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spine-buster · 4 years

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the storm before the calm (f. andersen) | 1

A/N: The prologue has 150+ notes...I can’t believe what a positive response it got! Thank you so much for your support, comments, DMs, likes, reblogs, and tags! It means the world! Enjoy the first chapter :)

She could be at Early Mercy.

It was all Frederik could think about as he tried to celebrate Bee McTavish’s birthday. She could be here. She could be one of these people that keep looking at us, that keep brushing up against Auston and I trying to get our attention. She could be one of their friends. She could be in the washroom. She could be coming, on her way now to Early Mercy, and she might walk through the door and I’ll see her. It could happen.

That wasn’t to say that Fred wasn’t present and in the moment; having fun with his friends and celebrating Bee and her 24th year of life by buying drink after drink at the bar; but in the back of his mind, constantly, for the last three months – almost four – was the thought that in a random location in Toronto, in a random building, in a random place, he would lock eyes with the girl he’d seen in the middle of the night at Shopper’s Drug Mart and finally find out who she is, why she was crying, and why he was so devastatingly transfixed by her.

Fred had tried to find out who she was since then, almost obsessively so. He was a man mesmerized and he needed to know. He had tried to get the name of the band that performed at the function by contacting the heads of the charity, the head of public relations, the human resources manager, the man who answered the 1-800 call desk, even the poor accounts payroll manager whose email was listed on the charity’s website, but nobody would divulge the information. He wasn’t allowed to know. They weren’t under the discretion to divulge that information publicly (even though it was a public event). He contacted the photographer who ended up uploading photos of the night onto his professional website (not one photo of her uploaded – what a load of shit), who expressed he couldn’t remember the name. He tried remembering the members of his table that he had to schmooze with who could have picked up the name – nothing. He scoured Instagram – the hashtags, the other girls that were there, the profiles, the tagged photos, the socialites he didn’t socialize with just to see if they had a picture with her or mentioned her by name. He asked Brendan Shanahan if he knew. He asked Kyle Dubas if he knew. He asked every Leaf that was there that night if they caught the name, if they spoke to any of the members, if they took a picture, if it was in the background of another picture, if they remembered any minute detail that would give him a lead.

Nothing.

His chest has been permanently tightened for almost four months now. He needed to know. He needed to find her.

“Serena’s here,” Auston’s voice interrupted Fred’s thoughts as he slammed his empty glass – his fourth of the night, at least – onto the bar beside Fred.

“Who?”

“Serena – Serena!” he emphasized. Fred’s face was still blank. “Serena DaCosta, dude,” Auston said. “Remember…we were hooking up a while back…”

“Oh. Right.”

Auston looked at his friend skeptically. “Dude, come on.”

“What?”

Fred could see the gears shifting in Auston’s head pulling him in two different directions. Fred wanted to stop him. Usually when this happened to Auston, it pulled him into conspiracy theory territory. “Bro…you…you’re not hung up on Bee, are you?”

“NO!” Fred screamed, a look of disgust on his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, Auston, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What?! You can’t blame me for thinking it!” he tried to defend himself. “Anytime she’s not in sight you look like someone ran over your dog.”

It’s because I’m looking for somebody. And I can’t do that when the birthday girl is around. “You’re a fucking lunatic. And I know that’s the alcohol talking,” Fred shook his head.

“Then why do you look like someone ran over your dog?!” Auston persisted. “The city’s hottest girls are in this damn club right now practically lining up to hook up with you and you seem to not give a fuck because of…what? Hmmm?” Auston waited for an answer dramatically, sticking out his head, raising his eyebrows, and pursing his lips slightly. “You can’t hate me for wondering.”

“Yes, I can.”

“So what’s the reason, then?”

“There’s no reason,” Fred shook his head again, taking a sip from his drink and hoping Auston would just end it.

But of course, that wasn’t the case. Auston always had to explore the other side of the gears shifting in his brain – the non-conspiracy theory side. The side that was – unfortunately – usually right. “Wait a second…” Auston narrowed his eyes. “Oh…dude.”

“What?”

“You’re not still hung up on that girl, are you?”

The hairs of Fred’s neck stood on end. “What girl?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Auston said. “The girl you’ve been obsessed with the last three months. From the charity event. That you haven’t been able to find.”

Fred didn’t mean to hesitate – he really didn’t. But in his simple hesitation and shaking his head and stuttering out a “N – No,” Auston had him, Auston won, and Auston knew he was right.

“Brooooooo,” Auston threw his head back in disdain for Fred. “Let. It. GO!”

“Fuck off, Auston.”

“Are you honestly going to be hung up on her for the rest of the year? For the rest of your life?” Auston kept asking. “It’s already been three months, Fred. You couldn’t find her. You can’t find her. It’s a lost cause. You can’t let this dictate your life. You’ve gotta…you’ve gotta move on. If it was meant to be you would have found her already, and you haven’t.”

“Thanks, Auston,” Fred rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, man. Think about it. You can’t get hung up on this girl when you don’t even know her name. There’s so many other things you could be spending your time on, so many other girls you can be paying attention to, that can be paying attention to you, but you can’t even see it!”

Before Auston could continue his lecture, the girl Freddie could only presume to be Serena DaCosta appeared behind Auston. Her long, wavy blonde hair and plump lips spread into a smile enticed Auston automatically. “Hey,” Auston smirked.

“Heeeeeeyyyyyyy yyyoooouuuuu,” she drawled out flirtingly, giving him an unsolicited and dramatic kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a friend’s birthday,” Auston said.

“Anybody I know?” Serena asked. Fred could see the rest of her group of friends approaching them. He held his breath.

“No,” he said sharply. Auston knew better than to mention Bee’s name in front of girls like this, after what happened. Not that he ever did, though, because Auston was somewhat protective of Bee too and didn’t want these types of girls even knowing about her. “What are you doing here?”

Serena shrugged her shoulders. “Just had a feeling that I should be out tonight,” she said, her eyes flashing towards Fred. “Hey Freddie.” Fred nodded towards her as he took another sip of his drink. He didn’t even bother. When her friends approached them, he clocked out altogether. Serena got the hint. “Auston, you remember Jessy and Rachel and Loren?”

“Hey ladies,” Auston winked at them, not remembering them at all.

“Catch you later,” Fred said quickly into Auston’s ear, attempting to get up from his seat to go and find Bee, Morgan, and Tyler.

Fred saw Auston’s hand come up and hold him down. “Have you met Loren?”

***

“Are you guys going to take a taxi home?” Bee asked as she clung onto Morgan for dear life. After dancing the night away at Early Mercy, Fred knew Bee was ready to call it a night. Auston had tried to convince the manager to keep it open (while Serena hung on his arm, nonetheless), but to no avail. Special rules couldn’t be made for Auston Matthews. It was law. The manager was really sorry. So everybody decided to call it a night.

“Don’t worry, sweetcheeks,” Tyler fumbled around with Auston’s phone. “Our Uber’s just down the street.” He looked towards Auston, another ping coming from his phone. “That girl just texted you five times in a row.”

“Of course,” Auston rolled his eyes.

“Am I still sleeping over yours?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not cockblocking am I?”

“Far from it. If you’re over it gives a legitimate reason for her not to follow us home.”

Tyler’s eyes widened. “I’ll call the cops if I need to.”

“Freddie?” he heard his name called by Bee’s overly sweet voice. “Freddie how are you getting home?” she asked as she approached him, clinging onto the material of his shirt.

“I’m grabbing an Uber with Auston and Tyler,” he said, holding her in place so she wouldn’t fall over. He loved seeing Bee like this, if only because she was so poised and in control of herself 99% of the time. He loved seeing her let loose.

“Are you going home?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be safe?”

Fred giggled at her tone of voice. “Yes Bee. I’ll be safe. I don’t know many people who would jump a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty-pound man. In an Uber.”

“But you always look so expensive,” she said. He also loved that Bee had no filter. “You always dress so nice and wear such expensive things and look put together and I once got told by this lady that people look for people who look rich because --”

“Bee --”

“Because it means they have money and did you know that thieves will actually target people who have sleeve tattoos because it means they have a lot of money if it means they can get all that work done? So Auston has to be careful too.”

Fred couldn’t help but laugh as he saw, in his peripheral vision, their Uber come up along the curb. Tyler was waving his arms like one of those flag guys on the tarmacs outside of planes. “I’ll make sure Auston is safe, Bee.”

“Thank you, you big boy.”

“Alright! Let’s blow this popsicle stand!” Tyler yelled from the car. Fred gave one last ‘Happy Birthday’ and kiss on the cheek to Bee before shoving himself into the backseat (why, oh why didn’t they order an SUV? His legs were going to cramp so bad), pulling an almost-drunk Auston in with him, and ordering Tyler to take the front seat (it should have been him taking the front seat, because, you know, leg room. Tyler was 5’9”. He could fit in the trunk.) so they could get on with it.

Because they had ordered the Uber from Auston’s phone, the driver was bringing them to Auston’s address. Fred made sure to tell him right from the get-go that he would need to make two stops. The driver complied easily.

“Did you like any of them?” Auston asked as he leaned awkwardly into the middle section of the backseat, looking at Fred with beady eyes.

“Like any of who?” Fred asked. He overheard Tyler making awkward conversation with the Uber driver from the front seat, telling him his name was Inigo Montoya a la Princess Bride.

“Loren thought you were hot.”

