#beanie!stephen
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rottedgirlie · 2 years ago
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~my lil corner of the world~
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mediademon · 1 year ago
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"Maybe loving someone long term is more about deciding whether to go through life unhappy alone or unhappy with someone else?"
THE HUMANS (2021) dir. Stephen Karam
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girl-from-yharnam · 9 months ago
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transgenderbobdylan · 4 months ago
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FINALLY making my neil doll pattern so i can at least get the body sewn this weekend & then see if i can find some blue buttons for eyes & whatever i'm gonna use for hair
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pancakepartyinthevoid · 2 years ago
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Listen I didn’t even watch black sails and even I know there better be at least 20 “Poseidon was a pirate” aus once Percy Jackson comes out, I mean come on it’s right there
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camyfilms · 2 years ago
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LADYBIRD 2017
We're afraid that we will never escape our past. We're afraid of what the future will bring. We're afraid we won't be loved, we won't be liked. And we won't succeed.
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sloshed-cinema · 2 years ago
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The Humans (2021)
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It’s always a warning sign if an older building is described as having “character” in a listing.  How many ways people mince words around a decrepit place just about ready to fall apart.  As if the conversations and relationship dynamics of The Humans weren’t fraught enough, the camera lingers now and again on all of the little details of Brigid and Richard’s new apartment which so get under patriarch Erik’s skin.  It’s benign enough at first, the odd water stain or scrap of old wallpaper.  The group briefly muse which color of paint to use on the walls, as if that will spruce the place up some.  As the evening draws on, these infractions become worse and worse: clumps of material around ceiling pipes, strangely colored liquids dripping down the walls, stains in the ceiling.  To make matters worse, for this stretch of time around one family’s Thanksgiving dinner, this claustrophobic space is the world.  All of the windows are fogged up and the front door has frosted glass which makes the hallway strange and alien, distorted.  Even the thought of encroaching snow is more likely another artificial construct, ashes drifting down from a neighbor upstairs.  Richard tries to create faux ambiance with a projected fireplace, a parody of the classic family meal at the holidays, and the garland lights that the pair have strung up around one of their ugly pipes just makes the parents snicker.  They’re trapped inside, in this confined area, and yet the more terrifying prospect is facing one’s own emotional interior.  For the younger generation, there are struggles, but they try to find some resolution in therapy and openness, though there are stumbles.  Aimee calls her ex in a moment of weakness, trying to reach out to her out of self-interest.  But for Deirdre and especially Erik, Catholic self-hatred and denial is a potent thing, especially when wrapped in guilt over infidelity and residual trauma over the 9/11 terrorist attacks.  The lights keep shutting off, depriving Erik and the others of anything but their inner demons.
Complimenting the production aesthetic is an immaculately anxiety-inducing approach to sound design.  Strange noises are commonplace in older buildings, and the annoyance of neighbors is always magnified by thin walls and ceilings.  There is no real privacy, even when exploring deeply personal matters.  Conversations can always be heard, whispered asides getting heard by those not intended.  Complimented by naturalistic performances from the entire cast, this initially feels of a part with daily life.  Yet as tensions run higher and the evening wears on, all of these clunks and rattles and gurgles start to feel like some sort of cruel cosmic joke, a haunted house.  All of this after the crystalline layers of Steve Reich’s “Variations for Winds, Strings, and Keyboards” ushers in the film on a blissful note, its only sense of peace.
THE RULES
SIP
Noise from upstairs neighbor.
Closeup of grody walls.
Catholic talk.
BIG DRINK
Someone says ‘babe’.
Someone looks out the window.
Scranton gets mentioned.
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trendfilmsetter · 1 year ago
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Movie Screening of the Day🍿:
LADY BIRD (2017)
Directed by Greta Gerwig. Starring Saoirse Ronan, Laurie Metcalf, Tracy Letts, Lucas Hedges, Timothée Chalamet, Beanie Feldstein, Stephen McKinley Henderson, and Lois Smith.
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leszackardises · 1 year ago
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À ne pas manquer en juillet 2023 sur Apple TV+
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nor-4 · 5 months ago
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Formula 1 Incorrect Quotes with reader Two
F1IQ - Part One
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Y/n: Bitch why don't you shut the fuck up before i slit your throat and watch the honor roll out?
Max: Are you threatening me??
Y/n: No, I'm hitting on you, flash me a titty bitch.
Lewis: Yeah uh, there's something I've been wanting to say lately.
Y/n: Oh what's that?
Lewis: The N-Word
Y/n looking at toto: Look at your dad. Such a dork, keeping bees.
Y/n: I mean atleast it's interesting though. At least like, i wish my dad kept bees.
Y/n: I mean it's kind of cute. Like, your dad keeps bees.
Y/n: How old is your dad? He's obviously beekeeping age. I dont know. I think It's kind of sweet.
Y/n: George, i wanna fuck your dad.
George: Oh really?
Yuki: Hey can i sit with you?
Y/n: Why
Yuki looking at stroll and ocon: The kids at the other table keep throwing ketchup packets at me.
Y/n: You're not covered in ketchup, though
Yuki: They don't know you have to open it first
Y/n: Damn. We need remedial bullying class too.
Yuki: So how do you like your remedial english?
Y/n: I guess it's whatever. My mom was really pissed, though.
Yuki: Yeah? What about your dad?
Y/n: My dad killed himself.
Charles: I'm finally seeing someone good for me.
Alex: Omg who is it?
Charles: A therapist
Y/n: max is pissing me off *20 minutes ago*
Y/n: nvm just got dicked down
George: Girl what..
Fernando: Every time i talk to you i feel confused.
Fernando: I've never met anyone that speaks like you do
Y/n: Stop lovebombing me
Fernando: what? It's not a compliment
Fernando: You scare me
Y/n: What are you hiding from me?
Zhou: Nothing..
Y/n: Zhou Guanyu.
Zhou pulls out a cat: The cat distribution system chose me okay
Y/n at drive to survive: If he cheats on you, put hair remover in his shampoo, you wanna act like Andrew tate, u gon look like him too.
Lewis wearing a beanie: I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS FOREVER
Toto: That's your fault. Being too quick signing your seat with ferrari
Oscar: Are you high?
Lando: Am i what?
Oscar: High
Lando: Hello
Christian: So what could a Mercedes principal possibly have then?
Y/n: I just feel like he'd be into satan-worship, or at the very least have a sex diary.
Christian: A toto wolff sex diary would be horrifying. He's like our rival.
Y/n: We say that about Stephen king books, we still read those.
Daniel: "Dear diary, hot candle wax hurts so good"
Christian: No it'd probably be like a thesaurus of words for "Good"
Daniel: Yeah he probably sexts with perfect grammar.
Y/n: "My wife showed an exquisite exhibition of lust for me."
Toto: Let me try something different here. Do you guys have thoughts and feelings for one another?
Y/n: Uhh i think George's kinda spoiled
George: And i feel like y/n's a bitch
Y/n: What're you gay?
Alex: What.. How did you know? I've never told anyone that.
Y/n: Dude look at your hair dye, you're either gay or color blind.
Lance: bro stop chanting in dead language's your scaring the hoes
Y/n: Bitch you is so lonely I'm summoning the hoes
Sebastian: You used to be shy, now you're a whore
Y/n: There's a thing called character development
Oscar: Reminder that I'm very sweet and endearing so be nice to me
Carlos: or what
Oscar: or I'll punch your lights out
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Hey yall this is a bit short cause I'm finna make a random crack twitter posts n I'll post it in the most random day. I love yall baby💋
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s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s · 2 months ago
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"Silver & Gold: Songs for Christmas, Vols 6-10" vinyl box set is available now for pre-order, for the first time since its original release in 2012, via Asthmatic Kitty Records.
