#2010s splatter

[videoreligion]

Necronos (2010)

[carebearsandkawaiistuff76]

[deadboystims]

✦ ┊ entry 16 from this for @sigmxnd !! song from my childhood, willow - whip my hair

sources : 1 , 2 , 3 ┊ 4 , 5 , 6 ┊ 7 , 8 , 9

[closetofcuriosities]

Junya Watanabe x Comme des Garçons - Paint Splatter Tee - AD2017

[schlock-luster-video]

On March 13, 2010, 13 premiered at the South by Southwest Film Festival.

Here's a new drawing of Mickey Rourke!

[fanofspooky]

Wrong Turn 4: Bloody Beginnings

2011 • R • 1h33m

A group of college students gets lost in a storm during their snowmobiling trip and takes shelter in an abandoned sanitarium which, unbeknown to them, is home to deformed cannibals.

[horsemotifs]

i hate serious high-budget big-production and moody try-hard indie horror films (except for south-/east asian indies. they know). horror is supposed to be fun and entertaining. peak horror is over-the-top 80s-90s slashers and monsters, trashy 2000s to early 2010s remakes and low budget splatters. its silly one liners and clichés stacked with clichés. homoerotic subtext and random sex scenes in cars at night

big production/high budget can sometimes be good if its also funny/entertaining and innovative (like Nope).

if i tell you i love horror and you come at me with some a24 ari aster type of movie, ill run i can tell you that much.

[videoreligion]

Necronos (2010)

[goryhorroor]

masterpost of horror lists

here are all my horror lists in one place to make it easier to find! enjoy!

sub-genres

action horror

analog horror

animal horror

animated horror

anthology horror

aquatic horror

apocalyptic horror

backwoods horror

bubblegum horror

campy horror

cannibal horror

children’s horror

comedy horror

coming-of-age horror

corporate/work place horror

cult horror

dance horror

dark comedy horror

daylight horror

death games

domestic horror

ecological horror

erotic horror

experimental horror

fairytale horror

fantasy horror

folk horror

found footage horror

giallo horror

gothic horror

grief horror

historical horror

holiday horror

home invasion horror

house horror

indie horror

isolation horror

insect horror

lgbtqia+ horror

lovecraftian/cosmic horror

medical horror

meta horror

monster horror

musical horror

mystery horror

mythological horror

neo-monster horror

new french extremity horror

paranormal horror

political horror

psychedelic horror

psychological horror

religious horror

revenge horror

romantic horror

dramatic horror

science fiction horror

slasher

southern gothic horror

sov horror (shot-on-video)

splatter/body horror

survival horror

techno-horror

vampire horror

virus horror

werewolf horror

western horror

witch horror

zombie horror

horror plots/settings

road trip horror

summer camp horror

cave horror

doll horror

cinema horror

cabin horror

clown horror

wilderness horror

asylum horror

small town horror

college horror

plot devices

storm horror

from a child’s perspective

final girl/guy (this is slasher horror trope)

last guy/girl (this is different than final girl/guy)

reality-bending horror

slow burn horror

possession

pregnancy horror

foreign horror or non-american horror

african horror

spanish horror

middle eastern horror

korean horror

japanese horror

british horror

german horror

indian horror

thai horror

irish horror

scottish horror

slavic horror (kinda combined a bunch of countries for this)

chinese horror

french horror

australian horror

canadian horror

decades

silent era

30s horror

40s horror

50s horror

60s horror

70s horror

80s horror

90s horror

2000s horror

2010s horror

2020s horror

companies/services

blumhouse horror

a24 horror

ghosthouse horror

shudder horror

other lists

horror literature to movies

techno-color horror movies

video game to horror movie adaption

video nasties

female directed horror

my 130 favorite horror movies

horror movies critics hated because they’re stupid

horror remakes/sequels that weren’t bad

female villains in horror

horror movies so bad they’re good

non-horror movies that feel like horror movies

directors + their favorite horror movies + directors in the notes

tumblr’s favorite horror movie (based off my poll)

horror movie plot twists

cult classic horror movies

essential underrated horror films

worst horror movie husbands

religious horror that isn’t christianity 

black horror movies

extreme horror (maybe use this as an avoid list)

horror shorts

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: A cannibalistic carnival goes on the road and finds a reality show that gets a dinner invitation.

[yameoto]

giving fuckgirl!cait (+basketball) the best head of her life (she still doesn’t know what the hell to do about it)

sub!caitlyn, blowjobs, caitlyn cums in approx 2 seconds and is then humiliated, smut n fluff, ohhh she’s definitely in love with you

fuckgirl!cait who is just a little needy. the first time you ask her she’s all wide-eyed and her mouth is dry and suddenly she’s nervous for the first time in her life. which makes zero sense because (“not to sound like a dickhead—“ “prefacing that everytime doesn’t make you any less of a dickhead, cait.”) she’s been bobbing her cock down willing girls’ throats since she hit puberty. to destress or for fun or if she felt like it. whatever. the point is; she’s well-versed in this.

so, why her palms are suddenly sweating and her cheeks are glowing she has no idea. croaks. “uhm. are you sure? because you really don’t have to—“ like she hasn’t been harassing you for the past couple months and even if she’s had countless fantasies of this moment; imagining you, and your plush, soft lips wrapped around her cock as she splatters her load against the shower wall or a tissue or her dedicated cumsock (ok, sometimes she is just a jock. sue her. she’s a busy woman! and she, admittedly, no longer has a maid waiting on her beck and call.)

you laugh, all deep and throaty and it makes caitlyn want to sink between your couch cushions and die.

“what’s with the deer in the headlights look?” you’ll never grow tired of teasing her, even if you no longer think of her as the arrogant basketball prick who pads around you like a lost puppy and instead; now, something closer to an.. acquaintance with benefits.

(caitlyn has no clue how she made it this far with you. it’s like you just randomly decided to give her a shot one day, on a whim, and she desperately doesn’t want to blow it. even if acquaintance-with-benefits is a title that disgruntles her, at the very least. hurts, at the very most. like, very very most, okay?)

“i just..” caitlyn lets out a quiet whine when your fingers curl against the hem of her basketball shorts and—ah, shit. and now she’s hard. “now look what you’ve done.” she hisses, though she’s not quite sure what she expected when you texted her for netflix and chill like it’s still the 2010s.

“there’s that pretty thing.” you completely ignore her in favour of continuing your blasted teasing, fingers snaking underneath her waistband and pulling, guiding the shorts down the sharp v-line at her crotch and eyes travelling down the fine, inky lines of her happy trail to the spring of her cock, over the edge; half-glazed and all pretty and pink.

“you really want to..?” she doesn’t know why she keeps backtracking, like she hasn’t been talking and talking about how fucking good she’d be. and now that it’s really happening she’s getting cold feet, of all things.

“it’s just a blow, cait.” you roll your eyes.

right. just a blow. like she’s done, a million times before. god. god. she doesn’t know where the fuck this performance anxiety has suddenly arose from (pun unintended). she’s (gracefully and intentionally) bruised countless girls’ throats, for fuck’s sake. twisted her hand in the hair and yanked them sharply with each forceful snap of her hips, and told them to swallow without so much as a blink.

except you—you—

“mmgh—“ caitlyn throws her had back, as she lets out an exceedingly unflattering grunt, with the gusto in which you take her into her mouth. your tongue swirls, along her tip, and—hah—her mind melts to butter. her eyes are all cloudy, head spinning. “wait—mmf—i didnt—“

caitlyn’s hips buck, heedlessly, into your mouth. fuck. she usually has more rhythm than this. more—control. but then your tongue is sliding underneath and your hand running over to curl around her base and she’s rutting upwards aimlessly, like some stupid teenage boy who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. only that—shit—she’s never felt this good in her life and this is not just a blow—this is the most beautiful, nirvana-inducing, mind-shattering experience she could’ve ever—ungh.

oh.

oh, nononono. nono— no. she didn’t just—

your mouth hangs open, still, as you stare up at her with wide, surprised eyes; throat bobbing as if you were preparing to maybe do that really hot vacuum-type motion again except there’s kind of no fucking point because her dick is twitching uselessly as it slips out of your mouth and she watches in horror, as cum drizzles down your chin.

you swallow. caitlyn dreads that glimmer in your eyes, already.