“Oh for fuck sakes,” Freddie sighed. “Auston--”

“Get over her,” Auston said authoritatively. “She’s not gonna appear out of thin air, Fred. She’s not just gonna appear in a Starbucks while you’re ordering coffee. Loren is a real person,” he emphasized. “With lips, and boobs – nice ones – and--”

“Auston.”

“Will you at least just think about it?” Auston asked. “I hate seeing you so pissy. You’re Frederik fucking Andersen dude. You should be having every God damn girl in this city if you wanted.”

On the one hand, Auston had a point. Fred hated to admit it, but he did. Maybe he was too hung up on this. Maybe he was over-the-top about his search, about his constant thinking about her. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, and he was just holding onto a dream that didn’t need holding on to; a dream that needed to stay unfulfilled, undone, incomplete. Maybe he was trying to force fate – the last thing anybody should do.

Fred took a deep breath as they felt the car pull up to the curb. Out the window, Fred could see the façade of Auston’s apartment building. “I’ll think about it.”

Auston smiled mischievously before winking. “Atta boy,” he pulled himself up, opening the door to the car. “Her Instagram is at lorenxoxo. Thank you kindly, sir,” he directed to the Uber driver, saluting him dramatically. “Slip into her DMs.”

“Goodnight Auston,” Fred dismissed him. Fred watched as Tyler and Auston stumbled their way into Auston’s building, getting inside safely. The car had been quiet from a lack of music, but as he saw Tyler open the door, the opening notes of a guitar riff began to play over the stereo.

Suddenly, Fred heard the back door opposite his side of the car open, and a body slipped into the backseat beside him, closing the door once they were in. The first thing he noticed was the abundance of thick, luxurious hair, styled in old Hollywood waves, cascading down the back and side profile, obstructing the view of her face. Then, he noticed the outfit: a loose, spaghetti strap, silk v-neck top, lazily tucked into tight, seamless black pants, and strappy black heels.

“Take me to Stewart Street, please,” the woman said to the driver. Her voice was off, somehow, but Fred couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Ma’am – I – I already have a passenger. I--”

“Stewart Street, please,” she begged, and Fred could hear in her voice that she was crying.

He looked up.

***

Aleida Casillas was crying. Again. She felt like she had been crying for months, that her tear ducts were getting their own workout now for how often she used them. She cried in bed. She cried in the shower. She cried in her car. She cried in her Ubers. She cried in restaurants. She cried in restaurant bathrooms. She cried at her parents’ house. She cried at her sister’s house. She cried in her own house. She cried on her couch. She cried underneath a blanket.

She cried alone.

And right now, she needed to get into the privacy of her own home so she could cry there. But she’d have to cry in the back of an Uber to get there.

As she walked down King Street, she saw an Uber – she knew, thanks to the sticker on the back windshield – pull up and let out two drunken men who scurried into the glass condo building. She ran towards the car as fast as her heels could carry her before it could drive away. She opened the backseat door and slipped in, closing it behind her.

“Take me to Stewart Street, please,” Aleida said to the driver. She could hear the cracks in her own voice and hoped to God the driver didn’t make some sort of comment about it. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle it. She really didn’t think she could sob any harder at the back of an Uber more so than she had been doing the last few months. Uber drivers in Toronto probably had her on their radar.

“Ma’am – I – I already have a passenger. I--”

“Stewart Street, please,” she begged, looking down at her feet, her feet in their strappy heels, so she could wipe away her tears before the driver could know she was crying. She wasn’t really listening to him. She didn’t really care about what he was saying, truthfully, the other passenger be damned. Turn it into an UberPool – whatever needed to happen for her to get home. She’d even pay for the other passenger’s fare. They could live all the way out in Scarborough. Mississauga. Aurora. Newmarket. She didn’t care.

“Holy shit.”

She looked up.

***

Fred was going to pass out.

Her.

It was her.

He was pretty sure that his mouth was gaping open; that he looked like a complete idiot at the other end of the backseat, but his mind couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing fast enough. The rich, dark brown hair. The perfectly tanned and contoured skin as smooth and flawless as glass. The dominant eyebrows that framed her face. The perfectly cut cheekbones blushed and highlighted. The lips, full and bow-shaped, painted with a neutral pink instead of the daring red he’d seen so many moons ago.

Her eyes with their striking hazel irises, were staring directly into his soul. Again.

She was here.

In the car.

Crying again.

“Fred,” his name escaped her lips quietly, the tears immediately stopping. She was just as shocked as he was, apparently. Because, really, what were the chances? To be going home at the same time, to get into the same time…

“It’s you,” he said, not knowing what he was saying. His brain was still trying to process everything, and it was doing a shit job.

“It’s me.”

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to leave the vehic--”

“No no, it’s fine,” Fred said quickly, making eye contact with the driver in the rearview mirror, waving him off. “Take her to Stewart Street.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Fred said without even looking at him. Soon, he felt the gear shift into drive and the driver pull away from the curb.

The girl had begun to wipe the tears away from her face delicately, trying to mask her condition. As if Fred didn’t catch it. He watched her for a few moments as she stared straight ahead as to not make eye contact with him, not knowing what to say at all. What could he say? That he’d been obsessed with her? That he’d badgered his teammates and strangers about her? But before he could overthink it, his mind decided to say the one thing that was true. “I’ve been trying to find you.”

She didn’t bother to look at him, still trying to collect her tears, her emotions. “You have? Why?”

He had to be honest. “Your eyes,” he admitted. It was at that point that she looked at him again, the hazel irises stabbing him. “Your eyes are so sad.”

They were both hyperaware of the verb he used. Are. Because they definitely were sad then, and they were sad now. For a moment, however quick it was, there was an acknowledgement on her face; it soon turned to anger – brows furrowed and lips pursed, looking away again. “That’s none of your business.”

Fred acquiesced. He knew that. Maybe that was too forward of him. “What’s your name, then? I – I need to know your name.”

She shot him a glance. Against her better judgement, she answered him. “Aleida.”

“Aleida what?”

“Aleida.”

“How did you know who I was…am,” he corrected himself.

Aleida gave him another look. “Everybody knows who you are, Fred. Goalie extraordinaire of the Maple Leafs. Girls in this city would line up outside your bedroom if only you’d let them.”

It was Fred’s turn to give her a look. That wasn’t true at all. Well, not to him. He could still go around some places in the city without getting recognized – especially when he was alone. He mostly just kept to himself. When he was with Auston it was a different story, since Auston’s reputation preceded him. “Why don’t I know who you are?”

“Maybe you just weren’t looking hard enough,” she said.

That was a joke. If she only knew what he had been up to. If only she knew. “Why aren’t you answering my questions?”

“Why do keep asking them?”

“Because I want to know who you are,” Fred hit back, more firmly this time. Didn’t she get that? Didn’t she get the reason why the first words out of his mouth were ‘Holy shit’ was because of exactly that?

“Ma’am, we’re here. Stewart Street,” the driver said from the front seat. “Wasn’t a log drive.” He put the car in park and unlocked the doors, the sound dramatically filling the air.

She took once last look at Fred as she opened the door. “My name is Aleida. That’s all you will need to know more.”

And then she was gone.

***

Frederik found himself riding the elevator up to the 31st floor of the St. Regis Hotel. The elevator attendant marveled at his size, trying to hide the fact that he was staring. The other women in the elevator – four of them – stared too, trying not to giggle to each other. But Fred could see their eyes. He could see their eyes dart towards him and then to one another, smirks appearing on their faces, stifled little giggles escaping them as the elevator rushed up.

When the elevator pinged, and the doors opened, Fred found himself at Louix Louis, the luxurious, gilded bar that had Torontonians salivating at the mouth. It was the most luxurious of the luxurious. Lavish. Opulent. You name it. It was everything people loved about indulgence. Everything people loved about exclusivity; about standing in line and not getting in; about calling for reservations and being denied; about watching people, seeing people, wanting to be seen, waiting to be seen.

“Hey Fred,” the hostess winked immediately as he approached her podium. “Auston’s been waiting.”

“Thanks,” he responded shyly as she grabbed a menu from beneath her.

“Follow me, sweetie.”

Fred shook his head and chuckled to himself as she turned her back to him, leading him down the bar and to one of the booths in the back where he could already see Auston waiting. And of course, like the sky is blue, Auston was wearing a beanie. He was the only person in Toronto who would wear a beanie in Louix Louis.

“’Bout time,” Auston smiled as Fred shuffled into the opposite side of the booth.

“Shut up.”

“Serena, Jessy, Rachel, and Loren are on their way,” Auston winked.

“You didn’t,” Fred deadpanned, thinking this was just going to be a quiet night. He should have known better. He should have known better to accept an invitation by Auston to go to Louix Louis.

“Oh, I did,” Auston smiled. “She’s into you, bro.”

“Who?”

“Loren.”

“Who’s Loren?”

“Oh, fuck off, Fred.”

Fred rolled his eyes. He couldn’t care less. He decided to one up Auston; to tell him what he wanted to tell him ever since he agreed to go out with him tonight. “I found her, by the way.”

“Found who?” Auston sipped at his drink.

“The girl. Aleida.”

Auston almost spit out his drink. “What?!”

Fred nodded his head. “She got into the Uber the night of Bee’s birthday once you and Tyler left.”

