#grateful dead apparel

[meghanfabulouss]

Unlock Your Style: A Guide to Women's Clothing and Accessories

Dive into our guide on women’s clothing and accessories, featuring tips on how to choose the perfect pieces, including embellished sunglasses and spiritual jewelry. At Meghan Fabulous, we celebrate your unique style with collections that blend elegance and contemporary flair.

[see-arcane]

The trains go only so quick

The weather’s only so calm

For the people are all out

For celebration’s a balm

Our good friend sighs in shelter

Barred from revelry and fear

A storied local greets him

As a thunderhead draws near

Preface: For maximum effect, give, “Dracula’s Guest,” a read before proceeding.

The PDF version of the preview is here.

2

Walpurgisnacht

Munich held onto him longer than he would have liked. Had he been marooned in the place as a mere visitor he would never have opted to haunt the station rather than milling around through the celebrating streets. There was as much reveling as reverence at work due to the holiday. The far end of it, anyway. Jonathan had tucked a note on it in his schedule. Celebration meant delays even in the most sedate locales and there was every chance that this one’s might postpone his conveyance. He smiled tiredly at the shorthand, if only so he did not torture himself with looking at his watch for the third time in as many minutes.

‘Walpurgisnacht. Walpurgis Night. A holy day held in respect to Saint Walpurga, the 8th century abbess who warred with illness, pestilence, witchcraft and grim spirits. A time of grave superstition by dark and relieved gaiety by sunup with the witches and the dead all banished. The date has a predecessor in the form of the May Day festivals of old, making the time one of bonfires and fear, beauty and feasting.’ And apparently keeping the trains held up so that any wandering spirits cannot flee too far from the cemeteries.

Jonathan tucked the note away with the rest and battled with himself over whether he dared to stray from the platform or not. His train was meant to arrive at seven o’ clock, which meant that for safety’s sake he ought to be ready and waiting by six, even if the train was more likely to appear closer to eight. But the hour was now half-past five and he had taken his lunch early that day. He was down to rationing mints from their tin lest he give in to hunger and try to elbow his way through the crowded streets to find a restaurant. One that he would not even have time to truly enjoy, needing to eat speedily and flee back to the tracks. His stomach pinched him in protest. He held a fist against it to muffle a growl.

“You can wait.” He could. If there was no dining on the train, he would still make time for breakfast in Vienna. Or if not breakfast, lunch in Klausenburgh. Or… “Or I could just break and get a room for the night.” The words were a sigh. He had spied a hotel sitting in a picturesque spot near a spread of wild greenery that bled into woodlands. What was the name? “Quatre Saisons, I think,” he said under his breath. This, like the rest of his murmured commentary, was meant for no ears but his own. The festivities had left the station remarkably barren. Everyone who had traveled to or from the area wouldn’t be packing up until at least the next morning. So it came as a surprise when he heard a voice behind his head:

“You are an Englishman?”

Jonathan turned to see a man almost as young as himself peering down at him. A cluster of wild roses at his breast was the only flourish to his apparel. His expression was unreadable apart from an angle of suspicion to the brows.

“I am,” Jonathan allowed, grateful that he didn’t need to strain his tongue or the man’s ears with his fragmented German.

“You have come from the Quatre Saisons?” The suspecting angle deepened.

“No, but I was thinking I may have to book a room if the train comes too late.”

The man’s face softened at this, his posture relaxing an increment as he insisted, “The train will come late. Not too late, but still late. You must not bother with the Quatre Saisons either way.”

“Is it full?”

“Most rooms always fill in advance of these days. Inns and hotels shall all be swarmed from now until the seventh of May. But Herr Delbrück’s Quatre Saisons must not be tried. The place is not well this time of year.”

“I do not quite follow,” Jonathan said, his nose just catching the whiff of past toasts to the date on his companion’s breath. “How is it not well?”

“The land it sits with. It is bad to be near it, even after Walpurgisnacht has been and gone. There are…” the man seemed to catch himself on a word before pressing on, “…wild dogs that roam the forest and its valley. Strange souls who would take after the devils of last night, even as we light the fires against them. No, you must not stay there until at least the thick of summer. Better to try in the city’s heart if you must have a room.”

The rooms that were full of visitors already, according to the young man himself. Either way it still relied on Jonathan potentially spoiling the entirety of the client’s route as laid out and paid for from his own account. The idea of taking a room and gambling on a morning train was only a daydream. Jonathan almost said as much.

Instead, “I do not need a room, really. I can hardly risk missing the evening’s train by a minute. But I thank you for the advice, sir.” The young man frowned at Jonathan then, his eyes roaming the length of him in a searching way. “Are you waiting on the train as well?”

“I just purchased my ticket for the morning. It is better to travel by day. And to eat by it too.” He nodded at Jonathan. “You have not been in the city itself? You have partaken of nothing?”

“Sadly no. If I were here on my own account I should have liked to see more, but—,”

“The train will not come any earlier if you sit and starve.”

“Likely not. But I cannot risk wandering too far.” He regarded his luggage drearily. No, he dared not even risk a restaurant. Even the next stop would allow him only a glimpse of the city as he rushed from one point to the next. Perhaps he could find some time to wander when he reached the hotel, but not before. He clenched his belly against another snarl and popped another mint in his mouth. Only three left, but, “Would you care for one?”

The young man whispered something in his homeland’s tongue—it sounded to Jonathan like, “Better to have the leaves,”—but in English said, “I would. Thank you.” He laid it on his tongue as if it were a medicine pill. “But it is still not a supper. Take yourself away for a meal at least, Herr Englishman.”

So saying, the young man departed, perhaps for his own plate or hotel. Jonathan swallowed a sigh and put the tin away. Looking around he saw he really was the last one on the platform apart from one dozing woman playing chaperone to her family’s luggage. Her husband had taken the two sulking children back out into the streets to burn off some energy. With the surly toddlers and the brief conversationalist departed, the space felt oddly like an island. Even the clamor that leaked in from the mouth of the tracks was muted. Jonathan tried to bury himself in a book, but gave up as the text swam before his eyes.

What rest he had gotten was as thin as his last meal was distant. If he could only lay down and sleep through the hunger he might be satisfied, but that risked drowsing through the train whistle itself. He tucked the book away and took himself to the closest opening which showed the beginnings of twilight oozing over the tracks. His hand went again to the neglected journal at his heart and thought another apology at its pages. So far he’d only managed to jot his name within the cover.

“I am sorry,” he told the air. “My head is in no state for you yet.”

A sudden cold gust blew his words back. There was a rise of distraught voices from outside as the breeze whipped through. In the next moment there was a shift in the palette of the sky as a weighty cloud rolled over the last of the sun, plunging the outdoors into early dusk. After that came the pattering of hail. The last festive sounds turned to a disgruntled din before their noise was drowned entirely by the hammering on the station’s roof. Jonathan pulled his coat tight around him and wished luck out to the revelers.

Between one blink and the next, one of the latter manifested at the threshold below. She wore what would have been an immaculate costume of a bygone age if not for the burns that had assailed the fine old dress. Though perhaps that was merely a desired effect. She was likely going around as some witch or spirit who had escaped the bonfires’ efforts during the night. Between the platform’s glow and the outdoors’ new gloom she certainly possessed the half-lit look of a ghost.

The sort of ghost meant for a stage, he added to himself. She has an actress’ face.

Yes, an actress powdered and dressed to be a dead beauty. Her mouth was a full and somber curl of red against a carcass’ pallor. She carved it into a smile as she stared up at him, seemingly oblivious to the cold and hail at her back.

“Are you alright?” he asked in his stilted German. The woman only kept her faded eyes upon him. They had a pull to them that Jonathan couldn’t place. He found himself approaching the tracks’ edge before he realized his feet were moving. “Do you need help?” he added, wondering if the trouble was just a matter of shelter. The tracks were set deep and it would be a hassle to hoist oneself up to the platform’s edge.

“He tries again,” said the woman on the tracks. Possibly. Her German was almost as fractured as his own, albeit with a different inflection. “Another sent for. Another to travel with. Fast, fast, fast.” The sky growled at her words. A stage’s effects could do no better. With the thought in mind, he wondered:

Is this a performance?

Before he could ask, his stomach spoke for him. It was mortifyingly loud and the thunder’s next peal did not do enough to cover it. The woman’s expression cracked on a wider smile. She recited:

“Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father

Knows surely that he loves his child:

The bread and wine from the hand divine

Shall make thy tempered grief less wild.”

Jonathan smiled back, glad to recall the verse. He and Mina had gone over it in the original text and the English for practice and preference’s sake. Lenore’s lines fell from him:

“Oh! mother dear mother! the wine and the bread

Will not soften the anguish that bows down my head;

For bread and for wine it will yet be as late

That his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave’s gate.”  

The woman’s grin now bared teeth. They were brilliantly white against the crimson of her lips.

“Are you meant to be Lenore?” Jonathan asked.

“Lenore sought her lover. I sought only death.” Her hand rose toward him. “Will you help me find it?”

Thunder boomed as a new wind rolled through the station like a howl. The woman’s ruined dress and hanging hair danced wildly on her, though she seemed not to notice. Jonathan went toward her, deciding whatever act she adhered to would be better performed out of the elements’ reach. His hand reached down to hers. There was a moment when their fingers brushed and Jonathan felt sick at how frozen she felt even through his glove.

In the same instant he saw the dancing of lightning without. The bolts seemed almost like a great weaving animal, snapping in closer and closer bolts along the blackened sky. Intuition tightened in his chest. Suspicion leapt to certainty. There was no time to speak—

Get off get off the tracks it’s going to—

—only to grab for her hand.

But not fast enough. Another gale of wind rushed through, this time angled in such a way that it seized and flung him back against the floor. Lightning struck in the same instant. Noise blasted his ears. It was a nigh deafening din made from the crackle of electricity dancing on the tracks and the rattling roar of a thunderclap. Under it, he swore he heard the woman scream.

God oh God oh God hospital what is the word for hospital I need the dictionary I need—

He scrambled to his feet and back to the platform’s edge. His breath stayed trapped in his chest until he looked down.

And saw nothing.

