#IMAGINING PATRICK IN IT AND EXPLODING A LITTLE BIT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

omegalomania · 2 years

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https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/omegalomania/188644148638?source=share ;loved this post of yours, it really made me pay attention to stuff i would've missed, thank you so much for making it!!! dyou maybe have more things that stood out to you like this (basically i'm saying compilation but again UwU)? thank you again and have a nice day good sir(gn) <3

here's a nicer link for people to click on, though the post is a couple years old by now. still i'm sure i can think of few more. so here’s a non-exhaustive list of little fob things that Get Me (tm).......2!

whenever they do “hum hallelujah” live, the original lyric is "me and my plus one in the afterlife," but patrick always always always sings it as "me and my plus ones in the afterlife." it's small and sweet and i have no idea how intentional it is but its almost like he cant imagine only having one person he loves that much.

back when they’d do “the kids aren't alright” live, there was one particular show where during the whole last chorus, pete would scream alongside patrick belting and it honestly does a lot of things to me

“death valley” live. thats all. the sheer pitch and power patrick has to dedicate to belting this seriously vocally ABSURD song. and JOE. GOD JOE SHREDDING? JOE DOING BACKING VOCALS. fuck me UP.

i could give less of a shit about what “bang the doldrums” is ~actually about~ i just care about the fucking drums in that song. the ride cymbal is so FUCKING delectable on the bridge and it actually kills me how no one talks about that

anytime patrick giggles in his studio vocals and they choose to leave it in, like in “young volcanoes” or “HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T” acoustic. it’s so sweet to me that they just leave that in.

the way rhythm of the claps in “explode” on soul punk matches the rhythm of the drums in “(coffee’s for closers)” EXACTLY haunts me. it haunts me. i dont know if it means anything specific because i can absolutely believe that that’s just indicative of how patrick writes (he writes like such a drummer oh my god) but the fact that they have such similar messages (feeling constrained by societal expectations, fighting helplessness that swarms into rage) and that they have that exact same beat...like i said. it Haunts Me.

i think a lot of people miss how fucking infectious and powerful the guitar riffs on “novocaine” are. fortunately, they come through VERY strongly live.

also shoutout to “uma thurman” live when the sampling of the munster’s theme is replaced by joe doing the licks live. that genuinely makes the whole song pop and makes it absolutely BANGING live.

whenever they play “disloyal order of water buffaloes” live patrick and pete stand next to each other when patrick sings “what a match, i’m half-doomed and you’re semi-sweet” and sometimes pete mouths the words alongside him and it undoes me a little bit every single time.

in general it’s just really really sweet to see all the guys still doing the same rituals the way they used to. patrick and pete still turn toward each other during “where is your boy” live but they don’t have to prop each other up for support anymore. they can stand on their own, but that doesnt mean they wont still pay tribute to all the times when they couldnt.

and on the flip side, the little choreography that only started coming to bear posthiatus, like the little guitar-off joe and patrick do during sugar. like that wasnt really there prehiatus, and now they do it every time and joe makes faces at patrick every time and patrick grins every time and it is honestly everything to me.

if you’ve never sat down and really listened to the drums in “20 dollar nosebleed” do that. please do that. like i said patrick writes like such a fucking drummer so he and andy have a lot of synchronicity and it really really shows when you pay attention to the percussion in any fob song.

the matching guitar lines in “champion” and “the last of the real ones” is like an inter-album call-and-response. if you’ve never listened to those songs back to back DO THAT cause it makes them feel like they sort of complete each other.

the way you can hear patrick whispering “spin for you” on “favorite record” after each verse. the mixing on abap is SO good just in general there is a lot of little subtleties that it takes several listens to really get

the “american beauty / american psycho” title track is criminally underrated ESPECIALLY live. the instrumentation alone is fucking hypnotic.

obviously the riffs on “a little less sixteen candles a little more touch me” are catchy as hell but the little sprinkling on top...like you can hear it on the instrumental during the chorus but its just a liiiiiittle extra riffage on top of what we already got and its delectable.

the studio chatter on pax am days deserves its own bullet point. i’ve talked about how pax am days is so so so good in general but the way you can hear the guys all laughing and cheering between every song. joe swearing OHHH SHITTY CRAP SHIT at the end of “hot to the touch, cold on the inside” like it just adds this warmth and intimacy without any of the polish you usually get. it softens me up every time.

“caffeine cold” is legitimately one of my favorite fob songs ever. the build. the pacing. the urgency. the whole way segue into the ending. the goddamn LYRICISM. don’t breathe life into a monster then complain when he destroys it all again. i’m not a monster. just really fucked up. i’ll see you in hell.

you know what i literally never hear people talking about?? the boys of zummer remixes that fob and wiz khalifa did of each other’s songs. special mention goes out to the live rendition of “stayin out all night” wiz and fob did together, because i have a special love for the combination of wiz’s verse on top of joe’s riffage. they did the wiz remix of uma live with him too!!

THE TRANSITIONS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THE TRANSITIONS. LIKE JUST ALL OF THEM. thriller to take over. golden to mmrs. favorite record to immortals. get busy living to xo. THE ENTIRETY OF FOLIE A GODDAMN DEUX

“alone together” live is a treat but i want to give special mention to the riffing joe does that brings it all together. all the guys have at some point referred to joe as the connective tissue of their songs, and the guy who works on the actual sonics of fall out boy the most. i think that really really comes through live especially. he’s not a flashy guitarist by nature but that is most certainly not a bad thing and his instrumentation is basically the texture we’re always hearing behind every song.

people give “immortals” a hard time as though it does not contain the line “sometimes the only payoff for having any faith / is when it gets tested again and again every day” and that’s criminal.

ive mentioned this before but “church” has a fantastic bassline and while im sad pete didnt play it live, its genuinely so fucking good how joe picked up the bassline and integrated it into his riffing when they played that song live on mania tour. probably im reading too deep into it, but i find it sweet, that level of trust and support theyll dedicate to each other in a live setting.

there’s a misconception i’ve seen floating around that the symphonic strings we hear at the beginning of “the phoenix” are samples but they are not! they were recorded by the london philharmonic orchestra specifically for the song, inspired by the fourth movement of dmitri shostakovich’s “leningrad” symphony.

it’s a goddamn shame they never released a studio acoustic version of “wilson (expensive mistakes)” because i genuinely really love the performances of it we got during mania era. all two of them sob.

in general i think people undersell the presence of guitars on fob songs a lot. the guitars are there - they just have effects all over them! just because something doesn’t contain an 80s riff doesnt make it not a guitar song. i’ve seen buzz around the possibility that fob’s next project will be guitar based because joe called it a “guitar album.” you know what he also called a guitar album? save rock and roll. don’t underestimate what these guys can do with just their instruments; young and menace was all done with guitars, bass, and drums, pitch-shifted to sound electronic.

one thing that really stays with me is the guy who did a breakdown for the raw multitracks of the 2019 “lake effect kid” release. like not only does it REALLY showcase how much instrumentation and layering goes into every song (THEY RECORDED ALL THIS SHIT IN ONE DAY), but the one thing that sticks with me the most is the moment about 10 minutes in where the guy just stops and goes “this is why these guys are so unexpected and cool.” and it’s because he notes in the mixing that andy is playing the tambourine in sync with the crash cymbals. this is something that’s found in metal, that you’d expect to find in metal, and here it is fitting snug in a pop rock song. i just. find it so indicative of who they are and where they come from, that andy still plays like a metal drummer and is still essential to a band that writes pop hits. it’s like no matter how far they’ve gone, their roots are still there for people willing to look. there’s some part of them that hasn’t forgotten where they came from. they play songs that end up on radio, but you can tell they came from hardcore if you know what to listen for.

all right thats all i can think of rn. THANKS FOR ASKING. always love to talk about these guys

#askin hours #anon #i think this favors posth a little too much but also its my blog i do what i want etc.#im extremely tired this is by no means exhaustive its just what i could think of atm #have a good night/day yourself anon sorry this took so long to get to lol

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linskywords · 3 years

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Hi Linsky! I love your work, it's what got me into 1988 initially. You have such an incredibly clear sense of character. I was wondering if you had a moment (no worries if not) would you be willing to talk a little bit about your characterizations of 1988 - what do you see as their internal driving motivation? I am struggling to define Patrick Kane's (and I can only watch so many cringe hockey interviews haha) but if I tried to describe Jonathan Toews it might be something like "Jonny just wants to be good." - which you might see differently of course, but that's the bit I'm interested in - how you see it! Sorry if that's not clear at all 😭 Hope you have a great day!

Ooh, what an intriguing question! Okay, so first of all I want to say that I'm talking about the fanon versions of these characters. Obviously fanon is based in something, but I'm not pretending to know who these men actually are (nor do I want to). Fanon is also not a monolith, and the versions I'm talking about are the ones that have coalesced in my mind based on many other people's stories and my own imaginings.

So, with that caveat in mind, I would say first that for me, the fundamental core of who they are isn't what they want, exactly. That changes from story to story. Patrick wants a soulmate, or he wants to keep people from finding out he's a wolf; Jonny wants to be a good Mormon, or he wants to avoid hurting people, or whatever the AU is that I've put them in. They always want hockey, of course, unless it's a non-hockey AU, and by the end of the story they always want each other. The pieces that make them feel like consistent characters for me are something else at the core of their personalities.

For Jonny, it's his intensity. He thinks he knows what's best for the world and for himself and is determined to make that happen. He gets grumpy when that can't happen. He exerts his will over his body; he has high standards for other people and even higher standards for himself. You characterized him as wanting to be good, and I think that's a key piece of it, but I'd personally rephrase that as wanting to be better.

Patrick, on the other hand, has a little more give in his personality. He's a little better at chilling, a little more prone to jokes, but, very importantly, he's still intense, and even more importantly, he likes Jonny's intensity. He's sometimes amused by it, sometimes annoyed by it, and, crucially, pushes back on it in a way that works for both of them. Jonny doesn't need someone who falls over and lets him have his way all the time -- he might think he wants that, but he'd be so bored by it. He needs someone who can stand up against him and make him fight a little bit, someone who's intense themselves but who welcomes Jonny's intensity rather than trying to overpower it or make it go away. Patrick loves being the focus of Jonny's attention. It energizes him, and it DOES make him better. Jonny loves that Patrick is excellent and cares about excellence and is willing to let Jonny engage with that excellence and improve it.

This dynamic plays out most clearly in a hockey context, of course. I think it's not an accident that one of the few times (the only time??) I wrote about them in a totally non-hockey context, I had them both be exceptional at fencing. I think what ties them together is that they both care about excellence in the same thing, and they admire each other's skill at it even while they're determined to assert their own opinions and give each other something to push back against.

It also means that even their friends-to-lovers stories (my favorite kind) often have a little bit of enemies to lovers in them. There's a constant push-pull to their relationship, a challenge to it, and that's where the chemistry comes from. It's why (imo) they fought so much rookie year on the bench: they hadn't figured out how to push against each other in a way that let them charge each other up instead exploding. Sometimes I play up this element in a story, sometimes I play it down, but either way, the core, I think, is the way they each engage with that intensity--with Jonny's intensity, primarily--and the way they find both comfort and energy in it.

...okay, that was fun. I kind of want to do it for all my favorite pairings now. 😄

#hockey rpf #1988 #patrick kane #jonathan toews #characterization

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

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amunraanders · 4 years

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Patrick Jane x Reader fluff story I wanted to read some for myself,but I couldn`t find any that I particularly liked ,so here`s mine :)

It was a late sunday night,the sunset was now long gone and the sky was filled with grey puffy clouds that surrounded the moon from all sides.(Y\N) sat on the couch besides the window that was slightly a jar ,because of how hot it had gotten in her apartment,so as she sat there and watched the moon get engulfed by its attackers ,a cold and fresh breeze entered ,flushing her alredy pink cheeks to a flaming red color.The coldness of the night didn`t help her cool down,her thoughts were a mess,filled with all kinds of different situations,but mostly it was occupied by him,and a cold breeze simply would`nt do the job in cooling her down.With sweat dripping down her forhead she closed her eyes thinking about that one time in the elevator when their bodies touched for mere seconds due to the lack of space.She found it funny,the way he apologized for getting too close,his voice was soft but there was also a hint of something else in it,and just for a second she found herself fantasizing about them being alone in that same elevator,his hands rummaging her body and a soft moan escaped her lips as she bit down on it.Oh how she wished that him being nice to her would mean something more than just being nice,she felt like they had a connection,stolen glances,daily jokes that only she would understand ,made her feel a bit special,she had to admit that but as hard as it was to accept ,Jane always found an excuse to not show up at their `date`,if she could even call it that.He asked her out two times already `just as friends` as he mentioned but each time an excuse followed,so when earlier on he called her,she knew for an instant that he would cancell their meet up. `Sad` she thought to herself,it could have been a lot of fun,just the two of then joy riding,a sigh left her lips and she tried to redirect her thoughts to the movie that had long ended..

`Knock Knock Knock` Three loud knocks disturbed the silence in her almost empty apartment,the echo sending vibrations through it ,making her jump up a little.(Y\N) felt a bit startled at first then confused,as nobody had announced wanting to visit her,besides that it was late,too late for any co-worker to visit,her parents were out of state and friends were busy partying through the night , `its too late..ooh maybe it`s Mrs.Miller,she seems to have difficulty in finding her apartment `she murmured to herself ,and befóre she could sort her thoughts another three knocks came raining down like tunder on her heavy,creaky,old wooden door.

