on the stool next to Caliban and tapped the top. “I know you don’t like opening them in front of anyone, but I couldn’t wait.” She tapped the gift again before reaching out and squeezing his hand. “Happy birthday, my love.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Caliban said in a low voice. Isobel gave him the sad smile she always did on his birthday and he gave her the matching smile he always did.

Your voice broke both of them out of their birthday stupor. “Well, I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late.” You untied the knot behind your back as you spoke before lifting the apron over your head. “I just wanted to stop by to steal a few legendary birthday pancakes and drop off the scavenger hunt stuff.”

“I’m sorry, would you repeat that?” Caliban asked, sounding as saintly as he could.

Isobel laughed. “Your brilliant girlfriend figured out how to give you a special birthday while letting you spend the whole day by yourself.” She wrapped an arm around Caliban’s shoulders and looked over at you. “There are clues and activities all over town and you can only come back once you’ve finished them all.”

As intriguing as a day spent on his own seemed, Caliban couldn’t help but feel like there was a catch coming. “And what about my daily need for education?”

“I thought you were a fan of more alternate education,” you teased. You leaned over and ate another bite of pancake. “Don’t tell me you’re going soft in your old age.”

Caliban gave a short laugh. “I said no such thing.”

You smiled. “Your mom promised to give you the first clue after your first pancake stack. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Caliban nodded, suddenly unsure of how to respond. He was bad at receiving gifts at the best of times, and this gift was personal and bestowed upon him in front of his mother. It was an awkward set of circumstances. “Thank you,” he said softly as he hugged you goodbye.

“Of course.” You kissed his cheek and disappeared out of the kitchen after waving goodbye to Isobel.

Once you were gone and Caliban was left with the familiar sounds and smells of the morning of his birthday, he began to think that maybe his opinion on birthdays needed a bit of changing.

---

Though he’d only participated in a few scavenger hunts, Caliban was competitive and he was relentless. He tore through clue after clue in the same ravenous fashion that a pack of wolves would their next meal, though he tried to savor it as best his hunger would allow. Every handwritten clue was kept, every souvenir pocketed, and every moment memorized. He didn’t want to waste the most thoughtful gift he’d ever been given just because he was an impatient bastard.

But, as he stared at his suspiciously dark house, he wondered if he should have taken it a bit slower. The last clue had hinted at something waiting for him at the house, and his desire to finish the scavenger hunt waged war on his hatred of birthday parties. He was just about to put the car in reverse and dart into the street when your head popped around a curtain. You ducked inside at such a speed when your eyes met his that Caliban laughed at the mental image of you crashing into a lamp and trying to play it off.

In the end, neither his desire nor hatred lured him into the depths of his birthday party. His bizarre inclination to do anything and everything you wanted drew him in.

So, Caliban showed up at his party. He wore a party hat, played nice with the other kids, and blew out the candles on his cake. All in all, it should have been the perfect end to his perfect day. But even with all your careful planning, there was no accounting for the bullshit hole in Caliban’s chest that always left him feeling empty.

When the hole in his chest got too big, Caliban sneaked up the stairs, ducked into his room, and slipped out the window. He wasn’t running away - though the thought did cross his mind - but he just needed some fresh air. Harvey’s laughter mingled with that of his other friends and the laugh tracks of bad movies, drifting through the open window to the warmth of the April night. Still, there wasn’t enough fresh air in the world to fix him.

“Hey!”

Caliban twisted around to see you popping your head out of his bedroom window. You had a silly grin on your face and your hair was falling all over your face. The hole in Caliban’s chest got a little smaller. Your smile softened as you tilted your head to mirror his.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?”

“Aren’t you worried about missing the party?” Caliban asked.

You shrugged. “Roz and Theo ate all the good snacks so it’s pretty lame anyway.” Caliban laughed and you flashed him another smile. “Come on, Abercrombie, you really gonna make me climb on the roof to come get you?”

Caliban let out a long whistle and adjusted to get a better look at you. “I’d like to see you try, but careful - it’s slippery out here.”

“Stop being an asshole and let’s get out of here before someone notices we’re gone.”

Grinning, Caliban rolled over and held a hand out to you. There was no need to be so secretive, really, but sneaking down his mother’s carefully cultivated trellis was half the fun. Caliban squashed some hydrangeas on the way down, you tumbled into him after getting your foot stuck, and the two of you were left breathless for a moment before rushing to the car so no one would discover your attempted prison break.

Giddy as you turned onto the freeway, the two of you laughed with the windows down and music blaring. Caliban didn’t think his birthday could get any better than it already was, but that moment with you was his favorite part. Or at least, it was until you started complaining about wasting away and you pulled into a diner for something to eat - then he found a new favorite moment.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what.” You tilted your head. “Is this because of the fry thing? I’m telling you, if you just try it then you’ll like it.”

Caliban laughed and shook his head at ‘the fry thing,’ also known as your insistence to dip your fries in whatever milkshake you had on the day. “I’m not trying it.”

“You’re a coward.”

“You can’t say that to me. It’s my birthday.”

“You hate birthdays.”

“Still.”

Rolling your eyes, you pushed the plate of fries over to him. “Try it once, okay? And you’ll see it’s the perfect combination of salty and sweet, hot and cold, yummy and delicious.”

Caliban couldn’t help it. He’d been putting it off for almost a year now, and it just didn’t feel right to say no to you after everything you’d done for him today. Plus, you were cute when you got your way. So, he reached out and dipped a fry in the milkshake.

Annoyingly, it was everything you’d said and more. Despite the sugary, fried high he was bound to be on in a few minutes, Caliban knew the best part of this whole endeavor would be to see your sickeningly smug face when he admitted defeat.

You’d turned him into a cheesy cliche. He was disgustingly romantic, he carried your books between classes, and had your coffee order memorized. Because you were the sweet to his salty, the brave to his reckless, the Fitch to his Abercrombie.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tagged: @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e @miss--moose @marrypuffsstuff @harryscarolinaa @igorsbby @foji2000 @hxlalokidottir @artaxerxesthegreat @thxmagic @strawberriesandknives @xealia @hotmessindisguise @acciomaximoff @reheated-coffee @shelby-x @perseny-blog @millie-753 @luneerius @shizzybarnaclee @lettherebelovex @throughparisallthroughrome @ietss @thebookwormlife @mechanicalanimalz @mariamermaid @nqbmf @caliban-is-my-girl @shephard17895 @andie-kathleen @clockworks-world-to-fandoms @luquincy @marina468 @olivia-west-allen @drrramaaaqweeen @roxytheimmortal @blondeeee-e @piensa-bonito

#caos #Chilling Adventures of Sabrina #Faking it #Caliban

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harringtonheartache · 4 years

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Daybreak | Part Twenty-One

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Part twenty-one of this fic. Rescue team re-assemble... with more members?

Word Count: 2,800 +

Warning(s): Self-inflicted injury, mention of guns, blood, cussing

A/N: I am very excited for the next (last?) few chapters! Hehe, I hope you guys are enjoying the series! Lemme know how you feel about where things are going (-;

The pad of Hopper’s thumb traced over the old wallpaper of Joyce’s home. He looked at the long scratch carefully, like he was in a museum and it was an art piece displayed in a fancy frame. And then he huffed, like he was irritated, and turned around to face Joyce again. He didn’t have any words, though, and they both looked at one another blankly.

Steve had returned himself to the couch, sullen and uninterested in Hopper’s investigation. He turned his left hand over and held in in his right, his own thumb feeling over the line across his palm; the scar, the one he gave and healed himself. The stitches — how many did it take? Six? Eight? And when he bandaged it in white, how many times around his hand did he wrap the cloth? How long did it take to bleed through?

“We have to summon it,” he said.

Hopper and Joyce turned from one another to face Steve, and he picked himself up from his seat in a hurry. He didn’t look at them as he rushed, a few steps around boxes and debris, straight to the door. Neither Joyce nor Hopper had found any words before he was through it and on route to his car.

Hopper sighed — that irritance again — and took a few strides to plant his hand on the door knob. He swung it open, the force rustling miscellaneous papers scattered across the room, and called out at the retreating teenager.

“Where are you going?”

Steve tugged on his car door and leaned in over the driver’s seat. His hand felt around on the floor of the passengers side, and he grabbed for the bag of forgotten first-aid. He picked himself up swiftly, plastic bag swinging at his side, and turned to march right back up to the porch.

Hopper was still stood in the entryway when he climbed the steps, and without even looking at him Steve swerved around his figure back into the home. Hopper followed the kid’s movements with his eyes, studying him like he had the wall. Joyce stood like a centerpiece in her own home, her presence losing saturation by the minute. A simple box of bandages was dumped onto her table, a second one sliding out and knocking into the first. Steve dropped the bag and progressed towards the kitchen, his plan still unspoken.

“What the hell are you doing?” Hopper spoke after him with a second effort. He shut the front door again, a distracted push of his hand sending it to a close. “Hey!” he called out to the disappearing figure.

Steve came as he left, quickly, only this time he held in his grip a knife. This did not silence Hopper.

