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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Modern Love, 1/12 (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex) - Ortega

fic summary: Brooke Lynn is a 23 year old graduate writing boring, uninspired pieces for the fashion department of a newspaper and living in a city all her friends have moved away from. Silky is living at her parents’ house and spends her days applying for jobs she’s promptly rejected for. Nina and Monet are struggling through their first year as teachers whilst being sickeningly adorable girlfriends. Akeria is pursuing her dream of being a badass lawyer, even if her master’s degree is slowly crushing her soul. Plastique is acting like the second coming of Paris Hilton, so nothing there has changed. Scarlet is overworked and Yvie is underpaid and their relationship isn’t all it appears from the outside.

And Vanessa? Vanessa is nowhere to be seen.

(A story about a holiday, a breakup, friendships and relationships in a post-graduate world, careers, navigating life after university, figuring out what it means to be an adult, and coming to terms with the fact that we really are not nineteen forever.)

a/n: welcome to the sequel to Not Nineteen Forever!!! i should say it’s not *~ mandatory ~* to have read the original before this but it’s encouraged huehue xo hope u enjoy and please feel free to reblog, like and send love!!

***

Brooke felt the all-encompassing sense of dread wash over her as her alarm went off, the sounds of the radio that were gradually fading in doing nothing to make the experience of waking up for another day of work any more palatable. She groaned loudly as she stretched, her arms flying out to the side and hitting the edge of the double bed. Brooke starfished a little, stretching her legs out as long as they would go and trying to put off getting up and showered for as long as she could.

Rolling over in bed she reached for her phone and stopped when she saw the rose-gold rectangular frame beside her on the bedside table. It caught her by surprise every day, almost a sort of routine in itself. A picture of her and Vanessa from when they first moved in, standing at the doorway having just popped a bottle of champagne. Brooke’s face was in a funny contorted sort of smile as she yanked the cork out of the bottle and Vanessa was clapping her hands in excitement, a brilliant white moonbeam painted across her face. Brooke remembered the day well. Monet had taken the photo with Nina beside her, both of them still in their work clothes after they’d visited straight from a hard day full of teaching. Akeria, Silky, Plastique, Scarlet and Yvie had all been inside, shuffling through the huge variety of Domino’s pizza boxes that had just arrived at their door like a deck of cards. That night had been so special. Whatever had happened since then, Brooke would probably treasure that memory forever.

In spite of herself she smiled as she looked at the photograph, then turned her attention to her phone screen.

No notifications. She didn’t know why she expected anything more.

With a cloud over her head that matched the ones in the uncharacteristically grey June sky, Brooke brushed her teeth and peeled her pyjamas off before stepping into the shower and adjusting the dial to somewhere between tepid and warm. Vanessa’s shower gel sat in the corner, the tropical fruit and mint one with little tiny sloths all over the front. Brooke found herself hurting as she looked at it, still loath to use it as she took her own from the opposite side and splatted a huge dollop into her shower puff. Sometimes she used it indulgently, like a secret she shared with herself. She didn’t know whether she’d buy more when it ran out. That was something she still needed to think about.

Once she was clean Brooke briskly dried herself with a towel, sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in it as she carefully blow-dried out her hair. She picked out her outfit: smart black work trousers with a fabric belt that pulled her in at the waist, a black and white patterned shirt, black stiletto heels. As she painted some minimal makeup on her face in the hope it would make her look less like a sleep-deprived zombie and more like she had her life together in some way, Brooke checked the clock and cursed as she realised she was running behind.

Leaving lipstick for the moment, she grabbed her bag, shoved her feet in a pair of black pumps, and left hurriedly for the train. Breakfast wasn’t a priority; she knew she could grab an iced coffee and a croissant from the cafe in the station in between changing trains, as it took her two to get into work. It was times such as these that she wished she knew how to drive like Monet, Plastique and Akeria, or had learned since uni like Nina or Scarlet. But then again, cafe food for breakfast was one of the very few perks of public transport.

Brooke eventually arrived at the huge concrete block with windows that held her offices, taking the elevator up to the fifth floor, clocking in, shooting a lacklustre “hi” to the girls she sometimes chatted to and settling herself in at her desk. As office positions went, Brooke supposed it wasn’t awful- it was beside the window looking out onto the streets of the city below and it provided some much-needed light to her day. Logging on to her work laptop, she checked her emails (one from her boss about the article due for Friday, and one from Cheryl about money for flowers for somebody going on maternity leave that she’d never met or heard of and might not even have worked there).

Her working day had started.

University hadn’t prepared Brooke for graduate life. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that friends moved away for jobs and houses and flats, internships and apprenticeships and postgrads and masters. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that her group chat, once flooded with about a hundred messages if she so much as left it for five minutes, gathered dust as everyone’s lives took over. It hadn’t prepared Brooke for the feeling of missing out on something…Christ knows what. Perhaps living, making memories instead of simply swiping through ones already made on a Saturday night spent alone in bed with a bottle of wine to herself. It hadn’t prepared her for the yearning, the regret at having taken those days for granted when they were the happiest of her life and she hadn’t even realised it. If Brooke had known how soul-crushingly boring her life would be once she got that rolled-up piece of paper in a little tube she would’ve been dragging the girls out every single night. The all-encompassing sadness and longing for something better hit her harder on days like these, sepia ones with big clouds that hung ominously in the sky but never gave her the satisfaction of raining. She supposed that feeling had only been exacerbated by…

She didn’t need to remind herself of that.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and Brooke was staring out of the small office window stupefied with boredom when her phone vibrated. She jumped, pouncing on it as she always did whenever a notification went off. Her phone hadn’t been on silent for a full month. It hadn’t been the person she’d wanted or expected, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

Silk: HEY GIRL LONG TIME NO SPEAK! I’M GONNA BE IN TOWN THIS AFTERNOON FOR AN INTERVIEW BUT I’LL BE FREE AFTER AND I’VE GOT A COUPLE HOURS TO KICK ABOUT UNTIL MY TRAIN. YOU WANNA GRAB DINNER? XXXXXXXXX

Brooke frantically made plans as if she was under a time limit, as if the moment would slip through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. She suggested some restaurants that she knew wouldn’t eat into either of their fragile graduate salaries and they settled on an Italian in the city centre, where the portions were big and the meals were tasty.