`Fine.fine.I`m coming,I hearded you the first thousand times you knocked` (Y\N) said under her breath,half pouting ,at the thought that someone might actually need her help that late,so as she stood up,pulling her sweat soked t-shirt down ,to hide her even wetter underwear she started looking for the keys,spotting them tossed into a corner with the dress,shoes and purse she had worn that night if he hadn`t found an excuse to not meet up again.`Its kinda your fault.Why do you need to live in this fantasy would when there are plenty of men offering you flowers and fancy dinners,at fancy restaurantrs` she reasoned with herself as she shook her head in denial.

`Why didyou ignore my call` the all too familiar voice spoke in a soft,loving way,reassuring her that she was safe,and as the clapping sound of his shoes came closer to where she was,she felt her cheeks flush a burning red color ,that was impossible to hide.Not wanting to meet his gaze,she started fumbling around with the keys she had picked up earlier before realizing,that she never got to open the door.

`Did you just pick my door open` she turned around with frustration visible in her eyes,not just because of the situation Jane put her in,but because of the fact how vulnerable she felt when he was around.He made her feel like she could trust him without actually saying the things she wanted to hear.It was a connection she never felt in that way before.

`You didn`t answer my question` He was now standing right behind her,his body mere inches away from hers,his hot,thick breath against her neck,the heat radiating between the two of them ,almost unbearable.His left hand reached out for her,making her turn around in a swift motion before locking their gaze.

`I thought we..` Jane paused for a moment,his eyes wandering from her lips to her eyes,as he inspected each facial expression she made,each move and each heartbeat that echoed through the room,but (Y\N) knew better ,not to fall for his little game,she deeply wished for it to be true,but she knew that he couldn`t feel the same way she felt towards him.

`You`re playing with me Jane..And although I enjoy it,we both know that you don`t feel the same way I feel about you.Quit the games,it starts to get borning`She felt like her heart was about to explode,having him that close yet so far away from where she wanted him to be.His lips were two inches away from hers,yet she would never feel them pressed against hers,their bodies were slightly touching,yet he would never touch her the way she imagined he would do.

`You like playing this game,even tho you don`t want to admit it sweetheart.I can see your true self,after all you were the one that showed me.You were always attracted to men that are out of reach,those whose attention is almost impossible to get,and when they finally give you the attention that you desired,they become just like the rest,those who buy you gifts,those who want to buy your company with money.Usless,because inyour eyes ,love and affection cant be bought with money.Did I get it right?`

`Almost` She said,biting her lower lip,as her right hand reached behind his head ,playing with his blonde locks,never taking her gaze from his,she took her time with moving her left hand,down between their bodies,waiting for him to pull away or at least rebel against her doing so,but insted of doingso,he took it and placed it over his growing bluge unterneath the tick material that separated,her,from what she wanted so badly.

#the mentalist #patrick jane #patrick jane x reader #fanfiction #patrick jane fanfiction #read my story #Smut #fluff story #fluff

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Dust Volume 7, Number 4

Axel Ruley x Verbo Flow

A little bit of optimism is creeping into the air as Dusted writers start to get their shots. We’re all starting to think about live music, maybe outside, maybe this summer. But as the spate of freak snow storms demonstrates, summer’s not here yet, and in the meantime, piles of records and gigs of MP3s beckon. This early spring version of Dust covers the map, literally, with artists representing Pakistan, Australia, Canada, Sweden, the UK and the USA, and stylistically with jazz, rock, punk, rap, improv and many other genres in play. Contributors include Jennifer Kelly, Justin Cober-Lake, Bill Meyer, Ray Garraty, Patrick Masterson, Tim Clarke and Bryon Hayes.

Arooj Aftab — Vulture Prince (New Amsterdam)

Vulture Prince by Arooj Aftab

Arooj Aftab is a classical composer originally from Pakistan but now living in Brooklyn. Vulture Prince, her third full-length album, blends the bright clarity of new age music with the fluid, non-Western vocal tones of her Central Asian roots. “Last Night,” from an old Rumi poem but sung mostly in English, lilts in dub-scented syncopation, the thump and pop of stand-up bass underlining its bittersweet melody. An interlude in some other language shifts the song entirely, pitting vintage reggae reverberation against an exotic melisma. “Mohabbat” (which is apparently Urdu for sex) soothes in the pristine instrumentals, lucid guitars, a horn, scattered drumbeats, but smolders and beckons in the vocals. None of these tracks feel wholly traditional or wholly Western and modern day, but sit somewhere in a well-lit, idealized space. Timeless and placeless, Vulture Prince is nonetheless very beautiful.

Jennifer Kelly

Assertion — Intermission (Spartan)

youtube

Intermission comes from an alternate timeline. Founding drummer William Goldsmith started his musical career in Sunny Day Real Estate and had a notable stint with Foo Fighters. To cut the biography short, Goldsmith took a decade off from the music industry. He's returned now with Assertion, joined by guitarist/vocalist Justin Tamminga and bassist Bryan Gorder (both of Blind Guides, among other acts). This band picks up in the late 1990s, imagining a new path for post-hardcore/post-grunge music. The trio's name suits, as the songs' energy and the lyrical assertiveness develops the intensity of the release. The group works carefully with dynamics, neither parroting the loud-quiet tradition nor simply pushing their emo leanings toward 11.

“The Lamb to the Slaughter Pulls a Knife” epitomizes the album. The track sounds like Foo Fighters decided to get dirtier rather than more arena-friendly, while the lyrics mix violence with emotional persistence. First single “Supervised Suffering” finds triumph in endurance, turning the aggressive chorus into something of a victory. “Set Fire” closes the album with something more delicate, but it's just the gauze over a seething anger. Goldsmith's time off seems to have served him well, as does collaborating with some new partners. Assertion makes its case clearly and effectively, and if the intermission's over for Goldsmith, the second half sounds promising.

Justin Cober-Lake

Michael Beach — Dream Violence (Goner/Poison City)

Dream Violence by Michael Beach

“De Facto Blues,” from Michael Beach’s fourth solo album, is a barn-burner of a song, rough and messy and passionate, the kind of song that makes you want to take a stand on something, who cares what as long as it matters to you. It snarls like Radio Birdman, slashes like the Wipers and follows its muse through chaos to righteousness like an off-cut from Crazy Horse, just back from rockin’ the free world. It’s got Matt Ford and Inez Tulloch from Thigh Master on guitar and bass, respectively, Utrillo Kushner from Colossal Yes (and Comets on Fire) on drums, and Kelley Stoltz at the boards, and it’s a killer. The rest of the album is varied and, honestly, not uniformly astounding, but there’s a nice Summer of Love-style psych dream in “Metaphysical Dice,” a slow-burning post-rocker in the title track and a driving, pounding punk anthem in the opener “Irregardless.” Beach has been splitting his time between San Francisco and Melbourne, Australia, and lately settled on Melbourne, where he will fit like a native into their thriving punk-garage scene.

Jennifer Kelly

Bloop — Proof (Lumo)

Proof by BLOOP (Lina Allemano / Mike Smith)

The trumpet is already a catalog of sound effects waiting to happen, and Lina Allemano knows the table of contents by heart. So, to shake things up, she has paired up with electronic musician Mike Smith, who contributes live processing and effects to Allemano’s improvisations. A blind listen to Proof might leave you with the impression that you’re hearing a horn player jamming with some outer space cats, and we’re not talking about hip, lingo-slinging jazz dudes. In fact, everything on these eight tracks happened in real time. Smith’s a strategic intervener, aware that too much sauce can spoil the stew, so he mixes up precise layering and pitch-shifting with more disorienting transformations. It’s hard to say how much Allemano responds to the simulacra that surround her brass voice, but there’s no denying the persuasiveness of her melodic and timbral ideas.

Bill Meyer

Bris — Tricky Dance Moves (TrueStory Entertainment)

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Bris left some music behind when he died in 2020, but it took almost a year to shape these recordings into a proper CD. The label CEO Mac J (a fine artist himself) could easily capitalize on his friend’s death, stacking Tricky Dance Moves with features from the artists Bris never would have worked with. Yet the album was prepared with the utmost care, not giving an ugly Frankenstein monster feel. Bris’s references to his possible early death are scattered throughout the whole tape: “Heard they wanna pop Bris cause they mad I’m poppin.” Almost every song could be easily turned into a prophetic tale (a cheap move one wants to avoid at all costs). Nonetheless, something is missing here. Or maybe it is just an image of death that disturbs the whole picture, making us realize that this is the last we’d hear from Bris.

Ray Garraty

Dreamwell — Modern Grotesque (self-released)

Modern Grotesque by Dreamwell

I recently read an interview with Providence’s Dreamwell breaking down in almost excruciating detail the influences that led to the quintet’s sophomore full-length Modern Grotesque. I kept scrolling past Daughters and Deftones and Deafheaven and increasingly disconnected influences like The Mountain Goats and Nina Simone. I went back to the top and looked again. I typed Ctrl+F and put in “Thursday.” Nothing. This is preposterous. I may not be in the post-hardcore trenches the way I once was, but even I’d know a good Full Collapse homage if it swung a mic right into my face the way this one did; hell, just listen to “The Lost Ballad of Dominic Anneghi” and tell me singer Keziah Staska doesn’t know every single word of “Paris in Flames.” That may not look like flattery on a first read, but too often, bands striding the emo/pop divide have chased the latter into sub-Taking Back Sunday oblivion; what Thursday did was much harder, and Dreamwell has ably taken up the torch here. That they did it unintentionally is a curious, bewildering footnote.

Patrick Masterson

Paul Dunmall / Matthew Shipp / Joe Morris / Gerald Cleaver — The Bright Awakening (Rogue Art)

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It’s a bit perplexing that reeds player Paul Dunmall hasn’t spent more time playing with American musicians. He’s firmly situated within the English improvisation community, where he’s perhaps best known for his longer tenure with the quartet Mujician, and his ability to double on bagpipes has allowed him to establish links between improvised and folk music. But

his jazz-rooted approach makes him a natural to work in settings such as this one. When Dunmall toted his tenor to the Vision Festival in 2012 (even then, it could be costly to lug multiple horns on a plane), he found three sympatico partners in Fest regulars pianist Matthew Shipp, double bassist Joe Morris and drummer Gerald Cleaver. They all hit the ground running, generating a barrage of pulsing, roiling sound for over 20 minutes before the piano and drums peel off, leaving Morris to sustain momentum alone. Dunmall’s gruff, spiraling lines find common cause with each of his fellows, and the gradual addition and subtraction of players from that point makes it easier to hear the exchange of ideas, which often seem to take place between dyads operating within the larger flow.

Bill Meyer

Editrix — Tell Me I’m Bad (Exploding in Sound)

Tell Me I'm Bad by Editrix

Wendy Eisenberg’s rock band is like her solo output in that it snarls delicate, self-aware, mini-short stories in complex tangles of guitar, hemming in high, sing-song-y verses with riffs and licks of daunting difficulty. The main differences are speed, volume and aggression (i.e. it rocks.) and a certain communal energy. That’s down to two collaborators who can more than keep up, Josh Daniel on surging, rattling, break-it-all-down percussion and Steve Cameron, equally anarchic and fast on bass. The title track is an all-out rager, thrusting jagged arena riffs of guitar and bass forward, then clearing space for off-kilter verses and time-shifting, irregular instrumental interplay. “Chelsea” follows a similar chaotic pattern, setting up a teeth-shaking cadence of rock instruments, with Eisenberg keening over the top of it. “I know, perfectly well, that we’re not safe, safe from the men in power,” she croons, engaged in the knotting difficulties of the world as we know it, but winning.

Jennifer Kelly

Elephant Micah — Vague Tidings (Western Vinyl)

Vague Tidings by Elephant Micah

The new Elephant Micah album, the follow-up to 2018’s excellent Genericana, has an apposite title. Vague Tidings conveys an atmosphere of feeling conscious of something carried on the wind, a story passed on that may have shifted through various iterations, leaving only a sense of its original meaning. All that can be sure is that this is sad, sober music, unafraid to brace against the chill of mortality and speak of all that is felt. The instruments — guitar, piano, percussion, violin and woodwinds — move around Joseph O’Connell’s voice in stiff yet graceful arcs, distanced by an unspoken etiquette. Repetitive melodic figures, stark yet steady, gradually accumulate weight as they roll along like tumbleweeds. It’s a crisp, forlorn country-blues, in no hurry to get nowhere, carrying ancient wisdom that seems to acknowledge the empty resonance of its own import.

Tim Clarke

Fraufraulein — Solum (Notice Recordings)

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Fraufraulein’s music is immersive. Anne Guthrie and Billy Gomberg beam themselves, and us along with them, Quantum Leap-style directly into multiple environments in medias res. Through the clever employment of field recordings, they transport us to a hurricane-addled beach, performing a voice/piano duet as driftwood missiles careen through the air. In another “episode,” the manipulation of small objects conjures up the intimacy of a water garden filled with windchimes. Partners in both life and art, Guthrie and Gomberg are also consummate solo artists. He is a master of spike-textured drones, while she explores the intimate properties of physical entities. Like a child tends to resemble one parent while borrowing subtle traits from the other, Solum identifies more with Guthrie’s electroacoustic tendencies than it does with Gomberg’s electronics. This is in stark contrast to 2015’s Extinguishment, which felt a little more balanced between those two modes. Both approaches work, yet Solum feels more meticulously crafted and nuanced. Careful listening unveils multiple subtle tones and textures, and each piece is an adventure for the ears.