“i usually—i last longer than that!” caitlyn’s cheeks are beet-red and she’s blinking up at you with those big, sad blue eyes and you’re laughing. crawling on top of her stomach as her dick presses flush and sticky against your lower torso and you’re laughing at her plight. ok, that’s it. it’s over. her reputation that she’s fought and fucked so hard for is dead and gone. she’s got to pack her bags, move countries, and start over.

she buries her face into the crook of your neck. surprisingly, you don’t push her away. “you can’t tell anyone.” she orders, petulant. she’s fucking humiliated.

“why would i tell anyone?” you snort. she whines.

“i don’t want you to think—“ caitlyn digs her short-cut nails into palms, looking frustrated; brows knit and cheeks still flushed, stray strands of hair a mess against her forehead. “i didn’t come over just for a blow.”

“i know, cait.”

caitlyn doesn’t know how much you know, frankly, because she doesn’t know how much she knows—considering she’s just had the most earth-quaking orgasm of her life in all but two seconds like some lame loser virgin and not the cool, suave playgirl that caitlyn kiramman is so known to be; but you’re sinking back into her arms and letting her keep leaking leftover dribbles into your couch as she clings and maybe, she doesn’t care. just wants to stay like this for a little while, and blink the spots out of her vision.

“i’m normally really very good.” she insists, words spilling out in an accented rush against your skin, half-slurred. “seriously.”

“caitlyn.”

“seriously!”

[tomssexdoll]

Fiery Awakening

PAIRINGS: Tom 2010 x Female reader

CONTENT: ANGST + SMUT + FLUFF

SYPNOSIS: Tom and Y/N are in a forced marriage, tied together by the power of both their wealthy businessmen fathers. Their marriage was a way to expand their businesses and get more money. Y/N and Tom hated each other, getting into fights constantly, even sleeping in different rooms. But one day, when he comes back home early from work and he finds you with your lover, things change drastically..

A/N: sorry for not uploading a req i just really liked this idea!! This does not mean reqs will not be written in future, love you guys!!!

WARNINGS: dom!tom, sub!reader, p in v (missionary), eating out, heavy arguing, some violence (not towards y/n)

Me and tom were in a forced marriage, we were both children of very important business men, the marriage was a way to help both the businesses expand and get even more money. My father and his only cared about money.

Me and Tom hated each other, from the start we didn't want to get married, begging for it to be someone else, anybody else we were forced to marry. Every day we argued and screamed at each other, hitting each other and throwing stuff at each other. We even slept in different rooms.

One day, Tom was away for business, I thought he was going to be away for a while so I snuck over my lover I had been seeing for a couple of months. Unbeknownst to me, Tom had actually come home way earlier than I expected.

I was too distracted in bed to hear the door open and shut, and Toms heavy footsteps pounding on the floor as he walked. He set his briefcase down, pouring himself a whiskey. As he relaxed he suddenly tensed, hearing a strange noise coming from my room.

He crept upstairs and slowly opened the door, his eyes widening as they landed on the scene before him. I was lying in the bed, my legs spread wide as my lover knelt between them, his head buried between my thighs. "What the fuck is going on here?!" he shouted, startling the both of us. His whole world came crashing down.

"Jesus, what the fuck?!" I gasped, startled by his sudden presense. My lover, Jacob slowly peered his head out and cursed under his breath. "Why didn't you tell me he'd be home?" he hissed at me, "I didn't know he was going to be home early!" I retorted and looked back up at Tom, seeing the burning rage in his eyes.

"Why do you care anyways? It's not like we even like each other.." I grumbled. His breathing became heavy and erratic, his eyes darkening dangerously at my nonchalant attitude. He had been trying to keep his feelings from me hidden but seeing me with another man was the final straw. His jealously consumed him and he lost all control.

The glass in his hand shattered against the wall. alcohol spreading across the floor. In three long strides, he was across the room, pulling Jacob off me and throwing him against the wall. "Tom, stop! What the fuck?!" I yelped and scrambled to get my clothes, putting them on hurriedly and striding over to him.

He ignored my screams, his focus solely on destroying the man who dared to touch me. He kept punching and kicking until the guy was nothing more but a bloody, unconscious mess on the floor. "Oh god..Jacob!" I whined, trying to push past Tom to get to him.

He turned his wrathful gaze back to me. He let go of Jacob chest heaving, covered in blood splatters. He slowly turned his body to face me and stalked closer, backing me up against the wall, "oh..so you think it's fucking okay to bring your little boyfriend over when I'm not here? To FUCK in your bed, in OUR HOUSE?!" he shouted, his face inches from mine.

His eyes were wild, pupils dilated with manic obsession. He grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. My cheeks were flushed and my hair dishevelled. He saw the mark on my neck, my lovers doing.

He gritted his teeth, his voice dropping dangerously low, "answer the fucking question Y/N.." his voice was shaky, almost like he was hurt. My words came out quickly, before I could even think about what I was saying, "why do you care? I don't fucking love you and you don't love me, you probably fuck women behind my back too!" I yelled

His eyes blazed with fury and something else..jealously? Desire? He slammed his fist onto the plaster beside my head, cracking it slightly. He leaned in close until his lips nearly brushed against mine, "are you fucking serious right now..?" he spat out angrily. Toms grip on my chin tightened painfully, causing me to wince softly.

"Do you want to know why I don't sleep around?" I kept silent, knowing I had no other choice but to listen anyway. "Because every time I fucking try..I can't get you out of my head," he said, his voice hoarse. "I can't touch another woman without seeing your face, without imagining you. It's like you haunt me, I hate it. I hate you..." his voice slightly cracked, his chest heaving even more now.

"And now..you're here, with this fucking douche? While I can't get you out of my head!" he yelled, a sob escaping his lips. "You know what? No. You are not to see that motherfucker anymore..I don't give a shit, you're MINE, MY wife." he stormed over to Jacob, grabbing his unconscious body and throwing him outside the room.

He slammed the door shut, locking it and turning back to me with a terrifying look in his eyes. "You're mine.." he grumbled, grabbing my waist and crushing me against his chest. He smashed his lips into mine, kissing me passionately.

His tongue forced it's way into my mouth, kisses desperate and rough. He pushed me harder into the wall, one hand tangling in my hair as the other slid down to possessively grab my ass. "You want to know why I really fucking hate you?" he muttered against my lips.

"Why.." I moaned softly, "because I love you, I DO. Not him, ME." he said firmly, biting my lower lip. "I fucking love you and it makes me sick. But I can't stop, I can't stop thinking about you, stopping myself from fucking you..." he whispered softly.

I tried to speak but no words left my mouth. He saw my parted lips, my dilated pupils, the way I reacted to every touch of his, I was just as turned on as him. He knew I was shocked too, he always kept his feelings hidden, his walls high. He hasn't meant to admit all of this but it was too late to go back.

"You know what else I hate?" he released me abruptly, stepping back. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, "I hate how fucking powerless I am around you. How one look from those gorgeous, deadly eyes and I'm utterly fucked.." he sighed, "ready to destroy anyone who touches you."

"I hate how I can't even be mad at you without wanting to end up burying my face between your thighs, or..or fucking you until you scream my name..fucking your mouth until you gag on my cock..." he walked closer, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around my throat possessively.

"I hate that I can't even stand to be apart from you, you may not see me but I lurk..oh yes I do.." he grunted, "I hate that I love you more than I hate you.." he slowly lowered his hand and leaned down, placing soft kisses all over my neck and jawline.

"But most of all.." he whispered against my skin, "I hate that you're not in my fucking bed right now..screaming my name as I devour you.." I gasped as he kissed, bit and sucked at my skin, marking me as his. His hands roamed over my body, possessive and rough. He stopped suddenly, trailing his lips to my ear, "if you're not naked in that bed in about 30 seconds..I swear to god..." he let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but terrifyingly vivid in it's implication.

I nodded softly and slowly slipped my clothes off again, throwing them aside. He watched hungrily as I disrobed, his jaw clenching as he took in my naked form. As soon as the last article of clothing hit the floor he grabbed me and lifted me up, he threw me on the bed and climbed up my body, obsessively kissing everywhere until he got to my aching pussy.

"Tom.." I whined, my eyes rolling back as his lips attached to my clit, sucking softly. He settled between my legs, looking u at me with intense eyes. "Shut up.." he mumbled against my core. He devoured me, completely obsessed with my taste and the sounds I made. "You're fucking perfect.." he mumbled, "could he even make you feel as good as I am, hm?" he asked, his own question making him mad.