“You’re fucking telling me--”

“Aaaaaaustttooooooonnn!” a perky, overzealous voice cut their conversation way too short. From the opposite end of the bar, where Fred was let in, he saw the same group of girls from Bee’s birthday make their way towards them. Their designer purses hung on chains against their shoulders as their long hair, perfectly blow-dried at some salon in Yorkville, moved with their scurried movements. At Louix Louis, you wanted to be seen in the same booth as Auston Matthews.

“Hey heeeeey,” Auston smiled, scooting over to make room while the four girls entered all on his side. The girl Fred could only assume was Loren eyed him like a hawk, the waitress approaching the table not long after to get everybody’s drink orders.

Auston exchanged formalities with the ladies as Fred stayed silent, but he could tell that Auston was pressed about the news Fred had just revealed. For all Auston seemed like he didn’t care about things and was generally aloof, he could be a snoopy bitch. A really snoopy bitch. And Fred could tell Auston wanted to talk about it so bad.

Fred thought he would wait.

But he didn’t.

“Hey girls, can you help me with something?” he preempted quickly. “Actually, it’s more so helping Fred.”

Fred’s eyes widened. “N – No--”

“What do you girls know about a girl named Al-ay-da?” he stressed her name – improperly – eyeing Fred quickly.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my GAWD.”

“Aleida Casillas?!”

“Oh my God, are you joking?” Serena piped up over the other three. “There is no way Aleida Casillas didn’t bite Fred’s head off if she met him. That girl is a fucking cannibal.”

“What? Listen, all I wanna know is the details,” Auston held his hands up innocently.

“What is there to say about Aleida Casillas,” Jessy quipped, and Fred felt like she was going to break out into the Regina George monologue from Mean Girls. “You know who her mom is, right?” she directed at Auston, but looked between him and Fred.

“No, I obviously don’t.”

“It’s Dr. Casillas – she’s, like, the best plastic surgeon in the city. The country.”

“Girls who go to her say she does the best work,” Loren contributed. Fred so desperately wanted to ask if she had gotten anything done for her to say something like that, but he of course decided against it. “It all looks so natural.”

“And her dad – he’s like, the best cardiologist in the country,” Serena added. “I’m not exaggerating. My cousin in med school once watched him perform a quadruple bypass and a ten hour ventricular restoration. He’s even done heart surgery on a former Prime Minister or whatever. He’s been honoured for his work all over the world. It’s insane.”

“Not to mention the family is loaded. She’s got everything anybody could ever want. I mean, Aleida thinks she owns the city,” Jessy said.

“Well…she kinda does,” Rachel said something besides oh my God. “She’s got all the money in the world, she knows everybody worth knowing, but like, she’s friends with them too, and people want her to wear their clothes or whatever, or come to their bars, or attend their charity events. I mean, it’s mainly because of who her parents are, but still. She sings, sometimes, I think, but I think mostly she just shows up places--”

“--she’s a model--”

“—she’s a model, and she’s pretty, and people are, like, scared of her, because I heard one time she, like, ruined the career of some up-and-coming influencer – or was it a designer? – but she ruined his career cause that person, like, didn’t dress one of her friends for an event or something and she went ballistic.”

“She’s a cannibal, like I said,” Serena said assertively. “She’s a huge bitch. Why would you want to know anything about her?”

Fred was shocked, to say the least. The person he’d met – if you could even call it that – in the Shopper’s Drug Mart that night, and the person he’d seen in the backseat of the Uber could not have been the same person. There was no way. There was no way that crying girl was a ‘cannibal’. There was no way. The family stuff could be true, sure – who was he to question that – but the other stuff? Ruining a career? Impossible. It wasn’t that Fred thought they were lying. But maybe…maybe they had the wrong girl. How many girls could be named Aleida? Maybe they were…embellishing.

“Yeah. Why would you want to know anything about her?” Loren asked, eyeing Fred like a hawk again.

Fred tried not to make it seem like he was physically uncomfortable every time she looked at him, but he was getting physically uncomfortable. “She just performed at an event we went to,” Fred explained briefly.

“I wouldn’t even think of like, doing anything,” Serena took charge again. “She’ll rip your head off.”

Well Fred knew where she stood.

“Enough about Aleida,” Auston held his hands up again, looking past everybody at the waitress that was bringing their drinks to the table. “What are we up to tonight?” he smirked.

Fred clocked out. He didn’t care about anything that was being done or said around him – he didn’t care what those girls were saying at all. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.

Casillas.

Her last name was Casillas.

He got up abruptly, asking a passing waiter where the washrooms were. Auston was too entranced by the girls to care, so Fred had no qualms leaving. As he made his way towards the washrooms, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He typed out her name into the Google search bar . ‘Aleda Casiyas’

‘Do you mean Aleida Casillas?’

Well fine then.

There she was on his phone screen. It wasn’t like she had a Wikipedia page or anything, but perhaps even more important, especially in this city, was that she had her own tag on the Toronto Life website. The Narcity tag was there too, but that wasn’t as important. He clicked on the Toronto Life link.

Aleida Casillas, wearing vintage Jean Paul Gaultier, at Soho House, Toronto.

What Aleida Casillas wore to the premier of Guillermo Del Toro’s new film.

Aleida Casillas is the face for emerging Toronto fashion designer Guinevere Jones.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he heard an all-too-familiar voice behind him. “Loren’s barely turned 18.”

Fred spun around dramatically.

There she was behind him.

He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. Almost. But if she could sneak into the backseat of his Uber, she could appear at Louix Louis. She could appear anywhere. And of course, she looked flawless. Makeup flawless, hair flawless, all of it. If she really was a model, he could see why. “What are you doing here?” Fred asked.

“Who isn’t at Louix Louis on a Friday night?” she countered.

Fred’s head whipped back and forth between the direction of the booth and Aleida standing in front of him. He was willing to ditch this entire scene. “Are you ready to talk?”

“About what?”

“Why you were crying in a Shopper’s Drug Mart at two in the morning four months ago,” Fred deadpanned. “And why you were crying before you stole an Uber?”

Aleida’s face dropped. Whatever confidence she had in her power and persuasion over Fred left her and was replaced with something else – that something else, Fred didn’t know yet. But it wasn’t confidence, and it wasn’t self-assurance, and it sure wasn’t was the cheekiness she’d displayed in any and all interaction she’d had with him (however brief) up until this point. “You don’t want to get into it,” she said, her voice soft. And for the first time, emotional.

“I do.”

She looked at him. “Fred.”

“Can we get out of here?”

Aleida took a deep breath. She tugged on the hem of his shirt as she started walking away.

He followed her.

She made an abrupt stop at the booth. When Auston saw her, he didn’t think anything of it, but when he saw Fred behind her, his eyes went wide. All the girls stopped talking and looked like a ghost had just appeared in front of them.

“Ohmigod Aleida, hi,” Serena said first.

Aleida smiled at her, but it wasn’t politely. She focused her attention back to Auston. “I’m taking Fred.” She didn’t give him an option.

“Th-that’s cool,” he couldn’t say anything else to her.

Aleida looked back at the girls, specifically Serena. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Serena’s jaw almost dropped from embarrassment. It was clear to Fred that despite calling her a cannibal a mere ten minutes ago, Serena would butter herself up if it meant Aleida would eat her. “It’s…it’s me! Serena Da Costa.”

Aleida’s eyes flashed. “Oh! Right! From my mom’s clinic!” she exclaimed, her surprise feigned and her polite tone just as fake. She pointed at Serena. “You came in with…” she went through the girls with her pointed finger, stopping on Loren. “You! How was your eighteenth birthday in June? Looks like your parents allowed you to get the boobs you wanted.”

Loren looked absolutely mortified. “I--”

“And your new lips,” Aleida focused on Serena again. “Isn’t my mom just so great?”

Now Serena looked absolutely mortified. But it was Auston who looked ready to crawl into a hole and die since she mentioned the eighteenth birthday party. “Uh--”

“Anyways, see you guys later. I’m sure one of you will want a nose job soon,” she winked at the group before walking off.

***

“So why were you crying?”

Fred was on Aleida’s couch now, after having followed her home by foot, walking for half an hour. Half an hour along King Street West, illuminated lights and flashing storefronts lighting the way. Eager clubbers spilling onto the streets tried to do their part to distract Fred or block him from following, but he was like a man possessed. His eyes were like a hawk’s on her. There was no way he was losing her again in a crowd full of people on King Street.

They passed the Shopper’s Drug Mart.

It was when they happened upon a row of expansive, luxurious, modern townhomes, coincidentally just a few blocks from his building that Fred began to realize that maybe the things those girls were saying were right, or at least partly true. But the other thing he realized made him want to scream. He had searched for her for months and she was practically just a few steps away from him? He understood the universe worked in mysterious ways, but this was just plain cruel. That she had been so close to him, physically, and he had no idea. It tore him up.

They’d gone inside. She took off her heels. She’d opened a bottle of wine and poured it into two glasses before standing at opposites ends of her expansive kitchen island, staring at each other, waiting for the other to speak. It was Fred who obviously broke first. It was Fred who couldn’t wait any longer; who wanted to get to the bottom of why her eyes were – are – so sad that night, and in the Uber, and tonight. Because behind her façade, he could see her sadness. Behind the snarky comments she made towards those girls with Auston, Aleida Casillas was profoundly sad.

She took a deep breath. “My uh…my old piano instructor – from when I was a kid – she passed away earlier that day,” Aleida revealed, her voice low.

“Were you close?”

“I think I loved her more than I loved my parents when I was a kid.”

