#eclectic elephants

[thatsbelievable]

[eyezdrawz]

Elephant man and soul chonny jash high-fiving in the woods but the trees are blue and purple

U said drawing ideas so i surely put a lot of ideas together

This was so funky to draw, thx for the drawing idea it was very fun

[gustedesign]

Here's to the crazy ones "Fanta"

[folk-lore-emporium]

Come check out my brand new vintage and decor booth, Folklore Emporium, at the Ruckersville Gallery in Ruckersville, Virginia! Located 20 minutes north of Charlottesville on Route 29N in the heart of Greene County.

[booksteacupandreviews]

March was a feel-good month #MarchWrapUp

Which was the best book you read in March? Check out mine in this monthly Wrap Up Post ⬇️

[kedsandtubesocks]

this high of you & me

Lucien Flores x F!Reader

summary: Lucien Flores is your weed dealer and you think that’s about it

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI. dealer!Lucien AU, drug use and discussion, shotgunning, sweet giggly moments, mentions of unspecified age gap (reader’s age is not mentioned but Lucien is older) reader and Lucien under the influence but he’s still a consent king, one use of ‘good girl,’ light making out

word count: 1.4k

a/n: I wrote this in a possessed fever after that clip & I know this might not reflect his personality once the movie comes out but I just had to I’m sorry, thank you to @lowlights & @tightjeansjavi for letting me scream about this and if you decide to read this - know I’m thanking you a million times

His house is an eclectic mess.

There’s a framed photo of Gustav Klmit’s ‘The Kiss’ beside a black light poster of a tiger. His awful leather black couch screams of a bachelor refusing to grow up.

“All I have to drink is bad tap water, ginger ale, or a mini grey goose sample.” Lucien yells from his kitchen.

“Uh, the ginger ale is fine.” You answer back.

This is the first time you’ve ever been alone with him.

Normally you’ve only experienced him with your best friend and his boyfriend. They’re the ones, through a friend of a friend, who introduced you to Lucien.

That’s how he became your dealer.

Now as you try to seem busy, you scan the book shelves in his living room.

There are many things that catch your eye -

The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo, a very abstract but suggestively sexual mini sculpture of two beings entangled in a type of wave like motion, a clear quartz crystal and a cute elephant figurine.

The man known as Lucien Flores is no short close to a chaotic puff of smoke you think you’re never meant to catch.

Behind you, you hear him rearranging things on his coffee table.

“You gonna joint me, or not?”

His pun makes you snort.

On the glass coffee table sits your drink among a cluttered collection of things.

“You asked for the usual right?” He mutters preparing everything like someone out a check out counter.

“Yeah, but I can go after you give me the- ”

“No, no it’s all good.” He reassures quickly, cutting you off. “I got nothing planned and company is always nice.”

He packages up the weed in the typical baggies he uses. This time they're holographic blue, almost matching his charming but strange vibes in a strange way.

“What happened to the dragon ball z themed bags you had?” You ask jokingly.

“Ran out.” He pouts and you grin.

After separating and packing up everything, he moves to start grinding the weed. Then with a click on his remote his stereo flows to life.

Frank Ocean’s ‘Pink + White’ begins playing and illuminates the room.

Small talk comes. Lucien asks about how work is going, any new shows you’ve gotten into.

He’s charming, like a bizzare off highway tourist attraction you can’t seem to leave.

“No need to sit on the floor. Come on. Spots open right here.” Lucien grins patting the couch beside him.

“Your couch is a pain, hate how it sticks to me.” You reply with a scrunch up face.

“Maybe I want you to keep sticking to it?” He offers light and you roll your eyes.

Being a notorious flirt, you try not to fall under his sweet words spell.

You’re about to make a quip back until you see him yank out a fuzzy blanket and spread it across the couch.

“What a gentleman.” You dryly smirk and Lucien shrugs.

But you rise up to sit besides him, close but not comfortably so.

“How much extra is this gonna cost me hm?” You muse watching him pack the bowl.

“Don’t you know the old saying, pretty babes don��t pay?” Lucien remarks so effortlessly.

Your throat gets a bit dry and you’re thankful for the ginger ale wetting your lips.

The lovely glass pipe, swirled with so many unique colors like the silk button up shirts Lucien wears, is handed to you.

“You first.” Lucien grins.

He even lights it for you, a modern day chivalrous knight in his own fucked up unique way.

The first inhale is always a favorite of yours. The smoke fills you, tickles your senses. But you can’t help but cough a bit.

“That’s the good stuff, huh baby?”

The phrasing and how smug his voice purrs out is dangerous.

“It’s one of the new strands I’ve been wanting to try. S’called ‘girl scout cookie.’ Pretty sweet name huh? But kinda makes me wish I could eat some right about now, ya know.” Lucien rambles as you hand the pipe back to him.

You at least appreciate how talkative and alluring he is. Between passing the pipe back and forth to him, you’re pulled into discussions about aliens, music and then, YouTube videos.

“No,” you giggle. “You gotta see this one.”

“If it’s another sad cat video I’m gonna cry and kick you out.” He pouts and you’re overcome with the urge to lean forward and kiss the furrow in between his brows.

You can’t deny how handsome he is. Like, ridiculously so. You know he’s older but there’s a youthfulness to him that’s reassuring. Like his spirit will always stay free. But you know that also seems dangerous after hearing about the list of exes he had from your best friend’s friend.

So very cautiously you tread into this new territory, whatever it is.

You lean closer, hold your phone up and show him your favorite go to funny video.

You can’t even stop the giggles. You wanna blame the weed, but it’s so hard not to laugh even without it. You’re overcome with glee and lean against Lucien’s shoulder. His shoulders shake and you hear the most adorable twinkling giggle.

He’s laughing.

“See!” You urge. “Told you it’s funny!”

“It’s not that! It’s you! You’re making me laugh.” He wheezes out and your heart flutters.

“Then I’ll stop laughing so you can stop laughing and watch!” You reply back determined.

So pressing your lips together, you rewind the video. You and him stay silent. Or you try to. Your lips twitch so terrible wanting to break.

Then Lucien’s shoulders shake again. In seconds you’re both busting out laughing. Your poor phone is forgotten.

This time he howls with an infectious joy and you feel it in your gut, in your bones.

“You weren’t supposed to laugh!” You chide him through the giggles.

“You weren’t either!” He cackles.