Bryon Hayes

Gerrit Hatcher / Rob Magill / Patrick Shiroishi — Triplet Fawns (Kettle Hole)

Triplet Fawns by Gerrit Hatcher / Rob Magill / Patrick Shiroishi

The album’s title implies a crew you wouldn’t want on your yard; while those adolescent ungulate appetites do a number on your bushes, the hooves are hacking up your grass. But if they knocked on your door, saxophone cases in their respective hands, you could do worse than invite them around the back for some blowing. Hatcher, Magill and Shiroishi present with sufficient lung power to be heard fine without the reflective assistance of walls, even when they aren’t making like Sonore (that was Gustafsson, Vandermark, and Brötzmann, about a dozen years back). This album, which was released in a micro-edition of 100 CD-Rs on Hatcher’s Kettle Hole imprint, builds gradually from restrained melancholy to pointillistic jousting to a climactic blow-out, and the assured development of each piece suggests that each player was listening not only to what each of the others was doing, but where the music was headed.

Bill Meyer

A.Karperyd — GND (Novoton)

GND by A.Karperyd

On his second solo release, GND, Swedish artist Andreas Karperyd broodingly ruminates on snatches of musical ideas that have been percolating in his consciousness over extended periods. Anyone familiar with his 2015 debut, Woodwork, will find these 55 minutes similarly immersive, as Karperyd manipulates live instruments such as piano and strings into shimmering, alien tapestries. Opener “The Well-Defined Rules of Certainty” appears to take Fennesz’s Venice as its blueprint, issuing forth cascading, percolating tones that tickle the ears. “The Desire to Invoke Balance with Our Eyes Closed” and “Failures and Small Observations” have a Satie-esque elegance to their piano lines, albeit refracted via a hall of mirrors. The 12-minute “Reminiscence of Tar” sounds like a slow-motion pan across the hulking mass of a shadowy space station. And closing track “Mummification of an Empire” slowly fries its piano in static, then unfurls wistful melodica and throbbing synth across the wreckage.

Tim Clarke

Kiwi Jr. — Cooler Returns (Subpop)

Cooler Returns by Kiwi jr

Kiwi Jr.’s brash, brainy indie pop punk vibrates with nervy energy, like the first Feelies album or Violent Femmes’ 1983 debut or that one great S-T from the Soft Pack. Those are all opening salvos for their respective bands, but this one is a second outing, suffering not a bit from sophomore slackening. Instead, Cooler Returns tightens up everything that was already stinging on the Toronto band’s debut and adds a giddy careening glee. An oddball thread of Robin Hood-ness runs through the disc, with Sherwood forest getting a nod in the title track and “Maid Marian’s Toast” tipping the love interest, but these songs are anything but archaic. “Undecided Voters,” the single jangles harder than anything I’ve heard since Woolen Men, slyly upending creative pretensions in a verse that goes: “You take a photo of the CN tower/you take another of the Honest Ed sign/Well, I take photos of your photos/and they really move people.” Has it been done before? Maybe. Does it move us. Yes indeed.

Jennifer Kelly

Kool John — Get Rich, Die $moppin ($moplife Entertainment)

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A year ago, Kool John was shot six times. Yet you wouldn’t know about it from the general mood of Get Rich, Die $moppin, his first tape since then. He does name one song “6 Shots” and explicitly mentions the shooting accident a few times on other songs, but his bouncy music says he wasn’t hurt bad after all. The beats perfectly match the rhymes, playfully ignorant and ignorantly playful. Kool John still doesn’t mix with broke people, doesn’t return calls if it’s not about money and “doesn’t get stressed out.” Instead, he gets high. His new tape is nothing groundbreaking, even though he’s pretending that is: “If I had no legs I’d still be outstanding.”

Ray Garraty

Nick Mazzarella / Quin Kirchner — See or Seem: Live at the Hyde Park Jazz Festival (Out Of Your Head)

See or Seem: Live at the Hyde Park Jazz Festival by Nick Mazzarella / Quin Kirchner

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about this recording is that the titular festival happened at all. While most festivals either canceled or went on line, Chicago’s Hyde Park Jazz Festival dealt with COVID by spreading out. Instead of big stages and indoor shows, last September it staged little pop-up events on sidewalks and in parks. So, if the sound of See or Seem feels a bit diffuse, it’s because it was recorded with a device propped in front of two guys playing on a grassy median. There are moments when the buzz of bugs rises up for a second behind Nick Mazzarella’s darting alto sax and Quin Kirchner’s brisk, mercurial beats. But the thrill of actually playing in front of some people (or actually being surrounded by them; when there’s no stage and social distancing is in effect, it makes sense to walk slow circles around the performers) infuses this music, extracting an extra ounce of joyousness from Mazzarella’s free, boppish lines, and adding a restlessness charge to the drumming, as though Kirchner really wanted to squeeze as much music as possible into this 31-minute set. This release is part of Out Of Your Head Records’ Untamed series of download-only albums recorded under less than pristine conditions. A portion of each title’s income is directed to a charity of the artists’ choice; the duo selected St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital.

Bill Meyer

Dean McPhee — Witch’s Ladder (Hood Faire)

Witch's Ladder by Dean McPhee

Finger-picked melodies cut through haunted landscapes of echo and hum on this fourth LP from the British guitarist Dean McPhee. Track titles like “The Alchemist” and “Witch’s Ladder” evoke the supernatural, as does the spectral ambient tone, reminiscent of Chuck Johnson’s recent Cinder Grove or Mark Nelson’s last Pan•American album. Yet while an e-bow traces ghostly chills through “The Alder Tree,” there’s also a grounding in lovely, well-rooted folk forms; it’s like seeing a familiar landscape in moonlight, well-known landmarks suddenly turned unearthly and strange. The long closing title track has an introspective air. Pensive, jazz-infused runs flower into bright bursts of notes, not quite blues, not quite folk, not quite jazz, not quite anything but gorgeous.

Jennifer Kelly

Moontype — Bodies of Water (Born Yesterday)

Bodies of Water by Moontype

Margaret McCarthy’s voice swims across your headphones like being on an innertube drifting languidly downstream. Typically, saying someone’s vocals are like water indicates a degree of timidity or laziness, obscured in reverb or simply buried by the mix, but on Moontype’s debut LP, it’s a compliment: McCarthy floats across the different styles of music she makes with guitarist Ben Cruz and drummer Emerson Hunton. You notice it not just because she often sings of water or because it’s right there in the title, but also because the Chicago trio hasn’t settled on any particular style yet — just listen to the three-song stretch at the heart of the record where achingly beautiful alt-country ballad “3 Weeks” leads into “When You Say Yes,” a sub-three-minute power-pop number Weezer ought to be jealous of, followed immediately by crunching alt-rock swoon and first single “Ferry.” All the while, McCarthy lets her melodies drift to the will of the songs. I’m reminded of recent efforts from Great Grandpa, Squirrel Flower and Lucy Dacus, but the brief, jazzy curveball of “Alpha” is a peek into whole other possibilities. Bodies of Water is a fine record, but perhaps its most exciting aspect is how much ground you can see Moontype has already conquered. One can’t help but wonder what sonic worlds awash in water await.

Patrick Masterson

Rob Noyes / Joseph Allred — Avoidance Language (Feeding Tube)

Avoidance Language by Rob Noyes and Joseph Allred

The 12-string guitar can emit such a prodigious amount of sound, and there are two of them on Avoidance Language. If Joseph Allred and Rob Noyes had planned things out in order to avoid canceling each other out, they might never have picked their instruments up, so they just started playing and listening. The result is not so much a summing of two broad spectrums of sound, but an instinctual blending of similar textures that ends up sounding significantly different from what either musician does on their own. Even when Allred switches to harmonium or banjo, as he does on the album’s two shorter tracks, the music rushes in torrential fashion. Their collaboration is so compatible that it often seems more like a recital for one big stringed thing played by one four-handed musician than a doubled instrumental duet.

Bill Meyer

NRCSSSST — S-T (Slimstyle)

NRCSSST by NRCSSST

There’s no “I” in NRCSSSST but there’s plenty of swagger. The Atlanta-based synth pop band, formed around Coathangers drummer and singer Stephanie Luke and Dropsonic’s Dan Dixon, taunts and teases in its opening salvo “All I Ever Wanted.” Luke rasps appealingly atop Spoon-style piano banging, and big shout along choruses erupt from sudden flares of synths. It’s all hedonism, but done with conviction. You haven’t heard a big rock song kick up this much fun in ages. “Love Suicide” bangs just as hard, its bass line muttering like a crazy person, unstable and ready to explode (and yet it doesn’t, it maintains its restraint even when the rest of the cut goes deliriously off the rails). Dixon can really sing, too, holding the long vibrating notes that lift these prickly jams into anthemry. It’s been a while since a band reminded me of INXS and U2 without sucking, but here we are. Sometimes guilty pleasures are just pleasures.

Jennifer Kelly

Zeena Parkins / Mette Rasmussen /Ryan Sawyer — Glass Triangle (Relative Pitch)

Glass Triangle by Zeena Parkins, Mette Rasmussen, Ryan Sawyer

Harpist Zeena Parkins and Ryan Sawyer have a long-standing partnership in the trio substitutes Moss Garden, a chamber improv ensemble with pianist Ryan Ross. But swapping in Danish alto saxophonist Mette Rasmussen brings about a change, not just in instrumentation, but attitude. She plays free jazz like a punk, impatient and aggressive, and Parkins and Sawyer are up for the challenge. This music often plays out like a battle between two titans, one blowing and the other pummeling, while Parkins seeks to liquify the ground upon which they stand. She sticks exclusively to an electric harp whose effects-laden tone is disorientingly alien, blinking beacon-like one moment, low as a backhoe engage in earth removal the next. The combination of new and old relationships promotes a combination of instability and trust that yields splendid results.

Bill Meyer

claire rousay — A Softer Focus (American Dreams)

a softer focus by claire rousay

In film, soft focus is a technique of contrast reduction that lends a scene a dreamlike quality. With A Softer Focus, claire rousay imbues her already intimate compositions with a noctilucent aura. She has created a dreamworld with sound. One glimpse at the glowing flowers that grace the cover art created by visual artist Dani Toral, with whom rousay closely collaborated on this release, and the illusory nature of the record is revealed. The reds, oranges, blues and purples of deep twilight are reflected in both the textures rousay weaves into her soundscapes and the visual themes that Toral conjures. Violin, cello, piano and synth are the musical origins of this warmth, which rousay wraps around environments crafted from the sounds of everyday life. She recorded herself moving about her apartment, visiting a farmer’s market, observing kids playing and just existing. These field recordings of the mundane, when coupled with the radiance of the musical elements, are magical. Snatches of conversation become incantations; auto-tuned vocals are the whisperings of spirits; fireworks explode into brilliant shards of crystal. With A Softer Focus, rousay takes a glimpse into the beauty of the everyday, showing us just how precious our most humdrum moments can be.

Bryon Hayes

Axel Rulay x Verbo Flow — Si Es Trucho Es Trucho / Axel Rulay (La Granja)

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Axel Rulay must be kicking himself right now. With more than three million plays on the original version and more than five million on the remix that adds verses from Farruko and El Alfa into the fray, the Dominican is cruising into our second pandemic summer with an unbeatable poolside anthem — and to think, after years of clawing his way up through the industry dregs, working to get his name out there, all he had to do was make himself the chorus over Venezuelan producer Manybeat’s 2019 tropical house trip “El Tiempo.” Presto: Massive visibility in the Spanish-speaking world and a song that ought to transcend any linguistic barriers unlocked even if the best I can manage is a title that translates as “If It’s Trout It’s Trout.” Expect that long-desired Daddy Yankee collabo to follow any day now.

Patrick Masterson

Rx Nephew — Listen Here Are You Here to Hear Me (NewBreedTrapper)

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Rochester rapper Rx Nephew trailed brother-turned-archrival-turned-back Rx Papi’s coming out party 100 Miles and Walk’in by just a few weeks with the 53-minute all-in proposition Listen Here Are You Here to Hear Me. Unlike Papi’s Max B-ish smoothness, Nephew is all rough n’ tumble through these 17 tracks, provocative pump action with narrative bursts of violence and street hustling delivered with a verve most akin to DaBaby or, in some of his more elastic enunciations, peak Ludacris. A recent Creative Hustle interview provides some insight: The first time he went into the booth, “I didn’t write anything. I just started talking about selling crack and robbing people.” The stories haven’t stopped since. If he can keep putting out music as engaging as Listen Here…, Rx Nephew is destined for more than just the margins; until then, we have one of the year’s densest rap records to hold the line.

Patrick Masterson

Nick Schofield — Glass Gallery (Backward Music)

Glass Gallery by Nick Schofield

Nick Schoefield, out of Montreal, composed these 13 tracks entirely on a vintage Prophet 600, the first synthesizer to designed to employ the then-new MIDI standard established by the instrument’s inventor Dave Smith and Roland’s Ikutaru Kakahashi. The instrument has a lovely, crystalline quality, floating effortless arpeggios through vaulting sonic spaces. Though clearly synthesized, these pieces of music resonate in serene and peaceful ways, evoking light, water, air and contemplation with a simplicity that evokes Japan. “Water Court” drips notes of startling purity into deep pools of tone-washed whoosh and hum. “Snow Blue Square” flutters an oboe-like melody over eddying gusts of keyboard motifs. The pieces fit together with calm precision, leading from one beautiful space to the next like a stroll through a museum.