He paused briefly, his tongue swirling round my most sensitive spot. "Tell me.." he growled, his voice muffled against my sensitive flesh. "Could he make you feel like this? Could he make you arch off the fucking bed and beg like this?!" his fingers reached up and slid inside me, curling fiercely.

"Mmh! No!" I moaned loudly, my hands flying to his braids and grabbing tightly. He groaned at my admission, his tongue and fingers moving with renewed vigour. He looked up at me again, his face glistening with my arousal. "No one else can touch you like this, no one else can make you moan like this.." he said, his voice low and commanding.

"Fuckkk!" I whined, my grip on his hair tightening. He continued to eat me out ruthlessly, almost like he was trying to punish me. His fingers pumped in and out of me, curling over and over to hit that spot inside me that drove me mad. "You're MINE, this pussy is MINE.." he grumbled angrily, licking and swirling my clit furiously,

"Don't stop! Oh my god don't stop!" I screamed, my moans getting louder by the minute. With a wicked grin, he obeyed my command, never stopping his relentless assault on my pussy with his tongue. His tongue worked magic, alternating between long, slow licks and teasing flicks on my clit.

He growled softly, seeing my body squirm and hearing my desperate moans. He spread my legs wider, lifting them over his shoulders. He ate me out like a starving man, his tongue delving deep inside me only to switch back to my clit. "Come all over my face baby.." he murmured against my core, my body tensing as my orgasm rapidly approached.

I arched my back off the bed and squealed. As I came he sucked hard on my clit, his fingers pumping furiously inside me. He lapped up every single drop of my release, letting it drip down his chin. When I finally went limp, he crawled up my body, claiming my lips in a possessive, messy kiss, "oh you think we were fucking done? No way..we are just getting started princess.." he growled, grabbing my hips possessively.

I wrapped my shaky legs around his waist and pulled him in closer. He smirked, already super hard. His bulge pressed insistently against my core. He grinded against me, hitting my clit, making me moan softly. He captured my bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, "you like that...?" he whispered, his hips rolling slowly.

"Stop teasing.." I gasped, my voice quiet and breathy. He let out a deep, satisfied laugh, knowing exactly how much I wanted him. "What do you want baby..?" he whispered against my ear, grinding against me again. His hands grabbed my wrists firmly, pinning them above my head. "You want my cock inside you?" he asked, gently kissing down my ear to my neck, knowing how sensitive I was. "Yes...oh god yes.." I gasped, taking a shuddering breath.

He chuckled and sat back up on his knees, he unbuckled his belt and slowly slid it off, throwing it aside. He moved down to the button of his jeans and dragged the zipper down ever so slowly, loving the way small, impatient whines would leave my lips. Eventually, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants, dragging both his boxers and his jeans down, letting his thick, throbbing erection spring out.

He smirked at my reaction, my eyes wide and my jaw on the floor, practically drooling at the size. Slowly, he lined himself up with my entrance and pushed inside, inch by inch. He filled me completely, loud, desperate whines escaping me as he stretched me out, his hips pressing against mine. He immediately started slamming himself in and out, wanting to punish me again, yet pleasure me to prove he was better.

He thrusted hard and deep, making sure each movement spoke volumes about his dominance. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room along with my moans. He was determined to make me forget any lover I'd ever had. "Does he fuck you like this..?" he growled, his voice low and commanding, "no, only you!" I gripped onto him tightly, my nails digging into his back.

He hummed in satisfaction and slammed into me hard enough that the headboard hit the wall, his hips moving with brutal precision. "Can he even make you this wet, hm? Can he make you scream his name like you scream mine, HUH?!" he yelled, his eyes flashing with intense jealously.

I was experiencing so much pleasure I could barely talk, my vision blurred and my head hazy, "mmmh..no!" I blurted out. He grabbed my legs roughly and placed them on his shoulders, the angle changing so with each thrust he was hitting my g spot, making me scream louder.

"You're mine, always mine. This pussy belongs to me..not to him, me." He punctuated his words with particularly hard thrusts, "fuck, you feel so good.." he groaned, his balls slapping against my ass. "Look at you.." he chuckled darkly, "look at how wet you get when I talk dirty to you, like a fucking fountain.." he teased softly.

I felt my orgasm getting closer, my tits bouncing wildly with every thrust. He could sense my orgasm by the way my pussy would clamp down on his cock softly, the pressure building slowly. He doubled his efforts, his pace increasing even further, fucking me with a fierce intensity as he chased his own climax. "Fuck baby, cum with me!" he yelled, his hand reaching down to rub rough circles on my aching clit.

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!" I yelped, my orgasm coming crashing down, my legs trembling. Feeling my pussy clamp down around him triggered his orgasm, he threw his head back with a loud groan, his cock pulsing inside me as he released rope after rope of cum. "Holy fuck.." he panted, collapsing on top of me, his heavy breathing mingling with mine as we tried to catch our breath.

After a moment he lifted his head, a small smirk on his face as he looked down at me, "you're amazing.." he whispered and kissed me gently. I sighed, knowing we had to talk about the elephant in the room, the burden of our supposed "unhappy" marriage. I finally spoke up, "why did you hide your feelings from me this whole time..we've been living this supposed unhappy marriage and fighting constantly but..but here you were, secretly having feelings for me?" I traced gentle patterns on his arm.

He sighed deeply, his fingers gently stroking my hair, "I was terrified," he admitted softly, his usual bravado melting away. "Terrified of messing up what we had, even if it was dysfunctional. Terrified that if I showed my true feelings, you might leave...you know, at least if we fought all the time and..and we stayed together for the business, you wouldn't go.." he said, a hint of vunerability in his voice.

"But I can't hide it anymore..certainly not after this.." he chuckled softly, "but seriously, I love you more than I love my own life. And I'm done pretending otherwise," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm done fighting.." he whispered softly.

I smiled and kissed him gently, "I guess I kind of feel the same, I've just been pushing it down. I always considered a good life with you, having a family, making the most out of this shitty situation but it seemed too late, that's why I seeked that love in others..I'm so sorry Tom.." he smiled, a tear rolling down his face at my confession, "fuck..don't apologise.." he whispered, kissing the top of my head. "I understand, I get it. But, we are DONE running, baby. We're staying right here and making this work, together."

tags: @ballhair @bills-wife-1 @bkaulitzlover

tags: @ella1289 @billsdolliest @tomscumdoll

tags: @tomsfuckdoll @tomkslut @miyukafujii

tags: @itsangelll

[schlock-luster-video]

On March 19, 2020, Guns Akimbo debuted in Singapore.

Here's some new Daniel Radcliffe art!

[pennyserenade]

nothing compares 2 you | dieter bravo x ex!wife reader

summary | a timeline of dieter bravo and his ex-wife's relationship, told in snapshots. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | smut, mention of drug and alcohol use, angst, language, real yearning hours. word count | 7.8k a/n | happy late birthday to my favorite aries, pedro pascal <3

February, 2010. Someplace in Los Angeles.

Before he is the Actor, he is the Artist.

The art studio next to yours is the size of a closet and it’s his, paid for with his measly actor’s wages. He paints on large canvases with bleak colors and flirts with you three times before he realizes that his reused material does nothing but amuse you.

You can tell he is a man used to getting women easily, and you don’t blame these women: he is a handsome man. He has soft hands, a dimpled grin, and black paint splattered endearingly over his all rugged, too big t-shirts. During one of his lazy flirtations the word “honest” comes to you, and you figure it’s something to do with his eyes — how they’ve got the gleam of truth, even though he doesn’t necessarily strike you as an honest man himself. Maybe this should alarm you, but it’s as exciting as anything has been in months.

He tells you the sun seems to shine eternally in California, and that they always did tell him he was a stormy child, so he paints gloomy when he misses New York. This is a line that works far better than his cheap flirting. Scary as it is, he thrills at the idea of playing his most difficult role for an audience of one: himself, laid bare.

“You any good?” you ask him one day, absentmindedly, in reference to his acting. He shrugs his shoulders. He is letting you into the intimate cove of his inner life: the paintings, the shoe-box closet of a studio. On his canvases, colossal waves defeat tiny, lonely ships; a father holds a weeping mother; a handsome man peers into the mirror of his soul, and finds nothing good.

