jrochxster-blog

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ivyrutherfords:

A quirk of a brow. The twitch of a corner of their mouth. All of it relayed their worn-out bemusementat his words. Ivy did not answer the Rochester boy immediately, insteadreaching to curl newly garment-cloaked fingers around the strap of the satchelthat lay on the ground, tugging it right into their lap. It took an extractionof a pack of smokes, and the tipping of it to her companion as an offering,before words, too, were granted. “You’re looking for moral punishment, are younot?” they reminded him, gaze refused to be fixed upon his face as they spoke, themovement of his palms finding itself favoured instead. “It was said in jest,princeling. You mustn’t take everything so seriously.” A cigarette for themselveswas shaken out and pressed between cold-chapped lips, lit with a flick oflighter as sharp as the edge of the smirk that flickered in the Rochester boy’sdirection. “You have my gratitude. Feel free to rest easy.”

In silent anticipation he found himself absent-mindedly observing their doings, eyes operating of their own accord, the offered cigarette taken with a required gesture of gratitude. Jon lit it as Ivy spoke again, gaze glazed until he had exhaled the smoke, releasing it back into the glacial air it had briefly encountered before. “Oh. Right. My short term memory for regards of this kind might just demonstrate how deeply rooted my morality truly happens to be behind the swollen words,” was admitted with a hint of sarcasm, eyes rolling in accordance. There was undeniable truth to their words, his occasional inability to let loose and allow for a joke to be a joke an unpleasant side effect of his upbringing’s careful conditioning, the nannies truly having worked wonders on a boy who had strived for validation. “It was the least I could stereotypically do, right?” A shrug, ashes spilling into thousands upon thousands of differing directions, split apart by the unforgiving breeze of a winter day. “Really, it would be expected of me to at least get you to a café to get warmed up. A princeling thing, you know; all for the family name, the rumoured to be genuine joy of an act of kindness aside.”

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…I was calm on the outside but thinking all the time.

A Clockwork Orange, Dir. Stanley Kubrick (via fy-perspectives)

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rosevms:

Brow raised theatrically, Holly’s head cocked to the side, keen eyes regarding him with unabashed amusement. It was quite difficult for her to contain laughter, under any circumstance, and in Jon’s presence the quandary of keeping her enormously loud guffaws under control was a nearly insurmountable one. His ability to roll with every jest was as impressive as it was appreciated - and in a circumstance such as this one, laughter was entirely warranted. “But that is what they said about the Titanic, Jon,” she tutted, “But unlike our beloved Dawsons, I will help you onto my door. But I had two donuts for breakfast, so the squeeze will be a little tight.” A guffaw escaped her, and she gave Jon a playful elbow to the side before following dutifully onto the pristine boat. “As long as the booze floats,” she nodded decisively, “I’m in.” She looked about, knowing she was technically useless, but still willing to be of some use, “What can I do to help?”

Inarguably, one of the most gratifying side effects of Holly’s company was quite clearly her ability to lighten the mood, no matter of what kind it had previously been, within the blink of an eye, an attribute he valued substantially and, in complete honesty, longed to possess himself. “Oh, is it? That was purely coincidental, I’m sure it’s not a bad omen,” he sneered, inevitably joining her infectious laughter. “Well then, here’s to hoping two donuts won’t end my life. If so, I’ll still appreciate your good intentions in the afterlife.” A succinct shake of his head shook off the remnants of tittering with mediocre success, hand slipping into his pocket. “What you could do, first and foremost, is use this,” the keys dangling from his grip only by the smallest of them all, “to unlock the bar and check if I haven’t been robbed recently and thus lured you onto here under false pretenses while I try to get this thing to work again.”

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ivyrutherfords:

The repetition of things was a peeve of theirs; it was one that they were abruptly reminded of, as they gazed back at the Rochester princeling. Ivy would not bother to answer twice – and he seemed to glean that much, it seemed, for he carried on without pausing for a response from them ( which would not have come, so it was just as well, really ) and exhibited other prince-like behaviour. Their head lolled to the side weakly, with all the paltry might of an infant, and it was all they could do to blink at him. “Why thanks, Prince Charming,” the words were drawled more than they were merely spoken. And there was no denying the amusement that lurked, languidly stretching arms over its heads, within them. “Or should I keep my gratitude stowed, since you seem to be demonstrating chivalry for purely selfish reasons?” They shouldn’t have, but they did slide their arms through the sleeves to wear the bestowed garment properly — although, the fact that they really ought to have given it back to the Rochester princeling was probably why they did not. Oh well. All they really offered him in return was a shrug of shoulders.

