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just-my-sickly-pride · 4 years

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In the Wings || John Deacon x Reader

summary || your official job, as a queen roadie, was to help backstage during a concert. your unofficial job, as someone who the bassist john deacon had taken a shining to, was to help backstage during a concert in a very particular way.

rating || explicit (18+). do not read if you are under eighteen. oral sex (m receiving), slight degradation kink, pretty much public sex (although there’s no exhibition kink). i guess there would be an age gap, but it’s not really explored or explained.

word count || 4.1k

author’s notes || so i finally was able to watch rock montreal yesterday, for the first time, and i adored it, obviously. through our conversations in the discord, i learnt what actually went on backstage during concerts (would you believe i genuinely had no idea), and i was inspired. some of the details about the concert might be a bit iffy as i just had to go off memory as whatever research i could find. this one goes out to katie @anotheronebitesthedeaks, who works tirelessly to provide as much deacy content as she can. i hope this one does you proud, katie!

masterlist

The adrenaline was pumping. Really pumping. If the hammering heartbeats of everyone inside the arena – assistants, roadies, lighting and sound operators, pyrotechnics, performers (yes, especially the performers) – could be converted into power, you could have probably run an entire city.

Tonight’s concert was being filmed. You didn’t know much about cameras, but you knew it was apparently all very impressive. Really high quality.

Rehearsals hadn’t gone all that smoothly. It was the nearing the end of the tour, which meant that, fifty percent of the time, Queen were all at each other’s throats, and for the other fifty, they were inseparable. Well, maybe more like sixty-forty. Or seventy-thirty. Maybe seventy-five-twenty-five, considering that they were almost in the midst of putting together another album. Which, if the screaming matches you’d overhead last week were anything to go by, was proving to be a particularly gruelling one.

But if there was one thing that drew the band members back together in solidarity, it was having a common enemy – tonight’s director and producer, Saul Swimmer.

Your official job, as a roadie, was to help backstage with anything that the guys might need whenever they left the stage. Water, snacks, new picks or drumsticks, alcohol, a towel, backup guitars, outfit changes. So you heard everything during rehearsals, when they were interrupted time and time again by Swimmer, calling for camera positions to be changed or sound levels to be shifted. He even had the gall to try to tell Freddie where to stand, which Freddie promptly shut down with a swift, I’ll go wherever I fucking want, darling, I’ll sit on Roger’s drums if I feel like it.

Roger had tried to hide his laugh, but his mic had still been on from before, and it had echoed throughout the arena, which had made Freddie burst into a cackle. Brian had smiled. John had swung around to face away from the other three, his head tilted back, looking ready to murder.

John had seen you in the wings, and had gestured to you with an impatient hand.

You’d known what that meant. You’d grabbed the glass of whiskey and ginger ale you’d had ready-made to go, and had hurried out onto the stage to hand it to him.

It had felt awfully naked to be on stage. Even with no audience members, you’d never felt more exposed. You’d found it hard to breathe, like you hadn’t dare take in any more oxygen than you deserved.

You had no idea how they did it every night, perform on that stage in front of all those people, for weeks on end. You would’ve given up long ago.

But you’d waited dutifully while John had taken a few gulps of the drink, your hands nervously balled into fists at your side. He’d barely looked at you, which you’d expected.

“Oh, he’s getting a drink,” Freddie had said loudly from the front of the stage. “Come on, dear, we’re all waiting for you.”

John had scowled, shotted the remainder of the drink, grimacing, and then he’d shoved the glass back into your hands, and you’d rushed off stage again while he’d retaken his place.

You’d taken the glass backstage and had poured another whiskey ginger ale, in case it was needed.

You’d taken a moment to breathe slowly and deeply a few times, willing your heart rate to slow.

A fellow roadie had paused to ask, “You all right?”

You’d nodded. “I’m fine,” you’d said.

“Did John say something to you?”

You’d frowned. “What?”

The roadie had shrugged. Rick, you’d thought his name was. “Just saw you hand a drink out to him. I know he can be a bit of a dick sometimes. I’m sure he’s just pissed off or whatever, he wouldn’t have meant whatever he said.”

Rick had given you a firm pat on the shoulder, and had left.

But that hadn’t been the problem at all.

John Deacon could be a dick sometimes, sure. A complete asshole, if the mood struck him.

But, Jesus Christ, he was a hot one. And the fact that he clearly didn’t give a shit about you somehow made him even hotter.

You were watching him now, as he moved across the stage. During songs he was always switched on, focused, his eyes often closed as he hopped and bopped to the music. Between songs, his gait switched to almost a lope, his head hanging either forward or back, his chest heaving, his bass hanging loosely across his body.

He seemed extra fiery tonight, as did everyone else, which was undoubtedly influenced by the cameras. They were performers, after all, and you weren’t surprised that they all played a little harder, a little faster, a little sexier, when they knew that tonight they were being made immortal, eternalised on tape.

But there was something about John, specifically, more than the other three. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The intensity of every note he played, his gaze on the crowd or on Freddie or on his bass, made your stomach flutter with butterflies. The lighting made his jawline look like it could cut glass, turned his profile into that of a marble statue of a Roman god. His hands looked huge on his guitar, his fingers moving with precision.

He radiated power. You hoped tonight was one of those nights where you fulfilled your less-than-official roadie job.

It was an open secret that bands like Queen used whatever spare time they had backstage to get off. John’s favourite time to do so was during Roger’s and Brian’s solos; you were his go-to. You couldn’t believe your ears the first time he’d propositioned you, but you had been more than happy to help.

It was never more than a backstage blowjob or handjob, though. There was never enough time for an actual fuck – although John had made it clear in the past that, for once, it pissed him off that Brian’s solos weren’t even longer – and he’d never returned the favour.

You weren’t all that fond of that part. You had to admit that it absolutely turned you on being used and then abandoned, left to catch your breath and clean yourself up while John snatched his bass from someone’s hands and re-entered the stage, but it would have been nice to receive something in return every once in a while. At least a real proper fucking after the show.

But that was the way of the world, you supposed. And your blowjob skills had grown exponentially since the tour had started. Which you weren’t sure you should have been proud of, but you were.

