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undeadimmortality · 4 years

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Unexpected

This was supposed to be a short story but after getting lost in my writing all day, I guess it will be a multi chapter!

Castiel x Reade

I was always a Crowley girl, but for some reason this past run through of Supernatural took me by surprise and Castiel caught my attention! He has successfully taken over my life. He can grip me tight and raise me from perdition any day!

Wanrings: Violence, Fluff, Idk, Smut maybe (I love to read smut, I'm very bad at writing it) Maybe other warnings, read with discretion.

The night air was calm and crisp, your breathing visible as you walked back to your room at the run-down motel you were hiding in. You gripped your coat tighter, piled your snacks in one arm, and reached in your pocket for the room key. As you jammed the key into the lock and swung the door open, you froze. The room was now dark, and you were sure you left the nightstand lamp on. The smell of sulfur filled your nostrils. It took two seconds for you to react as you dropped your snacks, and turned heel to bolt, but the hand that now gripped your elbow was faster and about to pull in back into the room. This was not the first time you were found by the demons, and you’d been fighting to survive your whole life. Reacting swiftly, you grabbed your knife that was attached to your hip and swung it up and straight through the demon’s throat with all the strength you could muster. Turning heel, you made a break for your car, and successfully peeled out on to the highway before seeing three more demons run out into the road watching as you sped off. That was a close one, you thought, you must either be getting sloppy, or Lucifer is recruiting more than his little demon squad to hunt you down. You’ve been dodging the devil for months now, so he must be getting desperate, which meant you needed to get smarter about hiding. You huffed in annoyance as your stomach grumbled, realizing that dinner would have to be put on the back burner for the night. And now your hands and clothes were soaked in blood and getting all over your car! Just fucking great, you thought, as you sped off through the night.

Castiel POV

“Cain has a child, Cas, your kidding! Why are we finding out about this ‘bastard child’ now?” Sam whined, in his normal sulky tone.

“The child is on heavens radar now, I never knew of him until Heaven gained intel that Lucifer has been searching for the child for months, and we need to find him before Lucifer does. This is our top priority as of now. If Lucifer gets his hands on the child of Cain, it could mean second Armageddon. Lucifer is seeking the child’s power, and this child is not an ordinary demon spawn, their power could rival that of any Archangel’s. Lucifer would be undefeatable.” Castiel explains.

“Alright then, let’s gank the kid, where do we start?” Dean says, his famous cockiness shining through.

“Whoah, let’s think about this for a second. Why haven’t we picked up on his powers yet if the kid’s so dangerous? We’re just going to off an kid without any knowledge of who they are?” Sam asks

“Yes, that part remains unknown, I’m guessing his powers haven’t manifested yet, but the child is far from innocent, and we can’t risk their powers manifesting and Lucifer getting ahold of said powers. The child dying before anything can be set into action is the only option.” Castiel explains further.

YOUR POV

A few weeks went by, and Lucifer’s search was getting harder to hide from. Another pack of demons had caught up to you in some rural town in North Dakota, forcing you to flee South. With the demons hot on your tail you stupidly missed the group of three boys that had caught up to you in a town you stopped at for the night; and little did you know you’re life what about to change.

It was mid-November, you’re favorite time of year. The air was crisp and cold. The snow laid a blanket of beauty over the dead trees. Even in times like this, it was hard to not stop and appreciate the beauty of nature. It’d been about three days of non-stop travel and sleeping in the back seat of your car, so stopping for a day or so was necessary. You had figured the demons couldn’t catch up in a day, so stopping in a small town for some R&R was far too appealing. After picking a hotel, and some dinner at a local dinner, you headed back to your room for a much-needed shower and some rest. You washed up and you hopped in to bed about to flick on the TV, but froze when you heard a knock come from the door. Not just a knock, more like an impolite pound. You groaned in annoyance and started stuffing your bag with your belongings. A day was all you needed, just a god damned day! At least you had gotten a shower in before the stupid demons decided to show up and ruin your night, you thought. As quickly and quietly as you could, you slipped out of the bathroom window, jumping to the ground, and turning to make a run for it.

But before you could react, you let out a gasp as you collided with man’s chest and backed away to get a good look at him. The feeling of terror ran through your spine before the man had placed two fingers on your forhead and darkness took over your thoughts. You didn’t see black eyes staring back at you, this time they were blue. The angels had found you.

Castiel POV

Normally Castiel was quick to react, but when the small girl climbed out through the window, unaware of Castiel’s presence, he was surprise to say the least. On their hunt for Cain’s child, they didn’t know who to expect, but a 20 something girl who looked the furthest thing from evil, was not who they expected to find. If it weren’t for the faint birth mark on her right forearm, he would have thought they caught the wrong person.

YOUR POV

“Ughhhh” you groaned, a bright light blurring your vision as your eye’s fluttered open. You lifted your arm to shield your eyes, only to have they stop from the shackles on your wrist. Panic took over and your breathing shallowed. You lifted you head, and frantically took in your surroundings. Your body was painfully shackled to a chair. The room was windowless, and empty aside form a few pieces of furniture, you, and three men muttering to themselves by the entrance. The angel was the first to notice you stir and got the others attention. When you got a good look at the boys, you recognized them almost immediately. The Winchester name was not new to you, and you had actually seen them in person a few times when they caught up to demons that were after you. You were lucky to stay under their and their stupid angels pet’s radar for years now until now.

“You got to joking!” You groaned, wrenching on your chains.

“Oh, far from it sweetheart! You’ve been dodging us for weeks now, it was only a matter of time before we caught you.” Dean started.

“Don’t falter yourself, sweatheart.” You sneered. “I was dodging-someone else.” You finished, not wanting to give up to much info, god knows what these buffoons already knew.

“You know who we are?” Sam asked, cautious and curious, but not rude like his stupid brother.

“Of course, I know who the famous Winchester brothers are! And they’re pet angel” You sneered. “You boys have actually done me quite a few favors by getting rid of some of those demons that have been on my tail in the past. I’d say thanks, but…” You smiled, putting as much sass in your words as possible.

“Enough of this!” Castiel lunged forward, bringing an angel blade up to your throat, his face inches from yours causing your breath to hitch.

With him this close you got a good look at the angel, not the vessel, but that shiny blue grace in his irises. He knew it too. “I see you, angel” you sneered. “Holding up your reputation well I see, shoot first and ask questions later! Just DO IT!” You spat. His only reaction was to push the angel blade harder on your skin causing skin to break and blood to trickle down your chest. You winced at the pain but held eye contact. No way were you going to show weakness, and certainly not to this self-righteous dick. You noticed a small crack in the angel’s exterior for a split second and you swear you caught a glimpse of confusion, remorse maybe?

“Cass..” Sam said, putting a hand on the shoulder.

Cass pulled back, and the three mean exited the room, locking it up behind you. You scoffed. Stupid Winchesters, you thought. If they weren’t going to kill you, you were a sitting duck in here for Lucifer to happily collect. Not to mention completely chained down. The chains hurt, and the slice on your neck burned.

Castiel POV

“I was all for ganking the bitch, but I don’t know Cass, I’m with Sammy on this one. That girl doesn’t seem dangerous. Could you sense her powers at all? Dean said.

“She’s got a big attitude, but she seems harmless, plus who knows how many times we’ve actually come close to finding her out in the past with what she said. If that holds true why hasn’t she tried to kill us?” Sam put in.

“Yes, she isn’t what I expected to find…” Castiel paced back and forth in deep thought.

“A hot chick!” Dean gave Sammy a wink and clicked his tongue. Both Sam and Castiel glared back, not amused.

“I can sense her powers, but it’s like they’re lying dormant. Like they’re deeply buried almost asleep. She-“ He started, pausing to look at the brothers. “She seemed scared. It was small, but I saw the fear in her eyes when she thought I was going to kill her. Not like killing a monster sort of fear. Her fear was innocent.” He started to pace again. “You’re right Sam, this feels wrong. We’ll need more information before her blood is on our hands. We need to keep this a secret for now. If the angels find out we caught the Child of Cain, it would mean her imminent death.” Castiel continued to pace.

“I can see why she’s blended in so well for years, with no powers, she seems like a normal girl” Sam finished.

Trying to sleep while chained to a hard chair only made your sour mood towards your captures turn to borderline hatred. Without any windows you couldn’t tell what time it was, but it had to be close to morning. Your whole body was achy and stiff, and your skin started to break under the cuffs.

You wiggled and wrenched, trying to get some semblance of comfort only to cause your joints more pain.

“Hello!!!” You yelled, your temper getting the best of you. “Hello!!! I have to pee and I’m starving!!” you wiggled around some more, getting more pissed by the second. It only took three more times of screaming as loud as possible, before you heard the lock unlatch and Castiel come in to view.

“Not very gentlemanly to keep a lady locked up all night now is it?” You scoffed. Before you could react the cuffs magically replaced the chairs wrist chains; and Castiel grabbed your arm and started dragging you towards the door.

Your feet hadn’t caught up to the movement and were about to fall face first into the ground before the angel caught you and stood you up straight.

“What’s your problem?” You groaned towards the angels back, who continued to drag you out of the bunker and only stopping when he reached a bathroom. After shutting the door behind the both of you, both eyes on each other.

“You get off on watching or what?” You said.

Apparently, he got the hint and turned around. You don’t know why you expected him to stay outside, but-well you didn’t know what to expect.

After you washed you washed up, finally able to wash some of the blood off your neck, the angel wasted no time to return you your cell.

“Why are you doing this?” You pleaded, panic starting to rise. Being locked up for another day was already painful to think about.

“You know why.” Castiel started walking towards the door after chaining you back up.

“This isn’t fair. If you’re going to kill me, just do it! I’m a sitting duck in here for Lucifer and you know it! Why even keep me locked up if you gonna ki-“ You started to ramble, but the Angel had heard enough, and the door shut, leaving you alone.

“Please, you can’t leave me here! I’m innocent! Castiel!!” You screamed to the empty room. You weren’t the type for begging, but at this point you were starving, your body was ached, and you hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. Getting desperate wasn’t beneath you in this stage.

It’d been well over 24 hours before you saw the 3 boys again. With nothing to do but sit in the darkness, you started to think you might actually go insane. The panic attacks would come, you’d fight and wrench on the chains, then cry, and then calm down, only to do it over and over again. On the third day, it was Sam this time, he’d taken you to the bathroom, letting you enter alone, thank god. He even brought you a sandwich and some water. The 4th day it was Dean this time, same routine, except he didn’t bring you any food. What a prick, you thought. If they wanted to starve you to death, they were succeeding. It went on this way for another couple weeks, and after the first, you’d manage to find a position where you could get some semblance of sleep at times.

You were startled awake by the door opening, and sat up to see Sam walk over to you. Sam held a glass of water up to your lips, but you whipped your head to the side, full on planning to give him the silent treatment. Being chained up for a month was starting to take it’s toll. You were weak and in a lot of pain. You were done playing their games.

“Please drink. I know for a fact Dean forgot to bring you food again yesterday.” Sam pleaded.

You didn’t say anything, but you couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill over.

“My name” You croaked.

“What” Sam asked, confused.

“None of you even bothered to ask my name, do you know what it is? Or do you sadists prefer “Bastard Child of Cain?” You sneered, anger rising up your throat.

“No-Now that you mention it, no I don’t know your name.” Sam confessed.

“Get out.” You said, you’d had enough, either they kill you or you starve, you’d made your decision.

“What is your-“ Sam started.

“GET OUT!!!” You screamed, tears successfully spilling over, causing Sam to immediately vacate the dungeon. Okay I’ve officially gone insane, you thought.

A few more days went by, but you had officially gone off the rails. The skin under the chains held permanent open wounds, but the pain didn’t hurt as much anymore. It was more of a reminder that you were still the Winchesters prisoner. The boys, even Castiel attempted to get you to eat, but only succeeding with some sips of water, which you cursed your self for drinking. You’d been on a no food or drink streak for a couple days, but your dehydration got the better of you.

To your surprise, you watched Castiel walk into the room.

“Ahh! Finally grew some big boy balls to actually kill me, did you?” You croaked, cursing your dry throat for sounding weak!

To your surprise he released the chains and helped you stand. He led you out by your arm, but not as hostile as he’d been before. This time, he led you down a different hallway, walking with you rather than dragging you. As you slowly limped along, your back permanently ached from being chained up for a month. He stopped at a different bathroom, this one with a shower, and on the counter was your backpack, along with a towel.

Bringing you attention back to Castiel, he unlocked the cuffs, and placed his hand over your chest. You winced as a sharp pain rippled through you and then nothing. Looking down you saw your wrists were healed, and your body felt normal. Wiggling your legs, you couldn’t help the smile that crept along your lips.

“Why?” You asked, looking back up to the angel. Guilt was plastered all over his face, which only furthered your confusion. As far as you knew he wanted to end your life the day they caught you, but you assumed the Winchesters had more devious plans and they were who kept you alive.

“Take as long as you need, I’ll be waiting.”

The shower was literally heaven. Even with you healed, the hot water helped soothe your achey muscles. Along with fresh clothes, and bring able to brush your hair and teeth!? You felt like a new person! When you walked out, Castiel was waiting like he said he’d be, but your hope was short-lived when you heard the click of a lock and felt the familiar cold steal against your wrists. Glancing at the cuffs and back at Castiel, he saw hope leave your eyes.

“It’s just a pre-caution.” He said, motioning for you to walk forward. The hallway led into the kitchen, and then lead in to a library/dining room area where both Winchesters sat at a table. When they heard you enter, they stood up, and Sam pulled out a chair at the end of table and gestured for you to take a seat, which you cautiously took, and Castiel took the seat between you and Dean.

“What is this?” You asked, eyeing up both boys.

“We havn’t actually been introduced.” Sam started. “I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean, and this is Castiel.” He paused looking to you to answer.

Being the snarky person you were, you scoffed and gave him an “are you serious?” look.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Same ran to the kitchen, and brought back a glass of water, and a to-go box of what looked to be pancakes, eggs, and bacon. You mouth watered since you were on technically still on strike.

Immediately reaching for the fork he placed down, the handcuffs broke the silence as they dragged against the edge of the table.

“These too” You stated, holding up your wrists.

“No way in hell” Dean started, but without argument Castiel snapped his fingers and the handcuffs disappeared. You smiled in glee and wiggled in your seat at the new found pleasure of not being chained up. Placing the first bite of pancake n your mouth, you moaned as the sweet syrupy bread lit up your taste buds. Even if the food was a little cold, it tasted amazing compared to their half-ass put together sandwiches they’ve been feeding you. A couple more bites, and a whole glass of water later, you were content enough to play along.

“(y/n)” You said through a mouthful of eggs.

“(y/n).” Sam smiled.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this newfound hospitality after being chained up for over a month, but why?” You threw your hands in the air. Looking around and getting a good observation of your surroundings. You knew exactly where you were, or were guessing at least. Looking at the research that covered youe table and the others, you knew this had something to do with those bone headed Men of Letters you’d heard about through the monster grape vine.

All three men started a different explanation at once, when l a light bulb went off!

“Ah!” Your eyebrows raise looking between them. “There’s no lore on the “Bastard child of Cain” is there?! So, you butter me up and expect me to spill all my deepest darkest secrets??” You laugh and stuff another piece of pancake in your mouth.

“Well, she’s quick, I’ll give her that.” Dean says, taking a swig of beer.

“Listen (y/n), we want to prove that we’re not the bad guys here and you weren’t exactly what we-. “Sam started.

“Hah” You scoff, throwing your fork on the table. “You know, I spend my entire life running and hiding from a world where everything wants me dead. And I get caught by the “good guys”, who chain me up for a month.”

“(y/n) we’r- Sam tried to cut in.

“Stop.” You start, staring Sam down. “Truth is, your cowards.” The anger tasted like bile in you throat, but you stopped there, seeing the guilt written all over Sams face was payment enough and you didn’t want to piss them off to the point where they lock you up again.

“You’re right” Castiel broke the silence “About everything. We are cowards. When the rumors spread, I knew my mission was to find you before Lucifer did and extinguish your power. Even after meeting you, I was willing to kill you if it meant we got an upper hand in this fight. I am truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, and realize now that if your only sin was being born then you deserve to live and we’re on your side, but we need to know we can trust you and right now, aside from rumors we have no idea what or who you are.”

Sighing, you leaned back in your chair, and bit down on your bottom lip in contemplation. “Alight.” You say. “What do you want to know, but I get one of those.” You stated, pointing towards Dean’s beer.

Dean started to argue, but unwillingly grabbed you a fresh beer after some glares from the other men. He grumbled something of the sort about being demanding and having an attitude as he brough back your beer.

Sam jumped at the offer, getting a notebook out and started the interrogation. Apparently, the Men of Letters were thorough, and questions were getting personal.

“It’s rude to ask a girl her weight! What’s next my bra size?” You sassed back to Sam.

“I mean yeah, couldn’t hurt right, it’s research!” Dean piped up, earning a round of scoffs from the table.

You chuckled. “I don’t know Sam, I didn’t have time to by a scale and weigh myself while on the run from the Devil. But, for another beer, I’ll step on one if you got it here.” Giving Dean a sly smile.

Little did you know that second beer was a huge mistake because after getting on the scale, Sam and his stupid puppy dog eyes convinced you to also give up a blood sample, and other personal exams that you would have knocked someone out for asking, but you figured if you played by their rules, they wouldn’t lock you up again.

After a few more hours of poking and prodding, the boys were hitting the hey, and Castiel led you back to the cell. The feeling of dread hit your core, until you walked in and saw that at some point a bed had been placed in the cell, along with a few others things, and some books.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you, but-“Castiel started.

It’s fine Castiel, honestly anything better than being chained to a chair.” The buzz of the beers was wearing off, and sleepiness was creeping through.

“If you need anything I’ll be right outside. Goodnight (y/n)” And with that Castiel left and the lock to the door was the last sound you heard.

The weeks went by pretty fast after that. Castiel guarding your every move, the boys asking questions, and trying to gain more intel not only on you, but on your power and how to keep you alive while defeating Lucifer. They let you eat with them, research, and drink. You had learned that the bunker was warded up and down, and even though you were technically a prisoner, being here was the safest place in the world for you, and honestly it felt great to let your guard down a bit and relax. You too had questions, about yourself, about your father. The boys were helping you gain some answers, so you were content for the time being. The boys were being won over by cooking and cleaning that kept you busy when you weren’t researching. Takeout was getting old so you forced Sam to make grocery runs, and happily cooked some decent meals for the three of you. Not to mention the dirty laundry and surfaces that seemed to never stay clean, no matter how much you tried. You were even winning the Angel over after a while and were surprised to hear him pipe up when you fought for an actual room, rather than the dungeon.

“Why not??” You whined, stomping your foot a bit to prove your agitation.

“Is she seriously asking this? Dean turned to Sam, then turned to you. “Are you seriously asking this??

“What am I gonna do try to escape?? Kill you in your sleep?? You mocked In the best Dean voice you could muster. “Cass guards the cell, why can’t he guard a bedroom? This is unfair! I can’t gain your trust if you don’t give me more opportunities!” You yelled back, placing your hands on you hips for good measure.