Viridescent eyes widened in interest, his curiosity piqued by their question along with a subtle but undeniable onset of confusion. “I’m sorry but what makes you think I’ve done this for purely selfish reasons? What might does even be?” A soft frown mirrored his furrowed brow, arms crossed more tightly, coming close to being wrapped around his torso. If there had ever been an act of kindness committed sans ulterior motives, he would have liked to think this was a prime example for one. The role of the selfless saviour he had always thought to suit him well, perhaps to the point that he was blinded by its fictional glory. “Or is giving someone one’s jacket code for something I’m not aware of nowadays?”

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emmavdbilt:

“Yes, because it’s the thought of me stepping onto anything lesser than a yacht that’ll cause my mother to disown me,” Emma drawled, sardonic grin plastered upon her face despite the eye roll that accompanied. “One would think. Yet here I am, with a looming thesis on the comic relief of Sir Toby Belch in The Twelfth Night. As if I don’t have anything better to do with my time than research a work that’s already been thoroughly explored by Amanda Bynes.”

“Hm, New Zealand. That’s a trip I could get on board with,” she responded lightly, eyes following his frame as he expertly poured liquor from a decanter, accepting the proffered glass the moment it was offered to her. A gentle snort acknowledged his comment, the faint clink of his glass against her own setting the festivities to action. Raising the glass to her lips, she downed a hearty sip, relishing the burn as it licked fire down her esophagus. “It tastes expensive. Just how I like it.” Another brief grin touched her features before she stepped around him, marking a path across the deck, coming to pause near the opposite edge to peer down into the navy water below. Eyes arced back over her shoulder in Jonathan’s direction as she called, “You know a lot of horror movies start out this way. Charming man lures innocent woman out to sea, only to throw her overboard when she tells him she’s not interested in leaving her husband for him.”

“It’s a fine but significant difference so that is fully understandable.” Chuckling, his brows narrowing at the description of her task. “Wow, how stimulating. At least you know you’ll be able to beat poor Amanda with ease. And who knows, maybe you’ll spy the one interpretation that has been overlooked by everyone so far.”

“Well, if you ever have some time on your hands in the colder months, I’ve made some wonderful acquaintances there who would surely love to meet you. It’s definitely worth a trip.” Though only if one was to head back to the comforts of their home afterwards as opposed to planning on spending the next months halfheartedly reforming the slums of India. Another sip, followed by a brief nod of approval. “I’m glad you’ve got a refined enough taste to appreciate it — not that I would have expected any less.” Obviously not. Skimming through what else the fully stocked (coke aside) bar had to offer, eyes darted in her direction again as her voice reached preoccupied eardrums, uninhibited laughter his initial response. “Oh why, wouldn’t you leave your husband for me then? What does he have that I don’t?” A few additional drops of rum grazed his glass before he abandoned the bar, making his way to her at an unhurried pace. “A bigger yacht? More coke for your drinks perhaps?” Shaking his head, he paused mid-trail. “Maybe it’ll lose some of its horror movie appeal if we don’t go out too far. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for us getting trapped at sea too drunk to find our way back anyhow. Now that would make for a horror story.”

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emmavdbilt:

His comment elicited a scoff, the mere mention of being well-groomed bringing forth images of etiquette courses and teas where she could never quite match skill with her older sister. “Carefully groomed or not, I have a feeling my mother would still have my neck if she knew I were out getting drunk on a boat when I should be studying for my Shakespeare exam.” 

Palm placed in his own, Emma allowed herself to be led from solid ground to the gentle rocking of the yacht, summers spent in the Hamptons ringing the action reminiscent. His compliment was subtle, if it could even be considered to be one, yet it still drew forth the hint of a flush across her cheekbones. Eyes arced over him in a blatant once over at his own assessment, “But you were a few degrees south of equator then, weren’t you? So, your comparison is null and void.” Furthering her stance on the boat, Emma pulled her hand free from his own just as he released it, surprised by her body’s notion that it missed the presence of his touch already. “Rum. And coke, if you have it. There’s something about being on a boat that makes rum feel like a necessity, don’t you think?”

