#derek berry

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

I got on a plane this morning bound for Kansas City to discuss Garver's plans there and the strategy for how we are going to make it happen. We took this picture to send to Amber, the only Comm Team leader not with us. She responded with instructions not to crash because she doesn't want to have to run the team without us.

We had a long day, but I liked Kansas City a lot -- probably because of the trip Mom and I took here to celebrate my 40th birthday -- and I'm excited about telling the story of our people there.

Dad.

Little Rock, Arkansas. 8.6.2024 - 8.28am.

[harveyguillensource]

Behind the scenes of Nadja-mary's Baby, shared by Anthony Atamanuik.

[mikyapixie]

A new Adventure Time comic-book series!!! The Land of Ooo will launch by Oni Press!!! The first issue will release on April 9th!!!

[krispyweiss]

Dickey Betts Dead at 80

- “The monuments that he helped to create for Southern rock will never be replicated,” the Marshall Tucker Band says

Dickey Betts, the Allman Brothers Band co-founder who was ousted from the group in 2000, has died, the guitarist’s family said.

Betts, 80, died April 18 at his home in Florida. No cause was given.

Betts’ family remembered the musician as a “legendary performer, songwriter, bandleader and family patriarch” in their statement.

“His loss will be felt worldwide,” they said.

With Betts’ death, drummer Jaimoe is the last surviving original Allman Brother.

“Sad, sad day,” Tinsley Ellis said. “Rest in peace, Dickey Betts.”

Betts co-founded the ABB in 1969, establishing a 12-string conversation with fellow guitarist Duane Allman and quickly became “an essential component of the Allman Brothers Band’s improvisatory magic,” as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame said in a eulogy.

“One of the best to ever do it,” Tedeschi Trucks Band said of Betts. “Rest easy, Dickie.”

After Duane’s death, Betts, as lone axeman, was the country to Gregg Allman’s blues, giving the band its biggest hit with “Ramblin’ Man” and imbuing the ABB songbook with epic instrumentals such as the jazzy “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” inspired by a tombstone in the cemetery where Gregg and Duane Allman now lie, and the countrified “Jessica,” inspired by Betts’ daughter. And Betts’ 1974 LP Highway Call is an album anyone who calls themselves a fan of bluegrass or Americana music must have in their collection.

“Dickie more than anyone had an impressionable impact in shaping and defining the genre of music that has come to be known as Southern rock,” the Outlaws said in a statement. “The influence of his musicianship and songwriting skills are immeasurable and his passing marks the end of an era.”

The Marshall Tucker Band echoed the Outlaws, saying: “The monuments that (Betts) helped to create for Southern rock will never be replicated.”

After a time, the ABB returned to its two-guitar format and Betts played alongside such masters as Dan Toler, Warren Haynes, Jack Pearson and Derek Trucks before he and the group split acrimoniously in 2000.

“He was passionate in life, be it music, songwriting, fishing, hunting, boating, golf, karate or boxing,” the Allman Brothers said in a statement attributed to the “band, family and crew.”

“Dickey was all in on and excelled at anything that caught his attention. … Play on, Brother Dickey, you will be forever remembered and deeply missed.”

4/18/24

[a-map-of-gays]

Actually the difference is that Laszlo is Bi and Nandor is Pan. Hope this helps 👍

[katyobsesses]

The worst part of outlining a fic as a multishipper is trying to decide what ships to have 😭

[adamwatchesmovies]

John Wick Chapter 3 - Parabellum (2019)

John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum features some of the series’ most inventive, most satisfyingly kill-happy scenes. Its plot also tends to get in the way, particularly during the middle. At 131 minutes, this relatively straightforward story is far too long, though the sequel - set to be released in 2023 - could change that. If all of the new characters introduced throughout pay off later, this film may seem less bloated than it does now.

Excommunicated from the secret society of assassins whose operatives are everywhere, John Wick (Keanu Reeves) is now on the run with a $14 million bounty on his head. Seeking to escape the innumerable mercenaries on his tail, he begins cashing in favors from his former allies. Unfortunately, even those only take him so far.

It’s hard to pick which of this film’s many action scenes is the best. There’s one set in a library where John uses a thick tome in a way you’ve never seen before. This man really can use ANYTHING to fill another grave. If I were to choose, I think I’d have to go with another sequence, however. It’s set in a museum full of knives, axes, and other edge weapons. The choreography as the glasses cases are broken and the weapons are taken out is unbelievable. It’s so good you can’t turn away, even when someone gets their brutal comeuppance.

