#the slide || montrose pretty

[abracaxfuckxyou]

@dreamsofalife

“Oh, good. You’re finally waking up,” Montrose said, tilting his head to the side with a smile. His mask was nowhere in sight and the aperture that housed the prism for it was missing from his person as well. It wasn’t certain if Hank had the same control over hard light that Emerich possessed. If that was the case, better safe than sorry. It was prudent to keep in control of his own actions in this delicate affair.

“Now, Mr. Hart, you have made an insurmountable transgression against me and mine. And for that I’d like to have a little pay back. It only seems fair,” he said, his smile turning sinister.

[orchidsncrake]

you bring some heaven to my wicked land

pairing: joe goldberg/rhys montrose

rating: explicit

tags: Rhys is real, established relationship, pwp, porn with feelings, anal sex, riding, choking, finger sucking, praise kink dom/sub undertones

word count: 2,063

ao3 link and fic under the break :)

“You look so pretty like this, you know that?” Rhys whispers. Joe blinks down at him, eyes blank and glossy. Rhys grins, using his free hand to trace over Joe’s lips, his cheeks, and down the slope of his nose. He presses his first two fingers to Joe’s bottom lip and squeezes his other hand, trying to bring his thumb to his pinky. Joe’s mouth drops open, his eyes half-lidded, Rhys’ thumb pressing into his carotid.

“That feel good, love?” Rhys asks, sliding his fingers into Joe’s mouth. Joe, for his part, moans shakily, the sound half-wrung out of him by Rhys’ hand. Joe’s hips writhe, grinding down. Joe’s insides flutter, making Rhys groan, pressing down firmer on Joe’s tongue. Saliva wells up and spills over, clinging to Joe’s beard like dew.

“Tell me how good you feel, Joe,” Rhys murmurs. He loosens his grip but keeps his hand in place, Joe’s head forced back by the fingers digging into his jaw. Joe groans and grinds, earning himself a sharp slap to his hip.

“It’s good,” Joe slurs dumbly, tongue darting out to catch the saliva clinging to his lips. He only succeeds in pushing it over.

“Yeah? You’re making a bit of a mess,” Rhys chuckles. With the hand holding Joe upright by the throat, he swipes his thumb over Joe’s lips. He smears the saliva over his cheek and into his beard. Then, Rhys drops his wetted hand to Joe’s hip, digging his fingers in possessively. Using it as a vantage, he hauls Joe’s hips forward, fucking up at the same time. Joe moans, his lithe body stretching above Rhys. The thin layer of sweater covering him makes him shine, the moonlight pouring through the penthouse windows catching the sheen. Rhys watches the wings of Joe’s pelvis roll as he builds up a rhythm, searching desperately for the right angle. Joe’s body stiffens as Rhys flexes his hand.

“Rhys–” Joe chokes out, hands scrambling on Rhys’ chest. They’d kicked the blankets to the floor an hour ago, and now they’re left in a nest of tangled silk. Rhys gasps as adrenaline surges through him, Joe’s throat spasming in his hand. Rhys’ mouth drops open, and then clamps shut, teeth bared.

“So beautiful, Joseph. Such a fucking pretty boy, aren’t you? And just for me, yeah?” Rhys breathes. “Fuck,” Joe gasps when Rhys loosens his grip for a moment. The breath he sucks in must burn, too much and desperate. Joe brings his head forward, his eyes as wild as his curls. Rhys chokes him again to watch Joe’s face contort in instinctive panic, then releases, glee thrumming through him. He’s hardly able to contain himself, and he moves his hand from Joe’s hip to run over his abdomen, touching him simply because he can. Joe’s abs jump under his hand, responsive as ever. 

“Touch yourself for me, darling.” Joe cocks his head. “Your tits, baby. C’mon,” Rhys clarifies, returning his hand to Joe’s hip. It fits perfectly, meant to be there. Joe blushes, the throttled flush deepening to almost scarlet. He slowly, shyly, brings one hand to his chest, keeping the other on Rhys’ for stability. Joe bites his lips, hesitant, and Rhys nods reassuringly, whispering to him how beautiful he is. Joe palms his chest, rubbing his middle and ring fingers over his nipple.

“Do it how you like it,” Rhys instructs. Then, more gently, “It’s just me, Joe.”

Joe swallows, and Rhys feels his Adam’s apple bob against his palm. Joe pinches his nipple roughly, and he stiffens at the pain, spine going ramrod straight. It tightens him around Rhys, who bites out a swear but forces his eyes open. Joe nods, more confident, and Rhys cuts off his breathing again. Joe gapes and watches him, their eyes locked as blood rushes to Joe’s cheeks. Rhys watches, transfixed, almost absentmindedly directing Joe’s hips. Only when Joe’s eyes unfocus and he begins to go limp does Rhys release, the other’s eyes flying open and heaving in a gasping breath. Rhys shushes him, sliding his hand to the side of Joe’s neck to toy with a curl at his nape.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Rhys says softly, letting Joe feel his voice vibrate in his chest where the other’s hand rests. Rhys caresses Joe’s face with the back of his hand. “You gettin’ a little spacey, sweetheart?” Joe nods, licking his lips slowly.

“I can give you my fingers, darling,” Rhys offers, “but you’d have to ride me yourself. Do you think you can do that?” Joe whines but nods, dropping his mouth open. Rhys smiles and slides his thumb home, resting it firmly on Joe’s tongue.

“Atta boy,” he praises, making Joe sag a bit. “Ah-ah, you’ve gotta keep yourself moving now, alright? That was the deal,” Rhys says, enjoying far too much the blank, desperate look Joe gives him. Rhys jerks his chin up, a silent get on with it, and Joe huffs. The other’s tongue writhes under Rhys’ finger, not sucking, just enjoying the presence. Rhys exhales slowly when Joe starts rocking his hips, slowly at first and then greedier. Joe’s hand starts moving on his chest again, plucking his nipple and digging his nails into his pec. Rhys drops his head to the pillow, his hair mussed. The wall opposite the bed is almost entirely window, framing Joe’s writhing figure against the night sky. An aviation tower blinks red to the left of Joe’s silhouette, and the moon shines to his right. Joe’s curls bounce as he works himself into a frenzy, his moans ranging from deep and low to strangled depending on Rhys’ grip. It’s invigorating; Joe is on his lap like an instrument, and only he gets to play. The noises, loud or quiet, shy or shameless, all his all the same. No one else’s ever again. No one else in the entire city, not one lit window outside the penthouse, will ever have his Joe. Rhys considers fucking Joe against the window next time in the dead of night, watching his desperate moans fog up the class. They’re so high above the city that no one could see them if they tried, but Rhys would know.

“Rhys,” Joe whines desperately, bringing Rhys to the present. Tears had sprung into his eyes, and panic seizes Rhys.

“Fuck, baby, did I hurt you?” Rhys asks frantically, sitting up. Mindlessly, he holds Joe by the ass to keep him close, tearing his thumb from Joe’s mouth. Joe coughs out a shocked moan at the movement, his hand leaving his chest to take Rhys by the hair. The hand around Joe’s throat moves to his face, wiping under his eyes and pressing his cheeks, looking for damage.

“No, no,” Joe stammers, sounding choked. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” Rhys asks breathily, still unconvinced. “I’m alright,” Joe promises. He presses Rhys’ face to his chest, holding him there as he starts working his hips again. Rhys moans and cups the back of Joe’s head, his other hand digging into the flesh of Joe’s ass.

“Why’re you crying?” Rhys asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with Joe. He kisses Joe’s shoulder, then collarbone, then across his chest. Joe sniffs, and Rhys tangles his fingers into the other’s hair, pulling his face back to look at him. He stares up at Joe, eyes wide, and Joe leans down to kiss him. They both tilt left and end up smashing their noses together, but the pain only riles them up. Hands grasp at each other, trying to get impossibly closer, become more part of each other than they already are.

“It’s good,” Joe admits sheepishly. Rhys sighs in relief, licking over Joe’s collar and dipping his tongue into the crevice, tasting sweat. His sigh bubbles into laughter, a bit hysteric. He dips his head, neck bent uncomfortably, to lick Joe’s nipple. When he gets a gasping moan in response, he points his tongue to circle it, and then nips him.

“Rhys, fuck!” Joe hisses, tugging his hair and pushing him closer. Rhys smiles against his chest, canines pricking his pec as he switches between licking and biting. Once Joe starts squirming from oversensitivity, he switches to the other, giving it the same care.

“You’re fucking incredible, Joe,” Rhys breathes hotly, licking between Joe’s pecs. He gets salt.

“You too,” the other pants, more verbal as oxygen returns to his brain. Rhys smacks his ass playfully, gently, and Joe bucks against him. Rhys puts his right hand behind him for purchase, his left wrapped around Joe’s back and pinning him to him. Joe’s cock slides against Rhys’ abdomen, and when he leans back against his hand, he can see the tip is flushed red.

“Touch yourself for me,” Rhys says, kissing Joe’s exposed throat, the other’s head thrown back. Joe’s responding groan vibrates against his lips, leaving them almost numb. Joe nods and reaches forward to take himself in his hand despite his thighs beginning to shake. Rhys watches the tip disappear into his fist and reappear, and he spits down into Joe’s fist. Joe’s eyes fly open, and his head jerks up to look at Rhys, bewildered, but Rhys only grins at him. Joe’s mouth drops open, and he slides his thumb over the head, letting it slick his hand. Joe surges towards him, and Rhys’s hand shoots up to accept him, catching him by the crown. Without his support, Rhys falls backward, landing on the sheets with a soft whump.

“There you go, atta boy,” Rhys pants, squirming on the mattress when his back sticks uncomfortably. Joe leans over him, one hand digging its nails into his pec and the other jacking him off. Rhys rakes his nails down Joe’s thigh, then returns to his throat. Joe tips his head back readily, welcoming the control.

“You think one more time’ll do you in?” Joe looks down at him pleadingly, his eyes glassy again. Rhys takes it for an answer, curling his hand around Joe’s throat again. He fits his fingers to the pink spots that will bruise by morning. Joe will be trapped in turtlenecks for a week. Joe pushes forward into Rhys’ hand, his hips slowing to a grind. Rhys draws his fingers together, and Joe keeps pressing, a hissing whine escaping his throat. Tighter and tighter until he’s almost throttling Joe, but blinding arousal pushes any fear aside as Joe starts to pant, puffing out desperate little noises as he quickens his bouncing, trying to get Rhys impossibly deeper. Rhys is not in charge for a glorious moment, and he lies prone beneath the other, gasping stupidly. Joe throws his head back, clipped little yelps tearing free of him, his hair a dark halo around him in the moonlight. Rhys’ face hurts from how it’s contorting, screwed up in too-sharp pleasure.

Joe stiffens and shouts, seizing above him. He sways forward, and Rhys relaxes his hand and sits up, giving Joe something to fall into. Joe’s cock spurts between them, making a mess of Rhys’ chest as his eyes roll back, euphoria prolonged by the rush of oxygen. Joe convulses, then sags forward, pressing them flush together. It’s too hot and disgustingly sticky, and Rhys holds Joe against him, murmuring and kissing his shoulders. Joe gasps, then moans pathetically, clinging to Rhys, who keeps pulling him closer. Rhys moans desperately, a shaky, embarrassing noise he would never make voluntarily, and clenches his eyes shut. The darkness blotches, and he comes, groaning in relief as the tension leaves him. One arm is still wrapped around Joe’s back, and he falls back to the sheets, nerves still raw with the aftershocks. Joe groans above him, sounding on the verge of discomfort, and Rhys shushes him. With what strength he has left, he sits Joe up enough to pull out of him. He rolls them both over, putting Joe on his back next to him, the other’s chest heaving.

“Want some cold water for your throat?” Rhys pants. He licks his lips, his mouth dried out.

“Yeah,” Joe croaks. Neither of them move to get up, Joe only shuffling closer to lay his cheek on Rhys’ bicep. Rhys immediately closes his arm around him, splaying his palm over his ribs.

“We need to shower.”

“Mm, later.”

Right, they have later—an infinity of laters. Rhys kisses Joe’s forehead. “Sounds good to me.”