“Drum solo’s about to start,” you heard someone say, and your stomach flipped.

The song drew to a close, and then stage went dark. John and Freddie immediately turned on their heels and ducked into the wings as lights came up on Roger and his solo began.

Everyone worked quietly and efficiently. You handed a towel and bottle of water to Freddie while someone else took John’s bass at his request. “John,” you said, catching his attention. When his eyes met yours, everything you were about to say left your head completely, and you could have melted into a puddle right then and there.

But it didn’t matter – as soon as he realised it was you, he said, “There you are,” and grabbed your hand, towing you away from everyone else, heading towards the stairs.

It took a moment to register, but when it did, your whole body grew hot, as hot as John’s skin against yours. The leftover anger and frustration from earlier in the afternoon, the excitement and rush of performing for the cameras, the exhaustion and desperation that came with being so close to the end of a months-long tour – you could feel every part of it through the grip of John’s hand.

“Your shirt,” you blurted out, as John pulled to a stop. You were on the first landing of the stairs – far enough from everyone else that there was the semblance of privacy, but not far enough that John would be too far away from the stage.

It wasn’t really that private at all, though. There were people mere metres away from you, at the top of the stairs. But they knew what was happening, and politely began to shuffle away.

John was already yanking his jeans open, and he gave you a baffled – and slightly irritated – look. “What?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to change your shirt,” you explained. “Before.”

“No,” John said bluntly, unzipping his fly and shoving his jeans down. “Obviously not.”

“Right, of course, sorry,” you stammered, and dropped to the floor, sitting on your heels, your hands fumbling against his as you both worked his tight jeans and underwear down just past his ass. He was already slightly hard, and you hastily took him in your hand and swallowed him down.

He breathed out sharply, his hand slipping into your hair, and you closed your eyes to focus on your job, your tongue sliding around the head of his cock, over the vein on the underside of the shaft, working quickly. You felt him beginning to swell in your mouth, and his body shifted in response. It was impossible to ignore how much it turned you on to feel it, to hear him react to everything you did.

It didn’t take long at all for him to be fully hard in your mouth – he must have been particularly worked up tonight – and you blew him fast and hard, as fast and hard as he’d been playing on stage. He was big, but you were used to that, and you used your hand to pump whatever your mouth couldn’t reach, every so often reaching down to fondle his balls in your hand, squeezing them a little. Your other hand gripped the back of his thigh, feeling the muscles tense, and it made you desperately want him to fuck you. Fuck you for real, feeling his cock stretch you out, feeling his hands all over your body, his mouth on your clit.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his hand tight in your hair. You felt his other hand rest on your cheek, and you adjusted to let the head of his cock press against the inside of your cheek whenever you took him in so he could feel it.

“Open,” he said. “Open your eyes, lemme…”

You did so, blinking up at him. The look on his face made you want to touch yourself, give yourself some relief from the throbbing arousal coursing through your body. You suckled at his head for a moment before sliding him down into your mouth again, and he moaned, low and deep. His hips bucked forward, making you gag, tears springing into your eyes.

You knew he liked the sound of you gagging, but you couldn’t do it too many times without starting to genuinely feel sick. You shifted your position, going up onto your knees to change the angle, and took a few steadying breaths before sliding your mouth down onto him, far enough that you gagged, and then drew back again. Saliva filled your mouth, collecting at the corners of your lips.

“Shit, yes, that’s it, take me all the way in,” John panted. “Gag on my cock, fuck.”

You moaned around him, and did it again, keeping as much eye contact as you could, and you felt his knees just about buckle.

You blinked the tears from your eyes, feeling them trickle down your cheeks, and continued sucking him off. You could feel yourself beginning to drool, but you let it happen, knowing that it made you look like a mess but not even caring. You could hear Roger’s solo drawing to a close. You didn’t have much time left, and John couldn’t exactly waltz onto stage with an erection. Especially not tonight.

You doubled your efforts, the scream of Brian’s guitar spurring you on. You knew John was getting close from how his back shifted against the wall, and he kept letting his head drop back to hit the bricks, his breathing growing heavier and heavier, his other hand gripping his own hair.

His hand began pushing the back of your head, and you concentrated on breathing through your nose, closing your eyes again, letting him fuck your mouth. Your hand still massaged his balls every now and again, and you gagged a couple more times, making him groan through gritted teeth.

You opened your eyes again to look at him, and he was watching you, his mouth hanging open. You wanted to kiss him, bite and nip at his lips, suck on them.

“God, I wanna f– fuck you,” he growled. “Bet your cunt’s just as wet and – ngh – tight as your mouth, shit.” His head fell back against the bricks again, and your stomach clenched.

Do it, you wanted to say. God, I need you to.

But instead you just took him in again and again, feeling him twitch in your mouth, and within no time at all he was groaning out, “I’m fucking coming, I’m coming,” and his hips jerked and he spilled into your mouth, his body shaking.

You swallowed, and drew him into your mouth a few more times, emptying him completely, cleaning him up, and then you were helping him to get stage-ready again with frantic hands, pulling up his underwear and jeans, tucking him in.

He did up his fly and the button on his jeans, and then he was throwing you a quick, “Cheers,” and bolting up the stairs, leaving you on the floor, your breathing ragged.

You heard Roger’s drums join Brian’s solo, and you knew John was going to make it on stage just in the nick of time.

Someone hurried past you, heading down the stairs, and you mumbled out, “Sorry,” shifted out of the way. You kept your head low as you tidied yourself up, wiping your eyes and cheeks dry and making sure there was no come or saliva on your mouth or chin, or on your clothes.

You were still aching with need, still soaking between your thighs. But that was part of the gig, and you were used to it.

You cleared your throat and wobbled to your feet. You could feel a couple of eyes on you as you made your way back to your spot in the wings, but most of the crew were used to seeing you looking dishevelled partway through a concert. The familiar coil of embarrassment still burned in your gut, but it was eased somewhat when someone surreptitiously passed you a bottle of water. You nodded in thanks and poured about half of it down your throat.

John did have a few more exits, but none of them any longer than a few seconds. He barely acknowledged you, apart from summoning a shot of whiskey or vodka. To an outsider, it would have been impossible to know that his dick had been in your mouth less than an hour before. It drove you crazy. Even just being near him muddled your brain.