Jennifer Kelly

Archie Shepp — Blasé And Yasmina Revisited (Ezz-thetics)

The Ezz-thetics campaign to keep the best of mid-20th century free jazz on CD shelves (yes, CD, not streaming or LP) breaches the walls of the BYG catalog with a disc that issues one and a half albums from Archie Shepp’s busy week in August 1969. Blasé is a stand-out for the participation of singer Jeanne Lee, whose indomitable and flexible delivery as equal to the demands of material that’s be turns pungently earthy and steeped in antiquity. But the rest of the band, which includes Philly Joe Jones, Dave Burrell, some harmonica players, and a couple members of the Art Ensemble, is also more than equal to the task of filtering the blues and Ellingtonia through the gestures of the then-contemporary avant-garde. “Yasmina,” which originally occupied one side of another LP, makes sense here as an extension of the raw, rippling “Touareg,” the last tune on Blasé, into exultantly African territory.

Bill Meyer

Juanita Stein — Snapshot (Handwritten)

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Juanita Stein was the cool, serene, Mazzy Star-evoking vocal presence in the Aussie dream-gaze outfit Howling Bells, and she plays more or less the same role on her third solo album. Yet she is also the source of mayhem here, kicking up an angst of guitar-freaked turmoil on “1,2,3,4,5,6” then soothing it away with singing, hanging long threads of feedback from the thump-thump-thumping blues-rock architecture of “L.O.T.F.” and crooning dulcetly, but with a little yip, in the trance-y title track. This latter cut reflects on the death of her father, a kindred soul who wrote a couple of Howling Bells songs for her and passed away recently. It distills a palpable ache into pure, distanced poetry, finding a cool, dispassionate way to consider the mysteries of human loss.

Jennifer Kelly

The Tiptons Sax Quartet & Drums — Wabi Sabi (Sowiesound)

Wabi Sabi by Tiptons Sax Quartet & Drums

Over its 30 years together, the Tiptons Sax Quartet has done less to hone its sound and more to figure out how many styles to embrace. The group (typically a soprano, alto, tenor, and baritone sax joined by percussion and even including some vocals) can dig into trad jazz but sounds more at home in exploration, adapting world music or other traditional American styles. The title of their latest album, Wabi Sabi refers to the Japanese concept of finding beauty in and accepting imperfection. The Tiptons, despite that sentiment, don't approach their play with a sloppy sound; in fact, they're as tight as ever. The understanding of impermanence and imperfection does help contextualize their risk-taking. When they turn to odd yodeling on “Moadl Joadl,” they find joy in an odd vocal moment that highlights expression and discovery over formal rigor. When they tap in New Orleans energy for “Jouissance,” we can connect the dots between parades and funerals, celebrating all the while. The whole album serves as a tour of styles and moods, always with an energetic potency. If it's more of the same from the Tiptons, that just means continuance of difference.

Justin Cober-Lake

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gojosgoddess · 4 years

Text

Finally

Pairing: Jonathan Lyndale “DaBaby” Kirk x black! thicc reader

A/N: So, this is my first time posting anything on Tumblr so I’m really excited and nervous as hell but we gone bear through it. And since I have one of the biggest celebrity crushes on DaBaby, I decided to have him be my first. I wanted to thank @honeychicanawrites @blackgirlimaginesmarvel @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @blackmissfrizzle @laketaj24 @tastingmellow @stripper-patrick @fumbling-fanfics @sapphirescrolls @tutuwho for not only giving out great content and being amazing people but for inspiring me to write again and get out of my writer’s block so thanks again to these amazing people again. ♥️🙌🏾

Warnings: NSFW (18+), Smut, Thick Reader, Regular Nasty A** Sh*t, a little bit of choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

You smiled at Jonathan as the doctor finally cut the cast from his broken hand off. A few weeks ago, you and Jon were at a Louis Vuitton store with Stunna when Cam Coldheart decided to show up and start making a problem. Jon ignored him until Cam started calling him a bitch and calling you a fat bitch which led to Jon knocking his ass out. Truth be told, the whole scene of Jon squaring up and beating his ass made you dripping and weak in the knees but before you could slurp his dick up like a milkshake, you had to go to the hospital for his bruised knuckles, because the way his hand limped to the side made you queasy. Turns out, his hand broke on that sorry man’s face which quite frankly, turned you on even more.

So you went through 3 agonizing weeks of not being able to do anything to the sex god of a man that you called your fiancé. He didn’t make it any better by walking around the house shirtless and giving you his little diamond filled smirk every time he caught you staring at his muscular build. So in return, you would wear your latest Savage X Fenty personally given to you by the queen Rihanna herself after she made you an ambassador of her lingerie line. Just like you were wearing today.

“So Mr. Kirk, even though your cast off, for the next week or so, please try to take it as easy as possible for your hand might be a bit sensitive.” The doctor said but all Jon could focus on was how your body looked in that Fashionnova dress. Your curves looked right and your cleavage was enough to leave a bit to the imagine but Jon knew, loved and adored everything underneath that dress.

“Yeah, yeah man, I hear you.” He said hopping off the table. He grabbed his medication before snaking his arm around your waist and walking out the hospital. He opened your car door for you before whispering in your ear, “When we get home, I’m tearin’ that ass up.” His words caused you to freeze for a moment before licking your lips and getting in the car. He bit his lip watching you get in the car before closing the door and sliding over the hood of the car like this nigga in Bad Boys making you giggle at his dumb ass while he got in the car. He kissed your cheek before speeding to your shared home.

As soon as he parked the car, you both raced to get out of the car and into the house as fast as you both could, in order to avoid your nosey ass neighbours. Once inside, Jon smashes his lips onto yours and picks you up by the back of your thick legs. He pushes you against the wall and grinded his hard dick into your core making you moan into the kiss. He separated your lips and gave you that naughty smirk of his.

“I ain’t had that ass in three weeks baby. Yo ass ain’t gon be walking straight for the next few days. I hope your ass knows that.” He said making you inwardly squeal and bite his lip.

“Do whatever you want to do with my body…Daddy.” You said looking deep into his eyes. His eyebrows rose and his eyes clouded over with lust just staring at your face. He smashed his lips back onto yours and bit your lip in return. “Daddy finna put it down.” He said in his Charlotte accent making you laugh as he ran upstairs with you still tightly gripped in his arms.

Once in your bedroom, he dropped you onto your bed before he closed the bedroom door and pounced on you again. He kissed you passionately and roughly removed your dress yet still keeping intact because his ass knew if he ripped your fashionnova dress, you would’ve whooped his ass.

He sat back on his heels and looked at your lingerie before looking up at heavens and thanking God before he attacked your neck vigorously making you moan in pleasure at hitting your spot. He unclipped your bra and gave your breasts some love, even going as far as marking them both with hickeys. He suckled your right nipple before softly biting your nipple making your arch your back. He did the same to your left nipple before trailing his way from your nipple down to your navel with his tongue.

He then took your panties into his mouth and dragged them down your legs before he got back up at your thighs.

“Nah, nah, nah Babygirl, open up them legs. Let Daddy see what he’s been missing these past three weeks.” He said making you slowly open your legs and he smiled at your glistening pussy before putting his hands onto your thighs and pushed them back in order to give himself more space. He licked up and down your pussy before taking your clit into his lips and sucking on it as if it was nursing him. Your thighs tightened around his head as your one hand gripped his head while the other gripped the sheets. The swirling of his tongue was magical as he started spelling out his government name and his stage name. As he got to the last K in Kirk you felt as though you were about to explode. He focused on your clit as he slipped a finger inside you. He angled his finger in a ‘come here’ motion, massaging your G-spot making you claw at his shoulders as your orgasm was approaching you quickly.

“Cum on this tongue (Y/N).” He said looking deep into your eyes while steadily licking and swirling your clit on his tongue. You locked eye contact with him for a few seconds before you felt your eyes roll to the top of your eyes. “Ooh Daddy!!!” You exclaimed as you squirted all over his face and your body shook in extreme pleasure.

“Baby got this pussy gushing!! Damn girl, you got that wet wet.” He said chuckling at your shaking form, before licking his lips and moving up to lock with you again. He stood up as he started stripping for you making you smirk at his gorgeous tattooed body. He mirrored your smirk before dropping his pants and you smiled brightly at seeing his long and hard dick after three long weeks. He chuckled at your reaction before laying back on you and kissing you sweetly.

He locked eyes with you again while he slowly began to enter your pussy and your eyes rolled into the back of your head while he sighed in pleasure and closed his eyes.

“Shit I missed this.” He said filling you completely while you whined and wrapped your arms around his neck. He moved your legs to wrap around his waist as you relished in the feeling of your man between your legs again, where he belonged.

“You aight Babygirl?” He asked noticing you felt tighter than usual since y’all hadn’t mad love in a long while. You nodded quickly at him as he started to look worried. “I’m aight Daddy. Don’t stop. Please.” You pleaded causing him to nod back. He started thrusting and slamming into your pussy like a hungry, savage animal and you loved every second of it.

“Oh Daddy, FUCK THIS PUSSY!!!” You exclaimed as he started wrecking your shit. He angled your leg higher on his hips before he started doing push ups in your pussy making you scratch up his back and arch your back in pleasure. The long-awaited reunion was as carnal and rough as you hoped it would be. He put his hand on your neck and softly applied pressure.

“Whose pussy is this?” He asked growling in your ear in his deep voice. “Yours Daddy!!” You shouted back because with the way he was drilling your shit in, your normal speaking voice went out the window.

“You missed Daddy’s dick Babygirl? You missed me making this pussy bust all over me? You missed the way I tore your shit up huh?” He asked and with every question, he delivered a particularly hard thrust that you seeing stars. He gripped your hair tightly and brought your face towards his. “Answer my motherfucking question.” He said, not stopping any of his thrusts.

“YES DADDY, I MISSED EVERYTHING, I MISSED THE WAY YOU MAKE THIS PUSSY SQUIRT, DON’T STOP!!!” You struggled out to say as his thrusts were brutal. He smirked before placing his hand on your throat again and giving you long and deep strokes, making you go cross eyed for a moment there.

“Come on Babygirl, I want you to cum with Daddy aight?” He asked sweetly before kissing you passionately as if you weren’t being wrecked out of your mind right now. You nodded wordlessly and bit his lip.

“Look at me when you cum Baby. On 3…2…1!! Ah shit!! Fuckkk Babygirlll!!!” He shouted as you came hard on his dick, shouting his name to the heavens and he filled your pussy up. His hips jerked a bit more before he went still before he rolled you to over, while still inside you and made you lay on his chest as you both stared at the ceiling and regained your breathing. You both were quiet for a minute before you both busted out laughing.

“Girl I made you cum so hard you done went cock-eyed!” He heartily laughed and you smiled at the sound before playfully rolling your eyes.

“Nigga don’t act like I ain’t felt them hips stuttering when you came inside me.” You said making him suck his teeth and chuckle before kissing you sweetly. “I love you (Y/N).” He said softly holding your round chin in his hand. You smiled and kissed him on his dimpled cheek. “I love you too Jon.”

“Now pop that ass up, with your face down. A nigga is ready for round 2.” He said causing both of you to laugh before assuming the position.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you guys really enjoyed my first smut, I’m nervous as hell to be posting this but it was about that time anyway. My requests are open, so don’t feel afraid to request anything or even if you want to talk to me about anything, my asks are open, as well as my messages. See y’all later 🤗♥️✨

~Natascha

#Natascha's Works #DaBaby x Reader #DaBaby #Dababy x black! reader #DaBaby x black!thick! reader #DaBaby Smut #Smut #First time writing on Tumblr and I'm nervous as hell

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trickkombowerskru · 5 years

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Yes Daddy-Patrick Hockstetter X Male!Reader Smut

Request: Anonymous: jUst foUnd oUt daddy Pat is somewhat popUlar so can we please have a gay ass, pUnishment for a mild offence imagine. (Gay as in mxm btw EE)

Warnings: NSFW, Sex

Patrick nearly shoves you against the wall as he starts pawing at your bulge precisely. He wanted you worked up for this.

"Strip and then bed now," he orders.

You do as you're told and then he hauls you over his knee. You try to kiss him, but he stops you, pushing your back down to have you flat over his lap again.

"Uh uh. Kisses are for good little boys. You've been a brat all day that doesn't sound good to me."

"Yes Daddy," you sigh.

He rubs each ass cheek for a bit, even fingers you a little, this was his favorite part of punishing you.

He loved to make you wait for it, have the anticipation of when the first strike would come.Then it happens.

"One,"you gasp.

"Good boy didn't even have to tell you to count."

He continues this each hit feeling harder than the last, and you can definitely tell your ass is feeling the effects of his harsh blows.

"Twenty nine.”

He gives you one last slap and then starts rubbing again.

"Such a pretty red your ass is for me baby. You learn your lesson?"

You desperately nod, hoping he's done.

"Yes Daddy."

"Good boy."

He proceeds to finger you a little more before giving you you're next order.

"Face down, ass up."

You quickly get into position and Patrick moans as he sinks into you. As usual he doesn't give you time to adjust before slamming himself back into your ass, nearly making you scream.

He keeps up his rapid pace, and then starts to jerk you off. You can feel the pressure building at a sky rocketing pace.

"P-Please?

""What was that? You know the rules Little Boy. You want something you need to ask"

"Please please please can I cum Daddy I'm so close."

Patrick makes it look like he's thinking it over absolutely torturing you in the process.