[omegas-reincarnation]

Every depiction of Montrose Pretty I have seen thus far places him somewhere on a sliding scale between 'fancy looking twink with long hair' and 'literally just Griffin in a halloween store mask' and for one I approve of that

[ethersierra]

I've decided to write all my thoughts on one thing then I can share them at the end:

It's giving mbmbam intro

You're right they have been waiting for you justin

Dead Justin just threatened to kill Clint for eating

"I'm not nervous I wrote an introduction"

I was about to start taking notes on the knights and wizards and I think that's fun

The world. The future. Maybe a couple hundred. Carmine dedend a farmer in Georgia he made a company called Dentonic the first name in entertainment. Carnivals at state fairs. Regional theme parks. Fighting state government. 2030 he disassembled the parks. He focused all his time into Just One. In Georgia, called steeplechase. He took all the old ones and added on to the epicenter. Then in 2040 he built a gate to the land of ephemera which is like fantasy themed. Then when they ran out of land they started building upward onto different layers.

YES YES YES THE THREE OF THEM WORK THERE LETS GO BABYYYYYY

Omg pickpocket from the rich

Blades in the dark. I am so excited about how excited THEY are to use it. "Play your characters like you are driving a stolen car" yes yes yes suehhdkrnlsdh

Beyblades in the dark. Travis I love you

Crimes!!!!! A criminal crew >:) with skills?

Character classes 👁️

MULTIPLE CREWS OF CRIMINALS?

Hype hype hype

The Travis slander is so me

DHIHAKAHDSBDKAKD

Beef Punchley. I'm HAKDHS EMERY WAS RIGHT ABOUT IT BEING A FREE SPACE. A dangerous and intimidating fighter- makes sense to the name. Dear God. Lyndon Julius is his real name but beef is his alias.

I need to stop taking notes I'll listen through again later w the wiki up to edit it

A nerdy gentleboy🥺

Issues 👁️

Punchout ooo (not quite a mascot) help

Usedtabeen (nostalgia) thank you Justin.

A GIANT SLUMBER PARTY SHUT UP THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN

Emmerick dreadway. A whisper 👀 ethersea who? A magician ,👁️ waspish?

I just realized I hold such a stake here in how characters and things are spelt especially as I'm determined to upkeep the wiki

Creationeer LMFAOO

Hard light constructs? HMMMM👁️

Solid holograms... DAMN

WAIT HE CAN RESHAPE THEM

AHAHAH HE HOLDS SO MUCH POWER HERE HOLY SHIT I CAN'T WAIT

If Griffin isn't a janitor or in a mascot costume I cry

Ooh emmerick has beef. Not Punchley but like beef beef. Demoted? Hell yeah. Let's get this revenge

I'm liking the hard light mechanics so far

Some people live at the park. Interesting.

Hmmm sweets OH suites. Thank u.

Hmm people trying to stay in the suites to live there interesting interesting

Factions split into different layers interesting interesting

Factions of worker types I love it

Scifi age👁️

Interesting that travel between the layers isn't common..

JSJSNDJS "steeplechase is purgatory you're right"

Montrose pretty is a fifteen foot long slide thank you

Subtle manipulator and spy!!!!!!!! DO THEY GET WALKIE TALKIES

Salesman?👁️ Former scoundrel?

He is like a cast member who jumps from job to job? Like in a mascot costume you say😏?

Characters are not meant to be permanent. I am really excited to see how that plays out.

A DISGUISE KIT ARARARARARAAR

I already forgot Griff's character name tbh

Oh yes Montrose pretty who always wears a mask. Interesting 🎭

GRIFFIN please I can't do this with the mask I'm dying

------ commercial break I'm making a second post now ----

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Flashback Friday || Morgan & Luis

TIMING: Distant past, in the days of yee-haw

LOCATION: The Magick Cauldron, Houston, Texas

PARTIES: @ontheluis & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Luis wanders into a magic shop looking for some herbs, Morgan spies an opportunity, and the cards know more than either of them reckon. 

CONTAINS: Mellow yee-haw vibes

“Welcome, traveler, to the Magick Cauldron! Browse at your pleasure and inquire if you have any questions!” Morgan had given the scripted greeting so many times, it came out of her in full customer service cheer every time the shop door opened. She didn’t even look up from the book she had open under the cash register anymore, but flipped another page and let the customers let her know if there was something worth talking about by shouting ‘lady!’ or coming into her peripheral view.

The Magick Cauldron was the only occult shop still standing West Houston after the Y2K stress fads had died away and the first bout of shiny, corporate development had found its way into Montrose and bulldozed a crystal shop, a Greek deli, and one of the few ladies-only gay bars in favor of a mixed use building that so far only housed a nail salon and a Jamba Juice. Ralf, the fine proprietor of the Cauldron as he called himself, said that this space was protected. As the door chimed open again and Morgan made her welcome speech, bright and shiny as the plastic plate armor hanging in the kid’s section, she wondered if he was right. She never seemed to serve more than a dozen or so customers during her shifts, but the lights stayed on, day after sweltering day. If Ralf was right, it might just be the one piece of real magic in the place, not that she could say that to anyone’s face.

The warped outline of a boy rippled over the glass counter and Morgan blinked up from her book. “Is there something I can help you with, weary traveler?” She asked wryly.

“Sorry ma’am,” Luis assured, “didn’t mean to bring the stray in here,”

Evening had fallen outside, heat from the blistering still wafting off the pavement. Telephone poles and streetlights were thin black columns that stood stark against the blazing orange and wane blues of sunset.  

“Go on, git!”

At the Magick Cauldron’s threshold was an enormous black dog. Even while quietly sitting on its haunches the shaggy canine was easily as tall as the teenage boy snapped at it. Pupiless red eyes regarded Luis impassively, only an ear twitch showing that the dog wasn’t just a statue.

When the black dog gave no indication of actually entering the store nor stopping its scrutiny of Luis, the young man cut his losses and regarded the woman at the counter again.

“Here,” Luis reached into a pocket of his jeans and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it on the counter. The names of herbs and powders were written in someone else’s prime neat handwriting. “I uh don’t know what any of this is…,” he confessed.

Morgan took the paper carefully between her fingers, trying not to let her discomfort at how damp and sweaty it was show too much. It didn’t take much to figure out she was looking at an herbalist mixture for anxiety and sleeplessness. She looked up and the boy, and down to the list again. “We’ve got everything you need over here,” she said. She lead the boy over to the bulk aisle where the dried herbs and bottled oils were kept and alphabetized. “Did you want these bagged separate or together? Or--you probably don’t know how these work huh? We’ll do separate, so you can use any excess as you wish. But fair warning, we have a purchase minimum of one ounce for each item.” She put a small paper bag on the shelf in the middle of the display and started shovelling the herbs in. As she worked, she glanded sidelong at the kid and the dog that had decided to become instantly fond of him. Someone cared about them, to throw together this recipe, and he looked embarrassed enough for a kid his age to seem like he needed help. Would it be wrong to squeeze a few more dollars out of him if it so happened to brighten his day or give him some direction? Sure, he was scruffy, but not so much as to be desperate. He could afford a few extra bucks, right?

“Hey, you okay there?” Morgan asked him. “You seem a little lost. I’m getting some ‘needs direction’ vibes from you.” She gestured vaguely. “If you’re looking for Niko Niko’s, it’s just further down the street. You’re not supposed to leave your car here while you go over there, but I won’t tell. And if you need something a little less literal, I might be able to help you with that.” She nodded toward the oracle room at the back of the shop, with its hand painted sign hanging crooked from a nail and entryway draped with lavender beads. “I do have sliding scale rates, if it helps you make up your mind.”

The great black dog continued to watch Luis in silent stillness, the Barghest’s posture poised as if waiting for something.

“No offense ma’am but I don’t believe in…,” the teenager half-turned but caught sight of the enormous stray waiting for him in the darkening sunset. Those pupiless red eyes immediately filled Luis with a nameless dread. Cold sweat stained the back of his T-shirt as Luis’ skin went clammy despite the Texan heat. Luis couldn’t process why some random big-ass dog would wig him out so much. He wasn’t even afraid of it biting him or even the dog itself.

So why was his heart pounding in his temples?

“Yeah uh..s-seperate would be great,” Luis reaffirmed to Morgan needlessly. The labels on the tinctures and herbal selections blurred in his vision as Luis tried to get a handle on his thoughts. “Direction like, oh you mean to the interstate,” Luis replied in a misinterpretation of Morgan’s broader meaning. “I’m alright thanks, yeah merging on that triple hairpin by Foster is a pain in the ass but it's chill.”

Luis looked over to the oracle room with the dubiety of someone for whom the occult was just a vague ‘other’ mentioned at Mass or when abuela suggested a Sonora Market cure for whatever new cold was going around. He seemed about to decline again until the creeping skin-crawl of Barghest’s glare boring into his back made Luis amenable to any distraction.

“Yeah uh sure,” he said, taking a step towards the beaded shroud. “I’ll give it a shot.”

Morgan followed the boy’s eyes to the dog. He was looking pretty well fed for a stray, and his eyes--red, alert, sharp with an uncommon intelligence--made her shiver. Definitely supernatural. She didn’t know, how, or what, but it didn’t look good. “And I mean--” How to put this in just the right way? Or at least the more convincing way? “I mean your spirit, your chakras. Believe in your connection to the universe or not, but are you really going to say to my face that you know how you’re going to make your life worthwhile to yourself? That you know how to reach your greatest good?” No one did. Heck, she was a devout wiccan most days out of the year and even she didn’t know what her highest, greatest good looked like. “And if you’ve got the cash, I’ll throw in a cleansing, something to make--” she gestured at him vaguely, “Whatever negative heavy energy this is that’s stuck to you. Seriously, do you ever feel tired out of nowhere?” It was summer and the sun was exhausting; everyone got tired out of nowhere.

Maybe she was laying it on a little thick, but Morgan was tired of ordering off the dollar menu for dinner and she felt like she was taking her life into her own hands when she conjured money from school pens and laundry lint cotton. This kid’s money might get her a pot pie that didn’t come from the freezer, or enough tacos to last her a week, or maybe she’d blow it all on seafood, or a dress that hadn’t been worn by someone else. “I’ll ring you up first, and then we’ll see about getting the rest of you squared away.” Morgan did, and when that part of the transaction was over, she lead him into the oracle room.

In truth, the oracle room was an old storage closet with the door taken out. Morgan breezed through them and went to the antique flea market find armoire, where all the necessary items were kept. Morgan took out a small tray of tarot decks and took the one she liked best, a well loved Raider-Waite with stars on the backs and gold-gilt edges. “I’ll shuffle them myself, but you should tell me when to cut and start again and when to stop. When I’m done, you’ll spread them. You’re the one who needs to connect with the deck, after all.”

Rafael Martininez had given his son that smirking half-smile while Malia had given Luis the pale blue eyes watching Morgan shuffle cards. Sweaty light brown hair clung to his forehead beneath the Dallas Burn hat, stray strands dangling back his eyes. The lanky teenager sat awkwardly across from the cartomancer, doubting not only her veracity but that a term like destiny could even apply to someone like him.

Like many children who’re so profoundly blessed to grow up in a home of unconditional love, Luis had no idea that Rafael and Malia given him a protection rarer than talismans, weirds, or wards. Rafael had come to this country for a better life, and Malia had wanted a home that was safer then the hell she’d left. Together they’d given both dreams to their children, so Luis and his siblings would never have to go through what they had.

The freckled face that lifted to Morgan’s was innocent of hate, abuse, or fear of abandonment. Even in following a strange woman into a shrouded back room, it’d never occurred to Luis to worry about anything more sinister than carnival charlantry.

“So uh...like this ma’am,” Luis asked as he placed some cards face down on the table.

It was this very innocence in Louis that dulled the edge off Morgan’s guilt. It was wrong (if wrong was a real concept) to spoil something pure, but if she was really the worst thing that was going to happen to this kid in his teenage years, he was pretty darn lucky. At least he was getting some introspection out of the deal. Could he have gotten a tarot deck from the discount bookstore two blocks over for a quarter of what she was going to charge him, or thought everything out on his own for free? Yes. But he was also some bushy tailed high school kid; could happen wasn’t the same thing as would happen.

She’d had more instructions to give, some arbitrary waving of hands and maybe some visualization in what one of her co-workers called her ‘yoga voice’, but Louis, in his eagerness, had taken more than the requisite three cards she had planned on, wich just meant she had a ready-made excuse for the forty dollars she was going to take from him. “My, my, aren’t we eager?” She said. “What’s interesting to me already is that you have intuitively drawn out one of the more complex and energy taxing card spreads. Imperfectly, but--” She straightened them out at random until they made more of a geometric pattern. “See? I barely did anything at all. These cards must really like you. I don’t normally do something this involved, but it looks like there’s something here that wants to come out, and I’m not in the business of stifling anyone’s growth or energy.”