Brooke spent the rest of the day looking forward to meeting her friend. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Silky. Maybe it had been as long ago as New Year. Brooke smiled as she remembered the occasion; all of them cramming into Scarlet and Yvie’s flat to see in the year. Silky and Akeria had got too drunk off prosecco and screamed along to JLS, Scarlet and Yvie had both made a buffet to rival a hotel’s, and Nina, Monet, Vanessa and Brooke had all been tangled up in an almost relationship-ruining game of Articulate. Plastique had brought her new girlfriend Naomi to introduce to everyone and the girl had looked ever so slightly alarmed by the sheer chaos of everyone put together, but she’d laughed and joined in all the same.

That had been another happy memory. Those seemed to be hard to come by these days.

Work dragged. It always did. Brooke managed to write three sub-par articles that she sent to her editor at the end of the day anyway because hell, it was their job to turn carbon into diamonds. So when she hopped on the train back into the city, Brooke felt a little buzz in her veins that she hadn’t felt in a while.

It took her until she saw Silky standing outside the restaurant- hair in a bun full of flyaways, eyebrows still Sharpied on, in a pair of smart trousers and a floaty top- that Brooke realised that part of the reason she was so excited was because she’d been so lonely for such a long time. Well, only really a month, but it felt like a year. It had taken her living on her own to realise just how boring her life was without all her friends so constantly part of it, and now they all had their own lives and schedules it only served to show Brooke how empty her own was without…

Well. Without her.

As soon as Silky looked up from her phone and spotted Brooke her face lit up, and she fixed her with a smile and a screech that Brooke never thought she would have missed hearing but by God, she had.

“BROOKE LYNN!” she screamed, followed by lots of squealing and babbling as she wrapped the taller girl in a tight hug and refused to let go for at least twenty seconds. Brooke didn’t mind and she found herself clinging back, Silky suddenly the loudest anchor she’d never known she needed. When Silky finally pulled away she grabbed Brooke by both wrists, shaking her back and forth a little. “Oh my God, BITCH! Oh my God. FUCK! It’s so good to see you. How the fuck are you?”

Brooke appreciated that- Silky asking how she was. Yvie tiptoed around Brooke’s feelings when they texted and Brooke tiptoed around her and Scarlet’s perfect domestic bliss, both of the subjects too touchy for Brooke and the pair of them instead choosing to communicate via meme. Nina barely had time to breathe these days let alone text back, and Plastique…well, Plastique wouldn’t get it.

None of them would, she supposed.

“I’m…I’m surviving! I’m being an adult, I guess, and this is what life is now. How’re you?” Brooke swiftly moved the conversation on, and Silky took the hint and dropped both her wrists, pushing open the door.

“I’m on cloud fuckin’ nine girl. C’mon, let’s get some vino an’ I’ll catch you up on the world of Ms. Ganache! Think of it as a free episode of the reality TV show that is my life.”

“Let’s be real, Silk. If anyone’s life’s like a reality TV show right now, it’s mine,” Brooke raised her eyebrows, not quite committing to her own attempt at being lighthearted and instead couldn’t have sounded more bitter if she’d eaten an entire lemon with its rind on.

Silky, for her part, shrugged and let out a small sigh. “You ain’t wrong, girl, you ain’t wrong. But the offer of wine still stands, so let’s get sat. Where the damn hell is a waiter?”

They eventually got shown to their table and the conversation flowed frantically and excitedly, mirroring the wine. Silky filled Brooke in on every last detail of her life- most importantly, Brooke thought, was that Silky’s parents who she was back living with had adopted a cocker spaniel puppy called Pooch. Graduate life had been tough on Silky; she still hadn’t managed to get a job and so therefore couldn’t afford to rent a flat, so she’d moved back to her sleepy and uninspiring hometown. Living with her parents, she’d groaned, was beginning to chip away at her; the constant pressure they put on Silky to find a job, move out, get a boyfriend, and lose weight was beginning to grow wearing in the extreme, and Brooke didn’t blame her for being fed up.

“You know you’re always welcome to come chill at mine, you know. If it’s getting particularly rough,” Brooke suggested not-quite-casually, glad of the fact that loneliness didn’t have a scent because if it did she’d be reeking of it.

Silky gave a bashful smile, looking down at her half-eaten plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of her. “You’re a doll, B, but you know I can’t do an hour on the train any time my Mama tuts at me buying a size XL of anything. In fact therapy’s probably cheaper than a train ticket here but realistically I don’t got the money for either, so…thanks, but in the words of Simon Cowell, issa no from me.”

“That’s okay. I get it, Mums are simultaneously the worst and the best people,” Brooke pulled a face. Thinking about her Mum made her wonder when the last time she texted her was. She felt a little ashamed for not knowing off the top of her head. “But hey, at least you got that interview, right? How did it go?”