More info: "Silver & Gold: Songs for Christmas, Vols. 6-10 expands on the tradition of Sufjan Stevens’ first box-set "Songs for Christmas, Vols. 1-5" and features nearly 60-tracks that investigate the canon of devotional hymns and holiday pop songs, as well as 18-original songs from Sufjan.
Two versions of the release are available now for pre-order, and will be released on November 1, 2024. The LP box set features an array of holiday-themed bonus items designed by Sufjan and friends and is available exclusively via the AKR shop. The collection will also be available at record stores as a standalone LP set for the first time, featuring all 5 releases (6 LPs) assembled in a slipcase. This version includes just the albums, with the additional holiday merchandise available only with the AKR vinyl box set. 
Inside The Box Set:
5 EPs on 6 vinyl records
Christmas sticker sheet
Temporary tattoo sheet 
Three paper ornaments (self-assembly with directions)
An apocalyptic pull-out poster
A 44-page songbook with lyrics and chord charts (sing along with your friends and enemies)
A 20-page Christmas coloring book by Stephen Halker
Hallucinogenic photographs and psychedelic graphic design
Extensive liner notes (introductory salutations and an essay on the Christmas tree by Sufjan Stevens, and a few theological words on the End Times by Pastor Vito Aiuto)
In addition to the Silver & Gold LP box set, AKR is excited to offer exclusive merchandise inspired by Silver & Gold. Available for pre-order now, choose from a woven blanket, mock-neck shirt, beanie, mug or the Silver & Gold Songbook (now available separately from the box set)."
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pparacxosm · 12 days ago
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something borrowed
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(dearly beloved part 2: electric boogaloo ! ; tashi duncan x fem!childhood best friend!reader x patrick zweig ((x art donaldson?? a little?)); nonlinear narrative; playing fast and loose with tenses; where do i start; patrick and reader are their own trigger warning; tw pregnancy and childbirth; major major tw for talk of abortion; tw depression and antidepressant talk; cw breeding kink centric smut; more artashi wedding scenes; baby lily !! ; art donaldson #dadding out; grammy donaldson mentioned ! ; tw vomit again i’m so sorry lol; cw more menstrual talk; tw adultery but i mean come on; baby names; lasagna; we all have annie’s reblog to thank ((blame)) for this)
‘ JESUS: Judas—
JUDAS: You forgave Peter and bullshit Thomas—you knocked Paul of Tarsus off a horse—you raised Lazarus from the fuckin’ dead—but me? Me? Your “heart”? . . . What about me??!! What about me, Jesus?! Huh?! You just, you just—I made a mistake! And if that was wrong, then you should have told me! And if a broken heart wasn't sufficient reason to hang, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT, TOO!
JESUS: Don't you think . . . that if I knew that it would have changed your mind . . . that I would have?
Pause. ’
Stephen Adly Guirgis, ‘The Last Days of Judas Iscariot’
“Is it one of those ugly ones?”
You’re not special; you, too, hate hospitals. Not the least because your parents ralphed up all that cash for med school and you tanked like a castiron anchor. But there’s so much else to feel guilty for. You feel guilty for being alive while people are dying. You feel guilty for wanting to die while people are being born. You feel guilty, and nauseated, by this sickly visceral fume of birth and babyflesh, and the fact that you’re so upset.
You’d marked it on your calendar, is the thing.
March seventh, Doomsday, the purge, the end times.
Tashi Duncan’s Caesarean section.
Timely and clinical, fittingly so. You’d bought a little beanie for the occasion. The beanie is soft and grey and pink. It has a cartoon flower embroidered on the side of it.
But then this is the spawn of Art and Tashi Donaldson. The baby is inherently desperate, and eager, in that order.
It’s February twentyeighth.
It’s probably for the best, you think, while you and Art are on either side of the hospital bed, and he’s grasping Tashi’s hand more tightly than she is holding his, even though she is the one whose innards are being shat out. You don’t believe she could take another scar.
You grimace as she crowns. Art is sobbing and sniffing. He looks at Tashi like he’s getting to watch God populate the world with greenery. It makes your mouth tug sharply to one side, and you close your eyes, briefly, escaping the bright white light.
You watch the papery sheets go redder and redder with every gush from the cavity of her torso.
The baby is not rosy pink so much as she is carmine. Before this, as an idea, she’s existed mostly in black and white. Aminocentesis results on a MacBook screen. The sonogram on their coffee table. The concrete wall of your abject jealousy. The living colour of her, it shocks you more than her glass-shattering screech.
Art holds the baby first, of course, since Tashi is somewhat incapacitated. You soothingly caress her damp hairline.
“What was that like?” you whisper, wincing down at her.
Tashi sheds a few tears and manages a smile that’s part relief and all agony. “Remember…” she croaks, “Remember when Tre fuckin’… like, roundhouse kicked you up the crotch?”
You blink, quirking your brows. Then you snort in surprise, grinning. “Oh my God, yeah,” you giggle. “When Yas and Matteo got that trampoline.”
Tashi nods weakly, her desiccated mouth twitching at the memory, her eyes shivering gently closed.
The baby is tiny against Art’s body, cradled so carefully in his arms. He’s counting all her toes and fingers.
“Hey there,” he murmurs to her, like they’re the only two people on this earth Tashi made. Then he sinks down onto the stool by Tashi’s head, and holds this tiny, beautiful thing out toward her. “Say hi to momma,” he says, his voice soft as gauze.
Tashi reaches out. Her hands are trembling but all of her is trembling; both you and Art tried to get her on the epidural, but fuck if she’s not stubborn. She crooks the tip of her index finger into the fleecy receiving blanket, pulling it down just a little so she can see the baby’s entire pink face.
The baby opens just one bleary eye, only halfway, but it’s enough for her to see you, for you to feel yourself being seen.
Tashi sobs and Art sobs and you wonder, momentarily, if her obstetrician can reach up the cavity of your body, too, and tug out your heart.
So, of course you hate hospitals, and of course you feel guilty. For many reasons. Chief among them being how, the very moment your dear, gutted friend conks out, you’ve stolen to the hall to ring her ex. And he’s asking you, hopeful, if her fucking newborn is one of those ugly ones.
You sigh into the receiver, shaking your head all solemn. You’re sure any passersby think you’re delivering horrific news. “She’s beautiful,” you confess sadly.
“Fuck!” Patrick says forcefully, like he’s just stubbed his toe.
You can hear the hum of the highway on his end of the line, and he’s definitely a bad enough driver that he shouldn’t be calling you right now, because you don’t want to be back here at his bedside when he’s in a fullbody cast after a nearfatal accident—and you would come to visit, actually, if he were in the hospital; maybe that’d just be the guilt again—but this is pretty urgent.
You frown, tucking your hand under your armpit and managing a smile at a passing couple cautiously rolling their precious trolley to the NICU. “They named her Lily.”
Patrick scoffs. “Those fucking assholes.”
“Right?”
You appreciate his company in your deplorable sorrow. There’s a special corner in the firescape for the two of you, but at least it’ll be the two of you.
“That’s a beautiful name for a baby girl,” he says, practically insulted.
You sigh again. “I know,” you pout.
They’d planned the wedding, as they did all other things, a bona fide team. A well oiled unit. Art and Tashi. A&T. Handing off tasks with practiced efficiency, like another one of her hyperintensive drills, wherein he would sooner keel over heaving than drop the ball. The wedding planner was effectively ornamental once they really got into it.