Cass had defended you and deemed you his personal responsibility, and the boys finally agreed. So, with a squeal you launched your arms over the angels shoulder, earning a pleasantly surprised grunt from Cass, and ran off to gather your things.

“Stay out of my room!” Dean yelled after you. “She’s gonna be the death of us.” He grunted and Sam chuckled as you yelled back that you found the room you wanted and were in the process of throwing Deans underwear in the hall.

#castiel x reader #dean and sam #supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #castiel fanfiction

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writingsofmyimagination · 5 years

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Conjecture |7|

Yoongi x Reader

Idol Reader Au, Enemies to Lovers AU

Summary: Your management refused to renew your contract unless you collaborated, so you ending up working with Min Yoongi. A guy you’d disliked from before both of your debuts. There is more to their past than meets the eye.

Links to all other parts in my masterlist :)

Words:3293

Warnings: SMUT!! Domme ReaderxSub Yoongi. BDSM themes.Oral (F receiving). Slightly Soft Yoongi.

if you want to be tagged let me know :)

Reblog, Like, Comment pwwwweeasse :)

//For the second time that day you made Yoongi choke on his drink.

“You just look like you’ve received the filthiest message” Jin teased observing the pink flush Yoongi’s cheeks framing the grin plastered on his face.

“And who exactly would I receive those messages from?” he returned without hesitation with Jin going back to checking his own phone in defeat. Observing the proximity of the other boys around him he re-read the message taking more time to hang on to every last word before his concentration of his surroundings dropped completely off the radar and painted himself in your picture.

His chest already falling and rising in rapid tides trying to recover from practice, his skin slick with sweat hoping the next time it was at your doing. Your delicate fingertips tracing his every outline, down his side, up his thigh…Your nails marking his skin as you came around him.

Stop! He scolded himself feeling the stirring of his cock.

His pulse skyrocketed.

“Hey breaks over” Jungkook nudged him.

“Yeah, one sec” Yoongi replied typing in the only response he had.

-Fuck-.

Your message completely knocked the sincere talk he’d been rehearsing nervously in his mind straight to the back burner.//.

Your insides where a whirl of excitement they had you nauseous, the vocals were done and edited. You had the overwhelming excitement of a puppy; as an artist to get this rush without any clouding of doubt was rare and it was to be cherished in its entirety. You’d rushed round the apartment rendering it acceptable. The large open plan living area enabled you to observe your handiwork from all angles. Charlie’s toys were chucked into a box in the corner by the window next to his excessively large bed you’d thought would be a good idea even when the little guy lives curled into your legs or next to you given every opportunity; you spared a thought and wondered if Charlie would approve of Yoongi. You had the largest TV that would mount on the wall opposite the just as large 8 seater deep corner sofa that was worth every penny of the 3000 pound you’d spent on it. It still looked brand new apart from the corner seat which was blanketed with one of Charlie’s blankets; you didn’t have an issue with his fur anywhere but if it was at least localised it made cleaning slightly easier.

It was gone 10pm by the time the knock kick-started your heart at 50 miles an hour. It soon stopped dead when he walked in looking as equally comfy as he was gorgeous. The grey-blue hoody sat loosely on his frame, his phone weighing down the front pocket. A long lighter blue shirt peaked out over running the length of the hoody resting mid-thigh and longer at the back; his pale knees drawing your eye through the slits in the black skinnies accessorised with a red bandanna. His dark hair sat fluffy and slightly damp strands holding on to his forehead and shading his eyes making them all the more endearing. There was something off in his expression which sunk your heart to the bottom of your stomach.

You beckoned him with a graceful gesture, he slumped the large holdall which had been clinging at his side.

“The drive was okay?”

“Yeah, the hour flew by” he responded

“Because you had something good at the end of it I bet” you slowly encroached on his space.

“Mmhmm” he mumbled past the kiss he received, his lips weren’t quite as responsive as they had been.

“You okay?” the pang of concern hitting your chest harder than it needed to.

“Yeah, just can we talk a minute” the words that left him were hesitant, his hand rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish eyes unable to settle anywhere.

“Sure, go make yourself comfortable, want anything to drink?”

“No I’m good thanks” he made his way and perched on the sofa and watched you sit beside him, you tucked your legs under you and rested your palm at your temple, elbow resting on the top of the chair. He didn’t say anything, the silence stole the oxygen from the room, you decided you hated seeing him nervous or in any kind of emotional turmoil. You placed a supportive hand over his, he squeezed it and then stood and proceeded to pace in small shuttles.

“Okay so…” he began and then paused rehearsing the words in his mind for a moment. “I just have something to say before anything more happens between us, for my own sanity I need you to hear it and I don’t want to keep anything from you”

He paused again, you did nothing but wait patiently for him to continue with reassuring eyes.

“Like I really like you, and I have for years. When you stopped talking me and made it more than clear you hated me it destroyed me; there was nothing in my mind I could think of that I did and I had no idea how to fix it.”

You’d never thought until now how he’d felt after you’d so harshly cut him off, and now you did and it hurt, it hit you like a steam powered engine.

“I’d never stopped thinking about or wishing you all the success in the world that you truly deserve. When you finally agreed to collaborate I was ecstatic, I didn’t care that you’d be difficult or awkward I was just happy to get to see you up close again.” The words were rushing out almost in a babble.

“I can’t even begin to explain the relief when we realised it was a horrible misunderstanding, things became so much more natural between us again. I guess I just wanted to say how I felt before anything else happened because I can’t really do casual, I need real connections and the thought of sharing you with Wonho or anyone else destroys me. I guess I just wanted to know where you stood or if you feel…” You crashed your lips to his, eyes scrunched and weeping tears at their sides.

“I’m soo sorry I put you through all that, I had no idea. I was such an assuming jerk.” His eyes has glazed over as he willed no tears to fall. His hands were holding yours at your sides, you never wanted him to let them go, they felt so warm and perfect, interlocking fingers to their rightful place. “I’ve always liked you too” you admitted.

He eyes narrowed a sarcastic ‘really’ look.

“Okay, obviously before I hated you like a dick for years” you corrected. The pair of you sat bleary eyed gazing at each other with such focus. “Remember that night of your accident?” you asked, he replied with a small nod.

“You fought me hard on not telling your parents or anyone remotely to do with BigHit. I saw a guy who was literally willing to hide a serious shoulder injury out of fear of not being able to carry on being a trainee. For one that was incredibly stupid, but two the passion I empathised with and I saw myself in that. I wouldn’t have stayed with you the whole night at the hospital if I wasn’t fond of you and even then you were more worried about what my mum would say. From then I saw nothing but this sweet and passionate guy what wouldn’t I like about that?”

“Your mum is terrifying!” Yoongi added, his cheeks were flushed an adorable pink colour.

“You say that, she has a right soft spot for you. She calmed right down after I told her what guy I was out all night with. I’ve always wondered how you managed to get on that woman’s good side.”

“Remember your dads face” Yoongi chuckled, his laugh was infectious and you became symptomatic immediately.

“Yeah, he didn’t believe me for one second until he saw us at the hospital”

“Well you’re his little girl. What dad wouldn’t be a bit defensive at their 18 year old staying with a boy all night?”

Yoongi was right of course.

“Yeah I know, anyway back to now, of course if we’re going to do ‘us’ properly of course I wouldn’t see Wonho in that way anymore, I told you we’re just friends. I’d be yours and yours only”

A content peacefulness overtook his aura, the sweet smile that ached to be kissed. You were powerless and kissed him softly saving him from having to talk anymore about his feelings.

“Shouldn’t you be super smiley right now?” you asked perplexed as his expression had grown thoughtful and pensive.

“Sorry, just thinking of all the time we’ve missed out on, we could’ve been together all this time”

“Well I can tell you we haven’t missed anything” his gaze puzzled.

“I had a no dating clause for 2 years when I first signed and at 18 it should've bothered me but after what happened there was no way I wanted anything to do with guys” He didn’t seem to surprised at this revelation.

“Come on, come and see what I’ve worked on today! I’m sooo happy with it. Just our duet to record now.” You beamed switching back to non-serious mode and dragged him into the studio.

“It’s incredible, I love it so glad you put the vocals in from the other day” you shot him a look feeling defensive of his tone.

“But?” you asked, you were in the chair dials and knobs at your fingertips, Yoongi was leaning over your right shoulder a headphone to his ear. You tried not to get too lost in the scent of soap and just him radiating of his body; it enveloped you in cotton wool and you wanted it to be home. He leaned closer to you turning a few of the dials and clicking away with the mouse.

“Here” he handed you the headphones back and you slipped them on and listened to the edited section. It was even more incredible than before.

“Okay, okay you’re a genius. Now it’s done”

“Now it’s done” he affirmed. You wasn’t sure if it was the way his eyes swamped over with a playful, needy sparkle or the way he bit his lip under a smile but you were done, he was yours. His mind must have had the same thought process driving his actions when he yanked you out of the chair and pulled you flush against his chest, his hands finding their way underneath your tank top to knead at your chest. Blood rushed southwards as the air around you became saturated with hot and heavy breaths.

You grappled at the hem of his shirt until he let you pull it over his head exposing the opalescent skin of his own chest which felt like heaven underneath the trail of your fingertips.

“Wait…wait” you breathed “not here” you directed as much as it pained you to break up the atmosphere.

You pushed him on to the bed and straddled his waist, pulling the back of his hair exposing his neck for you to mark lightly, his quiet moans conducted the grinding of your hips into his groin. You stripped off your shirt and unhooked your bra and disposed of them somewhere on the floor. Yoongi’s head turned side to side trying to take in the surroundings, you redirected his face forward to yours.

“Let’s play a game” you pulled the bandanna from his belt loop and blocked him from seeing your grin grow anymore wicked. You stroked under his chin his head obediently followed the direction to your lips.

“If you want to stop at any time for any reason say ‘Red’ okay?” he nodded. You ground in to him, hard and pulled the back of his hair eliciting a groan which spoke directly to your core.

“You will also always use words when spoken to or asked a question okay?”

His grin returned “Yes, I got it. Can I call you noona please?” his words escaped as a whine. You halted your movements of unhooking his jeans and just took a moment to adore the view beneath you with an un-received warm smile.

“Look at you being all good for me already” the jeans ended on the floor in a heap. “I like my queen, I’ve never let anyone else call me that but honestly the thought of you calling me noona … so yes you can” You left him pouting on the bed as you went over to you walk in wardrobe, doors doubling as body mirrors, immediately on the left beneath your jackets and coats you went into the draw and retrieved what you needed.

“So we’re going to play a traffic light game. I’m going to give a sensation on the palm of your hand and If you like it you’re going to tell me where to put it on you, your cock is not included. If you don’t like it just say also you must keep your hands to yourself, no touching” You watched his face become the epitome of excitable anticipation.

I can’t even, when he bites his lip

“Aren’t you going to restrain me?”

“One thing at a time, besides I want to be cautious of your shoulder and I want to see how much self-control you have without the assistance of restraints” You noticed the slight sulk and exhale of air through pouted lips. You’d let the sulk go, this time.

You started with a simple kiss at his palm

“Neck”

Good choice you thought. As directed you sauntered your lips around his neck delivering heavy kisses, his chest hitched upwards as he swallowed hard. You loved how reactive he was.

“Sides” you danced the delicate feather in elegant brushes at his sides, flicking the end gently towards his hips bones.

His face creased slightly as the spikes of the pin-wheel dragged across his palm. He paused a beat, lost in thought.

“Ne..no thighs” he requested

Necks a weak point then you noted for further utilisation

Towards the apex of his thighs you increased the pressure of the wheel, you took the reaction of his fisting at the sheets as a positive one. You battled with the urge clawing at you to just take him as he was, riding him until you both stopped being able to form words.

“You look so beautiful for me, it’s hard to not just fuck you right now” you admitted. He fidgeted ever so slightly at your words. “Bet you’d like that though right?”

“Yes noona” he pleaded.

Fuck

You’d never been much for the noona thing but holy hell coming from him in the deep husky whine.

The bullet reverberated against his palm.

“Chest…please” he struggled over the last word, apparently your mouth encircling his cock took him by surprise.

“You asked so nicely”.

You rearrange yourself, at his waist again, your restraint was tested with his cock so close. It twitched when the buzzing and vibrations toyed with the skin at his chest, his hips bucked.

Your hands flooded to grip at his hands to stabilise yourself as his cock went straight to your spot. The volume of your cry amplified from surprise almost shrouding the groan tearing from Yoongi’s throat.

“Did I say you could fuck me?” you warned when you’d adjusted to him.

God he felt so good

“No, but…” he tried, while forcing himself not to move anymore even though every fibre of his being was telling him to do so.

“No buts!” you scolded testing your own will power to not move, you waited and waited. The frustration quickly built up to be unbearable, you took yourself off him, leaving you feeling empty.

“I think you can wait a bit longer for that now and I was so looking forward that, but you had to be impatient”

He squirmed beneath you “I’m sorry, please don’t make me wait I can’t…”

“You can and you will, there’s only one more round left ready?” he surrendered the fight and his body sighed sulkily.

“Yes I’m re…”

“My tongue” he managed as he gasped, his fingers guided by yours stroking at your arousal

Keeping your breathing calm, filtering the strong breaths past your lips.

“Well, I was hoping you’d say thighs but I mean that’s much better” His lips creasing at your approval. You slipped the blindfold off him and were met with famished eyes. You let him sit up

“You can use your hands now”

You were victim to a hard drawn out kiss which threatened your capacity to breathe, his hands desperate to make up for lost time glazed everywhere they could as you laid back. Your neck and chest were quick to break out in small petal blemishes; he had you twisting your fists at the sheets. The amount of times his lips ghosted past where you needed them the most creased your brows and the frustration translated into ignored whimpers and writhing for literally any contact.

“Now who doesn’t have self control” he teased looking up at you, eyes not yet content.

“Trust me if I didn’t self-control you’d be in a whole different situation right now” you replied strongly.

“Lucky for me then”

Your hand shot to grip his hair when his lips finally answered your need for contact. His arms hooked under your thighs, palms securing your hips. The way his tongue adeptly caused your undoing, dipping into your entrance in between firm circular swipes of his tongue. The aesthetic of his head between your thighs deepened every time his eyes snapped up to lock with yours, it was becoming harder and harder for your eyes to stay open, your eyes were forced closed as you neared your end.

“Come up here” you panted, he replied with a hesitant look before moving, you pulled his lips hard to yours and guided his hand desperately back to your clit.

“I just like to be close” you explained as his head nestled at your neck; the hot breath skimming your skin. His needy cock pressed at your thigh. His fingers navigating to your g-spot with blissful accuracy, palm applying pressure to your bud. Your hips took a moment to fall in sync with the movements of his finger, when they did, every muscle below your waist built tensed. Your nails locked onto his shoulder blades as you stilled under him, body convulsing whimpering his name. The heat completely engulfed you both, his lips also spilling out moans as hips jerked against you, the humidity leaving a pair of breathless bodies.

“Did you just cum without me doing anything?” you enquired with nothing but a triumphant smirk etched on your face.

“Hearing you like that just fucking did me over, sorry” he admitted rolling over slumping back into the mattress.

“Hmm well I don’t remember giving you permission but if you go and make me a drink I’ll forgive you”

He planted a kiss on your cheek

“You got it”

Your drink was gone in seconds, your body was crying out for some serious hydration.

“So what do you want?” you asked Yoongi your fingers tracing a delicate pattern across his chest.

“What do I want?”

“Yeah, you’re always entitled to some form of aftercare after you’ve subbed for me”

“Is that so?” you nodded.

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want, massage, bath, cuddles, watching tv, food”

“Can sleep be on that be on that list?”

“If that’s what you want” you laughed, internally kicking yourself for not suggesting that to the guy who happily wants to be a rock in his next life.

“Can I hold you?” he asked, smile drowsy and satisfied.

“You don’t even need to ask”.

#btssmutclub #sub-bts-network #kwritersworldnet #bts smut #networkbangtan #btsguild #kpopwonderlandtag #bangtanarmynet #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #BTS suga #suga x reader

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salaciouscrumpet · 5 years

Text

Whumptober Day 1

Whumptober Day 1: Prompt “Shaky Hands” + Bonus Prompt “Wake Up”

I know, I know, it’s October 4th, and that’s why this prompt fill is almost 4 pages long and I’m putting it out now with only a cursory editing job. I am not cross-posting to AO3 because I’m using my own original characters, from my own original work in progress (an urban fantasy/horror series set in northern Ontario). The prompt fills will all be original content (i.e., will not feature in the actual finished series), so you get to meet the characters and see the world in a non-canon context because ... I’m effectively writing fanfiction of ... my own ... fiction ...?

Content Warning: Reference to past torture; implications of abusive parent/child relationship; self-harm ideation (with no on-page follow-through); some F-bombs

Characters: Luke, Bear (the dog)

There was a warm, heavy weight on his legs when Luke startled back to wakefulness, and for a brief moment the panic from his nightmare bled over into reality and he thought he was still being pinned down. Before he could start fighting off his would-be attacker he heard a low whine and the weight shifted until he was able to discern individual paws. Massive, incredibly heavy paws – but familiar paws, nonetheless.

Dazedly he threw one hand out from under the quilt until his fingers sank into Bear’s thick fur. The dog shifted again, moving off of Luke’s legs until he was lying on the bed beside him, his great big head on the pillow and a waft of deadly doggy breath right in Luke’s face. As wake-ups went Luke had had better, but he’d definitely had worse, as well, and he suspected Bear was waking him up because the massive Leonberger had heard him having a nightmare. Bear wasn’t, strictly speaking, a service dog, but he was certainly well-attuned to the humans (and cats) in his life, and whatever qualifications or certifications he lacked he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. His presence had pulled Luke back from a panic attack on more than one occasion, and he served to ground Luke now.

“Hey, buddy,” Luke rasped out, his voice hoarse in a way that suggested he’d probably been crying out in his sleep. Bear licked his arm, his heavy, fluffy tail thudding on the quilt. Luke thought about reminding the dog that he wasn’t supposed to be up on the bed – three people in a king-sized bed was more than enough, especially considering that he and Charlie were both more than six feet tall (Kate was tiny but somehow managed to take up more than her fair share of space). Toss in three cats and a dog that weighed nearly two hundred pounds and things got a little crazy. He kept the thought to himself, however, because Charlie was picking up an emergency shift at the clinic and Kate was out on patrol, and Luke’s heart was still beating far too hard and far too fast for him to be alone in bed.

He sat up and Bear let him, although he whined a little. Luke didn’t get out of bed, however. Instead, he shifted into a cross-legged position and cradled his head in his hands, working hard to get his breathing under control. It should have been easy: he’d been trained in focus techniques his entire life, it should have been second nature to drum up a simple breathing exercise to calm himself down.

It wasn’t easy. He didn’t have the nightmare often, but whenever he did have it, it felt like an eternity before he calmed down.

