#too bad xx

[alphabetcompletionist]

we've found songs that are named every letter of the alphabet pretty easily. but are there ones for every two-letter pair or even every TLA? the next quest unfolds

AB DEFGHI LMNOPQRSTUVW Y

21/26

[lesbiangiratina]

Testament bisexuality

[natreads]

2020, 2021, 2022, 2023 🎄

[sidetongue]

someone issue them a ticket

[antigonenikk]

 💖 eugene - say yes to heaven for lovely @guarnerepdf  💖   

[boxwinebaddie]

hi uncle nina! it's my birthday today and u don't have but will u pretty plz consider reposting that part of ch6 of rm where raven in on the phone with kenny b4 his hate with jers? i thought it was super cute and i really wanted to read it :3

awwww, happy birthday, darling! i hope it's as lovely as you are!

and i--sigh.

okay.

i hate complicated feelings surrounding chapter six ( aka the introduction to the iconique ravesey hate that i deleted from stress ) because i actually did love it...i just rushed the hell out of it, didn't plan it out very well and it was a mess. it could have been a lot better.

part of why i deleted it was actually because of that ravenstan/kenny phonecall because i felt worried that i revealed too much about how not cool and actually boy-failure-y stan was too early and could have kept the suspense going longer but aaaaaa i just wanted y'all to see how CUTE he was, like??? and how nervous! AAAA!!!

buuut considering the cat has been out of the bag, or rather, the raven has flown the nest for some time now...and it's the beauteous day you were born...i will humbly present you with this b-day present in the form of my incompetent idiot girl ramblings/writings, though, i fear it is not at all as grand the gift of your life is.

so, without further ado darlings, here is the endearing, embarrassing phone call ( it was over discord actually ) that ravenstan had with kenny prior to showing up to blondie's for his little hate-date with jerseykyle. it's a mess and unedited, but regardless, please know that from whatever hurts or harms you, i hope you heal, please rem(ember) to smile, pendejos,

and to now, as always, angels:

please enjoy the very, very...

worst part of your day. ;)

-uncle nina <333

[pawnshopsblue]

finished listening to ttpd and its like i could make one whole song out of the parts i liked. the first minute of i hate it here. clara bow excluding the bridge. touch me while your bros play grand theft auto is funny😭 it grew on me. umm also the prophecy also excluding the bridge kind of. nvm the prophecy is good i had a good cry to it lol. florida!!! shouldve been longer .. the manuscript is soo good and sweet in THEORYY but execution feels clunky idk.. i couldnt 100% like any of the songs . everything just blurs into blah blah blah for me.. aaron dessner what happened 😭 i feel like she really wanted to do the lana stream of consciousness and she had the ideas (self-mythologizing + imploding love life duh) but with the ten billion senseless verbose metaphors and the bland instrumentals she shot herself in the foot. why is no one saying this. pitchfork come thru 🤞🏼

[abouttofillhisshoes]

should’ve listened to you tbh I’m currently trying to not fall asleep at work, but was mpind worth the sleep deprivation? I think so!! do I regret staying up all night? yeah!! why do i have to be a functioning adult with a job, i miss being on my phone all night at 15 y/o with no consequences tbh

I hope you have an amazing day btw!!

-legend anon🩵

Ooo what do you do for work? Hope it's not something super important i can't have you falling asleep on the job love.

I miss the quarantine days where time wasn't a concept and everyone stayed up all night on tumblr/insta/whatever just living their best life. what a time, honestly, i wish i could relive it.

Hope your day is better than mine!! I just spent half an hour attempting to roll a spliff in a freezing cold uni bathroom. @man-im-so-high teach me your ways i am proper struggling

[alwaysxlarrie]

an end of 2022 thank you :)

the end of this year marks my first full year of having this account & i wanted to thank everyone who made this year fun, accepting, supportive, and informative! i made a post similar to this a few months ago, but i’ve met new people since then & wanted to make an updated, 🌟formal🌟 list. to everyone who became a friend this past year and/or who helped me out in any way; whether it was educating me on all things larry history, one direction history, LGBTQIA+ history, helping me with my fics/moodboards, helped me edit my first custom theme, betaing for me, trusting me to beta your fics, supporting my fics + fests in any way, etc: i appreciate you all very much + whether we talk often or occasionally, i’m thankful for your support & to have gotten to know you all/talk to you all :) 

first, big shoutout to my two fic fests @notjustsmutficfest & @harryislouisbabyficfest !!! very proud of these & can’t wait to see what the writers for each fest create :’) (writer & beta sign ups for the harry is louis baby fest are still open! an announcement on what the new deadlines for the fest will be coming out this weekend as well, if anyone’s interested hehe)

(doing the tags in alphabetical to make this easier on my adhd brain lol)

