closed starter for @ofmontys › A SUFFERING TOO TERRIBLE TO NAME BECOMES A PLAGUE / ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE STILL MOURNING ? * it feels that way . lux , over the past few days , has become a ghost . there’s rarely been a moment that she wasn’t in her home . to think that the first place she’d really show her face is a party is absolutely absurd , but she does it . and maybe it’s a mistake . even the mere smell of alcohol sends a sense of disgust through her features . it’s been so long since she dealt with it , since one of her parents came strolling through the door –––– only to pass out on the floor at three in the morning , leaving lux to pick up the pieces that they left shattered in their paths . seeing a familiar face helps , and a relieved smile seems to meet previously scolding lips before lux approaches monty with a slight skip in her step . ❛ having fun ? ❜ shoulder bumps his arm gently once she’s close enough , body turning to face the male with lifted brows . ❛ bet this partying thing is old news to you , though . i assume this is what you’ve been doing since night one . ❜
fun is a relative term. monty vaguely registers his lips tracing the words –– whether or not they actually make vocal traction is something he’s willing to toss to chance. this church reeks of teenaged stupidity and monty, though very much a participant, finds himself observing his mischievous cohorts with careful eye. trust is a sentiment quite foreign to west ham’s youth : he doubts an unforeseen blip in their sociopolitical structure can change that. monty raises a solo cup to his lips and issues himself two pills –– prescription, remind him to thank julia harker, 52, for her brave fight against post-op aches & pains. our well-seasoned champ washes his concoction down with one easy gulp and drops his emptied vessel to the floor. the cup clacks beside his left boot before rolling under one of the pews. out of sight, out of mind –– if only religion worked that way.
“ mm. have a gander who’s shown, ” monty responds before offering lux his gaze. eye contact –– she’s worth it. in his eyes’ travels, he catches one of his peers teeter over the edge of a pew and ingloriously infuse the remnants of their lunch into the new testament. body of christ, gift of heaven. a smirk blooms across rum-bittered lips. “ you’re not wrong. when in west ham. with a considerably lower body count, though. ” half of the town’s youth will barely scrape through tomorrow. fools.
he won’t mention the countless hours spent scouring the monroe estate, searching for clues. he won’t mention repeatedly dialing his cousin’s mobile onto to be greeted with a cheery, robotic: we’re sorry ! the mailbox you are attempting to reach is full ! he won’t mention it. even to lux. it isn’t worth the risk.
“ how ‘bout you, eh? peached you showed. ” he asks, nudging her shoulder with his own. it chances registry as weakness, physical affection. she’s worth it. “ are you having... fun ? ”
Lennon LOVED a good party, after all she was the sorority party planner so she knew she stuff. However, since she didn’t end up having to plan this one, it also meant she got to go a little more wild than normal, so she scanned the party looking for someone specific, someone who would definitely have what she needed to have even more fun tonight. Then she spotted him, and she made her way through the crowd. “Monty! I need something to make this night even more crazy, you have what I need?”
@ofmontys
this party screams end of the world. it screams we’re sad and alone and petrified, so let’s get shitfaced and maybe that will save our sorry souls. how utterly pathetic. monty knocks back another drink and revels in it all. quivering souls. borrowed time. sacrilege in sacred walls. he wonders if west ham’s devout youth can feel themselves wilting in god’s graces. he bloody hopes so. dark eyes dart to the church entrance, through which an armada of omega nu’s hoist yet another keg. his brothers.
someone tumbles down the church steps, but manages to somersault at the finish. that performance deserves applause. monty hastily dips his housekey into a bag of powder and snorts –– that’ll do. solidarity in motion. the tumbler stands, and he’ll heighten along with them.
he’s been called upon intermittently all night. pockets full and mind at ease ( thanks to his aunt’s vicodin ) , he’s made a pretty penny tonight. in capital as well as trust. and that investment will do plenty well in the days to come; he’s sure of it. so when another person calls his name, monty’s got his pitch at the ready. when he sees it’s lennon weaving toward him, however, he figures he might as well skip to the good stuff. between forefinger and thumb, he holds a minuscule bag of free-form molly. mdma, composite. his blend. engineered for one bloody hell of a trip.
he hasn’t quite anchored a cost yet –– as far as customers go, lennon’s loyalty is second to none.