Of all the horrible things that had happened to him in his life – and the list was long – the thing that led to his worst nightmares was just a blip on the radar, comparatively speaking. Just one moment, out of an entire thirteen-day period, that came back to haunt his dreams. Technically speaking it wasn’t even the worst moment in that thirteen-day period. The worst moment – the most painful moment, the moment he was certain his life was over – was when his captors had used magic against him. The Scions of the Unforgiven didn’t consider blood magic taboo, unlike literally every other magic-user out there. It was perfectly acceptable to them to use their enemy’s blood against them, or to use their own blood to power their spells. It made them powerful and dangerous, and it served to reinforce to everyone else why blood magic was evil.

As if anyone needed the reminder.

It would have made sense, then, for Luke’s worst memory to be the moment he felt his own blood ignite in his veins as his captors used their magic to burn him from the inside-out. It was terrifying, and horrible, and he’d never experienced pain so bad before or since. And that loss of sense of self had made the experience worse, because of course the Scions had started with his right hand, his dominant hand, and along with the pain had come the knowledge that this wound could cripple him for life – assuming he even made it out of there – and then what would he do? There were no retired Knights of Oberon. You either died gloriously in battle or … Well, that was it, there really wasn’t an “or.”

Luke let out a painful, shuddering breath, dropping his hands into his lap. Bear whined again, licking his fingers, forcing a shaky laugh out of Luke. The bedroom was dark, the blackout curtains doing their job, but he knew the shape of his own flesh well enough that he didn’t need light to know what was there. His left hand, now somewhat wet and sticky with dog spittle, a faint smattering of scars over his knuckles. His right hand, the skin silvery and tight, but the muscle and bone underneath perfectly healed: function over form, and thank all the gods that Charlie was as practical as he was talented, because that injury should have crippled Luke. Even the best surgeons in the world wouldn’t have been able to repair that damage – but Charlie, with his healing magic, had done that, and for a man he had barely known as anything more than his best friend’s mopey boyfriend.

And thinking about Charlie and Kate in relation to his injuries and captivity brought him back to the crux of his nightmare. The moment he’d woken up bound and gagged in a musty old barn he’d known he wasn’t going home again, especially not when he’d realized who his captors were. The Scions hated the Knights; the only reason they’d taken him was so that they could torture him to death in the hopes of gaining information about his own people, or so that they could try and ransom him back to the Knights – and the Knights of Oberon did not negotiate with the Scions of the Unforgiven. The enmity between their two groups went back centuries, and the Knights were proud and firm in their beliefs. Luke had grown up hearing tales about Knights who had gone bravely to their deaths rather than spill their order’s secrets, and that was exactly what he’d expected to happen to him.

So no, it wasn’t the mutilated horror of his right hand that kept him up at night, and it wasn’t the beatings, or the damage to his feet, or any of the other painful, humiliating indignities his captors had thought to visit upon him. What haunted his memories was the moment one of the Scions had woken him with a bucket of cold water and a folded scrap of paper. The water had been dumped over Luke’s head. He’d woken, sputtering and freezing, to an angry man urging him to “Wake up, you Fae-blooded bastard!” before thrusting the scrap of paper in Luke’s face.

Luke’s hands had been bound behind his back – this had been before they’d used blood magic on his arm – so the paper had fluttered into his lap, where the freezing, stagnant bucketful of water made it stick to his torn and bloodied jeans. The paper had managed to land face up, and he’d immediately recognized his father’s handwriting. Of course his father had been the one to reply to the Scions’ demands: he’d been the Knight in charge while the regular commander had been away on business. Just one sentence, in Daniel Kandarian’s familiar, spiky script: There is no Knight Lukas Kandarian.

Not only had his own people – his own family – written him off, but the Knights of Oberon had also stripped him, in absentia, of his title. He was nothing to them.

More than a decade ago, and he still had nightmares about that fucking note and his father’s handwriting.

“Shit,” Luke huffed out, noticing the way his hands were shaking. He was supposed to be calm. He was supposed to be strong. He wasn’t supposed to let a decade-old nightmare mess him up like this, especially when he knew how the story ended: after the Knights of Oberon had literally written him off, Kate had done what Kate does best and came after Luke herself, like the crazy badass wrecking ball she was. The Knights hadn’t wanted him but the Alliance was more than thrilled to have him, and Kate had pulled together a team to rescue him, because she wanted him and Kate just saw “impossible” as a challenge. Luke had been saved, Charlie had healed him, and the Scions of the Unforgiven could go fuck themselves and so could the Knights of Oberon.

The knowledge that he was far happier with his life now than he ever would have been had he stayed with the Order did little to slow his racing heart or make his hands stop shaking. He kept seeing that piece of paper falling into his lap, only in his mind’s eye his father’s dismissal was written over and over again, the words overlapping until the page was completely covered in harsh, jagged lettering.

He wasn’t going back to sleep, and he knew himself well enough to know that if he got up and wandered the house alone – even with Bear’s steady, good-natured presence by his side – his mind was going to take him someplace dark. There was an old straight razor hidden away in the bathroom that had his name on it, or failing that there were dozens of knives and other sharp things in the house. His skin crawled and his hands shook with the need to do something, anything, to carve out the pain and frustration those six words had burned into his soul years ago.

But he’d made a promise to Charlie and Kate.

Scrubbing his scarred hand over his face, Luke leaned over the dog – who immediately tried licking his chin – and snagged his cellphone off the bedside table. Charlie was at work and since he was covering a shift for a sick co-worker there likely wasn’t anyone else who could cover for him if he needed to get away in an emergency. Kate was out patrolling for literal monsters in the woods. Her team needed her.

But Luke had made a promise.

Luke pet Bear with one hand while he texted with the other, the texture of the dog’s thick fur soothing to his rattled nerves but not enough to bring him out of his spiralling headspace.

I need you to come home.

A few seconds later – not even a full minute – Luke’s phone buzzed in response. He lifted it to his face and saw Kate’s picture pop up on the phone’s screen. He checked, and sure enough there was a text message reply.

On my way.

Luke’s shaking hand clenched in Bear’s fur as he let out another ragged exhalation, the phone dropping to land facedown on his lap. He pet the dog with the hand that wasn’t gripping on to Bear like his life depended on it, and used the slow, steady movement to keep himself from going into the bathroom in search of his straight razor. Kate was on her way.

#whumptober2019 #no.1/altno.1 #tw in note #original fiction

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fqrtescue · 6 years

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BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Alice Louise Fortescue PRONUNCIATION: Alice Louise Fortescue MEANING: Alice ( Noble ), Louise ( Famous Warrior, Renowned Fighter ), Fortescue ( Shield, Valiant, Strong Warrior ) REASONING: I mean, isn’t it obvious? NICKNAME(S): Al. Ally Cat. Ally. Fortescue. BIRTH DATE: July 28, 1959 AGE: 17 ZODIAC: Leo Sun, Taurus Moon, Scorpio Rising

Slytherin Leos can be either very good, or very bad. At their best, they exemplify all that“nobility” is made of: confidence, openness, charm, initiative, generosity of spirit, wisdom, judgment, and poise. At their worst, they become elitist, bullying bigots. How they end up depends on the company they keep, and how they are encouraged to act early in life. Either way, they never lack attention - it’s hard to ignore a Slytherin born under this sign. These Slytherins usually end up in positions of responsibility and leadership, because of their charisma and natural ability. Their creativity and drive also makes them very resourceful.

I thought this fit perfectly for Alice because not only does her name Alice mean noble, but this is just EXTREMELY Alice. She shines so brightly, like sunshine, really. I thought this also fits Alice because had Alice grown up around bigots, grown up around a father who trained her to be a weapon &not to help human kind, a mother who didn’t instill altruistic beliefs into her – she would’ve easily fallen into being on the bad side of being a Leo. Alice is open-minded and an open person, something she’s been since she was younger, something she will never grow out of. She believes the impossible as much as the possible, she believes in it and because she’s not rigid or thinks she knows EVERYTHING, she’s often got an edge during dueling when it comes to figuring out her opponents strategies. It adds to her being resourceful, while Alice isn’t always the most creative in a traditional sense, her being a fantastic dueler and able to navigate herself in her house is due the fact that not only is she cunning, but is so resourceful & able to see other people’s side of things while having the ability to manipulate people’s perception of her to work in her favor. She knows how she’s seen, she uses it to her advantage, often taking mental ( and physical ) notes of her classmates to be used in the future.

Leo is the fifth sign of the zodiac and rules the back, the spine, and the heart. Positive traits include creativity, charisma, generosity, warmth, enthusiasm, a natural talent for leadership, and a great deal of inner power; negative traits are haughtiness, snobbery, an expectation that one is the centre of attention and should be waited on by everyone else,profligacy, lack of realism, dominance that can lead to bullying, and a refusal to change one’s mind even in the face of solid facts.

Alice sees the world so openly and vast, she thinks, why not? Facts are only facts because they haven’t yet been proven otherwise, and Alice believes it only takes a little bit of doubt to undermine a fact – something easy to do. I bolded ‘profligacy’ because Alice has grown up never having to worry about money, and is the type to spend it on people she loves, buy them thing after thing, anything they need. Alice always has the latest record and few extra to give away to friends, she’s there to cover your bus fair or even a train ticket if needed. She’s mothering and maternal, especially as she gets older, she wants to take care of anyone who needs to be taken care of and give back in any way she can – which is where the dominance can come in. Sometimes overbearing, when Alice believes something is best for someone, it’s hard for her to change her mind about it – this oftentimes comes off as extremely controlling even though she means well. She’s the type of person to check up on you if you even mention that you’re having a slightly off week, and ask if there’s anything she can do to make it better. This is definitely due to her generous and hospitable nature, but it is excessive and always has been – not something she would ever change as long as she lived.

GENDER: Non-Binary PRONOUNS: She/Her and They/Them ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Panromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual/Demisexual

Alice’s natural hair color is a really dusty blonde, even dirty blonde. She really loves to experiment with it though, so she’ll cut it and dye it all sorts of colors - from neon green to blonde to rainbow. From a pixie cut down below her waist. Anything and everything. Sometimes, in an attempt to just get out of her own head and escape for a bit, cutting & coloring her hair is fun and gives her some of a respite. She knows it’s just hair and it’ll easily grow back with a hair potion and just does it as a way to cope with not feeling completely comfortable in her appearance. She also does ridiculous makeup, sometimes adorning very shimmery glitter all across her eyelids and wearing funky socks that don’t always match her school robes. Sometimes she prefers to wear pants instead of a skirt, and puts pins of all sorts up and down her tie. Alice also owns an extensive sunglasses collection that she tries to wear on weekends or brings at least one fun pair with her Hogsmeade weekends. Until the last year when she finally expressed her self consciousness to her uncle about how she looked, her Uncle Florean helped educate her on the Queer community etc. Alice definitely IDs as queer and she’s openly not straight ( has been for forever ), but her gender is something she keeps more close to her heart & is really trying to figure out even with the information her uncle has given her. If I had to put a label on her sexuality it would be panromantic pansexual/demisexual. She also would probably fall under and be extremely interested in Polyamory, completely loving the free love movement currently going on.

NATIONALITY: Irish ETHNICITY: French/Irish/English

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: Galway, Ireland HOMETOWN: Galway, Ireland SOCIAL CLASS: Upper Class EDUCATION LEVEL: Student / High School FATHER: Gervais Fortescue, 60, Deputy Head Auror in the Auror Department of the Brtitish DMLE

Her idol. Her rock. Her mentor. Her monument. Gervais Fortescue is everything to Alice, and then some. It is thanks to him that the Fortescue’s are now labled blood traitors having been relatively neutral seeming in the past. Gervais was one of the most vocal wizards in favor of intervening in WWII, even moving to England to find a way to help the war effort as France was not a good place to be – especially after surrendering to Nazi Germany. He packed up along with Florean and made it a mission to make a difference in Wizarding Britain, succeeding as he became an extremely political and physical asset to the Ministry as years went by. Gervais is the sole reason the Ministry of Magic has been able to anticipate as many missions as they have and the reason the Order currently has half of the information that they do. His missions have now spanned all accross the world, making important & vital connections with people all over the globe. His side projects have included much research into runes, lycanthrophy, and different styles of magic. He’s not just a mentor to Alice, but a mentor to many within the Auror department, having been a mentor & trainer to many a Auror who’ve come through the department, often extending his home as a safe place for them to be in case they need somewhere to go. The only reason he’s not Head Auror is because he knows he’d lose the freedom of traveling & researching as much as he does today. Gervais has unfortunately been on many a Death Eater & Co. radars, having infiltrated their plans, throwing quite a few Dark Wizards in Azkaban over the years.

MOTHER: Lucille Fortescue neé Rowle, 57, Former Herbologist & Current ‘Stay At Home’ Mother

Once a woman who could electrify a room, Lucille was an Irish woman with more life than her Pureblood family could handle. They were far too traditional, treacherous, straight laced, close minded for her tastes and always had been. When Lucille could, she moved away from her family, cutting ties and moving in with her best girlfriends, taking a job in Ireland as a Herbologist. For a few years, she was happy that way, having grown an extensive garden, finding home in Galway, finding family, and finding a random man hiding in her garden who’d later introduce himself as Gervais Fortescue. Over drinks she learned he was an Auror currently on mission, who later explained he’d been hiding from someone chasing him. Love at first sight might’ve been impractical, but, Lucille felt an instant connection to Gervais. Two years later, they were married, living their independent lifestyles while finding a way to share their life together. Alice remembers her mother as the woman who sang to her, who read stories to her, who soothed her fears, who inspired her love for Herbology and so much more. After the death of her unborn son, Tiernan, she became a ghost of the woman she once was. In Lucille’s mind, she was every horrible thing her parents had thought of her, she was a failure of a mother, she was a failure to her whole family. The woman who used to attend every Ministry party on the arm of her husband now retreats, barely coming out to greet company, barely talking to her loved ones at all. While Gervais, Alice, & Florean know that she needs professional help, it didn’t seem like she’s able to accept it. Luckily, she was no danger to herself and has lived out her days borderline catatonic & completely detached.

SIBLING(S): Tiernan Fortescue, Deceased. EXTENDED FAMILY: Emmeline Vance ( cousin, verse dependent ), Florean Fortescue ( uncle )\

FLOREAN FORTESCUE: | 58 | OWNER & CREATOR OF FLOREAN FORTESCUE’S ICE CREAM PARLOUR & LEATHER JACKET GAY/BI

Coming from a long line of Aurors, protectors, Hit Wixes, even noblemen who went up in the ranks because of their hardwork & success at protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves ( eventually being labeled blood traitors in French Wizarding Society for it ), Florean was much more of a creative mind. He as always working with hands, whether it was working on muggle & wizard cars & motor cycles or cooking, he always was able to create with them. He had the ambition to do something great, but didn’t like the idea of fighting. Of making the world more chaotic & less focused on the things that made your soul thrive. His love of food started at young age, and his love of making weird combinations of food started shortly after. Discovering that ice cream would be one of the perfect ways to express this mixed love of food that didn’t quite make sense was a revelation and with his trust fund, he created Fortescue’s in England. There he figured not only would it be a new start for the Fortescue name but something completely his own. Needless to say, it flourished and he’s been making flavors like Salted Caramel w/ Garlic to Strawberry Bubblegum (his niece’s favorite ), ever since. Florean also plays an important part for the Order of the Phoenix, using the apartment above Fortescue’s as an Order Member retreat and safe area. He’s also an informant & the eyes and ears keeping notes of the people of Diagon Alley.

BIRTH ORDER: Oldest! PET(S): BABY ( 7 ) & KIWI ( 9 and a half ) & BONAPARTE ( 2 ) & LILA FORTESCUE ( 15 ):Baby an Australian Shepherd, Kiwi a yellow lab, Lila a black cat that mainly keeps her mother company as her familiar. While Baby is much more Florean’s dog, it doesn’t stop Alice from kidnapping him from time to time, especially over the summer. Kiwi is Alice’s first true love, the dog she got after her brother’s death, who brings her immense support and comfort. When at home, Alice sleeps with the dog, eats with the dog, walks around her neigborhood and visits friends via floo with her dog, you name it. The pair are close, Alice still able to carry the dog even though she’s nearing tean years. When Kiwi had puppies, Alice kept one of them – Bonaparte – who separated himself from the rest with his boundless energy, constant attempt at barking ( that was often just a whine ), and non stop attention seeking nature. Alice fell in love with him right away, naming him after Napoleon as a joke because of his demanding but small nature. The runt of the litter, Alice loves him fiercely, whenever Alice is home he follows her practically everywhere – even the bath. Lila’s been around for what seems to have been Alice’s whole life, always more fond of spending time keeping Lucille company than bothering with Alice.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 7.5/10 only because as much as she tries to make up for it with all the training she does, while she can be lethal, she still is short and still training and always learning how to make up for that against people much bigger than that. OFFENSE: 9/10 DEFENSE: 8.5/10 SPEED: 9/10 INTELLIGENCE: 8.5/10 ACCURACY: 10/10 AGILITY: 8/10 STAMINA: 9.5/10 TEAMWORK: Fantastic at teamwork and often more of a leader than a follower. However, she will respect who is the leader if she feels they are competent enough, acting as a perfect right hand. TALENTS: Dueling. Fighting, physically. Compassionate & empathetic and able to manipulate people’s emotions to help them and if needed, help herself. SHORTCOMINGS: Emotionally repressive and compartmentalizes to an insane degree. Too forgiving. Unable to stop, take breaks, and can give into her obsessive tendencies. LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: English, French, conversational German, DRIVE?: Yes! JUMP-STAR A CAR?: Yes, haha, thanks Uncle Florean! CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: Yes. RIDE A BICYCLE?: Yes. SWIM?: Yes. PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: Yes, the piano! PLAY CHESS?: Sometimes. Definitely not her first priority or something she’ll go to automatically. She’s not bad at it but she’s definitely not the best out there. BRAID HAIR?: Yes! Especially loves braiding flowers into hair. TIE A TIE?: Yes! Alice loves her ties! PICK A LOCK?: Yes!