And they really got into it.
Tashi was one of those little girls who stuffed a stream of toilet paper in her ponytail and pictured the vinyl flooring of her home’s warmly lit passage as a ceremonial aisle on the Amalfi Coast at sunset. Here comes the bride, aluminium foil wedding band, ramshackle wildflower bouquet picked from the backyard, et cetera.
Most times, she’d have you play groom.
But you don’t internalise that too much. Because she had you play a lot of things. And sometimes she’d have their senile Mastiff Mutt, Franklin, play groom, too. Really, the most important part was her having you at all.
And, apparently, as a little boy, Art used to page obsessively back and forth through the decrepit scrapbook of his grandparents’ Peoria union, the pictures frayed and hued dandelion. So it’s great that they found each other, and so many dreams were coming true, and everything was fine. Everything was better.
You’d been happy she was happy, really, you had. You hate big endeavours in your name. If she’d married you, you’d have made her elope to Puerto Rico.
And now she was all sprawled three-ring binders, pen behind each ear, Game Face On. And Art was there, talking place settings in full sincerity, so yeah. It’s fine. Better, even.
She let him intercalate all the mawkish, ubercorny bullshit—the Fleetwood Mac, the garter toss, the pictures of his grandmother at the centrepiece of every table. Because they were a team and it was his wedding as much as hers. And you’d told her, too. You’d told her that she’s going to have a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit wedding to a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit guy. But she’d waved you off with a dismissively sentimental smile. I just want to marry him, she’d told you, which had felt like a million and one serrated spurns all over.
A getaway car, really? you’d deadpanned. Then, leaning closer to her phonescreen, eyes narrowing at their shared twodozenpage Pinterest board, incredulous and disgusted, Are the cans really necessary?
Apparently so.
You were standing at the foreshore, toes all grainy, shoes in hand, pistachiorose and Patrick Zweig on your tongue, your ass still seadamp. Art and Tashi pulled up in front of you, cans rattling, like a justmarried Lyft order.
When you climbed into the backseat, they were in the middle of sharing in dulcet laughter over something or the other. Something that did not concern you. Which was fine, and better, and the flower arrangements were spectacular. And, anyway, you’re busy trying not to get sand on this vintage carpet.
“Shouldn’t you two be honeymooning?”
Art looked back at you, his arm outstretched, wrist resting on the bend of the wheel. He gave you this smile you couldn’t discern, which most of his smiles were, and are. He blew a raspberry from his rubicund mouth and tsked.
“What, without you?” he scoffed, wry but playful, and you realised that, though he teased, and wanted you to know as much, his goodnature was sincere.
And your fingers twitched to wrap his seatbelt—because he was wearing the seatbelt—around his rosy throat five or six or seven times and tug hard.
Tashi threw her head back and laughed into the humidity of the night, of their wedding night.
Tashi squirmed in the leather passengerseat of the ivorycoloured 1960 Ford Thunderbird convertible.
You were leaning over in between them from the back, straddling the armrest. And she watched Art turn his head and kiss you. His hand looked huge on the messy, delicate bone of your jaw. It felt cool and clammy, you remember. Tashi sucked in a breath. You two broke apart after a moment, laughing, your palm coming down on his forearm like he’d just made a joke.
“That,” you said, making a puerile face as he absently brushed a thumb over your cheek, “Was too far.”
Your eyes were still shining with tears.
Art nodded, grinning, slipping his hand from your face and running it through his sweaty shoresand hair. “Anything for you, baby, but maybe not that.”
Tashi was flushed and florid and tamping her thighs tighter together and she wanted you both to put your hands on her.
Her arm slunk across the centre console to press her palm into his chest. And she ran her nails along the tender skin of your inner arm. And Art looked back at you like he was asking for permission, which was the first time in a long time he’d done that. And probably the last time since. And you don’t know why you nodded, but you did.
He gave you another strange, cursory kiss on the corner of your mouth, then leaned across the centre console and nipped at Tashi’s earlobe. The whetted burst of pain sent a visible shiver through her bones. She bit her lip and sighed.
“Mrs Donaldson,” he’d murmured, all husky and low. His white buttonup was all sweatrumpled and unfurled. He looked handsome and disheveled like a fallen angel or those illustrations on the covers of erotic paperbacks.
You swallowed, overwhelmed by it all.
You pressed the seam of your lips to the skin where her neck met her shoulder and her lithe fingers encircled your wrist and guided it between her legs.
You and Art are friends—good friends, by now—but sometimes you feel more like business partners. Cofounders of Keeping Tashi Duncan Happy and Okay Inc.
So, when he cannot stomach all the vomit—so, so much fucking vomit—for all his earnest, anguished, tearful trying, he calls you. Because he and his hairtrigger loins can’t help her right now.
And you don’t tease, or berate, or say it should’ve been you.
And he doesn’t protest, or control freak, or remind you it wasn’t you, it was him.
He dips out to stock up on crackers and barley sugar sweets, and you stay with Tashi and stand sentry on emesis duty.
You hadn’t known that any one thing was capable of maiming her this way. Tashi Duncan, your impenetrable infanta. Fast to get up, faster, still, to dry her tears. But this baby is wringing her bone dry. She’s feeble, swollen, and practically debilitated.
You feel her spine shift as she shakes and heaves into the toilet. You hate her like this. At mercy to her bones.
You can’t help the archaic scorn. None of this, none of any of it, would’ve happened, had it been you. But it wasn’t.
You cradle Tashi’s feverish head in the bend of your knee. You thread your knuckles through her sweaty curls. You rub your fingers into her collar, tracing her bones where they have been swallowed by her plummy sallow skin. In college, you used to give each other lymphatic drainage massages.
You’re on Virginia Key Beach with T and her brothers, at the edge of the ocean. You’re, like, fourteen. Tevin’s mouth is a comically fluorescent shade of blue as he topes down a Slurpee. Tre hops over waves. Tre keeps saying the sharks will get you, they’ll smell it, blood in the water, blood in the water and Tevin keeps holding the Slurpee so high that the ultramarine of it obstructs the sun. And Tashi is yelling I’m not even on my fucking period! even though she is red and wet between her thighs, and give it to me, Tev, it’s mine, you took mine! as she reaches and reaches and reaches, unable to grasp what she wants.
There are some women unmoved by such trivialities as their own blood. Eightinch stilettos, eight months in. People will assume Tashi Duncan, pulchritude and powerhouse, to be one of these women.
But you’ll know better.
She’s so good at the tennis, ultimately, because she listens to her blood. She lets it move her. Lets it give her power. She is a mesmerising glass carafe of red.
But when it spills, it pours. When she breaks, she shatters.
Art Donaldson’s child writhes inside her, swills her blood. And you watch.
Patrick takes you home from the hospital. You were planning on sinking into the void of your couch while forking miserably into a whole tray of lasagna by yourself, but you feel bad. You feel guilty and lonely. So you invite him in.
You thunk your stoneware roaster on the granite of your peninsular countertop. He’s sat on a barstool and you’re standing across from him, and he wastes no time tucking in. You nudge at the broiled cheese with your fork.
You’re crying, which he doesn’t mind, but it’s a little distracting while he’s trying to eat, is all. He peers up at you, circumspect, as he chews.
You roll your eyes at him. “Please don’t make me cry alone,” you tell him.
He chews, swallows, licks some pasta from his gums. He rests the fork against the edge of the tray and dusts his hands off.
“I don’t cry,” he says, shrugging like it’s out of his hands. The corner of his mouth quirks up as you fix him with a sullen glare.