“ maybe. ” he’s wasted –– the cheshire cat grin gives it away. “ how fucked y’lookin’ to get, love? ”
oliver had all but given up trying to call round and see what the hell was going on. his parents weren’t answering. all of his sisters (or at least the ones with phones) weren’t answering. it was futile. obviously. his cigarette was poised between his index finger and thumb, rolling it between the two as he looked at the unlit end. it was only when he was spoken to that he blinked, taking a long drag to try and hide how out of it he’d been. however, upon seeing who had spoken? it didn’t seem to matter so much. of course it was monty and of course he looked just as… well as monty as ever.
“fuck knows.” was the first response out of his mouth. screw crouching, he was all for just straight up sitting on the floor. he sat down with a light huff of breath, taking hold of the cigarette he’d held between his lips to lower himself to the ground. “want a drag?” he asked, holding it out to the other. “unless you have anything stronger.” he eyed the other, knowing they’d definitely gone down that path before. exchanges of goods and services. totally professional. “cause i’m up for that too.” he smirked a little. “but uh.. hoagie? subway? i dunno. i’d google it but there’s no fuckin’ service.”
monty smirks. his lips lift slowly, fluidly, from corner to corner. his countenance e a s e s into its characteristic flippancy. “ fuck knows is right, ” he supplies, eyeing the dark horizon as he takes oliver’s cigarette into his fingers, raises it to his lips, and drags. monty’s always been one for the night –– he admires how unlit land bleeds out to the skies, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. he ponders how many early pilots have been duped, and wishes he could break out of this town to explore their wreckage.
“ anything stronger, ” he parrots with a scoff. the crossword goes forgotten, tossed to the ground with a satisfying plack. “ y’know me? ” monty lazily lifts his chin to gaze at oliver through half-lidded eyes. he licks the nicotine from his lips, before brushing shoulders with the other male, cigarette outstretched with steady hand.
with his left, monty dips into the breast pocket of his jacket, forefinger and middle finger gliding against midnighted leather. they surface with several small bags: painkillers. weed. cocaine. molly. the easiest shit to conceal tonight. and the easiest to sell to west ham’s worried and wounded.
monty dangles the assorted substances with a knowing smile. he’s got heavier supplies stowed away –– for when this town’ll surely need it. his next words sound a low purr, ghosting past barely-parted lips.
She’s taken to observing everyone else from her spot on the church steps, deciding it was a safe place to keep dry from the remaining moments of the storm. Silently she took note of who steps up with ideas and who gives into their paranoia, quickly seeing the slowly shifting power dynamics that were starting to sprout only moments after realization had settled upon everyone. There were some in denial, making up excuses that were so blatantly false that she couldn’t help but let out a laugh, causing her to ignore the confused looks she would get as she did so.
So lost in thought as she observed the people in front of her, she didn’t realize she had neglected to keep an eye on the figure besides her until they spoke up. His question puzzles her at first, causing her to turn towards him with a questioning look until she catches sight of the paper in his hand. Where he had even got a pen was a mystery to her but she didn’t question it, instead choosing to ponder his question. “ I suppose there’s hoagie. I’m pretty sure that’s considered a sub. ” She allows a silence to settle between them, her gaze returning to the crowd as she speaks up again. “ I’ve heard my mom use hero and wedge before but New Yorkers are odd so I don’t know how relevant those terms are. ”
monty’s no fool –– he knows better than to buy in to any hopeful bullshit spewed from semi-inebriated lips. no doubt the imbeciles in the church are theorizing. an early april fool’s joke. a social experiment. a second rendition of punk’d. monty’s registered whisperings of varied explanations and they’re all fucked. now isn’t the time to find hope. they can run about looking for signs all they like –– he’ll be smarter. better.