There was no woman, alive or dead. He gawped for almost a minute at the bare tracks. The hail thinned away as he stared and the thunder softened to a grumble.

How..?

“You are hurt?”

Jonathan looked up and found the dozing mother had left her heap of baggage to check on him.

“No, no, not hurt. But there was someone…” He gestured at the tracks and limped through a few lines of German before she shooed his words away with her hand, switching briskly to English. He explained the scene in full and the mother nodded with something between grave intensity and a sprightly eagerness.

“Yes, there would still be some who wander late. Walpurgisnacht is night and day. Probably she is drifting back to her tomb, sulking that she did not get company for her bier. If you had your gloves off and showed your ring she may have not bothered. Lovers who die before the wedding day, they are the greediest souls on these nights.”

This she said with great authority and Jonathan had no desire to mention that he wore no ring as yet. No more than he had any urge to voice his suspicion that the woman had been very much alive and somehow made it away from the station’s threshold before the lightning could do any damage.

The other explanation is that the woman was, in fact, a roaming ghost come to collect a new member for the graveyard. It is the time of year for such things.  

A call from the other end of the station turned the mother’s head. Father and children had come in from the storm, as had a smattering of other travelers. The train whistle bayed not long after. Jonathan looked to the tracks again as if the woman might suddenly rematerialize in the locomotive’s path. The only body that he could see was the outline of some animal at the edge of the platform’s glow. It looked like a large dog posed beside the tracks, tail still and eyes lambent. Jonathan held its stare for a moment. Then it was gone, loping off into the night.  

This. This is worth writing about.

And it was. At least once his seat had him in it and a wonderfully dense meal sat in him. He brought out his stationery pages for the cause, jotting the entirety of his time in the station up to the arrival of the train. These loose sheets were reserved specifically for storytelling and recipe preservation, the better to possibly be scrapbooked away at home. The journal still drowsed in his pocket.

Hold out for the hotel room. Almost there.

Jonathan cupped a hand to his eyes to keep out the glare as he watched the world go by in the window. The storm was left behind now and the sky was all stars above rooftops and treetops alike. A brilliant wedge of a moon shined out at him. He was still admiring the view when the steward came along to tap his shoulder. There was a smile on his face but a glimmer of anxiety in his eye.

“Herr Harker, yes?”

“Yes,” Jonathan managed before the steward produced a telegram.

“For you. Will you have another drink?”

“No, thank you.” But the glass was already stolen away and refilled before he could finish the sentence. The steward vanished in nearly the same instant, looking as if he meant to finish the bottle himself. Jonathan puzzled over this a moment before turning his attention to the telegram.

BISTRITZ.

My friend, I send all apologies to you on account of the trains and the time. We arranged our meeting during the heart of much fervor, and such will always meddle with travel. I send this in anticipation of your own frustrations with the hindered hours and my gratitude for your steadfastness. I hope it shall please you to know that the Hotel Royale has its finest suite reserved and waiting for you, and so too for the Golden Krone of Bistritz after them. May their hospitality be a balm against the troubles of a passenger at the mercy of fickle clocks. —Dracula

Jonathan marveled at the message. It was a rarity in itself to have a client who made no fuss when it came to snags that the firm had no control over. To have one who foresaw said snags and went out of his way to apologize to the solicitor himself was unheard of. And from a noble?

He added the telegram to his memoranda with a smile. 

[cromerholt]

While equipped with the Grateful Dead T-shirt apparel item, you have +400 karma with the Dads Over 40 faction.

[thesoftboiledegg]

Summer might be over, but Midwest craft fairs are still in full swing. I wasn't expecting to find anything when I visited a fair today--maybe a Rick and Morty tumbler with stolen art, at best--but this one had some huge surprises in store.

Bags, bucket hats and knitted apparel must be the new trend, because I saw about five different booths that all sold the same merchandise. And that brings a first-time installment to the merchandise roundups: bootleg Rick and Morty shawls!

I looked up at the sky, and: bam! Rick and Morty bags!

This isn't four different bags. Instead, it's two bags that had different designs on each side, plus a fancy strap.

I only had to walk a few yards before I found another booth--this time, with backpacks hanging from the ceiling.

It's not a Rick and Morty party unless everyone's getting blasted.

Unsurprisingly, the other booths that I explored had no shortage of 420 merchandise. Morty's "high" expression is cracking me up.

And if that doesn't suit you, try getting in the holiday spirit.

One seller had racks of bucket hats. I'm not sure what the pouches on the green hat are for? I tried looking it up online and couldn't find anything.

The last shawl! This seller actually held it up so that I could take a decent picture. Rick and Morty x The Grateful Dead...that's a new one.

When I was leaving, I thought I'd seen it all, but a booth near the exit displayed a single Rick and Morty sticker. Morty wants you to know that he's a proud father.

I thought about buying one of the shawls, but they were expensive, and I don't wear shawls to begin with. Still, that's the most creative bootleg apparel I've seen in a while. In a world of Rick and Morty tumblers and light switch covers, these sellers are helping you stock your wardrobe with real stoner gear.

[bingo6776]

In sickness and in health

i genuinely hate this, and yes the ending is rushed because i am lazy and yeah xxxx 

1.6k

Wednesday was not a person that was easily worried, even about the people she genuinely cared for. She had faith in their abilities to defend themselves, and if that faith waivered she was more than ready to step in and protect them in any shape or form. That shape and form usually being freshly sharpened blades meeting the soft flesh of whoever thought it would be a good idea to harm the ones she loves.

Which is why when you had been missing from the day's classes, which is something you’d never usually do, she felt the familiar icy grip of worry tugs at her heart. Illogical thoughts of the numerous enemies she had rallied up at her stay at Nevermore flashing before her eyes, your body beaten and bloody held in their grip. Normally she found the idea of Tyler still hunting her down with Thornhill and her army of decaying colonisers to be amusing, such a sad attempt at a long-dead victory, yet when she thought of you being in harm's way because of her, her normally steady heart picked up a few paces.

So, in her mind, she was rightfully worried that you had been brutally murdered and left in a ditch. Although usually, the prospect of a new murder to solve would have excited her, considering this was you her excitement was more fear and cold, dark dread.

“Enid,” Wednesday called as she stared down at the girl seated at one of the Quad’s lunch tables. “I am concerned about Y/N, they have been out of lessons all day. It is unlike them.”

The blonde girl flashed the scowling girl a quick smile, “don’t worry about it, apparel they caught some cold from a normie. Seriously, how those guys get sick so often is beyond me. But anyways, yeah.”

Whilst Wednesday did feel her worry lower slightly, it still did not disappear. She hated the thought of you being in pain and alone…

This is why she was currently pushing the door to your dorm open, she let her eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness of the room before slowly stepping inside.

“Y/N?” her voice came out as a soft whisper, carefully trying not to land on any squeaky floorboards.

The only response she got was a rough grunt, followed by wheezing that grated against her ears, the stuffiness of the room feeling as if it was clawing at her skin.

Oh, God. 

Wednesday hated sick people. 

She loathed people on a good day, but sick people? In her experience with Pugsley, they were clingy, pathetic, and the embodiment of everything Wednesday was disgusted by. But no, this was you. gritting her teeth and ignoring the stifling aura of your dorm, she forced herself not to just turn and leave.

“Wends?” you reached over to turn on your bedside lamp, a soft groan coming from your mouth as your sensitive body stretched too quickly. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

As a soft glow flooded the room, Wednesday got a good look at you. Your hair was in complete disarray, your skin flushed, eyes drooping. Despite the lack of blankets on your body, there was still a thin gleam of sweat across your body.

“You were not in classes. I had begun to think someone had maimed you and left you for dead.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking wish. Anything would be bet-“ you couldn’t finish your sentence as your wheezing turned into a round of violent coughs that left your chest aching and your throat feeling raw.

Wednesday stepped towards your bed, pulling the water bottle by your bed up to your lips, titling your head back gently as you gulped down as much water as you could.

“Careful, drinking too fast will only cause stomach pains,” her voice was delicate as her fingers brushed a piece of hair that was clinging to your forehead away.

“God ‘s so hot in here,” you flopped back down onto your pillow. With your eyes widening slightly you rushed out a string of questions about missing any important projects or tests, you really couldn’t let your grades slip. Not so close to these stupid fucking exams.

Without thinking, Wednesday placed her hand back on your forehead, soothing your hair back as she looked down at you. a relieved sigh came from your lips as you felt her slightly calloused hands touch your skin, her freakishly cold skin cooling the rampaging heat that swam through your body.

“You should be focusing on getting healing, your grades will not suffer if you do not attend classes for a few days,” the goth absolutely hated how soft her voice sounded, but she felt the urge to console you in some way. She shared your desire to succeed in every aspect of life, to be the best of the best. Wednesday liked the envious or crushed looks the other students gave her when she got practically perfect scores again, it truly was as close to euphoria as Wednesday had felt at Nevermore. Except when she was with you, of course.

Her line of thought was broken as you hummed lightly as her hand moved against your hair once again, your stomach growling softly not too long after, yet you looked far too content and tired to even notice your apparent hunger.

“Stay here, I will be back soon,” the small girl briskly walked towards the door, leaving as quietly as she arrived.

You had spent what felt like hours fighting off sleep, trying to ignore the pounding in your head and the way breathing became more painful each time your coughed, no matter how gently your tried to do it.

But more than anything you missed how her voice soothed the pounding in your head, how her touch let you feel like you could relax, really relax. Like you were safe and taken care of. At this point, you were ready to forfeit your life to whatever satanic demon was currently trying to pull it away from you.

As you felt your eyes droop closed yet again, the door was pushed open slightly, Wednesday was holding a steaming bowl of what smelt like your favourite soup.

Placing the bowl on your desk, she helped you sit up, her touch firm but caring, it almost felt as if she was worried that placing too much pressure on your currently frail body would lead you to shatter into a million pieces in her arms.

“You know, I never expected you to be so … so gentle,” you rasped out as she slowly raised a spoon of the hot food to your lips.

“I may not show it in conventional ways but I care for you more than you will ever know. Every breath I take is for you, every time I stop myself from slicing into one of these moronic outcasts is for you.”