You realize you’re practically draped against him, and Lucien even fully leans back into you.

The smoke, the drug, coats everything in a smokey soft haze and with the high creeping its way into your mind, a molteness seeps into you

Lucien smells so good too, clean, cozy, but also like a cologne you wish you could pinpoint.

“Thanks, it’s dolce and gabbana.” Lucien replies.

Your face ignites in flames realizing you must have spoken your thoughts out loud.

You’re about to scramble out from this mess when you peer up and find Lucien staring. His earth soil eyes, softly dusted with a rosy color, hazily watch you.

“Y’smell good too.” He mumbles back.

“Thanks, it’s my fabric softener.” You tell him.

Lucien busts out laughing, a bright firework of a thing and you once again get caught up in how wildly warm he is.

Shaking his head he shifts to grab the pipe.

But his hand slides to rest against your thigh, like it’s a small way of saying don’t move, don’t leave.

And you don’t.

“You wanna try something fun?” He offers.

“Sure.” You don’t know what you might have just agreed too.

Lucien maneuvers, slides his large warm hand to your face and your heart stops. He tilts your head towards him and his thumb softly rubs against you.

“You trust me?”

The soft lull of Frank Ocean continues playing in the background softening this world around you.

You don’t even know if this man has a middle name or not, but you know him enough, or mainly, find yourself wanting to melt more into him.

So you nod quietly.

“Good girl, just keep your mouth open.”

That line takes your breath away.

You have an idea of what’s coming, but even with that, you crumble.

Lucien inhales from the pipe, filling his mouth with smoke. In a blur he moves. It’s like you blink and he’s all around you.

His hand on your face, his body pressed up flush against you and then, his face slowly moving towards you.

With his lips open, he breathes the smoke into your waiting mouth and your eyes shut in bliss. His lips graze against yours, a tease.

You inhale on instinct. Yet your hands move on their own, possessed, to run against his warm broad chest.

Once the smoke is in your mouth and you hold it in, allowing this mixture of the smoke and him to consume you. You also don’t miss the way Lucien himself breathes out.

Then before you can close your mouth, he lets his tongue gently swipe at your top lip, a kitten-like lick.

But it’s divine.

When a soft whine escapes you, Lucien effortlessly dives in to kiss you, cradling your face and steals your breath away again.

Making out with your dealer could probably be one of the dumbest decisions ever. But he’s a unique high of his own, one making you so dizzy, but you think you don't want it to end just yet.

So you melt into this smoke and into him.

And it’s otherworldly bliss.

[paperstorm]

Thanks for the tags @ironheartwriter @heartstringsduet @henrygrass and @nisbanisba!!

May I offer just a little bit from a scene that truly is one of my favourite scenes I have ever written.

-

“You know, I, uh …” TK lets his fingers wander over the strings, the rich sound of the acoustic floating through the cavernous theater. “I was supposed to come see you a few months ago. But I … um.”

TK swallows. Scattered shouts from the crowd bounce off the walls. He hadn’t decided, yet, whether he was going to talk about it on stage. He knew it would be a massive elephant in every room if he didn’t, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to summon the courage. Tonight, Carlos’s words from earlier in the week keep ringing in his head – his praise for the honesty and vulnerability in TK’s lyrics.

“I had some shit to work out,” TK says, settling on keeping it vague. He doesn’t doubt every person in the place knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t need to spell it out for them. “So, I wanted to say I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, Chicago, and I really, really want to thank you for showing up tonight. It means a lot to me.”

The audience is momentarily deafening, and TK catches more than a few screeched We love you’s! Smiling and plucking at the strings, he says, “I love you guys, too. And I thought, uh. As a thank you for understanding why I had to cancel the last show, and for being willing to reschedule our night together, I thought maybe I’d play you guys something that I’ve never played live before.”

Laughter bubbles up out of him as the racket they make nearly brings the rafters down.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he teases, to continued screaming. “Because it’s a song about you guys, actually. It’s about how much I love being here with you, and how scared I was that I was gonna let you down when things in my life weren’t going very well.”

The words catch in his throat. Movement distracts him for a moment and TK glances to his left, to find his bandmates in the wings, just out of sight of the crowd but visible from where he’s standing. Carlos, TK notices after a second, is with them. He smiles, and TK’s shaking hands calm just a little bit.

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh @bonheur-cafe

@reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom

@sanjuwrites @orchidscript @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @butchreyes @just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian

@tellmegoodbye @anactualcaseofthetruth @ironheartwriter @eclectic-sassycoweyes @ditheringmind

@emsprovisions @irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89

@carlossreaders @ladytessa74

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Extremely random, but I've gotten one or two asks about it so,

The way I decide whether an animal is "uncharismatic" or not boils down to a simple question: if I asked a random person on the street what their favorite animal was, would this animal be a likely answer? So most cute and fluffy animals (especially the canines and felids), most zoo attractions like giraffes and elephants, and the like are immediately out.

Of course, there are exceptions. Most people find butterflies to be delightful, but I doubt your average Joe could name more than 2-3 species off the top of their head. Same with birds- I have yet to find someone who doesn't like them, but they're probably not listing the Andean Condor among their favorite animals unless they're hard-core avian conservationists.

The problem with this method, though, is that I'm making all these posts on Tumblr. And tumblr's taste in animals is...eclectic to say the least. Which is why I sometimes find myself staring at a draft and asking myself "Is the blobfish really uncharismatic?" (The answer is no, of course not, but I'm posting about him anyway).

[jesterafterdark]

Feedist Kinktober 2024 - Day 2

"Masquerade Ball 💃🏻"

(prompts via @fatguarddog)

"You are cordially invited..." You read aloud, skimming the handwritten note that had been delivered to your door. A ball? A masquerade ball? That was a new one. You'd never been to anything like that in your life, and suddenly you were being invited out of the blue? It all seemed surreal. The letter was signed "Ms. Jester," punctuated with a pink lipstick stain. The note listed the date, time and venue, a large gothic manor that often hosted these kinds of events. Attached to the envelope was a small package, wrapped in brown paper with a pink bow. Inside was two things, a venetian style mask resembling a pig, and a piece of card that simply read "you'll need this to get in 💕"

You looked at your reflection. You had never seen yourself as the type for something so fancy, your figure never lent itself to things like sophistication and dancing. The pig mask made it feel even more like some strange joke. But the venue was legit, and a little googling told you plenty. Ms. Jester's Masquerade Ball was a big event, held annually in different locations. No one was quite sure how the guest list was decided, an eclectic mixture of tastemakers and nobodies, but you'd been chosen.