“ new yorkers are fuckin’ mental, ” monty supplies without looking up from his paper. he pens in h-e-r-o without a hitch. “ hm. ” the first and last letter align with his previous answers. if the young man wasn’t so preoccupied by determining the whereabouts of his cousin, he might smile.
“ you’re good –– remind me to keep you around. ” monty’s focus lifts and he manages a half-hearted expression, something short of a smile. “ how’re you, eh? ” as if on cue, a glass somewhere shatters. teenaged hollers chime in for the chorus. monty returns to his puzzle, tongue darting along thin-pressed lips.
scottish word for “fated one,” typically to death. three letters.
she had been in the church with several others just trying to figure out what was going on. they were all searching for the same thing –– ANSWERS. they wanted to know where their families and friends had gone. they NEEDED to know where the rest of town had gone. she finally decided that enough was enough. she couldn’t handle this wondering anymore. she needed to shut off her mind.
emmeline was caught off guard by a voice as she exited the church. “another world for a sub sandwich?” asked, just repeating the question to herself. “what about a hoagie? or a uh –– what’s the world –– like a ––– po’boy i guess. is that even a real thing?”
monty hums and chews on his pen for a moment. “ hoagie... ” he counts the letters and is met with a non-compliant number of spaces. po’boy, though, that might work –– if the west ham chronicle would allow an apostrophe to occupy and entire space on its own.
“ how’re you so well-versed with these things, eh? ” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “ po’boy? sounds like an indirect way to reference a hooker. ” cue a light chuckle, a shake of his head. “ it’s four letters... starts with a b, if my other answer’s right. take a look. ”
he’s normally not this forward, nor this open. but this crossword’s been nagging at him for the past half hour, and once he completes it, it’s on to the comics –– the good stuff. all rewards warrant patience, but what kind of monster would he be if he just flipped to the paper’s end? this world would be nothing without order. undermine proper paper etiquette and where would the rest of society fall ?
the thought brings a flicker of amusement to his gaze.
“ maybe everyone’s left ‘cause they’re too bloody embarrassed for this crossword creator. ha. there’s a thought. ”
with tonight’s looting complete, monty finds himself crouched against the front-facing wall of west ham’s church, yesterday’s newspaper trifolded against a jean-clad thigh. booted toes tap indistinct patterns against pavement; a red pen dances between nimble fingers. he notes approaching footsteps and leans his head back against cool brick, eyes half-lidded with mock frustration.
“ what do y’reckon’s another word for sub sandwich? ”
he over-enunciates the terminal phrase, allowing the unsightly americanism to curl around british tongue. truly, he couldn’t care less. but this copy of the west ham chronicle’s the best entertainment he’s had for the past thirty minutes. compared to tonight’s hackneyed parental woes, it’s riveting. another word for sub sandwich. monty lifts his gaze, nips his pen’s cap, and waits for his answer.
the convenience store was entirely uninhabited, and if quinn thought about that for too long, it would absolutely terrify her. maybe parents weren’t picking up their phones for a good reason; maybe there was a boring town hall meeting she’d forgotten about. maybe they were all at some weird bar getting mid life crisis wasted. there could be explanations for that. but an unmanned gas station was just freaky, no matter how you looked at it.
she arrived back at the church only a few moments after disappearing, working on a bag of sour gummy worms. despite her internal panic, quinn maintained a cool demeanor. she looked almost bored, but mostly unimpressed. “not that this isn’t super fun and all, but this humidity is doing awful things to my hair. can we move this mass hysteria inside?”
“ you think this is truly mass hysteria... ” monty shakes his head and clucks his tongue, cigarette pressed against the corner of his lips. he speaks between clenched teeth as if he can’t be arsed to remove it, as if denying the burning tobacco its proper home might upset the balance of the universe and throw the stars into disarray. he cards a hand through ebony locks and allows wandering eyes to meander across the church lawn –– good thing he’s not responsible for cleaning up this shithole tomorrow.
because maybe the rest of the town’s just snoozing. maybe the cops’ll open an investigation into who’s stolen $125,000 worth of narcotics from west ham’s drugstore. maybe.