“Well—” Gaze briefly narrowing on the blonde, expression faking solemnity, “she might not be as disapproving if you stress the term ‘yacht’ and the fact that the sound of waves increases concentration for plenty of people? Besides, what could you possibly still need to learn about Shakespeare? Don’t we know everything about that guy by now, from his presumed sexuality to how many copyright infringement lawsuits he would have to his name if he was living in this day and age?” The last question was snorted, his mind inevitably considering the option of whether he would have much preferred wasting the past years of his twenties with theories about Shakespeare as opposed to the numbing numbers filling countless of textbook pages thin as a string. 

A slowly outdrawn nod, the newly inserted key to his contentment clicking in the lock. “I suppose that’s a valid argument. If only I had New Zealand to offer here. But rum, without a doubt a mandatory drink on deck, and coke should be very doable at least.” So he claimed and truthful his utterance should remain, a generously filled glass, mahogany liquor sparkling in the winter sun, held out for her to take the moment he reemerged. “We’re in luck with the rum today — plenty would be an understatement.” Smiling ambiguously, touching his own glass to hers. “That kind of coke, though.” A fleeting frown, disrupted by a taste of his drink. “Let’s just say I hope you like the rum a lot.”

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rosevms:

The urge to complain was a strong one. Holly, being a girl bred in southern sun and warmth, was not the sort to thrive in the cold; she turned a walking bundle of impressive knitwear whenever the months turned cold, and was remiss to venture anywhere that might make her colder than was entirely warranted - like a boat, for example. But as she was not a complainer, not one to turn down an adventure, and not one to say no to anything that Jon might propose, here she stood, bundled and more or less prepared to follow through. She gave him a skeptical look, cheeks flushed and lips hiding chattering teeth; but denial sat nowhere upon her tongue. “My mind immediately goes to icebergs -” she teased, “- if we sink, I’m not entirely sure we’ll both fit on the door. But… the promise of booze,” Holly shrugged, sighing with theatrical reluctance, “you’ve got me there.”

Lips pursed in playful pretend, struggling not to be torn apart by faint laughter but keeping their composure for the duration of the jest. “Hm, icebergs you say? A very real concern but... trust me, if we encounter one, we won’t hit it. This boat is so aerodynamically designed no iceberg could ever sink it,” was announced in faux dramatisation, Jon’s head tilting to the side, brows exaggeratedly raised as though her latter statement had been unbelievably outrageous. “Wow, so this is where I stand with you? You’d let me drown like Jack? I must admit I was hoping we all would have learnt from Rose’s mistakes by now.” A shake of his head dimmed the sound of chuckling, a swift motion signalling her to follow on deck. “No reason for worry, though. We’ve got enough booze on here for it to perhaps even keep both of us warm until help comes our way as long as you can find some space for that on the door at least.”

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emmavdbilt:

A weak sun had held the promise of a young summer day, despite it being only February, and had led her away from the confines of her apartment to soak in what had proven to be a day just as chilly as all those before it. Footfalls beat a rhythm against the weathered wood of a dock, leading Emma along a row of white boats rocking in the New Haven sound. Weeks had passed since brief encounters laced with awkwardness, though the thought of past gauche behavior - while typically to be reveled in and to be used as an ego stroke - still caused Emma’s heart to pound a dull ache into her temples. Goosebumps raised against her flesh at the familiar lilt echoing in her direction, though if anyone were to ask, she’d blame it on the wind. “Spoken like a true Rochester,” she called, hand raising to shield arctic eyes from an aged-winter sun. “I only agreed to this because you promised me there was liquor involved. That, and I figured I could use the sun. I’m beginning to look a bit peaky.” 