Again, all part of the gig. By now, the other roadies expected you to be much less helpful after you had disappeared with John.

Then came the Bohemian Rhapsody break. The sound cue slid in perfectly, blasting the operatic section while all four band members scrambled off stage. Freddie dropped to the floor and yanked off his shoes, declaring that they were giving him blisters and he was done with the fucking things. You shared an uneasy glance with another roadie, but then John’s hand was wrapping around your elbow and he was towing you away.

You stumbled, and John let you go. You follow him without another word, hurrying along behind him, baffled. This break was almost exactly only one minute long – you were good, but you weren’t made of magic. Especially not after John had already come tonight.

“John, what’s going on?” you said. You were somewhere else now, somewhere dark, in a corner. “We don’t have time–”

John pulled up to a sudden stop, and whirled around, taking you by the shoulders, guiding you against the wall. He kissed you without warning, roughly.

You and John didn’t kiss much. It really only happened when you were pulling him off, and he preferred your mouth on his cock rather than your hand.

But you didn’t even hesitate in kissing him back. He kissed you with urgency, one hand tangling in your hair and the other on your hip, drawing a whimper from you. You clutched him around his back. His shirt was damp with sweat, his body running hot, but you didn’t care.

He drew back enough just to say, “Jeans.”

You immediately went to unbutton his jeans. But he stopped you with a hand.

“No,” he said. “Yours.”

“What?” you said, the word coming out in a squeak. This was completely new.

“We don’t have much time,” John said quickly, going for your jeans himself.

But you stopped his hands. “No, wait,” you said.

“What, don’t you want me to?” John said.

You stammered, shaking your head, and managed to get out, “Want you to what, John?”

“Finger you.”

“W–” You shook your head again. “Well, yes, but–”

Someone called John’s name, and he sighed in frustration. “Whatever,” he muttered, and went to leave.

But you grabbed his arm. “Hey.”

He turned back to you. “What?” he said. “I have to go.”

“You wanna do something new with me, you ask me first,” you said firmly. “You don’t just assume I want it and go for it. I might get you off every other night, but I’m not your fucktoy.”

He stared you, as if surprised you’d spoken up like that, but then he said, “You’re right. Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

You nodded, and let your hand drop from his arm. “That’s all,” you said, crossing your arms. “Go, you’re gonna miss your cue.”

John took one more moment to drink you in, an unreadable expression on his face, and then he was gone.

Your hands shook. You couldn’t believe you’d just spoken to him like that. After he’d gone to finger you, which you’d wanted for weeks. What the fuck were you thinking, turning him down? Even just ten seconds would’ve been more than you could’ve hoped for. And you’d shot that gift horse right in the mouth.

You sighed, and pushed that aside. You were still on the clock.

God Save The Queen began to play, and you watched as Queen took their bows. Roger and Freddie were jumping around together – they’d had a lot of fun tonight, you’d noticed, giggling and pulling faces at each other the entire concert – and Brian and John bowed and waved.

John was off first, as he usually was, passing his bass over and grabbing a bottle of water. You expected him to head straight to the greenroom, as normal, but instead he just watched Freddie and Roger pass by, the two of them sweating and panting, but grinning, shoving at each other playfully. Brian was last, carefully handing over his Red Special. He was always quiet right after a concert, and he followed his two bandmates to the greenroom without a word.

As soon as all three of them had passed, John was beside you again. But instead of grabbing you, he said, “Can we go somewhere?”

You were so stunned you barely knew how to reply. “Uh, y– yeah, course.”

You followed him downstairs – but instead of heading to the greenroom, you went to his dressing room. You hovered in the centre of the room while he locked the door behind him.

“I, uh, wanted to apologise properly for earlier,” he said, stilted in his discomfort. He cleared his throat, and gestured towards you vaguely. “You were right. You’ve been, um, very… helpful, these past couple months, and I don’t think I’ve been treating you with the respect you deserve.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” you said with an awkward laugh. “Really, John, you don’t– You already apologised.”

“No, I…” John put a hand on his hip, his other hand rubbing his jaw. “I’ve been going through a fairly, er, rough time as of late, with the album, and a whole myriad of other things that I won’t go into, but that doesn’t excuse my behaviour. So I’m sorry. And I didn’t realise just how I was, um, behaving, until you stopped me tonight. Which you were absolutely correct to do, and I’m sorry that it had to come to that. Like I said, you were right, you’re a person, not a, um…”

“A fucktoy,” you supplied in a small voice.

“A, uh, fucktoy, yes,” John said, glancing away from you. “So. Er. Sorry. About that.” His eyes landed on you, and you watched as his face turned bright red. “I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “This is… extremely embarrassing for me, but I– I can’t even remember…”

You blinked at him. “Can’t remember what?”

He gestured a little more, but you were still lost, so he squeezed out, “Your name.”

“Oh,” you said, your eyes going wide in realisation. “Oh. It’s [Y/N].”

“[Y/N]. Right. Of course.” John sighed, and nodded to himself. “Right. So. Did you… Was there anything you wanted to say?”

You hesitated. “Uh, I – don’t think so. I wasn’t really expecting this, so, um…”

“Right, yeah,” John said.

There were a few harrowingly painful moments of uncomfortable silence, so you blurted out the first thing that popped into your head.

“I like sucking you off.”

Wonderful.

John’s eyebrows rose. “Uh, good?”

“Ah, shit,” you sighed. “I– I mean I… I’ve liked all of it. You, um, using me, and ignoring me, and being kind of a dick to me. If I didn’t like it, I would have told you to find someone else ages ago.”

“You… like me being a dick?” John said.

You nodded. “It’s– I–”

“You, what, get off on it?”

You bit your lip, and nodded again. “I know that’s really weird,” you said in a rush.

“So would you mind if I…”

“Continued being a dick to me? Not at all. Actually, this whole conversation is very strange for me.” You shook your head. “I appreciate it, and I appreciate you apologising and all, and I meant what I said earlier about asking me before doing anything we haven’t done before, but please don’t think you have to be really nice to me or whatever from here on.”