Morgan flipped the first card over to reveal The Fool and managed to keep her laughter light and soft. “Well, even if I hadn’t been doing this for so long, this is you, where you are right now. Don’t take the title personally, these are antiquated terms. He’s just young, and at the start of a great journey, not even begun, just on the precipice. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and the sun, see? It’s shining on him to show that the universe is aligned with his desires. The world wants you to support you, wants to see you succeed.”

The second card. The Tower. Morgan’s eyes widened. Not really vibing with the story she’d been telling, but maybe the one after… Eight of Cups. Morgan flipped over the last ones. Death and The Moon. “Hmm...Fascinating...” Morgan said, stalling for a way to spin this. “The thing about the major arcana is the magnitude of forces. Forces like destiny and fate and the collective consciousness. These forces are bigger than a ten minute fight with your friends or what you want to do after graduation, these are ‘beyond your control’. And you have four. The universe really does have plans for you, that’s kind of exciting, right?” She smiled, hoping to get some confirmation from him, or at least some more of his trust. “What does your intuition tell you about this journey, honey?”

Morgan’s performative coaxing elicited a dubious look, but the striking illustrations of the Tarot drew Luis’ attention regardless. The fool was poised with one foot over the cliff, smiling blissfully as the sun warmed his back. The tower’s blackened crenellations tumbled down the cliffside as the once indomitable edifice was battered into ruins by a storm. A haggard traveler slumped down in relief on a river bank as eight golden chalice stood resplendent over the churning rapids. Death rode on its pale horse, a scythe clutched in one skeletal hand while offering an exquisitely detailed rose. The Moon slept in the sky above a verdant shore. Wolves howled in its light while pelagic creatures breached on the lunar tide.

“Woah that art on these is something else,” admitted Luis as he squinted at the intricate illuminations, clearly sensitive to aesthetics but not the higher esoteric meaning.

Unfortunately intuition is only as good as the experiences which inform it and Luis Martinez had been sheltered from the world’s cruelty. It was a blessing to be sure, but it also made Luis unable to imagine that evil doesn’t need consent to claim you.

“My intuition is uh,” floundered the young man who had about as much affinity for divination as the average block of cedar. “The ranch’ll catch on fire, maybe a relative will die, but we’ll find like eight things that’ll make it better before the next full moon,” Luis posited.

Morgan’s stomach rumbled as the boy ogled the artwork on the cards. She was tempted to commend the kid on his ‘uncanny insight’ into the realm of the divine and take her money and run down the street for a hot stack of tacos. But the kid was so bright eyed and easily awed. She felt like she owed him at least some of her knowledge, even if she thought the tarot was psychological self-talk at best.

“Fortunately for your relatives, nothing here is quite that literal,” she said, laughing warmly. “But this journey you’re on, both within and without, is going to be perilous.” Perilous to the point of being seriously dangerous and traumatic, if this really was his subconscious sensing something on the horizon. But that wasn’t something she was going to say to his face. She wanted money without having to lie to her mother about where it came from later. “Even though your desires are upheld by the earth and stars, there will come a time when it feels as though you’ve been cast out and lost everything. But the key to staying your course is to…” What was a precious uplift-y way to spin this? “Hold fast to your sense of self. Remember the core of who you are and what you want. Because, if you do, then you will survive the upheavals, and you will be able to choose wisely what to keep, what to leave behind, and end up so strong, it’ll feel like you’ve been resurrected and leveled up into a new, better, cooler version of yourself!” She had no idea how to make sense of the moon card in a positive five star customer service rating sort of way, so she moved it underneath the spread, smiling like this had been her master plan all along.

“This card with the moon and the wolves isn’t your endgame, it’s an indicator of the vehicle, the thing that encompases the whole. All this massive change ahead of you isn’t necessarily going to be visible to everyone. It comes from within, sometimes hidden, like how you can only see the stars when it’s dark out and most of the world is asleep, and wolves howl when the world is in shadows. It’s like that. And it’s going to be amazing.”

Morgan checked her watch and slumped back in her chair as if she were exhausted. Not a hard thing to do when it was this hot out. “So, that’s gonna be forty dollars for the energy and the insight. Technically, with how many cards you pulled, it should be a little more, but I can tell you’re taking a risk on something new here and I want to honor that. But we can keep going if you have any more questions!”

“Vehicle huh...not sure dad’s gonna let me spraypaint moons and wolves on the truck,” Luis mused, perhaps taking the ‘vehicle’ thing a bit too literally or not wanting to think too hard about the possibility of his life changing.

Luis looked over the intricately illustrated cards, eyebrows wrinkling as he tried to parse through the profound chicanery Morgan had spouted. A bite of the lower lip hinted that Luis had never really encountered those who could appear to say everything while stating nothing particularly specific.

“Well shiiiii..,” the teenager breathed before glancing up at Morgan and catching himself with a small hssk of inhalation, as if some inner parental voice had scolded him about cursing in front of a lady. “That was pretty cool,” he amended, clearly at a loss before everything he’d been told, too polite to claim he didn’t believe any of it, but also too much a child of modernity to heed the weird feeling in his gut that recognized something...hit different...about this chance prophecy.

Luis grinned bashfully and unknowingly let fate’s final warning pass him by.

“Forty bucks huh, I’ll havta explain that somehow,” the young man noted with the mild consternation of someone blessed enough to just worry about a family member who’d be more peeved about gas money going to “fortuneteller” then the actual cash itself.

The bills slid across the table after some awkward wallet-riffling. “Thank you ma’am.”

Morgan snatched up the bills and shoved them down her shirt before the kid could change his mind. Whatever ominous feelings his subconscious were trying to air out was no concern for her. She had too many problems of her own to bother with anyone else’s. “It takes a long time to read the cards,” she drawled smugly. “And lots of energy, to open oneself and reach beyond the veil.” She waved her fingers as if to say tootles, and went back to fanning herself until he was gone.

She helped a lady find some yarrow and made up a policy about consultation fees to get another $10 in her pocket. She was using her agency to bridge the gap between minimum shop girl wage and living wage, working her will to get the right kind of energy flowing her way. Mostly, the energy of not-starving and not invoking the ire of darkness from using alchemy to get ahead. It didn’t line up with the rest of what she understood, neutral magic forces should be lining up to help her right her cosmic access and be less chronically miserable, but that was a problem to untangle another day.

At the end of her shift, Morgan shuffled the cards once again and lined them up on the cleansing plate the shopkeeper wanted the used decks put on. By chance, or so she told herself, she picked up the topmost card to see what was there for her. But it was just the death card, and Morgan knew the last thing that was gonna happen to her life was a hard reset. She stuck it back in the middle of the deck and slipped away into the long shadows that marked the summer evening.

[carewyncromwell]

“And at last I see the light! And it's like the fog has lifted... And at last I see the light, And it's like the sky is new! And it's warm and real and bright, And the world has somehow shifted... All at once everything is different Now that I see you...”

~ “I See the Light (cover),” by Elsie Lovelock and Kestin Howard

x~x~x~x

It’s interesting how, even when two parties know they have something special, it can still take a while before they find the right words to express how they feel and what they want. Even when Orion Amari and Carewyn Cromwell had each come to grips with their romantic feelings, it didn’t really change how many obstacles would be in the way of them living a traditional “happily-ever-after” with wedding bells and a little house of their own. Although yes, Orion felt deeply for Carewyn, as she did him, they both also greatly valued their own independence and autonomy. Carewyn and Orion didn’t even live in the same country anymore, one residing in England and the other Scotland, and their respective careers -- one at the London-based Ministry of Magic, the other for the Montrose Magpies Quidditch team -- would make it close to impossible for them to move. Merging households would be a nightmare under such circumstances...and yet, at the same time, neither Orion nor Carewyn was comfortable giving only part of their heart away. They both knew that the subject of their affection deserved everything and more from whatever partner they chose -- they just had no idea if they could be that “everything” for them, even if they wanted to.

That all changed, though, one day in December 1999, a year after the Second Wizarding War ended.

Carewyn’s feelings for Orion had not gone unnoticed by her closest friends. The lawyer’s unofficial twin and fellow “Fireball” Charlie Weasley had been almost affronted when he caught wind that Carewyn had let Orion stay the night on the futon in her living room without having made plans ahead of time -- Carewyn was a planner first and foremost and she never let Charlie crash at her place without giving her fair warning. Charlie vented his disbelief to Ben Copper and his wife Wendy @drinkyoursoupbitch, and they were both pretty shocked too. Wendy ended up following up with Carewyn later that week when she stopped by Carewyn’s office one evening for some coffee.

“On your futon, huh?” she said, her blue eyebrows raised and her lips spread into a playful smile.

Carewyn rolled her eyes up toward the skylight in her ceiling, her red lips turned up in a smile. "Charlie's that jealous about it?"

Her smile faded as she turned her focus toward her paperwork rather than look at Wendy. She wasn’t uncomfortable, of course -- she just had a lot of work to do that night before getting back home and starting dinner for herself and Erik, that was all.

“ ...Orion had had a late night, and he'd have to be back in London early the next morning. It'd be cruel to force him to go home and then lug himself and Eos out of bed so early, just to get back where he already was..."

Wendy's eyes twinkled knowingly. "Oh, of course. But still...is there something there?"

Carewyn kept her focus on the files she was sorting through, her blue eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as she siphoned through them.

"I suppose it depends on what ‘something’ you're referring to,” she said after a moment. “If you're referring to a romantic relationship, then no, there is not." 

Was that a touch of melancholy in her eyes? Surely not. 

Wendy studied the other woman over the rim of her coffee cup as she took a long sip.

"I mean, Carey," she tapped the porcelain, considering her words carefully. Her tone shifted to a gentle sincerity, "is there an attraction there for you?"

Carewyn stopped rifling through her papers. She paused, before slowly closing her eyes and exhaling through her nose in a heavy sigh.

"...Of course there is," she admitted very softly. "I've always been fond of Orion -- I liked him pretty much immediately, and I respected him all the more, as the years went on. All I wonder is when that fondness...grew to the point that it had to plant roots. And what to do about it, now that it has..."

Wendy smiled fondly. "Well, I suppose the big question is, do you want to do anything? I mean...if you were looking for a tofu-eating Quidditch player to pine over, you certainly picked the best one."

Carewyn rested her head in her hand on her desk, her eyes falling onto the wood instead of looking up at her friend. "That's just it, Wendy, I...I do want to do something. I don't want to have to bottle this up -- I want to protect him, to take care of him and Eos, to...love him with everything I am. But..."

Her gaze moved up to the skylight too, her blue eyes deepening with more of that odd melancholy.

"...At school...when I dated Andre...I didn't know myself like I do now. I probably would've accepted a marriage, and a family, and frequent sex, at that time, not knowing any different. But now that I do know myself...know that I don't want that happy ending attached to most romances...how do I pursue a romantic relationship? How do I ask someone to date a woman who wouldn't give up her job and life for him...no matter how deep my feelings are?"

She closed her eyes, visibly hurting at this thought.

"Especially when...he's already been hurt before...when he's already had partners who tried to force him to give up everything, to please them?"

Carewyn bowed her head.

"...How can I love him the way he deserves, when I'm so selfish?"

Wendy considered her answer, her eyes drifting up to the skylight in Carewyn’s ceiling that reflected the London sky miles above them.

“They say that sacrifice is a foundation of love, and it’s true,” she said slowly, “but...sacrifice between two people who love each other is a two-way street. I love my work — you know I do. Ben knows how much I love it. But if he ever asked me to give up,” she gestured broadly, “everything...I’d do it. I wouldn’t want to, and Merlin, it would hurt like…well, more than anything in the world! But I’d do it. And…I know in my bones he would do the same for me. Hell, he’s almost died for me a few times...”

The old memories made her pause, closing her eyes briefly to try to block them out.

“Thing is…he doesn’t ask for that. He…won’t ask for it.”

Wendy looked back down at Carewyn seriously.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is...sometimes loving someone -- not just being in love, but really loving them -- means that you know you could ask them to move heaven and earth for you and they’d do it, no matter how much it’d hurt...but you won’t ask that. It’s good that you’re thinking about this now, of course -- but you don’t have to have it all figured out just yet. If you want this...don’t be afraid to let Orion in. Let him see everything you have, and everything you fear, and let him decide. Maybe he wouldn’t want you to give up everything you’ve built here for him. Maybe he would. Maybe he’d want you to meet him halfway, somehow. But…let him make that choice to love you, whatever it might look like. You’ll never know if it’s meant to be if you don’t ever ask if it could be.”

