good vibrations.

patrick mcguinn. 25. reporter. picker. grinner. lover. sinner. playing my music in the sun.

[emiliaxtorres-blog]

Truthfully, she’d hardly expected him to say yes. 

“Really? Alright, thanks.” She quipped, shock clear in her tone as she sunk back into the seat, pulling her legs up criss-cross style as she angled herself to take the stranger in. Immediately she noticed how well he was dressed, his shirt and suit jacket so pressed she was sure he ironed it four times before stepping out the door. Must be important. Pulling herself back into reality, Emilia turned her face back to his before replying. “It’s that restaurant, Pedler, out on Peckham.” 

Silent for a moment, Emilia returned to studying him, eyes openly taking him in pensively. “I apologize in advance for the assumption but it seems like you’re out for a special occasion, because if you’re in a hurry and Pedler is on the other side of where you need to be I can hop out.” She offered, arching an eyebrow at the stranger. 

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

“Pedler,” he repeated. Pedler out on Peckham. Peckham was close to Vanbrugh Park, wasn’t it? That was fine. He’d be fine. He leaned back into his seat, shaking his head and batting a hand to demonstrate just how fine it was. “Don’t even worry about it, it’s just a stop along the way. I’m actually just on my way to an interview with some guy who started a pet glasses business, so.”

Pretending to check his phone for a text, he took it upon himself to google the distance between Pedler and the small cafe he was headed to. Thirteen minutes, without traffic. Thirteen minutes was pushing it, but it wasn’t terrible. Content with that little bit of closure, Patrick glanced around the cab before offering a casual look in her direction. “What about you? You meeting up with anyone or just grabbing some grub?” 

[kristamurdock-deactivated201608]

“You know, there was a sign - one I completely ignored. Those power sticks, they littered the clearance shelves for months before I took off. Coulda made a killing.” Snapping a finger in defeat before chuckling once more, Channing took in a deep breath of air - air that was less stale, in a way she wasn’t sure made any sense. The embrace of change, the letting go of what could have beens. “Hey, that’s cool though. Makes me feel a little less… new. I’ve only ever lived in one place my entire life. I mean, if you can do it, why can’t I?”

A moment in which it was more as if she was speaking to herself than to him directly, upon the realization, she flashed a genuine smile his way, laughing in spite of herself. “Sorry, but yeah. I’m pretty good at Uno, so I might just make it after all. And Scrabble, albeit only for special occasions. I’ve gotta ask though…” trailing off, she drew in a little closer to him, casting her gaze downwards and then back up again. Feigning seriousness as best she could, she’d whisper with a glance over her shoulder to ‘ensure’ no one was listening, “What’s so naughty about go fish?”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

“Ouch. What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick placed a hand over his heart for effect, gaze feigning offense. But he understood. Or at least, he thought he understood her sentiment pretty well. If a guy like him, who’d only moved out of his hometown to attend college and lived and breathed American football, could make such a big culture jump---why couldn’t anybody? Maybe that was his big success story he’d sell to the publishing companies when he became the next Anderson Cooper: ‘The little fish who got swept up into an ocean.’

At some point in their conversation, he found himself leaning backwards against the railing, focusing more on the important matters at hand and less on the disappearing river cruise. “Well, it’s a gamble,” he murmured, closing some of the distance and crossing his arms over his chest as he leant in. “Everyone knows that go fish is the gateway game to gambling, you ask for a seven of diamonds one second and the next you’re playing slot machines and betting dead pools. It’s a trap.”

[sulphurmockblog-blog]

Not my fault | Cassie & Patrick

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

cassiopeiaxtwrp:

Splashing her face with cold water one more time, Cassie couldn’t believe what just happened awhile ago. Her supervisor was angry for the report that they had submitted. Apparently, not only was the content of their article inadequate, the company that they had covered had the nerve to complain about it too. Cassiopeia honestly thought that this had nothing to do with performance, but rather with her recently just assigned partner in the project. Usually, her performance was exceptional, now after being read to her several times–it sounded almost too stupid. If not, it could have left her ears and brain bleeding.

Cassiopeia stared at the stressed blue eyed girl staring right back at her. It’s alright, she told herself. This was nothing but a fluke. Maybe her supervisor read it wrong, or maybe it was another person’s article. It could be possible that someone had secretly covered the company’s opening program and switched their papers. That seemed believable, right? The idea made Cassie want to weep into tears. She was supposed to be moving up, not down.