“Woah, woah woah! What the hell? What are you doing? Give-”

“Just calm down, okay? I’m not-”

“Give me the knife, Harrington”.

He dangled the blade in his hand as he gestured, hands tossed in the hair nonchalantly. “Just listen to me!” he said in defense.

“Just put the goddamn knife down,” Hopper told him troublingly.

Wide eyes on the verge of being rolled, Steve slapped the knife to the table. “There! Will you just hear me out?” The silver spun against the hardwood as silence stilled the rest of the room. One hand drifted to Hopper’s hip — fed up, tired — and the other wavered in the air — yielding, tired.

“What?” he asked his question in one word.

“We have to summon it,” Steve said matter-of-factly, like Hopper should have picked up on what was happening. Keep up!

“Summon it. With a knife.” The return was dull.

“No, with blood”.

Hopper’s face jumped, exasperated but in a way that was partially a performance. “Oh!” he bursted, his free hand thrown in the air to hit his thigh with a smack when it came back down. “With blood”.

“It showed up because Nine’s arm — it was bleeding. She told me. She knew it came because of the blood. If I just cut myself, minimally, the blood will lure the thing back here and I can-”

“You’re not going to cut yourself-” Joyce started.

“We aren’t summoning a nine-foot-tall creature that almost killed you a few hours ago!” Hopper voiced sourly.

Steve’s hair flopped in front of his eyes and he sighed. It stayed there for a moment, himself gearing up to continue the argument, and then he tossed it back into place as he brought his head up again to look at his opposed.

“Look, wherever that thing took her, she said Will is there, too. She thinks she can find him,” he said, eyes drifting between the two adults but settling on Joyce at the mention of her son. Her mouth twitched as she watched him, and he continued his speech; something between an explanation and a plea.

“And I have to believe that she’s okay, that she will. But she’s hurt, probably pretty badly, probably exhausted.”

Hopper shifted on his feet, his cold stare dwindling for a moment, internally fighting with the idea of giving into this askew reality. The things he had been told of — the superpowers and the alternate dimensions (she called it the ‘upside-down’, right?). He had yet to see any of these things for himself, and instead stood protected by the shadow of ignorance. If he let this happen, when would he face everything he had been told of?

When blood started leaking from the cut Steve had proposed, slow to drip in thick red splotches against the floor? Would the wall shake and rumble like Joyce had described, and if so, is that when he’d face it? Would it take until the creature emerged from the wall for him to truly realize, and, could he ever go back to the shadow?

“We have to help her. That thing created a portal when it showed up, and that’s the only way we know how to find it. We can get them both back. It can be over,” Steve said.

Over. What did that mean, exactly? The word came from his own mouth, but Steve was still unsure of its promise. For Joyce, the idea was easy. It would mean having her son back home, ending the search. And for Hopper he’d return to work, Steve would guess, unburdened by this nagging supernatural side-story in his life. And for Steve… ? What would it mean for Steve? Going back to school, regularly, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine things being over for himself without needing to conceptualize a life for Nine, too. A new life. She wouldn’t go back to the lab, that wasn’t an acceptable normal anymore. So she’d take up residence… where, exactly? He let himself envision her at his own home for only a second, nipped in the side soon after by the teeth of realism. Hiding wouldn’t do long term, and his parent’s wouldn’t take her in like a stray dog to sleep at the bottom of their son’s bed. He’d also have to consider the people of Hawkins’ Lab. They didn’t just go away, excuse themselves as a problem simply because Will would be found.

Where would she go?

Where was she now?

“Okay,” Joyce said pensively. Her brows trembled a little as she looked at Steve, an earnest smile sent his way as he looked back at her.

Hopper dropped his chest, closed his eyes. Two against one, now. He raised a hand to scratch at the back of his head, and opened his eyes to the stare of Steve: wide-eyed, expectant.

“Okay,” Hopper said, his voice still a little rough as not to show too much compliance.

Steve’s head rose from his shoulders, a bit dazed by the agreement.

“Not… not right now, though,” Hop said. Steve’s expression dropped again, and even Joyce turned to face the sheriff with a look of displeasure. “I need time, I’m expected at the station. And I need to prepare, too. If we’re fighting some giant monster and possibly entering another dimension, I need to get some things together.” Steve wanted to roll his eyes (they have to move, now!) but he stopped himself. Better not to be that bold when Hopper agreed in the first place, be grateful for the win.

“Well- well when? Hop, I need to find him. I need him back.”

Joyce’s words, so tender and so broken. The monster in the wall, the mental image she had saved and sealed tight in her mind, began to shrink; a threat no longer so potent. With the voice of a small child, she begged for the chance to save her own.

“I-” Hopper started, and he looked down at her, rethought his plan. More wide eyes trained on him. “Tonight. I’ll come back tonight and we’ll do this. I promise”.

Jonathan Byers, or as some may call him: the one still standing. Lanky, awkward, but not without allure. Perhaps someone his younger brother would emulate with personal charm when he grew up. To each their own appeal, but both without a doubt amiable and compelling characters.

Maybe it has thrown off Jonathan’s stride, though. Being something of an outcast is cause for hardship, even if it shapes a person nicely. And it did, but he stumbled up the steps of his front porch like he was made of sticks.

What he saw when he made it through the door threw him off further: Steve Harrington and his own mother, an intense conversation happening between the two. Sure, Steve himself wasn’t so bizarre. He drove around the kids, Jonathan’s little brother being one of them. He was a friend to them, a more evolved version of a babysitter, and his presence wasn’t too jarring as a casual act. But Will wasn’t around. He definitely knew that. And Steve had already given his help to the investigation, deeming his occupancy unsettling.

“Mom?” Jonathan asked, still a shadow in the doorway.

Joyce turned, Steve’s eyes following the same path.

“Oh! Uhm- Jonathan,” Joyce said, that same awkward energy the person she spoke to often adopted himself.

Joyce wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Steve participating in the evening’s plans. He was a teenager, though physically bigger than her, a kid nonetheless. She’d rather take the task on herself (okay, she’d allow Hopper, he’d be of great help), but his company was cemented. She wouldn’t be able to shake him, and she knew that, and maybe it would be okay. Her own son was different. She wanted to protect him too, of course, and maybe he was shakable. She realized now that she might have to lie to succeed.

“Steve wanted to see if he could help out in any way.”

“The house is a mess.”

This was an uncomplicated response, but also a touch unsettling. Joyce stalled.

“I know. Things just piled up so quickly,” she said to him.

“What’s going on, mom?” he asked coldly.

Her ability to lie faltered, she shifted on her feet. “I’m- I’m just trying to find your brother,” she said, voice partially cracked. Steve stood next to her unmoved. He longed to excuse himself, but didn’t see it a viable option.

“If Steve can help,” Jonathan started, a hand hidden in jacket sleeve motioning to Steve, “then so can I. What’s going on?”

Steve looked back to Joyce, eyes ping-ponging between the two as they carried out their tense conversation. He really wished he had left with Hopper, at this point.

“It’s just some routine work with Hopper, nothing you’d need to be here for. You should get out of the house for a while. There are some- some more posters. You could hang those up. That would be a big help,” she said, turning to the table to reach for posters that weren’t actually beside her. Her hands fell back to her sides as she faced Jonathan again, acting as if she hadn’t just looked for something that wasn’t there.

“Mom,” he said, and he looked at her the way he had been doing a lot recently. “Don’t just push me out of the house. I want to help. Let me.”

“It’s just-” Joyce stalled again, progressing forward a few steps to land herself closer to Jonathan. She reached a hand up to touch his face, but pulled it back before making contact. Her hand shook and she looked at him with a quivering mouth. “It’s dangerous, honey. I can’t put you in danger.”

Jonathan had to stop himself from taking a step back, started by his mother’s demeanor. “Wh- what do you mean? It’s okay, I can protect myself, just let me help,” he said, voice beginning to sound frantic, words stacking up against one another.

“I just. I can’t have you here. Not with Will gone. I need you as my constant, okay?”

He swallowed once, then a second time when he felt his eyes water.

A new sound filled the silence as a truck pulled in the driveway, headlights flashing through the window as the sun had recently started it’s descent. All three Byer’s house occupants turned, and Chief Hopper became a figure in the window. He slammed his driver’s door, shuffled around back to take something from the truck bed, then started his stride up the porch. He entered, blatantly (they were well past knocking, right?), but then froze at the sight of the newly arrived.

“Oh. Shit,” he said. The gun he held was readjusted in his grip.

“What the hell? What are you guys doing? What’s with the gun. Mom, you don’t even like guns.” Jonathan turned between the two adults.

“It’s just a precaution, kid. That thing isn’t going to hurt your mom, I promise,” Hopper said, taking Joyce’s place in the conversation.

“Thing? What thing?”

“Oh…” Hopper trailed off. “Not even the… ? Okay, sorry. I’ll just…” He let himself all the way inside now and closed the door, excusing himself to the sidelines.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Jon-”

“No! Not with whatever’s going on! I need to be here!”

Whatever’s going on was a fitting description for someone of Jonathan’s isolated position, and someone had to fill him in.