“If I didn’t think I was going to die soon, I’d be swooning so hard right now, my love.”

Wednesday rolled her eyes as she simply kept feeding you, handing you a napkin now and then to clean yourself up. Once you were finished, she stood again with the bowl in hand.

“Wait here, I will be back soon,” and just like before she practically glided towards the door.

Before she could touch the doorhandle you called out, waiting for her dark eyes to refocus on you. “Can – can you stay? Just for a bit. I’m feeling a lot better with you here, Wednesday,” you smiled slightly.

As if contemplating her options, she stared at you for a few seconds before letting out a sigh and walking back towards your bed, planting herself on the floor with her head leaning back to rest by your hand.

“What the fuck are you doing, Addams?” you laughed and patted her head. “C’mon, come up. I promise not to infect you.”

“One, you could not even think of infecting an Addams, Pugsley and I used to play with vials containing essences of the bubonic plague whilst you were learning your ABCs,” she sat up straighter, raising a brow at you in the classical Wednesday way. “And two, I do not snuggle, I do not cuddle. You shall just have to suffer in pitiful silence, or let me leave.”

Throwing your head back in a loud groan despite the pang in your throat, you reach down as far as you can and get a firm grasp on her wrist and try to pull her up from her seat without moving too much yourself.

“Wends, I could literally die tomorrow. I could die tonight, so please, just – hold me for five minutes, okay? Five. That’s all I ask.”

Just for good measure you also throw in your best attempt at pleading puppy dog eyes, hoping you feel look less desperate than you feel.

Rolling her eyes so hard you’re concerned they may get stuck in the back of her head, she stands and climbs over to the very small piece of the bed that you weren't already sprawled over.

Without missing a beat you curl into her side, relishing in her icy skin coming into contact with your overheating body. You never thought you’d crave the feeling of ice crawling through your veins so much until you met Wednesday that is.

“I suggest you enjoy this, Y/N, I’ve already started the countdown,” gently she wraps an arm around your body when you only hum in response.

That five minutes was a total lie. You’d planned on immediately going to sleep as soon as the gothic girl climbed into your bed, and you weren’t one to ever flake out on plans.

Was Wednesday too soft to move you, especially when you looked so cutely pathetic clinging to her as you slept? Absolutely.

[1ivinqdeadqir1]

SHADES OF COOL: V

Chapter 5: Red

A/N: wow, holy shit, mama has had this cooking up for a whileeee I'm so sorry for the wait, guys, and I hope the hype hasn't died down, but I have been very busy with my exams. Thankfully they are almost over! I have one left, which means more SOC updates and quicker replies to requests. Thank you so much for the support. You don't understand how nice it's been having you all enjoy my work. It really makes it all worthwhile.

WARNINGS: an allusion to murder, drugs mentioned, shitty Spanish that comes to you from an English speaker doing her best to learn, Lalo being a bit of a cunt, allusions to previously abusive relationships.

word count: 7.2k

SHADES OF COOL MASTERLIST: here

»»————- ♡ ————-««

They'd left Daniel Vineyard tied up, lacerated, half naked and half dead outside of his home on his front porch. Lalo already had some guys around to sort through the copious amount of paraphernalia he'd accumulated. It all sat in the trunk of Lalo's car, waiting for him to dispose of it the next time he set that fire in his yard. 

Danny could hardly knock. Every muscle throbbed, and each joint in the young man's body felt bruised and brittle. There were moments of - what looked to be - black ink filtering and blooming in his vision. 

Scared, confused and revolted by the thought of even looking in your direction. Any sick sexual urge deep in his stomach and at the back of his conscience had been beaten out of him- almost like that tooth a few hours earlier. Daniel would have died on that doorstep that night if his roommate had not been home. 

"What the hell happened, Danny?" his roommate, Aaron, was sitting by his friend's side as Daniel rasped from his place on the hospital bed. They'd gotten there at about 2 am. He had two broken ribs and a collapsed lung on top of all the visible bruises and scrapes. The doctors had asked what happened, to which Daniel coughed and said two men had jumped him. He lied and said he hadn't seen their faces and that they'd taken his wallet and cigarettes. Aaron huffed, tugging lightly on the end of his braids, his tanned skin slick with sweat. Danny's complexion looked almost grey, with specs of purple and red in the places where Lalo had hit him. 

“Why would these guys jump you outside work and then drop you off at home? It makes no sense at all." 

Daniel winced, trying to sit up, though he inevitably gave in and lay back against the white cotton bed sheets. "You know that girl I dated?" There was a pause, but Aaron nodded, said your name, and leaned forward on his elbows. "Well, I wasn't over her, and, uh, she's got some new friends."

"New friends? What like-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore, okay? Can't you support me for a second here?" Daniel groaned, placing a hand where the hospital had bandaged him up. He wasn't a doctor, but he had no fucking idea what a bandage would do for a broken rib. Willowy fingers curled around his knees; Aaron hummed and tried to piece together what had happened. He knew Daniel wasn't over his ex, but he'd figured that was belated mourning of a ‘doomed from-the-start’ relationship. Aaron wasn't aware of his roommate's complete and utter obsession with everything you related. Maybe he'd have a rummage through Danny's room at some point whilst he's in the hospital. 

The cold room had a buzz that began to grate on Aaron. The cocktail of painkillers had Dan thinking that the low thrum of the machine was all in his head. Like Tinnitus - the thing you get from listening to music too loud.

"I'm going to head out", Aaron stretched, cracking his fingers whilst simultaneously checking the time flashing against his watch—4:35 am.

 "If you need anything, clothes, food... Let me know. k? "

Nodding, Daniel flashed his friend a thin-lipped smile. One that his roommate hesitantly returned whilst shrugging on his college sports apparel. 'Aaron’ printed on the back was the last Danny saw of his friend, who took quick, assured steps out the hospital room door and into the hall. 

---

At 7 am, you awoke to the sound of your alarm and tossed onto your side to slam your palm atop the snooze button. You close your eyes again and savour the darkness within the room; the curtains manage to keep sunlight from pouring in through and onto your sheets, which pool around your body and crunch as you turn to pull the soft cotton quilt closer to your face. It smells of home, and you slip into an idyllic slumber filled with warmth and the hum of dreams - you can't exactly make out who you're with, but you can almost feel their hands wrapped around your body, the caress of the breeze upon exposed skin. Their fingers are warm, and you lean into their touch. Then, you notice the tattooed band on their forearm and gaze up into dark brown eyes. 

After what had felt like a minute, you sit up and glance at the clock again. The red LED numbers tell you you've slept an extra 4 hours. Your phone had been pressing into the meat of your back against the mattress, and once you had managed to slug yourself out of bed and to a power socket, two messages were waiting.

Lalo: Buenas dias, mi amor - 9:34

Lalo: call me when you're up :) - 10:47

There's a smiley face, and as you gaze down at the colon and bracket, you return the gesture. The apples of your cheeks warm, and you wait a few minutes for your phone to charge before calling Lalo, who greets you - almost immediately - with the sound of his rich baritone voice. 

"Hola, hermosa, guessing you slept well, hm?"

"Yeah", you begin, fingers tracing across the counter's edge by the plug socket. "I did, thanks… What about you?" 

There's a laugh from his end, and you can't help but blush. It's deep and hearty from within his chest, like you've just missed out on an inside joke. "Lalo?"

"Sorry, sorry, Bonita, It's just that… I don't normally sleep, maybe about 2 or 3 hours, but, yeah."

"So you're quite the night owl then?" 

You think you hear him agree and scoff under his breath at your quip. Despite the humour in his tongue, you can't help but feel sorry for him and wonder if maybe he's got something going on that prevents him from getting those crucial 7 hours of rest. Well, he may not need it. Perhaps he naps throughout the day. 

"Well, you look good for someone that only gets 2 hours of sleep." 

"You think? Eso es mucho viniendo de alguien tan hermosa como tú” You just about catch onto what he'd said, your Spanish isn't as good as his, and you don't speak it as regularly as you should. Maybe dating Salamanca would aid your understanding. Nevertheless, your cheeks flush, and you must wait a moment before asking when you and Lalo will go out for that date. He suggests picking you up at 7:30, he's made a reservation for eight, and he also adds that you should wear something fancy, or at the very least formal. You can't help but rack your brain for something at his prompt. A blouse and skirt or your old prom dress? Perhaps you still had that somewhere behind a few coats and layers of dust. 

He hums and draws out a 'sooo ' amidst your comfortable silence. "Are you looking forward to it?" your heart clenches in your chest, and you can almost hear the smile on his face as he talks to you through the phone, his moustache raised slightly with the crease of his lips. 

"I am; it should be fun… I might be rusty, though. I haven't been out for a while."

"Out, like, on a date?"

You nod, 'yeah ', in a sigh, and sit down at a stool in your kitchen with the phone pressed to your ear. Lalo chuckles- it was hardly noticeable and more of a breathy huff, but you had just about picked it out from the silence. 

"I don't believe that. Not a catch like you; guys are probably falling over themselves trying to ask you out." 

Flushing, you sigh and whisper his name, to which he hums a low laugh. Your face hurts from how much this man can make you beam by doing the most mundane things. As you sat there, drawing your fingers across the counter ledge, you imagined what he looked like now- whilst talking to you in his car. Sometimes when he smiled and his moustache curled with his upper lip, you had the urge to reach over and stroke the coarse black hairs with your fingers and caress the soul patch he kept well trimmed with your thumb. 

"Well, I've got some things to do before our date Hermosa. I'll call you later, yeah?" 

You nod and agree that later is fine as long as he calls. The deep lull of his voice echoes and narrates your thoughts as you think of where he'd take you on your night out. You'd already taken note of his fancy car, so the restaurant must be pretty expensive, the kind where you'd have to pay a deposit to ensure you turn up on your date. You liked Lalo a lot; there was no doubt about that. He made it easy to talk and had a way about him that managed to single-handedly quench the loneliness you had felt within the pit of your stomach since having split with Daniel. 