"Okay since you were good taking your punishment and followed all of Daddy's orders you can cum Baby Boy."

He angles his hips and hits you deep a few times driving you wild

"T-Thank you Daddy," you breathe out as you're about to explode.

"That's it Baby make a mess all over Daddy's hand."

That's all it takes and then you let go,the tightening of your muscles make him cum as well, spilling into you.

After cleaning you up with his mouth, Patrick lightly taps your ass making you hiss. He chuckles as you snuggle into his chest to share a cigarette."Such a good little slut for me," he says after taking a drag.

"Always," you reply.

A bit after the cigarette is put out you crash feeling absolutely exhausted and spent from all the layers of pleasure rushing through your body.

#it 2017 #patrick hockstetter #patrick hockstetter imagine #patrick hockstetter x reader #patrick hockstetter smut #owen teague

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earlgreytea68 · 4 years

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Mating Ritual

A fill for this prompt by @carbonbased000: (Van days/pre-h) Pete & Patrick sharing clothes – bonus points for Joe & Andy rolling their eyes very hard at their stupid mating dance! 8)

At first Patrick doesn’t notice.

It’s not like he keeps close track of what he’s got with him on this trip, let’s be honest. It seems super-likely to him that he left a pair of socks behind at the last gas station restroom where they washed up and he tried to rinse them. And that t-shirt, like, it probably got kicked behind a speaker or something and nobody noticed it. He’s distressed about the hoodie, can’t imagine where he lost it, remembers huddling to sleep under it but can’t remember what happens after he woke up, he’s always fuzzy after waking, he could have flung it out of the van in a sleep-induced fog. “Motherfucker,” he pouts, because it’s not like he has money for a new hoodie. “What’s tangled up in your bonnet?” Joe asks him. “That’s not a saying,” Patrick says, but answers anyway. “I left my hoodie somewhere. I don’t know.” “That smelly one with the ripped sleeve and three separate coffee stains?” says Joe. Patrick is offended. The hoodie was beloved. That was why it had three coffee stains. “Because Pete’s got it,” Joe continues nonchalantly. “Huh?” echoes Patrick blankly. “You know.” Joe bites into an apple, looking down at the book he’s reading. “Pete takes your clothes.” Patrick blinks. “Pete does what now?” “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick,” sighs Joe, and turns a page of his book, and does not elaborate.

Patrick frowns. Outside the van, Andy is pumping gas. Pete is spending money they don’t have on something they don’t need inside of the convenience store. Patrick glances toward the door, sees no sign of Pete, and leans over the backseat of the van to snag Pete’s bag. He unzips it and the very first piece of clothing he pulls out is that fucking t-shirt he thought he’d lost. And that’s followed by another t-shirt he didn’t even know he lost, and those jeans he’d convinced himself he must have finally thrown out because they were worn so thin, and the fucking socks. And his hoodie.

“Hang on,” Patrick says. “Pete’s been stealing my clothes.” “Uh-huh.” Joe is still munching on his apple, still reading his book. “Why?” Patrick is bewildered. “I think it’s a weird mating ritual,” Joe replies. “A what?” yelps Patrick. “I have never been wooed by a Pete Wentz but from the nature documentaries it’s pretty clear it involves lots of weird mating rituals.” “I’m not—what—what the fuck,” Patrick stammers, confused. Andy gets back in the car. “Ten bucks he’s in that convenience store negotiating some kind of show for tonight.” “Andy,” Patrick says, “Pete’s been stealing my clothes.” Andy glances at him. “Yeah, it’s a mating ritual.” “Told you!” Joe sing-songs. “It’s not a mating ritual!” Patrick protests. “Later on,” continues Joe, “he reveals plumage in the form of questionable tattoos.” “His mating call is more screaming than anything else,” adds Andy. “If you listen closely, experts say it sounds like ‘I read about the afterlife but I—’” “I’m going to punch you,” Patrick decides calmly. “Why?” asks Joe mildly. “I’m not the one who’s been stealing your clothes.” The van door finally slides open, and Pete stands there, triumphant. He’s wearing a new pair of sunglasses, and a new trucker hat, and a t-shirt with a blue eagle tearing open a fish with its talons. The fish is bleeding red, white, and blue stars. A red Twizzler is hanging out of Pete’s mouth like a really ridiculous cigarette. He announces, “I come bearing a goddamn treasure trove of gifts that I got for a negotiated discount of thirty percent, thank you very much.” “They gave you a discount on that t-shirt?” says Joe. “Wow, I can’t believe that, considering how they must be flying off the shelves.” “Don’t be mean,” says Pete, clambering into the van, “I bought this t-shirt for you. And I bought this hat for you,” Pete says to Patrick, and puts it on his head. “Are you going to steal it later?” Patrick demands. “Huh? No, I just told you, I got a discount on it.” “Steal it from me,” Patrick explains, although he doesn’t know why he has to explain this. “Because you steal my clothes.” “No, I don’t,” says Pete, and he sounds honestly perplexed. “I borrow them.” The fact that Pete doesn’t look the slightest bit guilty or caught-out throws Patrick. Andy slides the van into gear as smoothly as the van ever hits gear and they start moving and Patrick watches Pete as he says, “Look what I got us, this little dog whose head bobs up and down as we drive,” and lunges forward to get the thing onto the dashboard. “Why do you borrow my clothes?” Patrick asks quizzically, when Pete sits back down next to him. “Because it’s fun,” says Pete. “Here, you can borrow some of mine.” And just like that Pete peels off the American eagle t-shirt, which he hands to Joe, and then the t-shirt, he was wearing, which he hands to Patrick. “There you go. See how fun?” Patrick sees Pete’s bare chest, and that’s annoying, not fun. *** Patrick doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing with Pete’s t-shirt, and then Pete shows up to the show’s afterparty, such as it is, in Patrick’s hoodie, and Patrick’s stomach does this flip-flop thing and Patrick’s dick does this look-at-that¬ thing. Patrick feels like he should demand the hoodie back but it definitely looks better on Pete and this is all fine, he can definitely hide a hard-on all night, he’s adept at it by this point. That night, for inexplicable reasons, Patrick wears Pete’s t-shirt to bed. It’s small for him, too tight, and it smells so fucking much like Pete, feels so much like Pete. Pete says, “See? Fun, right?” when he sees Patrick, and then cuddles up against him in the back of the van, and then everybody is snoring all around Patrick and Patrick’s wearing Pete’s t-shirt and he thinks, Christ, it’s definitely a mating ritual. *** Sex, Patrick thinks, is supposed to involve taking clothes off, but he feels like he and Pete are having reverse sex, piling clothes on, if they put any more clothes on, Patrick’s going to come. Pete wears Patrick’s hoodie and hat and socks and jeans, and Patrick watches the way his clothes fit Pete, slide against his skin, and his mouth waters, and he cannot stop staring at Pete’s ass in Patrick’s jeans, why is Pete’s ass somehow hotter than when he wears those tight pants that leave nothing to the imagination. Patrick reciprocates with Pete’s clothes, and they’re ill-fitting and not him at all and that’s the thrill of them, he’s hard the entire time he wears them, it’s like having Pete’s hands constantly on him, all the time, everywhere he turns. The day he can’t find any of his underwear in his bag, only Pete’s, he stands in the bathroom of the venue for a long time with Pete’s underwear in his hand, wondering when Pete finds the time to do these things, switch their underwear around. This is what Pete does with insomnia, apparently. Patrick’s all in favor of it. He wears Pete’s underwear on stage that night and he knows Pete is wearing his and he can’t even meet Pete’s gaze onstage because he might possibly explode. It’s a hotel night. The genius of Pete Wentz. He never does anything without a plan. It’s a hotel night, and they’re in their room, and the door is closed, and Patrick is so turned on he can’t see straight. Pete stands closed to him, up against the door, eyes intent, like he’s not sure if his mating ritual succeeded. “The clothes thing,” he says, his voice a low rasp that makes Patrick tremble. “Fun, right?” Patrick wants to say something like, Build a nest with me, but that would make no sense and anyway, he isn’t actually the one with the words, so he says, “You need to touch my dick right the fuck now.” As a mating ritual, it works pretty well.

#long post #peterick #fall out boy #fob #bandom

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unfolded73 · 5 years

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Every Night (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Reaction fic to 6x07. Basically it’s the last scene from Patrick’s POV. Rated Teen, 1500 words. (AO3)

Other Season 6 reaction fics: 6x01, 6x02, 6x04, 6x06

___________________________

Mom: Dad is asking if you watched the game earlier.

Patrick adjusted his back against the uncomfortable headboard of David’s twin bed as he looked at the text notification on his phone. His dad hated texting, but he wasn’t above asking his wife questions for Patrick, which she then relayed to him through text. His thumbs moved over the screen as he answered.

Yeah. Amazing rally!

After a few seconds during which he listened to Alexis’ slightly manic magazine page flipping, he added.

Watched it with David’s dad.

Mom: Oh, that’s nice! Is he a Jays fan?

Patrick: I don’t think he follows it closely. He wanted to give me a talking to, and watching the game with me was a means to that end.

Adjusting his back against the headboard again, Patrick looked down at his pillow options. Leaving the bed pillow on David’s side (as if this tiny bed could have ‘sides’), Patrick picked up the decorative pillow and braced it behind his neck.

Mom: Uh oh.

David shuffled out of the bathroom, drinking from the water bottle that Patrick had forced into his hands on the way home from the winery. David hadn’t spent nearly as long on his nighttime skincare routine as he usually did, which was as big a sign as any that he was still feeling the affects of his fruit wine odyssey, even if he had sobered up enough not to press any more enthusiastic, sloppy kisses against Patrick’s mouth like he was an untrained puppy.

“How was your class, Alexis?” David asked. He sounded almost genuinely curious, which Patrick found interesting given David’s terrible acting earlier during Mrs. Rose’s mission to extract him from having to watch baseball. Maybe he was more accustomed to playing these games with his sister.

“Um, it was a big success; thank you for asking!” Alexis said, sounding way too chipper. “Everyone had a great time, and the clients were like, super impressed.”

“Oh, that’s good,” David said as he climbed into bed. Patrick felt David’s bare toes drag against his shin as he tried to focus on responding to his mother’s text.

No, it wasn’t a bad thing. We sort of bonded, I guess.

“I wonder if that means they’ll give you priority boarding when you enter the Gateway,” David continued, calling Alexis’ bluff.

Looking at the three dots on his phone as his mother texted him back, Patrick didn’t watch Alexis’ reaction, but he heard the flapping of her magazine. “Oh my god — Stevie did this, didn’t she?”

Stevie had, in fact, given them the entire run down that evening over dinner while Patrick worked to get some food into his drunk fiancé.

Mom: I’m so glad! I could tell when we were there on your birthday how much the Roses love you. All of them, not just David.

“Now, do the step machines actually lift off the ground, or are they just there to help you practice for when you walk onto the spaceship?” David said as he settled in, his hip bumping against Patrick’s under the covers.

“Come on, David, she didn’t know,” Patrick said, feeling some sympathy for Alexis.

“Thank you,” Alexis said.

But not that much sympathy for Alexis. “But now that you do, does it make the journey to the Gateway just that much more meaningful?” he said with his best guileless voice, leaning over to look at his future sister-in-law.

“Okay, you know what? Honestly? This whole situation is starting to gross me out,” Alexis sniped, gesturing at the two of them in bed. “It’s like I’m sharing a room with my twin brothers who kiss.”

Patrick wasn’t sure if he just wanted to troll Alexis more or if hearing the word ‘kiss’ triggered him like some kind of tender sleeper agent, but before he even registered the decision to do so, he’d leaned over and pressed a kiss against David’s forehead, humming with affection as he did so. David’s head was lower on the bed and when he turned, the only part of Patrick that his lips could reach was Patrick’s arm. David pressed a kiss there, and the warmth of David’s lips through the thin material of his t-shirt made Patrick swoon just a little bit.

Mr. Rose came in then, and if he found the tableau of David and Patrick snuggled up in bed to be awkward, he didn’t show it. He just seemed happy to have everyone under the same roof, and that everyone seemed to include Patrick. Mr. Rose grinned, and Patrick could only grin back. Then Mrs. Rose came into the room too, still visibly suffering from her day-drinking binge, and soon she was snuggling up with Alexis, mumbling something about a sleepover. Alexis made a lot of annoyed protestations, even more so when her own father made fun of her for almost joining a cult. It was weird and yet completely domestic at the same time. Patrick felt a bit like he was getting a look at the inner sanctum, at the way the Roses behaved when it was only the four of them. Warm feelings for the family bloomed in his chest.

“So does this happen every night?” Patrick whispered to David.

David turned to him. “Um, no. No it doesn’t,” David responded, but the look on his face told Patrick that wasn’t entirely true. They smiled at each other, and David pressed his face up against Patrick’s arm, and in that moment Patrick loved David so much that he thought his heart was going to explode.

Mr. Rose managed to coax his wife back to bed, closing the door between their rooms. With another annoyed huff, Alexis turned off the lamp and plunged the room into darkness, although a significant amount of light still filtered through the curtains. The Rosebud Motel did not have the kind of blackout curtains that most hotels possessed. Patrick sent a final text to his mother.

Going to sleep now. I’ll call you Sunday.

Mom: Goodnight, sweetheart. And tell David goodnight too. 😉

Patrick squinted at the winking emoji, trying to process the fact that his mother was teasing him about his sleeping arrangements with his fiancé. At least she didn’t use eggplant emojis to do so, like Stevie. Putting his phone on the floor, Patrick scooted down the bed, trying to get comfortable on David’s decorative pillow. “Here, we can share,” David said, adjusting his own bed pillow until it was under both of their heads as the small pillow fell off the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” Patrick whispered, putting an arm over David’s waist and kissing him gently, a simple press of their lips together.