“Am I any good?” he asks, referring to his art. You nod, finger grazing over the shipwrecked scenes. “They’re sad,” you comment.

“Well, homesickness is a bitch,” he replies. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip in the nervous way you’ve noticed it does. “What kind of art do you do?”

“Happier stuff, sometimes. Mostly right now I’m sketching, looking for ideas. I’d do more models, but can’t find any good models.”

“In L.A.?” he asks. You nod, still picking through his paintings. “I find that hard to believe. I’ll model for you,” he offers.

“What’s your price?”

He doesn’t think it over. He answers, “Free.”

“Oh c’mon.” You look askance at him. “Nothing’s ever free.”

“Alright, then how much can you pay me?”

“I’ll supply lunch.”

He laughs incredulously. “You make no sense to me.”

“I think that’s a good thing. The things that you make sense of seem terribly depressing.” You nod to the painting in front of you, a naked woman stretched out on a mattress, cotton panties with a pink bow tie and a glass of wine in her hand. “Is this what you think femininity is? Breakdowns in pretty underwear?”

Covering your hand, he stops you from flipping through more. “Okay, my price just went up. 10 dollars and lunch. Any other critiques will cost you.” He frowns at the painting, swiping a thumb over the edge. “How do you know that isn’t a real woman?”

You take your hand from him, though not unkindly. You both share the knowing look of two people in the depths of flirtation. “I don’t, I’m being cruel and I’m sorry. But you’re lucky you’ve got a nice nose, because those prices are outrageous.”

His laugh has no room to echo in his little studio, so of course it has no other option but to nuzzle itself in the pit of your stomach. You divert your eyes back to the canvases and their depressing scenes. “I like you very much, despite myself,” you tell him frankly, “but I won’t sleep with you.”

“Why? Afraid of cooties? I’m vaccinated against them.” He lays the charm on thick.

“No. I’ve already had a case or two.” As you look up, you watch his eyes drop to your lips. There is an enticing concoction of nerves brewing inside of you. They churn together mightily as you do your best to make out your next line: “I just don’t fuck actors as a rule.”

He clicks his tongue, leaning in closer. He smells clean, like laundry detergent and toothpaste. “Rosemary’s Baby situation? If so, I get that. That’d do it for anyone.”

“Hardly,” you grin. Your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt. You tell yourself it’s because you want to keep him at bay, but the surge of excitement you feel doesn’t really indicate that. “It’s just this thing I have. I don’t think artists do well with other artists, regardless of the profession. I’d only make an exception for one man.”

He narrows his eyes, holding himself in the precarious position. “Who?”

“Gregory Peck.”

“He’s dead!” he gawks.

“What a relief, huh?” you joke. “I’d never have stood a chance against him.”

He’s leaning in then, and much to your surprise - and perhaps his too - you close the space between you. It's hardly anything of substance, barely a touch of the lips before it’s over. But he clutches the fabric of your cloth overalls and looks at you like some lovesick puppy, and you know it’s not finished.

There will be more. God, you hope for it.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think Gregory Peck would’ve been able to withstand you either,” he mutters.

—

March, 2010

He becomes the exception to the rule. You sketch the curves of his face, shadow in his eyes, pay special attention to the dip in the middle of his lips, and kiss him hard and fast, as though making it rough will make it mean less. He slows you down, laughing lightly.

“Let me be gentle,” he tells you, hand on the small of your back. You nod, nervous - you are always nervous around him, much to your dismay - and he tips back your head with a slight tap to your chin. As you open your mouth, he licks into you, fingers trailing down to the base of your neck and sprawling out across your chest. Dieter touches all that he can, eager and pleasant. He is cool against your skin but warm in your mouth, and you want him so badly you forget yourself, moaning when he presses you against a studio wall with his body.

He smiles against your lips and kisses his way down your body until his knees hit the floor, and there’s no place to go but up. You help him take off your shorts and you go to joke - to say something like “It’s not right that I’m the only one getting undressed” — but it dies in the back of your throat when he puts his hot mouth on you, over the fabric of your underwear. No one has ever wanted you past the point of patience, unable to spare the few seconds taking off your underwear would take. Not until him.

He makes you come without ever taking anything off, and then he does it twice more with your underwear pooling around your left ankle and your right leg propped over his shoulder.

Afterwards he asks if he can take the picture you drew of him home and you say, “Of course,” voice soft, pliable seemingly to affection. He kisses you before he leaves, and you sit in your studio, stunned by this man with his lovely nose and the soft ache you feel at the idea of wanting him more than you should.

You sketch him many, many more times and by the end of the month, you give him what you always intended for Atticus Finch. He draws patterns of the small of your back and dedicates himself to you like a role he’s wanted all his life.

—

November 2010.

He comes to your apartment bearing gifts: a newly purchased DVD player - receipt crumbled in his back pocket - and a movie called The Rapture. His eyes are aglow with boyish excitement when he extends them towards you.

Last time he’d only brought the DVD and you had to tell him that you were a part of the select few individuals in the world who did not own a DVD player. Unfortunately this meant the two of you had to spend yet another Friday night getting well acquainted with each other’s bodies and doing little else. He is not going to let that happen again, he assures, kissing you fully on the lips in greeting. He half forgets his promise when you bite down on his bottom lip, but remembers it when you nearly dropped the movie from your hand.

“You’re insatiable.” He clicks his tongue, a devious twinkle in his eye.

He works the cords into your television and beams when it works on the first try. “I was afraid it wasn’t going to and then I was going to have to ask you to read me the instructions while I tried again. Like some married couple,” he says, stepping back from the television.

The mention of marriage, even in the half baked, joking manner the two of you take to approach everything, makes you feel a bit queasy so you ignore it all together. “What’s this movie about again?” you ask.

“It’s self explanatory.”

“Well, explain it anyways.”

“It’s about the rapture,” he offers simply, with a shrug and an unforgiving smirk.

You make room for him on the couch, picking up the remote. The title screen flashes in front of you and based on the graphics, you get the feeling that this film is low budget. It makes you grin. “What?” he asks, looking at you.

“I don’t know. I had this feeling that you were one of those men who like those unheard of, low budget indie films with nudity and sex in it.” You laugh. “Tell me—am I going to see boobs? A little dick?”

He rolls his eyes, settling in beside you. Plucking the remote from your hand, he turns the movie on. “Maybe if you’re good during the show, but I don’t know. I don’t really like to put out for rude people,” he says flatly. “Now, shut up. You’ll miss the sex and nudity.”

You shake your head, laughing. “Please. You told me you put out for everyone, no matter the situation.”

Without looking at you, he says too soberly: “No. Not anymore.”

You don’t say much else after that. You don't know what else there is to say. After the film, you chalk it up to a crisis of faith. But after the sex, you realize he means: I only want you.

That’s the thing about those actors—you can never know what they mean until it’s too late. He’ll win Oscars for ambiguity.

—

January, 2011.

When you meet his mother, it's by accident.

You’ve been spending more time with him. Recently you’ve even started to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend when forced to put labels on it, but you never crossed this road—the parent one. It seemed far out, in the future, but not necessarily the immediate one. No one brings parents into something this pleasant.

He sleeps over at your place on the weekends, takes you to lunch on Wednesdays, lets you help him pick a home near the studio he’s working for. Then at three o’clock on a random Thursday, he trips over a wire on set and breaks his arm. He calls her before he calls you, and she finds her way to his home, bringing her motherly love into his L.A. life. You aren’t good with parents - not even your own - but you like her. She loves him, calls him Mijo, travels miles and miles and miles for a bone that sits in a cast and can only be repaired with time.

“Mami, this is my girlfriend,” he tells her, smiling ruefully at you. You shrug your shoulders as if to say “What can you do?”

He looks like her, shares the same eyes that you felt were honest, with the same dark brown hair. You are her surprise as much as she is yours, but she takes you in happily, smiling. “I didn’t know-,” is what she says before stopping, thinking better. But you know she didn’t know; it’s only been a handful of months, but you get what her son is like. He doesn’t tell his mother what he should, despite that he seems to tell her everything — a drifter out at sea in the Los Angeles area while she waits patiently for news in her lonely New York.