“ i reckon this barely even scratches the surface. ” and it’s true. nervous teens getting shitfaced doesn’t begin to hint at what chaos may follow. mayhem flickers mahogany behind deep russet eyes. it’s a bleak prophecy. bone-chilling. the breeze picks up, and monty delights in thinking it has something to do with his halloween-esque augury.
only now does our foreboding messenger wedge the cig between two fingers and pull, out, out, out, allowing his exhaled breath to spiral skyward. monty watches before his gaze lists back to quinn.
“ have a drink. loosen up. humidity’s not gonna bloody kill ya. ” or maybe it just may; that’d be a sight. death by sodden air. tragic. “ if you’d like to go inside, be my guest. ” cue another drag. a light chuckle. “ but isn’t this night air so free? ”
“ ah, well. acceptable forms of payment include but are certainly not limited to : booze, food, arms, real estate, f a v o r s ... i’m not picky. but for this lot? ” monty shakes a small plastic bag between forefinger and thumb, lips decorated with an iced smirk. “ the price’ll be a bit... steep. ”
or, alternatively: hello, hello, hello! delighted to be here! the name’s linc ( she/her ) and i’m comin’ to you live from the ever so lovely est timezone with the one, the only, the absolute bloody douchecanoe, monty monroe !
( charles melton + 23 + muse 51 ) isn’t that ignatius “monty” monroe over there? i heard he joined faction: nomads after they got back to west ham. it’s funny, ‘cause they were only on the service trip because his fraternity received disciplinary community service hours & downtrodden greek lifers equaled eager customers. hopefully they fit in there – they’re VULPINE, but also PERFIDIOUS. oh, i’m sure they’ll be fine.
“road work ahead? uh, yeah, i sure hope it does!” ( alternatively: monty monroe, a roadmap. )
firstborn to two of the most powerful executives in the world in hong kong, heading alacritas, the world’s most cutting-edge pharmaceutical company to date. meaning “cheerfulness” and “life”, alacritas’ company mantra is based in life-giving –– “in vivacity, we shine.” lest we forget, though, these pharma high rollers definitely did more than dabble in delinquency. big pharma comes with big drugs: not always the legal kind. and while monty’s parents certainly generate an impressive gross income from respectable trades, they also outsource sketchy labor not listed in their tax reports... illegal substances. mercenaries. insider trading. the monroe’s exploited their industry to the fullest, securing their way to the top of hong kong’s sociopolitical ladder. and, when chinese authorities began questioning their records in 1998, neville and meihui did what any good parents would do to secure a promising future for their only progeny: they shipped two-year-old ignatius off to london, england to live with neville’s sister.
up until his thirteenth year, ignatius thrived: he grew up alongside his younger cousin, essentially as siblings. his aunt became more of a mother than a simple caretaker. the boy was bright. brilliant, really. in primary school, he distinguished himself with his sharp wit and indelible charm. a footballer and intellectual, he fostered many friendships and networked his way into london’s youthful elite. so, when his aunt uprooted their small family to marry an american she met during a layover in dublin, young ignatius was less than pleased.
his aunt’s husband happened to own property in a hole-in-the-wall town in kansas, west ham. ignatius despised the name –– and, upon arrival, his dislike only grew. its sleepy streets couldn’t compete with bustling south kensington. despite their opulent accommodations, he developed a sour taste in his mouth concerning west ham and its residents. some semblance of self-perceived superiority took hold –– and, as ignatius easily landed the role of striker on west ham’s varsity soccer team, his peers mostly enabled this attitude.
in high school, he earned the nickname monty: something a bit less posh than his birth name. it worked, and monty found that, by his senior year, he’d grown more comfortable in participating in west ham’s suburban traditions. still, he aimed to attend university far away. and, with an acceptance to stanford’s business school, nearly bloody succeeded. if it weren’t for his idiot step-uncle...