A friend helped you select a dress for the occasion, something cute. You'd wanted something that would obscure your figure, but she insisted you go with a form fitting black dress. "It'll highlight your curves, trust me!"

~~~

The night finally rolled around, you stumbled out of your taxi, struggling with your heels. You were regretting the lunch you'd eaten, bulging out of your tight black dress. There was a line out the door, all wearing their masks. You pulled yours on, trying to suck in your stomach and thinking that you already looked enough like a pig.

There was a clear theme as soon as you stepped into the line. Half of the guests were as plump as you, or even bigger, and wearing masks resembling pigs, cows, you even picked out a hippo and an elephant in the crowd. The other half were thin, slender, and wearing the faces of wolves, foxes and lions. The thought that this was some elaborate prank was hard to ignore, part of you wanted to turn tail and run before you could be humiliated. Then you felt a hand on your shoulder, and a familiar voice.

"I told you the dress would look good on you!" Your friend's voice came from behind the fox mask.

"You were invited too? Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought it would be more fun to surprise you," she giggled.

"Well, I'm definitely surprised," you scowled, "is it just me or is there a... Theme, here?"

"Aw, don't worry about that, Ms. Jester's events are always a little eccentric, but trust me, it's gonna be great."

"There's just a... Fat-shame-y kind of vibe, you know?"

"Trust me," she said, leading you to the door, "There's no shame here."

The large man that loomed at the entrance wore the only mask you'd seen so far that wasn't an animal. It resembled a plain white face with no mouth and a pointed chin. He glanced at your mask, and your friend's, before nodding and gesturing for you both to enter.

Inside, the place was already alive with dancing and music. The sound was more modern than you expected from something like this. Your friend took the lead, guiding you around. There were dozens of tables stacked high with cakes and cupcakes, everything decorated with pink frosting. The room was overwhelmingly pink, not at all what you'd expect from the grim, Gothic exterior. People gathered around the tables, sampling the treats.

"This looks good!" Your friend smiled under her fox mask, raising a small pink cake to your lips, "try it!"

"What?" You stepped back, not expecting the food to be shoved in your face so eagerly.

"Oh," your friend's cheeks flushed under her mask, "Sorry, I got a little too excited." She held her hand out more gently, "Do you want to try it?"

You took it from her and turned it over in your hand. It did look good, but you were already practically stuffed into your dress and didn't want to burst out of it in front of everyone. "I guess one couldn't hurt."

You bit down and suddenly you were in heaven. The little thing was sweet, tasting like vanilla and stuffed with cream. It was the best thing you'd had in a while, and as soon as it was gone you started to wish you'd savored it a little longer.

"Okay," you murmured, "I guess two couldn't hurt."

Your friend raised a second one to your mouth, slower and more timidly this time, and you let her feed it to you. You could tell she was enjoying it, and you were starting to realize that you were too. You knew you wouldn't stop at two.

~~~

As the evening drew on you kept letting the little fox guide you from table to table, stuffing your face at each. You would have felt ashamed but it seemed to be the done thing at this ball, and you thought that your dress might give out before the night ends but it wouldn't be the first.

Of course you took time to dance, to socialize, between tables. It was still a ball, after all. But as you ate more and your swollen stomach got heavier, and your dress more constricting, the dancing became more and more of an afterthought.

After what must have been your thirtieth little treat of the night, though you'd lost count a while ago, a woman slid up beside you and your fox. Like the bouncer at the door, she didn't wear an animal mask. She wore a bright pink evening gown, long black gloves and her lips were the exact shade of the lipstick on your invitation. Her mask left no doubt to who this was, a classic Venetian Jester. Ms. Jester.

"Enjoying the soiree?" She smiled down at you expectantly.

"Oh, uh, yes!" You sputtered awkwardly. "It's a lot of fun."

"And you're taking advantage of the spread?" She gestured to the tables, which were being steadily restocked by women in plain black masks.

The fox answered for you, "Oh yeah, she's making good use of it."

The jester grinned, "Good! I'd hate to see my guests going hungry. You two are so cute together, by the way." She winked and turned back to the party.

"Oh no we're-" you tried to correct your host but she'd already vanished into the crowd.

"Sounds like we make a good pair," your friend laughed.

"Sounds like," you laughed too, but only to hide the nerves. "Can you grab me ano-"