Two girls then decided to disrupt her silent ‘reverie’ in the bathroom by starting with a mindless chitchat that incidentally made her blood boil again. “Did you hear about Cavanaugh’s paper? I hear Mr. Faulkner threw it in the garbage,” the first girl urgently whispered as she turned towards the mirror to fix her strawberry blonde locks. “Because it was garbage, I read it myself,” the pixie haired girl, whom Cassie knew as Bethany, responded in an equal quiet manner.

Clearing her throat, Cassie turned to stare at the girls. In her opinion, strawberry blonde’s hair looked rather stiff as if it were coated with glue instead of hair spray, and Bethany’s nail polish was starting to chip off like the last shred of patience Cassiopeia had. The two girls stiffened when they laid their eyes at her. “Yeah, of course he would–but then it was on top the countless of proposals the two of you have been submitting for two months,” Cassiopeia nonchalantly filled in. “What was it? A proposal for raise, you say?” she scoffed. “Maybe in ten more years, when you’ve actually developed some talent in this industry.”

Having her tiny victory, she marched out of the stall with a flick of her hair to look for Patrick. She needed to  let some steam out or else she’ll go crazy. When she found him, in his block, doing whatever he was doing, she tapped on his shoulder rather harshly. A small glimpse of the mountain of papers on his table had her steal a glimpse on hers too, which was inconveniently next to his cell. There were still papers that needed to be finished, but before that–she had to qualify a few things, or else she’ll be distracted the entire day.  “A word,” she barked.

@patrickmcguinn

One of the few things Patrick had been sure of since college: he was naturally gifted at the art of communication. Not to blow his own horn or anything, though he so often did, but people skills? They were something he was practically born with. Conversation came so easy to him, persuasion was so easy---making shit up on the spot to convince others to join his side was a total breeze. Sure, people were always making fun of communication majors, and sure, being a sales rep hadn’t been the most optimal place to jumpstart his career, but he was getting somewhere. And wasn’t that all that really mattered?

If there was any buzz about a shitty article, it hadn’t gotten to him yet. He’d been glued to his desk all day, making calls and working on an article about the recent dip in the stocks for some insurance company. Business talk, it seemed, followed him everywhere. Even when he’d practically moved across the Atlantic Ocean just to get away from it. It wasn’t any problem for him, though. It was what he knew best, which meant less flowery wording to pull out of his ass and more getting straight to the point. Patrick only hoped that his superiors thought that to be much of a good thing as he did.

A tap on his shoulder had Patrick pausing in the middle of a conversation with a pretty incompetent PR rep, covering the receiver with his hand as he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, hey,” he said casually. “Can it wait? I’m kinda in the middle of something. Not that I wouldn’t love to stop, but you know how it is.”

[lisbon]

[romyleung]

What the fuck? Out of all of the reactions she might have expected to the statement, that was hardly one of them. Alina blinked slowly and stopped drinking, turning to give the man an incredulous look. “Do I look like a college student to you, love?”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

His playful smirk dimming to a rather blank look, Patrick shook his head and gave a half-hearted shrug in response. “No.” Just someone who doesn’t understand sarcasm. He retreated back into the comfort of sipping at his beer, letting silence fall between them until the awkwardness subsided. Which didn’t seem to be happening any time soon. “---I just meant that politicians are never really the smartest people. I mean, you could think the earth is flat and still be elected to office if you’re convincing enough with your tax policies.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

nicolaudeleon:

Forty. He wasn’t far off. Nicolau was actually thirty-seven– which, yes, was basically forty, but he’d stopped rounding up his age by the time he hit twenty-six. It was funny. He spent his years as a young adult trying to convince his buyers that he was older; now he wasn’t sure where the time had gone. Though he’d never admit it aloud, he feared death. There was a point in his life where the entire concept seemed impossible, but he was not so naïve anymore. 

Nicolau looked back at his drink once more. He was tempted to finish it. He’d even picked it up– but thinking about death at a bar was a dangerous move, and not one he would allow himself to make. He set the glass back down with a satisfying thud and turned his attention back to the boy beside him. “Close enough,” he concluded. There was a slight smile as he spoke. “You’re, what? Twenty-five? Plenty of time for you to get bitter.”

