RPS Strikes Again!
Aug. 22nd, 2004 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valmoraSome days, you think I'm almost normal, and then I do things like
*g* Most people write popslash - they slash the guys from the Backstreet Boys or N*sync. I write irish!bandslash. I think I'm the only girl writing irish!bandslash in the universe, although there may be a female-equivalent individual on some planet somewhere else in the galaxy scent-marking into a tree a tale about some ethnic musicians who specialize in a music style peculiar to a small troubled island nation.
Though I doubt it.
This is *not*, as Joce fears, OBDslash. It is instead Stormslash! As in, Gaelic Storm, the Irish band from "Titanic". (On a side note, they were booked for a cruise in the Caribbean this fall. A cruise...booking the band from Titanic...Strangely, the cruise is sold out.)
For those of you asking, "Why Stormslash?" I answer: "For I have seen the Band known as Gaelic Storm, yea, and they had much stage presence. And indeed, Steve Wehmeyer had glistening biceps and Steve Twigger was in a floral pink shirt, yea, and Patrick Murphy strutted around the stage, exchanging witty banter with He who Played Bodhrán, who is called Steve Wehmeyer. And that is Why."
On a tangent, I saw a band called Téada (pronounced TAY-dah) in which the bodhrán player looked like the actor who played Azrael from "Dogma".
Oh, by the way, even if it is RPS, this is totally, utterly, fictional. Steve Wehmeyer is, actually, married, and now that I read the bio online, has a doctorate in Irish myth and folklore. (And believe me, the are-they-married? issue is one of a very small list of reasons why I haven't written OBDslash yet)
I still argue that Steve Twigger is slashable, though.
And the song about the virtues of bachelorhood is actually a real Gaelic Storm song on their new CD ("How are we getting home?", is the name of the CD, which was released a couple of weeks ago)
All that stated, here is my sin, here to pollute your mind and embarrass the heck out of anyone who stumbles upon it and actually knows who these guys are:
Title: Before the Encore
Rating: PG-13
'Ships: Patrick Murphy+Steve Wehmeyer, dream!Steve Wehmeyer/dream!Steve Twigger
Disclaimer: This fic is not meant to reflect the reality of the people depicted in any way. It is merely for entertainment (and traumatisation) value and should not be taken seriously, either to write Cease And Desist Letters or to physically attack the author. She is not making money off of it, either.
The lighting is bright and the music is loud and the crowd is so wild Patrick can taste their sweat, their enthusiasm, their adoration. It's more intoxicating than all the pints of Guinness he's had during the day.
Steve is enjoying himself, the guitar still singing out at the mic even after half an hour of steady abuse - Steve rides his guitars hard, probably like he'd treat a woman if he ever wanted one - and his whiskey-and-razors voice like smoke, driving the audience quiet to listen to him, to hear every sound that drips off his tongue. His eyes flick over to Patrick, and he smiles into the mic. Patrick sees him; knows he's grinning at Patrick strut-dancing across the stage, making himself eye-candy for the women in the front row.
Stevie is on Patrick's other side, throwing all of himself into that bodhrán like it's not just his soul but better than sex too, swaying and sweating and grinning like the Devil. If Patrick were a praying man - hasn't been, really, since his last girlfriend, but he probably should go this Sunday - he'd cross himself, after seeing that smile.
The song ends, a final beat from Ryan and a note from Steve and Ellery to finish it off, and the show is almost over. Almost- just an encore and they're done, and from the state of Ryan's hands, that's not a bad thing.
They're about to go onstage, amid the roar of applause from the audience, when Tom comes up to them and mutters, "The stage just collapsed, Patrick - your accordion was broken. I'm sorry. Sorry," and stands there for a moment while Patrick tries not to turn around because he can definitely sense Steve and Stevie feeling each other up behind him. And goddamnit but he knows Stevie does it deliberately, either to get him angry or jealous or both but probably the first because Patrick's been good about hiding the latter lately.
Patrick wakes up suddenly, baffled and no litle bit disturbed, and thinks, panicked, of where the accordion is before mostly relaxing. It was just a dream. It's okay. It's fine.
No, it's not fine - the accordion is safe but even if Stevie isn't groping Steve backstage he's still married to the most wonderful woman Patrick's ever met and he hates her for it.
He buries his head in the pillow and starts writing a tune about the virtues of bachelorhood, trying to convince himself it's true or even, failing that, that he believes it.