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: Marilyn Lima EYE COLOR: Blue HAIR COLOR: Currently, a dark brown. Though as mentioned before, Alice loves LOVES to change up her hair, changes up her hair often. Her favorite hair color is between bubblegum pink and her natural dirty blonde. She really really loves pink though. HAIR TYPE/STYLE: Naturally, Alice was blessed with easy to manage, loose waves and fairly soft. Alice makes sure to condition and manage it really well between all her hair coloring charms, doing a few hair masks every week. The only issue she has with her hair is it’s sometimes can get oily, though she makes sure to wash it enough as to where that doesn’t happen often. Alice’s hair styles vary from Leia like space buns to loose and free. Half up, half down is probably her usual most practical style she likes to wear, adding her favorite sunflower clip at the base of the top bun. GLASSES/CONTACTS?: Alice needs glasses but only slightly – she’s slightly farsighted. She only wears them when she’s got intense studying sessions where she has to read a lot, she uses them. DOMINANT HAND: Left! But she writes with her right. Her duelling hand is her left, though. She’ll duel and write a letter at the same time! HEIGHT: Alice is a shortie. A short hoe. 5′2″ on a good day! WEIGHT: 54 kgs/120 pounds BUILD: While Alice definitely has the appearance of looking extremely thing, she’s ALL lean muscle. Most of her body weight is muscle and bones, but she is healthy enough to make sure maintains a healthy amount of fat. EXERCISE HABITS: Every morning Alice goes for a run, at least 5 miles during the school year. During the summer her training is much more intense and diversified. Alice has been learning Krav Maga as of late and takes boxing lessons from some of her father’s Auror trainee’s. She’s exceptionally trained in Savate, has been since she was a child. Alice does an intense round of stretching at night before bed for 30 minutes, rolling out her muscles, the works. After her daily run, Alice practices her Dueling, using an empty classroom she’s scouted out for Dueling Club, charming dummy after dummy to approach etc. At home, Alice trains for at least 3 hours a day ( but will take one week off a month to train less and to explore more, so, only an hour a day ), reading up on any new developments in the martial arts and dueling worlds. SKIN TONE: Bitch is white! Basically, a few shades darker than pale. TATTOOS: Carefully placed floral tattoos. As her Uncle Florean went with her this past summer ( end of June ) to get her first tattoo, something her father would blow a gasket at. While she’s planned for a good few more once she’s left home, this was her first tattoo. PIERCINGS: Ears & Bellybutton. When I say ears I mean Helix, Forward Helix, Industrial, Lobe Piercings, Rim/Auricle. MARKS/SCARS: Sweet lord, well, Alice has freckles very lightly spattering across her cheeks and some on her shoulders. And when I mean light, I mean LIGHT. As for scars, USUAL EXPRESSION: Usually a smile or a very open warm expression. Unless she’s Dueling or working on something, then she’s ridiculously focused and almost a resting bitch face. CLOTHING STYLE: Truly this gyal is clothing goals. When she wears jeans, they have to have a floral pattern stitched on. She loves loves loose fitting tops that are cinched at he waist. Long maxi dresses. But also? Alice loves wearing overalls when she does anything Herbology related, especially when she tends her families garden at home that her mum hasn’t kept up. When Alice means business or is just feeling like she needs to go slay, she’s very inclined to wear suits, much like Harry Styles style of suits though? Dark Florals, withplatform leather boots of all different colors. Or styles. Jumpsuits of all colors and patterns as well. Another favorite combo is short skirts with leather jackets. When going to concerts, Alice wears her favorite floral charmed Doc martens. With EVERY outfit, Alice wears a pair of sunglasses. She has an extensive sunglasses collection she cherishes. On New Years, she goes even more into sparkles & such than she usually does. Christmas, she’ll wear something that emulates the star on top of the tree or some really ugly cheesy Christmas sweater that Florean likes to knit. On Easter, she’ll wear something long, floral and flowy. When working out, the recent invention of the sports bra has saved her ass. Unless she’s practicing Krav Maga or Savate where uniforms are involved, for running she wears a Sports Bra with a cut out tight fitting shirt or a tank top with extremely short shorts. Some other styles include: [ x ] [ x ] [ x ] [ x x ] [ x ] [ x ] With her school outfits, Alice gets away with as much improv as she can, wearing funky socks, adding pins on ties and jewelry galore. Alice’s favorite sort of lingerie and underclothes are lacy and delicate, otherwise she’d prefer not to wear a bra or anything too heavy duty – luckily she doesn’t have to. Sometimes Alice will bind when she’s feeling somewhat dysphoric, and those are the days she’s definitely more masc in appearance. Otherwise, Alice really does enjoy being topless & naked, unfortunately, that’s not usually socially acceptable. JEWELRY: Alice ADORES jewelry. She’s always wearing a piece of jewelry at all times. Usually stacked rings, stacked necklaces. Dangling pendants. Hanging pendants with crystals on the bottom. A ring for almost every finger. A family heirloom with the Fortescue family crest is perhaps her most prized possession. It’s been past down from son to son, until Alice, who was not a son but just as worth. Alice’s heirloom is a sword pendant. Though not in that picture, there are flowers near the base of the sword and on the blade there’s a phrase that means ‘With A Warrior’s Heart’. ALLERGIES: Bigots. Walnuts. Penicillan.

#tasks.#headcanon.#WOOOO i went AWF but ive wanted to make one for her for like literal YEARS so #finally did!! proud of myself!!

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queenzufufu · 6 years

Text

Soldier Boy (2/?)

Summary: Alfredo only had three main goals in life: earn money, keep his family safe, and to try and one up his parents and make it past the age of thirty.

The Fakes? He couldn’t be any further from that world. No doubt he’d love to be part of it but he knows it’s never going to happen. There’s just no way.

Until one night, and one heist gone wrong, finds him in the middle of a gang war that he finds he has no choice but to get involved in.

Part 1 AO3

Bursting through his door, Alfredo wanted nothing more than to run and lock himself in the bathroom. Unfortunately, that isn’t an option, as the familiar sound from the water pipes informs him his grandma is currently occupying that particular space.

So instead, he runs downstairs, to his room, to the childhood room he’s grown up in, hoping that maybe it can offer some form of comfort and calmness. He doesn’t know what to do - he supposes, the smartest idea would be to wait for his brother to come home and confront him about the mess he’d got Alfredo into earlier. For the other... issue… Shit, he didn’t know, was he even supposed to do anything about that?

It was just - fuck, it was all just such a big fucking mess right now. His head is spinning, his heart pounding, he can still taste the smoke on his tongue and hear the voices of those men.

The Fakes.

Somehow repeating the name in his mind adds to the gravitas of that day’s earlier events.

The Fakes.

He’d been in their company, by complete accident, he’d been put in the company of at least some of the crew he’d worshiped on TV and in the papers all these years.

How many had there been? There’d been the two in the building and the one outside who’d tripped him. Had the others been there too? Sure, no one knew quite how many members there were but it was more than three. Usually there’d be reports of at least five or six.

What’s it matter anyway? Get a grip of yourself.

He hears the door above click shut and exhales in relief. His brother is home and they can deal with the more pressing shit now and keep Alfredo’s mind distracted from the more insane but relatively non-urgent matter.

Denver’s dressed how he normally is. Long white t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and a snapback - like almost every other guy in their neighborhood. He and his brother look remarkably similar, the main difference being Denny was granted the gift of actually being able to grow facial hair.

He greets Alfredo with an amused smile as his younger brother scrambles up the stairs and into the kitchen, and is already busying himself with taking the pre-cooked dinner out of the pot - one that Alfredo had completely ignored in his frenzy - beginning to dish it up.

Alfredo wastes no time in blurting out everything that had gone down in the alleyway after he’d left the club, maybe missing the minor details about how he’d practically pissed himself, but telling his brother of all the important stuff. Namely the money and when they wanted it by.

To his shock, and dismay, Denny seems largely unbothered by it. Well, he’s sure as pissed that they jumped Alfredo like that, but about the whole owing them money? He laughs it off like one would at the silly antics of squabbling children.

“Yeah? Y’know we wouldn’t have this problem if they gave me the good stuff in the first place. Rats are getting smarter - they’re no longer falling for the white chalk shit. Bastards think they can make me submit? I’ll show ‘em what I’m made of, they’ll wish they never met me.” He’s all confidence and lazy grins, and Alfredo starts to think that maybe he’s been freaking out over nothing.

Denny just shoves a plate of food in front of him and orders him to eat. “I’ll deal with it, kiddo. Don’t worry about it.”

It feels like he only blinks and it’s the dead of night, but he can’t sleep. Tomorrow he’s going to have a proper talk with Denver whether his older brother wants to or not. His brother was up late - talking on the phone or his laptop to someone, the quiet murmurings of his voice echoing down the stairs to the basement, and Alfredo could see the hallway light was still on - but since then things have gone quiet and dark and still, and Alfredo assumes he’s asleep.

Unlike Alfredo - the dim glow of the moonlight seeping through the tiny windows that looked more like they were drains once upon a time, reminds him of other later nights back when he was small and he’d wait up in bed for his father to come home after a job, buzzing with anticipation to see the man and hear his stories, or those first few evenings after his father had been killed when Alfredo had been too young to really understand that death meant he’d never see the man again. The word ‘never’ not making sense in his confused and distressed mind. Nights spent staring into a particular space not seeable during daylight. His memories, his pains, his fears.

When he wakes up, Denver’s already gone. Alfredo suspects his brother is avoiding him. That was the thing - Denny could talk a mile an hour about anything to anyone, but when it came to personal issues involving family, he’d rather things just be left unspoken. Maybe they were too similar in that respect. But the main difference was the little voice in Alfredo’s head simply wouldn’t allow things left unsaid, no matter how uncomfortable - never had been as good as blocking out his true feelings as his brother.

He tries texting but there’s no reply. He tries calling but it goes through to voicemail. It’s not unusual. His brother kept two phones on him and unless you called the emergency number he often wouldn’t pick up during the day unless you were one of the top dogs.

It’s Alfredo’s one day off in the week, so he thinks, to hell with it, he’ll wait until his brother gets back. Better try and talk things through today rather than waiting til tomorrow when those Ruski’s will be expecting their money.

He waits. And he waits. And he lies and waits when his Grandma arrives home and questions if he’s been inside all day. And when it begins to grow dark he waits some more.

And when it’s nearing ten he receives a text from Denny simply saying he wasn’t coming home that night - that he was too busy. Alfredo reads that as “going to the strip club”.

So seeing as there’s no point in waiting, and that he’s wasted a whole day, Alfredo does the only thing possible. He goes out for a drink.

It’s getting overly crowded and loud, but Alfredo doesn’t feel like leaving just yet. The Rusty is a bar frequented by all kinds of blue collar, lower class folk of their neighborhood. It’s warm, the staff don’t take any shit, and the beer flows cheap and cheerful.

By all accounts, he’d normally enjoy an atmosphere like this. Drunken laughter, the heavy smell of booze, the old-timey songs being played from the jukebox - he’d spent away many a night here, even before, when he was too young to be in such an establishment - and it almost felt like a second home at times. Never seemed to have as much time to visit anymore, though.

But even the familiar setting fails to take his mind off things - as the evening had worn on, Alfredo had found himself sinking deeper and deeper into thoughts of the events occurring the other night.

Who knows what’ll happen if you run into either of them again, you’re nothing compared to The Fakes, a speck of dust on their radar, and you’ve already shown weakness against those Ruskis. Doesn’t help that Denny brushed you off, but he is the one people have always said is more suited to this life. He probably knows what he’s doing. Still, can’t help imagining all the ways things could go wrong, if something goes wrong…

A hand brushes against his hip, now, and he’s looking up to see a dark haired older woman leaning over him, posturing her figure suggestively against the bar. His stomach churns at the idea of actually interacting with another human being right now, but his natural politeness wins over.

He feels the woman’s eyes on him as he asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She smiles, leaning further forward, her movements unsteady. “Bye me a drink?”

Alfredo side-glances. She’s a regular, he’s seen her around quite a bit. “I uh… maybe another night.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t like what you see?” she purrs, tracing a finger down her neck to cleavage, biting her lip invitingly.

It’s a dance she’s probably done a hundred times over. Actually, Alfredo’s pretty sure he’s given her money once when she tried this before, just trying to be kind, but she took it as an insult, claiming she wasn’t “some whore”.

He swallows, rushing to think up an excuse, and then purposefully looks away, muttering, “I’m gay.” What? Where the fuck did that come from? That was a new one when it came to excuses. Usually his natural awkwardness would ward any lady off after a while.

The woman snorts, haphazardly standing up straight again. “So?”

At Alfredo’s silence, she sneers. “Whatever, don’t bother me.” And then she’s staggering off, to a man sitting just a few stools down from Alfredo, leaning over him and proceeding to ask the same question.

Alfredo finishes his drink and stands up. He had hoped that maybe he’d find some answers to his problems at the bottom of his glass, but he’s three drinks down and starting to feel tipsy, and there has been no such grand eureka moment yet.

He heads outside, squeezing through the crowds, avoiding drinks being waved precariously in the air. He doesn’t know if he’s going to head home but he… he just needs some fresh air for a minute.

There're two men smoking outside but they leave pretty soon after, leaving Alfredo leaning against the wall. The city always feels strange at night, alien. This part of town, one that wasn’t particularly glamorous or touristy always fell into a sort of slumber. The streets deserted. The only sound coming from establishments like The Rusty, the occasional shouting and dogs barking, and the age-old sound of gunfire, followed - sometimes - by police sirens.

He’s interrupted from his daydreaming by shouts, or grunts, that suddenly begin echoing from nearby. It sounds unmistakably like a fight breaking out. Either that or a couple are very violently making out in the back alley. It is probably something Alfredo should steer well clear of.

Still. He’s always been too curious for his own good, and it’s not like anything too bad can happen, not if he keeps hidden.

Edging quietly along the wall and peering cautiously around the corner, he freezes at the sight of four men engaged in a fistfight. At first he just assumes it’s a normal drunken brawl, but the actions are too precise, too well-balanced, and he realizes it’s more than a common scrap.

At first glance it looks like a very uneven match. Two brutes of men, both with buzzcuts and tattoo filled arms, going up against two smaller, scrappy dudes. But on closer inspection, it looks like something completely different. One of the smaller ones, a skinny guy dressed head to toe in black, with his hood up, isn’t even bothering to throw a punch of his own. Instead, he is simply ducking and diving under every fist thrown his way. His movements are lithe and sleek, like a cat, perfectly timed and graceful. He doesn’t even seem to be that invested in the scrap.

And the other man, slightly shorter with curly hair, in just a t-shirt and jeans, is just as unconventional. The man he may going up against may be double the size of him, but again, each time the big man tries to attack, he performs some reversal, ending with the big guy trapped in some hold, only to release him a moment later. He was toying with him, that was clear, looking like he was enjoying it too, because after a few more rounds the smaller man starts laughing.

Perhaps it’s his laughter that causes him to lose concentration for just that split second, because a devastating right hook to his cheek has his whole body spinning backward.

The man slowly raises his head, bringing up a hand to touch at his face, and Alfredo’s heart doubles its speed without him knowing why.

Do I… know you? He can’t quite see him properly, there’re too many shadows falling across him.

He doesn’t have long to take in his face anyway, because the man suddenly grins, sneers, and is quickly spinning back and landing a punch of his own, one that sends the huge guy crashing to the ground. He spits red on him, and Alfredo can’t quite hear but he’s pretty sure he says something like, “You had to go and ruin the fun, didn’t you?”

Again, there’s that twinge of recognition in the back of Alfredo’s mind, as the man then saunters slowly down the alley, towards his accomplice.

The other man is left blinking in a daze on the ground, but after a second his attention is grabbed. Alfredo wanders if he’s had his senses knocked from him as he starts leaning towards a pile of trash stacked up against the wall - squints as the man reaches behind one of the trash bags and slowly pulls on something. His eyes narrow as the gleam of metal shines under the dim street lights. The dude had somehow found and was pulling out a fucking metal pipe! Now that would certainly spice things up, although he doubted it would change the outcome much.

The shorter man stops, hearing the footsteps as his foe struggled to his feet and staggered behind him. Alfredo sees the figure's shoulders sagging, as if bored. But he didn’t do anything else. Surely he would turn now to face his attacker? No matter how amazing you were, that was generally a good idea.

As the brute grows closer, Alfredo finds himself stepping slightly around the corner.

“Back for round two?” the man snidely asks, still without turning around.

Turn around dude! Alfredo wasn’t quite sure why he was on a side all of a sudden.

The man doesn’t turn, only his fists clenching. The oncoming attacker has his grip still firmly around the metal pipe.

Alfredo bites his lip. Again, it’s that same compulsion he felt when he’d ran inside a burning building - back then he’d thought it was because of some complex of wanting to be a hero for once instead of a criminal. Now though, there was no reason like that. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to let this brute of a guy hit the other with a solid chunk of metal.

As the man raises the pipe, aiming for the curly head, Alfredo charges forward without so much as a pause to think, launching a surprise attack on him. He’s kept himself strong, lean, all his life, but he was nothing compared to this mass of a man. Jumping on him had seemed like a good idea at the time, not so much when the curly haired man aims a powerful kick to the brute’s crotch - although he can’t see properly but honestly, it’s the only thing that could have occurred.

The man doesn’t even scream or shout - his whole body just goes rigid, like he’s been electric shocked, and then slowly, almost comically, the man falls backward - and naturally, because he’s an idiot, Alfredo goes with him. He isn’t sure the black dots that appear in his vision will ever go away, as he struggles under what feels like three hundred pounds of human.

Well… that was successful. You. Fucking. Idiot.

He hears more shouting, and the sound of another body hitting the deck, and then… it’s quiet again. Other than the low rasps of pain coming from above him. No lie - you hit a man where it really matters and he’s reduced to a whimpering baby.

Alfredo’s world shifts and rejoices at once, as eventually the weight is hauled off him and chucked into a wall nearby. There are a few mutterings and then someone is approaching him quickly.

There’s a pause as Alfredo blinks blearily up at the man, who stares back down at him silently, and Alfredo remembers that shit, yeah, he wasn’t exactly on this guy’s side. He’d just decided in his idiotic brain that he should help. For all he knew, this guy was some fucking murderer or something!

Great… you’ve really done fucked up now. You should -

“Hey, it’s the kid again!” The voice doesn’t sound angry, but excited. As his vision comes back into focus, he can see it belongs to the curly haired man, and Alfredo recognizes him, and he remembers that voice. And his eyes nearly pop out of his skull.

“What the fuck are you looking at? Get the hell outta here!” An angry British voice snaps. Alfredo isn’t sure if it’s directed at him. “And if he’s not dead, get that guy outta here too!” Guess not.

“It’s alright, Gav, I know him, he’s the kid me and Geoff ran into - or he ran into us…”

There’s a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, Michael, we shouldn’t have come here anyway. I bloody told you it was a bad idea, bloody told you, but noooo, oh it’ll be fine you said, what’s the worst that can happen?” He squawks out in a high pitched imitation.

The man leaves Alfredo, who manages to push himself up into a sitting position, breathing heavily.

He looks over at the two, who are standing over the two brutes, who in turn are even more dazed than Alfredo. “You think these are the guys?” the curly haired man asked, vaguely hopeful sounding.

Alfredo doesn’t know what they mean by “the guys”. He’s more concerned with the fact that they’ve both just addressed the other by their names - their first names - in front of him. That’s not right, his fuzzy mind told him, you’re not supposed to know that. This could be really bad.

Fortunately they seem to have forgotten about Alfredo for the time being. The one called Gav inspects the two men, left slumped against the wall in their daze. He eyes them fiercely, like a big cat mulling over its dinner. “Nah, I know these two psychos - they’re no hardened criminals they’re just stupid, and desperate.” He emphasises the descriptions with a firm kick at each guy, before stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “C’mon, Michael let’s go. You two, fuck off.”

The men don’t need to be told twice - scrambling haphazardly to their feet and scampering off down the alley like kids running from a school fight.

“You wanna go, you go. But I’m not leaving until I’ve had at least one drink.”

For a moment, Alfredo thinks the British man is going to argue, but then he looks away, resigned, and kicks at an empty beer bottle. “Fine, you go in. I’ll stay out here and keep watch.

A moment’s silence - perhaps an unspoken argument, but then the attention’s unfortunately back on Alfredo. “Hey,” the man asks, crouching down in front of him and snapping his fingers in front of his eyes. “You okay, dude?”