"Already on it," she mock-saluted, grabbing another cake.

~~~

The Ball was finally drawing to a close, more and more people making quiet exits. You sat on a chair, your fox gently coaching you through one last bite. She'd been coaching through "one last bite" for the last half an hour, but there always seemed to be "just one more, you can do it."

Then, you shifted in your seat and heard the rip. Your belly had actually breached the dress. You panicked, hands frantically trying to cover the tear.

"Hey, hey! Calm down," your friend laughed, pulling a jacket from her bag. "Throw this on and we can head out, this is winding down anyway."

You pulled the jacket over yourself, zipping it. You could feel the cold material pressing against your skin through the hole in your dress. The two of you headed out and your friend dialed for a taxi.

"So... Why did you have this jacket?"

"Huh?"

"You're half my size, why do you have a jacket big enough to cover me?"

"Oh, uh, well-" she stumbled over her words, struggling to find an answer.

"You planned this, didn't you?" You laughed, "How did you even manage that."

"These masks," she held out the fox face, "went out first and came with a plus one. I had you invited."

"Why me?"

"I've always had a... Bit of a thing for you." She stared at her feet, cheeks flushed.

"That's funny," you smiled, her eyes drifting up to yours, "I've always had a thing for you too."

You felt her lips press against yours as the taxi pulled up behind you. She started laughing.

"I can taste those cakes on your lips."

[tayloredmusings]

pls ghosts fandom let me in

i bring a few eclectic theater/film/etc songs that give me h$ vibes as tribute since i am a big music girlie

waterloo

Waterloo Couldn't escape if I wanted to Waterloo Knowing my fate is to be with you Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-Waterloo Finally facing my Waterloo

elephant love medley

[SATINE] Who needs a heart?

[CHRISTIAN] Suppose I kept on singing love songs

[SATINE] All of this music breaks my heart

a lovely night

And though you looked so cute In your polyester suit (it's wool)

You're right, I'd never fall for you at all

[mantrabay]

Eager Bard Imbued Part 1

Lemon tinted phase

gilded skyline blown

by ethereal fused mist

eager bard imbued

opal dream flotilla

beyond tarnish while

flash point chariots

of gleam-well canvass

astir or astern perforce

taunt a hued vase

porcelain image fest

for staunch earthbound

soul’s cry parched

stricken migrant famish

sapphire plume ray

bounty veridical

pink chalk sketch

granule blush pots

pearl beam spur

to jumpy pilgrim

grey elephant garb

drifter’s lull prone

metre of skewed

and barren glib

dull tossed aside

rambles and brambles

from cerebral quartz

beige quirky quill

nose twitch petrichor

glacé smelt rain

lava veined fillip

fervent fetal floe

ignited indigo inkling

as noonday nuanced

glance en dash

away from orange

peel cloud skies

toward spring rush

urban junction fare

as founding cue

for zeitgeist driven

western world eden

brick red hydrants

fricative wet spray

dousing hoarse busker

charged by crazy

pavement stamp

stoic poet in situ

tumult, hubbub,

rumpus heightened

by brazen banter

silver coin wobble

on carrageen rim

of oyster pebbled

pool a mecca

for stanza stymied

lingerer who scouts

eclectic threshold

born of cumbersome

blight on ingenuity

Photographs and piece all my own work

Dedicated to my fantastic sister Jay A Pallen

As always sincere thanks to all on tumbrl for considering this post

[trtyutr]

Attention the Court VI

Ryan wakes up to the sound of the door bell ringing. He rolls to get up but is stopped by his baby bump. It looks overdue. He peels off his fishnet shirt as he sits up. He looks around to see his any of his two gentlemen guests are still around, but it seems that the two of them left during the night. He shrugs it off. The encounters were casual and all parties knew that going in. He gets up. It's getting harder and harder to move the baby bump. It's growing so quickly and the rest of his body hasn't kept up. He puts on a tight blue shirt and red basketball shorts that should be loose but hugs his flesh. He waddles to the door of his condominium. He opens up the door to find a massive red basket overflowing with a odd variety of fruits and a small blue envelope.

He drags the two inside and pops open the envelope. It's a statement saying that $168,750 has been added to his account. He smiles at the number as he rubs his belly. He's going to need it to provide for all his kids. He turns to the fruit basket. The bounty contains an eclectic collect of fruits; avocados and coconuts usually require more preparation to be included in a typical fruit basket. He has to eat it, and the elephant is eaten one bite at a time. He rips into the red plastic and pulls out a peach. He bites into and is hit with how sweet and sweet it is. Juice pours down his chin as he gobbles the flesh around the pit. He puts the pit down, unaware of the fact of his ass swelling larger, jutting further from his form by an inch. His shorts grow to accommodate his larger form, staying as tight as always. He rips into a cloth bag full of berries. A strange menagerie of berries lie within it. He pops them all inside his mouth; each of them sweet and tart. Each of them causes a small surge in his body. Feature harden and sharpen as muscles grow and bulge within his body. By the time he's through the one bag, he's five pounds heavier with muscle. He takes out one of the bananas and peels it. He pops it in his mouth in one bite. It's the best banana he's ever eaten, though it was oddly a bit unrip. He crotch swells forwards as his dick grows and lengthens. It's circumference and length have both grown by half an inch. He looks at the olives packed in a tiny jar, and he licks his lips. Maybe they might help flush out the sweetness in his mouth, to make the other fruits sweet again. He pops open one of the jars and plucks out a fruit from the brine. It's bitter and salty. As he masticates, his mouth floods with saliva. Without thinking, he grabs two more, then three more. every bite he takes, he grows heavier. As the berries hardened features, the olives soften them, but both add weight. His fat seems to collect at the bottom bottom of his belly, his thighs, the sides of his torso the most. When the olives are all gone, he still craves that savory taste, he picks up the jar and chugs down the brine. When he's done with the jar, he's find pounds fatter than when he started. He looks at the avocados. Packages of crackers lay beside them. He walks into the kitchen, his footsteps falling just a little bit harder than they used to. He grabs a sharp knife, a spoon, and butterknife. Split it open by cutting around the pit, scoop out the flesh from the skin, and spread it over the crackers. The result is easy to nosh on, and quickly the crackers are gone. Just as quickly, the bulge of his red shorts fills out as his balls plump up, becoming 25% percent larger than they were. Kyle still doesn't realize the changes to his body, his mind all making it all normal and fine. He picks up one of the coconuts, while trying to remember how to open them up from that one time his friend showed him in college. Underneath the collection of coconuts is a skewer, a mallet, and a sharp spoon. Now he remembers. He pokes opens up one of the soft spot that lay at the "eyes." He lifts up the coconut and gulps down the milk that pours out. It's oddly a lot of water for a ripe one. His arms automatically adjust as his pecs swell a little bit. He cracks open the rest with a mallet, and scoops out the flesh from the two halves, eating the meat as he scoops it out like he's eating out of carton of ice cream. When there's only the shell left, his pecs jut out an inch more, and his nipples larger and longer. He's still hungry, and there's so much fruit just for him.