You witness a divide between them at the quiet dinner you share that first night. She gives him words and he responds with short answers, not harsh or disrespectful, but all of it lacking the ability to be built into actual conversations. He goes to the bathroom midway and you look at her, sorry and worried and she smiles - the same smile he has. You feel like you’ve known her ages when she smiles like that, and you tell her, “I think he’s really upset about his arm. It’s going to put him out of work for a little bit, and he really likes work.”

“Thank you,” she replies, eyebrows creased. “I know that he doesn’t want me here, though. I shouldn’t have come. He is a grown man and I know that but when things like this happen, I can’t help it. He’s my little boy.”

You think back to his paintings, the bleakness of the colors and the darkness of the subjects. “He misses you, I know,” you tell her, “I’ve only been with him for a little bit, but he’s told me a little bit about it. Really, I think it’s the arm. Or maybe it’s me.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t think he expected us to meet for a long time.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, smiling a smile that might be a grimace. “I’ve checked in at a hotel, but I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“You shouldn’t stay at a hotel.”

“I always do when I come to town.” She waves her hand through the air, dismissing it.

For reasons you can’t comprehend, you tell her, “Come stay with me, at least. I’ve got a nice apartment, close to the beach. He’s in the middle of doing reconstruction on this place, but I’m sure he doesn’t want you to be in a hotel.” You say that even though you aren’t sure; all evidence to the fact that he quite actually does want her in one, for reasons you can’t comprehend.

Before she answers he comes back, looking the same as he did before he left.

“It’s getting late,” he says, looking at you, and then over to her. “You’ve got a place to stay?” he says to her. She nods her head. “I’ll call a ride for you.”

“David,” you intercede, glaring at him now. “I’ll take her. She’s staying with me.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—“ but you stop him with the ice in your stare. He sits back in his chair like a petulant child, and grabs the glass of wine in front of his plate. He drinks all of it down.

You take his mother into your house and she tells you things he probably wouldn’t: the divorce between his father and herself when he was fifteen, the thing that created the sea between them; the way he’s always loved art, that his father was the one who got him into acting and how he found the brush some time in between elementary school and college. She even confesses that her little boy, dark eyed and happy in childhood, is prone to being mercurial, and that’s the thing that makes her worry the most.

“I hope you stay,” she tells you after you guide her to the lone spare bedroom you have. It smells unused, which would embarrass you if not for her comment. “You’re the best one I’ve met. Not that I’ve met many.”

“I will,” you tell her with the certainty you gathered at dinner. You’ve got no evidence for this, either, and yet you feel deep in your gut that it’s the truth.

He calls you when you get to your own bed, no longer pouty. “Thank you,” he tells you in a voice that is looking to be absolved from guilt. You give in easily.

“You’re welcome. Your mother is a nice woman.”

“I know, I know. I love her. I just have a hard time showing it sometimes.”

“That’s worrisome,” you joke, tucking the telephone between your head and your shoulder. You flip absentmindedly through the television stations as you listen to him.

“I think I love you too,” he says. You hear him breathe in after the sentence, like he’s stunned by it himself. “I do,” he adds, clumsily. “I don’t just think. I do.”

You’d never thought about being in love with him. Not until now. “I love you too,” you tell him, slightly bewildered by the fact you can’t pin where it began—or how it’ll end.

“What are we going to do about it?” he asks softly.

“What’s there to do about it?”

A pause. Then, “Nothing. I don’t know. Get married?”

“David-“ you say and he cuts you off, knowing.

“I’m kidding. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” you repeat.

You let it hang between you for five full breaths. It is a lukewarm idea, not altogether unpleasant, but half baked.

“I’ve got to go to sleep. The pain pills are making me drowsy,” he tells you quietly.

“Okay. Goodnight,” you tell him.

You stare blankly at the television, the terrible franchise movie you’ve stopped at not distracting you.

A woman loved. A loving woman. You wonder how these new identities will compete with the other ones, like The artist. The friend. The daughter. The you who likes her own space.

Love is remarkable and unremarkable, happening on a Thursday and leaving you changed for a lifetime.

—

July 2011 A red carpet and a movie premiere, New York, New York.

An interviewer named Natalie asks you what you make of your boyfriend. Cameras flash, people yell at you to smile. You think the question over, and wonder why girlfriends aren’t given public relations too.

“He’s great,” is what you settle with, your smile irredeemably try-hard. They call him Dieter and you have to remember that. Don’t call him David, don't call him David, don’t call him Dav— “Dav—Dieter is very talented and I’m proud of him.”

Later in the week, you will be berated online by women who love him because of the uncoordinated way you stood next to him, and the awkward answers you gave while trying to remember to smile and call him Dieter and to not let them in to your world, even though he wants to hold your hand on the red carpet and doesn’t mind that people know you’re dating. You will laugh, but you don’t ever google yourself again after that.

That night you watch his new movie beside him in a grand theater, sitting in a floor length dress. Afterwards, he introduces you to people you have only ever seen on a screen before. They ask you what you do–if you’re in the “business.” They don’t cringe when you say you’re an artist.

One of them, a man you think is a little too pretentious, says he thinks himself a little bit of an artist, too. David winks conspiratorially at you. You let out a breath for the first time since you arrived at the event; you’re relieved to find your boyfriend does not change in these settings.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you after, when you go home. “About that all, really. I should’ve prepared you better. I knew it wasn’t great for you.”

“I’m not a movie star,” you respond. He smiles endearingly at you.

“Pretty enough to be.”

You grin, charmed. “I prefer the canvas.”

“But us actors, we’re artists too,” he says somberly, before his face collapses into a wide grin.

“You almost made me laugh, winking at me like that.”

You hang your coat next to his, feeling warm and easy. They’d invited you both to an after party, but he just wanted to come back here, kiss all night and maybe smoke some weed. Feels like a Big Lebowski night, he whispered into the shell of your ear on the way out. You don’t have that movie, so you hope he won’t mind the other entertainment you have in mind.

“Did I?” he asks. The question is just something to keep in his mouth as he watches your fingers tease the straps of your dress. They fall off your shoulders. He’s paying attention but he’s not. You are bare naked in seconds, which means the whole night you weren’t wearing any underwear, and that’s great. Hot. He wants to swallow you whole; he wants to marry you.

“Marry me?” he asks, awed

You shake your head, smiling. He grins too, radiant for a rejected man. This is your long suffering joke that will find the path to truth one day. Just not this day. Today all you find is a little more love in you for your movie star.

“I knew you before you were famous,” you say to him, riding him lazily on the couch. He gazes lovingly at you.

“You’re the only one who’s ever known me,” is his response.

—

February 2012

For an anniversary present he buys you an art studio the size of a loft. It’s too much, and he’s happy to give it to you.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. If you speak any louder, you're afraid your voice might wobble with emotion.

He shrugs his shoulders like it’s nothing. “You showed potential,” he jokes.

Because you were ‘famous’ before he was, he likes to poke fun. He never minded, but now that the tables are turning, you’re reluctant to admit that sometimes you do. It’s not anything to do with the ego — you’re more than happy being the least famous in that respect — but if he comes to an art show of yours, it’s inevitable that a flock of people will gather around him, asking for attention, for autographs. They don’t care about your art as much as your boyfriend. You understand this in his world, with the cameras and the stars, but sometimes the breach of it into yours makes you feel insignificant. You can’t help but think he’s apologizing a little for it with this.

You kiss him so fiercely he stumbles back a little. “I love you,” you say, looking him in the eye.

“I love you too,” he replies softly. “I’m glad you like the present.”

You touch the indent in his lip with your fingertip. “My present seems silly now,” you say, smiling. You feel the movement of his lips as they tug upwards underneath your touch.

“What is it?” he asks.

You look back into his eyes. He looks at you expectantly, waiting, and you lean in, press your ears to his lips. “I got your name tattooed on my ass,” you whisper.

When you pull back he examines your face. You can tell he’s not sure whether you’re joking or not. Really, it could be either. Finally he gives up. “Let me see.”

You lift up your dress. Sure enough, you’ve got a fresh tattoo on your ass, but it’s not his name. Not his given one, anyway. “Bravo,” he laughs, swiping a thumb over your flesh. The letters are small, barely taking up any room at all. He likes it more than he should.

“I think it’s a pretty great present,” he tells you, inspecting the spot for a little while longer.

“It’s silly.”

“Not to me.” He’s on his knees, kissing your thighs. When his teeth glide against your ass cheek, you squeal, turning to look over your shoulder. “Of all the things my name has been spread across, your ass is by far my favorite.”