The flicker of a grin softened strained features, a vexatious side effect of the looming concern that this suggestion of his could easily turn out to be the most horrendously planned he had ever proposed, guaranteed to end in subsidiary regret. “I have my moments after two decades of careful grooming, thank you,” he joked, words laced with sarcasm, ushering her closer, hand reaching for hers in astonishing (most of all to him) nonchalance once the right yacht had been reached. “Oh, you’re still alright, don’t worry.” Virescent eyes trained on her hand, darting astray as he turned to lead his guest on deck. “I, on the other hand... around this time last year, I swear I was two to three shades tanner than this. It’s disgraceful.” The disgrace heavily lessened by the fact that last winter had been spent in the southern hemisphere but at the very least it made for small talk. Clearing his throat, her hand released at last for lack of another excuse, Jon instead occupied himself with the dreadful task of fumbling for the correct keys. “There’ll be plenty of liquor involved as soon as that door is open, I wouldn’t break promises of that kind,” he assured her, as though the last time they’d been drinking together had done either of them any good. “If the lady would be so kind to inform me with which drink she’d like to start off...”

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ivyrutherfords:

It was not the first time the pulsing tucked behind their breastbone was of a sort that dragged languidly, as though fighting the very nature of its existence. Why was it, then, that Ivy was none the wiser hope to cope with it? Perhaps because they did not care enough to. They never had, not really — and the people who had begun to change that, healing fissures in their foundations sneakily, were no longer a part of their days. In place there were wider gaps, bigger holes, less will to fix any of it. No cause for surprise ( to themself, at least ) was to be found when they merely blinked at their newly-approaching companion. “Probably,” they agreed, nonchalant and matter-of-fact all at once.

“Probably?” An automatic repetition of their response spilling out in an effort of processing their manner of verbal presentation, almost too casual considering how evident their state was. Perhaps it had to have been mocking in light of how unneeded his inquiry had been in the first place. “Then you should probably take this until you’re sure.” As Jon took a seat beside them, his coat had long been draped across their shivering shoulders, the sudden lack of warmth his own body was now left to face instantaneously displaying its effects. One final drag, cigarette smoke mingling with the clouds of his breath before the now bothersome prop was tossed aside in favour of palms rubbing together to generate highly demanded heat. “Skipping class without a jacket might just be the perfect form of moral punishment I definitely won’t give another shot — I hope you’re not doing this all the time or it’s bound to be a miracle you’re still alive to tell the tale.”

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He had never taken a liking to the glacial wind of a harsh winter’s day, a young boy infatuated with the summer sun’s warming glow and maritime breeze only provided by the seaside revolting whenever another skiing trip was to be the method of fleetingly playing happy family until he was granted the promise of a journey to Mediterranean or tropical realms later in the year. The restrictions that came with the season he cared for as little as it itself, all shapes of unconventionality surrounding his sudden notion for a pastime activity being disregarded with pleasure. His accomplice paused as they reached the dock, prompting aquamarine irises to settle on them in a look of gently playful persuasion. “Come on, please? Believe me, the concept of it ever being too cold for a brief, boozy yacht trip is archaic and has most likely been spread by a pitiful coward.”

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ivyrutherfords:

They should not have been without a jacket; the winter chill had long-since begun to seep into their flesh and settle underneath it. They should have been in class. They definitely should not have been as high as they were right then. But none of that mattered, for Ivy sat on the bench, knees pulled up to their chest, and chin resting atop it, regardless of everything. They felt so – lost. They didn’t even hear someone approach, until a shadow fell over their forearm indicating another’s presence.

He had never been the kind to skip class, at least not openly and frequently enough for it to ever make rounds. Unacceptable for the golden boy, the trophy child only bathing the family name in further academic glory, never disgrace. But today he was clinging onto a nicotine-filled prop as if it was his lifeline, the brisk winter air inevitably inhaled with the noxious smoke providing at least a fleeting flicker of clarity. In light of such clarity, his line of sight settled on a familiar yet distorted face, mindless steps carrying him to them long before he had consciously decided to approach them. “Hey, are you alright? Aren’t you freezing?” An idiotic outburst of questions that should have been rhetoric considering both their expression and the weary wintry weather engulfing them.

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laneykeane:

“Oh, my God!” Laney squealed, her soprano voice a soft wail over the pounding music, unmistakable Mississippi accent in full swing. She’d tossed back too many glasses of sweet liquid sacrilege before finding herself downtown. A party? Oh, she had to be there. Daddy said so. Vodka was foul no matter how expensive, but she always managed to make an appearance. Besides, the alcohol helped bring out the best of her: the saccharine without all the softness. “I love your top,�� she swooned. Delicate but swift fingers boldly, impulsively, latched onto the fabric. Her matte bubblegum lips pulled into a bewitched grin. Club Vandome hadn’t been designed with personal space in mind anyway, Laney justified, hazily allowing her hand to linger. “Lord, it’s just precious. Where’d you get it?”