“I –” Alfredo falters, thinking over his word choice carefully. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse,” he assures. His ribs aren’t broken at least - he hadn’t heard or felt a crack. Maybe just a little bruised - and he’d dealt with those before.

The man nods, offering his hand, and slowly Alfredo accepts it. “Tough guy, huh?” he says, as he pulls him to his feet.

“Nah… just a soldier,” Alfredo replies through gritted teeth.

The corner of the man’s mouth tilts upwards, where a bruise is already forming. “Thank you, soldier. I owe you one. Made my day with that little stunt you pulled there.”

“Everything okay?” Alfredo surprises himself by asking, and the guy, Michael - he now knows this guy’s name is Michael - raises his eyebrows, also seeming surprised by the question, amused even.

“Yeah, I’m fine, not the first fist fight I’ve been in and sure as hell won’t be the last. Hey, you sure you’re okay?” He asks as Alfredo doubles over again as he tries to stand up straight, and he places a hand on Alfredo’s shoulder. He frowns as Alfredo flinches away instinctively, his brain still partially screaming at him to get away as quick as possible.

“Just winded. That guy was built like a fucking football player.” Alfredo looks down, biting at his lower lip. After a moment he blurts out, words tripping over each other in his haste. “I don’t wanna cause any trouble. I’m not gonna do nothin’. I won’t say nothin’. I can just go and forget about everything. Did before, I didn’t mean to run into you again, it just happened. I’m sorry.”

Michael looks confused for a second, but then his face softens as he reads between the lines. He moves a hand under Alfredo’s arm and helps straighten him up - a gentle but strong touch - slowly enough this time that Alfredo doesn’t flinch. He must think you a weakling, Alfredo thinks. Getting into such a state after something as small as that. Alfredo knows he wouldn’t normally act like this either, but it’s… well, it’s been a hectic couple of days.

“Hey,” Michael says, with surprising tenderness. “Let’s go inside - I wanna drink and I owe you at least one too. Those guys may have spooked Gav, but to hell if a couple of brain-dead thugs are gonna put a dampener on my night. And about the whole, you know what we look like so now we’re gonna have to kill you thing, don’t worry about it, it’s just a scare tactic - well, sort of - and by now I think I’ve gotta pretty good idea about you. Far as I’m concerned this is twice you’ve gone out of your way to help someone you thought you saw in trouble. Thank you.”

He sounds sincere, and Alfredo peeks up at him.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, with a little smile. “I think I was just trying to feel like I was doing something good for once.” Even as he says it the words don’t quite sound true, but it’s the closest he can get to it right now.

“Well, consider your good deed of the day done. Not saying that I wouldn’t have handled that dude, cause I would’ve, but I appreciate back up in any form.”

He begins to pull Alfredo back into The Rusty - which is a strange atmosphere to return to - with a grin, and Alfredo fights off his rabbit in headlights expression. It’s insane. What’s happening right now is insane. Only two nights ago he’d been witnessing this guy - one of the Fakes, people he’s been idolizing for years - pull off some sort of heist, or at least escape one that had somehow gone wrong. And now here he was, being pulled into The Rusty by the same dude, who was now offering to buy him a drink.

Just stay cool. He won’t try anything dodgy in here, with all these people around. Just gotta be careful. This guy almost seems like any normal person - there’s no need to freak out. But he wasn’t like any normal person, that was the problem.

“My Grandma used to raise me on your news clips,” he whispers, and Michael shakes his head while Alfredo’s cheeks burn. What the hell did I just say?

“Y’know, you’d be surprised how often we hear that.” He chuckles lightly. "Hell, I was kinda the same."

The casual ease in the way Michael replies to that quite frankly creepy admission, makes it a little easier to breathe. Michael must notice the relief on his face; he looks amused suddenly, but doesn’t say anything about it. Just eyes out a couple of free seats and pulls Alfredo over to them, pulling out a chair and practically forcing Alfredo into it.

“I’m gonna get one of their craft beers. That good for you?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Alfredo assures him, and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, checking his ribs over once again. Ouch, yep definitely bruised. When he opens them again, Michael has already closed in on the bar, and once again Alfredo’s brain seems intent on reminding him of the absurdity of this situation.

This isn’t something that just happens. This isn’t something that just happens to a guy like me. And yet it had. And as Michael returns, drinks in hand, it becomes that more real.

Michael sits, setting their drinks down, and immediately takes a gulp of his, letting out a satisfied sound as the liquid touches his lips. “Needed that - this is what I came for, a good drink with good company. Well, Gav was my first choice but seeing as he’s decided to go on watchdog duty, you’ll have to do. There’s many other nights for me and Gav.” Michael’s smile is fond and Alfredo feels a tinge of something almost like jealousy. It must be nice, being part of such a tight and trusting crew, having people you relied on that closely.

Don’t get him wrong, Alfredo was tight with his own guys, but that only went so far. Most of them are only kids, he doesn’t know how many he could truly count on in a life and death situation. And outside of work, if they weren’t family, he barely saw them at all. It was purely business.

“Holy shit!” Michael exclaims, breaking Alfredo out of his reverie. The older man’s staring at him likes he’s just discovered something amazing. “I just realized I’ve been talking to you all this time, and I don’t even know your name. My mother would be absolutely horrified by my lack of manners.”

Oh, that was right, wasn’t it? Somewhere in his mind, Alfredo had assumed that Michael didn’t want to know his name, to at least keep some sort of distance between them. “It’s uh… I’m Alfredo,” he replies, quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Alfredo. I mean it. In my line of work you often find yourselves working within the same small circles, rare you actually just get to meet a normal dude who isn’t involved in my sort of life.” There’s something in the way Michael says it that makes Alfredo wonder what exactly Michael assumed he did; that Alfredo had already unintentionally given enough hints for the other to realize he didn’t exactly have a normal day job.

But then maybe that was the point. Maybe Michael just wanted someone to talk to someone who wouldn’t balk at his mere presence - no matter how in awe Alfredo was - but wasn’t high enough in the chain that they’d ever normally run into one another in their day to day lives. Not significant enough to be an ally. Or a rival.

“I guess I owe you too,” Alfredo murmurs. “You did let me use your little escape tunnel after all, even if I was only there thinking I was trying to save you. Most crews wouldn’t have let me walk out of there alive.”

“We aren’t most crews,” Michael replies, but raises an eyebrow at him. “But why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?”

Alfredo shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. He knows Michael’s prodding for answers is most likely out of pure curiosity - that Alfredo’s own problems probably seemed so minuscule to whatever had been going on with that heist and that fire - but something about the smile on Michael’s face makes Alfredo want to share everything, he wants Michael to know. To hear what’s going on, to offer some words of wisdom.

Here’s someone who’s been there and done it all, he thinks - surely he might have some idea on how to deal with a rival crew. And what the fuck, if he kills you after this, at least you’ve got something off your chest.

“I… I ran into some trouble,” he says hesitantly, keeping a firm gaze on his drink rather than at Michael. “Before I ran into your lot, I was walking home. There were these guys - rival crew, I know ‘em, or know of them - and they jumped me. Only two guys, I know it sounds dumb, but they took me unawares and suddenly there’s this knife at my throat. Said my brother owed them money, that he’d taken a package and hadn’t paid ‘em back. Said if they didn’t get that money back by tomorrow night there’d be trouble.” Alfredo sighs. “But when I talked to my brother he told me that the stuff they gave him were bad, that it wasn’t selling for enough and that there was no way he was payin’ them back. Said he’d sort it all out, but I dunno…”

“Shit - so this is all over some heroin? Coke?”

Alfredo’s lips twist, wryly.

“It must seem… very trivial. Probably something you deal with loads, right?”

“You think?” Michael asks, and his eyes narrow in thought. “No, not really… I ain’t been alley jumped since I was a kid. Now you could say the violence and danger is upped significantly, but so’s my team and all the weapons and technology we have behind us.”

This is a weird conversation to be having.

“Yeah… different worlds. Sorry for rambling.”

“No, no, no - don’t apologize. I may be older now but don’t think I don’t remember how scary and personal local gang scraps can be. But I gotta few questions for you.” Michael sounds genuinely interested, and it’s gratifying - that someone cares. “What exactly is your role in your crew? What would be, say, your day-to-day schedule?”

It’s so strange - having the question presented in such a professional and normal way.

“Um, well I just run one of the corners. I’ve got guys who keep the packages in a safe place. I’m there to hand out and collect the cash in at the end of the day, and to deal with any trouble with the police or other crews who come on our turf.” He finds it’s embarrassing to admit, thinking how mundane it must sound, but Michael nods.

“So… you’re like a Lieutenant?”

Alfredo nods at the familiar term.

“And your crew, it’s drugs only?”

“Yeah, strict rules on that. Had a few guys get into some serious shit when they tried to deviate.”

Michael takes a long sip from his beer, placing it back down with a thud and spinning the half-full glass in one hand. “How long you been doing it?”

Alfredo shrugs, smiling uncertainly. “Forever. Was born into it. Kinda on and off during elementary and middle school - did a few months of high school but dropped out after uh… after my girlfriend dumped me. Been school-less and girlfriend-less ever since.”

“So you never really had much choice, I mean, in the career department, I’m sure you get a lot of offers with the other issue,” Michael scoffs, so matter-of-factly that Alfredo blushes. “Good looking kid like you, you must be more of a hit it and quit it kinda guy right now, I’m guessing.”

“Not really,” Alfredo mumbled, knotting his hands together. “I haven’t really been with anyone since then. Just sorta kept to myself and played video games in my room in my free time.” He wonders when this conversation had switched to his love life, or lack thereof.

Michael barks out a laugh, in a sort of disbelief. “Jeez, how old are you, kid?”

“Twenty-eight… I mean, almost.” It’s embarrassing, and it must show on his face, because Michael smiles.

“Hey, no shame in that Mr, Almost Twenty-Eight. I mean, I can’t really talk, I’ve only been in one serious relationship myself, I’m just lucky enough to still be in that same one. And I can see how your line of work doesn’t allow for many opportunities to hook up with someone. Heck, that’s why I wanted to buy you drink, not for um… I mean, I just wanted to meet someone new for a change, like I said.” It was the other man’s turn to blush, and it was such a human reaction that it catches Alfredo off guard, as if he didn’t expect a member of The Fakes to express such emotions. In a way, they’d always seemed to mythical, so inhuman, growing up and watching them in the news, perhaps he had started to view them as characters, rather than as people.

But then here was Michael, admitting to being in a quote-on-quote, serious relationship, and then getting all flustered.

“Married to your work, right?” Michael asks, the red still present in his pale cheeks.

“Something like that,” Alfredo says, and smiles a bit ruefully, finally relaxing a bit. The more time passed, the less he felt he was actually in any danger. Also the three and a bit beers could be helping. “I feel like I owe it. I’ve been told I owe it, to my family, and to the other members of the crew who looked out for me when I was small and both my parents were gone. Some days I dream of… something else but then I remind myself that that’s not real life, that that ain’t gonna happen, so I might as well make the most of what I got. And I am grateful for what I got. For my grandma and my brother. S’why stuff like this puts me on edge - anything to do with family, it makes everything that bit more real. And I’m not the guy who can cope with it. I’ve gotten better over the years but I’m just… I’m just not like the others. I’m a soldier, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t take pride in what I do. I just do it cause it’s my duty.” He lets out a long breath, admitting quietly, “And I fucking hate killing - seeing a body hit the floor after you’ve… that’s a sight you I can never forget.”

He glances back up at Michael, expecting ridicule or amusement from the man. Instead, what he finds shocks him. Michael nods. There’s a gentle understanding in his eyes, a look of empathy, Alfredo thinks. He supposes, if anyone knows what it was like to kill someone, it would be a member of The Fakes. He can’t even imagine how high their body count must be, individually and as a whole crew.

“I know it sounds dumb. And I know the guys I killed weren’t good either. But I take no pleasure in it, cause at the end of the day, when I look in their eyes and see the life leaving them… at the end of the day, I just find it’s my own face I’m staring into. That the guy I killed could have just as easily been me. Or my brother.” He looks to Michael again, almost desperately. “I can’t lose my brother, Michael.”

“Okay,” Michael breathes, and Alfredo huffs out a bit of a laugh, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Sorry, you didn’t come here to hear all that.”

“Not true. I came here for some company and some company you have provided. And believe it or not I know what you mean.” He gives Alfredo a hard stare. “We kill, you know that. It’s part of the job. But it is and always will be, a last resort. There’s a reason I run with the crew I chose and that’s one of them. If, for whatever reason, that were to change, then I’d be out. Quick as a flash, I’d be out. But luckily I don’t have to worry about shit like that.” He offers Alfredo an apologetic look. “I would help you with your problem, I really would, but there’s other stuff going on that we’re still trying to figure out ourselves - that little million something robbery you might’ve seen on the news the other week? Well, that’s all gone, and that’s not even the start of it. At the moment, the best I can offer you is some advice.”

Alfredo shrugs a bit, scratching his nails into the indents on wooden table, thinking over what Michael had just said - wondering what exactly had occurred. “That’s more than I could ever expect anyway,” he says, “You’ve taken me more seriously than members of my own crew would. When he looks up Michael’s eyes are genuinely concerned - genuinely angry, but not at Alfredo. On his behalf.

How could he care already? He barely knows you. Your problems are none of his concern and sounds like he’s got enough of his own.

Right?

He shakes it off. Their glasses are nearly empty now - he hadn’t even realized he’d been drinking.

“I think you should go with your brother tomorrow night - fuck what he says. If you’ve got a bad feeling about this, you trust your instincts. Bring back up if you want, who cares what they might think of you if it turns out everything’s fine.”

“Is that what you would do?” Alfredo asks, a little shyly.

Michael just shrugs. Apparently he’s got no qualms about sharing his secrets too, now.

“Yeah, that’s kinda a code I’ve always lived by and always tried to encourage others to follow. Gav, out there, he was more like you when I first met him - always unsure and second-guessing himself.” He leans forward, a strange smile on his lips. “Let me tell you right here and now, for all of his joking, that man out there possesses one of the most brilliant minds in this fucking city. I’ve lost count how many times his quick thinking has saved my sorry ass.”

“I see,” Alfredo whispers - maybe too quiet for Michael to hear him in the rowdy atmosphere. He feels a bit like an imposter. Hearing Michael talk about someone else in The Fakes, someone he was obviously very close to, felt like a privilege he shouldn’t be entitled to. There’s a deep something in Michael’s eyes, an emotion or memory that doesn’t quite seem to be going away. “And what if it does go bad? What if I find myself with a fight on my hands?” He’s had to deal with minor gang wars before, but never over something his brother had done. He’d never been directly linked to one before.

Michael’s spine stiffens.

“You fight tooth and nail with everything you’ve got,” he replies, voice deepening. “You do everything in your power to protect those around you and you won’t give in until your dying breath. You lay your life on the line if it means saving those you love.”

Alfredo shivers suddenly, even though it’s nowhere near cold. He has a feeling Michael is not only talking about Alfredo’s problems now.

“Is it bad?”

Alfredo doesn’t know why he asks. Curiosity, maybe. Or again - maybe a tad close to jealousy. That here was a man being very open and honest with his emotions and feelings towards his crew, an example of why The Fakes had stuck together when so many high-risk crews had disbanded, or disappeared or simply died out. Again, he was reminded how different their lives must be.

Michael looks down. Alfredo worries that he’s gone too far and he’s upset him, or angered him - but after a moment Michael starts laughing. Low, humorless, scoffing chuckles.

“I don’t know,” he replies, and reaches up, rubbing his hands over his face. As he tilts his head back, in the warm glow of the lights, Alfredo suddenly notices how young he looks. Soft cheeks, one darkening by the minute from the earlier punch, and feathery hair, the freckles on his face. “We don’t know who, what or why. The stuff that’s been happening to us recently is… concerning, but we’re working on it. That heist you caught us on the other night was actually a little test, we were expecting it to go wrong, ready for it to go wrong, had surveillance and guys all around to see if they could spot anything, but nope. We got nothing. Whoever these guys are, they’re good.”

“But you’ll be fine, I mean, you’re the most powerful gang in the city.”

“Yeah? We weren’t always. There was another lot who came before us. Powerful crews fall just as easily as small ones. The only difference being, they fall harder.”

Alfredo stares at him, confused, and after a moment Michael lowers his hands and stares back at him. His eyes aren’t angry, but there’s still that something in them - something deep and unsettled.

“Having power doesn’t mean you quit worrying. In fact, quite the opposite, cause it feels like everybody’s out to get you,” he continues. “And I’m not good at worrying, I leave that to Jack and Geoff. Let them handle things while I come out and try to drink my worries away.”

“You… you worry because you care,” Alfredo manages, and Michael gives a heavy sigh. His hands are braced against his knees.

“Of course I fucking care,” he says roughly, and takes a deep, shaky breath. “You’d understand if you were with us. Those guys… they’ve seen me at my very lowest and my very worst and yet somehow, for reasons I still struggle to understand, they stick by me, through it all, they’ve got my back. It can just send my head into a spin sometimes, y’know? Trying to make sure I got all their backs covered as well.”

“You sound like a good friend,” Alfredo says softly. Then, “Thank you, Michael. Not just for the whole not killing me part and offering me advice. But just for talking to me and for being honest. I haven’t… I don’t remember anybody talking to me like that. It was nice. I only wish I could help you the same way you’ve helped me.”

Michael’s face brightens a little. He shakes himself, seeming to attempt to regain some of his former bravado.

“It’s no problem,” he says, and turns away for a moment, shoulders heaving as he takes a deep breath. “Look at me. I came here to try and forget my problems with Gav, and instead I’ve laid them all out on the table to a complete stranger.” He smiles a little, regarding Alfredo. “Or maybe I should be calling you an acquaintance now, after all, you’ve sat here and listened to me spew shit,” he announces, and Alfredo chokes out a startled laugh.

“I think we’re even on that front,” he says.

Michael shrugs.

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be the wise old-timer, parting knowledge onto a scrappy young upstart like yourself - not unloading all my problems onto you.” He grins then, a fond smile shining towards Alfredo.

“Gavin’s gonna say I shouldn’t have told you any of that, in case you do turn out to be a piece of shit. But I’ve been around a lot of pieces of shit in my day - and you smell like roses compared to them so - thanks, for listening.”

Alfredo doesn’t really know what to say to that - some part of him still believes this is a dream he’ll wake up from at any moment - another part realizes that at some point in their whole conversation, they’d both finished their drinks, and he was also now completely relaxed. Michael’s smiling so warmly that he can’t help but return it.

“Tell you what, I might be otherwise occupied now, but what you said got me thinking,” Michael began, pulling something out of his pocket. “You got a pen on you?” Alfredo shakes his head, tilting it in curiosity as Michael snatches one off another table. “This here,” he says, scribbling down something on the scrap piece of paper, “this here’s my own personal number. You get in any trouble, you call that number. This is my favor to you for being such a good drinking buddy. It’s a one-time thing though, don’t think I can just go around helping you out whenever you need it.”

He stands up then, gripping Alfredo’s shoulder for a second, regarding him with a strange expression, and then leaving without another word.

Alfredo watches him leave, then turns back. The piece of paper sits in front of him. The digits on there staring back at him - never had he thought he’d be so hypnotized by a set of numbers.