“I thought it’d make you laugh.” You smile.

“It does, but I love it.” He stands tall, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m going to marry you.”

You arch an eyebrow, turning in his arms to face him. Smiling, you say, “Was that a question?”

“Just a warning for now.”

—

November 2013 A Little Chapel, Las Vegas.

You had the pre-wedding jitters, but now you feel that nothing has ever seemed as right as this: marrying him on a Friday night in a Las Vegas chapel as facetious as you’ve both always treated the topic of marriage.

You knew someday the joke would become serious. He slides a ring that he got three hours ago on your finger, and your two wedding guests clap boisterously. There is the co-star of his who became available at last minute, and a nice lady in the lobby of a hotel who you asked out of fear the co-star wouldn’t come. Your veil is pink and your dress was someone else’s once, in the ‘70s. He wears the beige tuxedo he brought to Vegas for a movie premiere, and a silver heart bolo tie he long ago nicked from your own collection.

A bottle of champagne is opened and shared. He kisses you once, twice, five times, his hand drifting scandalously lower each time. Beneath your white dress is the intricate lingerie set you bought while he was frantically looking for rings. He touches the end of the garter and it doesn’t take much longer for you both to excuse yourselves from the ceremony.

David unwraps you like a neatly wrapped present, preserving ribbons and bows for memory’s sake. Your fingers rub affectionately across his freshly shaven jaw as he tucks his naked body between your bare thighs. “I can’t believe we did that,” you say, voice soft.

“I’m happy we did.” He kisses your bare chest and sinks inside of you, slow, slow, slow, until he is buried within you, close as he can be. You moan quietly, fingers gripping around his arm, your cunt adjusting to the thickness of him.

“I don’t think I've ever been so turned on in my life,” he admits, more sheepish than you’ve ever seen him. His lips brush against yours, before he sucks at your bottom lip. For a moment, he does nothing, only stays buried within you, kissing you tenderly.

Your fingers explore the expanse of his muscular back, traveling over the ridges of his body as his hips raise and he begins to move inside of you. You think you agree: he has never felt this hard - never felt this much - before.

“I love you,” he whispers. It feels like a thing he’s giving to you, asking you to keep safe for him. You wrap your hands around his shoulders and say, “I love you, too.”

After he cums, he says he thinks maybe you’ve been here before, in another life, and that you’ll be this way again, in another. It’s his classic brand of sentimentality and you adore it all the same. If he was any better at knowing himself - if he knew him the way you knew him - it’d come out like this: I love you down to my bones; I love you in a way that defies reason.

You tell him you think so, too.

—

December 2013

When you move into his California beach house, he gives you a key, along with full creative control. “You’re the artist,” he figures, and truth is, he’s never been good at making places his home.

You don’t have much work to do. Because you’ve been with him since he bought the house, it already bears your marks. Pieces of you in the bathroom: the toothbrush, the shower curtain and the color scheme. There is the painting you did of Lee Strasberg in the corridor, hanging like a royal portrait. The bedroom is full of you: your clothes, most of the furniture, one fourth of the sex toys. You renovate a single room in the back, facing the beach, so you can have a home art studio.

You are the happiest you've ever been, and he has never felt so much at home.

—

January 2014

Marriage bliss doesn’t ever stay with you long, but it’s no one’s fault in particular. He picks a grueling role that means something to him and transforms him in ways you don’t understand. You paint when you miss him. Sometimes it happens when he’s in the same room.

Art is important to you both, and the sacrifice feels worth it when you see what he’s completed: A film about the world, about grief, about being human. What you see on the screen is something you recognize immediately. A version of him that you’ve known for as long as you’ve loved him. At the premiere you cry at the opening scene, though it’s not sad. He squeezes your leg.

“I loved that movie,” you tell him on the way home. “Really, it was beautiful. The best thing you’ve ever done.”

He kisses you gently. “I did it for you,” he says.

You believe him.

—

April 2015

You stand at the back of the art gallery, puffing on an indulgent cigarette, fighting off tears. He is on the phone, apologetic and placating.

“Honestly, I forgot. I’m sorry. Really,” he tries to pacify.

“I told you. For months, I told you about tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. You hate the way his voice sounds: like he’s only sorry because you need him to be sorry.

“I’d never do this to you.” Someone comes out from the exit, and gives you a furtive look. You turn your back to them, embarrassed to be seen like this.

“Don’t do that,” he whines.

“Do what?” you whisper.

“Get mean with me. I am sorry. As soon as I’ve wrapped here, I’ll come to the exhibition.”

You crush out the cigarette with the heel of your shoe, sniffling. “You know, it’s fine. I’ll just see you at home.”

You hear his frustrated groan on the other end. You know that you’re beginning to be unreasonable. This is how your fights have always been: trying to see how far you can push one another until the careful calm gives way to anger. Today he breaks first, faster than ever.

“Goddammit. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

When he arrives, he brings a flock of cameras along with him. They crowd the door and make it hard for people to come in. He squeezes your shoulder in apology, and you take separate cars home.

When you have sex that night, he makes you cum three times. This is how he tells you that you were right—that he’s sorry. Sometimes you think it might be nice if he just said it.

You love him so much it feels like sometimes it might split you apart.

—

February 26, 2017 Dolby Theatre Hollywood, Los Angeles

When they announce his name as the winner for best actor, there is an astonished moment of quiet that washes over your little row. He turns you, wide-eyed and impossibly boyish, a surprised smile turning up at the end of his lips. You rise with him, proud tears prickling at your eyes. He laughs then, his hand gripping at your forearm as you move to embrace him. You the feel the vibration of his joy in your chest.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. His mother and little sister crowd around you, patting at his arm, kissing him on the cheek, before he escapes your arms and wanders up the aisle to retrieve his much deserved award.

For a moment, he is the most humble man you’ve ever seen: bowled over by the impossibility of what just has happened to him. He takes the gold statue from the woman’s hand, accepts a hug, and positions himself in front of the microphone. His tie is crooked but he’s smiling so wide that his eyes crinkle, and you feel so thrilled to know that the world loves your husband as much as you do. It has not always been easy to share, but at this moment, you feel the reward for doing it, tenfold. He lifts the statue up slightly, showing you, and you nod, clapping along with everyone else.

“Oh,” he says over the roar of applause. People start to settle into their seats and quiet their claps, and he says it again: “Oh, wow. Um. I don’t think I’m easily robbed of my words, but I would be right now had I not prepared something. Thank you to the Academy, to my director and dearest friend, Thora Mendez, who took this script as seriously as it deserved to be taken and never let anyone tamper with her impeccable vision. Thank you to the three women I brought with me tonight: my mami, who learned English from a television screen when she came here at twelve, and who always let me be whoever I wanted to be; my little sister, Mina, who probably thinks this is the coolest I’m ever going to get.”

He laughs again and Mina rolls her eyes, but smiles widely. “And thank you to my beautiful, beautiful wife, who has read every script with me since I met her. There was no way at all she could know this is where I’d end up. This–” he raises the award high, “--is for you as much as it is for me. In every character I’ve ever had the pleasure to play, there’s a piece of your beautiful mind. I love you all, and would be nothing without you. Thank you.”

When he comes back to you, he puts the award in your hand. It is heavy. You remember a time when he said it wouldn’t matter at all if he won this or not–that it doesn't really mean anything. His bright, dimpled grin shows how much of a liar he’d been.

You kiss him and the entire world fades away around you. All the sparkle and glamor of his world is diluted down to the pure joy of spending this single, incredible moment with him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, shedding tears. He swipes one away with the pad of his thumb.

“I love you,” he says back, kissing you again.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong in this life of his again.

When he takes you home, it is late, nearly morning. He helps you take off your dress and waits by the door of the bathroom as you scrub off the rest of your makeup. Then he shuts the curtains in your room, blocking out the rising sun, and he pulls you close to him. He kisses your bare shoulder. He smells like mint toothpaste and the faded, warm essence of his cologne.

You part your legs for him and he enters you from behind, molding his body to yours. The sex is slow, his thrusts sleepy and measured, and you hold onto him the entire time, so in love you’re intoxicated by it.

You know will love him forever.

—

August 2017

“What do you mean you’ve found a place in New York?” you ask him, incredulous. He shuffles around your bedroom, hanging up his clothes. Today he looks tired, and it upsets you that you don’t know why. You both talk so little these days, busy and forgetful. But this feels like treason.