Fred was shocked to hear such a statement come out of her mouth. Considering that he just learned who her parents were, it was…different for him to hear such a thing. “Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “She listened,” she said simply. “No-one ever listens. No-one ever…no-one ever listens. To me. But she did. She listened. More than anyone. And she saw me."

“She saw you?”

“She saw me for who I was and not what she wanted me to be,” Aleida continued. “She was the best.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Fred was unsure of what to say. He knew he wanted her to open up to him, but he wasn’t expecting…this. Truthfully, he was expecting something completely different. A breakup with a boyfriend, or at least a fight. A disagreement with a friend. A lost job opportunity or a firing. But not a death of a childhood piano teacher. “I just couldn’t get over your eyes – the sadness in your eyes. And it’s still there.”

“Listen. I don’t know what those girls told you about me tonight. And I didn’t mean to make you scared that night when I called you Fred and knew who you were. I just…you made it obvious that you didn’t see me in there. Nobody did. And that was a stark reminder to me of her being gone. Anyway…there…there’s a lot going on right now, and nobody cares.”

He could tell she knew she was rambling; that she stopped herself from revealing too much. He persisted. “Nobody cares?”

“Nobody fucking cares,” she stressed before taking a long sip of wine.

“Well, can you tell me a bit about yourself?” he asked. Her eyes flashed at him, her brows furrowing. “So I can get to know you? So I can care?”

“I’m sure those girls told you enough about me,” she commented. “Whatever people say I am, I am. Isn’t that how all this works?”

“No, and you know that,” he said. “You apparently know all this information about me and about those girls with Auston, but why don’t I know anything about you? Just be honest.”

“Well what’d those girls say about me?”

He paused before taking a deep breath. “Cannibal.”

“Cannibal?”

“Serena said you were a cannibal. Your parents – doctors. Your family – loaded. All the money in the world. That you’re a model. A bitch. That you ruined someone’s career because they wouldn’t dress your friend for an event,” he listed off.

Aleida’s eyes narrowed at the last bit. Her tone was as assertive as the click of her heels on the sidewalk on the way here. “That designer attempted to sexually assault one of my best friends, so you’re damn right I ruined his career. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

So she was misunderstood. Or at least her life was. Fred still didn’t know. “But what’s the truth?”

“Isn’t there a bit of truth in everything?” she asked rhetorically.

“You tell me.”

Aleida couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Everything they told you about me is true. Doctor parents. Loaded. All the money in the world. A bitch. A cannibal.”

“Yet you cry about your piano teacher dying,” he commented. Her eyes shot daggers at him at his comment. For a second, he was sure he was going to die right then and there. “You’re hiding behind this tough exterior and I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude but I think you care more than anyone.”

“Don’t you ever use that against me ever again,” she snapped back at him. “I do fucking care, okay? Everybody fucking cares, and if they say they don’t they’re liars. That’s why Serena was practically salivating at the mouth when she saw me and couldn’t handle it when I pretended not to know who she was. She’ll call me a cannibal but if I’m the shark she’s that fish that attaches itself and sucks the bacteria off my body.” Her tone was so scathing, Fred had never heard anything like it. She paused. “You want to know the truth? Here’s your truth. I’m Cuban-Canadian. My dad is one of the best cardiologists in the entire world and my mother is the best plastic surgeon in the country. I’ve got an older sister named Alejandra who’s a plastic surgeon too. I grew up in Rosedale. I went to private school. I received the best education. I have millions and millions of dollars at my disposal whenever I want it and get to spend it however I want it. People ask me to model their clothes, to go to their events, to say nice things about them. They want me to sing and play piano and give this air that their event is high-end and exclusive and luxurious just because I’m there – because my presence apparently means something to a lot of people in the city. And every single one of those people – my dad, mom, sister, her husband, everybody who wants something from me – they look at me, all the time, but they don’t see me. And for once in my life…for once in my life, I just want to be seen.”

Fred listened. It was all he could do as she went into her speech. There were no words of comfort that could be said to her, no grand gestures that could be done to make her feel better. He barely knew her – really. He barely knew her. He only felt a connection to her; to her and her sad eyes, to her tears, to the image of her cathartic crying at two in the morning in a drugstore neither of them had any business of being in at that hour.

So instead, he stared at her. He nodded his head in understanding. Because he did understand, to some extent – how people in their lives look but they never really see. It was something that bound them together. In the vast city of Toronto, from the bright lights of King Street West to the luxurious décor of Louix Louis, to the couch they found themselves sitting on sipping on an expensive wine, it connected them.

He took a deep breath. “So you play piano then? And you sing?” he asked. Aleida nodded her head. He couldn’t read her emotion as she took another sip of wine. “Can I hear or see you play sometime?”

“No.”

Fred nodded. It would take a while for her to open up more. To show him more of herself, to let her guard and her attitude down. For her to allow him to see her.

But he’d be there for it.

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natromanxoff · 3 years

Text

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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memeuloves · 4 years

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ImAllexx x Memeulous (NSFW)

it was an early morning and george's head was fucking banging. he opened his eyes and hissed in pain. that light was so fucking bright even a sober man couldn't look at it. he clenched the nearest pillow to him and tried to fall back asleep but failed miserably, partly due to the fact his fucking doorbell went off. he sighed as he opened his heavy eyes, once again hissing at the beams of light hitting his eyes. full of dread he moved himself off his bed and to his door. the person who was at it must've been pretty impatience becuase they had rung it a solid 7 times now and george was going to cave their fucking skull in if they clicked that button one more times

to the person outside the doors luck, they didn't becuase george was definitely going to spark them if they did. he hesitenly opened the door but didn't regret it. he was greeted by a man taller then him by two inches. he bite his bottom lip and studied the man infront of him. he wasn't going to lie he was stunning. his trim was a bit uneven but other than that he was perfect.

he was wearing a slightly oversized, black hoodie with a daisy embroidered into it. he wore light blue, skinny, ripped jeans which george thought look. absolutely amazing on him. the man stood awkwardly with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

occasionally he would bring his hand up to his mouth and start biting the skin around his nails. it was obvious to george this man was nervous and he was going to play on it, especially since he was high-key cute.

"urm hey, is there any particular reason why you've rang my door bell 7 fucking times this early in the morning?" he said, half jokingly.

the mans face instantly looked more full of fear and george sighed. he beautiful man went to talk.

"ugh hey, m- my names alex and we met last night. basically you punched a massive hole in my door and you gave me your apartment number and said you'd worry about it today. i'm so sorry if i'm interrupting anything but i can't afford-"

george cut him off with own words. he knew that this man was familiar but he has no memory of breaking down his door. he sighed and spoke.

"i'm gonna be fucking honest with ya mate, i have no memory of harming your door in any shape or form but i'm willing to pay for the repairs. how much do you want for it?" he asked, finally making eye contact with the man named alex.

alex sighed. "you see that's the problem, i kinda didn't tell the whole truth. you didn't just punch a hole in it, you took it off it's hinges." he added, slightly upset. he saw the look of confusion and shock on george's face and continued his stream of words. "maybe you should come down and see it for yourself." alex just knew that there was no way his door was getting properly fixed anytime soon.

and alex wasn't going to lie, the door wasn't exactly his only worry.

the man who he was pretty sure he was going to hate for the rest of his life was pretty cute, but he wasn't going to let that distract him. george agreed to go and have a look at the door and went to grab his coat. alex chuckled at him slightly before commenting.

"mate we're not even going outside you're walking down a flight of stairs." he smiled as george flipped him off.

"fuck off mate you're not the hungover one i can do what i like." he joked as he his black puffer jacket and made his way down stairs with the neighbour he never knew about but he wished he did becuase he was as hot as fire.

on the way down there wasn't much conversation, there was a little bit of awkward 'how're you feeling'

but other than that it was shit. but he knew not many people would want to speak to the person who supposedly took their door of the fucking hinges.

when they arrived at alex's front door, or what was left of it, george was impressed with himself to be completely honest. he was only 5’u and wasn't very strong at all but yet there lay his neighbours door. it was a rather sad looking door when george came to think of it. it was just lay there up against the wall. george shot alex an apologetic look before speaking.

"yeah mate i'm fucking sorry about that, how much do i owe ya?" he asked as he pulled out his

alex looked down, almost as if he was sad. "i called the land lord last night, he said around £1,500 minimum."

george was took aback, he knew getting things replaced was expensive but not that much. the landlord was clearly trying to pocket a few extra quid.

"jesus christ mate, you'd have to suck me off to get that." he joked, wincing a little at his own words.

he looked over at alex who's face portrayed so many emotions at the same time george couldn't be arsed to decipher them. suddenly he felt the headache roll in.

"for fucks sake." he cried. he looked over to alex who looked even more confused then before.

"y- you alright mate. do you need anything?" he questioned, the pure terror in his voice lingered in the air.

"yeah mate just a the hangover kicking in." he faked a smiled at alex. alex modded his head in understanding and went to speak.

"i get ya mate, i should have some aspirin in the cupboard, you can come in if you like. not that there's a door from stopping you" he joked. he moved his arm to point into his flat to signal the man who had took his door of the hinges into his home.

george smiled and accept his offer.

alex had told him to sit down on the sofa whilst he got some water and painkillers; george nodded greatfully. alex arrived with two aspirin in one hand and a glass of water in the other. alex handed George the aspirin and then the water. he watched him take the pills before speaking.

he sat down on the other peice of furniture he had in his living room. his living room was rather bland. it had cream walls a and a cream soda which alex had been rather brave to choose that colour as he was very fucking clumsy and spilt every ever on anything in sight. surprisingly there wasn't any stains of spilt pasta sauce on it just yet.