John nodded. “Uh-huh.” You saw some of the tension leak from his shoulders. “Fuck, that actually makes my life a whole lot easier. I’m genuinely glad to hear that.” He laughed a little, relieved.

“So, um.” You shifted your feet. “You gonna actually finger me now, or what?”

He laughed again, a bigger laugh. You’d never seen that before. His smile changed his whole face – he looked like a completely different person. “No,” he said, shaking his head. He started backing towards the door. “Wish I could, but no.”

“No?” you repeated, bewildered. “Isn’t that why we’re in here?”

John rubbed his jaw again. “Thought about it,” he said. “But it really was just to apologise.”

“Then why’d you lock the door?”

“Like I said, I thought about it.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I have business to attend to,” he said. “We’re having drinks with someone important, I don’t know. Some kind of party, there’s always a bloody fucking party.” He added the last part in a mutter, rolling his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business. See you tomorrow.”

He opened the door, and then he was gone, without so much as a glance back.

Your jaw hit the floor. “Fucking prick,” you whispered to yourself.

You heard his voice from outside the door, heading back towards you. “Er, actually,” he said, and he poked his head around the corner. “Come by my room later, yeah? In about two hours?”

You opened and closed your mouth once, then twice. “It– It’ll be after midnight by that time.”

“I didn’t realise there was a curfew for fucking,” John said. “Or are you happy to just get yourself off alone in your room again, woefully unfulfilled and unsatisfied but left with no other option?”

You just stared at him. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, and you had no idea what to say.

John gave you an exasperated look. “See you in two hours. Don’t bother making yourself look nice, I’m going to ruin you anyway.”

And he was gone again.

And then back one more time. He pointed a finger at you, squinting in thought, then said, “[Y/N]…?”

You nodded.

He nodded as well, looking chuffed with himself. “[Y/N]. Have to remember that. [Y/N].”

And he was gone once more.

He didn’t return.

You squeezed your thighs together. It was going to be a very long two hours to wait.

#mine #my writing #john deacon x reader #queen fanfiction #smut #rpf

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sdpafanblogofsupremefunk · 4 years

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Season 1, Episode 1: A Different Place

Where better to begin talking about a show than the beginning? Like most shows, Sítio do Picapau Amarelo has a pilot episode.

...Okay, in this case, “pilot episode” is just a fancy way of saying “first episode”. Much like Rick & Morty and DT17, SDPA doesn’t really have a pilot episode that isn’t just the first episode (unless you count Doc and Mharti as R&M’s pilot, which I’d rather not), so to begin the series, we kinda have to jump right into the mess of things.

It’s like A Quiet Place, but not stupid.

As the episode begins, we are introduced to a two men on a horse-drawn cart. The man in the red box is a book salesman who’s a little down on his luck in terms of profits.

A little.

This guy isn’t really given a name, and I don’t want to call him “The Salesman” the whole time because that’s stupid. So I’m going to give him a name. Mr. Simmons will do nicely.

Anyways, Mr. Simmons falls out of the cart when it hits a patch in the road, and when he picks himself up, he sees a quaint little house on a farm, with an old woman knitting on the porch.

Here, we are introduced to the first of our main cast, Dona Benta, a kind elderly lady who owns this little patch of heaven known as the Yellow Woodpecker Farm. Yeah, didn’t take us long to get there, huh?

So Mr. Simmons sees this old woman in the middle of (what he believes to be) nowhere, and decides it’s the perfect opportunity to make a quick buck believing that:

Which, I dunno, man, she seems pretty comfortable just sitting in her rocking chair, knitting. Like, even as an outsider who doesn’t know a lick of what goes on in this farm, I’d say she’s content as she is, but anything to make some cold hard cash, I guess.

Also, I would not ever call this place a desert, even for the sake of exaggeration. There’s grass everywhere, bushes, trees, flowers, the works. If this where anything like a desert, I do not think this woman would be here, to put it simply. But, I digress. And I hydraulic press, but we won’t be seeing that.

So, Mrs. Benta goes inside to call for the kids, and here we meet 3 of our other actors:

Here, we see Pedrinho (or Little Pete, the boy in the blue overalls) and Narizinho (or Lúcia “Little Nose”, the girl in the red dress), cousins and Mrs. Benta’s grandchildren. They’re playing tag, I think, but they’re stopped in their tracks with their Grandma in the way, and-

Hang on, I feel like we’re forgetting something.

Oh, right. I almost forgot Emilia. She’s basically the reason I watch this show, no biggie.

Anyway, she’s in a race with the kids, when they’re blocked by Grandma. Emilia makes the smart move and cuts right under Mrs. Benta. It looks like this:

Another reason I like this show so much, it’s rife with smears, which I feel like any good cartoon should have. Like here, where Emilia friggin’ nyooms right under Mrs. Benta like a comet.

Emilia reaches the finish line at the bookshelf, where we see the Viscount of Sabugosa, a puppet made out of an ear of corn who’s very smart and polite. (His name is a pun, “sabugo” means corncob in Portuguese, and it’s a parody of the Count of Sabugosa, of which there were 9, the first being Vasco Fernandes César de Meneses in 1729- but everybody calls him Viscount and so will I because blah)

In this show, the Viscount is the actual size of an ear of corn, which makes sense, he is, after all, a puppet made out of one. I think it’s really funny that the cartoon is slightly more realistic than the live-action show it’s based on in this regard, because in the 2001 series, for whatever reason, the Viscount towers over everyone:

And he has a sick mustache.

Like, I don’t get it, out of all the characters, you made the guy made out of corn the tallest one in the cast? I get that the technology to make him actually small probably wasn’t all there yet, Grandpa in My Pocket was still 8 years off, but you really couldn’t find a guy that wasn’t the same height as Shaq?

Yeesh, only 2 minutes in and I’m getting sidetracked this often. Well, I guess it’s better than having nothing to talk about.

Anyway, Emilia wins the race, but the other two kids run into her, smooshing her against the bookshelf-

-and pwning her so hard she briefly grows fingers on her hand (and turning it into a left hand apparently, because the thumb is on the wrong side)

Mrs. Benta explains that Emilia and the other mystical beings must hide from the impending salesman.