@2tiedships2 @allwaswell16 @beelou @beardyboyzx @becomeawendybird @beckydoesthings @brightgolden @cyantific @crinkle-eyed-boo @disgruntledkittenface @fallinglikethis @finelinelarents @finelinegynandromorph @faithinwalls369 @gaycousinlarry @greenblueish @hlkings @homosociallyyours @haztobegood @hershelsue @hearyouhowling @heyangels @howharrymetlouis @huggieshalo @ireallysawanangel @infinitelymint @juliusschmidt @jaerie @jacaranda-bloom @jalboyhenthusiast @justalarryblog @justanothershadeofblue @kingsofeverything @kingonafiftymetreroad @lululawrence @londonfoginacup @loveislarryislove @leedsau @larryatendoftheday @larrieblr @larriescompass @larrydoinglaundry @larrysballetslippers @lunarheslwt @larry-hiatus @littleroverlouis @momrryrights @maggieisalarrie @neondiamond @onlythebravest @oliverstaark @panye @pancakesforthebrave @pocketsunshineharry @polaroidlouis @parmahamlarrie @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed @sadaveniren @skipperxao3 @twopoppies @thedevilinmybrain @thinlinez @thebreadvansstuff @tobesokaylee @tommokat @voulezloux @wabadabadaba @xsaerahx @zanniscaramouche 

lastly, shoutout to the four wonderful discords i’m in: @1d-library, @writerscornercafe, the larrie hangout & beauty direction. thank you to all the mods for providing a wonderful community !!

i didn’t start writing this with the intention of turning it into a tag or calling it one, but i just realized that technically it can be? idk but if anyone wants to take inspo from this & make your own ‘end of the year’/’end of the year thank yous’ post, go for it lmao

[steelycunt]

omg you’re WELCOME tumblr.com for the collab of Ridi x Siken I take gifts in the form of german cars or freshly baked pies just an fyi!!! Hmm okay can I pls have either 3 or 5! xx

HELLO BAB! FIRSTLY cant thank you enough for this ask game its wreaked absolute havoc on the dash xx SECONDLY sorry this is so late! i am the slowest of all time xx its kind of long though so there's that!! and THIRDLY: i went with five in the end!! some post-moon angst xx

He’s been in there nearly three hours, now. Sirius has done the dishes, changed the sheets, sorted the cluster of plastic bottles and blister packs and jars of ointment on the bedside table into the precise order in which they’ll be needed. Dug out their Muswell Hillbillies record, since they were talking about it the other day. And Remus is still in the bathroom.

On the other side of the door, all quiet. Miserable bleed of the dripping faucet, but nothing else—no movement, no jostled water. They left the kitchen window open. A draft rocks through the flat.

“Remus?”

He thinks maybe he ought to knock. He doesn’t. The bathroom isn’t thick with heat, as he expected, and Remus doesn’t turn to face him: he’s hunched over in their narrow alcove bathtub, the hair at the nape of his neck slick and sweat-curled, his knees against his chest. The start of a bruise, splayed out over one of his shoulder blades.

“Hi. Hi, you.” Sirius wipes his hands on his jeans, kneels by the bathtub. Remus’ pyjamas, folded in a pile on the lid. “Everything alright? Can I do anything?”

Remus looks at him—or, rather, looks vaguely at his collarbone. He’s bitten his bottom lip bloody, and his eyes are red. Damp, like he’s been crying. When Sirius touches his face, it’s clammy, beneath a sheen of cold water.

“Sorry,” Remus mumbles, "I’m—yes, m’fine.” His voice is chafed, dusty; he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, the dark thorns of his eyelashes. Rasp of raw skin up his forearm that’s yet to scab over. Pinkish tinge to the bathwater. “I’m sorry. Shit, god. Sorry.”

“Oi, no. None of that, Moons. What’s the matter?” Sirius swipes his fingers through the short, sticky hair at Remus’ temple, flicks away a tangle of dirt in it. So much of last night is still raked up against his body, gathered in the soft creases at his arms and thighs.

Leaves rotting on the forest floor. White moon, lodged there in the black like a bullet in an X-Ray, or a tooth through skin. The way the delicate bones at the wrist sound when they snap, like twigs: radius, ulna.

He deserves a gentler night than that. He always does.

“I’m not…m’sorry,” Remus shakes his head, a thinness to his voice that sours Sirius’ insides. “I just don’t—I don’t feel very good, and I wasn’t ready to get out, but I can’t—”

“What is it that’s playing up? Is it your hip again? I can—”

“No, I mean—” Then his shoulders jump, and something catches in his throat; some scraped-up, shuddering noise: “I don’t—feel good, Sirius,” he chokes out, blinking quickly. “I’m just so, so tired, all of the time, and—and it never fucking stops, it’s always so much. It’s so much, every month, and it doesn’t—doesn’t ever end, and sometimes I can’t do it, I can’t.”

Sirius watches the outline of Remus’ ribs, the way they heave. The divots between them that he has traced out so many times. In the corner of the bath, there’s the scummy soap dish that for whatever reason currently only offers a pack of fags: Cadets, white box and red stripe, which neither of them smoke. His jeans, wet at the knees from splashed water.

“I just—I want to feel okay,” Remus breathes, knuckles scratched beneath his eyes. “I don’t feel okay.”

Edging closer to the bathtub, Sirius tries to stamp his voice into something more solid: “Okay—okay, hey, look.” He presses the side of Remus’ head to his chest, kisses his hair and his burning cheek and the bump of bone at the top of his spine—sorry about all that broken skin, sorry there’s only loose change in my pockets, sorry I can’t hide you anywhere.