“I’ve seen you cry,” you say pointedly, dropping your own silverware.
He shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says, “One time. That was the only time I’ve ever cried. Ever.”
He has this way of saying things like he absolutely means them. This hamfisted sincerity, serrated deadpan. And, when you’re emotional like this, all husked and raw, it’s unfortunately an extremely effective way to make you laugh. His eyes gleam with victory as you duck your head and giggle wetly.
“You feel special?” he smirks.
You roll your eyes again, tears still trickling pools into the tender shadowed skin beneath your eyes. “I feel especially depressed,” you reply thickly.
He flits his eyes back and forth between the both of yours a few times. You’re reminded of the abject tedious torture of sitting through one of Art’s tennis games. “Are you really? Or are you just moping?” he asks you.
You reach into your pocket and pull out your little Effexor prescription vial, rattling it twice, and tossing it his way. It’s a sloppy underhand, but he catches it easily.
“Huh,” he muses, turning it between his fingertips. “That’s why you look so different? I thought you were just putting on sympathy weight.”
Your lips wobble, and your eyes burn and blur again, your throat swelling shut like fucking anaphylactic excoriation, and you catch your face with your hands and cry.
“Don’t be mean right now,” you blubber.
Patrick blinks, sobering with a smart, the humour seeping off his face and replacing itself with an almost comically disturbed frown.
“Okay, okay,” he says, his voice light with a culpable urgency reserved for a triggered, irate straitjacket patient. He reaches over the lasagna, the savoury brume warming his forearms, and he takes your wrists and peels your fingers from your eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
You hiccup breathlessly. Your tears slithering down your cheeks in rills.
“I’m sorry,” says Patrick. He presses his thumbs into your pulsepoints, like he can quash your distress through your radial arteries. “You look hot, okay? Really, you do.”
For his part, he seems genuinely contrite, and utterly concerned, and he probably means it. He is rarely insincere, even when his tongue is in his cheek. But your sulky inner voice says he’s bargaining. How about I quit being an ass and you stop with the ugly crying and I can finish this pasta and hotfoot it out of here? But this is your house. And your pasta. And you think you should get to mourn his exgirlfriend’s womb, if you so choose.
You sob harder, shoulders quavering. His brows raise in quiet alarm when you wrest your arms from his fingers.
You snuffle and swallow. “Please stop,” you moan sadly.
Somewhere between the cake cutting—which walked that revolting, quintessentially Art and Tashi line between sweet and sexy; she daubed some frosting on his nose, he licked it off her finger—and your purloining of a slice or two for your and Patrick’s beachside bitchsesh, the speakers are thumping with ‘I Wanna Be Your Lover’.
Everyone is wasted.
You don’t even mean to, but one of Art’s cousins, who is clearly eking out his fraternity days that have long since started mouldering, keeps ordering you shots from the open bar. And you keep downing them, one after the other. He’s wearing a practically lurid red polo that really errs on the ‘optional’ side of Black Tie Optional, but he has a really charming smile, the light glistering off the white of his teeth as you dance.
And—fuck it—he’s hot. And he’s looking at you like he wants to kiss you in the middle of this dance floor, grinding against you like you’re teenagers at a CYO dance.
The lights are scintillating technicolour and the music is so loud you can feel it in your rib cage and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning like the world’s trippiest ferris wheel.
Cody—or Connor, maybe—goes to the bathroom to piss, and you track down the newlyweds on the other side of the room. Tashi’s beautiful eyes, already aglow, light up even more when she sees you.
“Hi, baby!” She kind of has to yell over the music. God, it’s been a while since you’ve seen her let loose like this. Either of them, really. They’re having a great fucking time. The Happy Couple. It makes you feel sick. “You good?”
“I’m fucked up,” you smile blearily, because all of a sudden the room’s spinning has increased in velocity.
You fight the urge to grab for her hand for some fleeting sense of stability. Because, if you do, you’ll tackle her to the ground and kiss her until someone hauls you off.
And her husband’s right there.
“Me too,” says said husband. He is flushed in the face, grinning elatedly, his eyes drunkenly disfocused, Tashi’s glossy, nudepink lip-print on his cheek.
Tashi, as ever, seems appreciably more put-together than Art looks and you feel. All silken and nitid. Art’s holding her with the desperate adoration of someone who knows, in the far far end of his bevvied mind, what you’re thinking right now. You narrow your eyes at him. Then,
“Do you wanna dance?” you ask on a whim.
“Sure,” Art shrugs, a sloppy smile curving on his lips. And by now Tashi’s turned to exchange polite smalltalk with some or other extended family member, so he impishly adds, “Let me ask the missus.”
He and Tashi have a short conversation that you can’t quite hear, and then she’s pulling you in by the wrist to whisper in your ear,
“Don’t let him drink anymore, okay?”
She pecks a kiss onto your cheek before you have time to question this rule, but you know her well enough to know she’s also surreptitiously telling you to slow down. You spitefully nab another shot on your and Art’s way to the dance floor.
Art’s a good dancer. You would certainly not have pegged him as one, if asked. But when he’s twisting and moving his feet and putting his hands on your waist in a halfway facetious impression of a slow dance, you realise it’s true.
“Congratulations, by the way,” you shout when you get close enough to his ear. “Happy for you.”
He winces at your volume, raising his fingers to his ear and laughing and looking at you and shaking his head. “No you’re not.”
Patrick watches you sob for a few more moments before smacking his hand against the counter.
“Let’s make one,” he says, declaratively.
You snivel and sweep some tears away, looking up at him. “What?”
“Let’s make one,” he repeats, more urgently now, “If we make one right now, it’ll show up before the end of the year, and we can still weaponise it. Come on.”
He’s sliding off the stool and reaching across the counter to grab your hand and tow you out of the kitchen.
“Patrick,” you whine in demurral, stumbling after him.
But he pulls you along even harder, making a decisive path toward the hallway. “Come on!” he insists, “I’m serious.”
“You’re broke.”
Which is true. He’s been snipped off from the trust fund, which you’d thought was purely the stuff of Murdochian nightmares. But he whipped out his Chase Mobile app and showed you the negative balance to prove it. He’d rather bum it out than suit up and schmooze. So he’s not spoiled for funds right now, nor is he spoiled for wins, and you aren’t equipped with great confidence in a potential future as his baby mama.
“They’re pissed, they’re not cruel,” he tells you, effectively shoving you into your room and kicking off his shoes. “I’ll be back on the payroll with a kid on the docket, I promise. My mom would love it, actually. My sister just had a hysterectomy, this’ll be like a family miracle. You’ll have the child support of a Kardashian.”
He grabs your head and kisses you sloppily—he tastes like tomatoes—clumsily walking you back into the bed.
You think he’s too old to be fingering you the way he is. Rubbing your clit all clumsy, like a faulty button on an old remote. You’re a little sticky, but not enough for what he plans to do here. He sighs and leans back.
“This isn’t working,” he says, all pensive, sitting back on his heels. It’s a little difficult, though, to take him seriously, when his cock is on the front end of halfmast and still rising.
When Tashi first started seeing him, you remember her barrelling into your room all stiff and saucereyed and clamorous. As though a particularly warhankering pigeon had just been elected president, or an alien society had been discovered in the thick of the Amazon. But no. She held your shoulders and shook them wildly and yelled, I’m telling you, it’s fucking huge!
She made a point to you that she’d never be caught dead gushing about his dick to his face. She said it was important to humble him.
So you want to maintain that tradition.
And, anyway, it’s a big dick, not the cure to cancer. You don’t even know what he needs it all for. It’s probably all he has left. You can’t imagine it even gets him very far.