Oh brother, I was wondering when we’d get to this guy. This is Marquis of Rabicó (Portuguese for Short-tail). Literally the first thing you read about him on the show’s Wikipedia is that he’s fat (which you think would be a given cuz he’s a pig), and his part of the Characters section isn’t much better, stating that he’s a “gluttonous, selfish, cowardly and lazy pig” and most of his episodes involve him getting himself and/or others into trouble by being a gluttonous, selfish, cowardly and lazy pig. He’s only ever onscreen to cause problems, either directly or by proxy. If I were to sum him up in one meme, it would be this:

Now, I don’t hate Rabicó, I’m actually quite indifferent towards him, but he does bring down a lot of the episodes that he’s a major part of. Thankfully, there aren’t too many episodes featuring him in the first 2 seasons, but from what I hear, Season 3 goes ham with that shit (pun intended) and it brings down the quality of the season as a whole, so it’s a good thing that’s as far off from now as it is. I want to enjoy the lack-of-pig while it lasts.

But hey, at least he doesn’t look like this:

Don’t do drugs, kids.

Rant over, Mrs. Benta explains that she wants things to look normal because the Yellow Woodpecker Farm is a very peculiar place, where all kinds of weird and wacky stuff goes on, and if word gets out about it, the place will be filled with tourists wanting to get a peek of the action.

Something that Mrs. Benta probably didn’t consider is that there’s a bigger threat to being exposed than just filthy tourism. That’s right, I’m talking about the GOVERNMENT.

I mean, think about it. How many movies have you seen where the government tries to hunt down an unnatural being? E.T., the Sonic Movie, a third one I can’t think of right now, etc. (Lilo & Stitch does not count) Now, I can’t speak for Brazil’s government compared to the U.S., but I know there’s gotta be a division dedicated to dealing with unnatural things that would no doubt arrest Emilia, Rabicó, Viscount, etc. and run experiments on them. Then again, maybe this cartoon takes place in a world where the government doesn’t even exist. I mean, we never really see any urban settings in the show (aside from a brief mention of “the city” in the finale), so for all I know, the world of Sítio do Picapau Amarelo is run by Vermin Supreme.

Real talk, you should all be ashamed of yourselves for not voting for this guy back in 2016.

Initially, Emilia won’t go into her box, but then she gives in and is dragged there by Aunt Nastácia, the housemaid of the farm with a knack for making dolls (so she’s essentially Emilia’s mom). She doesn’t really do much in this episode, but the Fat Bastard does even less, and I still mentioned him.

So Mrs. Benta lets Mr. Simmons into the house and he does this whole spiel about how great the books are, how they can take you to worlds you never imagined, fantasy and action, yadda yadda.

Meanwhile, the kids are off to the side and they’re all like “Well, we met the actual Hercules, get on our level scrub”. And of course, Emilia is watching with them, instead of in her box.

As Simmons keeps on rambling, Emilia is being a little peeping tom, not realizing that one turned head could lead to her being dissected like a high school frog.

Apparently, Emilia thinks she’s a regular Bart Simpson, with shit like spitballs and pulling out the man’s leg hairs. She’s really pushing her luck here, and for little reason. Sure, Simmons called the place boring, but that’s how it’s supposed to be to him.

Of course, Pedrinho and Narizinho are nice enough kids that they bail her out on this one and pretend it was them.

And before Simmons can ask what the hell is going on, Mrs. Benta gives him the money for the books and sends him out the door. And once he’s out...

I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with go.

Of course, they’re not out of the woods yet, cuz Simmons is getting a little suspicious.

Busted. The truth is revealed, all laid out for Simmons to see. A talking rag-doll? Inconceivable! And yet, there it is.

Come on, Viscount. I would expect you of all people to uphold what Mrs. Benta said and stay hidden. You’re smart enough, you should already know what’s at stake, or at least that something is at stake. I mean, I understand that the cat is already out of the bag, but you’re not helping.

Also, you’re thumb is clipping into your bowtie, you should get that checked out.

Rabicó, I hope you get turned into salami. Not out of spite or anything, but just because I like salami.

Naturally, Simmons believes he’s struck gold and found the ultimate tourist trap. But when Emilia points out that if he tells anyone, he’ll sound like a crazy person-

-he straight up Villager Neutral B’s her,

hails a horse, and books it.

Wow, Viscount. Dick move mangling Mrs. Benta’s glasses like that. And all for an impromptu magnifying glass, which is pointless-

-because we can see the horse tracks perfectly fine without them.

(The Viscount isn’t this much of a jerk in the rest of the series, I swear.)

So, the gang follow the tracks until there are no more, which leads them to a corn store.

Wait, a... corn store? As in, a store that mainly, if not exclusively, sells maize and maize accessories? Compared to vegetables in general, that’s quite a niche market, I can’t possibly imagine finding a success in building an entire business around one type of vegetable. Corn is simply not as versatile as something like chocolate or cheese.

Oh no, wait, it’s just a bar. I guess this cartoon takes place in the middle of Prohibition 2: Return of Jafar, and the whole “corn store” thing is just a set up for a speakeasy. (I mean, you could also argue that it’s a diner, but I’mma go with bar because it’s funnier.)

And I’m guessing Simmons expects the place to put all of the meals on his tab, considering he’s going to get the money later with all the tourism. But then, why doesn’t he just pay with the money he got from selling Mrs. Benta those books? So he pulls Emilia out of his bag to show everyone that he has a talking doll and...

Hm. Probably should have put some air holes in that bag.

Anyway, the gang comes in, and Mrs. Benta asks for the doll back, with Narizinho hamming up her Oscar-worthy performance:

So everybody’s giving Mr. Simmons a mean glare:

Including this gentleman who looks like someone just insulted his favorite MHA character (it’s probably Tsuyu):

So Mr. Simmons desperately tries to convince everyone that the doll indeed does talk, and that she comes from a wacky place, but Aunt Nastácia intervenes and says that it’s just a normal doll.

She just straight up roasts Emilia, who (big surprise) does not take it very well. To the point that she is very visibly angry, which you think the barflies would notice.

I mean, look at that and tell me that you wouldn’t notice anything weird.

But anyways, they get the doll back and we get this cute group hug.