Kyle finishes off a peach, by sucking off every bit of flesh from its pit. He looks around for something else, but all he finds is empty red packaging. Then he hears the doorbell ring. He waddles over to the door. The floor boards of his new condominium creek and groan under his weight. His belly, filled with 128 kids, already looks overdue despite being five weeks along. His his body is now a whole lot more stout. He's 175 pounds stronger and 165 pounds fatter. His thighs rub together. His back is wider, his lats widen the top and love handles at the bottom. His arms are bigger than a lot people's heads. His ass sways as he waddles, each cheek the size of a yoga ball, and they match his chest, though the latter are bigger. Golf balls sized nipples sit on large areolae are painfully obvious behind the blue fabric that contain them. Swinging beneath his belly is a 19 inch monster supplied by two productive melon sized balls. He opens up his door and leans forwards a bit, his chest making it hard for him to see things bellow his eye level. It's one of his gentleman quests from last night. The man blushes at Kyle's new form, though neither can mentally process the change as abnormal. "I think I left my charger here. Mind if I grab it?" Kyle rubs his baby bump. "Sure, though if you aren't busy right now. I wouldn't mind if you gave me a proper goodbye before leaving again or continuing our fun last night." The man turns redder. His pants tent up. "I would love that." Good peers. I have noticed something. Kyle is spending all this time with these gentle men, but beyond their exciting time together, they part so easily. I think there should be an effect on each other, gifts in my normal fashion of course. The court shall pick two option this time, the two leaders prevailing as the gifts and maybe even combining. Now let's the options. Virile Father: why should Kyle be the only one so blessed, his lovers shall be growing children of his own. Virile Suitors: his lovers shall be now give our dear Kyle more children. Generous Giver: Kyle shall make his companions larger. Greedy Grower: his companions shall make our client grow. Waste Not: every lustful encounter shall make every 128 kid grow. Patron Patriarch: fortune shall find his paramours. Patronized Patriarch: Every paramour shall make Kyle wealthier. Binding Bed: All that Kyle shall bed shall be bound by strange magics to his fate. All of the Above! Nothing

(Sorry for the delay. Life got complicated and I didn't have the time or when I did not the energy for the next part.)

[hemingwaystan]

Music Taste Of The Four Lords

What follows is a list of various music I think the lords would like, each get a few artists and/or song they'd like and a theoretical favorite song. Of course a question could not get more subjective but that doesn't mean I'm taking criticism lol. Be advised I barely listen to modern music (past 10 years or so) with a few exceptions so it may be stunted that direction.

Alcina Dimitrescu: Lady Dimitrescu would definitely like a lot of stuff from her own time, classic big band, Cab Calloway, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra (I know he's later), Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, these are the only men she can put up with besides Ramon Salazar and the Duke. She probably toured with half of the fuckers. I think she'd pick and choose from all the decades after that. She'd like Fleetwood Mac, I know, I don't know why but she does, Aretha Franklin, Elton John, and positively fucking loves Laufey. But her favorite song is "Dancing Queen by ABBA", fucking change my mind. She'd also probably really like ABBA on the whole, "Dancing queen, young and sweet, only 117".

Salvatore Moreau: I'm sorry but I have to let you all down with Moreau, I can only think of the song he cries to and his favorite song. He cries to "Hurt by Johnny Cash" and his favorite song is "Don't Stop Believin' by Journey" this being his favorite song is non-negotiable, I just know it'd be.

Karl Heisenberg: Well, obviously, this man would love Classic Rock and Metal. I'd say for artists he'd like Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, The Strokes, and Nirvana (He'd def love Grunge). I don't know many heavy metal bands but he'd probably like them along with Cassandra. For a favorite song I'm going to go out on a limb and say "And Romeo Had Juliette" I just think he'd love the forlorn romanticism of it all, lyrics in particular. I'm also an ardent Donnaberg shipper and I think the song definitely works for them. No way I projected my favorite song onto Heisenberg, no way, right? His close second favorite song is "The Man Who Sold The World by Nirvana", it's a Bowie song, Nirvana did a cover before Cobain died.

Donna Beneviento: For Donna she'd probably have some really calm jazz for Angie to interrupt while she works, Miles Davis, maybe Brubeck, I'd guess. I also think for sure think she'd love the Talking Heads. But I can't think of many artists for Donna so here are songs. I'd say she's probably a lot more eclectic than the others lords musically so it varies more. "Crazy by Gnarls Barkley", "Say It Ain't So by Weezer", "We'll Meet Again by Vera Lynn", "The Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen", "Wish I Knew You by The Revivalists", "Heroes by David Bowie", "House of the Rising Sun by The Animals". And for her favorite song I'd say "Cigarette Daydreams by Cage The Elephant". It also has a little bit of Donnaberg in it to me if you think in terms of them so I'm biased.

[legs-art]

ELEMENTAL REALM / ECLECTIC CHAMBER OCS!

Hiiiiiii first art post I'm sharing publicly! This has been a month in the making but it's so worth it. These are a handful of characters in my OC universe, the Elemental Realm! AKA the Eclectic Chamber, I'm currently going through a name change from elemental realm to eclectic chamber. Don't worry about that.

Italicized names mean those are placeholders while I still try to come up with a better name. For some, those placeholders have been there for years :P whoops

These comprise pretty much all the significant characters I have (with a guideline of appearing in at least 2 stories although there's some exceptions). There are roughly another 100 or so characters that I opted not to include because they're either not as significant, I don't have an interesting design for them, or I just didn't feel like it. Full namedrop behind the read more in case you're interested! Maybe I'll do a part 2 of this in a year or so, who knows.

If there's any characters here that tickle your fancy, shoot an ask or a comment for me to infodump about them! Quality of infodumping may vary, especially considering I still have to step around spoilers and whatnot, but I'm very interested to show you how these characters have been sculpted in my head over these past several years. (Also, I will be revealing some info about the story ideas I already have in mind for the Elemental Realm soon, so stay tuned for that!)