There’s more to Parabellum than just seeing John execute wave after wave of killers, however. There’s a plot that digs deeper into the world of the High Table. We learn more about who John was before he met Helen. More of the inner workings of the society are shown through “The Adjudicator” (Asia Kate Dillon) and several assassins who want to take down John… because they’re huge fans of his. It confirms our suspicions: the Continental is merely a piece of this huge society that operates as a world of its own. From the tattoo-clad Operators to the Concierge of the Continental Hotel (Lance Reddick) to the Bowery King (Laurence Fishburne) and his legions of turncoats dressed up like vagrants on every street corner, it makes so little sense it makes perfect sense.

One of the defining features of the series has been its New York location. John is always on the run - either chasing or escaping from someone. This means we’ve visited many of the city’s landmarks and several have been given a new identity within this world. This is one of the reasons why an extended sequence where John travels to Casablanca is off-putting. Though Sofia Al-Azwar (Halle Berry) is an interesting character with a fighting style all of her own, did this movie really need to travel all the way to Morocco? In the end, you know John’s business will have to be settled back in New York anyway, so all of these meetings he has with the Berrada (Jerome Flynn) and with the “Elder” (Saïd Taghmaoui) seem unnecessary. It’s cool for the movie to have aspirations to be more than an action film but some of this feels like it would fit better in a spinoff movie. I’m saying this because this road through the desert brings us to a movie pet peeve of mine: someone loses a finger. This sort of injury creates a wall between the story and the audience. We know they didn’t REALLY chop off the actor’s digit so in every scene from then on, your eyes always drift back to their hand to see if you can spot a gaffe. The finger is taken off as a display of fealty but it could’ve been done a thousand different ways. Why this?

John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum may be the least of the series but it also contains action scenes so good they make what we saw earlier seem like nothing. Those opening moments, in particular, will knock your socks off, so much that even if the film drags towards the middle, you’ll still be entranced by this ballet of blood and bullets. This is an ambitious film with spectacular martial arts set pieces, the likes of which most other action franchises could only dream of. (June 24, 2022)

[chillxsimmer]

After doing this challenge on and off again for a few years, I have finally made it to Gen 4!!

Meet Derek (Gen 4) and Heaven (Gen 3):) The color for Heaven is yellow and for Derek it's grey. May Derek's life be full of happy and fun experiences and never a dull moment. Well, maybe one or two. *smirk*

~ Desiree 💙

[ronnydeschepper]

Zestig jaar geleden: "I'm Henry the VIII" (Herman's Hermits)

” I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am ” (gespeld als “Henery” maar uitgesproken als “‘Enery” in de Cockney-stijl die normaal gesproken wordt gebruikt om het te zingen) is een Brits music hall-nummer uit 1910 van Fred Murray en R.P.Weston. Het was een kenmerkend nummer van de music hall-ster Harry Champion (*). Joe Brown nam het nummer op in zijn eerste album A Picture of You in 1962 (**). In 1965 werd…

[dgf2099]

The Driver Suit Blog-Paint Scheme Grades-March 9, 2024

By David G. Firestone Josh Berry #4 Mobil 1/Take 5 Ford Mustang-Same scheme as last year, same A grade. Corey LaJoie #7 USANA Chevy Camaro-A good look, the sky motif works, and it isn’t over designed. A Noah Gragson #10 Fanttik Ford Mustang-Bad color scheme, and too many designs will earn an F. Ryan Blaney #12 Menard’s/Pennzoil Ford Mustang-Same scheme as last year, same A grade. Derek Kraus #16…

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

Haircut day for the little Choate boys, then we went to buy me a new coat and get some lunch. Anything to be out of the house -- pipes still frozen; blarg.

Later, I made my first in-person appearance at the Beebe Poker Classic since 2014. (I played in the virtual game in 2020.) It was fun to play -- even though this is the first year I showed up without a costume -- and it was also fun to catch up with lots of dudes from my hometown. I finished in the middle of the pack. Bone won his sixth (?) bracelet, beating out John, Daniel Sowell, and Jed Davis in the end.

When I mentioned how much fun it was to have Bo playing cards in the side game that popped up while Will was still in the tournament, he said, "In about ten years, the tournament has the potential to grow exponentially because of the feeling it gave me for him to be there -- we'll all be bringing the young ones."

While I wasn't thrilled about staying up until 1am, I am already looking forward to next year's event.

Dad.

Little Rock, Arkansas. 1.20.2024 - 10.27am.

[harveyguillensource]

A potpourri of behind-the-scenes photos from WWDITS Season 6, shared by Cravensworth's Monster actor Andy Assaf, production designer Shayne Fox, and director Yana Gorskaya.

In the table read photo, Harvey's wearing a Wellness Center Nandor sweater crafted and given to him by friend of the blog @melsisaperson (melodynotpond on Instagram).

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentativel fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly done south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[krispyweiss]

Song Review: Warren Haynes Band feat. Derek Trucks and Joe Russo - “Whipping Post” (Live, Nov. 24, 2024)

Warren Haynes and Derek Trucks reminisced about their Allman Brothers Band days when the latter joined the former’s eponymous Band for a rendering of “Whipping Post.”