Alfredo lets out a shaky laugh of disbelief, grabbing the note and stuffing it deep in his pocket.

Well, fuck me.

Everything was wrong the moment he entered the building - an abandoned warehouse near the docks, in a section guarded by one elderly, half-asleep guard who didn’t give a damn what went on during his watch. Alfredo was just glad his brother had let slip where the meet was in the first place - after that initial talk, he hadn’t seen his brother since.

He’d woken up late after the previous night, and had then needed an extra hour or so to try and comprehend what had happened and convince himself it hadn’t all just been a dream. In the end, the piece of paper, still in his pocket, was all the confirmation he’d needed.

His brother was already gone, working, and it was where Alfredo should have been a few hours earlier. Surprisingly, his grandma hadn’t woken him up, but all made sense when he went upstairs and saw an angry note saying that she’d tried to wake him up but failing that ordered him to tidy the house from top to bottom before she returned home.

There was also a voicemail from Angel calling him a “lazy ass sonofabitch” but also saying he’d cover for him and offering him any help if he needed it. Yeah, that kid was alright. But Alfredo didn’t want to drag the teen into this. He’d called up a few of the boys, but none of them saw the point of accompanying him. They were all busy. Alfredo would have to be enough.

He was going to the meet early, in order to not miss it. He’d called Denny a few times as well, but again there’d been no answer - his brother was just going to have to get pissed that Alfredo had turned up uninvited.

As he stepped into the warehouse, though, an unnerving sense of dread had descended upon him. It’s growing dark, evening closing in. His shadow casts long - looming and vanishing into the dark building. His ribs still give off a dull ache. He's wrapped them tightly but it'll take them a few weeks to heal up. He just hopes he won't need to do any fighting today.

He walks further in.

There's no one about. It’s quiet, strangely so, ominously so - he can’t see or hear anyone.

But that’s not why he’s frozen to the spot.

It’s largely empty and filled with an old, rusty smell, and there’s a cold draft flowing through the open space.

That’s not why he’s shaking.

Specks of dust, illuminated by the hole in the roof, floating down slowly, swirling into various patterns, descending to the floor in their little dance.

That’s not why he’s staring.

That’s not why his heart's thudded to a stop.

The figure was lying with his back to him, but Alfredo knew, with his heart in his throat, he knew who it was the second his eyes laid eyes on them. Long white t-shirt, jeans, dark hair.

His legs were stumbling forward, as his lungs constricted under the shock at the sight.

He collapsed to his knees next to his brother, not bothering to question why the floor felt damp when it hasn’t rained in weeks. He can’t take his eyes off the back of his brother’s head.

“Denny…”

He reaches out and grabs the shoulder. He pulls until his brother falls onto his back.

Cold, pale skin. Open, soulless eyes. Throat slit.

He’s dead.

“Denny, c-c’mon…”

No. It can’t be.

But it is. He’s dead. His older brother is dead.

He shifts and his knees nearly slip. Only now does he notice there’s so much blood; everywhere he looks is red. He’s breathing too fast and it’s a struggle to stop it.

Not dead. Murdered.

He hears the sounds of footsteps approaching, tap-tapping on the concrete floor. He tries to stand up, but can’t. His knees are rooted to the ground and he can feel a sickly dampness seeping through the denim. He can’t bring himself to stand, though - all the life has been drained out of him, just like his brother’s had.

“What have you done to him?” he hisses, although it’s painfully obvious what had been done to his brother. Not just the method of death, such a cruel way to go - struggling for air and choking on your own blood -

Alfredo doesn’t want to think about it but he can’t help himself. Can’t begin to imagine his brother, a man he’d always idolized and looked up to, more than anyone - even The Fakes - who’d always been so strong and outgoing - can’t imagine his last moments being so… helpless.

“Take a good look at him, boy.” It’s the same guy he met before, the smaller one. He’s wearing a fedora this time - decked out in a suit like an old-school gangster. This time he’s also accompanied by not just one, but half a dozen henchmen, all clones of each other. “He came to us earlier than scheduled, demanded to talk to us, demanded that we be the ones who apologize. Threatened us. Pulled a gun on one of my men. Well…” he scoffs. “This is what happens when you don’t meet our demands. Your brother did this to himself because he had the nerve to go back on his word. He was in the wrong here, boy, and you can’t say I didn’t give him a chance to pay his debts. I am a reasonable man after all.”

No.

This was more than a petty squabble over money.

Alfredo’s fists clenched, his fingers sticking to his palms.

This wasn’t things were done! Was this guy insane? Alfredo knew that this horrendous act only meant one thing. An outright declaration of war. And a war was bad for all crews involved. Nothing good ever came of it. Just more death and destruction.

“But a man can only be reasonable for so long,” the man carries on, as deadly calm as ever. “Your brother’s actions have bought you some time, but now it’s up to you to pay up.” He crouches down, breath tickling Alfredo’s ear, and it takes every inch of Alfredo’s self-restraint not to grab at his throat. “You don’t bring me what that shit head owed me by Saturday and it’ll be your dear old grandmama next. You got that?”

When he pats Alfredo on the back, every fiber of his being is screaming at him to kill. To take his revenge. To make him pay.

He wants to do something. He wants to make things right. But the only way to do that is go back in time. Doing anything now would only get himself killed, and that wouldn’t do anyone much good.

So he lets them go. Still knelt in his brother's blood, hands lying limply on his knees, tear-filled eyes staring into his brother’s own lifeless ones.

They leave him there, struggling to breathe properly, eyes blurry, stinging; muscles constricting painfully, whole body shaking.

The coldness in the warehouse, and from the oncoming night, claws into his bones. Suddenly he can’t be near Denny anymore, can’t bear to look at him. That’s not his brother anymore. His brother is gone.

He runs - in no particular direction. Just runs as fast as he can away from that warehouse and the body of his brother, ignoring the pain in his chest. Runs through the old dockyard, blinded by sorrow and rage. Ran until there was no more ground and all that was ahead of him were the metal railings that blocked him from the sea. And only then does he stop. Stop and double over, before throwing his head back and screaming to the heavens.

His cry of anguish echoes around the empty dockyard.

He’s out of breath, shivering even more now he’s facing the full force of an ocean breeze. His clothes still stick to him uncomfortably, sickeningly.

He pulls out his phone. He knows he has to act in some way. First of all he has to make sure the… the body is taken care of. He needs people he can trust. Who can he trust?

What was the point of being in a fucking crew if none of them had responded to his earlier requests for back up? What was the fucking point?

His fingers slip, leaving smears of blood on his phone screen, making it hard for him to read the contacts through his damp eyes. He realizes he doesn’t know who to call. His Grandma? No, he couldn’t bear to speak to her. Couldn’t bear to tell her that another one of her family members is gone. He should call… he should call his Uncle - but he knows the man would be on the warpath immediately, blinded by rage and hatred. Alfredo doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want a war. He wants to make them pay - he will make them pay, but not like that. He just needs - he needs a moment, that’s all. A moment to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

More tears spring to his eyes as he remembers who exactly he would call at moments like these.

“You promised you’d always be here…” he whimpers under hushed breath. “You promised you’d always have my back.”

And he had done - to the very end. Or at least that’s what Denny would have believed he’d been doing. Alfredo had no doubt, his brother’s idea to go and confront them earlier was due to them threatening his own baby brother.

If you weren’t so helpless…

Now though, Alfredo was in even deeper, murkier waters, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength or stamina to stay afloat.

They’ll kill Grandma, and then you’ll be all alone.

His fingers hover over the contacts for his Lt, but he stands his ground on that one, still not wanting to bring the kid in on something like this. Also he doesn’t want the boy to see him in this state.

Who then? He can’t fucking just linger here covered in his brother’s own blood for the rest of the night! The place might be quiet but it wasn’t completely abandoned. If he didn’t get things sorted soon who was to say a wandering dock worker or trespassing teenagers wouldn’t stumble across the scene and get the cops involved in something they had no business in.

You could have prevented this… somehow…

He should have been here. He should never have let his brother come alone - never let him out of his sight. He should have trusted his instincts more. He should’ve been here, he should’ve been here, he should’ve been here -

Pull yourself together! Denny deserves better than this! Better than you!

He sniffs, and wipes an arm across his face, trying to avoid coating himself in blood any further. God, he’s always hated how it feels. How blood can dry so quickly and turn sticky, impossible to rub off. How it would cake under your fingernails, turning black and flaky. Dead.

He scrolls through the list of names in his contacts, not really taking any of them in. He hovers over his Uncle’s name again - supposes that’s the best option, word would get around quick enough anyway.

He goes to call him, but as if attached to some invisible wire, his hand jerks away last moment. There was always…

He digs into his pocket, praying it was still there.

It is, and Alfredo plants a permanent red fingerprint on the corner of it as he haltingly keys in the number.

He calls it.

It rings for about ten seconds.

And then… “Yo.”

His mind blanks.

“… anyone there? Jeremy I swear –”

“Michael?” he whispers, shakily.

“Oh… yeah? Sup.” The man sounds like he’s in the middle of eating - Alfredo can hear other voices in the background, laughter, a joyful atmosphere. “Who is this?” Michael asks, but Alfredo finds his tongue as gone numb. He only emits a quiet, nervous breath. The tone on the other end shifts, and the background noise quietens, as if Michael is walking away. “… Alfredo?” he says after a moment.

A strange calm settles over him, although his blood begins to simmer in his veins as he sets one very clear goal in his mind, and fuck if he’s ever going to get a better chance than this to see it through.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I… I need to call in that favor.”

#ah fic #rt fic #my fic

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karyu-endan · 7 years

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Twilight Chapter 9 review: I actually... liked this one? Huh.

I… I can’t believe it. A whole chapter of Twilight went by and I didn’t find anything new to complain about.

In chapter 1 Bella is an ungrateful bitch.

In chapter 2 Bella proves herself a compulsive liar.

In chapter 3 Bella shows the first signs of being a Mary Sue.

In chapter 4 everyone is an idiot.

In chapter 5 Edward’s an abuser.

In chapter 6 all the tension built up before it goes to waste with spoon-fed answers.

In chapter 7 Bella fails at doing research.

In chapter 8 everyone is an asshole, including the supposedly nice Angela.

This chapter… has nothing that substantial. Oh there were things I didn’t like about it, certainly, but most of it is more of the same. And, however much it may surprise some of you… There are a few things I liked about this chapter. If you hate Twilight and are looking for a review that accentuates the negative, you’ve come to the wrong place; if anything, I’m going to be doing the opposite and accentuating the positive about this one. Because Meyer doing something right is rare, and when it happens, credit needs to be given where credit is due.

With that out of the way, here is my review of Twilight chapter 9!

Let’s talk about those good parts, shall we?

The chapter opens with a more detailed explanation of Edward’s mind-reading abilities than we got in chapter 8. I like this a lot; it gives us a concrete definition of Edward’s ability, pointing out its strength, range of effect, and limitations. This is very important because it provides us a standard to measure the consistency of Edward’s power later down the road. If Edward’s powers aren’t working the way they should, we can refer back to this chapter to make sure. If Edward’s power becomes critical to the plot later, we can know right away whether it was a consistent use of his abilities or an ass pull.

Unfortunately, Meyer contradicts this very power definition later in the same chapter, when Edward claims he’s never gotten a ticket or got into a car accident because he can use his mind-reading as a form of radar. That doesn’t make sense because Edward just established that his power’s range is proportional to the familiarity of the target (as in, the better he knows you, the farther away he can hear your thoughts) and maxes out at a few miles.

Edward was driving at 100 miles per hour when he said this. After sundown. Even giving his maximum range a generous ten miles with Carlisle as his target, he’d only have six minutes to avoid him assuming he’s stationary. Cut that time in half if Carlisle was approaching him at the same speed. And reduce that further if they were accelerating. That’d still be enough time for Edward’s vampire reflexes to react… but he’s not as familiar with any random passerby on the street as he is with Carlisle. You’d have to cut his sensing range down much smaller, to the point that Edward would need to be so close to his target that he wouldn’t be able to avoid hitting them in time if he were driving at 100 mph.

And that’s not getting into how Edward needs to concentrate on a specific target in order to hear clear thoughts; it just comes in like a buzz by default. Edward wouldn’t be able to tell who among him are police officers (so he’d know when to slow down and avoid getting speeding tickets) without having an idea who they are ahead of time and deliberately looking for them. Never mind that concentrating on his mind-reading could distract him from paying attention to the road. Though I suppose that last weakness could be corrected by a century’s worth of practice. But then Edward never got into an accident or got a ticket, so he was perfect before practicing… Ugh.

Regardless of the immediate contradiction though, props to Meyer for giving us a straight definition of Edward’s mind-reading. All the easier to point out when it goes wrong.

The next thing I like about this chapter is that Edward probably came off more like he was supposed to. Back in chapter 8 I talked about how Edward should have been afraid of killing the rapists instead of angry at leaving them alive… well, Edward is still angry, but angry at something more appropriate.

He was angry at Bella declaring that what he is doesn’t matter.

That is a statement worth being angry about. During this chapter, Edward makes it clear he doesn’t want to be a monster, and is doing everything he can (short of taking the initiative of staying away from Bella) to avoid being overcome by his vampiric bloodlust and eating humans. To Edward, what he is does matter, and Bella saying it doesn’t is making light of his struggles. According to Bella, reverting back into a monster and eating all the humans he wants would be completely fine. And that’s not fine. Bella’s statement was extremely insensitive and Edward’s anger in response is a natural and fitting reaction given who he is.

The last thing that struck me as particularly good this chapter was the very end of it. The whole scene of Bella going to bed was well put together and gave the impact it needed. From the moment Bella finished her phone call with Jessica about the jacket she left behind to the long, awkward shower and finally to hugging under the covers to keep herself warm, it really felt like Bella was overwhelmed by everything she learned this chapter and was struggling to process her thoughts. Edward metaphorically opened a door to a whole new world and Bella was taking the time she needed to adjust her eyes to what was on the other side. Normally Bella’s narration being what it is (read: monotone and melancholic) makes scenes bland and boring, but for scenes like this, it works surprisingly well. Bella felt cold the whole way and so did I reading it.

Speaking of which, the emphasis on Bella feeling very cold works on a symbolic level. This chapter was pretty much a point of no return for Bella. The Volturi decreed that any human that learns about vampires must be killed or turned into a vampire themselves, and Bella just learned without a doubt that the Cullens are vampires from Edward himself. No matter how Bella’s life wound up from here, vampires were going to be involved one way or another; there was no going back to an ordinary life. That may have even been why Edward warned Bella that he’s not the most dangerous thing in the world and that she shouldn’t go into the woods on her own; he knows he just risked the Volturi coming after her head by telling her everything he did. Even if Meyer didn’t plan the Volturi this early, that’s how I’m interpreting it. And as the story pointed out a couple of times already, Edward feels cold and the Quileutes call vampires the “cold ones”; coldness has consistently been linked to vampirism. Effectively, Bella feeling so cold at the end of the chapter represents vampire-kind placing an irrevocable claim on her soul. She’s a part of the vampire world now whether she wants to be or not, and the scene definitely showed that.

Of course, even with all that good stuff in this chapter, there were still some moments I didn’t like. But aside from that inconsistency with Edward’s powers, all of them are pretty minor and I won’t go into quite as much detail as I usually do. Here they are:

-While Edward was right to be angry at Bella’s insensitivity, he was also aggravated enough by Jacob telling Bella about vampires that Bella’s first instinct was to protect Jacob any way she could. I’m not sure how I feel about Bella thinking Jacob being in danger of Edward even though he’s very far away. Downside is that Edward is vindictive enough to actually force this reaction out of Bella… and according to Midnight Sun, apparently Edward actually was thinking about going down to La Push and slaughtering the entire tribe because he perceives Jacob being Spoilers and Wolf as violating the non-aggression treaty. So much for being angry at the right things… On the upside though, it does establish Edward’s antagonism for Jacob before they even meet.

-I’m getting tired of seeing Edward’s “crooked smile”. Is that supposed to be attractive? Because all I get from reading “crooked smile” is that Edward is a sadistic asshole (and he has laughed at Bella’s and Mike’s expense before).

-The same irresponsibility and mixed messages from chapter 4 come up here. Edward says he’s dangerous and Bella should stay away from him… but then he’s also worried that Bella’s going to die without him and can’t leave her alone… but he’s also pretty clear about how Bella leaving of her own will is impossible, so the only one with the power to end their relationship is Edward… But Edward’s still confused about Bella’s unreadable mind and won’t be satisfied until he has an answer… But the more Edward’s around Bella, the harder it is for him to control his bloodlust… You get the idea.

-Bella’s freaked out by Edward’s driving because, according to her, Charlie raised her to abide by the traffic laws. I’ll keep that Lawful Good upbringing in mind when people start talking about murder.

-Edward apparently notices Bella crying before Bella notices she’s crying. Either Vampire processing speed is at fault, or Bella is exceptionally unobservant. Or both… I’m going with both.

With all that out of the way, the chapter concludes with Bella affirming that she is in love with Edward, insane as that is, and before he left they promised to sit together at lunch the following day… and Edward promised to show Bella why he can’t appear in the sunlight sometime later. So there are a couple things to be “excited” about going forward.

Oh… before I end this, Edward says that burning in the sunlight and sleeping in a coffin are myths. Well, all myths have to start somewhere and have at least some basis in reality… I can easily see the Volturi coming up with the “burning in the sunlight” thing and spreading rumours about it to cover up the “sparkling in the sunlight” reality… but sleeping in a coffin? Where did that one come from? Vampires in this universe don’t sleep at all. These are the things I’m really curious about.

See you next time.

#twilight review #not completely awful #tropes #magic a is magic a #Edward Cullen is improved #but still an idiot #and still an asshole #Bella Swan is improved #but still bad

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jonathanbelloblog · 6 years

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Mayhem at the Ebisu Drift Matsuri

It’s morphed from roving packs of midnight sliders attacking mountain passes to a fully sanctioned motorsports discipline and worldwide phenomenon. Sliding a car sideways has been an art form across generations and across countries, from dirt tracks to snow-covered roads to everything in between, but organized drifting is Japanese at its core. So when an invite came to spend some quality time with a legend of the discipline and his family at the world’s largest drifting event, held in Japan, the tickets to Tokyo could not arrive fast enough.

Shinji Minowa, 44, shot to fame thanks in part to the Japanese tuner magazines that in the ’90s published grainy images of his sliding antics. Though it’s heavily frowned upon now, illegal street drifting is how Minowa and many others started in the sport.

“I was at mechanics’ school after graduating from high school, and a fellow student took me up into the touge to see street drifting,” Minowa said at his shop on the eve of one of the year’s three Ebisu Drift Matsuri festivals. “After spending a night in the mountains watching these crazy guys drifting, I was hooked!” With a nostalgic smile, Minowa recalled his early days on the “touge,” or mountain pass. His driving didn’t start out so well: He wrecked four cars in rapid succession, once ending up in the passenger-side foot well of one of his early 1986 Toyota Corollas after rolling into a ditch.