Uhhhhhh yeah. Hopefully I'm not forgetting to say anything important. I really love what I made lol I hope I can finally start moving this universe outside of my head and into the world ^_^

Anyway, yeah, sorry to the following for not making the cut:

The Pawn

OBJECT

Pirate Cat

Frost Wyvern

The Other Plant Species

Ishmael

Olive Hills Grandmother

Disco Restituo Grandmother

TVHead Salesperson

The Hidden Prime Minister

AtmOS

Operatic Nobeard

KUR-180 (Ferret Form)

Hyperlink Trace II

Squirrel

Wibblewobble Vortex

Cuttlefish "Danger" Aromantic

Sporror

Teodoro Locksmith

Galleria Monies

Vapo Sea Devil

Sternum Crease

Base Sorceress

Nom Diamonds

Zareen Hangus

Mark Genuine

Blundered Impersonator

Alice

Senderman

Jasper

Cow Cowboy

Blood Knight

Ice Prince

Ice Squid

Ice Cephalopod

Stratos

Kozmo

Old Guy With Badger Stand

Overseer

Loomynutty

Blobular Shapeshifter

Santa

Krampus

Chad Shakespeare

Angelsbane

Elephant Friend

The Tourist Trap

Fluffy Boy Rabbit

Fluffy Boy Bear

TTRPG Komodo Dragon

Windmill Gnome

Robot Police Dog

Little Mouse Guy

Perfect Soup Nerd Bird

Sentient Tiny Hot Air Balloon

Lugnarts

Verde Mermaid

Clownimatronic / The Machine

The Crescents

Suntronic

Mongoose Man

Blizzard Wizard

Kulfi Wala

The Beast

Still Chaos Penguin

Caged Water Beast

Metakellos

Monsterfucker Snake Robot

Rodrigo

Crystal Aurora King

Star Matter Ursa

Glorp

ANN-13

Crysple

X-02

Pyramid Of Mayhem

Fishbowl

Top Hat

Alien Traffic Control Tower

Fridgey

Dice

Easel

The Stalker

Majesty Of Colors

Andromeda V5

[denerdnr]

Charles Schwab House

The Charles M. Schwab House was a 75-room mansion in New York City. It was built for steel magnate Charles M. Schwab and was considered the classic example of a "white elephant", as it was built on the "wrong" side of Central Park, far from the more fashionable Upper East Side.

The house was designed by Maurice Hébert in an eclectic mix of Gothic Revival and Beaux-Arts, inspired by three French castles: Chenonceau, Blois and Azay-le-Rideau. It took four years to build (1902–1906) at a cost of six million dollars.

Schwab was a self-made man who became president of US Steel and later founded the Bethlehem Steel Company. However, he was a venture capitalist and went bankrupt in the Wall Street Crash of 1929. Charles died penniless ten years later, in 1939, leaving his home to be the official residence of New York's mayors. Unfortunately for the mansion, Fiorello La Guardia, then mayor, turned it down, saying, "what, 'me' in this?" After years of neglect, the house was demolished in 1947, replaced by a large apartment complex called "Casa Schwab".

In this version for The Sim 4, I made French gardens (I found the ones in the original house a little boring :P). The interiors were a big challenge, as I only found reference images for the staircase hall, but I tried to keep the same eclecticism in all the rooms.

[hankwritten]

A Tavern Named Keep [1/6]

Demoman-centric Modern AU

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

In a small uni-town in New Mexico, DeGroot Keep serves liquor and succor to an eclectic yet loyal group of patrons, and has for many years. The Keep owes its success to its equally colorful owner, who always seems to know what you need—whether that be a stiff beer or a word of advice. But, between setting up his patrons or sifting through his friends’ problems, will Tavish remember to take care of himself?

Nestled between the Law Offices of one B. L. Tarch and the perpetually-closed Geranium Germinated Wheat Bakery, there sits a modest little Tavern by the name of DeGroot Keep. One wouldn’t be blamed in mistaking the Keep for…anything else really; the structure is made from a homey, tan stone that gives it the air of a snug residential building (and indeed, its proprietor does live in the room above the tavern, but we’ll get to him later.) Fresh green paint trims the windows and roof, never a flake nor chip as a point of pride. Although the tavern’s name hangs above a pair of heavy wooden doors just off the street, this sign is only a formality, as the true entrance to DeGroot Keep (as transcribed by its sole employee on a borrowed flashcard and taped to the door) is procured from the eastern side, down the hall to the right. This esca of a front door can’t be breached even if one tries; within, the Keep’s largest and most impressive wooden table blocks the entirety of it, crouching like a curmudgeonly boulder. Nicknamed the Elephant, (both for its girth and the fact that sixteen dancing elephants are carved into legs), the monstrosity can only be moved by four fairly-fit adults working in coordination, which is a big ask for the patrons of the Keep, so there the Elephant sits. This is actually one of the least egregious examples of the business’s fire and safety hazards.

To truly access this strange example of an alcoholic establishment, one must pass through the repurposed gap-between-buildings, underneath the pergola, and betwixt two stone sea-serpents if they judge you worthy. The spot of shaded greenery one finds there is something to marvel at, though few do. During the day it is shaded, and as the sun goes down, hanging lights guide potential customers to the actual front door.

This is the journey of one truly haggard prospective patron, newly jet-lagged and irate from the front door’s runaround, grumbling to himself with a distinct Australian accent as he pushes inside. Tavish, as well as the handful of early customers hunkered in their normal pods, look up at the bell’s ring.

“Aye there!” greets the bartender, as genial as they come, slipping into the smile he reserves for courting the uninitiated to his place of business.  “Welcome to DeGroot Keep! What can I get for you, stranger?”

The newcomer startles. Hearing a thick Scottish accent in the deep reaches of the southern United States usually does that—in Tavish’s experience—so he’s just glad that the man’s forgotten to be sour-faced for a second. It’s not so odd that it distracts him for more than a moment, though, and he drifts closer to the bar. “Beer.”

“Coming right up!”

Tavish moves automatically, bottles sliding behind the bar with a practiced ease, acting on hunch as sizes up the man before him. He’s not paying attention to the bartender's hands, instead finally getting hit with the sheer unorthodoxy of the tavern’s décor, the Elephant not the least of it. This is perfectly fine for Tavish, who begins the process of rimming a glass tumbler.

“Flight just get in?” he fields, as his customer gazes around in bafflement.

“…Yeah.” The man’s frown—before with an air of perpetual irritation that was more aimed at the general world rather than Tavish in particular—grows slightly suspicious. It tugs him enough out of his beguilement. “How’d you know that?”

“Just a guess.” Tavish shrugs. “You can wear the sunglasses indoors all you like lad, but it wouldn’t hide those bags unless you had a bag o’re your head.”

There is a moment, a moment where Tavish tenses, knowing that not everyone would take brusque ribbing from a stranger with anything more than offense, but then the stranger fully processes what’s been said. He laughs. It’s an abrupt little thing, more of a bark really, but the tension between them breaks, and the Australian sits down.