And with Joe Russo partnering with WHB drummer Terence Higgins, there was a bit of the old ABB swagger on the backline to match the frontline of the temporary group that came together Nov. 24, 2024, at the Soulshine benefit.

Haynes sung it. But this was Trucks’ showcase. He took both guitar solos and did for the Allmanesque music what Haynes’ voice did for the Greggorian vocal delivery.

There were horns. And no one plays the bassline like Berry Oakley did. But this revisiting was a solid recreation-slash-reinterpretation of the latter-day Allmans and a chance for two former Brothers - and a packed Madison Square Garden - to travel back in time for eight minutes.

Grade card: Warren Haynes Band feat. Derek Trucks and Joe Russo - “Whipping Post” (Live - 11/24/24) - B+

1/27/25

[luveline]

hiiiiiiiii jade! <3

would you be willing to write a fic about girl dad!spencer x bombshell!reader? i can only imagine what an adorable riot their daughter would be!!!

tysm!

ty for requesting!! mom!reader

Spencer always thought you were too beautiful for him. Too funny, too brave, too confident. For years he feared he’d never be anyone you could love; he was the opposite of all your best parts, he talked too much about the wrong things, he went red whenever you so much as looked at him, and he couldn’t flirt back, not for anything. 

But it’s been a very long time since he felt that way. What good is a father who doesn’t believe in being yourself? Amanda deserved to be loved from the moment she drew breath, and he shouldn’t have been any different. 

Now, though, he’s wondering if he shouldn’t be so accepting of all her whims. “I am not wearing that, daddy,” she says. 

She’s just old enough to put together sentences but young enough that the individual words sound like building blocks, chunky and clumsy on her little mouth. Her lips are yours, her smiles and frowns one hundred percent you. (Though you argue with him often that the quizzical pout she does is all his.)

“What do you mean, angel?” he asks, bent over her sock drawer looking for a matching pair. 

“This is pink, and this is purple.” She points. 

“Yes, and you like pink and purple!” 

“I like pink… and I like purple,” she says. 

“But not together?” he asks knowingly. “You want them at different times, is that it?” 

She runs for his legs, hugging them tightly. “Thank you.” 

“You’re so much like your mommy it’s scary,” he whispers playfully, leaning down to pat her small back. “Okay, angel. I’ll find you a different dress to wear. Or maybe the dungarees!”

She lifts her chin up to smile at him. “Y’okay.” 

“Spencer, Amy!” you call, voice carrying from the kitchen. “Are you guys ready? We have to go soon and you haven’t even eaten!” 

Spencer used to sit at his desk daydreaming about you. He’d drink five cups of tea a day to get to walk past you for the kitchenette, hoping you’d be making a coffee, that you’d flirt with him over corporate rewarded donuts. Now you’re making him breakfast as he persuades your daughter into jelly shoes because she wants tall shoes like mommy. They compromise —Any will wear the wrong shoes if Spencer agrees to carry her to the kitchen table. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says as he pushes open the door into the kitchen. He's trying to be the best dad he can be all the time, but he doesn’t have a knack for the mornings like you do. “We won’t be late.” 

“That depends on how agreeable my lovely girl is feeling today.” You pick up the pink plastic plate you’ve filled with eggs, toast, and a mix of washed berries. “What do you think, Amy? Looks nummy?”

“Chocolate chip?” she asks, eyes already widening. 

“It’s breakfast, honey,” you say, scooping her out of Spencer’s arm to carry her to the table. “Chocolate chips are for dinner.” 

“Please?”

“If you promise to be really super duper good at Uncle Derek’s, then yes, you can have some chocolate chips,” you say, tucking her chair in, and kissing her chubby cheek. “You want me to make you milk or juice, mm?”

Spencer spots the two plates you’ve made up for you and him on the counter and quickly brings them to the table, sliding yours in front of you with a long-pronged fork, his hand on your shoulder to keep you in your seat. “I’ll get it,” he says, ducking down to kiss you on the side of the mouth. 

You turn to Amy. “See that, sweetheart? See how nice and kind your daddy is to me? He’s soooo nice. This is why we love him so much, and we appreciate him so much.” 

Amy nods emphatically, blueberries tumbling off of her plastic fork. “So much,” she echoes, her voice like melting sugar. 

He has a weird moment by the fridge where he has to grip the handle. “You know I used to dream about making you a cup of coffee in the mornings?” he asks. 

“Spencer, come over here and kiss me again, please,” you say, sympathetic and fond.

“Me too!” Amy says through fruit. “Me first.” 

“Oh, gosh, this is one of the hardest decisions of my life,” he says, sweeping in to dot your cheeks with kisses, hers then yours, three apiece.