Undeterred, he started to get the slide of things and built up a rep. Eventually, tracks across Japan began holding drift days at their circuits, with local competitions feeding into the newly created D1 Grand Prix series. Minowa wanted to see if his skills could translate to the track. They did. It wasn’t easy though; due to the illicit nature of his drifting fame, the regulated D1GP didn’t want anything to do with street drifters and he was banned from entering any D1GP tournament.

Undeterred by a ban, Shinji managed to get a chance to prove himself at a local D1GP event in bizarre circumstances. One of his professional drifter friends was due to compete in a round of the drift championships, but fell ill shortly beforehand. Shinji saw this as an opportunity to slide in under the radar, and competed with his friend’s number, under his name (with permission). He made it to the finals until a judge recognized him, and he was swiftly, and aggressively, removed from the competition. Luckily though, the director of the D1GP saw what was happening and pulled rank on the judge, stating that Shinji’s driving style and skill was too good to be segregated from the competition, and ever since, Shinji has been a household name in the drifting scene, both street and licensed.

Since his debut over a decade ago, Shinji has stood on podium after podium, with his greatest achievements including winning 1st place trophies at Formula Drift Japan, Drift Muscle, Drift Kingdom, and Battle Magazine drift championship series’.

Minowa’s rise on drifting scene has also opened up other business opportunities. His HEYMAN Products workshop, located in a sleepy area of Tokyo’s Saitama Prefecture immediately across from a busy industrial railroad, has become the place to come to for modified steering knuckles—a must-have for dedicated drifters. These parts allow for steering angles approaching 90 degrees, which provide huge benefits when sliding around a track.

The shop itself, located inside a non-descript industrial building, is a gritty workspace littered with all manner of parts, tools, and of course special cars representing drifting history. Hidden in one corner is Minowa’s famous ’86 Toyota Corolla (AE86), a home-built car he used to showcase how driver skill can triumph over outright power as he made the transition from street drifter to D1GP star. In the center of the shop on a two-post lift rests another significant car: the Nissan S13 that belonged to Atsushi Kuroi, a D1GP driver who died in a motorcycle crash in 2010.

One modern-day competition car caught our eye more than the rest: a brilliant white machine with pink glitter flakes and a steering wheel coated in faux diamonds. “This is my wife’s car,” Minowa explained. “She competes in Formula Drift Japan, too!” Indeed, his wife, Masayo, has spent the last several years following in her husband’s rubber trail.

After meeting at a shop where Shinji was a mechanic and Masayo worked in the office, they married in 2007 and have an 8-year old son, Hiro. Masayo supported Shinji at his competitions, and one day decided to try her hand at the sport her husband was starting to dominate. Shinji had her do some donuts to give her a taste of the action. She didn’t exactly love it at first, but a traumatic personal experience would change her outlook.

In 2011, Masayo was diagnosed with cancer. The tumor required several operations and radiation treatment to defeat. She is in remission now, but will remain on medication for life. Her battle caused her and the family to reconsider their priorities, and she decided to commit herself to becoming a professional drifter alongside her husband.

The Minowas campaign Toyota Chasers, a rear-drive, Japanese market sedan (Toyota briefly made a coupe as well) that came with a turbocharged, 2.5-liter straight-six popular with tuners. Shinji has even built a Chaser for Hiro, tuned specially for the school-aged skidder. “The suspension is custom made for Hiro,” Minowa said. “I specified the suspension to make the car easy to drift, and my sponsor DG5 created this one-off set just for Hiro.” Minowa’s practice car sends about 600 horsepower to its rear wheels, with Masayo’s only slightly less than this. Hiro’s car doesn’t require major power yet so it’s relatively stock under the hood.

With the cars ready, it was time to head for Drift Matsuri, an event that is no place for polished and expensive competition cars. The matsuri (Japanese word for “Festival”) occurs three times a year, in spring, summer and fall, and is spread over two full days. From humble beginnings as a drift-orientated track day free-for-all, the matsuri is now the biggest and most famous drift event in the world. For the weekend festival there are no competitions, no prizes, and no egos; it is an opportunity for anyone with any car to come along and gain access to five drift tracks, and to rub doors with the biggest names in the industry.

With cars prepared, and stories exchanged with the Minowas, I was ready to attend the biggest event in the drift calendar with one of the biggest names in the game.

The Matsuri

Ebisu Circuit lies halfway up a mountain about four hours north of Tokyo. As soon as you leave the highway, things get rural in a hurry along the route that snakes up past fields of rice. After we got onto the grounds and got our pit area set up, Shinji disappeared then returned with another Chaser. Rusted, dented, and sorry looking, this “missile car” lived at the drift complex. Missile cars have minimal modifications and minimal money is spent on them; they exist so drivers can practice without worrying about big bills in the event of a big off.

Masayo was ready to drift, so she headed off in the missile car for the West Circuit, one of Ebisu’s five main tracks. More suited to traditional racing than drifting, it feeds into progressively tighter bends that drop in gradient then rise again over a steep lefthander that feeds back into the long pit straight. Shinji watched from the pit wall, waving Masayo in or out to help with her entry into the first corner. And what an entry it was. The best technique is to setup on the right side of the track, off the racing line. Flat out in fourth at more than 100 mph with the corner approaching, you throw the car back toward the racing line, then a combination of a clutch kick and jerk of the wheel back to the pit wall sends you heading violently sideways into turn one.

Once she adequately destroyed a set of tires, Masayo pulled into the pits and asked if I wanted to have a go. I jumped at the opportunity and headed out on new rubber. I emulated Masayo’s line the best I could and managed to catch the drift, but as I fumbled for the handbrake I ended up losing momentum and straightening up. For the rest of my outing, I stuck to the slower second- and third-gear corners and linked them together in a bid to maintain some honor. When I got back to the pits, I saw Shinji’s legs protruding from beneath his car and a hive of activity occurring; his practice car’s transmission had blown up after just a few laps. It looked like his weekend was over.

The missile car was still good to go, though, and Masayo headed out again. She increased her speed with each lap, and gradually pushed back her initiation point. She was on fire. A crowd had gathered on the pit wall to watch this crazy driver throw her car in harder and harder, lap after lap. But then it went sideways, literally. After flying past the pit wall at a ludicrous speed, she threw her car into a drift way too fast, overshot the corner, and plowed into a hillside. The car flew into the air and rolled through half a rotation before crashing down onto its roof. By the time Shinji and I got to her, Masayo was already out of the car, laughing.

The car, however, was no chuckling matter. As we dragged it back to the pits, Shinji decided to transplant its transmission into his wounded car. In no time a flock of familiar faces gathered to see what they could do to help. Soon, a team of four current and former D1GP championship drivers were working on his Chaser. Such is the atmosphere of the Drift Matsuri.

With the Minowas preoccupied with the transmission swap, I had a chance to explore the rest of what Ebisu has to offer. It’s so enormous I had to jump into my rental car to scope it all out. The complex even features a zoo—complete with lions, tigers, and elephants. The most notable circuit is the South Course, with its epic jump. Drivers approach a blind dip and huck their cars over it, landing next to a left-hander lined by a concrete wall.

I stopped along the circuit to take in the atmosphere. It’s a truly special event where absolutely anybody—no matter their skill level or bank balance—can get on the track with like-minded car nuts and even professional drifters. Imagine going to a track day in the U.S., with IndyCar or NASCAR stars blasting around in practice cars, free to approach and talk to.

With a smile on my face and rubber in my teeth, I headed back to check on the Minowas. They were halfway through the tranny swap, and by then Hiro was itching to have a go of his own. So we jumped into his practice car and headed to an area where people can safely learn the basics. It was a blast to watch Hiro, who can barely see over the dash, skillfully maintain a slide and link a series of figure eights in his drift sedan. Like father, like mother, like son.

They were still working on the car when we returned to the paddock, and with so many friends around to help I was only in the way. So I headed off again to take in some more Matsuri action. One of the professional drifter’s mechanics recognized me from hanging out with the Minowas and offered to take me onto the track. I accepted the invitation and jumped into his missile Chaser.

What I didn’t know at the time was that “Mikey” has a reputation for being a bit crazy. His first approach was borderline insane. He accelerated through the gears until he hit fourth, and with a huge Scandinavian flick and clutch kick we were airborne, heading sideways toward the concrete wall at close to triple digits. We hit the ground with a huge bang, and Mikey held the drift all the way around the long left hander. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I cheered him on for another lap.

Bad idea. We came around and setup for the same corner. Mikey got to fourth. We were definitely going faster than before. He threw the car over the jump, but we over-rotated, sending us hurtling backward toward the wall. We weren’t going to make it. I straightened my head and braced for it, and then bang, I was out cold.

I awoke lying on my back. The impact had snapped the passenger seat off of its mounts and I hit my head on the bare metal where the rear seats used to be. My helmet was cracked, I was dizzy, and the car was a complete wreck. An ambulance was called. Now I was done for the weekend, too.

But the Matsuri wasn’t by a long shot. As I left the circuit for a medical scan, the big names in drifting were about to set out on the same track. Daigo Saito—famed for his drift-spec Lamborghini Murciélago—was out in his practice car, closely followed by Naoki Nakamura, and yes, Minowa in his freshly repaired Chaser. The crowds flocked to see the three biggest names in drifting going door-to-door at Ebisu’s notorious South Circuit.

While getting some well-earned R&R in my hotel room the next day, I check Instagram to see countless videos of the crazy driving that started as my weekend ended. The three-car train with the three biggest names in drifting cleared the four remaining tracks as everyone was in the grandstand at the ‘jump’ track to see the spectacle.

Lap after lap two Toyotas and one Nissan where hurled sideways over a jump and towards a solid wall, gracefully sliding within an inch of one and other. And after they were finished, they were changing tires and beating bent body panels straight while talking to fans, and discussing setup with amateur drivers. And although things came to an unfortunate end for me, the Ebisu Drift Matsuri proved to be everything I imagined it would.

Photos courtesy of Dini Dalle Carbonare.

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jesusvasser · 6 years

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Mayhem at the Ebisu Drift Matsuri

With cars prepared, and stories exchanged with the Minowas, I was ready to attend the biggest event in the drift calendar with one of the biggest names in the game.

The Matsuri

Photos courtesy of Dini Dalle Carbonare.

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acidflash · 6 years

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The Secret DJ

This is the third book in succession I’ve read about the phenomenon we love and know as Electronic Music. I think that’s what to call it anyway. As time goes on I like using that term less and less as “EDM” becomes more and more infused into our everyday lives. Either way, whatever you want to call it each book has been significantly different in its approach to this intoxicating lifestyle but equally enjoyable. “Ninety” by Johnny Proctor was a foray into fiction and Acid House, “Sonic Youth Slept On My Floor” by Dave Haslam was a memoir that heavily focused on his DJing and now we have “The Secret DJ”, a memoir of sorts but it reads like fiction with its larger than life escapades! I loved it and would highly recommend reading this to anyone. I’m not sure this is particularly a “book review” per se but I talk about it and what parts of it mean to me.

The Secret DJ is a series of tales from a now fifty something DJ who was one of the original “Superstar DJs”. He takes us on a non-chronological journey of debauchery, realism, philosophy, narcotics, comedy and education. Several characters play a supporting role, none more so than Tour Manager his, well tour manager obviously. Except he sounds like the most useless tour manager ever and is saved by the fact he sounds like the most hilarious wingman you can imagine. Possibly not for The Secret DJ but certainly for the reader.

The book is written obviously from an anonymous source and focuses purely on life on the road as a working DJ, apart from a couple of life-changing events. There’s no childhood stories that give you hints of the life to come, there’s no background as to how he became a DJ, it’s just straight in with the mostly comical japery and what it’s like to endure/enjoy that lifestyle that is so revered by many, but so few could ever withstand.

As someone who started DJing back when few people did I can empathise with so much of the book. I’m around 10 years younger so although I was part of the first army of “bedroom DJs”, there were far fewer of us than there are nowadays and there was no sync button. Much of his outlook is “I’m an old bastard and it was much better in my day”, and as much as I try not to be, my outlook is not too dissimilar. Of course it’s wrong, there are undoubtedly things that were much better “back in the day” but there are also better things nowadays. Sometimes the same thing is why it was better then/now. We had no camera phones so everyone just got on enjoying themselves, but few of us have much of a record of the great times we had bar what we can remember, which let’s face it isn’t a lot. Clubbers nowadays can keep physical memories of these great times. I’d prefer to just enjoy myself and not worry or cringe about what people I’ve been out with might slap on social media but there are certainly pros and cons to both sides of that argument. Likewise how organised things are these days. There was so much adventure 20/30 years ago, you didn’t quite know if things would happen or not, there wasn’t always security, chill out zones etc. so there’s better safety nowadays. Whatever way you look at it there were good things and bad things about the different eras.

Anyway I digress. There were many passages I’d like to highlight but I don’t want to give too much away. Nothing more annoying than reviews or previews that give away all the “best bits”. Instead I’ll tell you the ones that resonated with me the most. You can read it yourself for the funny parts, of which there are many.

His description of how the art comes more naturally the less you try for instance - “Have you ever tried too hard at something physical, a sport or a game? Have you noticed how you are never better at it when you’re not trying at all? It’s that.” Bang on. Once you can do something on autopilot then you’re sorted. Most of us probably drive a car without thinking about what we’re doing most of the time, it’s like that. Once you start thinking whether your clutch/accelerator co-ordination is correct then you suddenly start changing gear poorly.

Likewise, mistakes. We’re human. Be immediately suspicious of anyone who appears to be mixing “perfectly”. Little mistakes show up reality. Technology is doing most, or all, of the work if absolutely nothing is going wrong. I almost always used the crossfader to mix, and once I got so deep into a mix where I was using the channel slider I forgot the crossfader was still stuck in the middle. The record eventually ran out when I’d faded it out almost perfectly, I slammed the channel slider back up triumphantly thinking the crossfader was right over and had a great surge of adrenaline. Then the next song started, not only were there huge brass stabs at full volume but obviously completely out of time with the record that was playing. Took me around 5 seconds to work out what the hell was going on before I stopped the record. The following month I turned up to play again at the same club to discover they were selling the set I’d done that night on CD. The first half the monitors barely worked so there were trainwrecks and then there was that big mistake. I was mortified. Everybody who I spoke to over the next few months loved it and didn’t care so I stopped caring. Ride your mistakes out, realise everyone makes them and eventually you’ll lose the fear. Unless you are playing in front of 5000 people obviously….

Treating people in the service industry not only with respect (as any even remotely respectable human being should) but to turn it round and be the subservient one. In turn you will be treated much better and for longer. I don’t work in the service industry but in a role that has similarities, trust me when I say the better you treat me the further I will go to give you a great service. In The Secret DJ’s case he also treated them well so that when things inevitably got fucked up later on he was also in credit. Plan ahead in other words.

Talking about Tour Manager he fondly describes how he is the only person made a better person by cocaine, “Some people genuinely have great trouble coming forth from their shell, and sometimes the mollusc within is very special”. Great words and instantly endears you to TM. Their relationship is clearly very special. Well I guess it has to be when he’s useless at being a tour manager!

Talking about the “Shazam generation” and how the research has been taken out of record finding, he says “Being a DJ is about being an authority, which comes through contact and immersion, not mental tourism. In this Information Age, the true hazard is that information gets confused with knowledge. Just cos you have something doesn’t mean you own it”. Incredibly sage words.

Twice I actually cried with laughter. I find laughter to be incredibly infectious and rarely laugh hard on my own even when watching something funny. To laugh at a book so hard that my daughter thought there was something wrong with me takes some doing. Without particularly giving anything away, one downer-addled adventure ends with him saying “If this was a film, there would now be a montage of stills of ascending idiocy”. My head was already doing this, seeing it written out in words tipped me over the edge. Secondly, “MOORSEBERRY SHREWSCAKE”. I couldn’t breathe by the end of this story. Seriously, I couldn’t.

On fame - “One day people loved what I did, then they didn’t. But the things I made were the same. Odd”. We can see it as punters when someone’s musical output doesn’t really change in terms of quality but suddenly a newer, younger kid is on the block and they’re forgotten about. A fickle mistress indeed.

As the book edges closer to the end a very sobering event happens to The Secret DJ. I must say it did knock me sideways a bit, I wasn’t expecting it to hit me so hard. He hinted early in the book that he “lost it” in some way and went off the radar but it was shocking. He writes it in a very blasé way too, I think perhaps as a defence mechanism - making light of what is a very serious situation. How he even managed to survive is a miracle, far less write the book.

Lastly, an extremely poignant quote. “To this day I have no idea how you can spend so much joyful time with another human and end up not seeing them ever again”. I’m sure most of us who spent many years clubbing can fully understand this. Outside of family I had the most amazing time of my life with a few people you can easily count on your fingers. With the exception of one I’ll probably never see them again for various reasons. It still fucks with my head a bit, even years later. How did we go from saving the world, looking out for each other no matter what the situation was, feeling like there was no-one else in the world either understood us or even existed, having the maddest adventures that bound us together for ever more, to never seeing each other again? Growing up I guess. Drifting apart. Shit going down.

Think I’ve hit several tangents there and I was meant to be telling you how great a book it is. It’s a great book for two reasons, the storytelling is first class and will take you through a range of emotions, which lets face it is what you generally look for in a book isn’t it? But also I can connect with so much of it. Like Dave Haslam’s book I mentioned at the start there is so much of the book I get on a personal level. Some of its music-related and some of it’s personality and some of it is both. I guess those of us who obsess enough about music to go down the DJing route are probably similarly built.

One last thing, and I suppose it’s the elephant in the room. Who is he? There are a vast array of clues, although he says something near the end that means you can’t read too far into a lot of them. After all, why write a book anonymously if it’s easy for people to guess? There aren’t too many people he can be and I have a good idea but I like the myth. There’s not really any sniping or secret-telling about other DJs apart from the odd short anecdote and none (apart from the famous Steve Angello incident) are ever named. It just feels like a guy wanted to write a book about his adventures but didn’t want people to know it was him. I know how he feels.

Order it here: The Secret DJ https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0571334482/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_i4yxBb5729B54

If you fancy the other books I mentioned you can order Dave Haslam’s here:

Sonic Youth Slept On My Floor: Music, Manchester, and More: A Memoir https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1472127528/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_D5yxBb66E5E24

and Ninety by Johnny Proctor here:

Ninety https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1979953414/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_f7yxBb8C98A14

Review: http://acidflash.tumblr.com/post/174467922138/ninety-by-johnny-proctor-a-review-zico-is-a

#HouseMusic #DJs #SecretDJ #ElectronicMusic #books

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jefferyryanlong · 7 years

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Fresh Listen - Cornershop, When I Was Born for the 7th Time (Wiiija, 1997)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a weekly review of recently and not so recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

My early record collection was full of singles. This was far gone from the era of 45′s, though I had a couple of those, too, which I bought for cents at the Kaneohe Salvation Army. Singles in my youth were manufactured as abridged cassette tapes (”cassingles”), packaged in cardboard sleeves with only the most utilitarian cover design (often just a replication of the cover whence the song came). Cassingles had a song on each side, the single itself and a b-side, or sometimes just a remixed version that was inevitably worse. I’d look through where the cassingles were organized in a separate rack on the wall of the record store, if I only had a couple bucks that wee, or lacked sufficient confidence in the powers of an artist or band whose recently released tune I dug.