---

Lalo sighed as he hung up the phone, brushing a hand through the thick matt of dark hair atop his head. He'd had a word from Ignacio that, supposedly, the cops were onto him about the whole travel wire thing. That fucking stupid kid and fucking stupid Michael. Had the kid been smart enough to let him check the footage, he wouldn't have had to die- which also meant that the travel wire building wouldn't have been charred down to grit and plaster. 

Yet, as he stroked the tuft of hair beneath his bottom lip, he wished he could have spoken longer to his girl on the phone, loving the sound of her voice and how she somehow managed to incite such a domestic calmness within him. He enjoyed that aspect of their relationship. She made him feel ordinary, unlike the murderous tyrant his peers and family had raised him to be. As cliche as one might find, the barriers he had spent years building around his heart finally threatened to crumble at the hand of this woman he couldn't stop thinking about. 

The moment he saw her with Hector, smiling and reading that comically large book - too big for her tiny hands - he sensed she would be trouble. He was interested then, and that same interest had blossomed as the days flowed into weeks. Despite his need to call and hear her on the other end, through the muffled speaker of his cell, Lalo convinced himself that letting her call him was a good idea. She had been so tired the other night and may have carried that fatigue into the following days ahead. 

"What about you?" His girl had asked so casually, and he could hardly believe her. That, for an instant, he thought she might have been mocking him. Whenever anyone took a genuine interest in how he was, Don Eduardo had to ask himself whether or not they were being sincere. In his line of business, you could never be too sure of one's true intentions. Somehow, she'd managed to wash that paranoia away in such a short time. It was fascinating, and he wished to know more about her and what made her so… familiar.

---

The hours before the date had you pottering around your house, tidying up the bits and pieces and washing up until about 1 pm when you decided to pick up your car from Casa tranquila. It'd been long enough; in all fairness, you also wanted to grab some beauty products from the drugstore on the way back. 

At the counter, the middle-aged woman offered you a nail file kit for an extra 2 dollars, but you declined politely with a smile shadowing your lips. She returned the gesture and placed all the toiletries in a small bag, her lavender-coloured eyeshadow wrinkling with her lids as she slowly tapped numbers into the register. You picked out some: mascara, lipstick and nail varnish to match the dress you'd decided on wearing earlier. 

"Well, it sure is nice and quiet."

"Yeah, I don't know. Business is a bit strange like that at the moment. Did you hear about that travel wire, kid?" 

You nod, "I have.”

"I guess they've found something to link someone to the crime, but I'm not sure. Probably camera footage.” 

Nodding again, you hand over the cash for your items, and the lady passes you the bag, receipt, and a few coupons that read:'10% off your next visit.'

"Yeah, probably… thanks anyway" With that, you turn to leave, and as you do, you feel a cavity hollow out from within your stomach. You toss the bag onto the passenger side seat of your car, and as you rev the engine ( it takes a minute to warm up ), your phone starts to vibrate from within your back pocket. 

"Hey, lalo"

"Hola princesa, how's my girl doing this afternoon?" he asked. You could hear the wind whistling in the back and almost didn't catch what he said. 

"Oh, so I'm your girl, hm?" you replied, tone light on your chest as he hummed in response. The whining from outside his window stops, and as you plug in your seatbelt, you hear him shuffling in the background.

"princesa? you there?"

"Oh, sorry, I was putting my seatbelt on. What'd you say?" 

Lalo tuts as you wedge the phone between your ear and shoulder - one hand on the wheel and another on the gear stick - you can imagine the smile on his face as he rolls his eyes. 

“We both know you wouldn't mind being my girl." 

You switched to holding the flip phone once you'd successfully pulled out of the parking lot. The streets were tame, and only a few other people were on the road within this part of town. Strange for a Sunday, though perhaps the people are at church or home watching the game. "oh, and you sound so sure," you pause for a moment as you round a corner, coming up on a few tiny houses, a few of which have cars sat outside. 

"how do you know what I would and wouldn't mind, Eduardo?"

He chuckles, and you go to reply but can't find words quick enough to interject." Well, you would've hung up by now, right?" He tries to hide the sound of his grin through the phone, though he manages poorly. The hairs on your cheeks stand up, and you feel as though you're glowing from within the comfort of your car at his words.

 "I suppose that's right, Lalo." you tap your fingers against the wheel about 5 minutes away from home. Choosing to organise your time now, you decide that you may read for a few hours before getting ready. "I'm excited about our date, y'know." 

"me too, princesa. Are you alright with Italian food?" 

"Of course, I'm not all that picky." 

"aye, no worries, Mija, it'll be great. I'm sure of it." he was. He hadn't imagined the date going wrong at all. The only bad thing that could happen is that he gets a call from Nacho or one of the other men about business. And Nachito could hold up the fort for one night, especially when his girl needed tender loving care. God knows the last time either of them had had that.

"Well, I just got home, so I'll see you later, yeah? We can talk more then."

"hasta luego,Chiquita" 

"hasta luego, Lalito" 

lalito cute. 

---

"hasta luego, Lalito"

Flipping his cell shut, Lalo stepped out of his car onto the gravelled pathway that led up to his safe house. An all-white mansion within a gated community of gringos, many of whom he had yet to introduce himself. There wasn't much need. Give it a few weeks, and they'll have forgotten that somebody lived there. He'd expected to have stayed in ABQ for a few months, but that trip and his work up here had to be cut short. 

Thanks to the trouble at the travel wire and the police on his ass. 

Maybe he'll ask you on an impromptu trip to Mexico. He could pay off your work whilst you're away with him- and it wouldn't be long—a fortnight at most. 

The stone from the pathway left chalk dust airbrushed along the soles and sides of his blue suede loafers as he made his way up toward the clean, modern home that couldn't have been more different to his home in Chihuahua. Where he had staff waiting eagerly. 

Lalo wondered how seventeen-year-old Ciro was managing without him, how he'd coped with Miguel pushing him around and not Lalo - the master of the house.

Once inside, he slipped off his shoes and tossed the keys onto the kitchen counter. A bottle of amber liqueur beckoned him closer from the glass cabinet a mere foot away, and he scoffed. Drinking at 2 pm? That was life for his papa but not for him. The Salamanca family was notorious for many things: murder, torture, bludgeoning, pillaging- they were the muscle of the cartel, essentially, but alcoholism? No. He could handle his drink. If shit dismantled the fan at a pickup or the border (and since he lived so close), Lalo was often sent to diffuse any confrontation with los federales or gringos that tried to stick their noses in business that had nothing to do with them. Usually, his sweet talk and coercion involved wads of Ben Franklins tied together with a rubber band.

He made a few stops with Nacho for the next few hours, who picked him up in his red 1973 javelin. He'd half expected the guy to be driving a Porsche or Ferrari, so when they'd first met, he was pleasantly surprised by how nuanced his companion was with his taste. He'd remarked at the time, 'Is this your papa's car?' to which Nacho's lip twitched the slightest at the corner, and his brows furrowed in a straight line. The more he'd gotten to know Nacho, the more he enjoyed his little grunts and echoes of 'yeah' or 'okay.' It was fun to imagine how Nacho's silence and ambiguity paired with his cousin's fury and impulsive nature. 

Hell, he couldn't even imagine Hector dealing with it, and that guy had always preached to him and his cousins as children, 'Only speak when you are spoken to!' Something that Marco and Leo had taken in their stride. 

"so, where are you going with her then?" Nacho asks up from his place in the driver's seat, the fingers of his left hand tapping the wheel as they wait for the traffic lights to change from red to green. "we're going for a meal, you know, to that Italian place I asked you about last night."

The car's engine purrs when Nacho puts weight on the acceleration, and Lalo keeps his eyes on the side of his friend, who nods and takes them around a corner. He'd gotten ready earlier into one of his more formal outfits. Black slacks and a flowery blue shirt. He'd rolled the sleeves to his elbows and had his gun and cell on his person. Ignacio glanced between the road and his boss, lips pursed together in a narrow line. He hadn't seen you since dropping off Lalo's replacement phone. To think that only a day had passed. 

"Lalo, what's the point in you going after this girl? I mean-"

Scoffing, Lalo shook his head and turned toward Nacho in his seat. His tattooed right arm was leaning against the door, and his hand pressed against his cheek. "Oh, so you do talk, hm?" his body shakes as he laughs, and subconsciously Nacho's grip tightens on the wheel. He can't glance at Lalo; cars are in front and behind them. The last thing Nacho needed on his plate was a fucking busted bumper. "Well, she's taking such good care of Hector. I figured she deserved thanking properly,” 

Nacho wants to ask whether beating her stalker to death wasn't enough thanks, though he bites his tongue and keeps driving. "That and, Nachito? You know Tuco well enough by now to understand that…everyone needs something.." Nacho huffs, his lip tugs into a faint smile, and he rounds the next corner, approaching Lalo's home away from home. 

"Okay, well, does she know about what we do?"

Lalo's gaze faltered, and the once bright enthusiasm behind the brown was replaced with an emptiness Nacho couldn't describe in words. "It won't come to that, hermano," he said, planting a hand on Nacho's shoulder. His hand was heavy, and he could feel Lalo's fingers gripping his skin through the cotton of his red button-up. "Es bueno, Ignacio" Nacho nodded twice, and life returned to Lalo's face. He removed his hand and opened the door, trudging into the 6 pm air. 

What was once stale and humid had been replaced with a slight chill that rode up the length of his spine. "Perfecto, we'll talk later, yeah? Good that we managed to pick up la yeyo, no?." Lalo slaps the car door frame, where the window should be hiding. "Half expected ocho loco to be scaling a fucking drain pipe again, ai that guy…" he laughed, and Nacho offered his boss a smile, "Yeah, I guess." To say that Nacho disliked his boss was an understatement, though one thing he could respect was that the guy managed to get shit done.

"well, later, yeah?"

Ignacio nodded, "Later." 

---

At 6:30, you were ready. The black satin dress ended at your mid-thigh, hugged at your skin, and you felt slick with a thin layer of perspiration despite having showered and washed your hair. You'd folded your jacket across your lap, and your purse was draped across your shoulder; as the clock in your living room ticked, you tried your hardest to refrain from gnawing on your bottom lip. 