People have frontiers. Parameters. Limits. To their patience, to their bodies. Patrick used to kill the sprinting drills, back in school. He likes going end to end, reaching those limits. But once you start pissing someone off and/or ramming into their cervix, everything else is probably a nonstarter.
You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. “Uh, yeah. It isn’t.”
“Well, is there something I can do? Should I act like her? Will that get you going?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for your answer. He huffs and crosses his arms and imitates Tashi’s angry moue.
And his dick is still hard, harder now, so you splutter into laughter. You laugh really, really hard. Then he guides your legs back open and swipes his fingers between them again.
And he grins and says, “Bingo.”
You got really into Pilates for about a month or two mid last year. You’re starting to think you should have kept at it. Your knees are hooked over his shoulders, the undersides of your thighs pressed to his chest. Your hips ache, but it feels, regrettably, really fucking great otherwise.
It’s eminently uncomfortable, sure. For your part, it hasn’t really occurred to you to let a man fuck you raw. Your lingering childishness still recoils a bit at the very idea. And it feels strange, that gauche drag of skin on skin. You’d need to be really wet for this to be working, and that hilarious necessity makes you wetter in response, and then he’s slipping in and out and fucking you raw and he doesn’t even seem to be trying too hard.
He’s a little relieved. You’re letting this happen and taking it like a champ and your pussy’s deep enough to give him room to work.
So he does. Because he knows how. He knows how to work things from here.
He’s had more sex than you’ve attended pilates classes.
The thought of you, splayed and tensile across a reformer, gets him pretty hot. Very hot, actually, and he can tell because the surface of his skin is bloomed pink, and your fingers blench away from his shoulders like he’s caught aflame.
He knows by now how tremendously warm he runs in these moments. He usually asks about a girl’s AC before things get going.
Should he say that aloud, or will it piss you off?
You probably see your appending to the convoluted list of unfortunate holes to sheathe the great penis of Patrick Zweig as a little beneath you.
This is his chance to remind you that Tashi Duncan doesn’t go back on her word for just any heavy pair of balls.
He angles your hips to get deeper, experimenting with ways to evoke a reaction. He’s working you like you’re paying him.
You’re trying really hard not to say anything too nice about his dick. But he’s plunging hard and fast into you, rolling his hips with all the dexterity of fucking Magic Mike, and—well—you wouldn’t be able to, even if you wanted.
The words you’re saying are not in the dictionary. You’re sweating, panting, tugging a little mercilessly at his hair. Patrick bends your legs and hoists your pelvis. He can’t keep a trainer right now, but some adrenalinefueled strength is allowing him to support your body like it’s nothing. He wasn’t bluffing about you looking hot. He’s groping you all over with the ferocious depravity of a necrophile.
There’s some real blasphemous perversion slipping off his tongue. Ersatz porno shit that should be giving you early onset morning sickness, but he’s going all Daniel Day Lewis with it, and you’re kind of buying it.
Fucking come-slut… fuckin’— fuck… gonna breed you… gonna put a baby in you.
You’re audibly wet. The air around you grows practically mephitic. You’re losing your fucking mind. If this shit falls flat, and he can’t get you pregnant tonight, and you dump and block him and never want to speak to him again, he at least hopes you remember this for a long time.
And—you know what—fuck it if that wasn’t memorable enough, he thinks, feeling his cock twitch as he slooshes molten litres into you. Because he’s pulling out, flipping you over, and hiking up your hips. Maybe this’ll be.
He fucks you, he comes in you. A lot. He needs a second to replenish.
You steal to the kitchen. Your inner thighs are chafed and viscid. You cover the lasagna dish and cache it away, and take a second to scoff at some vapidly controversial Twitter thread. You yelp when you feel his arms around you again, lifting you off the tile and carrying you back to the bedroom.
Patrick’s never really thought too hard about his come. It’s an ancillary deluge. A mess to clean most often. Maybe he’s considered meliorating his diet when someone’s gleaned a taste and gagged.
But right now it’s serving a purpose. And he is, among other things, relieved for that, too. He’s not gonna sit around and mourn this while it happens and ask you if you’d really have his child. He’d rather look you in your beautiful, milky pussy than a gift horse in the mouth.
He refuses to waste a drop of himself. He makes sure to coat your insides with it.
He lies sheathed inside you for many minutes after he comes, gripping your hips harshly to him, groaning like this were the real orgasm.
Afterwards, he holds your knees to his chest and lifts your ass and presses his palm to your cunt as if sealing an entrance, making sure nothing escapes. He’s trying to give his guys a fighting chance.
You were, at first—as in, after two or three rounds—a little amused by this stupid, elaborate routine. Something out of an old maid’s pastel mommy blog. You were amused, and frankly weirded out, by what seemed like a laughable lack of dignity on his part.
Now—now you’re feeling aroused by it. Because being aroused disrupts the dumb ritual and kind of annoys him.
When he is holding your knees up and your cunt twitches, he rolls his eyes.
“You already got off,” he chuckles, shaking his head. He sounds a bit spent, too. He’s usually flaked out by now, in his actual customary postcome routine. “Just stay still for a second.”
The fact that he doesn’t want you to come makes you almost desperately want to. He holds his palm over your cunt but he offers no friction.
The simple touch is enough, though. You can find your own internal rhythm.
Your head falls back against the pillow.
“Oh fuck.”
And maybe you’re being particularly loud and lewd in this moment, while he’s trying to be serious, and get something done. Because you’re still doing this longcon in calling his bluff. You don’t think he knows what he wants.
You don’t want to believe that you two are really so bitter as to start a life out of spleen.
You still don’t know if he knows whether or not he actually likes you.
“What the fuck?” he laughs, “I said don’t.” He squeezes your cunt like he wants to tear flesh from bone, trying to render you still again.
But it only makes you moan louder.
“Oh, fuck, that’s so good,” you mewl indecently, smirking a bit, because you’re joking, but you also sort of mean it, “It feels so good having your come inside me, I can already feel your little fuckass kid crawling around in there. He’ll grow up loving bagels, I just know it.”
These taunts are supposed to disgust him or hurt his feelings or simply turn him off, and Patrick does sort of look like wants to throttle you. Because he’s tired and a little grumpy and he knows you’re not letting him stay the night. But a part of him has always found you funny. So he just ends up getting hard again. Your crude, glib moaning brings him to such a pitch of want that he yanks you into his lap and fucks you roughly, gripping your jaw.
And you grin as he brings your head close. You feel it’s some kind of victory.
Even though you’re just prolonging this dumb, bitter, unfulfilling farce. Making sure there’s more of him inside you.
You two should not be parents.
By the eighth or ninth round, he starts getting conversational.
“I was one of those babies that never shut up,” he tells you, fucking up into you in cowgirl. He grunts and makes a thoughtful face. “Colic? Is that what it’s called? Yeah, I think I was a colicky baby.”
You make a face down at him. “I thought you said you’ve never cried,” you pant, rocking your hips back and forth.
He rolls his eyes again.
“Yeah, obviously I was lying. I cry all the fucking time.”
You consider this, your hips stilling, your palms resting against his hairy hotplate chest.
“Over what?” you ask, “Tashi?”
He blinks, scowling a bit, like he thinks you’re making fun. Then his grips your hips and starts to move you on his dick again. He doesn’t answer. Your pussy feels warm and raw.
Geez, how long have you two been at this?
He asks, absently, about baby names.
“I thought every girl had, like, a whole fucking list of them,” he says, pushing his semen back into your used cunt with his long fingers.