Although Carewyn didn't look Wendy in the face nearly at all as she spoke, it clearly was because she was taking in what she said and thinking hard, not because she wasn't listening. When Wendy was finished, Carewyn brought a hand up to brush her bangs out of her face, her hand sliding past her right eye as it went. Then, with a swallow, she forced herself to look Wendy in the face at last, even though her eyes were still full of so much emotion.

"...Thank you, Wendy.”

The lawyer couldn't keep eye contact very long. Soon her eyes once again almost of their own accord drifted off to the corner just over Wendy's shoulder.

"I suppose...I always have had a bad tendency, to put the bar too high for myself. Orion's never expected perfection from me, however much I expect it from myself..."

Her eyes softened noticeably.

"He’s always been happy with what he has, even while he’s reaching for something better. But I know he appreciates the work and time I put in, too...how much I care. Even when I care too much, and 'flare up like a Fire Crab.'”

She brought a hand up to try to hold in her giggling.

Wendy’s lips spread into a mischievous grin. “Hey, at least he doesn’t compare your temperament and coloring to a Billywig. But I guess it’s his way of getting back at me for calling him the Tofu King -- ”

In that moment, Ben Copper had abruptly run down the hall, skidding to a halt in the door frame of Carewyn’s office.

“Carey,” he said urgently, his face very white and grave, “the Aurors have just been sent to your street.”

Carewyn and Wendy both shot to their feet in alarm.

“What!?”

As the prosecutor for nearly all of the cases involving ex-Death Eaters, Carewyn had received a lot of recognition and praise, but she’d understandably also gotten a few anonymous death threats from people who had Death Eater sympathies. She wasn’t the only one -- quite a few other prominent members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement like Talbott and the newly hired Harry Potter got them too. This day in particular, however, a swarm of dementors -- newly banned from Azkaban by Minister Shacklebolt, in part due to their association with Lord Voldemort during the War -- had been set loose in several areas of London that contained the homes of prominent Ministry employees...including Carewyn’s. Naturally Carewyn herself was not home yet -- but her ward Erik had just returned from Hogwarts for winter break in the midst of his first year, and he as a latch-key kid was at their flat  completely alone until Carewyn got off work. 

Carewyn immediately dropped everything and rushed home as quickly as she could, Ben and Wendy in tow. When she arrived on her street corner, she found the neighborhood in chaos. The entire street was blanketed by unnatural, heavy black fog, as if it was being suffocated by a blanket made of mist and tar. Muggles were running blindly in all directions since they couldn’t see the dementors, while the Aurors who could cast Patronuses shot them at every part of the darkness they could reach. Ben, Wendy, and Carewyn immediately all cast theirs, and their dun stallion, unicorn, and Abraxan winged horse charged into the fray to help the Aurors’ other pearly white creatures in their fight. Carewyn herself was determined to find Erik and raced in the direction of her flat. As she and the Coppers drew close, however, they were startled by what they saw.

Carewyn’s Abraxan Patronus had charged to the front, flapping its wide wings in an attempt to break up the suffocating darkness. As it did so, another bright white Patronus soared through the air toward hers, gliding through the air with incredible grace and helping it beat the dementors back.

It was another Abraxan winged horse.

The second graceful Abraxan Patronus’s wings seemed to brush lightly over the wings of Carewyn’s before flying back in the direction it’d come from. Her eyes very wide, Carewyn raced after it, her own Patronus flying over her as she went. The second Abraxan Patronus ended up landing a short ways away, its wings spread protectively over two people knelt down on the ground -- a small almost-thirteen-year-old boy with curly blond hair and tears streaming down his pale face, and the Patronus’s caster, an olive-skinned man with an uneven haircut, a beard, and black eyes, dressed in harem pants, arm warmers, and loose-fitting robes.

It was Orion. And although Carewyn halted mid-step several feet away, her breath stilling in her throat, her Patronus flew down to meet Orion’s, the two Abraxans’ noses touching when they met.

Orion had known for years that his and Carewyn’s Patronuses were the same. The knowledge had surprised him, but he’d managed to keep his emotions in check at the time. Carewyn, however, didn’t do as well in containing hers -- her hands flew up to her mouth to try to suppress the choke that left her throat and although she didn’t cry, her eyes flooded with tears.

Her Patronus disappeared in a puff of white smoke as she barrelled over to them, collapsing onto her knees so she could pull Erik into her arms and hug him tightly, her face white with terror.

“Erik! Erik, thank Merlin -- ”

Erik was very pale and shaking in her arms, but he had trouble looking her in the face. His jaw was clenched hard as he clutched at Carewyn’s sleeve. Ben and Wendy rushed over too, looking just as harried.

“Erik -- kid, you okay?” asked Wendy.

Ben glanced from Erik in Carewyn’s arms to up at Orion and his Abraxan Patronus hovering over them, his brown eyes slightly narrowed. Orion’s face was just as solemn.

“I was in the area when I felt the dementors’ presence,” he explained. “I found him out here, shooting Lumos charms and Knockback Jinxes at the dementors to try to drive them away...it’s possible he may have come out to help, knowing Muggles can’t see them...”

Carewyn cradled Erik in her arms, her hands resting on his back and the back of his head protectively as she squeezed him tight and gently stroked his hair.

Leaving Erik at home alone was never an arrangement she’d liked, but he was old enough to be there at her flat without supervision, as long as he stayed inside and didn’t let anyone in. But clearly the protective enchantments she’d placed weren’t strong enough to prevent the dementors’ draining influence from creeping inside...and once Erik felt that, it was unsurprising to Carewyn that he’d wanted to do something about it. His history in dementor captivity when he was rounded up by Umbridge’s Muggle-Born Registration Commission was explanation enough.

She hadn’t done enough. She hadn’t thought that anyone would go so far as to threaten her son ward, while she wasn’t there to protect him...

Carewyn swallowed the huge, painful lump that had formed in her throat, closing her eyes tight to try to force back her tears. She had to show a brave face for Erik: he was scared enough as it was.

The image of Orion’s and her Patronuses touching noses rippled over her mind. The memory of their light, equally bright and perfectly matched, seemed to weaken the grip of the fear strangling her heart.

His Patronus was the same as hers. His soul...was the same as hers...protecting Erik when she hadn’t been there...flying to the side of hers, when it was most needed...

The memory filled her up with such courage and warmth that Carewyn thought she’d likely never struggle for ammunition to create another Patronus again.

“Erik...we need to get you inside,” the lawyer said at last, her voice coming out as a low, steadier whisper than before. “Some chocolate will help.”

Ben brought a hand onto Carewyn’s shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ll take care of things out here with the Aurors, Carey. You stay with Erik.”

Wendy glanced at Orion.

“Orion, maybe you should go with them with your Patronus...clear them a way back home, you know.”

Although her eyes and face were serious, the way her eyes flickered between Carewyn and Orion spoke volumes. Orion, his head bowing almost self-consciously, nodded. He tentatively brought an arm around Carewyn’s shoulders, his black eyes trailing over her face to down at Erik.

“Erik,” he said softly, “can you stand, little Jarvey?”

Although he wasn’t able to speak, Erik clutched onto Carewyn and Orion’s arms and used the grip to hoist himself up onto his feet. Sensing that he was still too weak and disoriented to walk on his own, Orion quickly swooped in and snaked one of his strong arms around the boy to hold him up.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. Carewyn moved to Erik’s other side and wrapped her own arm around Erik too, so that both she and Orion were supporting him. “...We’ve got you...”

Orion’s eyes met Carewyn’s over Erik’s head. The light from his Patronus reflected in their depths, making them resemble two tiny night skies flecked with stars. A perfect match for Carewyn’s, the color of which could be compared to a cloudless blue daytime sky.

((OOC: Thanks to @drinkyoursoupbitch for roleplaying that first scenario between Wendy and Carewyn with me so many months ago!! I’m so delighted I finally got to include it in this! 💙))

[undisclosed-nate]

Hey, I'm Parker and am new to Houston and wanting to transition... And just making friends in general.. do you have any tips and recommendations?

Hey Parker.

Don't wanna make assumptions about what transitioning looks like for you but if you're looking for hormones;

• If you don't have insurance go to Legacy Community Health (Montrose location) they practice informed consent, work on a sliding scale, and give discounts on meds for using their pharmacy. The only thing is they're usually stretched pretty thin.

• If you have insurance, look up Houston Heights Primary, specifically Todd O'Neal, FNP. Dr. Kovacs is also great but Todd just joined her practice so he has more space.

•If other people recommend you The Montrose Center, stay away. They're not all that trans friendly. And by stay away, I mean from their internal resources. There are some groups and events that are hosted there but not connected and are okay to go to.

If you're looking for name/gender correction help, look up the Trans Legal Aid Clinic. They take people through the process.

For surgeries, most people travel to Plano or Austin, but I had my top surgery in town with Dr. Michael Eisemann.

Looking for therapy, try Kaden Stanley, PsyD at Emergent Pathways.

As far as making friends. Idk. You can try the trans support groups at The Montrose Center, (just look for the info on their website) but they were never really my thing so don't know much about them. Also join the Trans Houston fb page and you'll find out about events and stuff.

I sit on the board of a non-profit called Gender Infinity and we have an annual conference coming up in October, as well as other stuff throughout the year. We're mostly youth focused but always looking for trans adult volunteers. And all of those are my personal recommendations but if you wanna explore more, Gender Infinity has a resource database called the MAP (mapping affirming providers) at resource.genderinfinity.org where you can find a lot more options.

In summary;

• Don't let anyone tell you there isn't a community/resources in Texas

• Don't let anyone tell you The Montrose Center is the only way

• Don't let anyone tell you you have to travel for surgery

Hope this helps!

[stevecanmakeanythingnerdy]

Battle #23

Ozz: No Prisoners (Side 1 )

Vs.

The Young Bloods: Earth Music ( Side 2 )

Ozz: No Prisoners (Side 1 )

Ozz is (basically) the undiscovered Love child of two unknown, but very talented young men. Sure there are a few studio musicians present to help round out the tunes, but by and large the groundwork is all these two. I have no origin story or even knowledge of their home base. I know it came out in 1980, and it features the not inconsiderable talents of one Alexis T. Angel (no, it’s his real name!) on vocals and the formidable guitar playing of Mr. Gregg Parker, the album positively reeks of Zeppelin style grooves and thumping hard rock. Angel's vocals are a wild and beastly growl one second and a soft, serenading soliloquy the next. Parker's guitar leaps out at you in virtuoso fashion at every turn. So, basically, these dudes have range, and they can shred! Just kick back and enjoy one of the finest undiscovered melodic hard rock albums of the classic era. Rest assured that you too will be wondering why it has taken the best part of thirty years for it to have its day in the sun. I discovered it, as I often do, sitting neglected in a dusty bin at a flea market. Passed over who knows how many times by hard rock enthusiasts looking for Van Halen or Boston records, never realizing or contemplating the impassioned rock that lay etched on vinyl between the cardboard covers featuring one of the cheesiest photographs ever laid to film. Perhaps that second part is why. For me though, it is the very reason I stopped flipping, started laughing, and then picked it up. It was $1 so, the usual logic applies...”why not”. Man am I glad I did! I totally expected the music to be just as cheesy as the photo, so either way I would get my dollars worth of entertainment. I honestly thought it might be a compilation or something, surely not a serious band. But when I got home, I set it up on my platter for a preview. What assaulted my ears first is a Hendrix level riff followed up by some pretty decent hard rock. It’s catchy and very radio friendly, and it’s called “Sail On”. The next tune, “Ain’t No Money” is another decent lick. The talent level is definitely there as stated above. It’s a bit heavier and calls to mind early Soundgarden. Obviously they came after Ozz, but you get the idea. Maybe a mid level R. E. O. or Boston. It is a little longer than necessary, but I will let it slide. “Givin’ Up On Love” is the song that made me say that I could absolutely see what the label saw in this band. Just...GOOD songwriting chops. Waaaaay more keyboard presence on this track and Gregg’s (the extra “g’s” are for guitar god!) leads are just on FIRE! explosive! Journey doesn’t even sound this good! “Sister Madness” is the last tune. Only 4?!?! ?! Noooo!!!! C’mon! This one they bust out the Montrose and Haggar harmonies. I have to hand it to them, this IS good stuff, and it saddens me to know it will live in relative obscurity forever. I mean, I was totally expecting AT BEST a metal comp, worst case scenario bar rock or something when I picked it up. My theory is simply that the label saw the talent and couldn’t get a group together so they took a crap shoot with some studio help and put it out anyway to see if it would stick. At the time, I am sure the bloated airwaves thought it was mediocre and passed it off. MISTAKE former disc jockey nay sayers!!! This shit stands the test of time, and it is pretty Epic...which is the label that put it out (#seewhatididthere). Good luck finding this hidden gem, but if you do, be sure to snap it up!