“Your drink, sir,” Tavish says as he slides it towards him.

“…This isn’t a beer.”

“ ‘S the same price.” A half grin curls up mischievously. “Humor me.”

The man, now sitting at one of the vinyl-clad bar stools patterned to resemble a vintage bottle cap, takes a hold of the mixed drink and knocks it back. After a second, he sets it down, licking the corner of his mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “That’s a damn good drink, mate.”

The hunch, now confirmed, eases back into the twinkle of Tavish’s eye. “Well they don’t call me the greatest bartender between the 106th and 107th longitudes for nothing! I do my best.”

Snorting, the man says, “Mick Mundy.”

“Tavish DeGroot,” Tavish replies, taking the offered hand.

“DeGroot,” Mick hums. “As in DeGroot Keep, then?”

“No actually, complete coincidence. Bought the place from a woman named Dee Gertrude Roots, her pride and joy it was, founded it in the 70s as a swinger’s club. Anyway, terrible thing happened to the ‘ole girl: ‘twas the day of her retirement, and right as she hands me the keys, that there moose-shoe hanging above the door comes free ‘o its nail. Dropped on her noggin, and killed dead right there.”

Mick turns to stare at the comically large horseshoe christening the Keep’s doorway, before glancing skeptically at Tavish. “You’re fucking with me.”

“ ‘Course I���m fucking with you. ‘As in DeGroot Keep?’ Bah, what sort of half-brained question is that?” But Tavish says it with such teasing humor that Mick can’t help but laugh too. Tavish’s starting to like this man, now that he’s getting a good feel for his ins-and-outs.

Gesturing with his half-finished drink, Mick admits, “DeGroot or Roots, you’ve got a real weird bar on your hands.”

“Tavern,” Tavish corrects seriously. When Mick raises an eyebrow, he blisters, “ach, you’re as bad as the Americans, can’t tell a bar from a pub, let alone a proper tavern when you see one.”

“Don’t let him start draw ‘n quartering you for that,” a voice speaks up from beyond Mick and Tavish’s conversation. “Trust me, ain’t no one in the world makes the distinction but him.”

The three men near the door, whose exchange Tavish has been listening to with half an ear, have noticed that Mick has settled into an amicable conversation, the fact that it’s gone on reasonably long marking him as ‘the alright sort’. The regulars around here know better than to crowd any new faces, lest their enthusiasm chase them off. Tavish has a business to run, after all.

“And that’s what’s wrong with your bloody country,” Tavish points at the interrupter. “No one cares but me! When the day comes you’ll all slide into the ocean, except for I and the Keep, the only ones who bothered to remember that words mean things.”

Ignoring him, Dell speaks right on past to Mick. “Bet he told you he was the best bartender in the county too,” the customer-swiping bastard says, elbowing Mick in the side. “He mention he only won that competition because the other contestant had even fewer eyes than him?”

“You just have to ruin everything for me, don’t you Conagher?” Tavish asks, and Dell laughs.

They quickly round-table the introductions, Dell the only one to reach out and shake Mick’s hand. Mikail stoutly offers his name before retreating back into silence, but when it comes to Dr. Ludwig’s turn, he states abruptly, “and I am a free man!”

Mick falters, but to his credit, it’s only momentarily. “Congratulations? Got ‘ta say though, you got balls mate. Most people don’t offer up when they’ve just been out of prison.”

“Prison?” Ludwig says, eyes immediately narrowing behind his spectacles, snapping into suspicion in an instant. “Who told you about that? I want names!”

“I uh,” Mick says, obviously taken aback. Thankfully, Dell always has his thumb on the pulse of whenever something farcical is about to go on.

“What Doc means to say,” he assuages, “is that he’s been freed from the institution of marriage, not the institution of…institutionalization.”

Ludwig’s mood is gone as quickly as it’d come. “Ah ha ha, yes. Silly misunderstanding. Excuse my slip of the tongue.”

Still looking like he’s been swiped at by a wild animal, Mick cautiously says, “…roight.”

“But yes, the papers came in this morning! As of today, I am a free man.”

He proves this by spreading out said papers across the booth’s table, and reciting in glee the legal severances which he had been granted over a multitude of affidavits and certifications. Tavish, having the misfortune of not being able to move from his post, knows Ludwig’s been doing this for the past hour and a half. Mikhail and Dell have shown him saintly support however, the later patting him on the shoulder as he launches into another gleeful discussion of alimony. They’ve retracted back into their corner, for which Mick is grateful.

“Eclectic lot you got,” he tells Tavish. “Setup to a joke, isn’t it? A German, a Russian, and American walk into a Scotsman’s bar.”

“Tavern,” Tavish says. “And you haven’t seen the half of it. Wait until you meet-”

The bell tinkles, heralding the arrival of Tavish’s only employee and their begrudging chauffeur.

“You’re late,” he tells Pyro.

The bout of muffled, frustrated yelling he gets in response is directed at Jeremy, who puts his hands up in defense. Pyro points at their roommate furiously, laying the truth bare.

Tavish raises a brow at the sputtering man. “You slowed down just so you could stare at the track team’s arses?”

“It’s a student crossing zone!” Jeremy caterwauls with the trod upon hallmarks of an argument carried all the way from campus to the bar. “I had to slow down. And, y’know, maybe while we were stopped I looked, but I was-”

Pyro throws their hands up in exasperation and walks behind the bar.

Mick, meanwhile, has been gazing at Pyro nonstop since they stepped in the door. Tavish doesn’t blame him. It’s not every day you see someone in a fully flame-retardant suit tie on an apron and then put a little chef’s hat on their head.

“Jaw off the floor, lad,” he says to Mick, not unkindly.

Realizing he’s staring, the Australian self-consciously follows the command. “…Sorry.”

“ ‘S alright. They get that a lot.”

The person in question doesn’t even notice the conversation has fallen on them, shuffling to the back kitchen in preparation of the upcoming dinner rush.

“…They wear that all the time then?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, swinging into the stool on Mick’s right. “It’s cool though. Believe it or not, Pyro’s not even the 4th weirdest person at TFU.” Jeremy pauses, as though just registering who he’s talking to. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Scout, be nice,” Tavish warns.

“What? I am being nice! I’m asking who this chucklenut is, ain’t I?”

“Mundy,” Mick growls, already deciding he’s not going to like this kid.

“And I’m Jeremy, but everyone calls me Scout, so there, now we’re all acquainted and shit.”

“They call you Scout?” Mick asks dubiously. “Why?”

“Uh, ‘cause it’s my name, duh.”

“What kind of name is Scout?”

“What kind of name is Mundy?”

Tavish, feeling that occupying the new guest is handled for a little while, (assuming Jeremy doesn’t annoy him to death), gracefully withdraws from the conversation in the horizontal direction—sliding down the bar to where his second most care-intensive client is.