It took a while. Longer than Steve would have liked, for sure. Hopper wasn’t certain who was in a further state of denial: him or Jonathan. And Jonathan wasn’t leaving, that was decided; or more or less declared. It wasn’t favorable for Joyce, and her knee rattled against her hands as she bounced on the couch.

“So, blood will draw this thing here?” Jonathan asked from beside her. He was talking to Steve now, and the teenager, older by just one year, confirmed the statement. He picked up the knife he had set down hours ago and held it in his hand, watching the blade reflect colors of red, blue, yellow, and green from the Christmas lights hanging above.

“Wait, no, no,” Joyce said, standing from the couch in an attempt to gain control over just one thing happening in her home. “You shouldn’t do it, one of us should,” she said, motioning between Hopper and herself. Hopper winced at the proposal, uneasy with the idea of being nominated.

“Joyce, it’s okay. Really, I need to,” Steve said to her dulcetly. “I'll bandage my hand right up, no worries. I owe it.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” she said.

“I know. I owe it to Nine,” he spoke softly, a smile somewhere between kind and somber stretching his lips.

He twisted the blade in his hold, Joyce moving to prepare the bandages he had promised he’d use. He contemplated his hand, where to add a new scar. Opening his fingers, he eyed the line already present across his palm: the old scar, self-inflicted as well, from that first time he’d sewn stitches. He thought about tracing over it, refreshing his memory with the same pain, but closed his fist and opened his other hand. A clean slate.

He drew a new line across his alternate palm, slowly as not to cut too deep, and breathed out a huff of distress as he created a new cut. The blade came back red (it had fulfilled its purpose), and he practically dropped the knife back down on the table. He gripped his wrist, holding his newly-bleeding hand steady, and turned his grip around for the blood to run down his palm in a thick line of cherry-red. A single drop led the way, and a tiny puddle of his own blood formed at Steve’s shoes.

Joyce moved promptly, taking Steve’s hand and wrapping it in cloth as soon as the damage was done. He held his breath, a squint on his face as he tried to disregard the pain.

It happened almost as rapidly as it did the first time, and Hopper and Jonathan looked around, panicked, at the flashing lights. The shaking followed as expected, rattling the house like a bad storm. Jonathan, standing now, turned towards the more experienced.

“What the hell…” he started, his question falling limp.

“Back to it,” Steve spoke, a tad blasé.

---

Tag List: @ggclarissa @gurl-ly @alewifex @we-are-band-sexuals @cpt-lamby @l0ve-0f-my-life @easvtohate @used-avocado @kwyloz @itzpikapie @samwise-babeyy @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mochminnie @peterwandaparker @ayamecrevan @lilyhw1 @seninjakitey @lulurose17 @write-from-the-heart @hargreevelr @sledgy14 @stranger-names @marvelouspottering @crimesolvin @pradaxstyles @im-a-stranger-thing @fancytravelerbird @queenofthehairharrington @blahhhhhhhaaa @prettysbliss

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington series #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine #jim hopper #joyce byers #jonathan byers #joe keery

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natromanxoff · 3 years

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

(x)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fan Stories

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

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

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

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adultprivilege · 5 years

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I've ranted about this so many times on main that I need to say it here:

The idolization of classical music is not just racist and sexist, it is blatantly ageist

Coming from a huge music nerd this is important for me to say: BEEHTOVEN IS BAD AND MOZART IS WORSE. I dont even know if other pianists are aware of the way we've been brainwashed by Europeans but Beehtoven and Mozart were mediocre at best for average musicians, and for musicians who stood the test of time, they are TERRIBLE.

These two musicians, and most pre-1900s classical musicians in general, are only so famous because they are meant to symbolize the pinnacle of white society and the achievements of whiteness. I like Monet, I like Tchaikovsky, but if that's the best we can do then white people should not do music.

Wanna see a dumb person say dumb shit?

Who is some people? Tell me right now who do you think some people are?

I love this tweet because it so perfectly encapsulates everything that older white people believe. So many people (mostly white and old, #yupisaidit omg I'm so unique) talk about rap being the cause of gang violence, black on black crime, younger people having lots of sex and doing drugs. Imagine believing that the music young people listen to and black people create (and I can get into the exchange of black culture and youth culture at a later date) is an epidemic.

It's funny because that happened all throughout the 19th century.

(Above: "flappers" aka rebellious young women who liked to party and listen to jazz -im not kidding that's literally what a flapper was - of the early 1900s dancing in what were considered short and scantily clad dresses for the time, then another picture of flappers posing for a picture with their boyfriends)

In the early 20th century teenage girls and women in their 20s became so famously known for having more sex, drinking alcohol, being unashamed to dress in shorter skirts, that the term designated to them by older white men - flapper - is now considered a historical term. And you've DEFINITELY seen old films depicting black jazz musicians as illiterate speaking in slang always cheerful with a bunch of other gross stereotypes given to them. No one liked jazz and no one like ragtimes.

(Above: Chuck Berry onstage, Little Richard in a cover photo -both black- and a bunch of white teenagers in the 60s posing on jeeps and pontiacs trying to look punk and cool)

I feel like it should be known by now, Elvis is not the king of rock, most white rock musicians were highkey appropriative and when young black popular music switched to blues white rock musicians tried to follow suit inconspicuously for profit. I'm mostly basing my info of rock and blues on Peter Guralnick's Feel Like Going Home, which isnt the most progressive book you could buy but if you're looking for a comprehensive musical history of the 1950s onward focusing on how young white people rebelled against their parents by participating in black culture, you should definitely read it. Guralnick described how as a young white kid he and his friends would listen to rock all the time, and try to dress in fancy outfits and pose the way Elvis posed, sort of trying to look and behave the way they imagined black people look and behave (again its not the most progressive if could be). Adults constantly judged youth for listening to rock, and all the new kinds of music that came with it that were created out of black culture.

"The first time I heard Little Richard's 'Tutti Frutti' was on the car radio on the way to school.

A-wop bop a lu bop a lop bam boom

Tutti frutti, oh rooty

It burst out at us. Our first reaction, I think, was one of chagrin. Somebody's father was driving, and he expressed our discomfort before we could ourselves. 'What command of the english language,'he said and switched stations. We all laughed self-consciously because it was, after all, our fault."

(Above: Mamie Smith on an album surrounded by black men on trumpets and various brass instruments. A party full of black teenagers listening to rhythm and blues.)

Rhythm and blues was another form of music pioneered by black people and exchanged with youth culture, and put down as a way to dismiss both identities. Again, from Feel Like Going Home:

"Country blues, which was at first considered too disreputable to record, remains to this day too funky in a pejorative sense to merit serious attention."

"These blues were common property long before they were set down on paper, however, and if the recording of the classic blues singers stimulated a new period of growth for country blues, WC Handy himself admitted, 'Each one of my blues is based on some old N**** song of the South, some old song that is part of the memories of my childhood and my race. I can tell you the exact song I used as the basis for any one of my blues.'

Instrumental jazz started out as the articulation of that same feeling, an ingenious approximation of the human voice."

And eventually the music was used by youth as a way to rebel.

"We thought of blues, when we first took it up, as protest music."

Which brings us to hip hop, rap, trap, and the like.

(Above: Duckwrth in his music video for Soprano, Angel Haze with a group of their fans mostly white and everyone in the photo looking pretty blatantly queer)

Obviously right now you are aware of the fact that black people pioneered these three genres, and obviously you are aware that they appeal to a much younger age, because you're living in this time period.

It doesn't matter what the music is. How many times have we seen the narrative that a teacher makes the young black student more interested in school because poetry is just another way to rap? White adults struggle so much to comprehend the evolution of music and its pioneers being black youth that they literally think they're teaching someone when they say that maybe instead of participating in black culture you could do something that is similar but a lot more white and I'll consider you more intelligent just from that. It's an attempt to destroy black/youth culture.

Which brings me back to that goddamn tweet I love so much. Yes, Shapiro is technically a millennial, but hes this type of millennial I hate, the one that thinks they have to compensate by saying "I was born in the wrong generation" "I have an old soul" "antiques are some of the finer things in life". They love the aesthetic of not having computers or phones or really any new technology, they want to live in a creaking house and use a typewriter and die of polio. Ageism is so strongly connected to racism because if you've internalized some ideas of white supremacy, as Shapiro ABSOLUTELY has, you develop a need to connect with white eurocentric society, and as the world becomes more integrated that becomes harder and harder to do until you develop some nostalgia for the 90s, for the 50s, for years that you weren't even alive to be nostalgic for. So these people decide to listen to classical music as a way of saying "I'm not like anybody else in my generation."

And I'm not just going to blame youth because obviously it's mostly the oldest generations saying that music taste is a sign of intelligence and that music contributes to teen pregnancies and drug use and criminal activity. This has been said about so many forms of music because the number one priority for people who have a goal of maintaining ageism is to prevent culture from evolving. Or more specifically, allow culture to evolve, but only to the point where hairstyles and clothes and tech and music tastes can be weaponized to separate and criticize younger people and maintain superiority. Older people have a vested interest in making the many parts of your culture, especially the parts of youth culture that are also black culture, seem crude and inappropriate and reflective of your moral character.

