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— REGGIE + INSTAGRAM.

Reggie has two accounts on the platform — the profile that he considers to be his personal ( reggiefalvey ) and the joint profile that he shares with his best friend Ralphie ( gobros ). His personal account is mainly comprised of photos of himself along with features from his dog Rocky, and has amassed a significant following thanks to his viral videos on various other platforms. His joint account, on the other hand, is purely biking videos that either he or Ralphie filmed. However, it’s not been utilized in over a year. The last video that he’s featured in that’s been publicly posted is shortly before his accident and he hasn’t touched it since.

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— REGGIE + ROMAN, Aluma Lake’s physical therapy office. / @lcvesnvrlcst.

If anyone’s asking Reggie what he dislikes the most about living at home, his answer is easily the lack of independence. Going from country to country at the drop of a hat to shackled in the small, tourist town he spent his teens in is hard enough, never mind the fact that he feels as though he can’t do anything without his parents’ approval first. In truth, he just finds it to be a bit humiliating — asking permission for his every move like he’s a little kid again, getting carted around town and dropped off at appointment after appointment like it’s his first day of school. Half the time he has to physically stop himself from turning around with an overly dramatic wave once he gets out of the car with his crutches, just for the bit.   He knows, objectively, that it’s not their fault though — they’re just looking out for him however they know how, and they’ve got way too much damn time on their hands to do so — but still, he would appreciate if they stop looking so forlorn when he tells them he’s fine to wait in the lobby by himself. As much as they may believe he’s mentally regressed in the terrible year he’s had, he’s still decidedly not a child. He doesn’t need to be babied.  Besides, it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the physical therapist’s office by any means. With how often he’s been, they’re practically his best friends.   His point’s all but proven as he’s greeted by name when he makes his way to the receptionist’s desk, and he responds in kind with a friendly smile. The interaction’s short and pleasant as he checks in, and he’s told to find a seat before the doctor’s ready for him. He turns around to find a jam-packed lobby, and from here he’s got a choice: he can sit beside a couple on the couch clearly having a hushed argument of sorts underneath their breath, or he can sit on the complete opposite side of them beside—  Roman. He’s paralyzed for a moment in indecision, both options completely undesirable to him for a multitude of reasons, but as someone else says ‘excuse me’ and brushes past to pick their own poison, the choice is taken from him and the seat beside his brother’s old bandmate is the only one left. Great, he thinks to himself — or maybe he’s said it out loud? He can feel the other’s eyes on him regardless as he lowers into the uncomfortably cushioned chair and sucks a breath in through his teeth when his leg feels uncomfortably stiff.

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Resisting the bubbling urge to roll them at her, Reggie’s curious eyes follow the path of Andy’s fork towards the charred slab of meat that’s currently rotting untouched on his plate instead, and it’s horrible — like, really fucking bad — but he wants to laugh as it remains wholly unfazed by the action; there’s not even a scrape mark against the blackened, overly crispy skin to show for it. Undoubtedly her worst dish yet, he definitely isn’t lying about that. Though it’s then that he notices the potatoes, and granted, he can’t be sure how they’re supposed to look in comparison — funnily enough, he never actually finds himself coming to the restaurant all that often when there’s someone on shift who can serve him real, edible food — but he knows for certain it’s wrong. They’re severely undercooked, laden with unidentifiable chunks, far too yellow in color and … slimy, somehow. 

Probably the closest thing to how he imagines alien brain matter looking like. Or perhaps a sentient creature all on its own. Downright abysmal, whatever it is. 

Reggie cringes. What if he stares at it too long and it starts to stare back at him? “Right, yeah,” he replies incredulously. “Because you’ve perfected the, uh — incredibly limited menu you’ve already got, babe.” There’s a moment’s pause before he wags a finger at her and adds, like an afterthought, “But I totally would — eat bugs again, I mean. If that’s a challenge. I’m always down to prove a point.”

As if the likelihood that she’ll take the plate back increases the farther it is away from him, he makes a show of pushing it more towards the middle of the table and sighs. It’s more about the company, he thinks, which is a statement he’s been telling himself as each day passes and each new dish is placed in front of him with the same rancid presentation. There’s no other reason to keep showing up over and over and over again if not for the entertainment of it all, anyway, and the truth is — well. He’s been super fucking bored lately. Like ‘clawing out of his own skin’ levels of boredom. At least coming here, even if it’s bound to get him sick one of these days, is something exciting. At least Andy’s exciting.

On that thought, he wants to laugh again. It’s the perfect answer to the burning question he’s had for weeks — and that’s why her boss hasn’t canned her ages ago for her poor kitchen skills, of course. The feminine wiles or whatever may be entirely lost on him, like she’s said, but excitement? A good little thrill? Entertainment for the masses? That, he gets. As quickly as the realization comes, however, it leaves — he doesn’t want to find any sort of pathway to relate to a man named Dave, much less a sex-blinded man named Dave at that.