The Young Bloods: Earth Music ( Side 2 )

The Youngbloods were an American rock band consisting of Jesse Colin Young (vocals, bass), Jerry Corbitt (guitar), Lowell Levinger, nicknamed "Banana"...no really... (guitar and electric piano), and Joe Bauer (drums). Despite receiving critical acclaim, they never achieved widespread popularity. Their only U.S. Top 40 entry was "Get Together" which some may recognize. Coming from bluegrass and folk roots, Jesse and Jerry formed a duo and eventually brought in the “Banana”. He knew of another member who could help flesh out the band, and The Youngbloods were born. The band seemed to have been mildly successful during their brief tenure, but just never received any chart love. I imagine it to be much like the Seattle grunge explosion of the 90’s. A handful of bands outlived the hype and survived (some to this day) beyond the trend, while others dissolved or just got lost in the mix. I think The Youngbloods just ended up getting lost in the folk and free love culture of the 70s. It’s 100% hippie rock, but ... you know I won’t say this too often...it’s actually not terrible. Side two starts out with “l Can Tell” with it’s Big Brother and the Holding Company brand lazy blues style. I do detect hints of an energetic MC5. Perhaps that’s why I like it. Either way that definition of 70s changing times rock vibe. “Don’t Play Games” is next and mellow yellow maaaaaaan. Busting out the maracas and strings for this biscuit. Meh...the end kind of falls apart. Not how I would have ended a song, but OK. “The Wine Song” is the tune that I feel would have made the band famous if some of the music promotion avenues that exist today would have been in operation then. It is absolutely what it would sound like if Dylan would have fronted a full on rock band. Lyrics, style and all. “Fool Me” kicks off with a bad ass bass riff (there’s that MC5 again!) this is the best in show right here! Imagine if the tune “Volunteers of America” were a band. It’s short lived though, as we make a return to flowers-in-Your-hair with steel slide guitar. Maybe even borderline Country acoustic. Meh... Need. More. Rock! Also I think I am hearing a mellotone? Rascals reminiscent. Eagles easy. I am grateful or the Dead influences (#seewhatididthere)

In today’s title bout, Ozz took no prisoners. Except me, perhaps, captured by their onslaught of awesomeness. They burned 153 calories over 4 songs and 21 minutes. That is 38.25 calories burned per song and 7.29 calories burned per minute. Ozz earned 10 out of 12 possible stars. The Youngbloods made some sweet earthmusic. They burned 109 calories over 5 songs and 15 minutes. That is 21.80 calories burned per song and 7.27 calories burned per minute. They earned 11 out of 15 possible stars. Those wizards of Ozz took us all on a tornado ride to victory today!

Ozz: “Sail On”

https://youtu.be/UA585W-Ym9Y

#Randomrecordworkoutseasonsix

#Randomrecordworkout

[abracaxfuckxyou]

@dreamsofalife from X

Montrose frowned, the mask mimicking his expression. “Maybe you can go spend some time in the back? I can cover the stand for you. You guys have covered for me quite a bit so it’s only kind to return the favor..

Granted he didn’t know how long this person was going to stay here or even who she was. But if getting Shy off the sales floor was any help than he would try.

[orchidsncrake]

and watch them fall

chapters 1, 2, 3

pairing: joe goldberg/rhys montrose

rating: explicit (preemptive)

tags: au - canon divergence, s4 rewrite, obsession, strangers to lovers, POV Joe Goldberg, murder, bookstore owner Joe Goldberg, Rhys Montrose is a real person, developing relationship, slow build, eventual relationship, eventual smut, tags to be updated

word count: 4,990

chapter 4/?

ao3 link and fic under the cut :)

I dress like Kermit the Frog. Joe huffs as he passes by yet another earth-toned sweater, the metal hanger squealing unpleasantly against the closet rod. He’d already chosen a pair of slacks – unremarkably brown and cuffed at the ankle, which he hates because it makes him look like a hipster but helps him blend in. That leaves him with the momentous task of choosing the other half of the outfit, which the weather has nastily decided with a cold snap must be a sweater. He holds two sweaters in front of him, one green and the other blue, and frowns. Not Kermit the Frog, actually. More Frog and Toad. Joe’s phone dings from where it lays screen-up on his bed, and he squints over at it as if that will fix near-sightedness. He sighs and lays both sweaters on the bed, scooping up his phone. The notification stares up at him.

Be sure to wear something warm. London breezes aren’t known for being forgiving, the text reads, thin under Rhys’ bolded name. What are you, checking up on me, now? Joe drops his phone back on his bed, ignoring the swell of an emotion that will not be named in his chest. He touches each sweater, feeling the thickness of each, and settles on the thicker, green one, guided by Rhys’ text – one that he hasn’t responded to. He’s pretty sure he’d left read receipts enabled. Shit.

What’s he supposed to say to that? “Thanks. I have no idea how the weather works”? No, that sounds unappreciative, and he’s not certain Rhys would catch the humor in it. “I’ve selected a sweater based on your input because I apparently need advice from you instead of using AccuWeather like a normal person”? Desperate and sad, so no. He slides the sweater over his head, hangs up the first, then returns to his phone. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

Thanks for the heads up. I don’t know how you stand this weather. Simple enough, right? Maybe too simple? Talking about the weather is the single most boring activity, and exactly what people do when they have nothing better to talk about. But Rhys had started it, hadn’t he? Joe groans, massaging his temples in defeat when a tiny ‘read’ pops up under his text. He’s done for. Foot-in-mouth finished. 

Difficult not to stand what I was born into, isn’t it? Oh, you prick. Rhetorical questions, really? What is it with the English and rhetorical questions? Joe sighs, relieved by at least a reply, and walks to the bathroom, phone in hand. He sets it on the counter and starts opening drawers, retrieving hair products he’s half-about sure the function of, including a wide-toothed comb that should have been retired long ago. His hands are sticky with mousse when the next text rolls in, and he leans over to read it as he runs them through his hair.

Now we’re leaving me on read? Joe looks down at the comb. He could lobotomize himself with that, right? 

The nerve on this guy. Joe huffs, wiping his hands on the towel. He uses it to clean off the fog still clinging to the mirror from his shower. Still, he can see why the public finds Rhys so charming. He’s not afraid to tease, which is refreshing and reminds him a bit of Love, though he doesn’t have her unregulated hyperactivity (see also: neuroticism). Where Love was a whirlwind, Rhys is a controlled game. Much more preferable, in Joe’s opinion. He’ll choose being teased over having his neighbor murdered with an axe any day.

My hands were covered in mousse, thank you very much, he types back. His phone has barely hit the counter when it dings with a response, which he lets wait as he combs his hair back from his face and then twirls each lock around the handle. It’s an unpracticed movement, one he’d learned by a very concerned barber shortly after he’d moved here, but it avoids the whole rats-nest action, so he tries regardless. Once he’s satisfied, he puts the comb away, rinses his hands, and picks up his phone.

Very fancy for coffee, isn’t it? Joe rolls his eyes but juts out his bottom lip in consideration. You’re bolder over text.

He texts back hurriedly, biting back a smile. I don’t get the luxury of not using product. Joe checks his hair in the mirror, content to find it’s almost dry, and he won’t have to deal with the fire-hazard hair dryer stuffed in the cabinet. He lint rolls his clothes carefully despite the lack of a pet because lint has a remarkable ability to become out of nothing other than smaller amounts of itself. Rhys had texted him the cafe's name last night – “Morning Brew,” welcoming but uncreative – and set the time for 9:30. It’s a ten-minute walk away, and since it’s 9:10 now, Joe figures he should get going. He takes one last look in the mirror, still framed by a vignette of fog, and brings a hand to his jaw. Love once remarked that his facial hair made him look a bit like a teddy bear when Henry was born. He’d been forced to go weeks without shaving, too busy being ordered about by the cries of a nonconscious infant. At the time, he’d been indignant about it, likely over-sensitive because of the aforementioned tyrannical infant. Still, in retrospect, he sees her point. Regardless of whatever resemblance to a teddy bear there may or may not be, it’s not like he can get rid of it. It’s odd to think a beard stands between him and Interpol up his ass, and yet here he is. 

With the bathroom back in order, Joe walks into his living room. He slips his shoes on easily, the backs already worn down from the constant motion, and scoops his keys up from the end table by the door. He’s already halfway out the door before he remembers Rhys’ warning. He huffs and slides back into the apartment to grab his overcoat. It’s a bit dramatic, long, wool, and stark black, but it was the warmest thing he could find, and he’s staunchly against puffer vests. He shrugs it on and steps out, locking the door behind him. He starts down the stairs, already preparing himself for this to be a total disaster. What’s the worst that could really happen, though? They don’t get along; they go their separate ways, and the world keeps spinning. So why does that possibility put a lump in Joe’s throat?

***

Joe shoulders the door to the cafe open, digging his heels in to stop it from slamming back on him. The wind is hellish, and he had to pop his collar to protect his neck at the cost of douchiness. The door almost slams shut behind him, but he shoves his heel into the jamb, silencing the imminent noise. It hurts a bit, and he realizes how irrational a move it was, but the door bounces closed behind him almost silently, avoiding the attention of the entire cafe, and he decides it was worth it. He flattens his collar and fixes his hair quickly, the wind having touseled it, and looks around the building. It’s small, like every business is here, though he assumes that’s the American in him talking. He almost misses the head of blond hair in the corner, bent down over a book, and it’s only the way the person’s blunt-nailed hand turns the page that he recognizes the figure as Rhys. Joe cocks his head at him, hesitating to walk over, but Rhys looks up at the door, presumably searching for him, and his eyebrows lift when their eyes meet. Rhys grins and beckons Joe forward, and, automatically, he follows, one foot in front of the other until he’s standing before Rhys’ small table.

“Hello, Joe,” Rhys says warmly, cheeks pressing his eyes shut at the corner. “Have a seat, hm?” He gestures at the chair opposite him, and Joe looks at it stupidly before he takes off his coat, drapes it over the back, and sits. Joe smooths his sweater down, noting that Rhys made the same choice for slacks and a wool sweater, though he has a button-up collar poking out. Joe clears his throat, suddenly mute despite the conversation over text just twenty minutes before. Rhys only smiles at him and takes the responsibility of conversation from him.

“How’d your night go?”

Joe blinks at him, then shifts in his seat. “It was okay. Quiet,” he offers feebly, smiling sheepishly, hoping that can substitute for his newfound inability to socialize.

“Is that a good thing?” Rhys asks uncritically, marking the spot in his book and setting it down, the cover on the table. Joe’s eyes flick to it, and he squints.

“Reading something embarrassing?” He blurts out, then purses his lips tightly. Rhys only smiles, laughter bubbling out of him, then flips the book over.

“I didn’t think so. Is it?” He asks, presenting Beowulf to Joe’s scrutiny. Joe grins, looking down at his lap momentarily before returning Rhys’ gaze. He relaxes, the cold panic in his chest easing into something warmer. He can talk about books, even with someone like Rhys.

“No, Beowulf isn’t embarrassing,” he chuckles, crossing his ankles. “It’s a good book, but a little abnormal – are you trying to read all the classics or something?” He asks, speaking a bit too fast. Rhys scrunches his nose for a moment, caught. “Oh! You are, aren’t you?”

Rhys laughs breathily and sets the books down again, leaning back in his seat. Joe does not see the way the sweater stretches over his shoulders. “Can you blame me? They seem important to have read!” Rhys says nasally, his voice pitching up defensively.

“Just seems like quite the coincidence, that’s all.” Joe shrugs, smiling playfully.

“Oh, alright, I see how it is. I can’t read a famous book just because you happen to be a professional bookworm.”

“That’s not how it is at all!” Rhys nods disbelievingly. “Read all you want. I’m just pointing out the coincidence.” Joe acquiesces, sitting back further in his chair.

“I’ll just leave all the books for you, and I’ll run about and edge the English public with a mayoral campaign. Seem about fair?” Joe’s eyebrows shoot up at the joke, not having expected it. His reaction only spurs Rhys on further, and Joe can’t help but be interested in this other side of Rhys that he’d only gotten a taste of until now. “What, too raunchy?”

Joe groans and rolls his neck. “Why do you have to use that word?”