Stupefaction etched into undecipherable features, virescent eyes narrowed on the unforeseen company who seemed to lack all inhibitions, amber liquid almost spilling from his half emptied glass but fortunately contained just on time before disaster struck. “Thanks... I guess?” Jon’s tone matched his baffled look, brows knitting as his head tilted, studying the girl in amazement. Oh, the things a little too much booze could do... “It’s actually a shirt, you know, a men’s shirt?” Grey silk but a men’s shirt nonetheless, he couldn’t seem to break it to her any more gently. “But it’s Armani if you’re that interested in it. Might just work on you anyhow if you’re lucky.”

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lorencassidy:

It had taken little more than the transfer of a hundred dollar bill between palms to clear a sanctioned room of Club Vandome, the door frame in which Loren’s figure now folded into as those he knew to varying degrees filtered through a pulsating crowd toward the entrance he was guarding. A familiar silhouette ambled in his direction, a taunting grin curling the corners of rosey lips as oceanic eyes curved down a list of names he had handed to the bouncer only minutes prior. “Your name isn’t on the list,” Loren called, syllables painted in mockery. “Fortunately for you, I’m susceptible to almost any form of bribery right now, if you’ve got anything good to offer.”

Lips pressed into a half-hearted frown, his gaze reaching the male Cassidy twin from beneath furrowed brow. He was barely capable of justifying to himself that he was in fact where he currently found himself standing tonight sans an excuse that sounded believable enough for him to embrace it until it felt like the only reality he had ever known; the last thing he had been hoping to find on this senseless pursuit was a host with an arguably mediocre sense of humour but, alas, what was the use of putting up a fight? “Really, now? Well, that’s a shame.” The frown chased away with a languid shrug. “Considering I was only planning on about five minutes anyhow, what’s the lowest bribe you’d accept?”

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rosevms:

She was quite grateful that any semblance of grace and feminine pretense she might have been expected to maintain in such a public place was allowed to be, in his presence, momentarily squandered in favor of the rumbling in her stomach. Taming the beast that was her appetite was the foremost goal and of the utmost importance - his knowing smile seemed to betray that he understood her plight. From behind a modestly raised hand, to cover her too-full mouth, she grinned, chuckling through a bite of pancake, “Understandable - I’m just trying to eat as much as humanly possible before my stomach realizes it’s in agreement with yours.” With a waggle of manicured brows, she slid her own plate closer; hot sauce was universal, she figured, and could cure all ailments. “I’m willing to put money on the latter; there’s nothin’ that hot sauce can’t fix.”

“You should. Make the most out of this state. Learn from my mistakes, I beg you.” Softly, he chuckled, amusement reaching tired eyes slowly regaining their shine. Albeit food intake had temporarily become a tiresome obligation, going out to tackle the foe in good company might have been a better idea than formerly expected. His plate was aligned with hers for easier access, lips pursed at the sight. “Alright, I’m taking your word on it. If this ruins me for good, I hope you’ll feel responsible enough to call an ambulance.” Ostensibly not the greatest of jokes but at the very least indication of a lightened mood. His fork was eyed suspiciously before he took the plunge, chewing languidly prior to revealing the final verdict. “Okay... I mean I feel like I’m dying but... maybe a little less so? If this is the cure to everything, you’re my hero from now on.”

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emmavdbilt:

“That’s reassuring,” Emma commented, incisors biting velvet tongue to halt the cliche bubbling at the base of her throat - although, that’s what a liar would say. Manicured nails tapped against the steaming ceramic mug, a incessant tic betraying the sudden tsunami of nerves weaving between every joint of her body. Though it had been mere days since Emma had accepted the company of a man ( and rebuked him the moment his fingers had begun their ascent up her inner thigh ), it had been far longer since butterfly wings had brushed against the walls of her stomach at the coaxing of one of the opposite sex.