It doesnt matter if you don't listen to rap. You still have to tell people you're not like your generation, avoid using slang like lit and yeet, put on a tie every day, work 60 hours a week and not live in poverty, and talk shit about your own generation just to escape one of the caricatures of youth. And at that point you just enter another caricature that is the "born in the wrong generation" stereotype. Once older people know you're seeking their approval, they (possibly subconsciously, but this is also a very conscious tactic used by pedophiles) compliment you by saying you are very professional, you have an old soul, that you are mature for your age. They make you easily manipulable. So it's a bit terrifying to even try to gain that accreptance.

There are so many people nowadays just like Ben Shapiro who are listening to classical music that was made in 18th century Europe or previous. There are so many music history classes in schools that only teach about Bach, Beehtoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Debussy, all that. If you are going to listen to classical pieces, stop rehashing the old shit. You shouldnt be listening to music out of a desire for cultural "purity" and a feeling of superiority.

If you need to listen to classical music, listen to these:

youtube

If you think music can have an "authentic" sound to it, listen to these:

youtube

TDLR: the ideation of classical music has been used for more than a century to dismiss black/youth culture, to separate our generations and use our cultural contributions as a way to demonize black people and younger generations, and to manipulate youth into a desperation to appeal to older generations.

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 026 [Robo-Inferno!]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 2,771

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“We are young, not for long. Life is fun! It only goes downhill. We gotta make the most of it, or you’ll regret it.” TheOdd1sOut & Boyinaband, “Life is Fun”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

“Hey! Make some noise, you rabid sports fans! Get those cameras prepped, media hordes! This year, we’re bringing you some of the hottest performances in the sports festival history guaranteed! I’ve only got one question before we start this show – are you ready?! Let me hear you scream as our students make their way to the main stage!” Present Mic’s voice boomed over the cheering crowd.

I readjusted the band across my forehead as class 1-A walked down the darkened hallway toward the center of the stadium. “Oi, Bakuhoe. The logo is visible, right?”

He glanced at me. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that stupid ass thing.”

I scowled. “Tacos are the food of the gods. Don’t hate, appreciate.”

His eyes narrowed at me, lips pulling back into a scowl. “You better fucking take this shit seriously, Winchester!”

“Oh yee of little faith,” I wagged my finger. “I’m comin’ for yo ass, Bakuhoe. Hope you’re ready.”

“Keep dreamin’, bitch.” He was silent for a moment. “Yes, the logo is visible.”

I grinned, throwing my arm on his shoulder.

We reached the end of the hall, stepping out in the bright sun that shined over the open stadium. Goddamn, that’s a lot of fucking people.

“This first group are no strangers to the spotlight! You know them for withstanding a villain attack – the dazzling students light up your TVs with solid gold skills! The hero course students of class 1-A!”

“Uhh… I-I didn’t know there’d be so many people…”

I patted Izuku’s shoulder. “Same, bro.” To be honest, I can’t stand it when people stare at me. Even when Aizawa’s cat stares at me while I’m playing games or trying to eat, that shit pisses me off. Now there’s a fuck ton of people staring at me. Well, at least I’m not alone. Just gotta let them shine brighter.

“I hope we’re still able to give our best performances even though all these eyes are watching us,” Iida commented. “I suppose it’s just another aspect of being a hero we all have to learn to get used to.”

“Present Mic sure did talk us up a lot… Kinda makes me nervous.” Kirishima kept looking around at all the people before turning to me and Bakugo as we walked in front of him. “How you feeling, man? You nervous, too, Winchester?”

“I’m not worried. It makes me want to win this thing even more!” Bakugo grinned.

“It makes me want to die.”

Izuku sweatdropped as he looked over his shoulder. “Please don’t die, Jen-san…”

“No promises.”

“If she dies it’ll be because I killed her! Face forward, Deku!”

“They haven’t been getting nearly as much screen time, but this next group is still chock full of talent! Welcome hero course class 1-B! Next up, general studies C, D, and E! Support classes F, G, and H! And finally, business classes I, J, and K! Give it up for all of U.A.’s first-year contestants!!”

All of the students gathered in front of the platform Midnight stood on top of. “Now, the introductory speech!”

The men in the crowd started to go wild at the sight of her and I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, who thought letting this bitch teach hormonal teenagers was a good idea?” I felt Bakugo shrug his shoulder under my arm.

“Someone should talk to Midnight-sensei about what she’s wearing…” Kirishima commented softly, his cheeks pink.

“Yeah, that costume should come with a warning.” Sparky agreed, his cheeks just as pink.

“Is it really appropriate apparel for a high school game?” Fumi questioned with a hint of disgust in his voice.

“Fumi, my beautiful bird child!” I held my fist out to him and he blinked in surprise, tilting his head and looking at my hand for a solid five seconds before lightly tapping his fist against mine.

“Silence, everyone!” Midnight cracked her short whip. “For the student pledge, we have… Katsuki Bakugo!”

I snickered. “This should be fucking brilliant.”

“H-He’s the first year rep?” Izuku panicked.

“I guess that hot-head did finish first in the entrance test.” Kirishima mused.

I raised a brow at him. “Did you just say entrance test? That sounds so wrong, Kiri.”

“Don’t tease me, Winchester!” He pouted, poking my arm.

“He only got first for the hero course exams,” Some girl on her right said, sending us an annoyed look.

“Oh… right…”

“That girl obviously hates us,”

“Yeah and we’ve got Bakugo to thank for them not liking our class.”

I scoffed, glancing back at the yellow-haired dope. “If you really think that, you’re dumber than you look, Sparky.”

His face flushed.

“What do you mean?” Kiri tilted his head.

“Ever since the USJ incident, class 1-A has been all over the media. By now, most people know who we are, even if it’s just ‘the first years that took on real villains and survived’. While it may be true that the idiot fueled the fire, he didn’t start it. They already disliked our class because of the praise and attention we’ve been getting. Blaming Bakugo is just a cop-out, an easy solution. Besides,” I narrowed my eyes at the girl, who shifted at the attention. “If someone is childish enough to judge the majority for the actions of one person, that’s on them.”

“I just wanna say,” Bakugo’s monotone voice was amplified by the microphone he stood in front of. “I’m gonna win.”

“Boo!”

“What did he say?!”

“So full of himself!”

“Get off the stage!”

I laughed loudly, resting my arm on Fumi’s shoulder. “I totally fucking called it. I shoulda placed a bet!”

Fumi simply sighed, shaking his head.

“Why would you be so disrespectful?!” Iida cried. “You’re representing us all!”

“Not my fault the rest of you are just stepping stones for my victory.” He pointed his thumb down.

“I’m gonna crush this overconfident jerk!! I can’t wait to knock him down a size!!”

I chuckled as Bakugo approached, holding my hand up. “You sure ruffled some jimmies there, Bakuhoe.”

He humphed, slapping his palm against mine.

“Without further ado, it’s time for us to get started!” Midnight spoke up. “This is where you begin to feel the pain. The first fateful game of the festival is…” A screen appeared behind her, the words spinning like a slot machine. “What could it be~?” It stopped on Obstacle Race. “Ta-da~ All eleven classes will participate in this treacherous contest! The track is four kilometers around the outside of the stadium! I don’t wanna restrain anyone – at least not in this game,” She licked her lips and smirked. God, she’s creepy as fuck. “As long as you don’t leave the course, you’re free to do whatever your heart desires! Now then, take your places, contestants!”

The crowd cheered as the gate to out left buzzed, three green lights lighting up above it. The students gathered around the gate and a drop of sweat rolled down my cheek as I scanned the large crowd. Oi oi, there’s no way in the nine hells that all of these students are gonna fit through that narrow ass hallway and I know damn well everyone is gonna rush forward as soon as it begins. That means I either need to get ahead before the jam or fall back and wait for an opening. Sheesh.

The first green light faded.

I glanced up at the stands where the U.A. faculty members were sitting. Toshi looks nervous as hell, his icy blue eyes darting around as he tried to find me and Izuku. God, he can be such a dad sometimes.

The second light faded.

I let out a breath. I’m gonna try hard. After all, if I don’t place well, then old man Shimatsu won’t get much business for his taco stand during lunch. Can’t let that happen!

The third light faded.

It was like that fucking scene from Jumanji, everyone rushing toward the hall at the same time and getting stuck from the sheer amount of students. I winced at the poor kids being smooshed against the wall.

“And~ we’re off to a racing start! How about some color commentary, mummy man?!”

“How did you talk me into this?” Poor Aizawa sounds exasperated, poor guy.

“What should we be paying attention to in the early stages of the race?!”

“The doorway,” he responded blandly.

I hummed, eyes scanning the backline of students as I kneeled down. Alright, let’s get it! I took off toward the hallway, jumping off the ground and landing on the back of a rather large student. Yells of protest reached me as I hopped from student to student, using them as stepping stones. I should thank Bakugo for the idea later.

The temperature suddenly divebombed and I suppressed a shiver as Todoroki activated his ice quirk, covering the end of the hallway and the students with ice. Cocky sumbitch. I hopped from a frozen student’s shoulder, increasing the temperature in my boots before landing on the ice. It sizzled as it melted. Good thing I put in a request to wear these fireproof boots!