"so ugh mate, i don't even know your name." he smiled, trying to lighten the mood before getting to his method of payment.

george chuckled a little before speaking. "i'm george." he held his hand out waiting for alex to return his handshake. alex mimicked george’s movements before returning to what he was going to say before hand.

"so ugh, george." he trembled "about what you said earlier, about; the method of payment dare i say." he grinned a little. he looked over at george's smug little face. he knew exactly what he was going to say and alex had no complaints.

"d- do i really need to, ya know, suck you off to get my door fixed?" he smirked and looked down at the floor, a light shade of pink painting his cheeks.

the entire vibe of the room shifted in a instant. george reply quickly.

"no! no of course not! i was only joking. i can hand u the £1,500 and i'll be one my way." he smiled.

he would admit that yes, he was horny and he would like this extremely attractive man who stood infront of him to suck him off but he could tell he didn't have much money to live off and making him do anything like that was basically prostitution. now that he thought about it maybe he could give him an extra £700 maybe to help him, or as i 'i'm sorry i took your fucking door of the hinges' thing.

alex looked up at george and smirked slightly, he knew exactly what to do from here.

"awe but are you sure, i was kinda looking forward to sucking you off. you know since you're incredibly attractive and all i thought it would've been fun." he put on his best puppy dog eyes and looked back up at george who alex who 100% certain was getting a hard on right now.

george knew he shouldn't do this, but yet if felt so right. like he should just go with it. but maybe that was just lust, or hornyness. probaly the latter.

"f-fuck alex i don't know how to respond. like if you well and truly want to suck me off go for it becuase i have a slight problem here." he joked. he really hoped alex would choose to suck his cock becuase otherwise he A) made himself look like a bellend and B) embarrassed himself.

alex giggled a little and sat next to george, he placed a hand in george's thigh and made small circles with his fingers on the inside of his legs. he could see george getting more horny by the minute and he was enjoying watch it a lot.

"so what do you say lover boy, is it okay for me to suck that cock of yours?" he asked, moving his hands up slightly to george's zipper.

george couldn't believe what was happening, the man who had knocked on his door all of half an hour ago becuase when he was shitfaced he took his door of the hinges was now about to suck him off and he wasn't to sure if it would stop there. he took a sharp breath in as alex continued to make circles on his thighs before speaking.

"y- yes you do. please just hurry." he spat out, trying not to sound desperate but he knew really he sounded like a little whore.

alex smirked victoriously and slowly unzipped georges jeans, he placed his other hand around just the waistband of just the jeans and rather skilfully pulled them off georges body without any trouble. he decided to tease george a little bit, see how far he can make him go before he begs for it.

he placed his hand over georges now rather large bulge and started palming him through his boxes slowly. georges head rocked back in pleasure but he could tell it wasn't enough. he adjusted he grip a little so he could palm him slightly faster. georges face told it all really and alex found it rather amusing. with one hand still resting on georges crotch he wrapped his free hands fingers through the waistband of his calvin klien boxers and let his hand roam free. alex handing yet removed georges boxed so he had to guess by touch but he was rather took back by the good condition his area was in. he was even trimmed alex chuckled to himself. he hoped george didn't hear him but he knew he was to caught up in his own world to care or even hear.

alex fully removed george's boxers and grabbed his length as he started making a pumping motion with his hand. george couldn't even say anything he was so caught up in it, all that could escape his mouth were a few little wimpers and the occasional louder moan. alex took that as a sign that george was enjoying the current situation and gave himself a mental pat on the back. he leant over slightly to angel himself in such way he could take george's length in his mouth. once he found it he looked up at george who was practically begging for it at this point.

"a-alex please touch me, i don't care weather it's your hands or your mouth i- just really need you right now" he moaned.

alex found this highly entertaining.

he took george's cock in his mouth and started slow. he swished his tongue around his cock making george moan even more. he sped up, adjusting his head to a rhythm and moving his tounge faster. by now george was a moaning mess and he could feel it. but the other thing he could feel was his own jeans getting tighter.

he got george close to finishing before stopping and looking up at him. george clearly wasn't happy but he wasn't going to ask questions.

alex stood up before talking.

"george do you want to fuck? it's fine if not,

don't feel pressured” he smiled at george who he was pretty sure still had his eyes closed anyways. he waited for his reply nervously, wondering if he over-stepped a boundary.

"y- yes alex. please" he whined, practically begging.

alex made his way over to his cupboard full of wonder and fun things. he pulled out a small, pink viabrator and some lube. he made he was back over to where george was sat.

"do you want me to loosen you up or do you just want to go straight in?" he asked, refuring to the dildo in his hands.

"n- no alex, just get inside me." he whined.

alex pulled down his own jeans and boxers before applying the lube to his own cock and a small amount into george.

"you ready?" he asked george who was already in position

"what do you fucking think of course i'm ready" he whined.

alex giggled before pushing himself of george. instantly he felt relieved, he didn't know he was so horny but he wasn't complaining. george was letting out rather audible moans and occasionally screaming alex's name. he grabbed onto george's hips tighter and thrusted harder into him. he could tell george was having the time of his life and so was alex.

he wasn't gonna lie, this was one of the best fucks he'd had.

it wasn't much longer until george was cumming and it definitely wasn't much longer after that until alex came. he pulled out of george and let out one last moan before grabbing a random t-shirt which was on the floor to clean up the current messes on to couch and -luckily- wooden floor.

you know how alex said eairler that there wasn't any stains on the couch, well there definitely was now and he knew that wasn't going to be a fun story to explain to eveyone.

he looked over at george who had only just came down from his high and smiled.

"how was it?" he asked, smirking a little

george let our a breath before replying. "f- fucking amazing." he said as alex just giggled.

"i hope we can do that more often, you know since you live directly under me." george smiled.

alex thought about that for a minute. yeah he would like to keep fucking his neighbour senseless as much as he could. especially if he looked like that.

"yeah, you know i think we might be doing that more often"

#commentary crew #eboys 420 #fanfic #imallexx #james marriott #memeulous #willne #youtube #blackpink #alex elmslie #willne x reader #imallexx x reader #george memeulous #memeulous x reader #british youtuber #british #smut #eboys smut #wattpad

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probablymango · 5 years

Text

Dungeons and Arcana

Chapter 1: New Game

Lucio rubbed his face, trying hard not to glare at the others at the table with him. “Explain to me again, what is it you want to do?”

Asra smiles, setting down his glass. “We want to bring two more people into the game with us.”

“I got that. Who are they, do I know them, what are their experience, and do I need to start a new campaign?” He hated getting new players. Not that he wants to keep others from playing, but it meant having to learn them, figure out how they play characters, see what they could and couldn’t deal with, merging them into pre-existing campaigns was a bitch.

Julian raises his hand a bit. “My sister, she’s got a bit of experience from playing with me.”

Lucio nods, then looks at the other two.

“Our roommate, Muriel. You’ve probably met him before, or well, at least seen him.” Mordenkainen answered, making vaguely descriptive hand gestures. “Tall guy, beefy, wears a hoodie all the time, and has the big service dog. Ring any bells?”

It did, mostly because the guy was like a huge brick wall, but he wasn’t very social, so Lucio didn’t know him very well. “Does he have any experience?”

Asra and Mordenkainen look between each other with small looks of worry. “... We’ve tried…” “But neither of us are good dms so….” “Not really….”

“Jesus christ.” He groans, rubbing his face and pushing his glasses further up his face. “...... I’m going to have to meet them both, then we’ll see about a new campaign. Nadia!” He looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

“What?” Nadia yells back.

“You’re going to need to make a new character!”

“Okay! What kind of campaign?”

“Not sure yet! Probably just a self inserts and fantasy!”

“Hella!”

Lucio rolls his eyes then turns back to the three in front of him. “Same time or do we need to reschedule for the others?”

“Muriel is good with us.” Asra smiles brightly, lightly jumping in his seat.

Julian thinks for a bit, then pulls his cell out of his scrubs pocket. “... I’ll have to check in with her for that, but let’s stick with the same time for now.”

Lucio nods, ideas of what to make the campaign starting to form. “Good, good, please get them in contact with me before then please. I need to meet them first, even if it’s over webcam.”

Nadia came out of the kitchen, holding a bowl of grapes and milk shake. “So we’ve got more people coming?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes.” Rang in everyone else.

She nods, thoughtfully sipping at her shake. “We’ll have to order more food then. Do any of them have allergies?”

“Portia does, but I doubt that’ll stop her from eating what’s presented.”

“Still, best to make preparations anyways. What’s she allergic to?”

“Dairy, but she doesn’t acknowledge that fact.”

“Oh.” She makes a face. “Is…. is there a non-dairy pizza? Hmm, I’ll keep an eye out for non-dairy snacks that taste good.”

Julian sighs with relief. “Thank you. I can try to get her to send a list of snacks she likes, if that’d help?”

Nadia and Julian start to discuss food, while Lucio turns to the other two. “So, I know of Muriel, but what’s he like? Asides from being a big boy.”

“Shy, not outgoing, and suffers from anxiety.” Asra says, ruffling his brown hair. “We figured that doing it with friends would be the best chance at having him play and plus you’re pretty good, so we figured you’d be best at being one of his first dms.”