D’awww.

So they leave with Emilia-

as Mr. Simmons is beaten to death offscreen for stealing from a little girl.

As the gang walks home, Viscount bends Ms. Benta’s glasses back to normal. Took you long enough, ya jerk.

Not even close, my dear. This is only the beginning.

Well, that was a very good first episode. It introduces the world and many of the main characters very well. And while there were a few issues I had with it, they’re really just nitpicks that don’t detract from the episode as a whole. Overall, a good effort, 8/10.

So, yeah, that’s the first episode down. Join me next time when we watch episode 2, and meet a very vile villain.

Very vile indeed.

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arecomicsevengood · 5 years

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Stuart Immonen Superman Comics Circa 1998

There’s a lot of “best of the year” lists that appear at the end of the year, but after that flutter of activity, tied to commercial imperatives, there are moments for reconsideration, as we approach the year to come and ask ourselves what it is we want. So now is as good a time as any to talk about some Superman comics Stuart Immonen drew some twenty-odd years ago. The artist announced earlier this year that he was “retiring” from comics, but this didn’t mean he was going to stop making comics, just that what he did would be “personal” work, in collaboration with his wife. They recently launched a comic on Instagram, and they’ve done some graphic novels together previously, none of which I can recommend.

I do think it’s interesting that these personal works are scripted by his wife, rather than him writing them himself, though; because back in the nineties, working for DC, he took a few stabs at writing. This was done within a framework that must’ve removed some of the risk involved: The four monthly Superman series that together constituted a weekly serial split between different creative teams had him drawing Karl Kesel’s scripts for a few years before he took over a separate title for his own. In my mind, much of the overall plotting would be hashed out at a conference, and then kept coordinated by an editor. Ideally this process would be oriented around what it was each individual creative team wanted to write and draw: Immonen’s artwork was a little softer than his compatriots, a little more likely to seem like he could’ve drawn romance comics in a different era, maybe younger than the others and more interested in youth culture and fashion, probably more likely to admire Jaime Hernandez. Maybe all this just manifests in the context as being the one who could draw women, but in a era where none of the Superman comics are showy about what they do and all aspired to being solid and well-crafted, his were the most enjoyable.

This softness I appreciate in this work isn’t really present in his subsequent work, which is sharper, shinier, where figures and their wardrobes seem consistently sculpted out of plastic. Part of it’s the coloring, but there also seem to be changes in how scripts call for layouts. He’s also maybe working with ink wash underneath the digital coloring and delineating more how he wants values of light to be approached, I don’t know. I don’t really want to diminish the work the man’s been doing in the years I haven’t been reading superhero comics. I can look at the years of intervening work and see how the choices he’s making are confident ones, the result of years of drawing action comics. I haven’t really read any of them, but that’s not to say I wouldn’t.

Still, if you’re anything like me, you probably generally think that comics created by one person are better than those made in a collaboration mediated via a written script, so if I’m going to read anything by the guy, it’s going to be work created under those circumstances. I’ve heard that DC sort of has structures in place against writer-artists: this is why those “Bizarro World” anthologies where they brought in alternative cartoonists forced them all to collaborate with each each other. Maybe this rule was a little looser with the Superman books: After John Byrne relaunched the line in the mid-eighties, both Dan Jurgens and Jerry Ordway would write and draw chunks of their subsequent runs. Otherwise it’s pretty rare: The only other thing I can think of would be that Rick Veitch Swamp Thing run, the circumstances of its ending probably be why they don’t let that happen too often. A little after Immonen and Kesel did the event The Final Night, Immonen wrote and drew a 4-issue miniseries spotlighting the Legion Of Super-Heroes character Inferno. It’s not good or anything, but it does seem to revolve around the strengths or interests I understand him having at this time: It’s a comic about a young woman, hanging out in the mall with a group of other young women, who might be understood as punks, as some are homeless. Before Immonen worked for DC, his initial small-press work, Playground, made in collaboration with his future wife, was described in “punk rock” terms. He states in the Inferno letter column his goal was to make something someone who didn’t read other DC Comics could read and enjoy. I don’t think it gets anywhere near being able to achieve that, it’s confusing on multiple levels. The covers are probably the most memorable part, but because you can track those down easy enough, I’ll include a bit of interior sequential art.

Not long after that, he took over writing Action Comics. I haven’t read that many of those either! I had stopped reading the Superman comics regularly not long before this happened. It was during the time period when Superman had electric powers and a blue costume. I was in middle school. I found out he’d started writing when I found a couple issues in a bargain bin and picked them up, but I didn’t get back in the habit of reading Superman comics, as the story was pretty difficult to follow if you attempted to only read the series with the best art. He also didn’t really work as a writer for that long: After a little while, Mark Millar gets credited for providing scripts.

But a little while back, around the time I wrote that post about why I’m willing to read superhero comics with some degree of hope that they’ll be good, I ordered a three-issue arc that seemed kind of self-contained. Looking online, it seemed like after the whole “electric Superman” story wrapped up with a special called Superman Forever, each of the four monthly books told their own stories, set in different historical eras, for a few months. Immonen’s Action Comics issues had covers suggesting they were united in progressing from one to the other. I was pretty into them, though in some ways it was an unsatisfying experience. The first issue in the arc is drawn by a fill-in artist, the third part focuses on this separate narrative thread- It’s narrated by this new villain, with god-like powers, who I guess was behind the whole “multiple timelines” thing in the first place, so you there’s exactly one fairly self-contained normal Superman comic written and drawn by the dude, though that third issue kinda rules, as aside from the narration, you’re reading all the normal Superman storytelling stuff happen wordlessly, calling attention to the clarity of the storytelling. It might fail to live up to expectations for a third act based on the way serialization has it setting up the next big arc, but as an episode in itself, this would be a pretty fun surprise to come across in your pile of the week’s comics. Which, if you remember that post, was exactly what I claimed to be looking for.