“I’m sorry I abandoned you today,” David said, his voice equally quiet.

“It was fine. Your dad and I had a good time.” He kissed David again. He knew that if they were back in the bed they usually shared in Patrick’s apartment, he’d be deepening the kiss, pressing David into the mattress until they were both panting and desperate to get their clothes off. As it was, he’d have to settle for a few kisses and for holding David close.

David huffed. “You don’t have to say that.”

“It was.”

“Still,” David said, kissing him back with a matching gentleness. “I don’t want to take you for granted. I love you.”

Patrick moved his hand up to the back of David’s head, fingers combing through the short hair at the nape of his neck. He pulled him closer, mouth opening, because surely a little bit of tongue would be okay. David seemed to think it was okay too from the way he kissed him back.

“Can you two stop, please?” Alexis whispered harshly. “I can hear the smacking noises!”

“Sorry,” Patrick called to Alexis, and then said to David, “I love you, too.”

“Turn over; you can be the little spoon,” David said.

David loved being the little spoon, so much so that there was a mole on David’s shoulder blade where Patrick’s face usually was pressed that Patrick had come to think of as his, he was so well acquainted with it. “You sure?”

David pushed on his arm. “Turn over before I change my mind.”

Patrick did, carefully not to pitch either of them off the edge of the narrow bed. He settled down, his spine pressed against David’s chest, David’s knees against the back of his knees. David wrapped an arm around him, sliding his hand up under Patrick’s shirt to touch bare skin. He felt David kiss the back of his head.

Lying awake for a long time, Patrick imagined all the nights like this they would get to have in the future that stretched out ahead of them. Nights when they held each other to soothe each other’s worries. Nights when one or both of them had had a little too much to drink. Nights when they held each other as an apology after a fight. Nights when they drifted off in post-coital bliss. Nights when the cuddling was a balm to their sadness. Nights when there was too much joy for sleep to come easily.

“I can’t wait for you to be my husband, David,” Patrick whispered, unsure if David was still awake.

An answer came in the press of David’s hand against his chest, right over his heart. “Me neither.”

#my fic #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek ff #david x patrick fic #david x patrick ff #sc s6 #sc spoilers

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wild-aloof-rebel · 5 years

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When David steps into the motel, everything is almost disappointingly ordinary. The room looks the same as it had when he’d left it yesterday afternoon. An empty cinnamon roll box still lies open on the table. His overnight bag still sits atop the cedar chest. An army of nail polish bottles are still strewn across the nightstand. Alexis is propped up in bed, nose buried in her phone, and their mother is screeching something about "the wrong shade of black" on the other side of the connecting door.

David has walked in or woken up to a similar scene nearly every day for the past few years, and yet he’d expected today to be different somehow: a different room with different faces to greet him. Because today he is different. Because today he’s not the lonely and friendless misanthrope he’d been the day they’d moved in. He’s not even the hopeful and happy boyfriend he’d been just yesterday morning, excited about an afternoon picnic and wherever the evening might lead.

Because, today, he’s engaged.

How could anything possibly be the same?

Still in a bit of a daze about it all, he manages to make his feet carry him around his bed so that he can sit down. What he's supposed to do next, however, he isn't sure.

He’s engaged. Patrick had asked him to marry him. He’s engaged to the absolute love of his life, and they’re going to get married. They’re going to have a wedding. They're going to spend the rest of their lives together.

The full weight of the realization hits him like a truck, and he buries his face in his hands, overwhelmed and happy and relieved and embarrassingly, giddily, stupidly in love. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to laugh until his stomach aches. He's getting married.

“David?” comes Alexis’s voice from the other bed. “Are you oka– What are THOSE?”

He lifts his face to find her mouth open comically wide in shock, one accusatory finger pointed straight at his left hand. He hadn't been sure his family would even notice, wondering if he'd have to all but slap them across the face with them to get anyone to pay attention, but he should have known Alexis would sniff out new jewelry in a heartbeat. A glance at the four gold rings adorning his fingers sets his whole face twisting to hide the wide grin threatening to break free.

“David,” she says again, keener this time. “Are those what I think they are?”

He manages to move his head in a little tremor of a yes that grows and grows into an exaggerated, exuberant nod. “Yes,” he replies. “Yes, Patrick asked me to–”

“DAVID!” She launches herself off the bed, nearly toppling him over in excitement as she bounces onto the mattress beside him.

“Shhhhhh.” He glances toward the connecting door. “I am not telling mom before her afternoon valium kicks in."

"God, can you imagine?" she says with a grimace. “Let me see!” He holds his hand out to her and watches as she runs a gentle finger across his rings. Despite her obvious excitement, there’s something a little longing in the touch, something a little sad, and for a fraction of a second, he wants to pull her into his arms and tell her that she’ll have another chance at this. But then she opens her mouth again. “Are they 24 karat?”

“Fuck off, Alexis!” He snatches his hand away, but she just shimmies it right off of her shoulders.

“So did he get down on one knee? Did he do something super cliché like putting them in a glass of champagne? Oh my god, did he sing? Please tell me he sang something super embarrassing. I need the deets!”

“Okay, don’t say ‘deets.’ This isn’t 2005.”

David pushes himself to his feet. There’s too much excitement thrumming in his veins. He needs to move, or he might actually explode with joy, which would be the most embarrassing thing to happen to him in this room since his dad had walked in on him and Patrick celebrating their baseball win. Still, a soft smile slips back onto his face as he walks circles into the carpet, remembering the way Patrick's face had lit up when David had said yes.

“If you must know, he took me on a hike, and–”

“A hike? I thought you said you were going on a picnic.” Her look of surprise melts into a pout. “You poor thing.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, though there’s hardly any bite in it. He’s just too damn happy to really mean it. “We did have a picnic. It was just on top of a mountain. And it was perfect, okay?”

When she doesn’t tease him or press him for more details, he stops pacing to find her looking at him with some unfamiliar mix of emotions.

“What?”

“I just--" She shakes her head. "You’re engaged, David."

"I know."

"No, like, you're actually going to get married."

"I know."

"But you, David. Of all people."

“Um, there's a lake just up the highway. Can you drive into it please?"

She scoffs. “I didn’t mean it like that. It's just, like, I always assumed that I would be the one to get to have that great big dream wedding we used to plan when we were kids." Her fingers absently tangle in her hair, her eyes unfocused now as she gets lost in some thought that makes her smile. "Do you remember when we broke apart mom's pearls to use for the seating chart?"

David remembers it well. That had been back when Alexis's modelling career hadn't yet taken off and her only trips around the world had been on family vacations with the rest of them. Back when breaking into the wig room just to have a look around had been the most dangerous thing they'd ever dared to do. "Adelina thought she was going to be furious."

"But when we told mom, she just said to use the sapphires instead next time because they better complemented the color scheme." They both laugh at the memory. Things had been so much easier then, back before they'd both gone out into the world and let it make things hard.

Happiness had been easier.

Love had, too.

"You just never really seemed interested in all that," Alexis says. "The planning part, yes, but not the part where you get yourself a cute, little husband.”

David can’t stop the smile that blossoms across his face at the word. Patrick is going to be his husband. He buries his face in his hands again, feeling the way his skin heats against his fingertips at the thought.

“I wasn’t,” he admits through his fingers. “Interested. Before.”

“Patrick’s changed you, David.” The smile that she gives him is strangely proud. “You’ve let him change you.”

There are so many things he's done in the last year that he'd never thought he'd do in his life. Things he'd never wanted to do. He's hiked up a mountain, and he's hit a homerun, and he's clambered across shaky boards thirty feet in the air. He's learned about tax brackets and insurance premiums. He's gotten up before 9 a.m., when the occasion has called for it.

"I know," he says.

Patrick has taught him to compromise, has shown him that sometimes you have to give more than you take, has shown him that sometimes trust and contentment and unconditional love can still be easy.

Because at the end of the day, all he wants is to make Patrick happy. It's as easy and as hard as that. He wants to give back every single ounce of joy that Patrick has given to him, and if that means that sometimes he has to move the lip balms a few inches down the counter, then that's something David can do. Because Patrick--because his fiancé--is worth it.

"I kind of think--" Alexis says, frowning a little like the words taste sour on her tongue, "I think I want to hug you."

"I'm sorry?"

She stands up and steps closer. "Can I hug you, David?"

"Oh. Um, o-okay."

Her arms are around him before the word is all the way out of his mouth. She squeezes him tight, hands clasped together behind his back, and he wraps his arms around her shoulders, closes his eyes, and breathes.

It's been years since they've done this, standing in nearly this same spot after she'd broken up with Mutt, and David isn't the only one who's changed since then. Alexis has pushed herself to be better in nearly every area of her life. She'd gone back to high school. She'd gotten her certificate. She'd turned down a job offer that would have taken her out of this town. And in the most un-Alexis move of all, she'd let go of Ted--chosen his happiness over her own--only to find him choosing her in the end. David is fiercely proud of her. Even if he'd never say it.

"I can't believe you're getting married," she mumbles into his sweater.

He holds her a little closer, ignoring the tears threatening to form. "I can't believe you're leaving."

"I'll be back in six months."

"You better be." He pulls back with a watery little laugh, blinking against the sting of his eyes. "Who else is going to help me arrange all those diamond-studded floral centerpieces?"

She rubs a hand across a wet cheek and chuckles. "I think the diamonds are gonna be hard to come by these days. You might have to settle for cubic zirconia."

"Ew. Why would you even say that to me?"

"And since Elton probably isn't an option anymore, maybe you can just get mom and the Jazzagals to sing a little medley for your first dance."

"Oh my god. Stop!" He swats a hand at her, but she dances out of his reach.

"Instead of the horse-drawn carriages, there could be, like, goats pulling a wagon."

His horrified gasp is drowned out by her gleeful cackle, and she bounds across her bed as he lunges after her, chasing her around the room as she continues to hurl increasingly disgusting suggestions his way.

"The cocktail hour can feature sangria with that gross fruit wine mom filmed that commercial for. The dinner can be a barbecue. Oh! The ceremony can be at town hall. You can get married at Roland's desk!"

"I hate you."

He does. He hates that she knows exactly what buttons to push, and he hates that she could push them with her eyes closed. He hates that she's reminding him in this otherwise happy moment of everything that they've lost. But most of all he hates that she isn't even going to be here to help with most of the planning. All those fantasy weddings they'd imagined as kids, they'd dreamed them up together. How is he supposed to plan his real wedding without her?

She pouts at him, but her eyes are still shining with glee. God, he loves her. He's gotten so used to having her around, he really doesn't know what he's going to do without her for six months.

"Oooh," she squeals. "You and Patrick can rent suits from that menswear store in Elmdale."

Okay, he takes it back. He does hate her after all.

"I hope you get eaten by a tortoise."

#schitt's creek #schitts creek #david rose #alexis rose #i love exactly two (2) siblings #s5 #the hike #coda #s5 spoilers #rebel writes #is 1900 words still technically a ficlet?#asking for a friend #and that friend is me because i clearly don't understand the meaning of brief lolol

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darkqueensigyn · 5 years

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ready for the boom: a playlist for the unholy trinity (avery pemberton, ricky o’connell, and giles irwin)

1. waltz no. 2 - dmitri shostakovich 2. dear future self (hands up) - fall out boy ft. wyclef jean 3. seven nation army - the white stripes 4. boss bitch - doja cat 5. the rocky road to dublin - the dubliners 6. istanbul - they might be giants 7. the pirates who don’t do anything - relient k 8. bamboleo - gipsy kings 9. i like tuh - carnage & ilovemakonnen 10. do you wanna touch me - joan jett 11. greatness - the grtns 12. run runaway - great big sea 13. come a little bit closer - jay & the americans 14. blue monday - health 15. thunder - imagine dragons 16. swalla - jason derulo ft. nicki minaj & ty dolla sign 17. hold on - good charlotte 18. fag - todrick hall 19. explode - patrick stump 20. we built this city - starship

#playlist #avery pemberton #ricky o'connell #giles irwin

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moviesandmania · 5 years

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IT: Chapter Two will be released by Warner Bros. in the USA on Digital on November 19th 2019 and on 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray + Digital combo (the one to get!), Blu-ray + DVD + Digital combo and Special Edition DVD on December 10th. Content options vary in other regions but they should be released around the same time.

Special features:

Audio commentary with director Andy Muschietti

Pennywise Lives Again!

This Meeting of the Losers Club Has Officially Begun

Finding the Deadlights

The Summers of IT: Chapter One, You’ll Float Too

The Summers of IT: Chapter Two, IT Ends

Here’s our previous coverage of the movie with stacks of reviews:

IT: Chapter Two is a 2019 American supernatural horror feature film directed by Andy Muschietti (Mama) from a screenplay Gary Dauberman (The Nun; Annabelle; Within; Wolves at the Door; et al), based on the novel by Stephen King. Seth Grahame-Smith and Barbara Muschietti produced.

Bill Skarsgård returns as Pennywise the clown, with Jessica Chastain (Crimson Peak; Mama) as adult Beverly, Bill Hader (The Skeleton Twins) as Richie, James McAvoy as Bill, James Ransone (Sinister; Sinister 2) as Eddie, Isaiah Mustafa (Shadowrunner: The Mortal Instruments) as Mike Hanlon, Andy Bean (Allegiant) as Stanley, Jay Ryan (Mary Kills People) as the adult Ben Hanscom.