“Nice trick, Todoroki!”

“I won’t let you get away so easily you icy hot bastard!!”

I snickered at the students slowly making their way across the frozen ground. One of them slipped and fell onto his ass, letting out a groan of frustration. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Mineta jumped into the air. “You think you’re so cool, but I’ve outsmarted you! Ha! How pathetic, Todoroki! Eat this, my special attack -!”

Wham!

One of the robots from the entrance exam came out of nowhere, slamming its arm against his face and yeeting him across the field. That’s karma, you disgusting ass grape.

“Ooh~ Enemies have shown up out of nowhere! I bet we’re in for a treat here! A test of strength and cunning, it’s a robo-inferno!!”

“Are those the zero-point villains from the practical test?!” Sparky cried, nearly running into my back.

“So this is what the other students faced in their entrance exams,” Todoroki commented.

“Where does the school even get the funding for these things?”

I glanced at Momo. “Girl, that’s what I’m sayin’. I’m gonna go out of a limb and say they’re using gorgeous students to form musical groups that tour across the world and get these extremely crazy fanbases that will do anything for their idols even if it means murdering people or invading their personal space thus making millions of dollars off of their rabid love because they throw their hard-earned money at a shit ton of merchandise that has their favorite idol’s face on it.”

Momo sweatdropped. “That’s… oddly specific, Winchester…”

“Yes.”

Todoroki covered the ground and his right arm with ice. “They obviously went through a lot of trouble, but I wish they’d prepared something a little more difficult.” He placed his palm on the ground. Ice shot up, swirling around him. “Especially since my dear old dad is watching,” He flung his hand forward, sending a massive wave of ice toward the zero-pointer.

“Pfft, cool it edgelord, now ain’t the time for your daddy issues.”

He glared back at me before taking off between the robot’s frozen legs. Other students tried to follow. “Careful, now. I froze them while they were off their balance. On purpose.”

“That’s Todoroki from class 1-A pulling ahead to an early lead with a devastating display! Amazing! He’s one we should watch! It almost seems unfair! Thoughts?!”

“His attack was both offensive and defensive.”

“No wonder he was let in on recommendations! He’d never even fought those robo-infernals before, but they didn’t stand a chance against his chart-topping moves! The stakes are high! We’ve got a whole school of top-notch students trying to be heroes, but do they really stand a chance against our heavy metal swarm of robo-infernals?!”

Che, guess I should get a bit serious. That move of his seriously pissed me off, and it’s fucking cold!

Limit release!

My shirt shattered as power flowed more freely throughout my body. I rushed forward, fire engulfing my hands as I kicked off the ground, jumping toward one of the robots and cocking my arm back. “Go to hell!” I grinned, slamming my fist against his face. The metal dented inward, head sparking before exploding. It set off a chain reaction of explosions, the metal creaking as it swayed backward. Fuck yeah, I’ve definitely gotten much stronger than I was!

“Class 1-A’s Winchester smashes through the robot with a single firey punch! The first-year students are already off to one rockin’ start and it’s only the first round! Talk about a cruel obstacle course~ Our players are racing against each other in a vicious battle where anything goes as long as they stay on the track! We’ll continue to bring you live updates and pulse-pounding action thanks to the camera robots placed around the course! Kirishima from class 1-A! What a hardcore debut for this rookie! Woo~ Tetsutetsu from class 1-B was also stuck underneath! What are the odds, folks?!”

I flew through the opening the giant robot had created, clearing the robo-inferno zone. What the fuck is happening back there? And who the fuck names their kid Tetsutetsu?! I glanced over my shoulder to see an angry chihuahua charging through the air. Oh boy…

“Don’t you dare think you’re gonna leave me behind, bitch!”

“Class 1-A’s Bakugo is rocketing over the obstacles! Clever!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Bakuhoe~” I grinned as he flew over me.

“Class 1-A’s learned not to hesitate.” Aizawa stated calmly. “They’ve seen what the real world is like. They’ve felt the fear of facing villains, yet they fight on, trying to overcome that fear. They’ve grown, all of them, and they know that they have to act quickly if they want to stay alive.”

I smirked. Aizawa, soft dad hours are playing~

“For those of you that thought the first obstacle was easy~ Let’s see how you feel about the second one! If they take a spill, they’re out! If they wanna pass this test, they’ll have to get creative – it’s the fall!!”

I slid to a stop at the edge of the canyon, eye twitching. Oh come on, the fuck kind of obstacle course has a fucking canyon with a fifty-foot drop?! How is this allowed? Come on, J, stay focused, idiot. How can my fire help in this situation? It fucking can’t! Uh, can I jump from one pillar to the next? No way, the distance is too far. I can jump far, but I ain’t a fucking titan, man.

Wait a second… no, no, there’s no way in hell I could do that, but… Zawa made it look so easy when he did it. He did it a bunch of times when we were training together. My hands clenched at my sides. I spent ten fucking months, day in and day out, watching that man, training with that man. I’ve seen him do it dozens of times. Come on, let’s go!

I stepped back, taking a deep breath before I took off running, lowering my lower body. I went straight toward the thin roping connecting the pillars and started running across it like I had seen Aizawa do on powerlines. This rope is really fucking slack, but as long as I keep my speed up and don’t hesitate, I’ll be fine! Extend my arms out behind me for balance… oh no…

“Look at Winchester from class 1-A! Looks like she’s been studying your moves, Eraserhead! Wait, where are their crocodile tears streaming down her face?!”

“Are you okay, Jen?” Tsu questioned as she climbed across the rope beside me with her hands and feet.

“I can’t believe I’m Naruto-running! I’m a disgrace to my generation! Zawa, this is all your fault!” I cried, pushing myself to run faster.

“What did I do?”

“I have no idea!”

“What is ‘Naruto’?” Tsu asked, tilting her head.

Sweet, innocent Tsu. May you never experience the meme that is Naruto.

“In the world of heroes, it can be hard to get popular without a flashy quirk, right Eraserhead?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, idiot.”

“Ooh~ Looks like Todoroki is still skating by easily! The leader is putting distance between him and the students stuck at the fall. It hasn’t been announced how many competitors will make it through to the next round so there’s no time to relax!”

I groaned as I finally passed the fall, breathing heavily. Man, this sucks so much ass. How is Todoroki so damn fast? Like boi, do you even breathe? I just wanna go home and sleep. Dadzawa, save me~!

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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ghostofviperwrites · 4 years

Text

Suzuki Gunz Crime Family - Chapter 4

Warnings: Violence, language, torture

July 7, 1997

Shaking off the unsavory thoughts of Taka’s upbringing Minoru thought instead of how far the boy had come in those two years. Giving him free reign to extract his revenge on his family had created an unshakeable bond with the boy. With the participation of Kanemaru, Taichi, Iizuka and Minoru a bond had been cemented between them and Taka fit right in with the boys. He was fondly referred to as their little brother, and they would be lying if they said they didn’t have a protective streak when it came to Taka. But woe be the fool who underestimated the kid. He had a vicious acumen that made Minoru proud. Many were fooled by his almost adorable demeanor and calm countenance. Those who crossed him didn’t live to tell the tale as they got introduced to an entirely different side of Taka.

The door once again open and the attention of the group focused on the newest arrival Kyosuke Mikami. Kyosuke had adopted the moniker El Desperado, never appearing in public without a mask, keeping his identity a mystery all except for his adopted brothers. Affectionately referred to as Despy by those closest to him the 19-year-old radiated aggression and dominance. He had only been with the family for a little over a year, but he had been family from day one.

Flashback February 3, 1996

Minoru strolled through the warehouse doors as if he owned the place. Of course by the time he and his boys were done in here, he would. Kanemaru was to his right, long metal pipe in hand whistling cheerfully as he flashed a smile at the nervous men standing around the warehouse. Iizuka hung back by the warehouse doors, baseball bat in hand as he made sure nobody left before the boss gave the say so. Several members of Minoru’s various crews were outside dealing with the perimeter. On Minoru’s left was Taichi no visible weapon clear as his hands were tucked into his pockets, but his very essence begged someone to try him. Screams echoing from a back room caught Minoru’s attention. Not because of the screams, those were encountered on the daily in his line of work. No, it was the type of screams. These were not of terror or pain, these were screams of rage. Turning to Taka who was guarding his back Minoru nodded in the direction of the screams, watching as Taka headed towards the sounds to gather some information for his boss.

Taka pushed open the door to the room that housed the screams, quickly taking in the scene. Strapped down to the table was a teenage boy, body bloodied as a man stood above him, carving his face with a knife.

“Step away.” Taka said knife at the ready.

“Go away boy.” One of men mocked as they saw the young boy ordering them around. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“it concerns my boss which means it concerns me.” Taka said with a small smile. “So unless Minoru comes in here and gives the okay for you to continuing cutting this poor fucker up, you’re going to back the fuck up or I’m going to fuck you up.” The men warily glanced at each other, Taka’s utter confidence throwing them off. He spoke as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would destroy them. Coupled with his mention of Minoru Suzuki it gave them pause. He may not be a big name in the crime world yet, but Minoru had a quickly spreading reputation as a sadistic man who always came out on top, no matter the odds against him.