There’s also an original graphic novel that’s a little later still, “End Of The Century,” which seems like it’s partly tying up a long-running subplot in the Superman comics about Lex Luthor and his wife. It honestly has WAY too much plot, and too many narrative threads, and it’s all still fairly generic. While I picked it up hoping to see cool visual storytelling, the amount of story there is to tell gets in the way. The visual art is good, Immonen’s linework shifts to be a little finer. There’s also this weird thing where real images are photographed/scanned and inserted like they’re laying on the edges of the page, which is dumb, but the technology to achieve this effect was probably only recently made available. There’s also some sepia painted pages, and the most likely reason the “graphic novel” exists is because Immonen wanted to do the painted pages and have the time to work on them. That’s as good a reason as it is to try writing comics for a few years because you’ve drawn them for a few years and writing doesn’t seem hard and you would get paid more, and reasoning resulted in work I thought was better than what you usually get.

Ambition is a wild thing, in that it can really just stir inside you feeling frustrated even as you have no idea what you want to do with it in particular. It can easily be applied to other people’s ends. Work might be personal not because of the importance of what “the artist” has to say but because it’s an outgrowth of a personal relationship. It’s worth noting, looking at his career, the importance of cultivated professional relationships: He had those comics scripted by Mark Millar, and decades later they did a comic together which has probably resulted in a development deal and a sizable paycheck. He did two creator-owned comics with Kurt Busiek, largely forgotten I’d say, and then worked with him on a Superman comic which is pretty well-regarded. He’s collaborated with both Warren Ellis and Brian Bendis multiple times. It is sensible to view all those professional relationships as having had their respective culminations, while working with one’s wife is more of an ongoing long-term project.

At the same time: Having someone write for you, and what they see as your skillset, is going to present different challenges than seeing what you can do and pushing yourself, even if the latter results in what can be easily described as failure. It’s fine either way. Career paths in the arts are always going to be weird and haphazard, because there are so many decisions to make in creating a piece of art that progress is never going to be linear. I don’t know if any of these collaborations embraced what I like about his work, but maybe what I like in his work isn’t what he sees as his strengths, but is just what was emblematic of his style at the point in time I was initially exposed to it. The questions of who we are in relationship to others vs. what our true potential is is always up for negotiation.

I think those Superman comics excel because I came to them with very particular set of expectations. Not only can I not expect anyone else to share those expectations, I don’t even really want to convince anyone to have them: There’s no small part of me that thinks of the fact that I tracked them down to write about them is in some ways squandering some bit of potential inside myself I can’t expect anyone else to care about. I don’t know what 2019 looks like, though I hope I won’t spend too much of it looking back twenty years at comics from 1999. I don’t like doing this thing where I try to make something “personal” to rationalize my talking about some some comic while actually just talking in vague generalities because I’m very reticent to talk about myself, but I’ll probably continue to do so. I’m probably not going to spend the next year looking at Stuart Immonen’s Instagram feed. But here at the end of this year, as I contemplate my own inertia and depressive laziness, I have to give an honest accounting and give it up to that dude for putting in the work.

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gageef · 7 years

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Uncle Negan : Part Ten

*****IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE PREVIOUS PARTS YOU SHOULD PROBABLY DO THAT BECAUSE I PROMISE IT WILL BE 100% BETTER AND WILL ALL MAKE SENSE.******

MASTER LIST

negan imagine / negan x you / negan x reader

warnings: language

“C’mon, Rick! Aren’t you gonna fucking say hello?”

Time froze as you looked around the block, soaking in each and every detail of the situation. Everyone in Alexandria had crawled out of their homes to see this evenings entertainment. Rick and Daryl sat feet away from each other in front of you, both in an obvious shock. You exchanged fear with Tara as you could see her scheming in her head what she could do to keep you all safe. Negan continued to lock you into his prison of a body, one arm looped firmly around your neck with the other pressing a hand gun into the right side of your skull. You closed your eyes in an attempt to calm yourself down. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5..” you counted down to yourself, “Come on, just make it to 10.”

“Look at that.,” Negan’s voice scratched at your ear as he whispered his taunts just to you. “Finally reunited after weeks of asking me to bring him back and now they won’t even fucking look at each other. That? That’s power.”

“6...7...8...”

His gun pressed harder into your head, “I think we should give those shits a little nudge, don’t you?”

“8...9...-”

“Al-fucking-right, Alexandria. Fasten your seat belts and listen up closely because we are about to play a very shitastic game I like to call, ‘answer my question, or I’ll blow someone’s fucking head off.” You suddenly felt sick as your eyes darted to the crowd, trying to watch everyone at once. “Let’s start with...” he trailed off as he squinted his eyes, scanning the crowd before landing on Eugene. “Mullet man. Arat, let’s get a shotgun on this fat ass.” Rick pressed his head to the concrete as he heard the gun cock on his friend behind him. Your quivering, heavy breaths filled the night as you saw Eugene break down into tears causing a chain reaction from those around him doing the same. “Question one goes to the lucky lady who refuses to leave my arms.” Placing his chin in the crook of your neck his stubble pierced your skin sending chills throughout your caged muscles, his grip becoming even tighter. “Do you love Rick?” Looked down at Rick who slowly lifted his head off the road, his head facing you but his eyes darting anywhere else but there.

Taking a few deep breaths, you responded frankly, “Yes.” Negan looked between you and Rick, adding a dramatic pause to the game you couldn’t decide if he had planned out or not.

“Question 2. Arat?” Pushing Eugene to the ground she locked the gun behind the next head. Aaron. “Rick. Do you love your wife?”

Rocking back and fourth on his knees, he quietly stated, “She’s the best thing I’ve found in this world.”

Your jaw dropped as the water works syndrome hit you, sending sporadic tears down your cheeks.

Negan lowered the gun while leaving his arm, his voice mellowing out creating a calm before the storm. “Did you hear that folks? Damn that is..that is just, that’s fucking great. That warms my fucking heart. Isn’t that such a crazy ass concept: ‘love’. The light in the shit storm, the memory you can’t delete...” You felt his arm drop to his side as he fumbled with his pockets. You had noticed a small rectangular object in his pockets before, almost looking like a phone which you knew would be almost impossible to be usable in the new world.

“HEY!” Carl broke Negan’s trailed off ramblings as he ran into the bull pit, his wide eyes assessing the situation.