“Alright,” Silky muttered in a non-committal way. It was the most un-Silky response Brooke thought she’d ever seen her friend give. It was weird and unpleasant; the Silky from uni would’ve yelled the place down about how she’d aced it, how they’d make her the chief editor right there and then, how she could write an article for them entirely in Wingdings and it’d still be the best thing they’d read all day.

Seemingly picking up on Brooke’s discomfort, Silky gave a small laugh. “I don’ know, boo…I used to be so sure of myself, I used to be so set in the fact that writing was somethin’ I was good at. When I was a kid I used to write these fuckin’ huge stories…pages an’ pages long that my teachers would pull big overexaggerated smiley faces at an’ squeal over an’ put big glittery star stickers on. I thought I was somethin’ special. An’ then uni, y’know…I was a small fish in a big pond- hell, a big fish in a big pond- but I still thought I was the shit even when I got bad grades. I thought my markers just didn’t get it, that they were the ones that were wrong. But now it’s like…”

Silky heaved a sigh and put her fork and spoon together neatly on top of her half-full plate. “…I can’t even get a job at a fuckin’ local rag, so why the hell am I even tryin’ with the big city offices?”

There was something about it all that made Brooke’s heart break all over again, the way that life after uni had worn Silky down to the extent where she didn’t even know if she was good at anything any more, didn’t have much visible self-worth left. Silky had always been the heart and soul of their group; she, Akeria and Vanessa, and in the time it had taken between now and graduation Akeria had become the polar opposite of Silky- so completely embroiled in her quest to become a barrister that she barely had time to reply to any of them any more.

And Vanessa…well. She knew where Vanessa was. Or rather, she didn’t.

Greece was a big country.

“You’re trying because you’re Big Silky Nutmeg Motherfucking Ganache,” Brooke said with a determination she’d not felt in a while. “Come on Silk, you’re you. If grad life has broken you then what the fuck hope is there for any of us?”

( Any of us sounded better than me , Brooke thought.)

“Kiki’s doin’ okay for herself,” Silky shrugged, her downtrodden tone counteracted by the way she picked up her fork again and twirled a single strand of spaghetti around it, eating it once she was finished speaking.

“Kiki’s vagina-deep in a hellish and all-consuming masters degree that’s probably eating her up from the inside out just as much as everybody else’s jobs are. I mean, are any of us doing anything we actually like?”

“Nina an’ Monet? They’da quit by now if they hated teaching so much.”

“Nina West would join the fucking scientologists and stick it out just so she could say she didn’t give up. She’s the final boss of the term mama didn’t raise a quitter . They’re having a hard time, Silk. We all are. It’s just tough because we’re all so busy and shit at keeping in touch that everybody thinks each others’ lives are perfect but…they’re really not.”

“Yvie and Scarlet seem pretty happy.”

Brooke’s face took on an involuntary look of distaste, so irritated and bitter was she at the image of them and their perfect flat and their perfect jobs and their perfect coupley life. “They’ll have something up, nobody’s life is that perfect. Maybe their relationship’s secretly falling apart or…something, fuck, I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence in which Brooke finished the last little pocket of tortellini she’d ordered and Silky twirled another mouthful of spaghetti around her fork. She chewed, then shrugged thoughtfully, her head tilting a little. “Y’know we should go on holiday. Fuck all this shit off for a week, get away from it all.”

Brooke’s eyebrows raised in appreciation of the idea. She and the girls had never been away together before and the prospect of lying on a beach doing absolutely nothing under the blazing sun was an inviting one. “What, a girls’ trip? Like in Sex and The City?”

“Mhm. ‘Cept we go on an all-inclusive to the Med ‘stead of Mexico ‘cause ain’t none of us can afford that shit.”

“Except Plastique.”

“True. Fuck that bitch. She could prolly buy Mexico.”

Brooke laughed and for the first time in a good few months she felt a little flicker of excitement lick at her heart, so much so that she could see her pulse race at her wrist. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “Oh my God. I’m so in. Let’s do it.”

“We have to get all the girls on board, though. Otherwise there ain’t no point.”

“Definitely. Where should we go? Spain’s always good.”

Silky had her phone out and was typing furiously. She paused as something presumably loaded, then her face lit up. “If we go the week after Nina an’ Monet finish up school for Summer we can get flights to Crete for £20 return.”

“Twenty, what the fuck? That can’t be right,” Brooke screwed up her face in disbelief, and Silky cocked an eyebrow at her as she showed her the proof on her screen. Conceding, Brooke shrugged. “That’s so good. I don’t want to know what that plane’s like though. They probably just stuff you all into a tin can and ping you into the air with a giant rubber band.”

Silky howled with laughter and thumped the table so hard that the wine sloshed about in their glasses, little tiny red tsunamis. As Brooke snorted in response purely to Silky’s own mirth, a small thought set off a little drip of dread that threatened to put out the excitement that had only just begun to burn in her chest.

“Where is Crete again?”

Silky let out an unimpressed breath from her nose. “Bitch, you got all the geography skills of a Love Island contestant. It’s just off the Greek coast. Kinda near Turkey too, but it’s Greece.”

Brooke felt her heart drop, Alton Towers Oblivion all over again. She blinked quickly, tried to hide her discomfort. “Well, we’re not going there.”

Silky gave a small sigh, a little hint of resignation or long-suffering to it that Brooke didn’t appreciate. But when she reached over the table and patted her hand on top of Brooke’s, she felt a little bit more understood, a little bit more validated.

“B, Greece is a big place.”