Putting down their weapons the men filed out of the room, leaving Taka with the profusely bleeding man.

“Let me up, I’m gonna go kill those fuckers,” the boy spat struggling against the binds holding him down. “I’m gonna cut their fucking guts out.” Taka smiled. He liked this kid. He had spirit. Here he was all beaten and bloodied. Cut up like a pig and all he wanted to do was get at those who had hurt him.

Sticking his head out the door, Taka saw Minoru and company had the situation firmly in hand, some men kneeling at their feet, while bodies lay scattered around the floor.

“I’m gonna let this kid up, kay Boss?” Taka called getting Minoru’s attention. “And save those two.” He pointed at the two men kneeling with the others. Looking at the kid he considered his little brother Minoru recognized the look on his face very well. He imagined it was akin to his own when he had discovered Taka. With an agreeing nod Minoru turned his attention to the blood covered men Taka had pointed out.

Moving back into the room Taka cut the ropes binding the boy to the table, staring worriedly at him as he rose to his feet unsteadily, blood continuing in a steady stream down his face.

“C’mon kid, let’s go meet the boss.” Taka said gesturing for him to exit ahead of him. The kid wasn’t going to accept help, that much was certain, so Taka didn’t offer a helping hand, instead following behind him, ready to catch him if he passed out. Which Taka was shocked he hadn’t yet.

Minoru looked up from his questioning of the men, frowning as he saw the kid Taka was leading towards him. Both sides of his face were cut to ribbons, blood pouring from the wounds. There were also gashes running down his chest, that weren’t bleeding quite a profusely. Long dyed blonde hair hung over his shoulders, the ends coated in his own blood. Those were all attention worthy, but it was the eyes that had Minoru’s focus. Ice blue and burning with rage and seeking vengeance.

“He wants to gut them,” Taka told Minoru as they reached his side sounding almost proud.

“Your name boy?” Minoru asked.

“Kyosuke Mikami” He said glaring at the men kneeling at Minoru’s feet, his fingers clenching as he imagined slicing them open as they had him. But he wasn’t going to stop at superficial wounds, oh no, he was going to rip apart their insides. He looked at the fierce men surrounding them. If they let him. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was hopelessly outmanned by them. What he was surprised to see what that not one of their faces held pity for him. Instead he saw understanding. Along with something he didn’t want to put a name to: kinship. Kyosuke held his head up proudly, refusing to show weakness in front of them even though he was close to passing out.

“How did you end up here Kyosuke?” Minoru asked.

“They took me from my family.” Kyosuke nodded at the men who had been torturing them. “thought they could get a ransom for me.” He huffed a disillusioned laugh. “When my family told them to keep me, that I was worthless they got angry. Thought they could torture me into giving up information. I don’t care what they do to me. How much my family betrayed me. I will not betray them. Not until I look them in the fucking eyes before I slit their goddamn throats.”

“Seems fair.” Minoru said getting nods of agreement from Kanemaru and Taichi. “And what of these men.”

“I want to turn their insides outside,” Kyosuke said fiercely, just before collapsing at Minoru’s feet.

Taka knelt down, checking Kyosuke’s pulse before casting his infamous sad eyes up at Minoru.

“Put those away Taka.” Minoru said rolling his own eyes. “He’s already coming with us.”

“Take these two back to our grounds.” Minoru directed Kanemaru. “We’ll get Kyosuke his justice.” Looking at the rest of the men who had tried to betray his family Minoru sneered. “Taichi, Iizuka, kill the rest of them.”

With those words Minoru helped Taka carry the newest member of their family to the waiting SUV. They would get him home and get him medical attention. Once he was strong enough Minoru would grant him the same opportunity for vengeance that he had granted Taka. He only hoped the boy felt the same kinship towards him and his family, that they already felt towards him.

Two days later when Kyosuke came to, he woke in a panic surrounding by unfamiliar furnishings. Seeing a knife on the bedside table Kyosuke blindly grabbed it and jumped from the bed swinging it defensively as he waited for an attack.

“You won’t need that here,” A calming, somewhat familiar voice spoke making Kyosuke spin around holding the knife out. “At least not against me. You may wish to use it on the men waiting for you in the basement.” He chuckled, the sound making a chill run down Kyosuke’s spine. He focused on the man, memories of him coming to his mind as he remembered him and his friends rescuing him. Slowly lowering the knife Kyosuke moved back against the wall, keeping it in his hand just in case.

“Who are you?” Kyosuke asked.

“My name is Minoru Suzuki. I am the Kumichō of the Suzuki Gunz Crime Family. This is my home. Myself and my brothers made the decision to bring you here for recuperation. And revenge if you so wish.” Minoru said.

“Why would you want to help me?” Kyosuke asked suspiciously. People didn’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts. At least not where he was from.

“Instincts.” Minoru said simply. “My family is not one borne of blood. It is made of a bond that transcends bloodlines. We are family because we choose to be. Our instincts brought us together. Myself, Kanemaru, Iizuka and Taichi. Then little Taka came along and we opened our family to him. And now we wish to do the same for you.”

“You don’t know me,” Kyosuke sneered. “You’re just going to open your house to some strange kid whose own family doesn’t want him? Aren’t you worried about what’s wrong with me that they don’t love me? That they would just hand me over without a complaint.”

“I understand trust is difficult and will take time to form. I just hope you will look past your anger and see what the five of us have seen.” Minoru said peering at the angry boy. He didn’t blame the kid for being suspicious. Going by the little he knew, Minoru could tell he was unused to kindness. “I will tell of you none of us come from ideal situations. All I was to my father was an heir to carry on the greatness of his name. Taichi’s father beat him mercilessly and forced him into servitude. Iizuka was abandoned by his family and left on the streets. Taken in by my father who forced him to service. Kanemaru was raised by parents who never wanted a child and made sure he knew it. Taka survived unspeakable abuse by those called his blood. Blood means nothing to us.” Minoru spat trying to swallow back the rage that always formed when he thought about the injustices his brothers had experienced. “I will let them reveal their full stories to you should you elect to stay. Understand you are under no obligation. I will not force choices onto anyone I bring under my protection. If you wish to exact your vengeance and move on, that is your choice. We will assist you in any way you wish.”

Kyosuke sunk down onto the end of the mattress, his mind whirling as he tried to comprehend this complete stranger offering him something his own family never extended. Acceptance. His face dropped to his hands making him feel the bandages reminding him of his wounds. Woodenly rising to his feet, he approached the mirror on the wall staring at his reflection. Swallowing back the bile threatening to rise he ripped at the bandages throwing them on the floor as he stared at his reflection. Three rows of stitches on the left side with four down the right. Three diagonal rows stretching from his pecs to his ribs.

“The cuts didn’t do any permanent nerve damage as far as the doctor can tell, but they are going to leave rather significant scarring.” Minoru said softly.

“Great.” Kyosuke muttered sarcastically. “Guess now I’m really a freak.”

“Never.” Minoru said emphatically. “You are not a freak. You are a survivor. A warrior. You should have no shame in who you are.” Minoru watched the play of emotions; anger, sadness, desperation, resilience. After several moments of silence Minoru spoke “Kyosuke?”

“No. Don’t call me that.” Kyosuke spat with an emphatic shake of his head. “I don’t want to ever be called that again.”

“Fair enough.” Minoru said. “What would you like to be called?”

Kyosuke stared back at the mirror, flames of anger burning deep inside. A desperate desire raging.

“El Desperado.”

#sgcf #Suzuki gunz crime family #Suzuki gunz fanfic #Suzuki gunz imagine #njpw fanfic #wrestling fanfic #mywriting #ghostofviperwrites

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ice-cream-nekogirl · 5 years

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Tag, You’re It!: Shinsou x Witch!Reader (END!)

Part 6 to Part 5: https://chocolatekitsune.tumblr.com/post/181969628794/tag-youre-it-shinsou-x-witchreader-pt-5

Pt. 6: Tagged (Final!)

“TAG!! YOU’RE IIIII…” In your rush, you didn’t see that Bakugou rather easily ducked out of the way before you could tag him, and instead your palm pressed onto someone else’s chest. Blinking, you slowly and reluctantly stared up to see a VERY angry looking Aizawa who glared down at you with his angry, glowing red eyes.

“(Y/N)…”

A gulp was heard from you. Bakugou ALMOST felt sorry for you, but at the same time he couldn’t help but smirk and snicker a bit, especially since this just meant that YOU were the loser in the end.

Nervously, you grinned and held your hands up. “I know you’re mad Mr. Aizawa but to be fair… to be fair… to be fair…” You took a long, dramatic moment of silence before continuing your sentence. “Today was boring as hell. And we needed a goddamn break, so… that’s why I told them all to play tag, it’s all on me. Give me punishment but not them.” Finally, you owned up to starting the game, much to everyone’s surprise. However, of course their respect for you went up a little bit when you took responsibility.