 All dolled up for a man you had been waiting to ask you out on a proper date since you'd first seen him at Casa Tranquila. The cold from the air conditioning whispered against your skin, and you wondered whether you were ready to start dating again. Lalo was a gentleman, but you couldn't shake the thought of him turning out like Daniel. He was charismatic, could cook and made you laugh. He truly cared so much for his family. It was almost too good to be true. 

As you sat and waited, you were reminded of your first date with Dan. He'd taken you to the local bowling alley- and supposedly let you win. To think that you wasted so much time with that asshole, so many years of your life when you could have been flirting with men that actually gave a shit about what you had to think. 

'C'mon, you really gonna embarrass me like that?'

You'd blushed and slapped at Daniel's shoulder, taking the medium-weight bowling ball by your index and middle finger, your thumb pressing against the inside.

'I told you that just because we're on a date doesn't mean I'm taking it easier on you, Danny.'

To think that you'd fallen in love with someone that day and clung to the person they were at that moment. One part of you despised him. You hated that he'd taken advantage of your kindness- yet - at the same time, you were thankful that now you knew what to look out for, what manipulation looked like. You couldn't imagine how Lalo would react to meeting Dan after everything you told him about the guy. The picture of Lalo snapping your phone as though it were a breadstick he intended to share came to the forefront of your mind, and despite yourself, you found it funny to visualise him snapping Daniel in half like one. 

At 7:00 sharp, a fist rutting against your door pulled you from your train of thought to the mirror in your hallway. You quickly fixed your hair and reapplied your lipgloss, puckering the colour and adjusting your hair awkwardly with your fingers. There was another knock; by then, you'd peeked through the spy hole. There he stood, his hands by his sides, waiting. Even through the fish-eye lens of the peephole, Lalo Salamanca looked positively gorgeous.

Opening the door, you were greeted with his sizable grin and rich brown eyes that seared through your own. "Buenas noches, mi amor." you step out, keys in hand. "You look…" Lalo stopped momentarily, stepping back to get a full view of you in the short black dress. He'd thought he felt his throat dry as he racked his gaze across your form, eyes lingering on your legs and chest. Your cheeks grew hotter, and your palms clammy as your date complimented you again in Spanish. "You're not looking too bad yourself, Lalo." you glanced down at his shoes; He wasn't wearing the blue loafers, the ones you had developed a strange adoration for over the last few weeks of knowing him.   

"Gracias mi amor," he said, cupping a hand to your waist, ushering you out with him once you had successfully locked the front door. "Are you feeling hungry?" he asked, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head- it felt as though you had been lovers for years. "Starving, what about you?" 

Lalo nodded yes as he walked you down toward the car. "didn't have lunch? Dios mio, now we can't have that! not my girl" he brushes his thumb against your cheek, and you giggle, skin warm and hands cold. The way he looks at you once you reach the passenger side makes you wonder whether you're actually experiencing something real. The warmth and the stirring from within your stomach put you in a daze- as if you had been dreaming for hours. Like you'd dreamed this relationship up from start to finish. 

"You're trying to fatten me up, Salamanca?" 

He ushers you inside when you both reach the car, holding an arm out as you lower yourself into the leather. "thank you, Lalo" Your smile is so earnest that for a split second, he forgets where he is and can only really pay attention to that. This woman, the one that had been here with his Tio the entire time, he shouldn't trust her- for all it's worth, this person could be a trap- but when he rounds his way to the driver's side, Lalo feels as though he has known her and been in this situation before. 

"no problem, princesa" princesa. There it is again. That warmth as Lalo turns the key to the ignition and the car purrs to life from beneath your seat. Escaping the breeze is what'd done it, surely.

Lalo turns on some quiet music, and the ride is peaceful for the most part. Someone cuts their car in front of you without using their indicators, and you hear Lalo call the guy an idiot in Spanish beneath his breath. The radio droning is enough to counterbalance his swearing. You chuckle and glance out onto the street as you turn a corner. By now, you're further into the central city- and you drive past a few fancy-looking restaurants before Lalo slows and pulls up in front of a flowery-looking Italian restaurant; you don’t have to look at the sign above the door to know that you’re at Ginos. 

“Ai, amorcito, have you been here before?” you look up at Lalo, who moves his hand off the gear stick onto your thigh. You shake your head and take your lip between your teeth. His hair looks like he hadn’t put as much gel in it today, and you abruptly have the urge to reach up and run your fingers through the fluffy white streak at the front. “No, I haven’t; I’ve got a few friends that have been here before. Apparently, the food is really good, a little expensive, but..” Lalo shushes you with a wave. “Only the best for my girl, hm?”. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Lalo opens the car door and walks to your side. The soft breeze catches your skin as the door opens, and Lalo stands before you with his hand outstretched. As your skin meets him, you’re pleasantly reminded of the Friday you spent together at the park. 

He’s closer now, and you can feel the muscles of his arms move as you both walk to the restaurant entrance- linking. You’re abruptly made aware of the cologne he’s wearing, a rich, wood-like musk that reminds you of a campfire. Fitting for a man like him. It’s masculine but not too masculine to be considered an assault on your nostrils. 

“Is it…weird to say that you smell really nice right now?”

He looks at you, and you’re about a pace away from the door. The ‘front of house’ spots you through the window and grabs two menus. “Not weird at all; if I thought you said weird things, cariño, you wouldn’t be here with me tonight, hm?” You shrug, and he chuckles, taking your shoulders in his hands. Your skin tingles, and the hairs stand on your arms as he does so. The warmth he radiates into your skin sears, and you swear that if you look, you’d see two perfectly shaped palms branded to your flesh... Lalo leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek and lingers there momentarily. “If it's any consolation, you smell great too. I could almost eat you up, hermosa.” 

Feeling bold, you grab one of his hands and press a soft kiss to the palm, “maybe later, hm?” He quirks a brow, and there’s a moment of shock, you think, behind his dark eyes.  “At least take me out for dinner first” Your words are soft on your tongue, and Lalo chuckles, pulling you into his side. His hold is strong, one you can’t let up but welcome nonetheless. 

You think the front of the house seems almost nervous, based on how he’s shuffling the menus and smiling so forced. Maybe if you worked at a restaurant, you’d feel similar. 

“Uh, the table should be under Santiago, 8 o’clock. I called the other night?” 

The man stammers, then laughs and slicks back his hair, ushering you into the main dining area. The room's lighting is soft and mainly lit by candles in the centre of tables and chairs. It’s classy, and some vines tattoo the sandstone brick wall at the back of the restaurant to your right. They’re probably real, considering the restaurants here are so fancy and high-end. A few other people are scattered around near the bar and the leather booths by the entrance. “Lalo, it’s gorgeous. You didn’t have to go through all this effort, really.”

“I wanted to, princesa. You’ve been so kind to tío, and I respect that, but I do want to get to know you better.” 

You feel his hand squeeze a little, and you peer at him from beneath a veil of lashes as you place a hand on top of his. “You’re too kind, Lalo.” 

Lalo grins as the two of you follow the front of house further into the restaurant. The stranger stops in front of a secluded table beside a curved window that reaches the roof. Thick velvet curtains fall from the tops and pool at the bottom by the chairs. There are only two, and Lalo pulls out his seat for you before the manager can do so. 

“Thank you” 

He winks and then sits parallel to you, one hand left dormant on the red linen tablecloth. 

The front of house explained that your waiter would be there shortly, and Lalo dismissed the man with a nod. Only now, when the man returns the gesture and starts to walk away, do you remember that the table had been booked under the name ‘Santiago.’ 

“So,” you start, picking up an empty wine glass and inspecting its rim with your finger “Santiago… Is that you or your friend?” Lalo’s smiling when you ask that; he looks so handsome beneath the warm lighting that you can feel your question leaving your head. 

“Nobody important, I’ll tell you later… There are lots of… things to catch up on since tío’s stroke.” 

You think you see Lalo’s gaze falter, At the mention of his uncle, similarly to how it had on the day you first met him, when he’d seen his uncle In his state.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you touch his hand with yours, and your thumb grazes his knuckles. He’s still hot to the touch. “I understand; sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude.” 

Lalo grins, huffing and shaking off your ‘sorry’ lightheartedly- as though not to hurt your feelings. “You’re too sweet, amor. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You asked a reasonable question hm?” 

The reassurance from the older man has the sudden ping of worry in your gut settle to a low simmer, and rightfully so, as before you can even get your words out, the waiter comes to your side with menus in hand.

“Buonasera, signore and Signorina, I’m Leo, and I’ll be your waiter for the night. Can I start you off with some drinks?” 

Lalo sits for a moment, eyes scanning across the drinks menu. “What wine do you like to drink?”

“Is it… bad to be boring and say red?” You smile awkwardly, though somehow he still looks at you with his half-lidded round eyes and chuckles, full of love. 

“Not boring at all, querida; we’ll go for the 1972 red wine, the Italian one?” Lalo looks up at the waiter, Leo, who swallows and nods, prying the drinks menus from where they lay on the table. 

“Excellent choice, signore; I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

You try to comprehend how old 1972 wine is. You hadn’t even been born when that wine was produced, and you were pretty bemused by the fact that Lalo would spoil you in such a way. He must actually be some sort of big-shot lawyer down in Mexico. 

“Wow, 30-year-old wine… that sounds expensive. Are you sure you don’t mind spending all this? I mean- I don’t mind putting something toward the cost. “

“Querida, I asked you out tonight. Don’t worry about anything, okay? You and your little worries,” he almost coos. If he weren’t so charming, you’d be offended.

“I suppose” 

There’s a comfortable silence between you, where you spend time folding the napkin on the table into a small square. Lalo huffs and reaches out to take hold of your hand, and he does so gently. The rough pads of his fingers graze your soft skin, and you glance up-, locking your eyes with his. 

“Are you okay? You seem nervous, princesa”

“I’m alright, I just… haven’t been on a date for a while, and I really don’t wanna ruin things between us, you know?” 