“Thanks for showing up, kid. Now we can really fucking begin.” Negan ceased stumbling with his pockets, returning focus to the obvious important matters at hand. “Let’s get some action on that pretty dark haired woman over there, the one with the nice titties.” Arat then positioned herself behind Tara, making you weak at the knees. You exchanged looks as she remained confident in the face of death. She was like a sister to you and while seeing anyone killed today would break you, seeing her die would kill you for months to come. “Alright, Dix. I haven’t heard enough of your talking today.” He walked the two of you closer to Daryl who had remained stationed on the gravel since he came out of the truck. “A few weeks ago you had the pleasure of walking in on this fine lady and I. You made some claims, said some shit, made a fucking scene of yourself. I can appreciate that. I get it.” Your head rolled back as you slowly put together where he was going with this. “What was it you said we were doing? I’m getting old and my memory is sad as shit sometimes. And of course out good friend Rick wasn’t at the fucking scene, so I’m gonna need you to bring us allllll up to date on what happened.” He sat motionless, his stubbornness getting the best of him. “Let me remind you of the rules for this little game were playing. You don’t answer? I’ll blow her head off. You give a wrong answer? I blow her head off. So this whole fucking silent stick up your ass cover you got going on? Not your best decision. I’d think you would’ve learned after Lucille banged...oh hell. That Asian guy? Whoever the fuck he was, she fucked him real slow and sensual just for you!--”

“I walked in on them. Rick I-I saw them. Laughin’ and shit with the baby, sleepin’ in the same room.” Daryl spoke softly as if he was trying to only let Rick be the one exposed to this information, but naturally that wasn’t going to work for the big boss.

“Alright, okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do. You got 5 seconds on the clock, and you’re gonna say exactly what you said in my room or Arat’s gonna fuck that woman’s head like a virgin.” You saw Arat put her finger on the trigger, almost expecting Daryl to fuck this up.

“5, 4, 3-”

You strained in his arms, itching to scream out what he said. God, please Daryl just fucking say it. FUCKING SAY IT!

“-2-”

“I said you were fuckin’ and that he was never going to forgive you.”

Negan slowly backed up with you, pretending to look confused.

“But hang on, they just said they loved each other? Does that make any goddamn sense to you?” Resuming his grasp around your neck from behind, he walked you closer to the hostages on the ground. “But wait, now I’m starting to fucking remember.”

Shit.

“You and I had a conversation, didn’t we? Back when you decided to take advantage of my services,” With his every word, Rick cried his way further into his hands, “I offered to have my men take you home. To this fine ass town called Alexandria! But, but ya said something that I can’t quite remember. Something about...Rick, maybe?” You couldn’t stand his taunting any longer, but you couldn’t muster up the courage to say it aloud. “Oh honey, I know you heard the rules. Making me repeat them would be a choice you could fucking regret for the rest of your god damn life.” He motioned towards his right hand woman once again. “Arat, down in front on that feisty one we dealt with a few weeks ago.” Rosita fought as two saviors helped to keep her hostage with Arat, the ticking time bomb behind her. “How’s that memory now, any fucking clearer? Cause I have a feeling when that ‘holy shit’ feeling settles in, if it hasn’t already, is going to be pretty fucking shocking. Don’t make me as you again.”

You had to do this. You had to say it, or people would die. There was no escape, there was no option B, this was it. Wheezing in one more glass of air, you closed your eyes and began your confession. “I--I told you that..that Rick and I..” You looked up at the sky, searching for help and strength from anything to get you through this, the tears slowly resuming. “weren’t married and that...that we weren’t married and Mary, Mary i-is his but-”

“But the baby was...”

“Only his idea...” You barely got the words as you quaked in his grasp, unable to look at Rick.

“And what did I say when I offered you could stay.” His voice became low and stern, drawing out every word with more and more emphasis, his rage teetering on the edge.

“I’m not holding you against your fucking will.” You whisper made it to Rick and back as you felt the people of Alexandria closing in on you with their hatred.

“Huh.” He leaned into you, “And I’m the one he wants to kick out.” He laughed as he addressed the crowd one more time. “Alright you shitheads, we have one more question for you tonight.” He locked his head onto Rick. “Rick, Rick, Rick. Always the man of the fucking hour.” Knocking your knees out, you fell to the ground on all fours in front of him, both of you scheduling peeks at each other so it wouldn’t occur at the same time. Negan squatted behind you, completing the circle that looked like it was about to partake in some fucked up story time. “Now just a bit ago I asked you if you still loved your wife. I now realize that may have been insensitive, seeing as though you two are not exactly on the same fucking page with that. But I’m gonna ask you again and I really want you to be honest with me, alright? Just put your balls right on the fucking table so we can all see them.” he paused, “Do you love your wife.”

That was it. “God please, no stop i-”

“Hold on there, Princess. I do believe that fucking question was not for you.” He situated the gun on your head once more before turning back to Rick. “You know I won’t ask this shit again.”

Between sniffles and sobs, Rick dug his nails into the pavement before letting out a broken, “Go to hell.”

Taken back by his bluntness, you felt your jaw drop slightly as Negan barely had the same reaction. Standing up he rubbed his gloved hand over his face sweater, the stubble scratching his leather creating the only sound amidst the silence. “You know, Rick,” He stated with a sign, “I don’t have to, but she does.” With one whistle, you heard the shotgun echo throughout the streets as Rosita’s body tumbled to the ground, her life and brains blown right out of her.

“You could’ve stopped that, Rick, you cocky son of a bitch!” You started to feel lightheaded as his words began to sound like tattered lines of string flowing in and out of your system. “Now where is that baby?” A savior came over placing Lucille in his arms. “I want to see that fucking angel.”

“NEGAN!--”

He locked onto your jaw, choking you as he held you up with his one hand, Lucille in the other. “I said you fucking owed me, didn’t I? I’m a man of my fucking word.” He turned to the crowd yet again, “Uncle Negan’s ready to fucking play.”

LEFT ON ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER. SORRY NOT SORRY AT ALL.

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK PLEEEASE AND WHAT YOUR LIKE TO SEE HAPPEN! REALLY I RESPOND TO ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING

ALSO THERE’S AN EASTER EGG FOR ANOTHER FIC IN HERE, READ IT HERE

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