Lucio sighs in defeat. “We’ll talk more about this later.” He glances at the clock, then groans. “After work, it’s time to go.” He and Asra stand up, grabbing their bags and coats. “Bye Noddy!”

“Bye Mayor!” Asra grins, sliding on his obnoxiously colored green, pink, and orange jacket.

“Not mayor yet.” She laughs, waving them farewell. “Don’t forget your arm charger!”

“Thank you!” Lucio quickly grabs it from the counter, then goes out to the car. “What do you plan on playing tonight?”

Asra buckles himself, as he makes his signature cat face. “What do you mean?”

Lucio narrowed his eyes at him as he buckled himself in and pulled out. “Do you plan on being a memey little shit with the music tonight or do you plan on doing normal bar music?”

“Oh, you know.” He grins, giving Lucio the answer he knew. The bar was going to be filled with meme songs, most of them were going to give him a headache.

“You little shit.” He groaned, already feeling the headache forming from just thinking of what he was going to hear for the hours they were working together. “Can you at least put on good meme music?”

“Excuse you, but Smash Mouth is great music.” He laughs, watching the buildings pass by.

“No, no it’s not. And please, for the love of god, don’t play What’s New Pussycat, because I swear, I will jump over the bar and strangle you for it.”

“Kinky.” He snickers, poking at his shoulder.

“It’s not a kink thing you perverted little shit!” He groans, keeping his eyes on the road as he blindly slaps at Asra.

Asra snorts, weakly batting his hand away. “What if I play, It’s Not Unusual?”

“That’s worse!” He groans, putting his hand back on the wheel. “Just… Please, take some of the patrons’ requests.”

“I’ll consider it.”

It was quiet for the next few minutes, but as Lucio finished parking, his speakers came to life with-

“DO YOU LIKE WAFFLES?”

“ASRAAAAAA!”

The culprit ran into the bar, laughing with bastardly delight. Lucio groaned, rubbing his face as he turned off the car, and grabbed his bag. He hoped today will be slow, so he could write, but since Asra took over the music selection, more people started coming in. It was good for business, but not good for his creativity. He went inside, clocked himself in, and went to his usual part of the bar, the one with the plug-in built into the counter. He plugged in his phone and arm, hoping people chose the other bartenders, but knowing he’s never that lucky.

His fear was confirmed about 10 minutes into his shift. Asra had some weird remix playing as a sickly looking older man came to the bar in front of him. Worm man, or Vlastomil, as his name tag reads, comes in regularly. The only reason Lucio even remembers this fucker is solely because he stands out; super pale, an almost leprechaun face, dark clothes, and is usually saying something about worms. He assumes the man works at the bait shop, but honestly didn't care enough to find out. “What will it be, sir?”

“Drunken worm cocktail.”

He gets out the ingredients, passion fruit vodka, peach schnapps, cointreu, coconut rum, sweet and sour, cranberry juice, and gummy worms. It looked tasty, white bottom, with red top, ice, and gummy worms resting on the top. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” He sets down $15 and walks away to a darker part of the room. A weird, but alright person.

He stares at him for a bit, then picks up his phone and starts typing. Vlastomil…. Sounds like a perfect fantasy name…. He quickly made some notes, then put away his phone as another person came over. “Hi, how can I help you?”

The man in front of him was beautiful, like almost a model. Long hair in a braid, brown that somehow beautifully turns to blond, and clothes that looked a bit more expensive than this area normally gets. Dammit, he didn’t need an instant crush on a stranger. “What kinds of wine do you have?”

“... Uh, I’ll have to check the list.” Not many people wanted straight wine, so he forgot the actual names of them. “We have…. Pinot Grigio.. Some Chardonnay… uhhh.. Pinot Noir… Rose and Cabernet Sauvignon?”

He raises an eyebrow and has a small smile. “Not used to serving?”

“Not used to serving straight wine. Which would you like?”

He stares at the bottles for a bit. “Pinot Noir.”

“You got it.” He pours him a glass and hands it to him, then watches as he awkwardly holds the glass, probably expecting a wine glass instead of the regular ass glasses they have.

“Thank you.” He continues to stay at the bar, drinking as he looked around, sipping thoughtfully at his wine. “Hmp, this is just like him too.”

He shouldn’t butt in or even mention that he heard it, but his nosiness is getting the better of him. “Who?”

He sighs, leaning back into the bar. “My ex, he used to bring this home constantly. Should have expected the bad after taste of him with it.”

“That’s rough buddy.” Did he really just say that? He’s been dming too long, now he sounds like an actual NPC!

He snorts softly, turning to smile at him. “I didn’t think bartenders actually said that.”

They don’t, I’m just too used to fantasy. “I like going beyond people’s expectations.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He turns back around, continuing to sip at his wine.

Lucio looked over at Asra, only to see him gesturing to…. Do something? He looked at his phone and, oh, he sent a text.

Snek meme bastard: is that valerius? Me: Who is that and why should I care? Snek meme bastard: cuz hes muriels cuz Me: ….. Me: Can u try that again with proper spelling? Snek meme bastard: valerius is muriels cousin Snek meme bastard: is that valerius? Me: not sure Snek meme bastard: ASK Me: NO Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: please Me: no Snek meme bastard: ………. Snek meme bastard: ill give you $20 bucks if you do Me: …… if he calls the cops im bringing you to jail with me

He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then looks back up at the handsome man in front of him. “What’s your name?”

He looks up at him. “.... any reason you want to know?”

Shit, shit, what does he say? “Why wouldn’t I like to know the name of an attractive person at my bar?” He grins, dying on the inside. He really needs to stop hanging out with MC, they were giving him bad habits of unnecessary flirting with everyone who sticks around for more than 5 minutes.

He looks at him for a bit, then laughs. “You…” He snorts, setting down his drink. “Where.. How did you learn to talk like that?”

“I have no idea of what you mean.” Well, at least he got the stranger to laugh, hopefully that means good things and not being considered a creep. “I speak like a regular people.”

He laughs more, then tries to take a sip of his wine. “I’ll…” He snickers. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me your’s.”

“I’m Lucio of Vesuvia!” He adds a bit of lordly flair to the way he says it, deciding to commit to the weird way of talking for this man. “And you are?”

He giggles, barely able to talk at this point. “I’m- hehehe- I’m Consul Valerius, at your service!” He goes back to laughing.

His phone lights up, warning him that Asra wanted to call. Fuck that, it’s too loud for that to work out. He declines the call to see that Asra had texted him. A lot.

Snek meme bastard: is it him? Snek meme bastard: hey Snek meme bastard: lucio Snek meme bastard: lucio Snek meme bastard: is it him? Snek meme bastard: LUCIO Snek meme bastard: lucy Snek meme bastard: i said get a name not flirt Snek meme bastard: …… Snek meme bastard: bitch Snek meme bastard: dude Snek meme bastard: respond or i will rick roll the entire club Snek meme bastard: im serious Snek meme bastard: just say if he is or isnt Snek meme bastard: 3 Snek meme bastard: 2 Snek meme bastard: 1 Me: WAIT

But it was too late, the room was filling with the beginning of Never Going to Give You Up, sending almost every person in the bar into a collective flight or fight response. Some were booing Asra, others just loudly complaining, some were laughing, and even fewer actually left. Asra stared directly at Lucio, demanding a response.

Me: YES HIS NAME IS VALERIUS Me: TURN IT OFF Snek meme bastard: :3

The music was changed to.. Something else, the song wasn’t familiar, so that was good. He sighs, rubbing his face. “Sorry about that. Our DJ is a…. He’s a bastard and let’s leave it at that…”

He shrugs, finishing his glass of wine. “It’s alright, odd choices in music, but he seems alright.”

After the song, one of the other DJs took over for a bit, then Asra made, as straight as he could, for them. “Valerius?”

“Who wants to know.” His mood immediately dropped back to being serious.

“Muriel’s roommate, Asra.”

He glances at Lucio, as if to get confirmation.

“This is my bastard coworker, Asra, the memelord.” Lucio sighs, gesturing at him.

Asra grins, then starts talking to Valerius, but Lucio stopped listening so that he could make some more notes. Vesuvia and Valerius… wonderful names..

“Excuse me!” A loud person, yelled at Lucio. He looked up to see Vulgora, one of the few people you actually remembered the name of. They were constantly getting into fights and just overall loud. “Get me a beer!”

“Any specific kind?”

“A beer!”

Lucio nodded, getting the cheapest beer he could find and putting it in a glass, then handing it to them. “Here you go.” Vulgora and the bar had a deal, they could drink as much as they wanted and the bill would be put directly on their bank account. The bill on most days was too many drinks, on worst days, over hundreds of dollars for repairs. He didn’t understand why they were let back in after the first time, but at least they were paying for it.

With their drink in hand, Vulgora started chugging as they went to find someone to arm wrestle, and Lucio went back to his phone. Vulgora… that’s a rather unique name…

There was tapping on the counter, he looked up to see one of his greatest fears: Dr. Valdemar. The doctor might not have done anything specifically harmful to him, but waking up in the middle of surgery was still lucid led to….. Visual nightmares that have haunted him for over 6 years. “..... How can I help you?”

“Have you seen Dearil?”

“Uhh.. no?” Name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place who it was.

They look around, contemplating their next words. “Dark orange hair, reddish brown eyes, and is probably carrying a skull?”