“Twenty-five,” Patrick confirmed. He was surprised the guy didn’t go lower, honestly, but he wasn’t ungrateful. It was about time someone guess his age right. “Look on the bright side, you’re not as old as you think you are. Your eyesight still works fine.”

For someone with a relatively easy life thus far, Patrick was already bitter and disillusioned, so time wasn’t exactly an obstacle standing in his way. He believed that could be reversed, though. And since this guy had a lot less time than he did, Pat figured it was only fitting he enjoy himself instead of moping around in a quiet bar about how old he was and how crazy his mom made him. “You know what you should do, you should go clubbing. Right now. It’d be an ego boost if nothing else, women really dig the whole mature, rugged thing.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

scrumwithblake:

In his head, it was supposed to be a bit smoother. Just grab a bench, eat the sandwich he’d bought in the shop just down the way, enjoy a bit of sunshine during his lunch break. Blake rarely got to eat lunch outside his office, so he was going to make the most of it. Except nearly everyone in London had the same idea, and the tiny park was packed. Sighing, Blake searched for an empty patch of ground and settled down, hoping that the mostly dry grass wouldn’t stain his khakis.

Empty was a bit of an understatement. As he opened his bag, Blake’s elbow bumped someone’s back. “Oh! Sorry about that. Not a ton of room.”

It was almost amazing how few of his coworkers actually stayed inside for lunch. Back home, people were usually glued to their seats in a tiny break room for the half hour they were allowed a rest period. In a beautiful city like London, however, Patrick supposed it wasn’t too surprising people would rather spend their hour outdoors. Reserving himself a small spot in the shade, he found the time to catch up on some leisure reading (which an issue of Men’s Health absolutely counted as) over a fish wrap. 

When he felt someone bump his back, he turned his head with slightly raised brows, an expression that quickly resolved into a casual smile. “No worries, man,” he replied. Then, squinting: “You don’t happen to work for The Independent, do you?” Pat could’ve sworn he’d seen the guy’s face in passing, before.

[emiliaxtorres-blog]

Slipping out of the coffee shop, Emilia tightened the belt of her coat as her arms moved around her waist, a grimace creeping onto her lips as she looked out into the rain. It was as if she hadn’t felt the sun in centuries, a permanent chill finding a home between her bones. London was the last place Emilia had imagined herself settling. She could only hope it wasn’t permanent. After all, she’d learned few things were. With a sigh, she ran into the rain, arm out for a cab that had just pulled to the curb. 

Sliding in without a thought, Emilia barked her address to the driver before leaning back in the seat, her eyes finally landing on the figure beside her. “Oh shit, do you mind sharing?” 

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

One of the most inconveniencing things about London, so far, was Patrick’s complete and total lack of personal transportation. Commuting to work in Denver had been boring, sure, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy driving his own car—his all-black, 2000 Camry Solara he’d bought with two years’ worth of paychecks when he was eighteen. Call him overly sentimental, but parting with it had been a tough process. Now taking the Tube was a daily part of his routine until he could set aside the time to learn how to drive on the opposite side of everything.

Not wanting to risk being late for an interview, however, he decided to fork up the money for a cab today. Go him. Patrick had been in the middle of adjusting his tie when the sudden appearance of company left him frozen with stupefaction. He didn’t have the time for this, but would he end up making the time? Probably. “—Nope. Not at all. Where did you say you were headed, again?”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

edenruocco:

Eden clicked her tongue before shifting and sitting down in one of the chairs she had been poised by. “I’m sure your fake ID says otherwise,” Eden responded. Whether or not that was true was another question. He did look young but he wasn’t acting like the obvious fake ID holders.

She grinned as he asked if she wanted a drink. “Baby, if you’re paying, I’d love one.” To be honest she was feeling another round as well. She leaned back as well, mimicking his relaxed pose though she crossed her legs. The action caused her skirt to hitch up a little higher in a way she was certainly aware of and she hoped he noticed as well.