* * *
, and you wonder why they haven't invented a special sort of reality for me.
*g* Most people write popslash - they slash the guys from the Backstreet Boys or N*sync. I write irish!bandslash. I think I'm the only girl writing irish!bandslash in the universe, although there may be a female-equivalent individual on some planet somewhere else in the galaxy scent-marking into a tree a tale about some ethnic musicians who specialize in a music style peculiar to a small troubled island nation.
Though I doubt it.
This is *not*, as Joce fears, OBDslash. It is instead Stormslash! As in, Gaelic Storm, the Irish band from "Titanic". (On a side note, they were booked for a cruise in the Caribbean this fall. A cruise...booking the band from Titanic...Strangely, the cruise is sold out.)
For those of you asking, "Why Stormslash?" I answer: "For I have seen the Band known as Gaelic Storm, yea, and they had much stage presence. And indeed, Steve Wehmeyer had glistening biceps and Steve Twigger was in a floral pink shirt, yea, and Patrick Murphy strutted around the stage, exchanging witty banter with He who Played Bodhrán, who is called Steve Wehmeyer. And that is Why."
On a tangent, I saw a band called Téada (pronounced TAY-dah) in which the bodhrán player looked like the actor who played Azrael from "Dogma".
Oh, by the way, even if it is RPS, this is totally, utterly, fictional. Steve Wehmeyer is, actually, married, and now that I read the bio online, has a doctorate in Irish myth and folklore. (And believe me, the are-they-married? issue is one of a very small list of reasons why I haven't written OBDslash yet)
I still argue that Steve Twigger is slashable, though.
And the song about the virtues of bachelorhood is actually a real Gaelic Storm song on their new CD ("How are we getting home?", is the name of the CD, which was released a couple of weeks ago)
All that stated, here is my sin, here to pollute your mind and embarrass the heck out of anyone who stumbles upon it and actually knows who these guys are:
Title: Before the Encore
Rating: PG-13
'Ships: Patrick Murphy+Steve Wehmeyer, dream!Steve Wehmeyer/dream!Steve Twigger
Disclaimer: This fic is not meant to reflect the reality of the people depicted in any way. It is merely for entertainment (and traumatisation) value and should not be taken seriously, either to write Cease And Desist Letters or to physically attack the author. She is not making money off of it, either.
The lighting is bright and the music is loud and the crowd is so wild Patrick can taste their sweat, their enthusiasm, their adoration. It's more intoxicating than all the pints of Guinness he's had during the day.
Steve is enjoying himself, the guitar still singing out at the mic even after half an hour of steady abuse - Steve rides his guitars hard, probably like he'd treat a woman if he ever wanted one - and his whiskey-and-razors voice like smoke, driving the audience quiet to listen to him, to hear every sound that drips off his tongue. His eyes flick over to Patrick, and he smiles into the mic. Patrick sees him; knows he's grinning at Patrick strut-dancing across the stage, making himself eye-candy for the women in the front row.
Stevie is on Patrick's other side, throwing all of himself into that bodhrán like it's not just his soul but better than sex too, swaying and sweating and grinning like the Devil. If Patrick were a praying man - hasn't been, really, since his last girlfriend, but he probably should go this Sunday - he'd cross himself, after seeing that smile.
The song ends, a final beat from Ryan and a note from Steve and Ellery to finish it off, and the show is almost over. Almost- just an encore and they're done, and from the state of Ryan's hands, that's not a bad thing.
They're about to go onstage, amid the roar of applause from the audience, when Tom comes up to them and mutters, "The stage just collapsed, Patrick - your accordion was broken. I'm sorry. Sorry," and stands there for a moment while Patrick tries not to turn around because he can definitely sense Steve and Stevie feeling each other up behind him. And goddamnit but he knows Stevie does it deliberately, either to get him angry or jealous or both but probably the first because Patrick's been good about hiding the latter lately.
Patrick wakes up suddenly, baffled and no litle bit disturbed, and thinks, panicked, of where the accordion is before mostly relaxing. It was just a dream. It's okay. It's fine.
No, it's not fine - the accordion is safe but even if Stevie isn't groping Steve backstage he's still married to the most wonderful woman Patrick's ever met and he hates her for it.
He buries his head in the pillow and starts writing a tune about the virtues of bachelorhood, trying to convince himself it's true or even, failing that, that he believes it.
* * *
, and you wonder why they haven't invented a special sort of reality for me.