As for Aizawa, he sighed a bit and pinched the bridge of his nose. “While it’s good that you’re owning up to what you started… don’t think this means you’re off the hook for fooling around instead.” He visibly softened but wasn’t going to NOT give you punishment since once again, you completely disobeyed and went against his rules.

“So I’m not in trouble?” You asked with a cheeky smile, even though it just served to irk your teacher. “No. You’re definitely in trouble.” He replied quickly, but he remained calm and unflappable even though you always manage to get under his skin. Sighing, you took that, but to your surprise…

“A game of tag?! Why didn’t anyone tell me?!” All-Might suddenly arrived, and in his heroic form with his trademark smile that never ceased to amaze your classmates.

“A-All-Might?!” You and Midoriya exclaimed in surprise and awe, wondering just when exactly he got here. However, you started to grin now that the ex-hero was here and raised your hand. “Yes! Young (L/N)?”

“Sir… I’m sorry I didn’t invite you. If you were here boy that would have made things a TON more interesting…” You admitted with a smirk, but you flinched when All-Might went into a coughing fit and reverted to his weakened form. Though his attitude remained the same…

“I see… it’s a shame… I used to play that game all the time when I was a school boy… I’m assuming that you brought up this game in hopes of improving on evasive skills while allowing your classmates to utilize their quirks?” The ex-hero asked you, and you just innocently nodded. “Yes sir. That’s exactly why I brought up this game… AND… admittedly I wanted to have some fun… I mean I get that we’re heroes in training and all, but my friends and I needed to have a little bit of fun too.” You added, and the look of understanding on All-Might’s face was all you needed to know that he wasn’t going to be mad at you for it.

“Hm. I see. I suppose you kids ARE still young…” He let out a sigh. “With all the ordeals you’ve had to suffer, this wasn’t a bad idea… I can tell that you all had some fun in this.” All-Might deducted when he saw a few bit of smiles (except from Bakugou and Todoroki of course) and sensed mostly positive and youthful energy from the students.

“EXACTLY.” You smiled and nodded up at the hero, who smiled back at you.

“And how did you fare in this game Young Midoriya?” All-Might then asked his protégé, who perked up and started to sweat a little bit. “Oh… um…”

But then you put your arm around your second best friend with a snicker, “Sorry All-Might… but as soon as I tagged Bakugou, he tagged Greenie here… sure he managed to evade everyone else, at least I think he did, so… meh… he did his best.” You answered for him, much to the green-haired boy’s embarrassment.

“(Y-Y/N)…! Don’t say it like that…” Midoriya blushed, especially with how close you were as you practically hugged him tight. The only thing that alarmed him was the smirk rising on your face. “Hey All-Might… why don’t YOU play with us this time? I lost the first game… but another one’ll do, it’ll be more of a challenge… anything goes…” You suggested, and most of your class all gasped lightly at the idea of another game of Tag when the first one was pretty intense yet thrilling.

“No.” Aizawa said flatly, but All-Might was quick to take up your offer, and in turn he took up his strong form yet again. “An excellent idea young (L/N)!” He exclaimed, and you threw your fists in the air.

“YES! It’s anything goes now! Thirty minutes this time! Mr. Aizawa’s it though! Cuz I tagged him last! Let’s go!” Immediately you took off running, grabbing Midoriya’s hand as he shouted in shock but let you take him away from your teacher. And you were pleasantly surprised to see that many of your classmates were glad to follow you and split up to find someplace to hide.

As for Aizawa. He took a huge sigh, seeing that for once there was nothing he could do, or rather he COULD if he really wanted to but at this moment, secretly he decided that this wasn’t too bad. His students earned a day of playing after everything they’ve been through.

“Use your quirks! Don’t hesitate! And don’t leave yourself wide open!” All-Might called out to the running teenagers but flinched once he felt a hand tap him on the back, and he turned to face the grinning pro-hero.

“Tag. You’re it.” He said, and reacted quick by getting away fast, much to the shock of the ex-hero. However, he nonetheless laughed it off and kept smiling.

“NOW I AM IT!” All-Might declared, which of course startled you and all your friends as everything quickly turned chaotic as soon as he tagged Bakugou and the last thing you remember is that Bakugou proceeded to tag you, and then you tagged Todoroki, and everything went downhill from there…

“TAG! YOU’RE IT!!”

“No I’m not! You’re it!”

“Tag, you’re it…”

“Tag!”

“Tag! You’re it.”

“No You’re it!”

“Tag! You’re it!”

“Now you’re it!”

It was full-on madness, yet you weren’t complaining. However, the last thing you expected was for Present Mic to show up and get tagged by Kaminari. Or for Present Mic to start tagging the teachers in the school, which lead to the students in Class B, Class C, Class D and the General Studies students…

“AHAHAHAHA~! You weren't careful enough~ And now you’re it!” Monoma was the first to instigate the wide-spread game of tag, as he started off by tagging Tetsutetsu, who was all too enthusiastic about the game as he and his classmates started tagging each other, and then some left to tag the students in General Studies...

“TAG YOU’RE IT NOW!”

“Tag! You’re it!”

“HA! Now you’re it!”

“TAG!”

“YOU’RE IT!”

“TAG!!”

“TAG YOU’RE IT!”

“HAHA! I DID THIS! I AM A GOD!!” You cheerfully shouted in between all of the chaos when seeing every student running around in the wicked game you wove, missing the annoyed sigh coming from Shinsou as he stood behind you, along with the very nervous trio of Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida and a perplexed Todoroki watched all of the madness…

5 Hours Later…

Everyone was surprisingly exhausted from all the running around and relentlessly tagging each other, but they came back feeling somewhat happy and partially relieved from one of their only days of free-spirited fun. Especially because they knew that this would be one of their few days of fun since next week will have them go back to training, and probably twice as much homework as punishment from Aizawa.

And on top of that, it turns out there was one winner…

Hagakure. Who wasn’t tagged once because nobody could find her due to her invisibility. “Yay! I won! I won!” The invisible girl chirped, now in clothes that let her be partially seen as she happily cheered with the girls, as the boys all gloomed a little bit.

“She had the best advantage…”

“There’s no way…”

“Any of us could have seen her…”

Sero, Kirishima and Kaminari each muttered a bit in defeat, since they definitely got tagged more than once during the second round of tag. However, both boys still had fun, and secretly wanted to play it again sometime.

As for you…

Needless to say, you definitely got in trouble for starting a game of Tag that spiraled out of control when EVERYONE in UA started participating with the help of All-Might and spread out to the rest of the school. However, because All-Might took responsibility you only thankfully had to do ALL the chores and clean-up in the dorms and everyone’s rooms.

“Hehe… I don’t know why people complain about this, it’s so easy.” You said breezily as you used your telekinesis to easily carry everyone’s trash to throw away, without any effort of course. Something that you never ceased to flaunt to your friends as you happily walked and hummed now that you were finished.

“You played good today!” As soon as you saw Bakugou, you grinned widely at him even though he just growled and glared at you. “Shut up you damn cheater! I wouldn’t have even had to play if you hadn’t tagged me in the first place!!” He shouted angrily, obviously not as happy or relieved as the others since today felt like nothing but a waste of time. In fact, it felt just like elementary school.

“Ah you’re just mad cuz you didn’t win.” You replied neutrally and smirked at the seething blonde.

“That’s coming from the first loser! I did a hell of a lot better than you did! All you did was fuck around!!”

“That’s right, and I loved it! And you know what? I’d do it again!” You stuck your tongue at him, passing by as he huffed in annoyance.

“Idiot…”

“Good night~.” However, you sang-songed to him one last time, almost smirking when glanced at you before scoffing at you.

Smiling, you rolled your eyes. ‘What an ass.’ You thought to yourself, but you were glad to see another friend who wasn’t a frenemy. “Toto!”

“(L/N)”.

“So… did you have fun today?” You asked him that question repeatedly today, and finally he gave you a satisfactory answer along with a little smile and chuckle of amusement.

“More than I thought.” He admittedly calmly, but your reaction was pretty much the opposite as you grinned and laughed triumphantly. “AHAHAHA~! I knew it! I knew I’d get you to have fun somehow!”

“As I recall, you had said that I ‘didn’t know how to have fun’.” His smile turned into a small smirk, causing your eyes to widen in genuine surprise, but your smile returned as you clapped your hands. “Shouto… you son of a bitch you are full of surprises… ha! Well… I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. I was hoping you’d be able to loosen up after a dull-ass week of training.” You gave him a thumbs-up and a pat on the shoulder, but you were confused when he looked just a little bit nervous.

“You’re not tagging me are you?” Even though the game was over, he had to ask you. Blinking twice, you burst into laughter, and thankfully to Todoroki you didn’t see him blush a warm pink because he initially thought you were laughing at him.

“Oh God no, no not tonight… I’m in quite a lot of trouble, if I started another game… I mean, it’d be hilarious, but Mr. Aizawa will probably kill me if I started something at this hour.” You nervously admitted, much to your friend’s amusement.

“Good point. Well… thank you for today. I never played Tag until today, it was surprisingly enjoyable. I understand it now.” He politely thanked you, his smile doing something to your chest as you blushed and felt a little bit bashful. “Aww… you’re welcome Toto.” You exchanged smiles and then you giggled a bit.