Patrick liked to believe he was raised to be a decent, respectful guy. Did that mean he couldn’t have his weak moments? Absolutely not. And in this case, it was only a split-second of letting his gaze fall to places it probably shouldn’t when acquainting oneself with a woman for the first time. Just a split-second of time before he was glancing back up and sitting up straighter in his seat. That was it. “I take it you’re not a cosmopolitan kind of gal? Not that there’d be anything wrong with that. I’m personally a fan of fruity cocktails, myself.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

nicolaudeleon:

“That wouldn’t just drive her mad,” Nicolau said pointedly, “that would kill her.” He glanced between his companion and the half-empty glass of whiskey on the counter in front of him and laughed aloud. He had painted himself into a rather dramatic scene. “I can only imagine how much of a bitter, old man I look to you. I can assure you I’m not usually so…” He struggled with an appropriate adjective. “…sentimental.”

“Maybe you should go for ‘temporarily impair’, then.” Patrick supposed he could relate with his dilemma on some level. His mother wasn’t exactly thrilled when he broke the news to her that he’d be moving overseas in little more than a few months via text message, but that was life. Or at least, that was his life. The fast-paced, no questions life he wanted to live. Shrugging, he mustered up a friendly smile. “No worries, man. If it makes you feel any better, the ‘old man’ thing looks like it’s going pretty well for you, I’d peg you as a soft forty at the most.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

michaelosburn:

Michael gives a slow blink as he perches his chin on his hand, trying not to sigh too deeply at the guy’s very serious predicament about pants versus trousers. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael replies without sounding the least bit genuine. “A for a good pair of trousers, I can’t really help you there; I hardly hop for any clothes. But there are a fair amount of malls if you just go into the busier parts of the city.” 

“See, Michael, the thing is---I’m not a mall type of guy. I’m used to just running into a department store and getting things done, there’s no time for foolin’ around when appearance is on the line.” And he can’t help but press his lips into a tight line to keep a smile from breaking through, because does he really give a shit? Nah. 

Leaning back slightly with his hands braced against the counter, he examines the other’s aloof demeanor with scrutiny. He’s at that point in the evening where alcohol starts to make poor decisions for him and what little filter he has disintegrates with the water vapor billowing from his mouth. “Do you ever have...fun.” It’s really more of a doubtful observation than a question.

[raresraresrares]

[kristamurdock-deactivated201608]

“Hey, you never know. Wouldn’t want something like that on my conscience – if I’m being honest.” Channing actually felt herself appreciating the concern. She had an entirely new life to build here, virtually from scratch; while she used to roll her eyes at those high school, D.A.R.E. induced speeches that never failed to mention the “power of a smile,” she finally got it.

“I’ve been here a whomping total of one time prior to this, and that was maybe a month ago.”  Laughing, softly, in spite of herself, she reeled herself back in after glancing him over, catching the added disbelief. As if she needed another reminder of how crazy it was. Or maybe it wasn’t even all that crazy, just her dramatics kicking in. His sarcasm met with a genuine laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as it faded out. “You would be the first actually. I mean, how progressive of them in the whole conserving energy thing. I take it there’s fines for contraband at that point, a whole black market of power sticks.” she played along, letting out a sigh that’d ease herself. “I knew I should have paid more attention during that field trip to Amish country. What does one do for fun when the lights go out?”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

A whomping total of one time was one time more than Patrick had even been overseas before coming over, so in some ways she was already off to a good start. Aside from the whole ‘getting mistaken for a jumper’ thing. That’d probably have to stop. Or he’d have to stop mistaking people for jumpers. One or the other. He snorted, all the anxiety he’d built up over the course of the past few hours draining out of his system with a breathy laugh. “Oh, it’s bad. I’ve only been here a couple months and I’ve been stopped by guys trying to get me to buy a generator almost every night.”

He pretended to think for a moment, lips pursed as he trained his gaze on a river cruise coasting alongside the citywalk. “Well, there’s...card games,” he offered, brows raising at the suggestion. “Uno. Not poker or go fish, those are too inappropriate. Sometimes I find myself reading mystery novels to get me through the night. Then there’s also, you know. The obvious.” Pausing for dramatic effect, he attempted a very serious, very pensive Hugh Jackman-esque stare. “Scrabble.”

[hangingyang]

“Wonderfully noted,” he said. “It is." 

"I’ve never been to America, but it seems like an unfortunate place to be.” That is, he’d never been to America for more than connection flights and things just as mundane; know the country? No, he’d never gotten the chance. The places he knew besides London and where he’d been born were limited to warzones, but those were hardly tourist friendly. “The only thing I know from America are the women, and so far they’ve let me down.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

“Just about as unfortunate as any imbalanced democracy,” muttered Patrick in response. But he wouldn’t go into politics over drinks. If there was any surefire way to kill a buzz, that was it. Unfortunately, Hans didn’t exactly have a way of moving the conversation in a more positive direction. That much became apparent as Pat’s mouth twisted into an awkward sort of smile, gaze focused on the bar top for a few moments before he could reply. “Really, only the women? Not hip hop or...shit, hot dogs?”