Because when you’re a teenager, you have to be very selective about what records you spend your part-time job money on. You might catch a new band on MTV, believe that, unlike the many, many others, they had the goods, and throw down twelve dollars on their full-length. When you discovered that the rest of their rubbish didn’t stack up to their single, you were set back a week, cash-wise, rewinding that one song you were stuck with over and over again until you had the bread for something new.

Myself, I made many of these ill-advised purchases. Spacehog’s Resident Alien (for “In the Meantime”), Fountains of Wayne’s debut record (”Radiation Vibe”), and Electriclarryland by Butthole Surfers (”Pepper”). With singles, though, you only spent one or two dollars on a song you liked--and if the b-side was slid you doubled the value of the cheap but extremely complicated plastic apparatus, audio engineering at its most sophisticated, the tension on each side of the cassette calibrated with such precision that the music played neither too fast nor too slow. In some cases, I grew to love the b-sides as much, or more than, the a-sides. Toad the Wet Sprocket’s moody “All She Said” suited me better as a lovelorn high schooler than their mega-hit “All I Want.” And after Radiohead’s “Creep” (they were on no one’s radar as being the band we know them as today) lost its luster, I got just as much jaded pleasure from “Faithless, the Wonder Boy.” Maybe that band would be headed somewhere, after all.

Cornershop’s “Brimful of Asha” should have been a cassingle buy. It was so infectious, so ridiculous and universally true with its “everybody needs a bosom for a pillow” refrain that I felt the band wouldn’t have anything else as meaningful to say. The song was so clever with its obscure references, each of them mysterious to me. And when he sang about the “brimful of Asha,” I wasn’t sure if the singer (Tjinder Singh) envisioned multi-talented actress/singer Asha Bhosle as a kind of essence that could be smoked or drank as a means of transubstantiation. In other words, I dug the song and its groove, and I felt there was something happening within this odd Cornershop operation that I wanted to be hip to. I bought When I Was Born for the 7th Time in its entirety, sight unseen (or sound unheard).

While Woman’s Gotta Have It, Cornershop’s previous record, plays as slightly aimless indie rock, When I Was Born for the 7th Time sounds like the work of guitar playing songwriters who moonlight as circumspect nightclub DJ’s, overlaying dance-able rock and roll grooves with unpredictable samples, some of which they’ve invented themselves. The majority of tracks on the album are instrumentals. The band disposes of the half-hearted riffs on Woman’s Gotta Have It in favor of expansive sonic textures that accommodate a musical vision beyond electric guitars and effects pedals. When I Was Born for the 7th Time luxuriates in playful invention. It seems completely removed from the pressures of any mainstream music market, and abides by no rules other than Singh’s imperative to guide the listener through his particular inspirations and influences.

“Sleep on the Left Side” sets the rhythmic template for the album--a heavy bass and drum backbeat hat would sit comfortably on a hip-hop record of the time. Contrasted to the steady meter of the beat is a tricky, slightly offbeat and Easternized keyboard noodle, against which Singh’s unassuming vocal emphasizes ritual as antidote to persistent chaos. “Butter the Soul,” with its interior record scratches resetting old-timey whistle sample, is two minutes of funky fits and starts, returning to the repeated motif like a spell of monomania. “Chocolat” is brief mood piece, where synths play off drums in reverb before an intrepid bass guitar lays into a gnarly riff, driving the track, accompanied by a late arriving electric guitar. “We’re in Yr Corner,” another highlight on an album rotten with ripe musical over- and undertones, is a raga-soaked hard rock sequel to the band’s earlier “6 a.m. Jullander Shere,” a sitar itself sounding like a chorus of instruments, Singh in Punjab calling out from what seems like the top of a mountain in resounding authority. Like “6 a.m. Jullander Shere,” “We’re in Yr Corner” is a wake-up song, relentless in its call, undeniable in its power to transmit meaning in an unfamiliar language.

Self-awareness saps the desired effect of “Funky Days Are Back Again.” I get the feeling that Singh applied improvised lyrics straight off the dome to the instrumental backing track. But there is little spontaneity in the drag of the vocals on an already lagging progression, with its angular chord structure and surprising changes. Only about halfway through does the outline of a kind of song take shape, and the possibilities it offers to the listener last for a few seconds before “ Funky Days Are Back Again” lapses into its less essential business once more.

On “What Is Happening,” Indian percussion is performed in the manner of a ticking clock, over which found sounds “turkey gravy” and “what is happening” push the conflicting noises toward increased tension verging on anxiety, even paranoia, a temporary bad trip amidst a sea of good vibes. Allen Ginsberg is the basis for “When the Light Appears Boy” invoking his poem against the backdrop of celebratory street music, these disparate sonic materials threaded together to summon transcendence through epiphany. The poem’s prelude is spoken in Punjab by an unidentified man, suggesting a universal quality of poetry across different cultures and languages.

“Coming Up,” a groovy sitar noodle, plays less as an autonomous track and more like an intro to “Good Shit,” which could have been the group’s second big single from the When I Was Born for the 7th Time, if the content, innocuous as it really is, was FCC-friendly. Nothing in the son comes close to obscene--the “shit” Singh references are the ringing vibrations that beautifully warp the air around us, which we should accept not as chaotic noise but as randomized music. The song has the same sense of humor as “Brimful of Asha” and carries with it the distinction of being less an aural experiment than a fully fleshed indie rock song, with guitars and drums and singing and choruses.

A similar imprint--steady drums, light, sometimes non-sensical lyrics, and out-of-the-blue sounds transposed from Singh’s febrile mind--informs “Good to Be on the Road Back Home Again,” a straightforward duet with a country and western sway, about the safety of familiar things, good friends and the beer you love. Less straightforward is the engrossing mindfuck “It’s Indian Tobacco My Friend,” about five or so minutes of simply programmed weirdness. As a song, it resists being too far out or too psychedelic, but there are plenty of implanted blips keep the listening experience compelling. For instance, there is a single tabla drum that occurs once every other measure or so, and when it gets punched in as part of a sample of chanted voices it is noticeably off time, behind the beat. This slow tabla is necessary, even though it’s neither prominent nor melodically noteworthy. It identifies a kind of meta-space that can exist in time between beats, defying all tempos; not to change the time, exactly, but to suggest an infinite number of meta-beats that could be imagined to the left or right of the drumbeat in time.

After the Beatles recorded “Norwegian Wood,” George Harrison spent the rest of his career atoning for the clumsy appropriation of the sitar on the track from Rubber Soul, diligently studying the intersection of Indian spirituality and music under the tutelage of sitar master Ravi Shankar. Here, Cornershop reclaim the song into the Punjab language, effectively ending the argument of who stole what from whom. Cornershop’s version of “Norwegian Wood” is not performed as criticism or satire. Rather, the song comes across as a reconciliation, a suggestion that, while there may be certain sounds and modes of music available to all, the exchange--of signifiers, instruments, ideas--must go both ways in order to be artistically fruitful.

Released in 1997, When I Was Born for the 7th Time is as crisp and aesthetically applicable today. It is a reminder that, when the hot wave of darkness (that foul temper of a provoked Nature) is rolling over the fundamental notions of our charmed reality, there sometimes may be found “good shit” rising above the forces of cynicism and evil. Cornershop’s message of easygoing transference between the citizens of a globalized planet celebrates an open consciousness, embracing the marriage of different musics, philosophies, and cultures.

#freshlisten #cornershop #wheniwasbornforthe7thtime

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krissysbookshelf · 7 years

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Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: Who's That Girl by Blair Thornburgh!

Nattie has always been that under-the-radar straight girl who hangs out in the cafeteria with her gay-straight alliance friends.

She's never been the girl that gets the guy, let alone the girl that gets a hit song named after her. But when last summer's crush, smoking-hot musician Sebastian Delacroix—who has recently hit the mainstream big-time—returns home to play a local show, that's just what she gets. He and his band have written a chart-topping single—"Natalie"—which instantly makes Nattie second guess everything she thought about their awkward non-kiss at that June pool party. With her once-normal life starting to resemble a gossip magazine, Nattie is determined to figure out if her brief moment with Sebastian was the stuff love songs are made of—or just a one-hit wonder.

LEARN MORE

CHAPTER ONE

Everything weird started the day my dad brought home the yurt.

“Robert?”

Anne McCullough, alias Mom, was peering through the windows of our back door, cup of coffee in hand, and frowning. Robert Schwartz, alias Dad, had taken the station wagon somewhere early that morning and was now puttering around in the yard. But since puttering was one of those activities Dad did to relax, like separating the recycling or buying dress shoes on eBay, I wasn’t exactly concerned.

“Nattie?”

Natalie McCullough-Schwartz, alias Nattie, alias me, was sitting at the kitchen table, chomping through a noontime bowl of granola. It was Saturday, after all, so I was entitled to loaf around for a bit, reading and eating cereal to the soundtrack of the college radio station that my parents had playing 24-7.

“Whuh?” I responded without looking up from my phone, where I was completing my normal Saturday-morning Pixstagram catch-up session.

“Where did your dad go this morning?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Groceries or something? I was asleep.”

My mom was still frowning. She had her grayish auburn hair piled up on top of her head in a knot, which could have been either an intentional artistic look or just the result of not having brushed her hair yet. I was sporting a similar style, but for the latter reason.

“Sam? Did you see my husband go anywhere?”

Huang Xueyang, alias Sam Huang, was sitting at the desk in the kitchen, eating breakfast and probably checking his email from his family in China, and shook his head. Perhaps to assuage parental guilt over their blatant negligence of every school-related activity from signing permission slips on time to “not forgetting the date of the parent potluck for the third year in a row,” the McCullough-Schwartzes had been first to volunteer when the Owen Wister Preparatory Academy needed host families for foreign exchange students. So, since the beginning of the last school year, Sam Huang had been part of the clan. It was like suddenly having a fifteen-year-old brother, which I liked because it meant I always had someone to split a microwave lasagna with, my mom liked because it meant we were putting the spare bedroom to good use, and my dad liked because Sam played classical guitar and was “the son I never had,” which made Sam and me feel kind of equally uncomfortable.

My mom looked out the door again.

“Robert?”

Even though it was October, we still had the screen door up, because procrastination is a McCullough-Schwartz family value. So my dad should have been able to hear her, but she wasn’t getting a response.

“Robert?”

There was a definite tone now. Sam poured another bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I scrolled down my phone. At the top of my feed was an artsy shot of the Donut, the front-lawn sculpture at Owen Wister Preparatory Academy that was actually called something like Concentricity of Knowledge, a photo that was intriguing because one, it was a Saturday, so no one was at school and two, it was posted by user sebdel, alias Sebastian Delacroix, who had left Wister forever when he graduated. Or so I had thought.

“I think he’s . . . Is he unloading something from the car? Sam? Nattie?”

Sam smiled but shook his head. I wasn’t going to move, but Mom clearly wanted someone involved and I, as her flesh and blood, was beholden to her will.

“Nattie. Come here.”

Reluctantly, I tore myself away from creeping on Sebastian Delacroix’s Pixstagram feed and stood up. She took a pull from her coffee and narrowed her eyes, pointing out into the backyard.

Dad was definitely out there, wearing his weekend polar fleece and covering his balding head with one of his grimy bandannas. Next to him, on top of the maple leaves that no one had raked yet, was a stack of various pieces of wood, a beat-up red toolbox, and what seemed to be a heap of fabric.

“Looks like it,” I said.

“I can’t believe this,” Mom said. “And neither of you knew anything?”

She cast a hard look back at the room, where Sam Huang was now kind of cowering.

“Sam,” Mom said slowly and a little too nicely, “you know you can tell us anything. I mean, tell me. Especially about my husband’s whereabouts.”

“I . . .” Sam Huang darted a glance at the door. “I wasn’t supposed to say.”

Mom was not having it. “Come on, Sam. Where did he go?”

Sam Huang fidgeted again. “He said he was going to pick up something for the lawn. And that it was a surprise.”

“Aha.” Triumphant, and indignant, Mom swung open the screen door and started off across the yard. I unrolled my sleeves and followed, because it was chilly and I was curious. The ground was cold and a little mushy under my bare feet, but not cold enough to make me go back for shoes.

“Robert? What’s going on here?”

Mom marched right up to the edge of the little clearing Dad had made with his supplies in the corner of the yard, and folded her arms. Around us, the air was thick with mystery, and also fog. I tried to put it together: we already had a toolshed, and both Sam and I were way too old for a swing set. I had begged for a trampoline for my last birthday, but Mom insisted they were death traps, and she was probably right, given the way Dad tended to construct things. The McCullough-Schwartz basement was a graveyard of splintered IKEA dressers and oblong birdhouses no self-respecting blue jay would nest in.

“Oh, there you are!” Dad said, as if he’d completely missed her entreaties from the kitchen. He straightened up and mopped his face with the bandanna. He was beaming. “Looking good, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

My dad’s grin faltered just slightly.

“The yurt. Of course.”

“Nattie?” Sam Huang appeared, holding my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table. “You have a message.”

I took my phone and unlocked it to discover not one message, but three.

From: Tess Kozlowski

JAMBA ALERT

where are you

it’s important!!!

“What’s a Jamba alert?” asked Sam Huang. “Is it an emergency?”

I considered. Last May, Tess had found herself mysteriously subscribed to text alerts about smoothie deals from Jamba Juice, which we both thought was hilarious, and so, naturally, ever since then, we have referred to every text message, whether smoothie-related or not, as a Jamba alert. I knew our role as a host family was to be ambassadors for the American people, or something, but this was a weirdness that went beyond national cultural differences and into the weirdness of my particular group of friends.

“No.” I locked my phone again. Tess was my best friend and the person I trusted most in the world, but she was also the most liberal person I knew, both in her politics and her definition of important. So I knew whatever her deal was could wait until after the yurt. Whatever that was.

“The what?” Mom was saying.

“Yurt,” Dad repeated, like this was a word people used every day. “The traditional dwelling of the nomadic peoples of the steppes of Central Asia. It’s a sanctuary.”

“Robert,” Mom said slowly. “We don’t dwell in the steppes of Central Asia. We dwell in the suburbs of eastern Pennsylvania.”

“Right, but that’s just the beauty of it. It’s like an escape, for the family, right here in our backyard.” Noticing me, he wiggled his eyebrows. “Whaddya think, Nattie Gann?”

Natty Gann was the name of a plucky Depression-era orphan from a 1980s Disney movie that no one except my dad seemed to remember. It was also his favorite, dadliest nickname for me.

“I thought you said you were going to build a hot tub one day,” I said.

Actually, the putative yurt was taking over the exact space where I’d envisioned having our spa. I’d always wanted to have a cool place to put my friends—Tess, Tall Zach, and Zach the Anarchist, alias the Acronymphomaniacs, which we called ourselves not because of any actual nymphomania, but because we were fond of abbreviations and also belonged to a club with an uncommonly unwieldy acronym. It had just sort of stuck.

“He said he’d think about it,” Mom corrected.

Bzz. Bzz.

I thumbed my phone unlocked again.

From: Tess Kozlowski

nattieeeeee come hang out

“A yurt,” Dad said soberly, “is much better than a hot tub.”

This I took issue with. Because while I knew that, as a teenager teetering on the verge of adulthood and also the college process, I should have capital-G goals like “achieving purposefully,” “actionizing change,” and “not failing the math portion of the SATs,” my number one actual goal in life was just not to be weird. A hot tub was different, sure, but in a cool way. (Well, literally in a hot way, but the point stands.) A yurt, though, would just be a monument to strangeness and eccentricity—and for what? I couldn’t put it on a college application unless maybe I was applying to something like architectural school. And even then they’d probably flunk me for being too weird.

“Now, just a second, Robert,” Mom said. “We haven’t even discussed this.”

“Right, I know. But I was browsing the online yesterday night, and someone in the city was getting rid of this yurt kit for practically nothing because he had nowhere to put it, but I had to act fast or else he was just going to donate it to charity. I picked it up this morning.”

Dad looked proud, but Mom looked positively pained.

“What on earth are we going to do with a yurt?” she asked.

“What on earth would a charity do with a yurt?” I asked.

It took Dad a minute to come up with an answer. “Hang out,” he said. “Do some art projects. Or just get some nice peace and quiet, you know? The guy told me the yurt is intentionally built with a low ceiling and door, so you can’t get in without humbling yourself—”

“It’s built that way to keep the heat in,” I pointed out, vaguely recalling a social studies class.

Dad wasn’t listening. “We’ll get some cushions out here, a couple of candles, maybe a cast-iron stove to burn up some logs. . . .” He got a dreamy look in his eyes.

Mom looked like she’d rather burn the raw yurt materials than any logs. Even though she is, professionally, a creative person, Mom is not a big fan of Dad’s weekend projects. Maybe it’s because she gets to build frames for beautiful paintings all day and he’s cooped up in an office doing whatever it is executive directors of nonprofit voting-rights advocacy groups do all day, or maybe it’s because he’s left one half-dug koi pond too many in our front yard, but either way, the McCullough-Schwartzes do not have a good track record with home improvements.

“You can’t just start building a yurt in our backyard, Robert,” Mom said. “It looks . . . ugly.”

“Well, sure, it looks ugly now,” Dad said. “But soon it’ll be a circular canvas tent!”

This did not placate Mom. “What will the neighbors think?”

“It’s not for the neighbors,” Dad said. “It’s for us. Look, Sam Huang loves it.”

Sam Huang did not look like he wanted to get involved in an altercation between his host parents. I briefly wondered what would happen to him if they got divorced. Or to me, for that matter.

“We need to have a place to relax,” Dad said. “It’ll be good for us.”

Mom pursed her lips. “Does the place to relax have to be so . . . visible?”

In my pocket, my phone buzzed for the billionth time.

From: Tess Kozlowski

NATTIE JAMBA ALERT GET HERE OR ELSE WE

WILL ALL BE VERY SAD

:’( :’( :’(

I decided it was probably time to indulge Tess. And also get dressed, because it was twelve fifteen and I should probably do something more with my day than Pixstagram stalking. I was curious about the outcome of the whole yurt-stravaganza, but knowing my parents, the odds of a swift resolution were about as good as me applying to architectural school.

“I’m . . . gonna go see Tess,” I said, and backed away slowly.

“Great,” Mom said, in a tone of voice that was anything but great.

“Have fun!” Dad said brightly.

“Bye, Nattie,” said Sam Huang.

The screen door slapped behind me as I crossed the threshold back to the warmth of the kitchen and the bowl of mush that had once been my breakfast. When I stomped down the back stairs ten minutes later, Mom and Dad were at the counter, Dad gesticulating wildly and Mom laughing over a fresh cup of coffee, Sam Huang was set up at his computer watching guitar videos on YouTube, and beneath everything else, as always, the radio was softly playing an unfamiliar song.

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jonathanbelloblog · 6 years

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Mayhem at the Ebisu Drift Matsuri

With cars prepared, and stories exchanged with the Minowas, I was ready to attend the biggest event in the drift calendar with one of the biggest names in the game.

The Matsuri

Photos courtesy of Dini Dalle Carbonare.

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