“You’re kidding,” he states, leveling Andy with another disbelieving stare. “You’re telling me he hasn’t, like, I don’t know — looked at you properly? How long have you worked here? C’mon.” With a shake of his head, he adjusts in his seat, leans against his elbows on the table. “Anyone within a five mile radius should be able to tell you reek of lesbian. Or, maybe, I guess, disinterest at least — and yet he’s letting you serve goop that my two year old niece can probably cook better all ‘cause he wants to fuck you. That’s vile,” he rambles. Can’t help but admire the deception, though — on Andy’s part. “You ever plan on letting him down?”

The fact that Reggie hasn’t caught on to the fact that Andy’s been progressively worsening the dishes she cooks him delights her, really. To be fair, the first couple of them really were as bad as they’d been — what, is she supposed to be Gordon fucking Ramsey or something? She thinks everyone’s aware of how far her abilities extend at this point, alright — since she does not, in fact, know how to cook things properly. But Reggie’s comments and expressions are far too amusing not to poke at them; so at some point she’d stopped attempting to make anything remotely close to what he’d ordered, and just kind of started throwing things together for the fun of it. See if he’d notice, or if he’d just chalk it up to Andrea’s inability to do, like, anything in the kitchen.

So far, it’s the latter.

Andy tilts her head at the unnamable dish sitting between the two of them, raising an eyebrow at her friend when he mentions preferring bugs over her food. “Maybe we’ll add bugs to the menu,” she smirks. “See you put your money where your mouth is, Falvey.” She reaches a hand toward the dish and pokes at what was once an otherwise okay cut of meat — can’t remember what cut, exactly, doesn’t memorize them, nor does she care to — but would now surely pass regulation standards as a hockey puck for an NHL game.

“What do you mean what was it? It’s what you ordered,” she blinks innocently at him. “The, uh—” Ah, fuck. She hadn’t even cared to read what Reggie had pointed at when he’d ordered, had she? “The — you know,” she gestures aimlessly, trying to think of an item in the menu off the top of her head. “Chicken and waffles,” she decides, then looks back down at the plate, staring at it blankly. The lone hockey puck stares back at her, accompanied by some undercooked mashed potatoes she’d kind of just fucked around with on the stove. “Sans the chicken,” she adds cheerfully. “Or the waffles.” 

How’d they let you serve it? Andy leans back from the table and shrugs her shoulders delicately. “I know my feminine wiles might be lost on you, Reg, but some people know the value of a pretty face.” A pause. “That, and my boss thinks I’m gonna fuck him one of these days,” she grins slyly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Short of a health inspector shutting it down, he’s not gonna do shit. I think he’s convinced himself my food’s experimental.” Dave’s a terrible business owner, clearly. Andy would’ve fired Andy months ago. Then again, it’s not her fault men like him have small, useless sex-fueled brains women like Andy can exploit, is it? 

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SUCCESSION — 1.02 Shit Show at the Fuck Factory

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Jack Falahee Nautica Malibu Triathlon, Zuma Beach, Malibu | September 16, 2018

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TOM HARDY as Eddie Brock in Venom (2018)

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— REGGIE + ANDY, The Yawning Seagull. / @ghcstlies.

Reggie doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed as a ceramic plate is slid haphazardly in front of him, the contents of said plate being nothing but a vaguely shaped puck of ... well, something. In truth, he doesn’t remember what he ordered originally — kind of just pointed at a random item on the restaurant’s limited menu and said ‘sure, give me this one’ — but he knows that what he’s ordered doesn’t matter, not really. Not as long as Andy’s on shift. That’s where the impressed comes in, because if she’s anything his friend’s certainly consistent, equipped with a wicked talent of burning every dish she can get her grubby hands on. And the disgusted? The disgusted comes in because regardless of how impressive it is, he’s still looking at an unidentifiable brick of food with the expectancy to consume it and he’s pretty sure he can feel the potent smoke lifting into his nostrils from its charring. Regardless of how impressive it is, it’s not any less gross. She has to know that, doesn’t she? Almost as if he’s not sure whether he should look at it for too long, either, his deep eyes pan upwards to Andy and he deadpans, “You know, I’ve eaten like ten different types of bugs that’re way more appetizing than this.” Unfortunately, he remembers. One of Ralphie’s more sadistic dares — and he wants to recoil again just thinking about it. “That’s a whole new low, Andy — preferring bugs over your food, fucking hell. Can I ask what it’s even supposed to be in the first place? And how’d they let you serve it, actually? Shouldn’t have ever seen the light of day, this.”

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Landline (2017) dir. Gillian Robespierre

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Sebastian’s always been quite sure he’d never see the day. The one where Phoebe Yates is sitting on the worn-down leather couch in the Happy Sailor’s lobby, browsing through a few of his latest flash sheet designs; the look in her eye’s so serious he can’t simply chalk it up to her being nice, only flipping through them to tell him they look cool and that’s that. No, he knows that she’s not just messing around — and it shouldn’t be such a huge surprise, considering she’s gotten Foster’s handwriting on her thigh with far less convincing, but he’s since come to terms with the fact that her other tattoo was a strange, one-off situation. Not the gateway to more.