No, no he has not. Well, maybe, there’s a lot of people here. He shrugs. “Can’t help you, sorry.”

They nod, setting down a bill. “Thanks anyways.” They wandered into the crowd, hopefully to never be seen again.

…. They would make a great villain. He typed some more at his phone. He was getting a lot of V names tonight.

“Um, sir?” There was a lady in front of him. “Do you serve food here?”

“The bar with food is over there.” He points to the other side.

“Thank you.” She smiles, walking away and someone said “Volta!” as she approached.

This place has a surprising amount of people with Vs in their first name… He went back to his phone, waiting on Asra to stop talking to the cute guy.

#mysterious art #lucio #arcana #nadia #julian #asra #apprentice #oc #fan apprentice #valerius #vlademar #vlastomil #volgora #volta #fanfiction #fanfic #oh yeah. i write sometimes

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king-brian-may · 5 years

Text

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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universeconspired · 5 years

Note

"Well this is awkward as shit."

Nova hated these events. While they were necessary to maintain relationships with important people, show off the new kitchen and keep up appearances, she loathed every second of them. Having to wear a ridiculously fitted dress and heels in her own home, spending most of the night sipping on wine while being attached to Freddie’s arm. The constant dodging of questions about when they were going to have children, how wonderful it was that Freddie was doing so well in the law firm and how well Nova maintained the home - thank goodness she’d gone through all of that schooling to be a housewife who could choose nice plates. They caused nothing but stress for weeks prior. Normally Freddie suggested them, began inviting people and then left all of the planning up to Nova. Thankfully, by now she was fairly skilled and had a decent amount of contacts that could bring everything together - fun cocktails being served in the kitchen, canapes being constantly restocked, no glasses being left on the expensive furniture, no guests being ignored. Still, it was stressful until she’d spoken to most of the guests and could actually disappear to enjoy a glass of wine in peace.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten the chance to enjoy said glass of wine yet. Consequently, the balls of her feet were killing her, she was getting continuously frustrated every time someone mentioned anything to do with children and she was fairly sure she was going to snap if she heard Freddie’s fake laugh again. This all hadn’t gotten any better when she’d spotted Dom, followed by a disgruntled murmur from her husband about how there was always one of the wait staff that was late and how she needed to find more reliable services. Had she not been so shocked to see Dom standing in her house that was certainly not empty, she probably would have had to swallow quite a few sharp words in response to the accusation. If he’d helped, then maybe they could have chosen a company that met his expectations. If he wasn’t so occupied with spending his weekends playing golf or tennis or squash, then maybe the party would have been more them than just her. As it was, however, she had to force her eyes away from Dom to look at Freddie. Getting them apart was essential.

She had no idea what Dom was doing here. Turning up unannounced and uninvited wasn’t something she condoned. Then again, he had continued to frustrate her in many ways ever since they had met, she shouldn’t have been surprised. However, there was a difference between catching her on the street and turning up to an event she was trying to host and being let in by her husband. The last thing she needed was Freddie finding out about Dom. While he made no effort to hide his escapades with other women, Nova liked to think she had more class than being that typical bored wife seeking an affair. She liked to think she was smarter than to flirt with someone else in front of her husband, smarter than to leave clues about her lover, smarter than to have an affair in the first place.

“I’ll deal with it,” she responded, that dutiful wife smile landing on her face while her hand shifted to pat Freddie’s chest - still too aware of all the eyes on them, judging their every move. With a quick glance back towards Dom, Nova pressed a light kiss to Freddie’s cheek and stepped back. “I think Jack and Emily were wanting to hear your plans for the extension. I’ll join you in a moment.” Stepping back again, Nova brushed down her dress while waiting for Freddie to take the hint and move in search of his boss and his wife. As soon as he was out of the room, she also made her move. The panic was settling in and leaving her hands shaking with an injection of adrenaline. Dom’s words barely even registered as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the bustling crowds gathering nearer to the back of the house. It wasn’t the first time Dom had been there - moments of weakness and wine induced stupidity and loneliness had been severe downfalls - but it was the first time he was there when she wasn’t alone.

Her jaw was set as she hurriedly pushed him towards the stares, eyes sharp as she followed. Truly, Nova wasn’t sure if it was Freddie’s ignorance and arrogance that had her so riled up or if it was Dom’s audacity that was tipping her towards snapping, but either way she was beyond frustrated and stressed. It wasn’t until she was sure they were alone, hidden in the en suite of the guest room that she realised she hadn’t spoken at all.

“How dare you!” She snapped, voice at a whisper despite being sure there was no one on that floor of the house - there was no such thing as being too careful and even being in the same room with someone who didn’t run in their circles was risking far too much gossip among all of the guests. “What was running through your mind to make coming here seem like a good idea?” The anger that laced her whispers left a chill running down her back, eyebrows knit together as her face tensed up. If he kept up these shenanigans, she was going to have to invest in botox or something to stop her mother from pointing out all of the stress lines on her face. “Jesus christ, Dominic!” Nova’s face fell into a hand, a laugh of disbelief falling from her. This was it. This was when she lost it. This is where her life would start to fall apart despite being so desperately and perfectly planned and pieced together since she was fifteen. Meeting Dom had been a slip up. A ridiculous moment in her life that wasn’t meant to come back and haunt her or wrap her up in such scandal like this.

“You need to leave.” Despite knowing that was the only solution, there was no conviction in her words. Out of all the people in her house in that moment, Dom was the only one that frustrated her in a way that she could tolerate. Instead of repressing everything in her until all she felt was this numb frustration, he was like a spark of electricity that was bringing her to life. She’d eaten far too little and was wearing far too tight Spanx while having sipped on just enough wine to bring her to this point: Standing in a bathroom with the man she was having an affair with, knowing he needed to go but not wanting him to. That thought on its own left her confused. The amount of dread and stress and downright panic flowing through her was enough to cause anyone to have some form of breakdown. Hell, she’d seen a neighbour have a breakdown over her lounge being painted the wrong shade of magnolia not too long ago. Here she was like a circus clown, juggling seven balls while keeping ten plates spinning.

A heavy breath left her as she shifted to sit on the side of the bath, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “You knew he’d be here, didn’t you?” It wasn’t an accusation so much as wanting to understand why Dom was there. Yes, she’d been ignoring his calls over the past week or two. Yes, she’d been very short with him the last time they’d seen each other. But that certainly hadn’t warranted turning up at her house without even considering the consequences. She was only glad that Freddie was oblivious and, frankly, unintelligent enough to really question anything. He was so wrapped up in their world that there was no thinking outside of the box, merely drinking whiskey sours with his buddies as they laughed and joked about the new receptionist right under the noses of their knowing wives. A frown fell over her face then as she lifted her gaze to look at Dom again. Again, perhaps it was the lack of food, the overwhelming inability to take a deep breath or the wine she’d already consumed, but her mind was whirling with possibilities.

Perhaps eliviating her stress by slowly introducing Dom as some presence in her life wasn’t the stupidest plan. She was sure her nosey neighbours had seen him before and giving them an explanation would remove their suspicion. It would mean Freddie wouldn’t even bother considering she was just another stereotypical unsatisfied wife. And it would selfishly give her a burst of electricity to keep her from feeling like she was drowning in her dull life.

“Do you have any experience as a waiter? As a mixologist? Event planning?”

#transcendtherules

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deansdirtylittlesecretsblog · 7 years

Text

Get Into My Car

Title: Get Into My Car

Summary: Dean and the reader are enjoying a night out, until someone ruins the evening

Author: Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Reader

Word Count: 1889

Warnings: Body shaming, derogatory terms directed toward a plus-sized reader, drinking, explicit language, explicit sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, smut, nsfw

Author’s Notes: Written for two challenges: @winchester-writes Drinking Writing Challenge. My drink was Glenfiddich Scotch and my prompt was “What is everyone staring at?!” and @butiaintgonnaloveem Baby’s Big 50 Writing Challenge. My song was Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car by Billy Ocean. Thank you to @feelmyroarrrr for the amazing idea. This wouldn’t have been possible without my bestie, @mamapeterson and her support, encouragement and words. Love you, T.

“What is this crap they are playing on the jukebox?” Dean yelled over the eighties pop song blaring from the overhead speakers. “Get out of my dreams, get into my car,” he sang along with the song, mocking it, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Funny you know the words, Winchester, considering how much you’re bitching,” you laughed.

Dean winked at you. “It’s a good line. Get out of my dreams, get into my car. Might have to put it in my repertoire.”

“You’re seriously going to use that line on some poor unsuspecting woman?” you laughed. “Get into my car? Really?”

“No better place to make love than in the backseat of my car. Nothing I like better than making a woman scream in the nice warm confines of that fine piece of machinery. Mmm.” He swallowed the last of his drink.

You closed your eyes, picturing yourself in the backseat of that gorgeous car with Dean doing all sorts of naughty things to you. God, you could only imagine how amazing it would be.

“Hey, isn’t it your turn to buy?” he said, pulling you from your musings, a cheesy smile on his face, pointing towards the bar with the glass in his hand.

“You still drinking the Glenfiddich?” you sighed, pushing yourself to your feet.

“Only if you’re buying, sweetheart,” he smirked.

“Drinking the expensive shit on my dime,” you grumbled as you weaved through the crowd towards the bar. “Why do I do this to myself?”