It was the exact same thing Brooke herself had thought earlier, except now it didn’t seem true. Now, with the prospect of going there, it seemed like the tiniest microcosm of society. The world was simultaneously too big and too small, and Brooke felt the cold drip in her heart get worse. “Silky…”

“Look. We ain’t exactly gonna pick the same place she’s at, are we?”

Brooke put her head in her hands and sighed. “She’s not there anymore.”

“What?”

“I phoned the hotel a week ago to try and speak to her. I was going to fly out, try and talk to her and fix things. They said she didn’t work there anymore. So I don’t even know where she is at all.”

Silky huffed, frowning and concerned. “I’m sorry, Brooke, this shit must’ve been hell.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

There was a pause as Silky pushed her food around her plate. “Crete’s small, but it ain’t that small. We still got a one in a million chance of bumpin’ into her if we go.”

“That’s still too small for my liking. Both the island and the chances.”

“Aight, one in a billion. Trillion. Point is, it ain’t gonna happen. An’ besides…” Silky waggled her eyebrows, flashing her phone screen at Brooke again. “Twenty pounds for the first week of the school holidays. This shit’s like gold dust.”

Brooke smiled slowly in spite of herself. Maybe Silky was right. And maybe it would be fun to swan around Greece, eat seafood and pretend to be in some knockoff version of Mamma Mia. Scratch that, it would be fun. She’d get to spend a week surrounded by her friends in the sun, which was what she badly needed at the moment.

Brooke was nodding before she knew it. “Okay, fine. Crete it is.”

“YES, bitch!” Silky cheered, loud enough to be heard by the entire restaurant and possibly the chefs in the kitchen too. “Now let’s get dessert. All this wine needs soaked up by a big slice of sticky toffee puddin’.”

It was easy to feel optimistic with Silky back being her loud and just-the-right-side-of-obnoxious self, and with a plate of tiramisu in front of her. But after they’d finished up, paid their bill and she’d hugged Silky goodbye at the train station, Brooke found the endorphins wearing off as she got back to her dark flat and into her cold bed. Maybe it was because she was finally coming down from the high of meeting up with a beloved friend, maybe it was because she knew she had another monotonous, greyscale day of work to get through tomorrow.

Or perhaps, Brooke thought as she turned over in bed, caught sight of the familiar rose-gold frame and blew it a kiss, she was simply missing her girlfriend.

If she could even call Vanessa that any more.

#rpdr fanfiction #s11 #modern love #ortega #n19f #branjie #background scyvie #background ninex #lesbian au #angst #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #silky nutmeg ganache

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bandzrus · 5 years

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My Kinda Lover (One-Shot)

The Dirt!Vince Neil x Reader

Masterlist

SUMMARY // requested by anonymous – Vince being shy around a girl, getting nervous and messing up a show when she’s there

NOTE // the year is 1981 btw, right before Motley Crue formed. Uhg, I feel like Vince is so much harder to write than Nikki or Tommy, even though I love him.

WORDS // 2905

TAGLIST // @mainly-me @shamelessobsessions @broken-pieces @calspixie @shouttatthedevill @cigarettes-after-sexxx @thatbandchick39 @buckyofthemyscira @countrygirlswonderland @kawennote09 @tommyfuckinlee @miserablecunt @madsthegroupie @livingforrt @catsoo12 @whisky-a-go-go @motherloovebone @rysepieces98 @kickstartmyheartmc @voguesixx @marvelismylifffe @iluvmesomemarvelndc @princesof-theuniverse

***

It was a series of convoluted events that got you and Vince Neil together. Your brother was the leading cause of these events, and being the teasing older sibling that he was, he wasn’t ever going to let you forget it. It started a month before it happened, when your brother finally stopped sleeping through his history class and saw Mandy. New to school and therefore single, your brother was one of many bachelors who asked her out, all with no success. Except your brother wasn’t a quitter, and he made it his personal mission to follow her around like a love-sick puppy opening doors for her, picking flowers, and going to every party she was invited to whether he was on the guest list or not. And that’s how you wound up at Angie’s pool party.

Angie was one of the most popular girls in your brother’s year and was notorious for throwing the best parties in LA. Her parents both worked in big law firms and spent more of their time at the office than at home, which meant Angie had the run of the mansion. It was never difficult to score an invite to one of these parties – as long as you’d never had an unpleasant run-in with Angie, you were welcome to help yourself to all the booze, bikinis, and pool floaties Angie had to offer. You barely knew Angie and wouldn’t have gone to the party on your own accord, but your parents insisted your brother take you along since they were going out of town for the weekend and didn’t want you staying home alone too long even though you were plenty old enough to. Your brother of course was going because Mandy was going. And while you poked fun of him all the way there like the annoying little sister you were, it turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to you.

“If you’re wearing your speedo right now Jason,” you warned your brother. “I’m going to disown you.”

“Chicks dig the speedo!”

“No we don’t!”

“Mandy won’t be able to resist me,” grinned Jason, gripping the wheel of his ’69 Mustang casually with one hand while his other hovered over the shifter.

“You’re going to send her into shock.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m going to call the police and say there’s a guy exposing himself if you come out in your speedo,” you said, feet resting on the dash. You tapped your fingers along to “Free Ride” by The Edgar Winter Group on the radio.

“I swear to god, Y/N if you embarrass me in front of Mandy I’ll-“

“You don’t need my help to do that, you’re perfectly capable of embarrassing yourself all on your own,” you chided. “And your threats don’t scare me.”

“I’ll tell mom and dad you were drinking.”