Plot:

Twenty-seven years later, the members of the Loser’s Club have grown up and moved away, until a devastating phone call brings them back…

Reviews:

“The group dynamics of the (very good) cast propel the film as each Losers Club member faces down his or her personal demons. (Chastain especially gives the material a lift.) Taking each storyline at a time, all accompanied by flashbacks, gives each character some depth, even as the crowded film — at nearly three-hours long — verges on turning into a clown car.” Jake Coyle, Associated Press

“The whole film is going damn near overboard, for better and worse. It’s easy to admire Muschietti’s film for its excess and imagination. It’s easy to watch and enjoy it as a fright flick. It’s just harder to connect with the adult versions of these characters than it should be, and it’s harder to take this story seriously than it was before.” William Bibbiani, Bloody Disgusting

” …each scene begins relatively innocently before exploding into a waking nightmare that preys on the worst fears and repressed memories of each of the Losers. All good stuff, but more often than not, director Muschietti and the first-rate special effects team deliver gross-out visuals in favor of truly chilling and tense psychological terror. I mean, the Losers have to deal with a lot of arachnid-inspired imagery.” Richard Roeper, Chicago Sun-Times

“The devotion that Dauberman and Muschietti exhibit towards the Losers is palpable from start to finish, and despite some pitfalls in the film’s pacing, overall what they’ve managed to achieve with their collaborative efforts on IT Chapter Two is nothing short of monumental, and I think they’ve crafted something very special with these two films.” Heather Wixson, Daily Dead

“A psychologically merciless sequel, everything here is as it should be: deeper, scarier, funnier. Muschietti, in particular, has stepped up, skilfully guiding us through a rollicking funhouse. It is obscenely entertaining.” Alex Godfrey, Empire

” …even if Chapter One was example enough, there are no diminishing returns when it comes to shock value. Any time Pennywise feeds on life there is genuine sadness over the loss (the naivety and insecurities of his child victims contrasted with Bill Skarsgård’s master manipulator tendencies ensure it so), whether it’s a character we are attached to or someone newly introduced. ” Richard Kodjer, Flickering Myth

“The terror of Pennywise is best glimpsed fleetingly. See the clown too many times, and he becomes a familiar joke. But also letting the air out of things is Muschietti’s penchant for CGI scares, where practical effects would be far more effective. The movie’s many monstrosities – a crawling eyeball! a giant spider! an insect with the head of a human infant! – don’t inspire fear.” Barry Hertz, The Globe and Mail

” …Chapter Two seems to consist of an indefinite number of big, scary set pieces, featuring interchangeable snaggle-toothed creatures, or occasionally gigantic, fairground-sized monsters lurching grotesquely up out of nowhere. The scenes deliver reasonably efficient scares, but with the tension level repeatedly and disconcertingly reset afterwards to zero…” Peter Bradshaw, The Guardian

“Muschietti’s faithful adaptation, with all its creative and creepy set pieces, can’t justify that ass-numbing run time; especially not when the characters are just doing a lot of the same things they did in the first movie. They run into cobwebbed houses, stare down nightmarish visions and get tangled up with a clown that can morph into all kinds of silly, gigantic creatures. It’s all so easily forgettable.” Radheyan Simonpillai, Now Toronto

“Chapter Two is darker than the first, Bill’s attempt to deal with the guilt of losing his little brother by saving another ending in a brutal bit of bloodshed. Yet there are really only a couple of scary jolts, too many scary CGI puppets repeating themselves, too many effects beholden to Carpenter’s The Thing. McAvoy feels miscast here, perhaps a first for the actor. Chastain, Ransone and Hader do a great job updating their childhood counterparts…” Laura Clifford, Reeling Reviews

“Maybe it’s just that an evil clown terrorizing kids is intrinsically scarier than one going after adults. Or maybe it’s that the filmmakers, apparently believing this themselves, put the majority of their focus on a series of digitally created monstrosities. Whatever the case, It: Chapter Two, though ultimately satisfying, doesn’t get at the deep-seated creeps its predecessor did.” Michael Gingold, Rue Morgue

“IT: Chapter Two never really depicts the way dewy sentimentality can curdle into pain and regret or considers whether the other side of middle age offers a way of letting go of the past. Its monster only occasionally embodies the otherworldly fearfulness that leads the characters to speak of it in hushed tones. But at least Muschietti is trying for something epic and intimidating…” Keith Phipps, The Verge

” …when the filmmakers don’t force the story to fit into strict parameters and just let the story flow with these characters that we love, IT Chapter Two can be just as effective and emotional as the first film. For fans of the novel, you shouldn’t miss this because much of what we love about the book makes its way to the screen, even if it can’t completely hit every high point. IT Chapter Two is clunky, too long, and not as scary as it could have been, but when it hits, it really hits.” Alan Cerny, Vital Thrills

“Real trauma is given the same consideration as a literal funhouse of horrors, which cheapens what the characters and audience are put through.” Alan Silberman, Washington Post

“What stands out in It Chapter Two is not the clearly labored-over insect effects but that moment with Mrs Kersh and the scene of Pennywise as Beverly’s father — both reliant on actors rather than technical wizardry. The human eye can tell that there is not much in effects but effects themselves with a story like this about evil. But an actor like Gregson or Skarsgård can channel evil for us because they are human…” Dan Callahan, The Wrap

NB. Scroll further down past the trailers for YouTube reviews

The New Line Cinema production is obviously the sequel to the smash-hit horror movie IT (2017) which took a whopping $700,381,748 at the box office worldwide against a reported budget of $35 million.

Controversy:

As reported by 9news, some parents in Australia say that giant billboards of Pennywise’s face have been giving their young children nightmares.

“It just totally freaks them out,” Brisbane mother Kellie told the Australian news outlet, speaking about her kids’ reaction to the billboards. Her daughter Piper added: “I get really scared because it’s hard to go to bed when you have a scary picture in your mind. Before I go to bed, I have to check the whole room. And when I finally go to bed I will wake up after a nightmare.”

Another mother also told 9news that her child is terrified by the imagery. “Some people do enjoy going to horror movies and that’s fine and that’s their choice, and I understand that but we’re not choosing to see this poster,” said Jane, who issued a complaint with Ad Standards. The latter body has confirmed that the ads don’t break any of their rules. [Source: Bloody Disgusting]

Production:

Filming on IT: Chapter 2 officially began on June 20 in Toronto with a release date of September 6, 2019.

Background:

IT: Chapter Two clocks in at a whopping 169 minutes.

“A movie is very different when you’re writing the script and you’re building a story compared to what the final product is,” director Andy Muschietti told Digital Spy and other press.

“At the beginning, when you’re writing and building the beats of the story, everything that you put in there seems very essential to the story. However, when you have the movie finally edited and it’s 4 hours long, you realise that some of the events and some of the beats can be easily lifted but the essence of the story remains intact.

“You cannot deliver a 4-hour movie because people will start to feel uncomfortable – no matter what they see – but we ended up having a movie that is 2 hours and 45 minutes, and the pacing is very good. “Nobody who’s seen the movie has had any complaint.”

Cast and characters:

Jack Dylan Grazer … Young Eddie

James McAvoy … Bill Denbrough

Jessica Chastain … Beverly Marsh

Bill Skarsgård … Pennywise

Sophia Lillis … Young Beverly

Finn Wolfhard … Young Richie

Bill Hader … Richie Tozier

Jaeden Martell … Young Bill

Jay Ryan … Ben Hanscom

Kate Corbett … Dean’s Mom

Javier Botet

Xavier Dolan … Adrian Mellon

James Ransone … Eddie Kaspbrak

Owen Teague … Patrick Hockstetter

Jess Weixler … Audra Phillips

Jake Weary … John ‘Webby’ Garton

Nicholas Hamilton … Young Henry

Wyatt Oleff … Young Stanley

Isaiah Mustafa … Mike Hanlon

Jeremy Ray Taylor … Young Ben

Jackson Robert Scott … Georgie Denborough (rumored)

Teach Grant … Henry Bowers

Andy Bean … Stanley Uris

Chosen Jacobs … Young Mike

Stephen Bogaert … Mr. Marsh

Logan Thompson … Victor Criss

Taylor Frey … Don Hagarty

Ryan Kiera Armstrong … Victoria

Janet Porter … Richie’s Mother

Jake Sim … Belch Huggins

Amanda Zhou … Waitress

Kelly Van der Burg … Victoria’s Mom

Angela Thompson … Comedy Show Patron

Will Beinbrink … Tom Rogan

Ari Cohen … Rabbi Uris

Lyla Elliott … Dead Young Girl

Angelica Alejandro … Asian Waitress

Rob Ramsay … Meaner Nurse

Divan Meyer … Audience Member

Erik Junnola … Bully

Anthony Ulc … Joe The Butcher

Martavius Gayles … Paramedic

Connor Smith … Carny

Shannon Widdis … Cheerleader #1

John Connon … John Koontz

Elena Khan … Derry townsperson

Chris Jiggins … Paramedic

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Image credits: Brooke Palmer / Warner Bros. Entertainment

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IT: Chapter Two released on 4K Ultra-HD, Blu-ray, DVD, Digital soon – invite Pennywise into your home! IT: Chapter Two will be released by Warner Bros. in the USA on Digital on November 19th 2019 and on…

#2019 #Andy Muschietti #Bill Skarsgård #film #Gary Dauberman #horror #IT: Chapter Two #Jaeden Lieberher #Jessica Chastain #movie #review #reviews #Stephen King

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canyousevmyheavydirtysoul · 6 years

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Gingerbread. (Joe Trohman x Reader)

For: @sunflowerbabyboy6

Request: Some sort of Christmas Party with Joe or Patrick (I’m aware Joe’s Jewish and I don’t know if he practices Christmas or not but it’s just a thought) where they help the reader with baking because the reader is stressed out and its rlly fluffy and cute.

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED.

Note: So, uh… this request made me realise that last year I had forgotten that Joe was Jewish and I wrote Christmas imagines about him without checking if he celebrates it. Oops?

Nevertheless, I’ll be writing this about him but of course – no disrespect is intended.

Hearing a loud clang followed by a string of curses emanating from the kitchen, Joe frowned worriedly and set his phone down before rushing to investigate.

When he stumbled into the kitchen, he was met with the sight of you, hopping on one foot while clutching the other, face contorted in pain. With an arch of his brows, Joe peeked around the edge of the island and saw the assailant – a stainless steel mixing bowl.

“Aw, sweetie,” he cooed, bending to pick up the bowl and set it on the counter before taking you into his arms and leading you to one of the kitchen stools.

“And this,” you hissed, flexing your foot to try and relieve the throbbing, “is why I hardly ever bake.”

Joe scoffed. “You and me both.”

He pouted his lips and glanced over at what you’d whisked together so far before sticking a finger in the gingerbread mixture and bringing it to his mouth.

“Mm, it’s pretty good, though,” he complimented, reaching for a spoon to scoop up another taste.

“It’s horrible,” you argued with a groan, “The ratios are way off and if it flops then-“

“Relax,” he shushed you, holding up both hands and chuckling, “It tastes fine to me; I’m sure it’ll turn out great.”

A wheeze came as a response, along with a snarky remark. “Yeah, that counts for a lot since we all know how great of a baker you are.”

Gasping in offence, Joe tossed you a hurtful glare, forcing you to laugh tiredly.

“Now that wasn’t very nice of you,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” you whined, sliding off of the stool and wandering over to kiss him on the cheek apologetically before rounding the corner of the island and going back to your work, “I’m just really stressed about this, okay? I promised my sister that I’d do this for my niece and if I mess up I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he offered, massaging your shoulders.

You pivoted your body slightly and pointed at the oven. “You can get me the baking sheet that’s heating in the oven. It’s hot, so be careful.”

With a nod, he moved to follow your instruction while you gave the mixture a final stir. A loud bang echoed through the room as the baking sheet was dropped next to you on the marble countertop; you turned to Joe with a confused frown.

He was sucking in harsh breaths, clutching his fingers to his chest. You clicked your tongue at him and took his injured hand.

“I told you to be careful,” you scolded, shaking your head as you brought his reddened fingers to your lips and peppered them with gentle kisses. You looked up at him and smiled. “Better?”

He beamed down at you and leaned down to kiss your lips. “Much.”

“Good,” you grinned and turned back to the mixture, “Now lets get this in the oven.”

~Approximately 45 minutes later~

“Okay. Alright. Looks decent enough,” you made an impressed face as you surveyed the gingerbread pieces on the sheet; Joe – wearing oven gloves, this time – carefully set it down on the cooling rack.

“See?” he removed the gloves and threw his hands out, smiling widely at you, “Told you it’d work out fine.”

You skewed your mouth to the side and began gathering everything you needed to make the frosting. “Eh. Let’s not get too cocky too soon. The frosting is always the trickiest part.”

“So what’s the first step?” he asked animatedly, drumming his fingers along the countertop.

Chuckling to yourself at his excitement, you cocked your head at the block of butter resting next to the bowl.

“Cutting the butter into blocks. But I’ll do that. You can sift the icing sugar.”

You passed him the necessary materials so that he could get to work and then started on the butter. You were about halfway through cutting when something told you turn to your left. When you did, you immediately erupted into a fit of laughter.