He nods, and you smile, the thought that he’d find your silence strange slipping your mind completely. You hadn’t been quiet the first time you met, maybe a little reserved and a bit tired, but other than that, you’d been okay. Some of you felt guilty for being sat here with such an attractive man, who was admittedly a little old for you and better suited to more mature, classy women like your mother. 

“You couldn’t ruin things between us, believe me,” Lalo pauses as the waiter pours both of your drinks. He takes the glass in his right hand whilst his left is still on yours, and you almost melt when he gives it a reassuring squeeze and let's go. 

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the strong fragrance of the wine. It warms your throat, and you sigh. 

“You’re doing perfectly anyway” Deep down, Lalo knew why you were nervous. He had an inkling from the moment you’d opened the door that it’d be a bit daunting for you- yet, he continued to bring you out with him for a meal. 

“You’re too sweet, Lalo, really. I think I might need to go to the dentist after this” 

The man before her grinned and chuckled at her joke, rolling his dark eyes as he drank the wine. 

“Yeah yeah, you’re not complaining.” 

---

By 9, you had shared a starter, a garlic bread that was probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. The butter seeped into your mouth, and the flavours danced on your tongue. Lalo made a joke about needing a mint before kissing you later, and you flushed at the thought, refuting that you wouldn’t mind him kissing you regardless. Perhaps the wine or good company was getting to your head, but he enjoyed your boldness. Quite evidently, by the smile on his face as you leaned against your palm, looking at him with your half-lidded eyes. 

For the main, you had fancy bolognese, and he had lasagne. You both ended up trying each others. Lalo leaned forward in his seat, holding his fork out - hand underneath just in case anything fell - and fed you with the fork. It was a bizarrely intimate moment, yet you felt as though the restaurant's quiet, with its music filling the air, was enough to make you not worry about who was watching. 

“God, I think I’m stuffed after that…” you placed your hands on your stomach, which looked a little bigger from all the food you’d eaten over the last hour and a half. Lalo chuckled and finished off the glass he was nursing; he didn’t seem tipsy, despite having had more glasses than you. “So you don’t want dessert?” 

“Mmmhm, maybe not a full one. Do you wanna share something?”

“You’re all for sharing today, aren’t you?” 

Your cheeks warm up again, and you hope he doesn’t notice in the restaurant's dim lighting. “Yeah, well, it’s just… it’s nice; I like sharing things with you.”

Lalo leans back in his seat, brows raised as you keep eye contact with him. You look down at his hand, which lies bare on the tablecloth that’s remained clean throughout your meal. 

Without thinking, you reach forward again and intertwine your fingers. He looks down at your hands momentarily as if to gather his thoughts. You like the comfortable silence between you both, it’s relaxing, yet the sound of the light Italian music in the background somehow manages to subdue any awkward tension that might have been there, to begin with. 

“I mean, honestly, I don’t know if I could eat any more, but I don’t want-“ you hesitate, and Lalo chuckles at your nerves. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Will you stay with me?” 

“Of course” 

He doesn’t even have to think before he replies with those simple words. And he does it whilst smoothing his thumb across your knuckle. The waiter patiently stands a few paces away, hands clenched tight behind his back. The stranger waits a moment before intruding on your conversation. 

“So, how about dessert then?” He inquired, brows tucked inwards slightly as though a manager had just scolded him. 

“Actually, we’ll just take the bill and the wine to go if that's alright.” Of course, it was alright. Even if it wasn’t, Lalo would’ve probably just taken it anyway and walked out with you tucked beneath his arm, snuggled into his side for warmth. 

“No problem, monsieur.”

The waiter was quick with the bill, as though he had been preemptively waiting for Lalo to ask for it between each order and sarcastic comment. You didn’t really mind how he treated the staff. He seemed polite enough and respectful. There wasn’t much need to make small talk with them, though. Your mother had a habit of doing that. Whenever you went out for a meal as a child, she’d spend about 75% chatting with the waiters about their job and the food. 

You much preferred Lalo’s curt nature. If he began to go into a story about shopping or the desserts they served like your mom did, you’d get up and walk out through the doors and never look back. Not only was it embarrassing, but it often left you both needing some conversation starters. Weirdly enough. 

---

When you step into Lalo’s car again, the air is heavier, and the sounds are louder outside the glass windows. You can feel each crease of the leather beneath your skin and between your black dress. Lalo slides beside you into the driver's seat and presses a hand to your thigh. It takes a moment to realise it was there, but when you do, you smile at him and lean more in his direction. 

He looks so handsome. You’re convinced that that’s the only word you can think of to describe him externally. He encapsulates everything you need, everything you look for in a person. Even now, with his hair soft against his forehead, charmingly unkempt, you could sketch his image into your mind forever. 

“Thank you again for tonight. It was honestly the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Lalo draws lines into your skin with his thumb; he hasn’t started the car yet, though you hardly notice. “It’s my pleasure; you deserve it. Even before I knew how much of a caring, loving person you were, I knew I had to take you out, find a way to get you to like me.” 

You laugh, and it’s light against your throat, and Lalo stops stroking for a second as you do. He cocks his head to the left, like a puppy or lost child. 

“There’s not much to dislike about you, Lalo. I can’t imagine not liking you.” You again place both hands on his, like you had on the table in the restaurant. He’s so warm, and the feeling lingers against your palm. He’s managed to brand you without even realising it. 

“You’d be surprised. Though I appreciate the gesture,” the older man shrugs and returns his attention to the car's ignition. The engine thunders to life, a low thrum vibrating as he drives back to your home. 

The trip is again relatively silent, though you do move to turn up the radio- filling the car with upbeat Latin music, which you'd come to associate with Lalo’s vibrant personality.  Lalo uses your thigh as a makeshift finger drum when tapping along to the beat. It's cute, and you find his humming quite adorable. You think you hear him sing a soft, quiet tune to himself that sounds vaguely similar to the song on the radio. 

Lalo makes a note to check on you every now and again in the corner of his eye, and whenever he does, he finds you sitting, tapping your feet along to the quiet buzz. It’s strange, and he concludes that you’re perhaps more of a dancer than a singer. 

[skoulsons]

.

I just love Resurrection Sunday

It’s a very emotional, yet incredibly joyous day

Friday is Good, because Sunday is coming, as we say

Because Christ died. Paid the debt that we could not, so that we could have life. Abundant life.

Satan thought he won. Death thought to be victorious. But Christ rose, defeating death and sin, and we may also rise freely from the bondage of sin in His name, as long as we believe in Him

To accept Christ, become a new creation in Him and to be freed of sin is the greatest decision to make, and I’m forever grateful that He sought us out first loved us first. Loved me first. And that He still loves me, despite all my failings and the things I’ve done and still do.

What a wonderful day knowing what He’s done and knowing the truth! He IS risen

Luke 24:1-7

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, ' but when they went in they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel. And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them,

"Why do you seek the living among the dead? • He is not here, but has risen.

Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.”

[sesshy380-rp]

(Alright I'm trying this!! I hope it's alright!!)

[Post-Millenium World • nb lesbian TKB • use he/him for the moment]

Bakura had no idea how much time passed since he lost the dark rpg. Maybe a lot. Maybe only a few days. Time wasn't really a thing when you were dead.

Well. He already technically died 3000 years ago. The right words would be when you passed away. Kind of. Because the thief knew he wasn't close to Aaru. He was a lost soul trying to find his way in the Duat.

Two things surprised him. First, his soul was still intact. After his defeat he expected to disappear into nothingness with Zorc. Not to be separated from the Dark god, to be his own person again, and to end up here. This was a little confusing, but it was nice to have his own body back instead of the weak shape of Ryou. It wasn’t against his landlord, but that boy should really go see the sun and do exercise from time to time.

The second thing that surprised Bakura was that the Gods didn't immediately take him to throw him into Ammit's maw. Did they really intend to let him walk through the Duat like any other soul? Or did they simply not notice him? He didn’t have the answer, but he was sure about one thing. Justice was on the Pharaoh's side, no matter what injustice Bakura suffered himself. They would rip his heart and it wouldn't pass the judgment. Even dead, he was a persistent bastard. He would not let them erase him so easily. And if he couldn't escape that fate, at least he was going to make it a pain for them to catch him.

But right now, he had to decide which direction to take.

Sanura was on the verge of wanting to claw her ears off as the god, Set, recited (yet again) his triumphs over the Serpent of Destruction. She wasn’t certain which tale was worse: This one, or his altered version of the Ennead where he wasn’t completely left looking like a fool.

She’d lost count of the number of millennia she’d endure this torture. Surely spending eternity in Ammit’s gut would be less maddening.

Unable to sit there for another second, she spread her wings and leapt away from Ra’s barque, heading towards the bank of the River of Night. She ignored Aken, the ram-headed ferryman, as he shouted for her to return. She didn’t care that her father, Anubis, had stated multiple times that the stupid barque was the safest place for her…she’d rather take her chances with the abominations that lingered in the Duat.

Being that only half of her blood was from that of a god, Anubis feared that she might fall prey to those who had changed due to becoming forever lost in the fog of the Duat. Little did he know, she had taken a few lessons from both Sekhmet and Maahes, and had already successfully defeated several mutated souls…although…there were a few times she had to ask Sekhmet to heal a few injuries before her father saw them. She was grateful that her aunt was willing to keep a secret (though she suspected her aunt didn’t want to have to explain her involvement in training her niece).

She landed on the bank, shouting in frustration like a child throwing a tantrum (which was exactly what was happening regardless if she chose to acknowledge the fact or not). She wrapped her hands around an imaginary version of Set in an attempt to strangle it.

She caught movement in her periphery, and turned to look at it. There was a confused looking figure standing there wrapped in a crimson cloak. She lowered her hands, tilting her head in curiosity of the…person? The apparel was ancient, and something usually worn only by men…but certain features presented the person as female. Perhaps they were sekhet?

It appeared the person hadn’t noticed her yet. They were probably still in the early stages of trying to figure out where they were…which was common when souls first entered the Duat. Seeing a giant anthropomorphic feline with wings was probably the least of their concern.

((@resuri-art))

[lignes2frappe]

TRUE RELIGION, LA MARQUE DE JEANS QUE PLUS AUCUN RAPPEUR NE PORTE

10 mai 2013. True Religion Apparel Inc. confirme officiellement son rachat par la firme d’investissement TowerBrook Capital Partners pour la somme astronomique de 835 millions de dollars !