“Jason, I’m twenty.”

“Yeah, underage! They’ll ground you.”

“When they found out I drank at Hailey Anderson’s party in eleventh grade they didn’t care,” you pointed out. “They’re not going to ground me now.”

Your brother frowned and didn’t say anything for a moment, knowing you’d won the argument.

“Fine, can we agree to just leave each other alone at this party then?”

“I would like nothing more than to not associate myself with you,” you agreed.

“I don’t want you fucking things up between me and Mandy, I think she’s finally coming around.”

“If you say so,” you sighed, turning your head to look out the window at the passing California hills. It was nearing the end of May and the perfect day for a pool party, and if you were being honest you were glad you were going to a place with a swimming pool. It was hot as hell outside.

Angie lived up on a hill, and as your brother pulled into the long driveway you could spot part of the Hollywood sign in the distance.

“Come on, shitbird,” Jason called, pocketing his keys and swaggering up the path to Angie’s front door. You could already hear the party in the backyard.

“Coming asshat,” you snapped back. Name-calling was nothing out of the ordinary with you two, and you’d probably been reprimanded more by your parents for that than any other bad deeds. Ringing the bell, the two of you waited patiently on Angie’s doorstep until she came to the door.

“Hey Angie!” greeted Jason, putting on what he thought was his most charming smile.

“Hi Jason.”

Angie was blocking the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other on the doorframe.

“We’re here for the party.”

“Aw, Jason! I thought we were selling Girl Scout cookies!” you whined, giving your brother your best pouty face. It made Angie laugh.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” she mused, giving you a friendly smile. Jason just rolled his eyes and sighed, abandoning his smooth-guy act.

“My parents forced me to bring her along – I made her swear she’d just sit in a corner with a beer or something.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Did you bring a bathing suit?”

“Yup,” you answered, flipping up your shirt to reveal your red bathing suit.

“Want a beer?”

“Love one.”

“Come on in then,” smirked Angie, lifting her arm so you could get inside the house. Jason made to follow you, but Angie blocked him off again.

“Hey!” he protested, throwing his hands in the air. “What gives Ang?”

“Did you bring a bathing suit?” she inquired, eyeing your brother up and down critically.

“He wore his speedo,” you informed her, giving Jason your best shit-eating grin. He flipped you off.

“A speedo huh?”

“Chicks dig it.”

You and Angie shared an understanding look before she turned back to your brother and lifted her arm to let him pass.

“Thank you,” he scoffed, shooting daggers at you. The two of you followed Angie through the house and out to the backyard where about forty other people your age were milling around drinking beer, smoking, laughing, or splashing in the pool. Yup, a perfect day for a pool party. You spotted Mandy first and smacked Jason on the arm to get his attention.

“Try to not embarrass yourself too much,” you said. “I’m grabbing a beer.”

“Fuck off.”

“Gladly.”

Watching your brother shrug off his leather jacket and run a hand through his hair like some kind of preening bird, you rolled your eyes and then headed for the drinks table.

“Just a beer thanks.”

“Sure.”

Handing you a cold one from a cooler full of ice, the guy running the table waved you off as a gaggle of girls came up to him. Popping the cap off and taking a swig, the cold liquid felt especially good on a hot day. You noted a few people your age milling around, but then something else caught your attention. At the far side of the pool there was a drum kit and some other instruments set up. Taking another sip of your beer, you decided to wander over and investigate. As you were making your way over trying to catch a glimpse of who exactly was about to play, music filled the air. You recognized the song almost instantly.

“You got my motor racin’

I find my thoughts embracin' your every move

I wanna set you reelin’

I want to make you feel the way that I do

And oh

I been thinkin' 'bout you for so long

I don't want to lose ya, you're my kinda lover

My kinda lover

My kinda lover!”

It was “My Kinda Lover” by Billy Squier, accept it sounded better than the original which you hadn’t thought possible. Elbowing your way through the crowd that had gathered, you finally spotted who exactly was playing. Three long-haired brunettes on drums, keyboard, and guitar, and smack in the middle the hottest guy you’d ever seen. Baby blond hair, tight white snake-skin leather pants, studded belt, jean jacket – he screamed rock star. Your jaw dropped open.

“Oh fuck me,” you muttered under your breath. You couldn’t take your eyes off him; none of the girls crowded around the band could. Totally mesmerized by the way he moved his hips, the longer you stared the less you realized you were drooling.

“My kinda lover

My kinda lover

My kinda lover!”

Leaning in close to a few of the ditsy blondes next to you to finish the last bout of chorus, the band wrapped up the song. Cheering, whistling, and swooning, your good day had just turned into a great one. And it was about to get even better.

“Thank you, we are Rock Candy!” said the blond, giving the crowd a winning smile. Blinking and shaking your head, you finally realized you had drool on your chin. The blond singer glanced over at you and chuckled as you wiped the drool off with the back of your hand.

“Shit!” you muttered, feeling yourself blush scarlet. The crowd was starting to dissipate now that the band was abandoning their instruments in favour of cold booze, but a few of the girls were sticking around hoping for more. When they realized the blond wasn’t paying them any attention and looking at you instead, you could hear them make a couple nasty remarks under their breath before they too wandered off.

“Never had that before,” commented the singer, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he adjusted the mic stand with the other.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never had a girl physically drool before,” he laughed.

“I wasn’t-“

“I dig it.”

“Wha- really? I’m totally embarrassed,” you confessed.

“Yeah. Makes me want to actually consider being a real rock star.”

“I thought you already were.”

“Really?”