Joe’s front was almost entirely covered in icing sugar. It was caught it his hair, covering his face and even sprinkled all over his t-shirt. Opening your mouth in shock, you looked down at his hands, which were sifting the sugar much too vigorously.

Hearing your laughter and feeling his gaze on you, he turned to you with wide eyes, but his hands never stopped moving.

“What?” he questioned with genuine innocence.

“Sweetie, you’re being way too rough with that.” You closed your hands over his and slowed down their movements so that the sifted sugar was actually falling into the bowl. “Like that.”

Stepping back, you let him continue. Extending yourself upwards, you sneakily stuck your tongue out and poked his cheek, gathering a little bit of sugar on your tongue.

“How do I taste?” he smirked, stealing a quick glance at you.

“As sweet as ever,” you smiled, scrunching up your face before finally finishing off the butter.

Not too long after, you and Joe had made successfully made a batch of fluffy white icing and had done a wonderful job at working together to assemble the gingerbread house.

All that was left to do after that was to decorate it with an insane amount of sweets, which you were currently doing. You had a meticulous pattern going, making sure to make it as perfect and beautiful as possible.

And it was.

There was only one thing left to do, and you reached for the final piece of decoration. Joe’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully secured a couple of Twizzlers along the awning of the house, then he stepped back to allow you to complete the masterpiece.

With a sigh of relief, you gently pressed the gingerbread man to the board, cementing him in a spot on the grass just outside the house. Once you were certain he was secure, you stepped back to admire your handiwork.

“It’s gorgeous, sweetie,” Joe complimented, kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back, “Well done.”

“To both of us,” you beamed proudly, kissing the remainder of sugar off of his cheek.

“Now we just have to-“

There was a terrible crash that shocked both of you. You slowly and hesitantly turned to survey the damage, and it was horrible.

The gingerbread house had collapsed in on itself, crushing the poor gingerbread man in the process. All you could see of him was his tiny gingerbread legs sticking out from underneath the wreckage.

Seeing all of your hard work destroyed like that made you extremely upset, and your breathing became heavy as you glared at the remnants of the house.

Joe, noticing that you were on the verge of exploding, took slow steps back, towards the front door.

“How about I run down to the store and buy one of those readymade ones, yeah?”

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

Taglist:

@darknessdancing

@raversam

@username-number-01834

@untilyouburnallofthewitches

@underscoredarcy

Note: Haha this is based on what happened to my sister and I when we made a gingerbread house last year. (I don’t know why I’m laughing; I was actually pretty devastated.)

Any of you tried making one? x

#christmas #christmas imagine #joe trohman #joe trohman x reader #fob #fall out boy #emo #music #band #bands #band members #band member imagine #emo trinity #emo quartet #imagine #imagines #fanfic #fanfiction

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

Photo

A Padre Pio Inspirational Story __________

“Let us always keep before our eyes the fact that here on earth we are on a battlefield and that in paradise we shall receive the crown of victory; that this is a testing-ground and the prize will be awarded up above; that we are now in a land of exile while our true homeland is Heaven to which we must continually aspire.” – St. Pio of Pietrelcina __________

Memories of Padre Pio

Joe Peluso was an American soldier who was stationed in Italy during World War II. One day he received a letter from his mother and she told him that there was a holy priest named Padre Pio living in Italy. She did not know what part of Italy he lived in but she wanted Joe to find out and to visit him. Joe asked the military chaplain on the base if he knew anything about Padre Pio. The military chaplain started laughing and pointed to the mountain that was directly in front of them. “Padre Pio lives right on that mountain,” he said to Joe. Curiosity got the better of him and Joe decided to make the short trip to see him. It was October 6, 1944.

Padre Pio loved the visits of the American soldiers and always greeted them cordially. His counsel to the soldiers was unique. He used simple and childlike words when talking to them and giving them advice. Sometimes he would pat them on the head in a paternal way and simply say, “Be a good boy.”

Over the next ten months, Joe was able to visit Padre Pio many times and they became very close. Often he was invited to eat with the Capuchins at the monastery. While everyone else enjoyed their food, Joe noticed that Padre Pio simply pushed his food around on the plate. His daily intake of food would only fill the cup of his hand. He once said, “I need very little of this world’s goods. I need just a little bit of food, a little sleep and few possessions.”

It was Padre Pio’s habit to give each visitor a religious medal when they came to the monastery. Because of the war, religious medals and rosaries became scarce and almost impossible to acquire. Padre Pio felt very bad that his supply of medals was exhausted and he had none to give his visitors. Mary Pyle and Joe talked about it and Joe wanted to help. He decided to take the 220-mile trip from his military base to Rome to try to obtain the medals. Padre Pio and Padre Pio’s brother Michael both gave him letters to deliver to their sister, Sister Pia. She was a nun of the Order of St. Bridget and lived in the Brigittine Convent in Rome.

When he arrived in Rome, something prompted him to follow a road leading up a hill. As he drove up the hill, he saw a large sign, Cloistered Motherhouse of the Benedictine Nuns. Joe remembered that the St. Benedict medals were a favorite of Padre Pio. Joe knocked on the door and the nuns were extremely happy to give him a large supply of medals for Padre Pio.

Once Padre Pio asked Joe to select a name for his guardian angel. “Pick a name for your guardian angel and call him by that name always,” Padre Pio said to Joe. “When you send him to me, he will come instantly.”

One day Joe asked Padre Pio if he would accept him as his spiritual child. Padre Pio readily agreed. Then he asked him if he would accept his wife as his spiritual child and he agreed as well. Realizing the wonderful opportunity, he then asked Padre Pio if he would accept his daughter. Joe’s aunts and uncles then came into his mind. Somehow, the way the conversation was going struck both of them as funny. Joe and Padre Pio began to laugh. They laughed so hard that tears were rolling down their faces.

Suddenly Padre Pio became very serious and said to Joe, “Joe, when the war is over and you return to the United States, tell the American people, that for those who would like me to be their spiritual father, my answer is yes. I accept all Americans as my spiritual children. I only have two requirements — that they lead very good Catholic lives and that they regularly receive the sacraments. And please, tell them never to embarrass me in front of Jesus and Mary. You must tell them, Joe.”

Joe felt that it was an impossible request. He lived in a very small town in Pennsylvania. He was not an important person. He did not know many people. How could he tell all of America what Padre Pio had asked him to? Nevertheless, when he returned to the U.S. he tried to do what was asked of him. He made a slide show presentation of Padre Pio’s life and over the years he showed it to thousands of people. Joe died in 1996, after having spent 50 years sharing the message of Padre Pio with more people than he could have ever imagined.

“Remember, I accompany you always and everywhere.” – St. Pio of Pietrelcina ______________________________

A Letter from Padre Pio to Padre Benedetto

Padre Pio wrote the following letter to his spiritual director, Padre Benedetto Nardella, concerning a vision he had regarding World War I. This divine visitation seemed to signal the approach of peace.

“In one of the visits I had from Jesus recently, I asked Him more insistently to have pity on the unfortunate nations so sorely tried by the misfortune of war and to let His justice give place at last to His mercy. Strange to say, He made no reply except a sign with His hand which meant, ‘Slowly, slowly’ . . . What on earth does this mean, dear Father? I myself cannot tell you. However, I can tell you this, that whenever I had spoken to the Lord previously about the war, He gave me no sign that I can recall, but always kept complete silence . . . Does it mean that He himself means to intervene to calm this worldwide upheaval? May He be pleased to do so without delay.” – Letters I, December 19, 1917 ______________________________

Maria Pompilio who was one of Padre Pio’s spiritual daughters, left this testimony.

“At the end of Padre Pio’s Mass one morning toward the end of 1919, a number of people gathered around Padre Pio. By my side was a man who looked fixedly at Padre Pio. He said breathlessly, “Oh God, it is him, truly him. I am not mistaken.” The man began crying and fell to his knees. He said, “Padre Pio, thank you for saving me from death! Thank you!” Padre Pio put his hands on the man’s head and said, “You must not thank me, my son. Thank our Lord and the Virgin of Graces.” They spoke together in an undertone for a few minutes. Padre Pio then went to the choir to pray.

Several men who were nearby questioned the man about the words that Padre Pio had spoken to him. I was also present and the man told us the following story: “I was a Captain in the infantry, and one day on the battlefield, during a terrible hour of fighting, a little distance away from me, I saw a delicate, pale friar with beautiful, expressive eyes. He was not dressed as a chaplain but as a simple friar and he hurriedly and gently called to me saying, “Captain, move away from that place. Come to me quickly.” I ran toward him and had not even reached him when, in the place where I had previously stood, a grenade exploded, opening up a pit. If I had been there, my body would have been blown into the air in shreds. I wanted to thank the little friar who had called me, but he was no longer there. He had disappeared without my realizing it and even though I looked around for him I never saw him again.

On the same day that my life was saved, another person told me that a beautiful monk had saved him from death as well. Other soldiers at the Italian base said they had seen a friar among them who looked toward Heaven and prayed. One of these soldiers said that the priest who had been on the battlefield was Padre Pio who lived in San Giovanni Rotondo. I wanted to come here and see if he was the friar who had saved me as his face remained imprinted in my mind. Now I know that it was him. You can imagine what gratitude I feel toward this holy priest. I am happy to have been able to thank him personally and to kiss his hand.” – Maria Pompilio ______________________________

My name is Jim Cunningham. I was born in 1924 and was in the military during World War II, stationed in Foggia, Italy. I was assigned to a photo reconnaissance squadron and I heard about Padre Pio from the townspeople in Foggia. One day I decided to visit him so I took two other G I’s with me and drove a military jeep up the mountain to the monastery. It was in 1945 and I was twenty-one years old. I attended his Mass and felt very fortunate as all of the soldiers that were present were invited to sit right up on the altar, very close to Padre Pio. I was able to clearly see the wounds on his hands. Seeing his devotion at Mass was a very moving experience. He celebrated Mass in such a way that I was able to comprehend the sacredness of the Mass. His whole being inspired me.

Padre Pio was a very humble man and at the same time he was open and friendly. I had learned that Padre Pio liked grapefruit juice, so on my second visit to San Giovanni Rotondo I brought some juice. I was able to go to San Giovanni three times to see Padre Pio.

Mary Pyle, Padre Pio’s secretary, invited me to lunch at her home. She told me that she had come to Italy from the U.S. just for a visit. Shortly after she met Padre Pio, she decided to stay permanently. Her esteem for him was such that she had a great desire to be near him. She stayed in San Giovanni Rotondo for the rest of her life. Mary’s life was one of complete dedication to Padre Pio. She helped him in so many ways.

Meeting Padre Pio and attending his Mass truly changed my life. It was a great blessing. I have never met anyone in my life who had such a great devotion to God. On a number of occasions I have been invited to church groups to speak about Padre Pio. Today I am 82 years old. Many years have gone by, but my wife and I still feel his presence with us. It is overwhelming. ______________________________

Father Joseph Pius Martin – who assisted Padre Pio for a number of years, received the following testimony from Kevin Patrick Fitzpatrick.

Kevin Patrick Fitzpatrick who worked in Manchester, England in 1947 became acquainted with a man who had been a soldier in the British Army during World War II. During their advance against the German Army, this soldier and the others in his company came to the area of San Giovanni Rotondo. For some days British artillery had been firing into the areas surrounding the friary, but to their amazement none of the shells were exploding. When British Intelligence officers questioned the local Italian people, they were told that this was not to be wondered at since a very holy priest, Padre Pio lived at the friary.

One of the British Army officers was staying at the friary. One night he heard a voice constantly calling out. He went to investigate to see where the sound was coming from. When he came to the door of Padre Pio’s cell, he heard Padre Pio praying the Glory Be to the Father. He repeated the prayer slowly, over and over again. The soldier was deeply edified. ______________________________

A Grace in Time of War

My brother was serving in the army and had been sent to Viet Nam. Every night our family prayed for his safe return. I carried Padre Pio’s photo with me and prayed to him often for my brother. I felt Padre Pio’s presence with me and shortly after that, my brother wrote to say he would be coming home. When he did come home, he was a different person. After that terrible war he became more quiet and serious. We never asked questions about his experiences and he never spoke much about it. He did mention one experience which seemed very peculiar to him. He said that one day his company was sent ahead of the others to check for the Viet Cong. They were looking through the bush with their guns, when suddenly all of the soldiers smelled the fragrance of roses. They kept saying “Where are the rose bushes? It sure smells good out here.” They never did find the rosebushes and were sent back to camp. Another company was sent out to inspect the same territory. How tragic to say that the company was ambushed and not one survived the attack. According to the calculations, the Viet Cong had been there lurking in the bush all along, when my brother and the others in his company were in that area. But for some strange reason, they were not attacked and they very easily could have been. I know it was Padre Pio who saved my brother’s life. – I. Ahmadzai ______________________________

A Letter from Padre Pio to Padre Agostino

“We are passing through a solemn hour. Up to the present we have not been involved in this grievous war which has now gone on for a year . . . We must all cooperate for the common good and make God’s mercy propitious to us in this difficult time, by humble and fervent prayer and by the amendment of our lives.

We must not be down-hearted, dear Father, or lack the filial confidence we owe to our God just because He appears to be angry with us. If it is to come to pass again today that he looked around at them with anger ( Mark 3:5) let us fully understand this. God still loves us, He is still merciful toward us. His looking around with anger, Father, is the language of His sorrowful love; this is the expression which comes from His sorrowing heart at the sight of our wickedness. These are the artifices to which His mercy resorts in order to stop us on our way to perdition. . . .” – Letters I, May 31, 1915

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