“It’s just a little apartment, for when I do plays over there.”

“And you didn’t want to ask me?”

“Ask you what?” he snaps. “I didn’t think you’d be upset about it. I told you a million years ago that I wanted to start prioritizing the theater after I won the oscar.”

“You didn’t think I’d be upset about the fact that you bought a home separate from the one we live in together, and then tell me that you’re going to spend multiple months of each year living there?” You scoff, disbelieving. “Fuck you.”

“It’s not like that.” He has the sense to stop what he’s doing and turn his body towards you. His frown deepens. “You can come whenever you want. It’ll be better for us both.”

“But this is our home.”

“That will be too,” he reassures. “You’ll like it. It’s a studio, with big windows and lots of light. I already bought you a canvas to paint a picture there, too, when you come.”

You feel a lump gather in your throat, but your anger ebbs. He looks so sincere—sounds so sincere—it’s hard to stay angry.

When you walk over to him, he wraps you up in his arms. “New York is home to me. You know that,” he says against the shell of your ear.

You nod your head, but can’t stop the tears from falling down your cheek and onto his shirt. You’re not sure when you stopped being home to him.

—

December 2017 New York, New York

“Baby?” he says.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“We can make it better. Maybe go to couple’s therapy.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m hoping I do,” you breathe out, looking at him.

Your love for him strangles you with its might.

—

February 2018 New York, New York

The acrid taste of failure makes eating an unpleasant task. You know you shouldn’t think of it this way, have tried not to, but you can’t help it. Your marriage is ending and your heart feels like it’s decided to beat slower today, just to torture you.

Or maybe it’s serious, solemn as your lunch-time confession to Dieter. You said you want a divorce and now your heart wants to stop all together, and is maybe making an honest attempt at it. There are old people who die of broken hearts, so why shouldn’t there be a few younger ones that do it, too?

After lunch you considered just going back home. You were tired, anxious, didn’t quite feel right trapped up in Dieter’s studio apartment anymore, waiting for him to come back from his stupid fucking rehearsals. But something felt unfinished, incomplete, so you went back to the apartment and now you wait, staring down at a soggy bowl of cereal while his shower runs.

Maybe you should join him, one last time. The very last time. Bile rises in your throat for the millionth time and you know just the fix for this terrible, never ending nightmare.

When you peek your head into the bathroom, it is filled with steam. He doesn’t remember to turn on the fan, never does. You don’t do it for him this time, just step inside with your surmounting grief and a desperate look in your eyes. Dieter wipes away some of the fog from the shower door. “Everything okay?” he asks over the spray of water. You don’t answer him.

You turn around while you undress, and he pretends not to notice. But he does notice, more than he’s ever noticed before. It’s like the last moments before something tremendously terrible takes over and everything changes: it goes so slow, but later it will feel like it happened in seconds. Time is unjust, senselessly cruel.

His soul feels like it’s being extracted from his body as you step inside the shower with him, the heavy weight of your united undoing drowning you. He wants to confess all—feels like an atheist on his deathbed, turning to God as you wrap your frame around him and cling. Like the fabled man pleading for eternal salvation in his dying hours, Dieter holds your head to his chest and wishes to give you years worth of devotion in seconds. Anything, so long as you won’t give up on him. Please, please, he says without saying, warm hands running over your back. I’ll be better, he longs for you to understand.

But you do understand: you’re no God. If he wishes to enter the church of you, become a devoted pupil, he’s going to be disappointed once more to find the thrum of humanity pulsing in you. Pure flesh, all human. You nag because he makes you nag and a million other things that he doesn’t like—that same old story, repeated and rehashed a million different ways. The moral of it: he doesn’t like you, not really, because you’re not fun enough and you hold him back and he wants more, and you don’t like him because he’s made you nag and you feel like a monster, and you remember once that you had been fun. You recall a movie about a woman without a face he showed you, and you are sick to know that you now resonate with her. None of this is fair and he’s never been religious for anything but the stage, anyway.

This is only scared cowardice because you’ve plunged him into the unknown.

He kisses you first, holds you up, swallows a mouthful of your moans, licks between your legs until the water is tepid. You don’t cum. He doesn’t get all the way hard, only works his way up to semi-erect, then softens completely under his own embarrassment.

They all said marriage wasn’t easy but he figured, sorta, that you’d both be different somehow. At forty, he is officially one year older than his father was when he got divorced from his mother. Maybe you didn’t ask for a divorce last year on purpose, just to give him something, in the grand scheme of things.

Your gesture says: We got a bad one, too, Bravo, but at least you ousted your parents, yeah? And morbidly enough, when he’s really bleeding out about this all later, the thought will soothe him. No mind that he provided no help, that you did it by yourself, because you are thoughtful, selfless, the best wife.

He will miss you more than you think possible—will, too, feel like he’s dying after you get on the plane home, to see your first round of lawyers. The play he rehearses for will be deemed his best yet, but it’s because in the weeks that follow your terrible lunch and your terrible shower, it will be all he allows himself to do in order not to ask you to reconsider him, as a whole.

Because he knows this: he will never be the husband you need, nor the one you want, and it took you so long to ask, didn’t it? You really thought it over, took a plane ride with the thought and still felt it strongly enough to ask after.

—

March 2018

You sign the divorce papers in separate places. He’s got a girl waiting for him outside in the car, half his age and stoned out of her mind. She thinks he’s signing on for another movie because that’s what he told her he was doing. At home, you’ve got a can of black paint and a painting he never finished, waiting for you to fix it or deface it. You’re not sure which yet. A marriage dissolves and takes you both with it.

You will host a slew of successful art shows in the months to come and he won’t work for the entire year, theater or otherwise. You think he’s being merciful enough to disappear from the public eye.

The truth is worse: he loves you so much he can’t bring himself to do anything but to try and forget it. He buries his love for you in a hundred people who aren’t you. Then he anonymously buys a painting of yours for more money than you’d ever think to ask, just because he’s so sorry it makes him sick.

—

March 2019

He buys a book about Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, who married and divorced twice, and in his first film since your divorce, he plays a doting husband. If it didn’t make him want to die, he would be delighted by a review that says: “For all of his celebrated range as an actor, Bravo oddly fails to capture the sincerity the role requires to make it believable.”

Instead, he calls you. You pick up after the second ring.

“Hello?” you say, a question. “David? Is that you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies. The sound of your voice works as a balm to his worries. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in months. The relief is so palpable, it nearly overcomes him. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you while you’re doing something.”

“No, you’re not. I was sketching,” you tell him. He forgot how kind you could be. How self-sacrificing. He misses you.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up,” he laughs softly. “I haven’t talked to you in a year.” He can hear you shuffling around on the other side, and he knows you’re sitting down.

After a beat of silence, you say, “I shouldn’t have, but I saw your movie and it was bad and I wanted to tell you that but then I heard you, and suddenly I wanted to tell you it was good.” You laugh, too. “It wasn’t so bad. Not really. I was just angry when I watched it. I’m happy you called.”

“Me too,” he replies, meaning it with all his might. “I’m happy you thought it was a bad movie because it was. I’m sorry.”

“For the movie?” You laugh again.

“For everything.”

“Oh, well.” There’s a pause, and he can particularly see you at home, on the couch, shrugging despite the fact that he can’t see you. It makes him smile to remember you like this. “I’ve forgiven you.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really good of you.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge, “I just don’t want you to make any more shit movies. I used to know you, and that’s embarrassing for me.”

He laughs so hard he starts to cry a little, mostly because he misses you, and because you’re being so nice when you shouldn’t. He clutches the phone in his hand and feels the love in his chest. It’s a heavy thing. “I miss you,” he says. “Not that I mean anything by that. I just needed you to know that.”

“I miss you too, Bravo. Next time you’re in LA, come say hi. I don't want to be your stranger.”

“No, I don’t want that either,” he says. “I’m in town next month.”

“Okay. Let’s have lunch at my house.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “That’d be nice.”

When he hangs up the phone, he feels better than he has in years. He knows he can’t go back with you, that what’s done is done, and he’s sorry, but he’s happy to be going forward now.

You’re the greatest thing that will ever happen to him. This he has, and always will, know to be true.