À titre de comparaison, quand, en 2007, Jay Z a conclu le plus gros deal l’histoire du rap en revendant sa marque de fringues Rocawear, le montant de la transaction n’était « que » de 204 millions de dollars.

Bien connu du milieu de la mode pour avoir par le passé déjà pris le contrôle de Jimmy Choo, Odlo ou Phase Eight, TowerBrook Capital Partners n’a évidemment pas agi sur un coup de tête. À l’instant T, True Religion n’est en effet pas juste une marque de plus en vogue, c’est LA marque en vogue.

Son logo en forme de Bouddha qui joue de la guitare acoustique et ses fers à cheval brodés sur les poches arrière de ses jeans sont depuis quelques saisons omniprésents dans les garde-robes des célébrités, que ce soit chez les habituées des tabloïds (Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan…), les acteurs et les actrices (Gwyneth Paltrow, Bruce Willis, toute la distribution de la série Desperate Housewives…), ainsi que l’entièreté du rap mainstream (Kanye West, Nicki Minaj, Future, Jim Jones et les Black Eyed Peas l’ont citée dans leurs textes, Chief Keef lui a dédié l’hymne True Religion Fein, 2 Chainz a carrément intitulé l’une de ses mixtapes T.R.U. REALigion et a fait de l’ad lib « TRUUU » sa carte de visite…).

Surfant sur cette hype sans précédent, True Religion a triplé son chiffre d’affaires de 2007 à 2012, allant jusqu’à générer 490 millions de dollars par an.

L’avenir s’annonçait donc des plus radieux, la success story semblant même n’en être qu’à ses prémisses.

Ou pour citer Lynne Koplin, fraîchement nommée présidente directrice générale : « Cet investissement de TowerBrook nous permettra de maintenir notre leadership sur le marché sur le long terme. Le prochain chapitre de notre histoire sera, nous n’en doutons pas, des plus fructueux, tant pour nos employés que pour nos clients et nos actionnaires. »

Sauf que bon, la suite ne s’est pas spécialement déroulée comme prévu. Banqueroutes, fermetures, restructurations… ce fut même tout l’inverse qui s’est produit, et ce, en quelques années à peine.

Comment ? Pourquoi ? Pour tout comprendre sur cet incroyable retournement de situation, reprenons tout depuis le début.

Tomber pour mieux se relever

New York, fin des années 90. Jeffrey Lubell, la quarantaine joyeuse, « mec rock’n’roll » fan des Grateful Dead, des Rolling Stones et de Joni Mitchell, commence à se dire, après avoir passé deux décennies à bosser pour d’autres dans l’industrie de la mode, qu’il serait temps qu’il se mette à son compte.

Il convainc sa femme Kymberly de sauter le pas, et quelques mois plus tard, le couple crée deux marques de jeans, Bella Dahl et Jefri Jeans. Leur relative inexpérience dans l’entreprenariat leur vaut toutefois de connaître de sérieuses difficultés financières, tant et si bien que très vite ils se font racheter par un duo d’investisseurs, Kerry et Steve Jolna.

Pas découragé pour autant, Jeffrey décide de rebondir en 2000 en utilisant une partie des fonds mis à leur disposition pour fonder une nouvelle marque, Hippie Jeans. Les frères Jolna ne l’entendent cependant pas de cette oreille et poursuivent les deux tourtereaux en justice pour rupture de contrat, concurrence illégale et infraction à la propriété intellectuelle.

Kym et Jeffrey contre-attaquent, s’estimant injustement dépossédés de « leurs enfants ». S’ensuivent deux années de procédure judiciaire qui se terminent le 28 janvier 2002 par la victoire des frères Jolna.

Qu’à cela ne tienne, les Lubell en ont encore sous le pied et émigrent en Californie, des rêves plein la tête.

« Avec mes deux précédentes marques, j’ai fait des erreurs » admettra Jeffrey. « En repartant à zéro, je me suis dit que je préférais tout faire moi-même plutôt que de me taper un partenaire qui, parce qu’il a investi de l’argent, se permet d’avoir un avis sur tout. »

Le couple met ainsi sur pied la société de gestion Guru Denim Inc., une structure qui va leur permettre de lancer en décembre 2002 une nouvelle marque qui n’appartient qu’à eux, True Religion.

La religion du jean

Très vite, les différentes pièces du puzzle se mettent en place.

Jeffrey et Kym Lubell déposent leurs valises dans la petite ville de Manhattan Beach (35 000 habitants), recrutent un designer et un chargé de production, et se mettent sans plus attendre à l’ouvrage.

Leur credo ? Des jeans, encore des jeans, toujours des jeans.

« La seule vraie religion dans le monde, ce sont les gens. Et partout dans le monde, les gens portent des jeans. À nous de nous concentrer sur la coupe, la qualité et le style pour qu’hommes et femmes se sentent le mieux possible dedans. »

Pour atteindre cet objectif, True Religion mise d’entrée de jeu sur le premium avec des jeans coûtant entre 170 et 300 dollars – des prix particulièrement élevés pour l’époque, très éloignés de ceux proposés par la concurrence.

Jeffrey Lubell n’en a cure. Ce qui compte pour lui, c’est d’abord la qualité du produit. Le reste ne vient qu’après.

« Si vous voulez acheter du pas cher, allez chez Wal-Mart ou chez Target » s’agace-t-il.

Outre la qualité du tissu vendu comme supérieur, et de surcroît « made in USA », l’idée est que le consommateur bénéficie d’un produit reconnaissable au premier coup d’œil.

Il y a donc ces coutures très épaisses, les fers à cheval, et bien sûr, le fameux Bouddha « World tour » qui apporte une touche new age à l’ensemble.

L’un dans l’autre, True Religion c’est le textile un peu cool, un peu vintage, un peu cowboy, qui s’adresse à tous les imaginaires.

La formule plaît, et en moins de deux ans, les résultats se font spectaculaires.

Le monde chico

Après une année 2003 confidentielle (2,4 millions de dollars de ventes assortis d’un léger déficit), True religion éclot réellement en 2004 (27,6 millions de dollars de ventes, 4,2 millions de bénéfices), avant d’exploser en 2005 grâce à une série de deals à l’international. Distribué au Japon, au Canada, en Italie, en Allemagne, en Australie et en Nouvelle-Zélande, ses ventes dépassent la barre des 100 millions de dollars, tandis que son bénéfice frôle les 20 millions de dollars !

Adoubé dans la presse spé (Vogue, Elle, Harper’s Bazaar…), True Religion débarque dans la cour des grands et commence à vendre ses vêtements dans les chaînes les plus prestigieuses du pays afin de capitaliser sur son côté élitiste (Nordstrom, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdales…).

Sa progression ne s’arrête toutefois pas là.

Après l’inauguration d’un premier magasin dans son fief de Manhattan Beach en 2005, fort de ses moyens nouveaux, True Religion inaugure une politique d’expansion des plus agressives : quatre ans plus tard, la marque possède plus de 100 points de ventes répartis aux quatre coins du globe.

Mieux, chacun de ces magasins participe à renforcer son identité avec un décor là encore immédiatement reconnaissable��: des boiseries partout, du plancher et une ambiance mi-zen, mi-saloon.

Brillant de mille feux au début des années 10, True Religion se permet non seulement de regarder droit dans les yeux tous les gros noms du denim (G-Star, Diesel, Levis Strauss…), mais peut à terme raisonnablement espérer de tous les dépasser.

« Toute personne sur Terre un brin dans le coup est un client potentiel de True Religion » résume Jeffrey Lubell.

Les premiers nuages, puis la tempête

Si en public l’ambiance est à la fête, en coulisse plusieurs voyants se mettent à clignoter, à commencer par le divorce de Jeffrey et Kym en 2007 après 20 ans de vie commune (le départ de Kym quelques mois plus tard scellera la fin d’une époque), ou en 2009 l’échec de True Religion à pénétrer le marché asiatique malgré des investissements conséquents.

Rien d’extrêmement alarmant en soi, si ce n’est qu’un vent d’inquiétude commence à se faire sentir lorsqu’en 2011, pour la première fois de son histoire, les profits ne progressent pas aussi rapidement que l’année précédente.

Désireux de rester dans une bonne dynamique, investisseurs et actionnaires poussent le président Mike Egeck au départ. C’est malheureusement l’effet inverse qui va se produire.

Résolument opposé à ce licenciement, Jeffrey Lubell rentre en guerre avec ces derniers. Toujours plus branché mode que business, comme avec les frères Jolna, il est défait.

Non reconduit à son poste de directeur de la création en 2012, il quitte la compagnie – en échange cette fois d’un package de six millions de dollars en guise de lot de consolation.

Lynne Koplin est ensuite nommée directrice générale par intérim. Un an plus tard, TowerBrook Capital Partners entre dans la danse.

L’ironie de la chose, et la cause du drame qui s’annonce, c’est qu’en dépit du départ de ses fondateurs et des velléités réformatrices affichées, True Religion s’arrime à la formule qui a fait son succès depuis bientôt une décennie.

Dans un univers de la mode en proie à un changement drastique des tendances et des comportements, cet immobilisme ne pardonne pas.

Concurrencé par le pas cher (la fast fashion) et le confortable (le sportswear), True Religion est en sus attaqué sur son propre terrain, celui des jeans à plusieurs centaines de dollars, par l’avènement des « luxury brands » à la Balenciaga, Fear of God & Co.

Pire, engoncé dans ses veilles pratiques, True Religion néglige complètement le virage du e-commerce avec un site internet et un marketing d’un autre âge – en 2010, les commandes en ligne généraient moins de 3% de son chiffre d’affaires…

Résultat, en quelques années, c’est tout l’édifice qui s’effondre.

Déficitaire à hauteur de 78 millions de dollars rien que sur 2016, True Religion cumule un total de 471 millions de dollars de dettes (!) et n’a d’autre choix que de se déclarer en faillite à l’été 2017.

Le grand huit

Contre toute attente, le move s’avère particulièrement réussi.