“What? Raunchy?” Rhys teases.

“Yes, raunchy. It’s an awful word. It just sounds bad.” Joe waves his hands for effect, pantomiming digging his fingers into something particularly unlikable.

“‘It just sounds bad.’ Spoken like a true English major.”

“Okay, rude,” Joe scolds, pointing a finger at Rhys. “I never actually went to college, so your insult is unfounded anyways.”

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t? I figured you would have studied literature or something with how much you’ve read.”

“I’ve been able to read so much because I’ve always worked in a bookstore,” Joe corrects, shaking his head. “Besides, you’re only assuming how much I’ve read. No real way of knowing.”

Rhys sighs and smiles at him, and the conversation drifts off into a comfortable silence. Joe smiles back, his face a little warm, and squints accusingly at the other. Rhys lays his palm on the table, then pushes himself up, Joe’s eyes following up. He brushes his hair to the side when it blocks his view. “Come on, then, mate. We’ll order at the counter and return to you gatekeeping literature.” Joe opens his mouth to protest, but Rhys only grins at him and pats his shoulder, squeezing it for a moment and then releasing. Joe rises from his chair as Rhys disappears from his periphery, trailing after him to the line-less counter. The young, blonde waitress behind the counter perks up when Rhys approaches the counter, all too eager to take his order.

“Mornin’, love,” Rhys greets politely, bowing his head a bit. Joe grits his teeth. “Can I get two cups of Yorkshire for here, and,” he trails off, bending oddly at the waist to peer into the warmly lit display case, “two croissants, if you could.” The waitress nods enthusiastically, passes the tea order off to an associate, and bends down behind the case to retrieve the croissants. She makes eye contact with Joe through the glass, her gaze heavy with something venomous. Joe furrows his brows in a look of obvious confusion, but she’s ducked out of the display case as quickly as she’d bent into it, two parchment paper-wrapped croissants in her hand.

“Would you like them warmed, sir?” She asks in a way that would be polite if she weren’t leaning forward so obscenely. Joe has to avert his eyes. She can’t be more than twenty.

“Please,” Rhys responds politely, but the warmth in his voice from before is gone. It suddenly occurs to Joe that Rhys is wearing his wedding ring – of course, he is, he’s married – and yet this girl is still hitting on him. It’s no wonder he’s offended. Why is the waitress glaring at him then?

Rhys steps back from the counter and to the side, and Joe sidesteps to follow him. “Just getting out of the way while we wait,” Rhys explains, still seeming a bit tense. Tenser than Joe would think reasonable for being flirted with by an obviously desperate college student, but he isn’t exactly in the place to judge.

“Are you alright?” He asks. He may not be in the place to judge, but he is nosy by nature.

Rhys’ shoulders relax, though it looks forced. The smile he offers is tight. “I’m fine, John.” Joe frowns at him, not bothering to hide his disbelief. Rhys sighs, shakes his hands at his side, and leans towards him to speak lowly. “I’m alright, really. Just don’t really appreciate barely legal women hitting on me when I’m obviously married.” He holds up his left hand and the ring glints. Joe’s frown deepens before he fixes it, making his face melt into one of satisfaction. 

“I don’t think she was the observant type,” Joe says, smirking a bit. Rhys returns the grin, the tension leaving him, to Joe’s relief. He doesn’t like his anger – or his version of it, anyway. If that’s even what it was.

“Too busy staring at you through the display case,” Rhys teases, looking up at him from under his brows playfully.

Joe flounders for a second. “You saw that?”

“How could I not? She looked like she was trying to immolate you with her mind.”

Joe rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I have no idea what that was about.”

“I have half of one.”

Joe frowns and looks at him sidelong. “Share with the class?”

Rhys hums thoughtfully. “Mm, no.” Joe goes to protest, but then the wicked waitress from West End waves over at Rhys as she sets two steaming cups on the counter, then the croissants. Rhys, the devil, has the gall to wink at him, then unbelievably click his tongue, and slide over to the counter. Joe stares, dumbfounded, and forces himself to follow, mechanically taking one cup and one croissant. Rhys pays the woman during his silence, humming, apparently pleased with himself. Joe follows after him to their table in the corner, pleasantly surprised to find all their belongings present. Rhys empties his hands onto the table, and Joe follows, sitting when he does.

“Struck you that dumb, hm?” The taunt snaps Joe out of it, and he shoots a pointed look at Rhys.

“I don’t usually get clicked at by people I’ve met twice. Sue me.”

Rhys chuckles and picks up a couple of the small creamer pods, peeling them back carefully. The metal labeling stays impossibly intact, the top coming off in one go. Definitely not human. “It has only been twice, hasn’t it?” The cream mushrooms to the top of the tea, swirling as Rhys’ spoon clicks against the edges of the cup. Joe takes up two sugar packets, tears them open, and dumps one and a half in, stirring quickly.

“It feels like it’s been more?” He asks foolishly. Way to set yourself up for disaster. 

Rhys only shrugs and licks the spoon, his lips wrapping around it. He sets it on one of Joe’s empty sugar packets, and Joe stares at it like it means something. “In a way. I usually have to meet someone a dozen times before they stop calling me ‘Mr. Montrose.’”

Joe laughs and blows on his tea, contemplating flipping Rhys off when he looks at him teasingly for it and decides otherwise. “Do you click at them? Maybe that’s the deciding factor.”

Rhys stifles an amused noise into his tea, tongue darting out to clean his lips as he sets it down. “I don’t know if I can feasibly do that to investors and the general elite.”

Joe shrugs, sipping his own and ignoring the immediate hot fuzzy feeling of his tongue. “Suit yourself. Spend all your time with pretentious walking designer clothing brands.”

That does make Rhys laugh, his eyes crinkling as he bites his bottom lip to quiet himself. “Low blow, John. You know I don’t like those people.”

“What if you do? What if this ‘working man’ routine is all a ruse, and you secretly love caviar and pyramids of champagne?”

“Alright, well, the champagne isn’t all that bad.” Joe nods, opening his mouth in a silent ‘ah.’ “But, full disclosure, caviar is abhorrent, and quality does not fix the fundamental principle that it’s just fish eggs.”

Joe smiles toothily at him, nursing his tea more steadily now that it’s cooled. Rhys unwrapped his croissant, then pushes Joe’s towards him. He follows his lead, unwrapping it and whispering a thank you when Rhys passes him a few pads of butter. “You mean that money doesn’t make objectively weird things better?”

Rhys smirks up at him, face tilted down as he butters his croissant. “It’s a bit like putting lipstick on a very salty pig.”

Joe pulls a face at the beyond-weird saying when Rhys’ head jerks up, and the corners of his mouth twitch downwards before pulling straight again. Joe cocks his head and turns to follow Rhys’ gaze to find a tanned, sharp-faced man dressed in pressed slacks and a tennis sweater approaching them. Rhys side-eyes him quickly, then wipes his right hand on a cloth napkin and stands just as the stranger reaches their table.

“Rhys! How lovely it is to see you,” he greets, his accent even more posh than Rhys’. They shake hands firmly, smiling tightly at each other. “We hardly ever see you anymore. Very busy with the campaign, hm?”

Rhys bows his head a bit. “It's a time-consuming business, isn’t it? Don’t go around saying that word to too many people, though. Don’t need any more presumptions, do I?” The man bites out a strangled impression of laughter, then turns to Joe. He extends his hand and Joe shakes it, immediately caught off-guard by the other’s firm grip, like he has something to prove.

“I don’t think we’ve met before, mate. Name’s Roald Walker-Burton, it’s a pleasure.” He doesn’t miss the note of contempt in his voice. 

And you have two last names? I bet you drink the blood of infants. “Jonathan Moore. Please, it’s all mine.”

Roald juts his lip out contemplatively. “An American, eh?” He turns back to Rhys, who returns to his seat. “Where’d you meet a Yank, old boy?”

“At my bookstore,” Joe supplies, irked at being spoken around. Rhys looks over at him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. Roald cocks his head, scrutinizing Joe as if he’s some new creature. 

“Your bookstore? Well, that’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” Joe breaks away from the reptilian green eyes boring into his soul and considers his croissant. How quickly could he shove that down Roald’s throat before anyone stopped him? He smirks to himself and looks back up. Who’s he kidding; no one would bother. “What’s it called?”

Yeah, ‘what’s it called’ so I can tell you and you can belittle me when you haven’t heard of it. Joe gives Rhys a look, who is biting into his croissant, and the other ever so slightly shakes his head at him. “Subtexts.”

“Hm. No bells.” I’ll kick you in the – “Will we be seeing you at Phoebe’s party, Rhys? She’s missed you terribly. I’m beginning to think she’s taking offense at your absence.”

“I would hardly think so, we spoke on the phone yesterday.” Rhys dabs his mouth uselessly with the napkin, and Joe bites into his lip. “I may. It’s next Saturday, isn’t it?”

Roald’s lips had pursed at Rhys’ comment, and he forces them to relax. “Yes, it’s Saturday.” He whirls around to look at Joe. “Will you be joining us, Jim?” Oh, you caviar-sucking asshole. Who does that? Just invites some stranger to another stranger’s party to isolate them? Rhys, what do you see in this guy? Joe glances across the table, his mouth slightly ajar. Rhys’ jaw is clenched, the muscle flexing in the corner and his tendons taut. 

“I’m sure you have a pheasant to kill, don’t you, Roald?” Rhys chirps, voice dripping with false pleasantness. It’s sickeningly sweet. He stands and pats Roald on the back firmly, all but steering him towards the door. “Jonathan here has a meeting in just a bit, so unfortunately our little meet-up is pinched of time. It’s been great seeing you, though, mate. I’ll give Phoebe a call this evening. Maybe we’ll even talk about you, hm?” Rhys blurts. He doesn’t trip over his words once, the thinly-veiled insults rolling off his tongue like molasses. Joe watches, amazed, as Roald steps back, surprised by Rhys’ sudden flurry. Joe meets his gaze for a moment and doesn’t bother to hide his smile, too pleased to care. The crowd parts – it’d gotten busy since Roald’s arrival with an influx of twenty-somethings – and swallows him up, tennis sweater and all. Joe watches his polished shoes scuff against the floor, then walk out the door, and turns back to Rhys as the other sits. Rhys sighs heavily, picks up his tea to sip it, but aborts and sets it down.

“I’m sorry about… that, John,” he apologizes, reaching out and laying his palm flat on the table. “That was rude of me.”

“Rude of you?” Joe parrots, confused. “He kept trying to eat my soul with his eyes and then invited me to a stranger’s party just to be a dick.”

Rhys laughs, relaxing in his seat. Were you really so worried that I found you rude? “Yeah, Roald’s… well, he’s Roald. He’s exactly like every other member of the British ten percent. Except Phoebe, of course. She’s a wonderful woman.” Rhys does sip his tea then, then points at Joe. “You haven’t been eating.”

“Got distracted by the Prince Prick,” Joe offers, biting into his croissant to humor Rhys. He had paid, after all.

“And don’t mind that whole ‘party’ thing. Like you said, he was just trying to get under your skin.”

“What threat could I have possibly posed to him?”

“Roald is the type to feel threatened by everyone because he’s not stupid enough to believe he’s superior,” Rhys explains, surprisingly open about his distaste for his supposed friends. Should you really be telling me all this? “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m so forthcoming about this, especially when Irene would have my head for it.” What are you, in my head? “I suppose I just don’t see any reason to not tell you. I don’t take you as a sympathizer for the filthy rich.” Rhys smirks at him, waiting patiently as Joe drinks.

“Yeah, no,” Joe says, shaking his head. “No sympathy there. They tend to be, how do I say this nicely, profound assholes.” His own brash honesty surprises him, but Rhys’ smile is welcoming, and he finds he can’t help himself. “Who’s Phoebe?”

Rhys nods slowly. “Phoebe Borehall-Blaxworth. I know, they all have two last names, it’s a thing, apparently. Anyway, she’s the youngest of her family and has come into quite a lot of money, but she really is a lovely woman. A huge socialite, too, which is the reason for the party.”

“And you haven’t been going recently?” Joe needles.

Rhys smirks at his nosiness. “No, I haven’t. Like you saw, they aren’t the best company. Which is a shame, really, because I’d love to see Phoebe. But, without an out or someone to mock the others around their back, I can’t stand the events.” Did you just hint something at me? You actually would like it if I went with you, wouldn’t you? But you’re not crazy enough to ask since we hardly know each other. It would be crazy, wouldn’t it? I’m not exactly part of that social circle, it’d be odd to bring along some bookish stray to an event like that. Even if you did ask, I’d have to say no. Wouldn’t have a choice in it. “Oh, John,” Rhys breathes, bowing his head humbly. “I didn’t mean to imply anything that would alarm you. Believe me, I wouldn’t want to subject you to that.”