“Lassie,” he says, gently jostling her shoulder, “it’s 5:19.”

“Urg,” Pauling says, lifting from the gentle cushion of her folded arms and into the buzzing light of the Keep, illuminated as it is by the faux-stained glass filtering down from the ceiling. Her cats-eye glasses are ever so slightly out of place, much like the stray hairs popping up from her bun as though they too have just been woken from a nap.

Another bartender might be concerned to find a woman passed out on his bar after only one gin and tonic, but Tavish knows that this particular woman is only held together by stress and paperclips. Before she’d come through Keep’s doors, she’d been going on thirty hours without sleep. It was no wonder that she’d walked in, taken her usual, and then immediately slumped over in her favorite chair.

“Wuzz…” she grumbles, then shoots up like a jack-in-the-box. “5:19? I told you to wake me up at 5:14!”

“I know, but you were just so exhausted looking, I thought you deserved a wee bit longer.”

“It’s not about deserving.” The papers that had provided a barrier between wood and face are gathered quickly, slotted into clipboards and shuffled into her accordion bag. “It takes sixteen minutes to get from here to The Facility at a brisk walk, but to get there in eleven I’ll have to punch that up to a light jog and then I’ll be sweaty, and the Administrator will notice because she always notices and-”

A stray paper flutters away as Pauling fails to put it in its appropriate folder.

“Crap.”

That’s not the end of Pauling's troubles either. As she makes her break towards the door, Jeremy scrambles out of his chair and into her way. “Yo, Miss P!”

“Scout. What is it. Kind of in a hurry.”

Jeremy, with his cap a little crooked as he rubs the back of his head, inevitably does not take the hint and says, “yeah you’re always in a hurry, that’s why it took so long to tell you, I wanted to bring it up when it was new ‘n all-”

“Scout. Talk faster.”

“I just uh,” he flounders. “I got a new bike. A scooter, like yours, just because you make it look so cool, and when my car broke down I figured I could make it, uh look cool...too,” he finishes lamely. “So like, in the future if you ever want to talk about bikes and stuff?”

There is a heavy, prolonged movement of air. A sigh if a sigh were on the inhale, sucking all the aggravation out of the tavern like a straw sucking up Gin and Tonic. “That’s great Scout. We can definitely. Do that.”

“Really? That’s great! I mean uh, that’s cool.” He notices that he’s still blocking her exit. “Sorry, let me just uh…” With that, he scoots out of the way, and Pauling is off at a light jog.

Tavish waits until the bell has longs stopped ringing before frowning at Jeremy. “I thought you were over your crush on her.”

“What?” Jeremy seems genuinely startled. “I am! Like wayyy over it, over the moon about it.”

“Not what that means, lad.”

“Point is I’m not into her.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “I just still want to be her friend, okay? That so freaking hard to believe?”

“With you, a bit.”

Mick, watching the exchange with amusement, snorts. Jeremy glares.

“Glad Scout didn’t chase you away,” Tavish says, done with his sworn Pauling-attending duties and free to return to his other customers. “Now that Pyro’s in, we should have the kitchen up and running soon. If you’re staying around that is?”

Mick pauses, and takes a good hard look at the interior of DeGroot Keep. His eyes go up to the inlaid stone ceiling, festooned with glass lamps and beaded tassels that are now doing the heavy lifting as the daylight fades. He takes in the decoration: the murals of lonely bagpipe players inlaid to the wall as if they were tiled there, the stringless harp hung above the bar, the mounted deer head with a cigar in its mouth. His attention hovers on the group of new acquaintances, still carrying on their warm conversation in the corner.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

Tavish smiles. “Here’s the menu,” he says, sliding the laminated square toward Mick.

DeGroot Keep ( all tax included )

Flaming Burritos $11

Shrimp Flambé  $16

Cheese Saganaki $10

Steak Diane $20

Bananas Foster $7

Crème Brule $7

Baked Alaska $11

“He lets Pyro write the menu,” Jeremy says fondly, swinging back into his place beside Mick.

“Aye. And if you ever order a Swedish Glogg, it’s my solemn oath to let Pyro know so they can light it on fire themself,” Tavish says with a wink.

“I don’t even know what a Swedish Glogg is,” Mick says, pouring over the menu in bewilderment.

“Would you like to find out?”

He blanches somewhat. “Maybe some other time.”

At that, the words burrow themselves somewhere warm in the vicinity of Tavish’s heart. Some other time meant the future, meant that even if this stranger was only here for a little while, he’d be back again. The thing is, Tavish likes people. As much as he likes drinks, as much as he likes being a business owner, there’s something special about the way you connect with someone over a bar, one that he’d never gotten anywhere else. He likes this collection of people he’s accumulated, the way ‘regulars’ don’t quite describe them. Because the Keep isn’t a normal tavern, not really.

As Pyro swoops in to take Mick’s—and eventually Jeremy’s—order, Tavish moves a step back, sliding into the background as he uses the moment to drink it all in.

“Hm. New recruit.”

The voice comes from Pauling’s old spot, now a bit shadier than before. In it, a much larger man sits as he contemplates the stranger at the far end of the bar, a bottle of beer before him. He must have snuck in with his spare key, even though Tavish has told him a thousand times that ‘avoiding populated thoroughfares’ isn’t what it’s for.

“Jane,” Tavish laments, though there’s no true reprimand in it. “You don’t need to get your own drinks,” he says of the beer.

Jane draws it closer to himself, as though Tavish might try to take it away. “…Didn’t want to bother you.”

“I’m your bartender, lad. It’s my job.”

Tavish begins the task of retrieving a mug from the lowest shelf, and pouring Jane his usual. As he does, he watches Jane watch the gaggle up front, a look of concentration crossing his already stern features.

“What’s he about, then?” Jane asks as Tavish pours until the beer’s head is just about to crest over the edge.

“Dunno. Haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“But you think he’ll stick around.”

Not a question. “Well, I have a good intuition about these things.”

Jane tilts his head in Tavish’s direction. “Undoubtedly! Your talent for acquiring fruitcakes and weirdos is unparalleled within the state of New Mexico.”

“Aye, that’s how I found you dinnae I?”

To that, Jane only grins, and takes a sip of his beer.

And well, he’s not wrong, is he? Tavish takes a look around at the cozy little community, chuckling as Jeremy inserts himself into Dell’s side of the booth and makes a nuisance of himself, thinking about how he could get Pauling to possibly slow down for a few minutes next time. It’s nice to have a group of people he can count on to always be around, not the least because they’re paying him to make them drinks. It’s nice to have folks to look after.

As a few more people come in through the Keep’s portcullis, he once again remembers to be grateful for everything he’s got.