“Mmhmm, and is this the part where you claim valor and chivalry?” Rosy lips pursed in a vain attempt to suppress the burgeoning smile spreading across her features, grin faltering only slightly at the mention of honesty. Pressing ivory ceramic against her bottom lip, Emma tipped the contents of chestnut liquid onto her tongue, the scalding beverage mingling with relief. Everything was worth mentioning. “Oh,” mirth pressed between her lips, falling on the air between them, “So. This really is that part. Well, um.” 

Crimson rushed high cheekbones as Emma scrambled for an appropriate response. The image of her own fingers working the buttons of her dress, dropping onyx fabric into a puddle at her feet, syllables slurring over one another even as she stepped away from the discarded fabric and toward him in the dim lighting of her apartment playing back in fast forward. Half-naked, and he had still tucked her between her sheets and locked the door behind him. “You can rest easy knowing that your reputation for nobility has remained intact.”

Silence was his lingering companion this morning, returning to his side on cue, as if called upon whenever insecurity made a simultaneous appearance to support an intruder pursuing a hostile takeover, the quiet seemingly accentuating how much he exerted himself to keep his gaze on her. What was worse he no longer could pinpoint; vaguely scanning her expression for signs of any sort, noting every ever so little alteration or searching his reflection in the remnants of coffee he was soon to down in one final attempt of calming frayed nerves. 

“Oh, I absolutely do. It’s all I truly have to my name.” A half-hearted joke failing to reach his lips, let alone his eyes, for more than the blink of an eye. “On that note, I suppose...” And so this encounter had reached the point he had been treading the most, first instinct being to stall, as per usual. Jon cleared his throat, wetted dry lips, finally succumbed to his destiny. “In the name of nobility, I should probably ask you if you preferred for us to never bring up that night again.”

If there was a metaphorical way for a human to feel like a cat choking on its own fur balls, a visually rather unpleasant simile the more he thought about it, choking out this statement with such faux nonchalance had to resemble it, at least to some extent. “Because, I mean, we can certainly do that if that’s what you want.” Inwardly rolling his eyes at his own idiocy, his expression remained neutral, in the name of nobility, though perhaps, and only perhaps, the slightest flicker of hopefulness crept through a barrier of thorns as he continued, lowly, one final argument before the matter was out of his hands. “Even though it’s all I’ve been able to think about, pretty much.”

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ryan-kinnaird:

It’s been silent for several minutes except for the stroke of pen on paper and the furious scribbling out of such, mostly from Ryan. He looks up every now and again and imagines Jon’s expression as pensive, when the truth is he has no idea what Jon’s thinking or doing or planning. The only thing he’s sure of at the moment is that this is hell.  “Buddy, good chum, pal if you will, do you reckon we should take a break?” It should be noted that their last break was precisely eight minutes prior to the question. That one at Jon’s behest. Far be it for Ryan to give up so easily. 

It shouldn’t really matter whether an official break is agreed upon, because Ryan’s really just reading the same paragraph over and over again and making the same notes on the page before negating them once more. His brain refusing to cooperate he’s left utterly worthless in the face of such a thing as study. The setting really should emphasise the time honoured institution of it all, the very fabric of the idea, intensify the experience so that he can claim success. It does not.  “We could order food.” 

Narrowed eyes abandoning the pages they have been piercing through like x-rays, finding nothing but a blur in them, with a slight delay, Jon’s features displayed indubitable scepticism as his gaze met his friend’s. “Really? Again? If that’s your mindset, you’ll never get a degree.” Said the one of them who didn’t even make enough of an effort to pretend his line of sight was following the lines of his textbook on occasion, settling for a blank stare instead, the nature of this statement being merely playful thankfully obvious.

A beat, lips pressed into a tight line, another fleeting moment of staring at the open pages, letters morphing into hieroglyphs in front of his very eyes. There’s no use in trying to be the voice of reason here; not today. Looking up again, his voice turned mocking, significantly higher pitched thank usual: “If we get food, will you be a good boy and concentrate from now on?”

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indicus + instagram; captions from left to right

top row;

i) nothing compares to driving this baby ii) once upon a blue moon, i was lucky enough to run into this kid down on the west coast. happy birthday & graceful ageing @aspectus​  iii) coming home present

bottom row;

i) last night with this crew of dreamers and wannabe-activists ii) #tbt to the beauty of new zealand iii) last flight before home but my on-flight aesthetic still hasn’t improved