Joe cocks his head, fighting back the irrational wave of rejection. He’s not rejecting you, dumbass. You don’t even want to go. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. I guess Roald just got to me.”

Rhys looks at him with surprising kindness. “Don’t worry about him, really. And you didn’t assume.. If I had to go, I would rather bring someone with a matching distaste for them all. I won’t be going though, honestly. Busy following the orders of Irene,” Rhys explains with a smile, setting Joe at ease. Joe finishes his tea – Rhys’ has been finished – and lays his hands on the table.

“I should get going and open the store,” he says apologetically, not really wanting to leave. He does have to, though. Being closed two days in a row wouldn’t be good for business, and there’s a rain cell drifting towards them this afternoon that’ll push plenty of customers through the door. Rhys nods understandingly and rises, immediately going to gather the trash. Joe goes to grab his, only to get his hand slapped. “Hey!”

“None of that, I have it.” Sure enough, Rhys gathers it all, walks off, and throws it away. He returns and pulls his coat on, standing in wait as Joe does the same.

“You’re slappy,” Joe accuses ridiculously, squinting at him.

“I’m slappy?”

“Uh-huh,” he responds intelligently. Rhys laughs softly and walks towards the door, breaking the crowd around them. Inhuman. Rhys pushes the door open, one hand spread out on the glass, and ushers Joe through. The wind hasn’t died down in the slightest, still whipping past them, threatening to sweep their legs.

“This is just ridiculous,” Joe grips, fighting in vain to keep his hair out of his face.

“I’d tell you you get used to it, but you don’t really. You just learn to stand it.”

“Is that not the same thing?” “No,” Rhys pops his collar, “because it doesn’t really get easier. You just know what to do.” Joe frowns at him, unsure what to do with the paradox. “Good luck with your store today, John. I heard it’s going to rain.”

Joe nods at him. They’re both set to go off in different directions. “Thanks, I’ll need it. Me and my mop.”

Rhys smiles and claps him on the shoulder, then shudders before taking off. Joe watches him leave, then raises his eyebrows when the other turns around to wave. He waves back reflexively and turns around, heading off towards his store, head ducked low and away from the wind.

***

Five people have burst into his store so far, and it’s only begun to sprinkle. The sky is a foreboding shade of gray, promising more to come. Joe’s head jerks up from his book cart when thunder rumbles quietly, far away. No lightning comes. Another woman, older, stumbles in, wipes her little heels on the mat and looks around jerkily. She catches Joe’s eye and smiles, her wrinkled, coral lips pulling tight. Joe scrunches his eyes welcomingly, and she takes off towards the historical fiction section. His phone dings in his pocket – he’d forgotten to silence it.

Decided I ought to see Phoebe after all, the path to stardom can wait for a night, Rhys’ text reads. Joe swallows and clicks on the notification, expanding the thread. Are you up for a night of heckling?

Oh, he’s insane. You can’t ask a stranger to a stranger’s pa – he’s had this monologue already. Still, he’s right. He doesn’t know Phoebe – though he had googled her and Rhys was right, she seems like a lovely woman – and he won’t know anyone else at the entire thing but Rhys. Never mind wherever it’ll be, or whatever dress code, or until when. And it’ll be Saturday, what if he has plans? He doesn’t, of course, but he’d have liked it to be assumed that he does. Still, despite the insanity of it all, he knows he should get out more. He’s not exactly a socialite. Alright, he’s a shut-in. It’d be good for him, wouldn’t it?

Do I need a suit? He responds, not bothering to put his phone back in his pocket. Rhys never keeps him waiting.

Atta boy. No suit, just something on the nicer side. A good sweater and slacks will work.

Joe smirks. You think I own a nice sweater?

The three dots pop up immediately. You have a week. I’m sure you can manage.

[heyahsan]

Look how people are getting on the Cricket Hill to take winter slides 😉 yeah there is no such thing as social distancing, yeah we just avoid each other on sidewalk to prove we are better human than you 😉 #Chicago #Uptown #SnowDay #LakeshoreTrail #LakeMichigan #FrozenLake #SnowyBeach #ChicagoUptown #WindyCity #LovelyWalk #Colors #Nature #CrazyWild #WildWaves #WalkByTheLake #Pretty #Winter2021 #January2021 #HappyWeekend #HappySunday (at Cricket Hill, Montrose Harbour) https://www.instagram.com/p/CKupOfApA5o/?igshid=1val2ccusjxcy

[jeremystrele]

A Home We Fancy!

A Home We Fancy!

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

Welcome to the home of Melissa ‘Maj’ Harris and family.  The kitchen is Maj’s favorite room, featuring a treasured sign from a garage sale, and vintage diamond lights from Beacon Lighting. The kitchen fit out is from Ikea, with knobs and hardware from Schots Home Emporium. Cake (of course) by Those we Fancy.  Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The KitchedAid is the most treasured kitchen tool for Those We Fancy cakes. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The Harris Family at their Box Hill home. Deconstructed Chair from Manon Bis. Various vintage wall art from Waverley Bazaar, Butlers Vintage Depot, Hunted Antiques, and Maj’s own photographic work from her website. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Pear print on metal by Maj and available to purchase through the online store. Trophies, spice rack, iron scales and bowls from Waverley Bazaar, egg basket and vintage stoneware from Butlers Vintage Depot. Timber spools from The Drill Hall Emporium in Tasmania.  Glass jars from Provincial Home Living, and vintage cake stand from a garage sale. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Dining room corner. Maj explains that the industrial style lights were bought on a whim at Freedom before the reno had even started and sat in storage for years. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

One of Maj’s baked creations. Maple sponge layer cake with a chai buttercream frosting, topped with fresh blooms. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Detail from the dining room. Vintage botanical wall hanging from Surface View, held by Trouve clips from The Society Inc. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Vintage butlers trolley from Butlers Vintage Depot. Linen drapes from Ikea held back with rope tassel curtain clip from Anthropologie frames the stacker sliding door to the outside courtyard. Artwork by Maj from her Uni days. Throw in basket from Provincial Home Living, vintage Bentwood Chair from the Waverley Bazaar, and linen couch from Freedom. 

Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Green Pendant lights by Freedom, recycled elm timber table from Provincial Home Living, leather chairs from West Elm, and vintage chair with linen seat from Hunted Antiques. Vintage church pew from Violets with Patina stall at The Vintage Shed. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The Colonel keeps watch over The Half Done House and all its happenings. Vintage drawers from Montrose Collectables showcases various vintage displays. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Vintage Balfours tray from Nook Vintage holding various vintage treasures acquired from Richard Dunlop Interiors at The Vintage Shed in Tyaab. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Madras Rug from Freedom, linen cushion from Foxtrot At Home, Mongolian fur cushion from West Elm Australia. Linen drapes from Ikea, vintage piano stool from Vintage Carousel. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The master bedroom, overlooked by Gladice and Harold, a stoic old dame and a most handsome gent! Large framed linen portrait from Captains Rest, trunk is family heirloom, and bedlinen by Bedtonic. Denim ruffle linen flat sheet and pillowcases from Society of Wanderers, velvet Euro’s by Bambury. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Bo’s bedroom, with beloved Pooh bear. Linen by Bedtonic, linen grainstripe cushion by French Consul. Vintage artwork from Waverley bazaar, linen navy blanket from The Vintage Rose in Tasmania. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Vintage cupboard with key, cork board frame and shelves from the Waverley bazaar, vintage school desk and chair from Butlers Vintage Dept. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Pressed tin walls, claw foot tub and shower hardware from Schots Home Emporium. Vintage painting from Daylesford bazaar. Paint is Antique White by Dulux. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Wallpaper by Fleur Harris at Jimmy Cricket, velvet bunting by Numero74, and  Vintage frames from Waverley Bazaar. Dream catcher, doll an rabbit toy from Adairs Kids, bedlinen from Adairs and rose gold bed frame by Incy Interiors.Custom paint colour by Dulux from Bunnings paint centre. Photo – Caitlin Mills. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Melissa Harris (aka ‘Maj’ of cult cakes Those We Fancy) and Harry moved into their Box Hill home in 2012, but the dreamy vintage-inspired atmospheric scenes pictured here took A LOT of work to realise. When they moved in, Maj describes is was a true ‘renovators delight’ of 1940s red brick. It took some creative vision to see past the ‘many layers of wallpaper, icky yellow stained walls, brown and gold carpeted bathroom (!) and the freezing outside toilet/laundry.’ Hard to believe this warm and charming family home was once an ugly duckling!

Before the family moved in, they cleverly knocked out the wall between the kitchen and original bedroom to create an open plan living/dining/kitchen space, and remodeled the bathroom. Maj highlights that resourcefulness was key in undertaking renovations, and when remodelling the kitchen ‘we were on a very tight budget, so IKEA was the perfect choice.’ She cleverly used the basic off-the-shelf options, and then added her own spin, with vintage fittings and handmade timber shelves.

After living in the home for several years, and getting to know the space and the rhythms of family life, Maj and Harry embarked on a second round of renos, to create new connections with the outdoors and move living space. Maj explains ‘I had been creating the space in my head for years before we started, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make it all out.’

The design of the new space deliberately connects with the existing home, and Maj describes ‘I wanted it to feel like it had always been here, so I made sure to keep with the original character of the house, such as continuing the picture railing throughout the new space, adding matching cornices, and adding ceiling roses.’ While it took many years and a lot of work, Maj enthuses ‘I never thought I would ever say that “I love” this home, but over time and a lot of hard work I can now say I truly do.’

The interiors reflect Maj and her family’s character. She describes her style as ‘vintage, vintage and vintage, with lashings of linen, floral prettiness and the smell of baked goods thrown in for good measure.’ You can ALMOST smell the scent of cakes through the photos! The home isn’t overly curated, but is a space filled with objects and pieces the family loves. Maj’s previous training as a florist in her 20s shines through, as floral poseys and blooming bunches are spotted throughout the home. The space is also brought to life through the warmth of Dulux Monument Grey on the exterior and all of the trims.

While this house feels fully resolved to us, Maj’s Instagram handle remains @maj_and_the_half_done_house. She explains ‘with old homes I don’t believe they can ever be completely “done.” The layers of home can always be added to, with another bunch of flowers, and scent of cakes pulled freshly from the oven!’

[marjaystuff]

Author Interview of Julia London by Elise Cooper

Seduced by a Scot by Julia London is a book about survival and how someone can overcome extraordinary obstacles. The hero and heroine had to overcome their past and learn to move forward.

A prominent Scottish family hires a fixer, Nicholas Bain, to help them weather the possible scandal.  Calvin Garbett has arranged for his daughter, unassuming in personality and beauty, to be married to someone whose family will help his business dealings. Falsely accused of enticing the fiancé, the ward, Maura Darby, is taken by Bain to marry an aging bachelor.  Having no other options, she agrees, but silently is plotting to return for her family heirloom necklace, taken from her by the mother and daughter. During their long journey, she vents to him about being hurt and disappointed by those who are supposed to care for her. Maura challenges Bain at every turn to see her as a person rather than a problem to be solved.  He realizes that she is entitled to her necklace and plots with her to get it back. As they spend time together they grow closer and sparks start to fly between them.  Bain realizes that they are kindred spirits since he was thrown out by his supposed father and the one possession, a pocket watch, he cherished was taken away. They find love and realize that they can trust one another.

Readers will enjoy the Cinderella element to the story.  She was given the servant’s quarters and hand me down clothes.  Mrs. Garbett took Maura’s beautiful clothes, belongings, pets and gave them all to her daughter Sorcha who was extremely spoiled.  Maura tried to stay out of her way, lurking in the shadows. Both women were petty, jealous, and cruel to Maura and would do anything to make her feel unwanted.  Only while traveling with Bain does she become someone determined, bold, and brash.

Relationship stories are the best when the hero and heroine can share a similar background. They both had to face secrets, lies, cruelty, resentment, enviousness, and spite. Taking a journey with these two wounded souls allowed readers to share their emotions ranging from sadness to laughter.

Elise Cooper:  Is this a series?

Julia London:  It is the sixth and final book in “The Highland Grooms” series.  I wanted to base it in the early eighteenth century when Scotland and England were unified and acted like bad cousins. I thought it was a great backdrop to set a series about a Scottish family where the women were English.  I thought it would be interesting to have the English women and the Scottish men struggling with the same problems the countries were going through.  