“What the fuck do you think?” you laughed lightly. “I was drooling!”

“Now, was that over the music or just over me?” the blond asked coyly, taking a step towards you and adjusting his pants. You bit your lip.

“Cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Been told that before.”

“Both,” you answered honestly.

“Want to get something to eat?”

“I’d love to.”

Swaggering back over to the drinks table, you started munching on chips while the singer asked for a beer. You leaned your hip against the table and ignored the judgmental stares of other girls as you waited for the blond to pop the cap off his drink. With a hiss, the metal cap came off and he took a rock star length swig of beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Before I start calling you Drool Girl, mind telling me your name?”

You laughed.

“It’s Y/N,” you answered.

“Vince.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Vince.”

You bit a particularly large chip in half and then held the other half out to Vince.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” he said, letting you feed him the chip.

“What brings you around here, rock star? I’ve never seen you before.”

“Free booze,” Vince held up his bottle. “Hot chicks.

This time he gestured at you.

“What about you?”

“I came here with my idiot brother,” you confessed.

“Oh? Which one’s he?”

“The one flexing his non-existent muscles for Mandy over there,” you pointed. Your brother looked like a total wad, taking turns gawking at Mandy and his own bicep. Vince just laughed.

“He thinks he’s got game.”

“You’re related to that guy?”

“Unfortunately yes,” you sighed, turned back to the blond and taking a sip of the beer you’d forgotten was in your hand. “He’s been going after her for a month now, you’d think he’d give up but no.”

“She’s way out of his league.”

“Oooh yeah!”

“Does he have a cool car?”

“Huh?”

“Does he have a cool car at least?” asked Vince, taking another long swig of his drink.

“Yeah, he drives a Mustang,” you frowned.

“He taken her for a drive yet?”

“Uuuh-“ just as you were about to reply no, you saw your brother grab Mandy’s hand and by the way he was gesturing you could tell that’s exactly what they were about to go do.

“-I was gonna say no, but…” you pointed at the two of them with the head of your beer bottle. The singer just laughed again.

“Do you drive anything?”

“I’ve got a 280z.”

“Shit, really?” Vince asked, nearly choking on his beer.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wanted one of those forever.”

“Well, you’re gonna be a rock star, I’m sure you’ll be able to afford one in no time,” you giggled, twirling a bit of hair around your finger.

“You really think I could be a rock star?”

“Definitely,” you purred, taking a step towards him and fiddling with the hem of his jean jacket.

“Hey! Vinny!”

It was one of the other Rock Candy members calling for the singer. Turning his head, Vince gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“Hurry up, we’ve got another song to do!”

“Give me a minute, geezus!”

“Hurry the fuck up, dude!”

“Fuckin’ asshole,” muttered Vince, turning back to you. “Sorry ‘bout that. Can we finish this later? Maybe over another one of these?” he held up his beer bottle before downing the rest of its contents.

“I’d love that.”

“Cool.”

And with that the blond planted a flash of a kiss on your lips before nudging his way through the crowd. Standing there stunned for a minute, it took a particularly loud scoff from a nearby girl to snap you out of it.

Eating another handful of chips and finishing off your beer, you decided it was high time you peel off your street clothes and strip down to your bathing suit. The band had already started playing, and once again you recognized the song almost instantly. It was Deep Purple’s “Highway Star”. Balling up your t-shirt and shorts and tossing them under the nearest hedge where nobody would bother with them, you were about to shimmy your way back to Vince through the crowd when suddenly you had a better idea. Grinning to yourself, you jumped into the pool. Submerged, you were pleasantly surprised at how warm the water was. The LA sun worked fast. You swam towards the other end of the pool, only breaking for air when you came up on the other side. Gripping the edge with one hand, you ran your other through your wet hair. If you were doing this right, you looked like a damn model. The crowd still had a couple gaps in it and from your vantage point you could see the singer perfectly.

“Nobody gonna take my car

I'm gonna race it to the ground

Nobody gonna beat my car

It's gonna break the speed of sound

Oooh it's a killing machine

It's got everything

Like a driving power big fat tires

And everything!”

Vince’s eyes met yours, just as you started making the move to get out of the pool. Pushing yourself up chest first, you winked at him. Your bathing suit left little the imagination and you knew it. Sliding out of the pool with more grace than even you knew was possible, Vince’s singing started to falter.

“I love it and I need it

I bleed it

Y-yeah it's a wild hurricane

Alright hold t-tight

I'm a highway star!”

Smoothing your hair, you let the water run off your body as you smiled and bit your lip at him. Maybe the red on the blond’s cheeks was from the heat or the singing, but you knew better.

“N-nobody gonna take my girl

I'm gonna keep h-her to the end

Nobody gonna have my girl

She stays close on every bend-d

Oo-ooh she's a killing machine

She's got everything

Like a moving mouth body c-control

And everything

I l-love her I need her-“

The band was getting annoyed with Vince, you could see it on their faces and even hear it in their playing. More than just some of the catty girls were staring at you now. A bunch of your brother’s colleagues were too, and of course Vince couldn’t keep his eyes off you. He cut the chorus short, and the band started to trickle off, wrapping the song up before their singer butchered it too badly. Vince let go of the microphone and gave an apologetic look at his bandmates before stepping into the crowd. You were still standing near the edge of the pool, one hand absently playing with your wet hair.

“I’m sorry, was I distracting you, rock star?” you asked, faking innocence. The blond wet his lips nervously, looking down at his feet for a brief moment before back up to you.

“You did that on purpose,” he said plainly.

“Maaaybe.”