[slarxsa]

TRC Cars

Thought I would give my interpretation of what cars I think the characters in trc drive because I wanted to draw them, and because I think the cars are a very important part of the books and I think they say a lot about their owners.

These are specific models that I chose based on the descriptions in the books. None are explicitly canon (bar Gansey's obviously) and some of these are completely random guesses bc there is so little information about the car. This post is also just a compilation of car descriptions in trc.

Disclaimer I do not know anything about cars so don't come for me.

GANSEY:

[... ] Gansey’s hell-tinged ’73 Camaro slicked with black stripes.

1973 Chevrolet Camaro - Orange with black stripes.

Iconic. Will go down in history.

RONAN:

Ronan Lynch’s shark-nosed BMW pulled in behind the Camaro, its normally glossy charcoal paint dusted green with pollen.

His smile was thin and sharp. If his BMW was shark-like, it had learned how from him.

Niall Lynch was handsome and charismatic and rich and mysterious, and one day, he was dragged from his charcoal-gray BMW and beaten to death with a tire iron.

2008 BMW M3 E90 - Sparkling Graphite Metallic.

Originally had another model, but then found out it was released in 2020 which is wayy too late so switched to this older one. Was a bit confused about the colour because Gansey refers to it as charcoal-grey and Ronan calls it black, so I looked up the specific colours this model was released in and chose from those. As I believe that trc takes place in the early 2010s, this is a newer car.

DECLAN:

Then Ronan grabbed Declan’s suit coat and used it to throw him onto the mirrorlike hood of Declan’s Volvo.

“Not the fucking car!” snarled Declan, his lip bloody.

2006 Volvo S60 - Silver

Just seems like exactly the type of plain boring unspecial car Declan would have. Chose silver because it's referred to as mirrorlike and that also makes so much sense for Declan. Not really sure when Declan got this car but I think 2006 is safe enough.

NOAH:

Czerny had pulled up in his red Mustang. He hadn’t gotten out of the car.

In the clearing, entirely out of place, was an abandoned car. A red Mustang. Newer model.

Bling,” Ronan remarked, kicking one of the tires. The Mustang had massive, expensive wheels, and now that Gansey looked more closely at the car, he saw that it was covered with aftermarket details: big rims, new spoiler, dark window tint, gaping exhaust.

2004 Ford Mustang GT - Red

This one was quite straightforward. I know it was called a newer model and 2004 isn't really that new if the books are set between 2010 and 2013 but it's Gansey's POV and he's obviously been exposed to a lot of older cars so from his perspective 2004 is new. Obviously it would look different with all the alterations.

ADAM:

"Adam, you want a piece-of-shit car? Save me the tow."

His new car was of uncertain make and model year. It was a two-door something and smelled of automotive body fluids. The hood, passenger-side door, and right rear fender were clearly from three entirely different cars. It was a stick shift.

“Look, just flash your lights if something goes wrong,” Gansey said, standing before the open door of his black Suburban. He ordinarily kept it here, but no one really trusted Adam’s new vehicle to make the drive across the state.

2001 Honda Accord EX Coupe - silver

I really don't know what I'm doing with this one. My only justification is that it's a Coupe, a Honda, really old, and was sold in the US.

KAVINSKY:

Kavinsky’s infamous Mitsubishi Evo was a thing of boyish beauty, moon-white with a voracious black mouth of a grille and an immense splattered graphic of a knife on either side of the body.

The Mitsubishi wailed and shuddered a bit. It was a glorious and hideous piece of work.

2008 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X - white

This was the easiest. I think this is probably the exact car Maggie was describing when she wrote the book. She says that it's an Evo which is already really specific, and "voracious black mouth" perfectly describes the Evo 10.

THE GRAY MAN:

The Gray Man hated his current rental car. He got the distinct impression it hadn’t been handled enough by humans when it was young, and now would never be pleasant to be around. Since he’d picked it up, it had already tried to bite him several times and had spent a considerable amount of time resisting his efforts to achieve the speed limit.

Also, it was champagne. Ridiculous color for a car.

1991 Nissan Figaro - Topaz Mist

This one was really hard and I'm completely guessing but this does look like the kind of car The Gray Man would hate. Definitely will be making another post about this because it's actually hilarious how much he hates it.

BLUE/300 FOX WAY:

Give her forty minutes and she could parallel park the Fox Way Ford in any place you liked.

There was only one car at 300 Fox Way, and so it was in high demand.

2004 Ford Fiesta - Blue

This one was also super hard. Literally all we know about this car is that it's a Ford. Inferred that it's a cheaper car and therefore probably older so this is what I came up with. I chose blue because I just think it fits Fox Way's whole vibe.

ROBERT PARRISH

As the Camaro headed slowly out of the single-track road, their path was blocked by a blue Toyota pickup truck, approaching from the other way. Adam’s breath stopped audibly. Through the windshield, Gansey met the eyes of Adam’s father.

1996 Toyota Tacoma - Blue

I spent way too long on this.

[my-midlife-crisis]

You said:

and this is my reply:

You said in a cocky meme that no one voted for

Anthony Fauci

Hunter Biden

George Soros

Bill Gates

Kamala Harris

Anthony Fauci is an American physician-scientist and immunologist who served as the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) from 1984 to 2022, and the chief medical advisor to the president from 2021 to 2022. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Fauci served under President Donald Trump as one of the lead members of the White House Coronavirus Task Force. So in truth, you should thank Trump for allowing Fauci to be head of the task force. You may have not voted for Fauci but you also didn’t vote for that doctor in the ER that saved so many lives across town.

Hunter Biden is not and has never been a part of the government. Robert Hunter Biden was targeted by the Republicans and MAGA. Of course no one voted for him but it was the Republicans and MAGA that made his name a household name... even though you keep calling him by his middle name. It just shows how very little you know about the case… you don’t even know his real name.

Soros is a supporter of progressive and liberal political causes. The man dispenses donations through the Open Society Foundations. Between 1979 and 2011, he donated more than $11 billion to various philanthropic causes; by 2017, his donations "on civil initiatives to reduce poverty and increase transparency, and on scholarships and universities around the world" totaled $12 billion. However, did you know that Trump donated $175,860 to Democrats from 1989 to 2010. Why aren’t you complaining about Trump. You and your MAGA double standards. Why aren’t you complaining about Harlen Crowe to all the gifts gave to Clarence Thomas? You didn’t vote for Crow or Thomas. Nobody did. But you are quiet when it comes to that subject aren’t you.

Bill Gates is an American businessman and philanthropist best known for co-founding the software company Microsoft with a partner named Paul Allen. The man was chairman, chief executive officer (CEO), president, and chief software architect of the company. Gates was a pioneer of the microcomputer revolution of the 1970s and 1980s and has donated to various charitable organizations and scientific research programs. Through a foundation, he led a vaccination campaign that contributed to the eradication of a poliovirus in Africa. In 2010, Gates and Warren Buffett founded the Giving Pledge, whereby they and other billionaires pledge to give at least half of their wealth towards philanthropy. Gates, like Robert Biden, never worked or was a part of the American government. All he did was lead that vaccination campaign in Africa and get blamed by Republicans ,who claimed he hid things in the vaccinations. Of course you didn’t vote for him… he’s never worked for the government and hasn’t snuck his way into our social security records. Welcome to the real world.

And now for the final person:

Kamala Harris.

Of course you didn’t vote for her. I didn’t vote for Trump, Pence, or Vance and yet here we are. Now, I did vote for Harris. I ignored all the splatter campaign republicans did against her. It was literally the beginning of the DEI campaign, where people like you got upset and ignored everything she has done in the past and acted like she did nothing for this country. You got so upset that you ignored that not only has she been Vice President of this country for 4 years (which is something that you didn’t do), She served from 2017 to 2021 as a United States senator representing California, she served as the attorney general of California from 2011 to 2017 (which you or Trump never did). She has done more for this country in four years than you ever did in your whole life.

And yet, like a lemming, when you heard someone utter the phrase “I didn’t vote for her” you threw yourself off the cliff and repeated it like it meant something. It’s hilarious how you think you have some point while you didn’t vote for Elon Musk at all. Elon Musk has never been on a ballot. He’s not even an American. Elon Musk is everybody you complained about. A millionaire who donated to political parties, who hacked into government computers, is acting like some type of governor who has never been a governor, and thinks he can ignore that fact that NOBODY VOTED FOR HIM.

Thanks for playing.