EC:  How did you come up with the character Nichol Bain?

JL:  He was in the previous book, hired by the Duke of Montrose.  He wanted a seat in Parliament but his image needed an overhaul so he hires Bain.  I wrote Bain as a crisis manager, a fixer, for rich men who got into trouble because of women or gambling debts.  This current book is about how Bain can fix everyone else’s problems, but cannot fix his own.

EC:  The story highlights the reality of the limited options for unmarried women in 18th-century Scotland?

JL: I wanted to give a strong perspective of how women were seen in the past.  This is why I had that scene in the book where Maura was blamed for the fiancé’s advances because she was pretty.  18th Century women had no skills, could not own property, cannot have money, and Maura does not even have a family.  Her options were very limited. She needed and wanted the necklace because it was the only item that tied her to her past and was something of value.  It anchored her to where she had come from.  

EC:  It is very rare that children could form their own relationships?

JL:  Women did not have a say in love and compatibility. Especially in the upper classes, connections were made for a business or monetary reason, helping the parents forge a future.  I showed this with Sorcha where her dad wanted his iron works business to boom and arranged a marriage to help it.

EC:  How would you describe Maura?

JL:  Loyal, defiant, spunky, direct, brave, and determined.  She is also clever because she was never fooled by anyone.  I would have loved to be her friend, knowing she would be the type to tell it exactly as it is. Part of the reason people underestimated her was because she was female.  

EC:  How would you describe Bain?

JL: Mysterious, closed off, insecure, someone who craved love, but was a loner.

EC:  How would you describe the relationship?

JL:  They are soul mates. Both never had anyone miss them, care for them, or love them.  Those who should have protected them betrayed them.  I think this created barriers.  Unlike most men of the time, Bain did not believe she was just property and under the thumb of every man, without the ability to make decisions for herself.  He treated her as an equal.  

EC:  There are very detailed scenes about riding horses.  Do you ride?

JL:  I used to ride them because I grew up on a ranch.  I think I put all the details because I was trying to figure out how Maura would ride the horse, especially wearing a dress and without a saddle.  I do remember riding bareback, which is very difficult and really hard to stay on, bouncing and sliding all over the place.

EC:  Can you give a heads up about your next books?

JL:  I am writing a new series set on a Texas ranch.  It is a contemporary western similar to the TV show Dallas, with a rich family.  It will be a four book series and out in the spring.  I will also be writing a new series that takes place in the Victorian era.  I created a European kingdom where the princes come to England for various reasons.  They meet middle class women and fall in love.  It is set in the 1840s and called “A Royal Wedding.”

THANK YOU!!

[df-afield]

February 2017, Silverton, CO

Max and I step onto the tarmac in Durango with golden light settling on the mountains and lungs full of fresh air. It's not quite enough to make me forget about my astronomical overweight-bag fee, but it's a promising start. Broth is inside with a sign that reads "Shred Express"; we hop aboard, make a stop at Ska and then we're on to Telluride.

We pull into Carhenge and settle into our Tokyo-style accommodations, then regroup with Matt and Lizzi and head to ...There. The operative question is what part of Brooklyn we're in. Answer seems to be Park Slope. Not sure how I feel about that but the very relaxed staff is able to get me a painkiller so it works out OK. Somehow from here we up the ante and make our way downtown to the Last Dollar. There's a celebrity sighting inside, and we order 4 William Clintons but only find two willing mouths. Not exactly off to a restful start.

First day on the hill has our noob asses careening into Gold Hill Chute #1 for a free stone grind of death and bulletproof bumps. “Bad Aspect” is declared and we get the fuck out of there, doing a little better for ourselves with a few Black Iron Bowl hikes (“buen aspecto”), a visit to Giuseppe’s, and some NE-style trees into bump gulley to round out the day. We go tend to an apres reservation back There, which turns into a 7 course marathon as the wheels come off the establishment. We lose Roth to a Shred Express pickup in Montrose, make an offering to the ski tree and settle in for an Oh Hell game at the booth in Brown Dog.

A little slow getting out of the annex the next day, we make our way back up to Black Iron and hit the stairs. Just M & M and I for this one, and we have a nice line down Dihedral Chute and over to the Stump Jump. We rally the rest of the crew for a couple more trips up the ridge, this time just to the early steep face, with another lap over to the aforementioned perfect air. Get some BBQ and jams for lunch, and then a little afternoon mogul masochism wraps things up.

M & M and I hit the road right away, hype levels going through the roof as we navigate the precipitous road outta the Switzerland of Colorado and gawk at the peaks. Jaws still on the floor as we roll into town and discover the skijoring course in front of the Bent, then follow the music into the Rum Bar. Take in a little bluegrass, befriend Jack and Laura, and realize that we are in Westworld, and it is a zero-bitchassness town. The hosts sure look real though. Learn about the drone-induced equine mauling over a frosty Euphoria in silence at Bottom of the Barrel, then go rage with Liver Down The River for a bit before packing it in to get ready for the next day’s mission.

The Bent

No bitchassness here

Matt wakes us before dawn with the Horn Of Rohan, we hit Mattie and Maud’s and cruise up the canyon with asses fully puckered in anticipation. There’s a bit of equivocation about our pace in the parking lot, but fucking old man winter himself walks right up to us and asks if we’re game for the summit. Duh.

Climbing the stairs to the "lodge"

Get the day started, though, and things don’t go that smoothly. Our route is down Raff to the Mortuary. There’s some shaky obedience in the ranks, and then Shocklee compliments my turns and asks if I’m from Wisconsin, which is just downright puzzling. Turns out I’ve got a partner in style. Humor doesn’t last long though; Rob begins freaking out, and we found where they were hiding the bitchassness. Excruciatingly slow progress downhill, even as his friends insist that he “does daffys off 30-footers when he’s inbounds”. Hubris.

Next run is down Cabin; between the storm and the cowardice, summit mission is off. Rob decides he wants “redemption” and snakes first drop, looks like shit while he’s doing it. Grind our teeth but have some great turns down the bowl. Things are looking up in the next run; we hit up the gully skier’s right of lift line (RMYF…?) and get the green light to run it out to the bottom. Don’t have to ask us twice, and first several turns in particular are through some deep and excellent wind deposits. Tired of pulling around the Belafontes, I make a gear exchange for the Powders. Next run is a bigger hike up past Hollywood rock; turns out Rob drags ass going uphill too. We contemplate Laura Bush in more ways than one, but Shocklee redirects to Slashed Eyeball. Terrain here is super cool, snow a little less so, and the group is a goddamn mess, stopping in slide paths, dropping gloves, and of course making a mess of actually skiing the chute too. More carnage ensues on a subsequent traverse, but I’m able to sneak a first-drop on a sparsely-treed pitch with a little air near the top. Pretty fun stuff.

After that we hustle to make two more runs, coming down the front side first on Tiger #-something, and then hiking up to Corner Pocket. See some Warren Miller pros along the way but aren’t impressed. Max gets first tracks and does a barrel roll; Lacasse and I back up and take the cornice with a running start, still pretty mellow in the end. We cross the bridge at the bottom of the gully and head to the tent for a massive pitcher, mend some fences with our group and truck back down the road. Find the crew at Avalanche, get our regularly scheduled pizza in and then head to Rum Bar for a little more excitement. Laura is back on her loop, we drink them out of Kahlua and switch to White Rooms. Quiet night in the end, big day ahead. Alarm clock seems to ring as soon as head hits the pillow.

Hiking out to shuttle pickup

Back at Mattie and Maud’s, Kramer is in civilian clothes; the black toe has got him out for the count. We put 3 in the Prius, leave camber behind, and head up the canyon. Barely avoid getting sold a heli package in the tent, we come down to the parking lot and Shocklee promptly recruits us into a full group. New crew is fully comprised of ski-town locals, and we hit it off right away. Get on the mountain for a warmup down Cabin; everyone’s on good behavior (tracks are spooned), it’s bluebird and the snow is perfect. Shocklee abuses Lacasse with a top-to-bottom run, but we’ve passed our test.

There’s not much discussion of the matter; on the next lap, we pack up for Billboard. Not too bad a physical slog in the end, up until the ridge proper anyway. At a flat section a steep face with a hell of a hero line through it comes into sight; turns out those Warren Miller pros have it in ‘em after all. Things really start getting interesting once we hit the ridge proper. Clinging to the rope for dear life, rock climbing footholds, and Lacasse helping Felix out with a ski-pole staircase. Group’s getting real tight, and we’re psyched as hell to even get to the top, and I remark that it’s just a bonus we get to ski something down from there. Understatement of the century.

The group making the final ridge climb, courtesy John Shocklee's instagram

Shocklee points below to the main route, which is Pope Face into Pope Chute. On offer as well, he says, is the line we saw on the way up, Panty Waist Face. Shocklee nominates Lacasse and I for this one, and scares everyone else off of it. At least he offers to accompany us down to the entrance, so on we go. No pressure.

Approaching final ridge climb; Panty Waist Face visible in center of frame

The entrance is a traverse through some rocks, with no cornice or lip into the main face. The existing line threads through some rocks, not super tight but enough to make you think. Beyond a choke it’s a sea of snow. We make a detailed plan with Shocklee, and then it’s go time. I’m in front, so the honors fall to me. The first turn is a committing one down the fall line, take a couple of controlled arcs and then really let things open up as I shoot through the rock choke. The run is right out of a ski movie; fully planing on the snow, wide-open steep face all around me, absolute freedom of movement. I fly down to the bench and look up to watch Lacasse figure-8 my line, and am just able to get my phone out to capture this last turn and slide into home.

The run from top to bottom

We regroup from there and cruise down a huge powder field out to the cat track. We reward ourselves with a slice of pizza out of Roth’s bag and then a quick sandwich break, then get back to work. We head for Goal Post, a cool rocky line sitting in the sun that’s more corn than pow but is still a blast. After that we get a choice and I point us towards Mandatory Air. The top pitch is a smooth powder gully where we give the group the run of things, counting to 20 in every language we (Roth) know and telling the next skier to get the fuck out. We meet above the real attraction, the “ pretty radical” Mando Main chute. This begins with the eponymous feature, a short ice fall spanning the entire 15-ft chute before an apron where you can dump some speed. Shocklee warns of bad aspect and I get my ass to the front of the pack so that my Powders will have something to turn in. I navigate down to Shocklee on the apron with no problem, then make my way down into the narrowing chute. It shrinks to a couple of ski widths as it bends to the left, and I carry a bit of a shameful sideslip in a river of slough into a big turn around the curve, mercifully finding a bit of real estate to dump more speed, and then fake my way through some more exhausted turns in dust on crust and finally emerge in the sun to watch the rest of the group navigate. Everyone skis it great, and we try to hustle down to the bus for one more. The bus gets us back at 3:01, so that’s a wrap, and probably for the best.

Roll back to town and connect with Kramer (day was “pretty good”), dispatch the Shred Express on another airport run and settle in for a long night. Golden Block brewery turns out to serve both Dub Cs and White Russians, and we close them down with the admonishment “you’re gonna be sick!”. Jack also there with some choice words about Shocklee. Reunited with Roth somewhere along the way, we stumble over to Avalanche where we get a tour and drink them out of some insolvent brand of coffee liqueur. Lowest-level Oh Hell game proceeds. Next morning and skiing not looking to be in the cards, haven’t exactly got our sea legs about us. Make a last pilgrimage to Mattie and Maud’s and send Matt on his way. Then we’re off to soak and try to get our wits about us, and even catch the Liver From The River drummer at the brewery in Durango. Whew. Memorable stuff.

[abracaxfuckxyou]

That voice, that murmur in his head, was slowly getting louder and easier to understand. But he didn’t like what it was telling him. He kept trying to ignore it, but it was pushy. Insistent. For a moment he simply put his hands over his ears as if that would drown out the sound.

[abracaxfuckxyou]

@dreamsofalife || from X

Montrose sucked in a breath through gritted teeth as he carefully tried to roll on his back, hands moving from the wound. Lying on his back wasn’t ideal as it was a bit harder to breathe like this. He looked at his shaking bloodied hand as he slowly held it up. How did he manage to fuck up this badly?

“Emerick, prop him up,” Linden called to the other as he went to make sure the Barrister was well and truly dead. “We don’t know how bad the damage is so we gotta make sure he won’t choke on anything if he’d got internal bleeding.”

He got closer to the animatronic, giving it a small kick to see if it would move again.