“First you drool for me, and now you’re getting wet for me.”

You knew he was talking about a different kind of wet.

“What are you going to do about it?” you asked him, lifting an eyebrow.

“Give me your number and you’ll find out.”

“Fine. Got a pen?”

Vince looked back at one of his band buddies for a pen. Thankfully one of them had one. You took it and then grabbed Vince’s hand in yours. Using your teeth to pull the cap off, you carefully scrawled your number onto the singer’s wrist.

“There,” you finished, letting go and recapping the pen. “Use it.”

“Oh I will,” promised Vince. “Especially now that I know you’ve got a 280z.”

***

Uhg, I’m so sorry this took so long for me too finish, it’s not even that long and I liked the concept. Next on my list is part 10 of TNFT, but I may take another break soon and work on some more of my requests. I hope this didn’t suck too much and let me know if you want to be tagged in anything!

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the-coconut-asado · 6 years

Text

Nazareth: The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants

Last month I went to Israel. So did the Duke of Cambridge. I wonder if it was as much of a food revelation to him as it was to me?

I had lazily assumed a diet of falafel and hummus. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of both, but so moist and unctuous that I have no desire to buy either from Sainsbury’s ever again. But for somewhere that, by its own admission (or at least according to my foodie tour guide in Tel Aviv) doesn’t have a home-grown cuisine, I ate my way through at least three blogs-worth of inspiration.

So, here’s the first chapter. It’s not where I started my journey, but it’s as good a place as any to start the story.

You come across Nazareth suddenly after driving roughly two and a half hours north-east of Jerusalem. Worried that our bus would abandon us at the edge of the Old Town and we would have to find our guest house in a maze of unnamed streets, we realised on alighting that the Old Town was walkable in 5 minutes and our guesthouse was, er, 100 metres from our drop off point. Doubly happy with our charming new abode and our host’s insistence that we were home now (he said that a lot), we set off to discover one of the Country’s lesser-known foodie destinations.

We spent our whole Israel trip running ahead the Sabbath, because whether you are Jewish or Christian, there ain’t nothing open on the Sabbath. Thus, we left Jerusalem the day before Shabbat and stayed in Nazareth (predominantly Muslim and Christian) until the Sunday, when we drove away from streets devoid of people, to the twin sounds of the Muezzin and Church bells.

But wherever we went, it was Ramadan. Which meant you had to get your meal timings right. Half an hour before sundown after a day’s fasting, families sat expectantly at restaurant tables, knives and forks poised and inner engines revving for the signal to eat. Then suddenly, all the restaurants were jammed and buzzing – and no corner for a couple of ravenous tourists to squeeze into.

After the noise and bustle of Jerusalem, Nazareth was like a secret garden of delightful courtyards, cool fountains and monastic whispering alleys. You soon realise that for Christians, Nazareth is all about Mary. And as Mary wrote the rulebook on serenity, that’s what Nazareth is: a lot like Mary.

But in a week of 35C heat, covering up gnawed at my serenity and curdled it. Self-elected stewards waved their arms to shoo me away from churches if I was wearing anything less than full length jeans, even while I was across the road with no intention of visiting. Seriously, dude, where are your aggressive arms when a man goes in wearing a pair of dodgy shorts?. Anyway, I travelled around clutching a pair of floaty trousers that I had haggled for in Old Jerusalem, just like 99% of my fellow female tourists. We, the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, glanced long-sufferingly at each other as we darted into coffee shop bathrooms to pull them on and whip a shawl around our shoulders before sightseeing. Bright side, coffee shops were great places to make the switch as they served some truly amazing sweetmeats.

If you are fasting all day then you need a sugar buzz in the evening to sustain you for the next day. And the variety and lip-sticky sweetness of the local desserts and sweetmeats kept both of us licking our fingers and catching the syrupy dribbles on our chins. On which subject guys and girls, let me introduce you to Qataifi. These are little dollar pancakes, filled with either cream cheese or chopped nuts, sealed into half-moon parcels, deep fried and then drenched in a rosewater -flavoured syrup. Call the ambulance Alice. We convinced ourselves that a plate of six Qataifi would be our lunch. A plate of freshly cooked falafel an hour later and we realised the only people we were fooling were ourselves.

Breakfasts were a simpler, but no less delicious, affair. Our host looked at me with the hurt eyes of a child when I asked for fried eggs instead of his ‘signature’ omelette one morning, but his Za’atar bread and labneh was usually all I needed, with a side of cucumber and tomato salad which in Israel are the baby sisters salt and pepper never knew they had.

But, for me, the stand-out dish in this corner of the world was something I had at dinner at Kitabon, an Arab restaurant on the approach to Mary’s Well: the romantic-sounding Muhammar. Chicken marinated in Sumac and cumin, poached in just a little stock, then finished off in the oven on a bed of lavash bread soaked in an onion and sumac oil slick. Divine.

Muhammar is a process to make, but not difficult. Za’atar bread just as easy. . And while Qataifi is fiddly, the end result is worth the effort on a special occasion. So you can start discovering Nazareth with these three recipes.

It’ll whet your appetite for Tel Aviv. But that’s another story.

Muhammar

This gives you a spectacular dinner party centrepiece and delicious flavours in one. Serves 4.

Ingredients:

1 chicken, jointed

1 tbsp. cumin

4 cloves garlic, crushed

2 tbsp. sumac

½ cup olive oil

½ tsp cinnamon

4 x lavash flatbreads

3 onions, sliced

50g pine nuts or chopped almonds, toasted

How to Make

Pat the chicken dry, mix the cumin, sumac, garlic and ¼ cup of the olive oil, season and rub into the chicken pieces. Cover with clingfilm and pop in the fridge to marinade for an hour or so.