“We gotta do that AGAIN though.” You declared. Todoroki didn’t complain, in fact his pleased expression was enough for you to know that he was down for that.

“I won’t mind that.” He affirmed for you, making you giggle and clap your hands excitedly, “Yaaaay~. Hee-hee… good night Shouto~.” Waving at him almost flirtatiously, this time you saw Todoroki blush as he smiled at you, almost nervously, yet his reply was still calm. “Good night (Y/N).”

Afterwards, you could go to your dorm-room happy that everyone, well mostly everyone had fun and you got to have the day full of excitement you had been looking for.

“Hey.” And Shinsou sitting in your bed with his casual, lazy demeanor sparked even more excitement in you even though you were secretly surprised. “Hitoshi~!” But you weren’t complaining at all as you quickly flipped your shoes off and plopped right next to him on your bed.

“Today was pretty wild eh?” Giggling, your remote floated over to you and landed right in your hand and shut your door with your mind.

“What do you expect? When you make a plan, everything’s wild.” He replied to you in a deadpan tone, but he did give you a smile to indicate that despite the craziness, it WAS fun. Aside from the way Todoroki looked at you.

“Haha you know it… but it’s cool now… well... since there's no Madison to bother us, thank God... Aristocats?” You smiled at him, getting out the DVD as Shinsou’s smile grew just a little bit more. And it warmed your heart knowing that those smiles were for you, and only you.

“Yes.” Shinsou nodded as you grinned and giddily giggled, happily putting the movie in your player and pressing ‘play’ to start it up. Sitting nice and close to a somewhat flustered, now bashful looking Shinsou.

“Hey… Hitoshi. What is it you wanted to tell me? Before I called Todoroki you looked like you wanted to say something, what was it?” You then asked him because you remembered that Shinsou seemed like he had something to tell you before you got distracted by Todoroki. However, once you brought that back up Shinsou started to blush more than he wanted, and for once he was at a loss for words as he averted your eyes and struggled to come up with an explanation.

“Oh, right... I was only going to say that…” He began slow, which you found a little odd since Shinsou wasn’t the type to be so hesitant, and you had no idea how nervous you were making him with the way your (E/C) eyes practically stared into his soul. Secretly, he thanked all the deities for making you not have the power to read minds, you had a variety of powers but thankfully you weren’t a clairvoyant like Nan, that one witch you often mentioned. As much as he wanted to tell you, something kept him from doing so. Fear? Maybe...

“Your shoe was untied the whole time.” Shinsou finally settled on a lie, far from his best one but it was all he could come up with on the spot. Blinking, you made a bit of a face. “No it wasn’t…” You were sure that couldn’t have been true, although you didn’t really pay attention to your shoes at the time, but you had no idea that Shinsou was denying that.

“It was at the time. You weren’t paying attention.” You pouted and grunted in light annoyance at the way he smirked at you, now you were starting to think that your best friend had just been messing with you as he often did, but you never really minded. That was just yours and Shinsou's thing.

"Whatever. The movie's starting." Now it was your turn to smirk as you scooted closer towards him. As your sides touched you hugged his arm and deliberately placed your head on his shoulder purely to fluster him. And you had to resist the urge to snicker when you felt him shaking slightly. Shinsou swallowed hard as his face flushed very hot from the proximity. You little witch...

But instead of shying away, he slowly brought his arm around you, making you nearly jump in surprise as you looked up at him in surprise, purple eyes locked with (E/C) eyes in a stare before he smiled at you, "Tag. You're it." He said to you playfully. His tone causing you to blush as you coyly smiled back at him, and nuzzled into him warmly as the Aristocats' opening song played.

"And now you're it~."

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king-brian-may · 5 years

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Queen Fans Share Their Stories

Queen in Landover, MD, USA on 29.11.1977 (written by Tracy Chevalier)

In a new book, writers recall the best gigs they have seen. Here the novelist Tracy Chevalier describes her memorable night with Queen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#Queen #bohemian rhapsody #Brian May #guitar #rockstar #roger taylor #freddie mercury #John Deacon #brian may is my king #marvelous

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racingtoaredlight · 3 years

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Beans & Toast: Supply Chain

“Con, Oi know you’re busy, but yew need to see this.”

***

This might have been the first time Toast and Connie du Pont had spoken to each other outside of the group. She had no idea who this guy was, and was pretty sure that even now, Toast didn’t know she existed despite walking down the hallway together.

She trusted her father, her father trusted Beans, and so far, Toast hadn’t given even the slightest hint that he was anything but 100% invested in this operation. Just as her instincts told her that there was something to be concerned about when he came to her originally, her instincts told her that he was a trustworthy member of this unit.

But more unsettling was the fact that if someone as devil-may-care as Toast was concerned about something, it must be serious.

***

As they step closer and closer to the mess hall, the din escalates.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??!?” You could hear Ribs bellowing with righteous fury the second you turned the corner. Outbursts followed by loud crashing. The two hesitate outside the dual swinging doors.

“Lissen, Oi dunno if Oi can ‘andle Ribs on my own, so be careful, roight?” For the first time the entire operation, Connie had a twinge of fear. Dealing with Type A’s like Beans was easy, even a pure psychopath like Goose was familiar territory...but this? She didn’t know if she could handle the blind rage of a 350 lb. former Delta Force operator with Toast next to her, let alone by herself.

“Con! Toasty! Table for two?” Eric Roberts says while lighting up a cigarette. “Just kidding, it’s family style, baby!”

***

Preston didn’t know Eric Roberts from his days working in international special operations. He met Roberts when Roberts was MC at a fundraiser for a Democratic State Senator in Rhode Island that Preston was forced to attend as a trustee of this particular du Pont trust.

The two became fast friends, bonding over Johnny Blue and a shared love of Latin jazz. Not one to be awed by celebrity connections, Preson was gobsmacked when Roberts pulled out his phone mid conversation, excitedly spitting into the phone “G, baby! It’s E! Got someone I want you to talk to,” and the next thing he knew, Preston was talking to his hero pianist Gonzalo Rubalcaba like a starstruck teenager.

Over the years, their friendship became deeper and more intertwined. First, Preston needed a favor and Roberts came through. And ever since, Roberts’ participation has increased with each operation. Maybe it’s greasing the wheels of a local politician, or creating a diversion in some third world shithole, whatever he needed, Roberts somehow was able to deliver.

But if there were any red flags flapping in the wind, they clearly pointed to Roberts’ self-interest. Anything for a buck.

The easiest thumbscrew to twist.

***

“IT’S ALL THE SAME FUCKING SHIT.”

Ribs was positively apoplectic. “We’ve got like eight motherfuckers to feed, all of them needing between 5-7,000 calories per day, high amounts of protein, for...at the very least...two weeks, and this is what we get?!?”

Ribsy, try and calm down.

He didn’t even notice Toast’s plea, focusing curiously on Roberts. “How much did this shit cost, Eric?” Toast and Connie look at Roberts, expecting a reaction of innocent confusion. The smirk, much like Goose’s, was ever-present and unflinching. “It’s all the nutrition we need, baby! Sustainable! Responsibly sourced! Gotta stay lean and mean, Ribsy!”

“Look at this shit,” Ribs says while spinning a laptop around so Connie and Toast can see the screen.

***

“Goddamnit, Goose,” Connie mutters to herself.

***

Ribs walks around the destroyed kitchen holding a clipboard. Each new shipment follows the same pattern. Exasperated sigh, furious scribbling, looking into the air while doing the math in his head.

“Eric, I don’t know what to say. This is a disaster. What were you thinking?”

We’re in the midst of a revolution, baby! A food revolution! You gonna be on the right side of history, or what?

Connie didn’t even know how to reply. She just stood there, blank face, trying to digest his argument despite there being no logical sense to it. This wasn’t part of some global climate movement, this was survival and logistics, for a couple weeks. Performance and sustenance was what mattered, not sustainability and responsible sourcing.

The du Pont family name is essentially a blank check. But you can’t buy back time.

***

“Eric. You bought 80 packs of dried mangoes for $400. That’s a morning snack for ONE DAY for us. Oh, GOOD NEWS EVERYBODY...we got sixteen hockey pucks of salmon that cost $1,200. You spent...this can’t be real...you spent $12,000 on walnuts.”

Wasabi walnuts.

“Ah yes, wasabi walnuts.”

The best, baby.

“Eric, you bought 112 lbs. of walnuts. Wasabi walnuts. There are eight of us travelling the majority of 6,000 miles across rough ocean, in a glorified Zodiac boat. And now we have the equivalent of Connie in wasabi walnuts we had to pay for in goddamned Krugerrands coming along for the ride.”

Looks like I carried too many 1′s! /lights cigarette

***

Connie thought hard. They were wasting time and energy arguing about this, and it wasn’t doing anyone any good.

“Ok, Ribs, put the berries and some of the walnuts on the boats. We’re going to have to make due until we get to Lagos. I’ll have a resupply shipment ready to go when we make it north in a few days. And Eric, give me the goddamned credit card, you fucking moron.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED

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