He’s not going to complain, though. In fact, he’s never one to complain when his friends want to do weird shit with their bodies — tattoos, piercings, a strange haircut that’ll have everyone turning heads — instead, he’s happy to be the one to do it. To tattoo a silly little animal on Phoebe’s arm, or whatever she wants wherever she wants it.

“That one’s sick,” he replies easily, because he knows that it is. He’s designed it, after all, so he doesn’t even need to look at it to tell. “I was thinkin’ about getting that cat on a skateboard next to my frog — y’know, have like a whole skateboarding crew on my legs.”

His entire body practically lights up as Phoebe suggests matching, which is another thing that he never would’ve thought her to be interested in, and nods excitedly. “Dude! Are you kidding? I don’t give a fuck, man, you can tattoo me right now! It’s not that hard, anyway, and like — who cares if it’s shit! It’ll be matching, so it’ll automatically be dope,” he rambles, “I mean, yours won’t be shit, ’cause I’m doing it, but you get what I’m sayin’ — ooooh, can we have matching cats on skateboards?!”

𝔰𝔢𝔟 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔟𝔢 — 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔬𝔯 ( @hiracths )

"What about this one?" Phoebe's finger delicately raps on the laminated page of the flash sheet she has been spending the last twenty minutes studying, sat crossed legged on the worn sofa in the waiting area. "That one's kinda cute."

It was a rare occurence that Phoebe would let Seb tattoo her. But of all the artists at the Happy Sailor, she was the one she trusted the most; most likely due to the childhood trauma of it all bonded them for life. Maybe she wouldn't get it done today — perhaps needing to talk to Foster following the last time she permanently inked something to her skin — but it was nice to look at options. "Ooh, maybe we can do a matching one! Would you ever let me tattoo you? I could practise on an orange first!"

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AVAN JOGIA for grumpy magazine

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THE MUSKETEERS 1.02 “Sleight of Hand”

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— REGGIE + BERTIE, Aluma Lake Transport Ferry Boat. / @abstrvctsouls.

Surprisingly enough, it’s not the first time that Reggie’s stood front row on the Aluma Lake ferry boat — and not the first time he’s stood front row on the Aluma Lake ferry boat tour, either. In fact, it’s more like his fifth or sixth time, and he thinks that it’s certainly not going to be his last as he meticulously slides just a few feet along the railing to his left until he’s exactly beside Bertie, who’s mid-monologue about the long-standing history of Aluma Lake’s ferry transportation service or something like that. Reggie’s not really listening. Hasn’t been for the last ten minutes, or fifteen, or thirty; Bertie can very well be telling everyone what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning and he’s none the wiser, actually.

It doesn’t stop him from leaning over ever so slightly into the guide’s personal bubble, asking — or shouting, really, above the sound of the water crashing against the side of the ferry, “Can you repeat that last bit? ’Bout the boats? Sorry,” he grins, “I think I missed it.”

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— REGGIE + PHOEBE, MOREMUSIC Studio. / @lcvesnvrlcst.

“A quick ten minutes doesn’t mean shit these days, does it?” Go figure, it’s Reggie’s first instinct to whine as the door to his brother’s office cracks open — and really, he thinks, Elijah should be lucky he’s spared him the courtesy of waiting; a passive eye on the clock tells him he’s been twiddling his thumbs in here for far longer than that, bored out of his mind with nothing to entertain himself with except a lonely Rubik’s cube that he’s fished out of the back desk drawer. This predicament wouldn’t have been so inconvenient had he not misplaced his phone, but ... well, he’s got no idea where it’s at. Probably at the bottom of the lake somewhere, if he has to guess. Serves you right for losing it, he can almost hear the elder man’s quick-witted quip, and he preemptively scoffs. Both because he’s anticipating the next sequence of words that always inevitably follow — you know, you’d have something else to do if you could keep track of it — and because he sounds ridiculously similar to Mum as he’s saying them.

Except, the statement never comes, and he tears his eyes away from the multicolored puzzle to find Phoebe’s standing at the threshold instead — which would be disappointing, if it were anyone else but her. No, because it’s her, he perks up a little and the corners of his lips lift upwards into a pleasant smile; the annoyance he’d felt no more than three seconds ago clearly’s been airlifted from his body, and he concludes almost immediately that this is much better than seeing his tardy brother anyway.

“Phoebe!” he exclaims happily from his position behind the desk, comfortably sinking into the rolling chair. “What the hell? I had no idea you were supposed to show up today — I mean, leave it to EJ not to tell me anything, right?” The irony of the statement predictably flies way above Reggie’s head and he continues, still slightly shocked by her unexpected presence. “Man, I would’ve been much happier about passing the time in here if I’d have known — it’s so boring. But I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages! How’ve you been? How’s the wife, the kids, y’know — all that?”

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Don’t you get it? I only feel alive if someone chooses me.

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"maybe the problem is you" oh the problem is definitely me, next question