Sauté the onions in the remaining olive oil, adding seasoning, 1 tsp each cumin and sumac for about 10-15 minutes. You want them caramelised and jammy. Set aside.

Add 2 tbsps. olive oil to a deep saucepan, add the chicken pieces and 1 cup of fresh chicken stock, mixing together, then cover the pot, turn the heat to low, and leave to cook for about 45 mins – an hour, until cooked through and moist. Transfer the chicken pieces to dish pop in a hot oven for 5 minutes to brown for 5 – 10 minutes.

Get your lavash bread and dip each flatbread into the stock mix, lay on a baking sheet and pop into the oven for the last 5 minutes of the chicken cooking so that the edges crisp up slightly.

Now to assemble: Start by laying a layer of lavash bread onto a shallow round dish. Cover with the onions, another tsp sumac and seasoning and drizzle some of the leftover stock mix. Then add the chicken pieces on top, drizzle any leftover stock, sprinkle with a little sumac, seasoning and a spritz of lemon juice. Sprinkle over the toasted almonds and Serve straight away with slices of lemon and some coriander sprigs.

Super Simple Za’atar bread

We know Za’atar as a mix of thyme, oregano, marjoram and sesame seeds. Mixed with oil and sumac, it gives flatbread a distinctly middle-eastern twist, and is lovely for breakfast with a dollop of labneh cheese. Makes 6-8 flatbreads.

Ingredients:

For the bread:

1 cup tepid water

½ tsp caster sugar

2 tsp dry active yeast

3 cups plain flour

Generous inch salt

2-3 tbsps. olive oil

For the topping:

3 tbsps. each dried thyme, sumac, oregano and marjoram

2 tblspns sesame seeds

1 tsp sea salt

½ cup olive oil.

How to Make

Sprinkle the yeast onto the water and mix in with the sugar. Leave to stand for about 15 minutes until the surface of the water is foamy. Mix the flour and salt in a bowl, add the olive oil and rub in. Add the yeast mixture and mix to form a soft dough.

Turn onto a lightly floured surface and knead for about 5-7 minutes (10 if you are feeling strong enough). When it feels elastic, place in an oiled bowl, cover with clingfilm or a damp cloth and leave to rise for at least an hour. You want it to double in size. While the dough is rising, mix all the topping ingredients in a bowl and cover.

Heat the oven to 200C. Divide the dough into 8 balls, place on a baking sheet, cover and leave for about 20-30 mins to rise slightly again.

Lightly flour your work surface then take each ball of dough, flatten it slightly in your hands, then roll out to a medium sized disc. Make little dimples in each disc with your fingertips, and divide the topping among each one. Slide the discs onto a baking sheet and bake for about 8-10 minutes. Cool on racks and wither eat straight away, or warm up to serve later, either with labneh for breakfast, or a dinner like the Keralan Roadside Chicken in the picture below.

Qataifi

This is serious sugar rush territory. Less is deliciously more. You can make all the components in advance, then assemble and cook before serving. There are many ways to make these, but I have adapted Little Sunny Kitchen’s version here. Serves 6-8

Ingredients

For the pancakes:

1 cup plain flour

1 cup lukewarm water

½ cup milk

½ cup semolina

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp dry active yeast

2 tbsp. sugar

2 tsp, vanilla

Pinch salt

For the syrup

1 cup water

2.5 cups caster sugar

1 tsp lemon juice

2 tsp orange flower water

For the fillings

250g ricotta

4 tsp icing sugar

50g chopped toasted pistachios and pecan nuts

1 500ml bottle sunflower oil, for frying

How to Make

First, make the pancakes. Put all the dry ingredients in a bowl, except the yeast. Add the yeast to the water with the sugar and leave for 10-15 minutes, until the surface of the water is foamy. Mix the yeast water and the vanilla in with the dry ingredients until it is smooth and properly mixed. Cover with clingfilm and leave to rise in a warm place for 30 minutes – an hour. The mixture should have expanded, and bubbly on the surface.

Heat a non-stick crepe pan and drop spoonfuls of the mix onto the pan so that they form medium sized discs.

Cook for about 1-2 minutes each until lots of bubbles form on the surface and the pancake is dry.

Do not flip it over, just pop onto a clean dishcloth and wrap immediately to prevent the pancakes drying out. Repeat with the rest of the mix. You should end up with about 20 pancakes. Let cool (they will soften as they cool) and then put into a sealed plastic container until you are ready to assemble.

Next, make your syrup: Put the water and sugar in a saucepan and bring to the boil. Add the lemon juice, mix and then simmer for about 7-10 minutes. Remove from the heat and add the orange flower water (you could add rosewater instead, but not everyone likes the perfumey taste). Cool completely – it will thicken slightly as it cools.

You are making two fillings for the pancakes: In one bowl mix the ricotta and icing sugar, in the other, mix the remaining icing sugar with the chopped, toasted nuts.

To assemble: take each pancake in one hand, add a tsp of either filling and seal then edges firmly into a half moon.

Repeat with the remaining pancakes – you should have 10 ricotta and 10 nut, with some nuts in reserve.

Heat the oil until a cube of bread browns, then fry each sealed pancake for 1-2 minutes on each side, until lightly browned and crisp. Drain on kitchen paper.

When all the Qataifi are cooked, transfer to a dish, pour over the syrup,

sprinkle with the remaining nuts and serve immediately.

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