You knew exactly why you did it. You had it bad for Dean, really bad. You’d been harboring a crush on him for years, ever since his father had hunted with your parents back when you were both teenagers. The crush had only grown over the years, though the feelings were not reciprocated and never would be. You weren’t Dean’s type - you didn’t exactly fit the stereotypical barfly girl that all the men found attractive. You weren’t sure you were anybody’s type or that anyone found you attractive.

Your self-deprecating musings were interrupted when you were roughly jostled by a youngish looking guy in a backwards baseball cap carrying two bottles of beer. “Watch it, chubbo,” he growled, shooting a dirty look at you over his shoulder.

You grimaced, though you weren’t surprised. You’d been called worse by different assholes over the years, it wasn’t anything new. It was par for the course when you were what the world considered plus-sized. You’d been dealing with it all your life. You straightened your skirt and held your chin up. You weren’t going to let some insensitive jerk spoil your night out with Dean.

You placed your drink order with the bartender, tapping your fingers on the bar, watching Dean as he weaved through the crowd to the pool tables. He commandeered one of them, right beside the asshole in the backwards baseball cap. Great. You grabbed the drinks, asked to have them added to your tab and made your way to the back of the bar, joining Dean. He traded you a pool cue for the drink in your hand and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. You couldn’t help but notice the asshole roll his eyes at the sight.

You did your best to ignore him, and his friends, who made no secret of the fact that they were jerks, too. You could hear them muttering, even caught what they were saying a few times, and the words stung, stung like they had when you were growing up and people hadn’t picked you in PE class, or your so called friends had commented about the amount of food you ate, or the way your clothes fit, or a million other things that reminded you everyday that you were fat and therefore not as good as them.

Dean seemed oblivious to what was happening; he was completely absorbed in the game of pool he was winning. He’d walk past you, his hand lingering on your back or your waist, that easygoing smile on his face. He’d always had a habit of touching you, of being affectionate with you. You’d figured out over the years that it didn’t mean anything. After he sank the last shot, he dropped the pool cue to the table with a smirk on his face.

“Boom!” he hooted. “I win.” He downed the remaining scotch in his glass. “You lose. Ha! You owe me.” He winked suggestively.

“God, I hope it’s not sex,” you heard from behind you. “Can you imagine those fat thighs wrapped around you?”

Dean’s eyes widened and you knew he had heard what the asshole had said. His fists clenched and he took a threatening step forward, but you just put your hand up, stopping him. You put a smile on your face and swung around.

“Well, honey, you’d just be missing out, because having these thighs wrapped around you would be like having a pair of warm, cozy earmuffs on. But I wouldn’t let a douchebag asshole like you touch me in a million years. Your loss, sweetheart.” You reached out and patted his cheek, tossed your pool cue at him, which he fumbled to catch, and turned around.

The bar was dead quiet, even the jukebox had stopped playing. You smiled weakly, straightened your shoulders and looked at the people staring at you.

“What is everyone staring at?” you questioned harshly.

Those who had stopped to take in the spectacle resumed what they were doing, wisely acting as if nothing had happened. You pushed past Dean, grabbed your things from the table nearby and stalked from the bar.

You burst through the door, gasping for air, your heart pounding, and a whooshing sound in your ears. You hated confrontation, hated it. You’d rather take on a nest of vampires than have to confront someone like that. But past experience had taught you that you had to put people like that in their place or they would never stop. You hadn’t done that just for yourself, but for every woman that asshole had ever body shamed.

You managed to make it all the way to the back corner of the parking lot where Dean’s car was parked, deep in the shadows, where the light didn’t reach, before you heard him calling your name. You leaned against the Impala, arms crossed, watching him hurry toward you.

“That was fucking awesome!” Dean yelled, dancing a little as he approached.

You shook your head and tried not to laugh, though the delighted grin on Dean’s face made it very hard. He stopped in front you, one hand resting on the roof of the Impala, the other on your waist.

“Seriously, Y/N, that was awesome,” he smiled. “What you said back there -”

“I know, I know,” you muttered, “too much and too weird to think about.”

“Not what I was thinking at all,” he shook his head. He pulled the keys to the Impala from the pocket of his jeans, unlocked the door beside you, and pulled it open. He tossed his jacket into the front seat. “In fact, I was thinking I needed to try out those earmuffs you were talking about.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks and pool deep in the pit of your stomach. “What? I mean, I uh, um, I didn’t think that you felt like that -” You blew out a shaky breath. “I’m so not your type, Dean.”

“Who says?” he scoffed. “You’re a woman, aren’t you? A beautiful, smart, kick ass woman. I’ve always been attracted to you. Always. I just never made a move, wasn’t sure you felt the same way. But if you’re interested, all you have to do is say the word, baby. Just one simple word.”

You didn’t have to think twice. “Yes,” you breathed.

Dean didn’t wait for you to say anything else, instead he grabbed you around the waist and pushed you into the backseat of the car, pushing your skirt up around your waist, his hand between your legs, even as he laid you down on the cold leather seat. He was impatient, anxious, his lips on the inside of your thighs, the scruff of his unshaven chin scratching at the sensitive skin, sending exciting tingles through every nerve ending. He twisted his fingers in the plain black underwear you were wearing, pulling them impatiently down your legs, moaning as his lips made contact with your already wet pussy.

His breath was warm as he lapped slowly at your aching sex, his fingers tracing the lips, teasing you. You gasped, squirming beneath him, desperate for more contact, not knowing you’d needed this from him until you were lying sprawled beneath him.

He didn’t climb all the way inside the car with you, instead he put one knee on the floorboard, his hands digging into your hips, bruisingly tight, his foot planted outside the car, digging into the dirt, using it as leverage to push himself forward as he tasted you, his tongue sliding deep inside of you. He was pulling you into him, his head moving side to side, his beard burning you, and his nose was hitting your clit, and Jesus Christ, he was moaning, little hums of contentment coming from him, hums that were vibrating through your core. Two fingers slid in beside his tongue, caressing your inner walls, his fingers twisting in a come hither motion.

“Oh, fuck, Dean, right there,” you gasped as he hit that spot, that perfect spot, your hands wrapped around his head, your nails scraping his scalp, your thighs closing around him, holding him in place.

“Fuck yeah, baby, that’s what I wanna hear,” he growled, his head coming up for just a second, his eyes on yours, your slick dripping off of his lips and chin. He dove back in, devouring you like you were everything he wanted, everything he needed, muffled moans of sheer arousal coming from him, adding to the vibrations already rocketing through you. He was rutting against the backseat as he fucked you senseless with that sinful mouth, taking you to heights you’d only imagined.

Your hands flailed, reaching for something, anything to hold onto as the most unbelievable sensations rolled through you. You grabbed the back of the seat in front of you, your nails digging into it, the other hand still on the back of Dean’s head, your body completely at his mercy. Wave after wave of pleasure assaulted you as Dean pushed you higher and higher until the orgasm exploded through you, so intense, so strong, that you blacked out.

You came to after just a few seconds to find Dean crawling into the car, his hips nestled between your legs, his hands in your hair, his lips on yours.

“God, I’m so sorry,” you murmured. “I don’t what happened -”

“Jesus, Y/N, don’t apologize,” he smiled. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Other than inflate my already substantial ego. Fuck, that was hot.” He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw, his hips rocking forward, his denim wrapped arousal rubbing against your overly sensitive pussy.

“Dean -” you gasped, your fists clenching in his shirt as new sensations assaulted you.

“Get out of my dreams,” he sang, “get into my car.”

“Whatever you say, buddy,” you giggled. “I’m all yours.”

Forever: @aprofoundbondwithdean @jensennjared @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @official-shipper @brooklyn-writes-flangst @climbthatmooselikeatree @mamapeterson @katnharper @raeganr99 @skybinx-blog @winchesterr67 @grellsutcliff105 @arikas5744 @faegal04 @the-girl-of-your-nightmares @mrsjohnsmith @kreborn17 @mogaruke @courageoussam @nerdwholikesword @growningupgeek @virgosapphire79 @sleep-silent-angel @bkwrm523 @iwriteshortstuff @for-the-love-of-dean @nichelle-my-belle @deandoesthingstome @andiamsoinlovewithyou @pizzarollpatrol @misswhizzy @supernatural-jackles @balthazars-muse @waywardjoy @awkwardnerdqueen @valee-ppiew @superbluhoo2 @deansbaekaz2y5 @roseangel013bf @deanwinchestermybae @jencharlan @kickasscas67 @chelsea072498 @neanealuv @deanscherrypie @kittenofdoomage @tjforston @purgatoan @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @sckslife @sis-tafics @youwerelikeadream @i-dream-of-dean @impala-with-wings @bringmesomepie56 @basmaraafat @oriona75 @dearmisterhiddles @writingbeautifulmen @ultimatecin73 @gemini75eeyore @vote-for-pedro @tom-is-in-my-tardis @percywinchester27 @mysteriouslyme81 @faith-in-dean @that1seniorchick @milkymilky-cocopuff @atc74 @s4m-w1nch3st3r5287 @winsmut @squirrelchester @demonangelimpala @justacaliforniandreamer @xxsugarturtle @findingfitnessforme @wvnchxstxr @winchestergirl-love @petrovadixon @colorfuluniversewhispers @love-kittykat21 @velcr0kitty @spookypeyton @frickfracklesackles @ria132love @shhhs3cret @harleenquinzzel @icantfindacreativeurl @gallifreyansass @anotherotter @rockgoddean @kaitlynmarie1120 @giftofdreams

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