You don’t entertain that presumptuous conversation, but you don’t underestimate his commitment, either.
He’s back the next day, and the next, like clocking into a shift. He brings supplies. Sliced pineapple, fresh honey, ground cinnamon, cough syrup, two boxes of ClearBlue.
“I read acupuncture helps too,” he says.
“Absolutely not,” you say, but you let him feed you baby aspirin while you ride him in reverse on your couch watching Selling Sunset.
He feigns disinterest, but keeps tilting to look past your shoulder whenever the arguments start riling up.
“Ugh, Nicole’s a bitch,” he mutters.
Then he grunts and comes inside you, grasping your hips to sink you down and hold you still.
Her name, for the better or worse part of the first and second trimesters, was actually Stella.
Art’s grandma used to love that Philip Sidney poem, and Pam’s favourite film is Streetcar. It’s just that Tashi got sick of the name, and all other things, at a stage. So it didn’t stick.
They were oscillating between Lily and Rooney towards the end, and only made the final call when they saw her.
But, for a while there, she was Stella.
Stella’s craving peanuts, Stella’s the size of a rutabaga, Stella’s a kicker. And, boy, was she.
She’d ram her foetal feet into Tashi’s ribs over and over like she was on a treadmill. Which Tashi was starting to think of as karmic consequence for all the times she’d have Art doing cardio until he fainted.
You crouch down between her knees, resting your head against the amorphous motion of her distended stomach.
“Hey hey, Stella girl,” you whisper, “You wanna stop giving your mom a hard time?”
Tashi chokes out a wounded laugh from above you.
“That’s how Art talks to her.”
“Ugh, don’t ruin it,” you frown, moving to stand up.
But she sticks her leg out to halt you, grabbing your hand and tugging you back down, shifting her hips and spreading her thighs further apart.
You never could resist her sweet face when it was all crumpled up in asking. Because she got all soft and wet, like a flower caught in a gale.
She looks even softer now, over the horizon of her bloated body.
You gently tug her cotton shorts down and put your mouth on her and Stella stills.
“One more,” you say anxiously, eyebrows knitted in concern as Patrick sighs and unboxes a another pregnancy test—the fifth one—and you quaff down another glass of water to get your bladder teeming, because no way.
No way, right?
You’ve been taking him raw at all angles, and swigging shots of cough syrup, and weaning off the antidepressants, but no way.
“I don’t know what you thought was gonna happen,” he calls from beyond the bathroom door as you’re pissing on stick number six.
It’s just that you don’t feel anything.
You think you should be feeling more.
You think of Tashi, writhing and groaning like a bullet victim, miserably clutching her turgid body. You think of newborn Lily, her cottonsoft, tiny eye peeling open and seeing you. Deep steeped coffee, gleaming in the sterile light. Tashi’s eye. Tashi’s hair. Tashi’s baby. That tender absorption, that vivid creation.
If this kid is taking nothing from you, it’s gonna come out all Patrick. And—just—you don’t have the bandwidth to contend with such a prospect right now.
He drives you to the clinic every time. Every single time. One night, you rouse sharply from a morbid dream punctuated by the squall of wailing children. You call him. It’s 2 AM. He answers, and comes over, and drives you to the clinic, and tries not to nod off as you’re filling out the medical paperwork for the dozenth time. He also tries not to express any overt reaction to you changing your mind again.
Is it a kindness, to tease a man with the brutal decimation of his unborn progeny? No, of course not. His mum’s already preemptively enrolled the thing into a fancy German daycare.
But you hate that he’s given you an ultimatum and put it inside you. That’s the worst place, in relation to you, for an ultimatum to be.
If you tell Tashi, either he’s in, or you’re out. And those aren’t really odds you’re keen on rolling.
There are all sorts of ways to be a shitty friend. You opt for evasive gambits via claims of hectic work schedules and immovable errands. Any retching you do is that of guilt. You’re loathe to lie to her, to house this wretched zygote, to stay away. But she used to be able to tell when you’d changed your shampoo. She’d sniff him on you, in you, in a second. She’d just know. And she shouldn’t. She can’t. And if you could just unearth this presentient betrayal and toss it in a petri dish, she doesn’t have to.
You don’t know what matters more.
He drives you to the clinic. Teary teenaged girls, redcapped pickets out front. The receptionist knows you two by name by now.
Patrick slumps beside you. He’s still slogging through the first chapter of Last Child in the Woods. He’s pretty sure he’s never sat and read an actual, physical book to completion before in his life. But he’s too easily abstracted for Audible. So he’s working on it.
You’re groaning frustratedly and thunking the clipboard repeatedly against your skull. He absently slips a hand over your forehead, shielding the next few collisions before you huff and drop the board and turn to face him. He looks at you askance.
“You can change your mind,” he shrugs. Again, he generously omits.
You scoff at him, incredulous and a little irked. “I’m not gonna change my mind,” you grumble.
He shrugs again. “Okay.”
He knows what it’s like to have a mother in sackcloth and ashes. To be less of a son than a sentient thing of regret with little arms and legs. To not know what to do with that, or yourself. He wouldn’t do that to a kid.
You watch him thumb through Richard Louv for a few more moments.
Then, “You’re probably sick of me, aren’t you?”
He smiles a bit before schooling it stoic, slowly lowering the book and fixing you with this wry but incongruously tender look. “Of course I am,” he tells you.
“Get mad at me, then.”
He smiles again.
He knows what that’s like, too. Dad mad at mom. Stilted five course dinner. Dad telling him and Saskia what a goddamn headache mom is on the drive to school. Of course he’s sick of you, he’s always sick of you. But he likes you. And his head feels fine.
He turns back to the book, shrugging.
“Can’t,” he says simply.
You feel for baby Lily. She’ll never be able to get away with anything.
It’s Art who sniffs it on you, in you.
Tashi’s asleep upstairs when, after a fortnight and a bit, you rally up the guts to come over. Art opens the door and looks surprised for mere moments, and there is perhaps a flicker of concern, but then he smiles. And there’s only very mild ire there. The rest is fatigue and goodnature.
“Hello, stranger,” he smirks, turning to filch a set of keys from the marble catchall in the foyer. He is wheeling Lily out in the thirteenhundred dollar stroller he had lost six nights of sleep picking out. “You coming?”
So now you’re on a walk.
Lily lays on her soft belly in the stroller. The walls around her are a breathable mesh, and she fights to hoist her head and gawp at passing trees. This is, apparently, the only way she’ll do tummy time.
“And the only time she gets any sleep,” Art adds, jutting a finger over his shoulder in the general direction of their home down the street.
Lily’s wearing a ruffly lavender romper. Her skin is a healthy shade of linen and her hair is dark. Her fists have tiny moony fingernails that—when you comment how, Her nails are long. Like, sharp—Art explains how he keeps trying to cut them with a pair of tiny silver scissors. But they make Tashi nervous, their sharpness and its proximity to Lily’s fleshy hands.
“She said she wants her to get a grip on the world,” Art chuckles.
You snort, and you have to skip a bit to keep up with his brisk strides. “Oh, that’s definitely what she said,” you confirm.
Lily tosses and turns a bit in the strollerbed. She gurgles an impressive spit bubble, by Art’s standards. Most things she does are probably impressive to him, quite frankly. He tells you how, the other morning, she had thrown up breakfast onto his shoulder with such verve and accuracy that they’re already talking tennis lessons.
“Oh God,” you grimace. Not at the story, but at the memory of his nauseous pallor in the throes of Tashi’s own gravid sickness. “How’s that been for you?”
Art flashes a selfdeprecating simper. “I’m managing.”