[kristamurdock-deactivated201608]

“Just having one of those, holy shit I actually moved to London moments.” Channing answered almost automatically. She’d spent every last year of her life living in the very same city that she grew up in. If anything, being some place new like this was scary. Upon the realization that she just wasn’t finding happiness back in the Big Apple, she took off virtually as soon as the offer was placed before her – only now finally taking a moment to digest it.

“Vegetarian sharks though? No kidding.” drawing her attention to look up at the voice’s speaker, she flashed him a weak smile as she stood upright. His accent, or lack thereof (Was it only not considered an accent because it was what she was used to hearing?) was enough to clue her in on the fact that he wasn’t a London native himself. “It’s like even American sharks get a harsher, more violent rep. Jaws really was a true American shark.”

With a sigh, and an attempt at lightening up the tone, Channing threw her head back, chuckling as she looked back out at the water. “My mom would laugh her ass off if she saw me right now. My first night as a ‘Londoner’ and I’ve been mistaken for a bridge jumper.” While the subject was dark, indeed, her laugh still hung in the air, gripping onto the railing as she leaned herself back.

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

“Hey, I mean, no judgement---just better to be safe than sorry.” Patrick couldn’t put his finger on what it was: perhaps it was the American accent, perhaps it was the fact that he wasn’t encroaching on a suicide attempt, but an immediate wave of relief washed over him. There was a strange sort of comfort that seemed to arise with the knowledge that he wasn’t the only person lost in such a big, foreign pond. 

Pursing his lips and feigning nonchalance, he leaned against the railing, taking in the city from its finest point of view. Quiet. Across the water. Undisturbed. When he came to think of it, he hadn’t seen it this way before---in a way, it was a first for him, as well. Go figure. “Really. Your first night ever?” He asked, offering a chuckle of his own as he surveyed her in disbelief. “So I assume someone’s already told you about the no-electricity-after-eleven law already, then? They shut everything off. Came as a surprise to me, too, but...you eventually get used to the candlelight.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

soldatstarke:

“As long as you don’t go ahead and start speaking in a bad English accent, I think they should get to you in an hour or two." 

Hans was typically one to hold back introductions; have his fun, and part as strangers. Names were just details he didn’t care to remember. "Hans Starke,” he offered back, mostly out of obligation. “Not a tourist also.” Of course, there was his accent, which might lead one to think otherwise; but compared to an American’s, it blended in much more smoothly amongst the crowd. 

“Mm. Is that German, Hans?” He’d been trying to place a finger on the accent, knew it had to be either German or Russian. When his drink finally came around (in under a couple minutes, look at that), Patrick raised the glass in silent gratitude before bringing the rim to his lips. “You know something, Hans? It’s like some of the nicest bars in America are the lowest standard set for English pubs. I’ve yet to see one place since coming here with a flat screen or a pool table and to be honest, I’m really digging it.”

[patrickmcguinn-blog]

edenruocco:

There was nothing that Eden could do to stop herself from chuckling. “It’s the Castillo Club, baby. Did your fake ID get you past the door?” The young man looked so dazed and confused that she wasn’t even sure that telling him where he was standing would be helpful. He also looked so clean shaven that she wasn’t sure he’d ever grown anything on his face.

It wasn’t entirely a bad look, just not one that would even chat Eden’s attention if he hadn’t been staring at her. “You a’right?”

“Wait, do I really look under eighteen to you?” It wasn’t so much an accusation as it was an intrigued question, the hint of a smile playing up at the corners of his mouth. People always did tell him he had a very youthful set of genes. Sitting back in his chair, Pat tried the word out on his tongue. Callisto. Cal-lis-to. There was something so theatrical about that name, so mysterious; reminded him of heavy cologne and sharp stiletto heels, the taste of mid-shelf liquor lingering on the tip of his tongue.

He shook his head slowly, shrugging his shoulders a little when he came back to his senses. “I’m fine. I’m great, I’m just here. Existing. You want a drink or something? I’m feeling another round.”