( tw: automobile accident, death, drugs ) the week before graduation, his aunt’s american buffoon of a husband decided it’d be wise to drive home during one of the worst rainstorms of the season. inebriated. he flipped their prized audi. totaled the damned thing. and totaled himself, too. monty’s graduation bash had to be postponed for funeral services. his aunt fell into a terrible depression and, in order to keep the household running properly, monty had no choice but to stay here. in west ham. it was the right thing to do.
so he began school at west ham’s local uni. and hated every moment of it. of course, seeing his high school friends was ideal –– but he wasn’t challenged. wasn’t stimulated. he began sneaking one or two of his aunt’s pills, here and there. the habit slowly grew, little by little. once he rushed omega nu, he began dealing a bit here and there. with the cash, he was able to acquire more lucrative inventory.
he started off in the greek faction but quickly became a nomad due to a little incident concerning a pocket knife and a bit too much alcohol. i imagine he’s still on good terms with some of the guys, but damn... this kid has turned into a loose canon.
personality tidbits! woop woop.
there’s no easy way to say this. he’s a fuckin’ ass. and, ever since their return to this shaken-up version of the world, it’s gotten worse. any moral compass this kid previously had has vacated the building.
while everyone else was panicked about their parents’ absence, monty raided the local pharmacies and practically cleaned them out. he inventoried his own stock and rummaged through the entire estate, broke into rooms his aunt and uncle hadn’t previously allowed him access to. and oh, did he like what he found: a considerable portion of alacritas’ inventory –– and not the entirely legal kind.
you want drugs? got an aching back? a throbbing heart? monty’s got something for that. but it’ll fuckin’ cost you, big. maybe a gun. maybe that pocket knife, or your toolkit. y’think he could have that antifreeze in exchange for this weed? four pills for tomorrow’s rations. think about it. you need this. he’s helping you. but this place’ll go to absolute shit without a market economy so, really? he’s keeping the peace.
business major. definite snake. slither slither, bitches. don’t trust him. he’ll charm your socks off. he’ll seduce you with his warm-honey voice and buttery smile.
have you... seen his little cousin....? no??? he’s worried but won’t admit it. good bloody riddance!! pah! he’s got his fuckin’ house to himself! don’t you even THINK about telling him otherwise, unless you’re there for business... but you’ll have to meet him at a neutral location to exchange goods. he’s not about to, like, orchestrate his own demise, thank you very much.
honestly? hasn’t had a sober moment since their return from the trip. he went with the intent to sell and, because of it, he’s got a heckin stash. so shut up and smoke this blunt with him, or so help him god.
will look you dead in the eye and describe, in detail, how he'll flay your skin strip by strip and use it to sew himself a new pair of boots, if you don't pay up now. cue a snort of cocaine off his key before he twiddles an outstretched palm “understood?”
a true businessman with no instinct for self-preservation. just profit. profit, profit, profit. though he wasn’t raised by his birth parents, they sure as hell passed on their ophidian genes.
honestly quite unhinged. doesn’t respect anyone else’s authority but his own. always armed in some capacity. likes playing with pocket knives. has an affinity for winking for no reason. eyeing you like you’re his next meal. maybe you are. better give him that last red gatorade before you have to find out.
heavily inspired by “bad guy” by billie eilish.
somebody break him. somebody make him break. because he’s a bloody cadbury egg, y’all. eventually, his shell’s gonna crumble.
bisexual as heck. mess as heck. not repressed about it, but will absolutely play about with the truth. not above faking genuine emotion to get you in his bed. or to steal your shit. his sleight of hand is uncanny. for a rich boy, he sure knows how to grift.
but yeah pls like? hmu for plots? i know this is a lot. and a bit half-baked. so i just.... yeah. message me and we can plot, y’all! i’m so hype for this and i can’t wait to write with y’all!! xoxo