When she casts her little coral taglet security blanket curbside, Lily scrunches up her face, grasping, gearing up for the Big Scream. Art sighs and says, “No, please?” as he stops to pick it up and give it back to her, and his arm, when he sticks it in, blooms with little ruddy strings as she claws at him.
He looks more than a little surprised she isn’t crying.
Apparently, in that meantime, you had jutted your fingers into the cot and offered her a pinky as a peace offering. Versailles-style, like you’ll be punished later.
But he seems content with how she’s chewing you and figures you guys can stop here, for a bit, beneath these treemottled springtime sunbeams. In the garden of the home in front of which you’re standing, huge orange bougainvillea loll their petaltongues in the breeze.
“I just…” Art flounders for his words, then scoffs a not unkind, but vaguely embittered, sort of laugh, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why him?”
You groan. “Don’t ask.”
“How is he?”
“He’s—” you waver, then shake your head, before finishing, “Ugh.”
“Patrick’s ‘ugh’? Patrick? Wow. Should we call all the outlets? I mean, that’s never happened before. Patrick. Ugh. You’re blowing my mind.”
You snort, and Lily laughs, and Art informs you that that is a very hard reaction to glean. And he rubs his temples, because all the wails sort of tremor at that same migrainous pitch. No matter if they’re amused or rabidly apoplectic. But you can enjoy it, the laughter.
“Can you just tell her for me?” you frown helplessly up at him.
That flicker in his tired eyes that wants to agree is purely paternal, but he sighs and shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”
He’s genuinely sympathetic.
“She’ll forgive you,” he tells you. You roll your eyes and hang your head, kicking piteously at the wheel of the stroller. He intercepts your foot with his, lightly shoving it away before bending to search for your gaze. “Hey,” he says, “She really will.”
You huff. “She’s never had to.”
You instinctively press your fingers into your womb, through your shirt. You feel the strange sensation of something starting to swell beneath the flesh.
“You’ll be a good mom,” says Art.
It’s a small relief, for you, to feel your face screw into its shut-the-fuck-up-Art expression. It’s something you know how to feel, a well trodden path. Maybe, once they drop you like a bad habit, he’ll still send you those furtive pictures he likes to take of Tashi sleeping. And you and Patrick can dualmasturbate to them, pretending your swollen belly isn’t in the way.
What you like about them, all three of them, is that they have all always loved you so simply. Tashi is severe, and Patrick is flippant, and Art is occasionally insincere. But they each care about you, to varying degrees, in their own ways. And they do so without reservation, even when you’ve been an ass.
You think that’s how you’re supposed to love your child.
You should probably figure out how he does it in the next five to ten seconds.
You ask, “What makes you say that?”
And his eyes flick down to where Lily is still gumming your knuckle like a dog with a bone, then back up to you, and he gives you one of those smiles. Your face screws. Shut the fuck up Art. Then, he tells you, “You love harder than you give yourself credit for.”
Lily gags around your pinky.
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thewaywardkees · 4 months ago
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It's been so long since I've interacted with the Harringrove fandom, but I was going over old drafts I have on Google Documents today and found this piece I want to dedicate to my precious @ihni because darling... You have always and will always be my FAVORITE Harringrove writer. Always remember there's Stephen King, there's Taylor Jenkins Reid and then there's you (Baby Steps and Of Cats and Men will always live in my brain). I adore you, darling! ❤️ The only Harringrove Post of my own that I want to post online belongs to you and you only!
"I miss you, Billy..." Steve looks away from the stone as tears begin flooding his eyes, his heart thumping loudly against his chest as it finally gives in to the pain he has felt for so long. The pain he kept forcing down in order to be Steve — designated driver, babysitter, dumb friend Steve. His chin wobbles as he says "I miss my best friend…"
He lets the tears fall.
It had been strange how Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove became best friends but Steve had seen stranger things before. He remembers bits and pieces from how it started and that's why he cannot hate his mother as much as he tries to. She brought Billy to him or her borderline fascination at keeping the garden perfect did. 
"The fuck are you doing in my house?" He spat out as soon as the front door was opened and it revealed Billy. Billy, wearing too thin clothes for Indiana's winter.  Fingerless gloves and open shirt, no beanie, no warm jacket. Steve wondered if the guy wanted to die of frostbite, he decided he didn't care.
"Must've gotten the wrong address, princess. Don't get your knickers in a twist." Billy replied, his brows furrowing slightly as he checked the paper he was holding in his hand and then whatever he thought was on the walls or door. Billy was about to say something when Steve bit out.
"Alright. Fuck off." 
Billy rolled his eyes and saluted him as he said  "Right on, your highness."
"Suck my royal..." 
"Billy… is it you?" His mom was suddenly at the front door. 
The rest is history.
Steve and his countless six packs of beer because "You are old enough to buy beer, Harrington." — "Bold of you to tell me I look 21, asshole". Billy and expensive packs of cigarettes because "I'm not smoking cheap shit, Hargrove. If lung cancer is gonna take me, I'll allow only good shit in my mouth", Billy turning beet red and Steve blurting out innuendos so easily afterwards.
Late nights at the Quarry and Billy talking shit about his dad, bloodshot eyes as he tried to shrink his rage and Steve's light touch to his arm. "Come here" — their first hug... Billy pressing his swollen cheek to Steve's chest, seeking the warmth of his embrace even if it so desperately needed the cold. 
Meet me at the bleachers notes. Movies on saturday? Notes. Okay, don't invite Tommy notes and more notes. Drawings too. Really ugly drawings of stick people, making fun of Mrs. Whoever's mustache, Mr. Whatever's ugly sweater… Any of your sweaters missing, Harrington? Middle fingers draws, mouth sucking said middle fingers draws. Middle fingers becoming dicks draws, Billy cackling so loud the whole class would startle. Steve becoming the Picasso of Dicks… just to make Billy laugh. 
Their coach congratulates them for putting their differences aside and working together as a team. A knowing glint in his eyes and a kind welcoming smile, he knows something Steve doesn't. Steve likes whatever their coach knows, it feels good… safe. Billy is smiling too and patting Steve's back. Months later "We are going to the finals, Harrington!" 
They lose by 3 points and everyone is angry. "If you two weren't sucking each other's dicks all the time, we could have won! WE ARE A TEAM, this isn't just about you two, you faggots" someone from their team lashes out at them and before Steve could say anything, Billy punches first… hard and breaks the guy's nose. 
Billy is forced to quit the basketball team.
He shows up at Steve's door with a split lip that night. 
"Homophobic assholes…" Billy says and Steve agrees. He is passing like a caged lion around Steve's room. Steve wants to reach out, touch his arm again like that night at the Quarry, bring him close and ask him to breathe but he doesn't. He knows Billy needs to get everything out his chest because it helps him relieve some of the pain he is feeling… physical pain — fuck you Neil, emotional pain... All sorts of pain.
"I miss you every day…" 
I hope you liked it, love!
And to the rest of the Harringrove fandom... More like the Billy Hargrove fandom. I hope you are doing alright, loves!
Happy 4th of July to my US Harringrove fellows! ❤️ (We all know what it means to this fandom)
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noonaishere · 1 year ago
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Online/Offline [Choi San] - Masterlist
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By: noonaishere (main blog: symphonyofmars)
Fic type: social media au / traditional
Pairing: San x fem!reader
Genre: cafe setting, streamer, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, male lead secrets
Warnings: stalking, verbal abuse, online harassment, attempted kidnapping, “honey trap”, drinking
Status: Currently updating
Updates: Mondays and Tuesdays at 12pm EST
Synchronously posted with Music of the Heart (any asterisked (*) chapters means they’re shared between both fics)
[intro post explaining y/n and t/n]
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SYNOPSIS:
Y/n has been a faceless streamer since she was 17 or 18 and - even though she’s friends with an idol from a popular group - no one knows who she is. Things start to go wrong when someone posts a picture in front of her old job and she makes the move from her hometown to Seoul. What will happen when she makes a whole bunch of new friends at the nearby cafe?