Désireux de sauver le navire, TowerBrook revend la quasi-totalité de ses actions pour injecter un maximum de liquidités dans la machine, tandis qu’un nouveau partenaire entre danse, la banque Citizens, qui investit une centaine de millions de dollars.

Réduite à 120 millions de dollars, la dette est rééchelonnée jusqu’en 2022.

Bien que pas encore sorti d’affaire, True Religion évite de mettre la clef sous la porte.

Pas de chance, l’épidémie de Covid-19 stoppe net cette belle dynamique. Le ralentissement global de l’économie lui vaut d’enregistrer 50 nouveaux millions de pertes en 2019. Pour la seconde fois, True Religion connaît les affres de la banqueroute en avril 2020.

Ce coup du sort amorce cependant la vraie renaissance de la marque.

Nommé à la tête de la société en octobre 2019 après avoir servi comme cadre entre 2006 et 2010, Michael Buckle opère cette fois un véritable changement de cap. Conscient que jouer la carte de la nostalgie n’est pas suffisant, il opte pour une baisse drastique des prix et un renouveau des designs.

« Il était impératif pour nous d’écouter ce que nos clients avaient à nous dire. Ce qu’ils voulaient, d’où ils venaient, ce qui les intéressaient. À partir de là, il a fallu nous repositionner. Oui, True Religion est vendu moins cher qu’il y a dix ans, mais la marque n’a pas pour autant perdu sa symbolique. »

C’est d’ailleurs dans cette optique de concilier le présent et le passé que True Religion s’est offert en 2021 une collaboration qui a beaucoup fait parler avec Supreme, puis a célébré cette année en grande pompe son vingtième anniversaire en faisant poser Chief Keef dans ses publicités.

Réchappé in extremis du club des ringards à la Juicy Couture et Ed Hardy, True Religion s’enorgueillit désormais d’un chiffre d’affaires qui flirte avec les 200 millions de dollars.

Certes, chacun pensera ce qu’il voudra des récentes collections que beaucoup qualifient de merguez, certes, les chiffres ne sont pas ceux des années fastes, mais Michael Buckle préfère voir le verre à moitié plein.

« Ce que nous voulons, c’est peser 500 millions par an d’ici à quatre ans. Rien ne nous interdira ensuite de devenir une marque qui pèse un milliard. »

Qui sait, rappeurs et célébrités se laisseront peut-être tenter de renfiler les tonnes de jeans qui dorment dans leurs placards depuis dix ans ?

Publié initialement sur Booska-p.com le 30 décembre 2022.

[teevanlote]

Football In The Snow T shirts

Here’s your updated version with the new link added:

Phil Lesh "Thanks for Your Music" Shirt: A Tribute to a Rock Legend

Celebrate the legacy of Phil Lesh, the iconic bassist of the Grateful Dead, with the "Thanks for Your Music" T-shirt—a tribute to his remarkable contributions to the band and the world of music.

Product Description: Made from ultra-soft cotton, this premium T-shirt blends comfort with style, making it perfect for any Grateful Dead fan. Whether you're attending a concert, hanging out with friends, or adding to your collection of Grateful Dead memorabilia, this shirt lets you honor Phil's legendary influence on the band’s sound.

Design Details: The "Thanks for Your Music" T-shirt features a classic design with bold lettering that captures Phil Lesh’s enduring impact on the Grateful Dead's music. The graphic stands out on the soft fabric, making it a standout piece for fans who appreciate the band’s history and the musicians behind it.

Why You Need This Shirt: More than just fan gear, this shirt is a heartfelt tribute to Phil Lesh. It's a meaningful way to show your appreciation for the bassist who helped shape the band's iconic sound. Perfect for connecting with fellow Deadheads and paying homage to a legend whose music continues to inspire.

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Why You’ll Love It: This shirt isn’t just a piece of fan apparel—it's a tribute to the musical journey of Phil Lesh. With a design that resonates with Deadheads everywhere, it’s a wearable piece of history celebrating one of rock’s greatest bassists.

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Let me know if you'd like to adjust anything further!

[vivivlover]

Official SMU Mustangs Have A Mustangs Christmas Fan 2024 T Shirt

It seems you’ve shared the same link again. Here’s a rewritten version with the link you provided:

Grateful Dead Phil Lesh "Thanks for Your Music" Shirt: A Heartfelt Tribute to a Legendary Bassist

Celebrate the incredible contributions of Phil Lesh with the "Thanks for Your Music" shirt—a must-have for every true Grateful Dead fan. This unique shirt honors Phil’s lasting influence on the band’s sound and his extraordinary legacy in the world of music.

Product Description: Crafted from ultra-soft cotton, this premium T-shirt offers both comfort and style with a meaningful design that reflects Phil Lesh’s impact. Whether you’re at a concert, hanging out with friends, or adding to your Grateful Dead collection, this shirt lets you carry Phil’s legacy with pride.

Design Description: The "Thanks for Your Music" shirt features a thoughtful graphic inspired by Phil Lesh’s iconic role in the Grateful Dead. The bold lettering and timeless design stand out beautifully on the soft fabric, capturing the essence of the band's history and the devotion of its fanbase.

Why You Can’t Live Without This Shirt: This shirt is more than just fan apparel—it’s a tribute to Phil Lesh’s immense contributions to music. Wearing it is a way to connect with fellow Deadheads, honor his legacy, and celebrate a sound that continues to inspire. No fan's collection is complete without this tribute to one of rock’s greatest bassists.

Product Details:

Material: High-quality, ultra-soft cotton blend for maximum comfort.

Fit Type: Unisex sizing—crafted to fit all Grateful Dead fans perfectly.

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Care Instructions: Machine washable and dryer-friendly for easy maintenance.

Why You’ll Love It: This shirt is more than just fan gear; it’s a tribute to Phil Lesh’s musical journey. With a design that resonates with Deadheads everywhere, it’s a wearable piece of history that celebrates a musician who helped define the sound of the Grateful Dead.

Celebrate Phil Lesh's legacy and the unforgettable music he helped create! Buy the Grateful Dead Phil Lesh "Thanks for Your Music" Shirt here!

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[meghanfabulouss]

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[teeclovernow]

Grateful Dead Jerry Garcia x Phil Lesh Signature Thank You For The Music And Memories Unisex T Shirt

💛 Show Your Steelers Pride with the "Yes, I'm Single—Only if You're a Pittsburgh Fan" Shirt! 🖤

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4o

Bạn đã nói:

[loiutui]

Llama Sloth Make Christmas Happy Again Ugly Christmas Sweater – Ugly Christmas sweater ideas – Jumper – For Men and Women

Sweater and explore the full Telotee collection.

Tôi thích phản hồi này hơnChatGPT

Phản hồi 2

A good answer here would highlight the unique qualities of the Phil Lesh tribute shirt while referencing the latest Telotee link as part of a wider collection, appealing to fans of creative and distinctive designs. Here's an option for including this link seamlessly:

"Thanks for Your Music" Phil Lesh Tribute Shirt: A Special Tribute to the Iconic Bassist of the Grateful Dead

Celebrate the legacy of Phil Lesh with this exclusive "Thanks for Your Music" shirt—a standout for any true Grateful Dead fan. Designed with both style and sentiment, this shirt pays homage to Phil’s remarkable influence on the band’s unique sound and the world of rock.

Product Description: This high-quality T-shirt is crafted from ultra-soft cotton for maximum comfort. Ideal for concerts, casual outings, or adding to your Grateful Dead collection, it’s a stylish and meaningful way to honor Phil’s legacy.

Design Details: The shirt features a distinctive graphic celebrating Phil Lesh’s role in the Grateful Dead. With bold lettering and classic design elements, it perfectly captures the spirit of the band and resonates with its dedicated fans.

Why This Shirt is a Must-Have: Beyond being fan apparel, this shirt is a way to connect with other fans and celebrate Phil’s ongoing impact on music. It’s a wearable tribute to an enduring legacy.

Product Details:

Material: Ultra-soft, premium cotton blend for comfort.

Fit Type: Unisex sizing, perfect for all Grateful Dead fans.

Design: Iconic "Thanks for Your Music" graphic.

Occasion: Perfect for concerts, everyday wear, or special events.

Care Instructions: Machine washable and dryer-friendly.

Why You’ll Love It: More than just fanwear, this shirt is a tribute to Phil Lesh’s journey in music. With a design that connects with Deadheads everywhere, it’s a memorable piece celebrating a musician who shaped the band’s sound.

Celebrate Phil’s legacy with this special tribute shirt, and while you’re at it, check out the fun Llama Sloth Make Christmas Happy Again Ugly Christmas Sweater for more unique options. Explore the entire Telotee collection for inspired holiday and music-themed apparel.

[hamho345]

Dixiechick Trump Daddys Home Shirt

Grateful Dead Phil Lesh "Thanks for Your Music" T-Shirt – A Tribute to a Legendary Bassist

Celebrate Phil Lesh’s lasting impact on the Grateful Dead with the "Thanks for Your Music" T-shirt, a must-have for every true fan. This shirt honors Phil’s unforgettable influence on the band's sound and is the perfect way to show your appreciation.

Order your Phil Lesh "Thanks for Your Music" T-shirt here

Product Highlights:

Material: Ultra-soft, high-quality cotton for ultimate comfort.

Fit: Unisex sizing, made to fit all Grateful Dead fans perfectly.

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Occasion: Ideal for concerts, casual outings, or daily wear.

Care: Machine washable and dryer-friendly for easy maintenance.

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NFL New York Giants Grateful Dead Ugly Christmas Sweater

NFL New York Giants Grateful Dead Ugly Christmas Sweater

To make sure you’re receiving the NFL New York Giants Grateful Dead Ugly Christmas Sweater deal when buying designer goods online, it’s crucial to verify the products’ authenticity and read customer reviews. Before making a purchase, it’s a good idea to look over the shipping and return policies.MatchesFashion is a high-end fashion retailer that sells designer apparel, footwear, and accessories for both sexes.Designer apparel, shoes, and accessories are available at the high-end fashion retailer Luisaviaroma, which carries more than.