Also, how does y/n’s existence connect to t/n, someone she’s never met?
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🧋 main cast
Chapters:
🧋 Prologue | the inciting incident
🧋 one | The Unofficial JGG Steam Rundown
🧋 two | fried chicken and baby pictures
🧋 three | one week later
🧋 four | what’s the wifi?
🧋 five | a job would be nice
🧋 six | students, please pay attention in class
🧋 seven | above minimum wage. like, *way* above
🧋 eight | trimming the fat
🧋 nine | screep screep goddamn!
🧋 ten | F, senpai
🧋 eleven | QUITE the face journey
🧋 twelve | welcome to AtoZ café
🧋 thirteen | she definitely used to be a barista
🧋 fourteen | commit to the bit
🧋 fifteen | *heartlessly*
🧋 sixteen | our beautiful boy
🧋 seventeen | bean boyz / shadow beanz
🧋 eighteen | were they in a drama or something?
🧋 nineteen | how are the fields this year?
🧋 twenty | the devil was an angel too, before he fell
🧋 twenty-one | busy bees send emails
🧋 twenty-two | leroyyyyy jenkins!
🧋 twenty-three | bean babez
🧋 twenty-four | a car? in this economy?
🧋 twenty-five | can I pick her up? can I tell her I love her? will she get mad?
🧋 twenty-six | get thee to a nunnery, wench
🧋 twenty-seven | like a dumbass
🧋 twenty-eight | double high five
🧋 twenty-nine | “just mix them up”
🧋 thirty | a loudmouth with no sense of self preservation
🧋 thirty-one | stephen from canada
🧋 thirty-two | because…
🧋 thirty-three | i think he’s just nice, that’s all
🧋 thirty-four | you’re both Too Nice
🧋 thirty-five | you really do need a vacation
🧋 thirty-six | petition to have cat kicked from the discord
🧋 thirty-seven | stream CALLiSTO everyone
🧋 thirty-eight | what’s your channel name?
🧋 thirty-nine | she’s the streamer
🧋 forty | we can’t keep meeting like this
🧋 forty-one | “family drama”
🧋 forty-two | meet the morn
🧋 forty-three | feline photoshoot
🧋 forty-four | caturday
🧋 forty-five | 1-800-CALL-A-BITCH
🧋 forty-six | intelligent pants
🧋 forty-seven | one cheeks, two cheeks…
🧋 forty-eight | today’s prize is: Cash!
🧋 forty-nine | can someone please come to the counter?
🧋 fifty | matching socks
🧋 fifty-one | the byeol of ones and zeros
🧋 fifty-two | explaining ninja warrior
🧋 fifty-three | halfway there
🧋 fifty-four | stalkerly actions
🧋 fifty-five | sock update
🧋 fifty-six | plucky servants
🧋 fifty-seven | five yeets deep
🧋 fifty-eight | only you would get banned from jumping
🧋 fifty-nine | seter sanrker
🧋 sixty | playing hard to get
🧋 sixty-one | OBJECTION!
🧋 sixty-two | beanie babies
🧋 sixty-three | ACAB
🧋 sixty-four | sanflowers
🧋 sixty-five | an absolutely zero-cheeked up on a monday night, drinking to forget kind of a bitch
🧋 sixty-six | a thing to be had
🧋 sixty-seven | *not* born to run
🧋 sixty-eight | excuse me?
🧋 sixty-nine | fake date
🧋 seventy | a liar of epic proportions
🧋 seventy-one | jagiya
🧋 seventy-two | breaking news!
🧋 seventy-three | planning planners
🧋 seventy-four | because I like you
🧋 seventy-five | fair-trade, equal exchange, organic bittersweet 70% cocoa chocolate chips
🧋 seventy-six | favorite customer
🧋 seventy-seven* | WHAT?
🧋 seventy-eight | sharing screens and secrets
🧋 seventy-nine | why didn’t jack get on the door frame?
🧋 eighty | if you tell me who M is, I’m blocking you
🧋 eighty-one | where’s morn?
🧋 eighty-two | meet and greet
🧋 eighty-three | honey pot
🧋 eighty-four | *WORRYING*
🧋 eighty-five | to catch a stalker
🧋 eighty-six | give him the ol’ UwU
🧋 eighty-seven | you just activated my trap card
🧋 eighty-eight | born to run
🧋 eighty-nine | the walk home
🧋 ninety | it’s a coniferous forest there’s so much pining
🧋 ninety-one | it was the locking of the jail cell for me
🧋 ninety-two | Mission Accomplished, right?
🧋 ninety-three | are you sure?
🧋 ninety-four | good thing I’m a teacher
🧋 ninety-five | everything’s good :D
🧋 ninety-six | shrimp hold
🧋 ninety-seven* | suspicious group chat
🧋 ninety-eight* | more boba, less ice
🧋 ninety-nine* | ensemble transition (1/3)
🧋 ninety-nine* | ensemble transition (2/3)
🧋 ninety-nine* | ensemble transition (3/3)
🧋 one hundred* | an even more suspicious group chat
🧋 one hundred and one* | we’re both here now
🧋 one hundred and two |
🧋 one hundred and three | I
🧋 one hundred and four |
🧋 one hundred and five |
🧋 one hundred and six |
🧋 one hundred and seven |
🧋 one hundred and eight |
🧋 one hundred and nine |
🧋 one hundred and ten |
🧋 one hundred and eleven* |
🧋 one hundred and twelve* |
🧋 one hundred and thirteen |
🧋 one hundred and fourteen* |
🧋 one hundred and fifteen* |
🧋 one hundred and sixteen |
🧋 one hundred and seventeen* |
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Epilogue 4
Epilogue 5
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Send an ask or leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! 🧋
🧋🧋  [MAIN MASTERLIST]  🧋🧋
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beaistiny · 11 months ago
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Regressor! Young Neil Moodboard + Paci edit
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💙HEADCANONS💙
Regresses either really little 1-3 or like 5-7
When he’s really little he’ll mostly sit and watch cartoons, maybe he’ll play some animal crossing or something
When he’s bigger he’ll still play videos games (mostly Zelda)
Stephen Stills is his caregiver
^ he just gives off caregiver energy tbh
When regressed younger, Neil will just follow Stephen around while holding his hand
When a bit older he’ll do the same thing but ramble about video games
Young Neil’s a pretty chill regressor, he’s happy to just sit and play video games
He likes it when people are in the room with him though
He’s an autistic regressor fr
Stephen will tend to call him ‘kid’, ‘kiddo’ and ‘little buddy’ usually
Probably has some old beanie babies that he cuddles when regressed (and not regressed)
I want more Young Neil agere content- I love him sm
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notearsnora · 14 days ago
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New Fan editions of the Wicked soundtrack are available.
The Fan Edition Vinyl Box Set includes an exclusive album cover, pink/green splatter vinyl, a Shiz beanie, pennant, and patch, and an envelope from Shiz including 2 exclusive trading cards, a postcard, a required reading list, and an exclusive note from Stephen Schwartz.
The Fan Edition CD includes a 34-page book featuring photos, song lyrics, and 9 exclusive photocards.
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