“Look,” he says after, “we’re alright. We’ll be alright again, you’ll see, Moony. My Moony.” His hand slips down to Remus’ neck; he knows exactly where to feel for his pulse, proof of the desperate kick of his heart. “I love you, and…and I’ll make you feel okay. I will, every single time. You don’t have to do a thing.”

He reaches past him for the washcloth, hanging limp over the faucet. “I’m sorry,” Remus repeats, with a cough. “I—I don’t know why, sometimes.” He pauses. “I’ve made your shirt wet.”

“No you haven't,” Sirius lies, just for the sake of it. “Fuck, though, you must be knackered. I’ll get a takeaway later. Indian, if you like.”

Remus nods. Sirius starts the hot water running again; Remus opens the packet of Cadets, takes five snaps of his fingers to light one. His hands are still jittery. He does this shy, sad smile, as if to say sorry, again.

“You have to know—you’re the very best thing I’ve got, Remus,” Sirius tells him, quietly, fingertips still against his pulse-point. Steady, darling bass beneath his skin. Ash in the water. “The very best thing, so. Sit forward, will you? I’ll wash your back.”

[rcubens]

☞ Wakeup Dead Man 🕑 DAY -2 — AUGUST 31st, WEDNESDAY ☏ @woodrowhub

Everyone got antsy around their birthday, getting older, inescapable change. Especially when it was a milestone birthday. Your first, entering the double digits, being able to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets— then alcohol. Then there was 30. It felt like the official end of adolescence, from eighteen to twenty-three, every year that ticked over was more and more definitive. He paid taxes and rent, bought his own groceries, and spent his disposable income on stupid things without fear of judgement. He was, for all intents and purposes, an adult.

Though, the looming number up ahead gave him pause. He still lived in the same apartment he did at twenty-three, he owned two sets of dishes— and bought paper plates every now and again when washing the dishes felt like an insurmountable challenge. He had one of each utensil, Chinese takeout at the back of his fridge from last Christmas, and didn’t own a dining room table. His only friends were his old college roommates who now sent him holiday cards of their wives and babies and sun soaked holidays. His last serious relationship was a three week stint in middle school, and he had been a junior lobbyist for five years where his last, and only, promotion had been from assistant to his current position. His only assets were his apartment, the contents of his safe deposit box (which held mostly sentimental things from his late father) and, maybe the house in Virginia, but he wasn’t really sure because no one ever called him about it.

It felt a bit like Groundhog Day. Except it wasn’t a day, it was a year. Maybe even five. Nothing's changed, he looked the same as he did ten years ago barring some new permanent under eye fixtures and a disc in his back that tweaked every now and again. Shouldn’t he have done something by now? Traveled Europe, ran a marathon, wrote a book? Maybe those ideas were slightly grandiose but the point still stands. Even a promotion would feel metamorphic. The three guys he started with had all already surpassed him, one of which even left to lobby for Wall Street— which in evil lobbyist speak was practically Valhalla. Sure, comparison was the thief of joy but jeez, would somebody throw him a bone? He did the fancy prep school thing, the great college, he even had the last name! That used to mean something! It got him this far, but it was like the ride had run out of time and he needed to put in another quarter.

Realistically, the only person to point the blame at was himself but, Reuben had never done so before and wasn’t about to start now. So he needed to find someone else to blame, not needlessly— that served no purpose. Someone with even a semblance of responsibility for his current sorry state of affairs would do. He contemplated on the bus ride home, white wired headphones playing Nine Inch Nails. His mother? No, too easy and unrealistic— Reuben loved her dearly. For everything he wasn’t, he was still her little star. Never made to feel any less as she held him close. Plus, as a man, hating your mother was untoward. He rifts around for keys in his pocket as he stood at the front door of his apartment. What about his father? He lived in his shadow all his life, then was swallowed by it after his death. He resents him for never teaching him how to drive, or for never seeing him graduate. The man never taught him how to tie a tie, or change a tire, or how to be the most charming motherfucker in a room and grease palms with the best of them. Those were the things he needed, the sort of advice you got from a patriarch on his back deck with a cigar and a whiskey. Instead, he got shipped eight hours upstate and fielded whispers in the hallways and insane conspiracy theorists who saw no qualms in approaching a child. Realistically, a therapist might tell him that having a chat with a gravestone in Macon, Georgia would be cathartic. Right now, he wanted a target.

A Budweiser is opened on the edge of the counter. It sends a metal bottle cap clinking across his kitchen floor. He shuffles around the apartment, a mix of anger and resentment simmers within him. There was only one other person he could channel this frustration towards. He’d spent so long silently resenting Richard, it felt almost a given. Everyone, nearly everyone, who came into Woodrow went through a phase like that. Though they eventually grew out of it, growth and accountability were things Reuben sorely lacked. He had never received an apt apology or restitution for what happened to him. Though his first couple of days at Woodrow were not the axiom of the issue, they certainly didn’t help. It was a pre-existing condition that was only stoked along at Woodrow. He never fit in, then the world he once knew ceased to exist and with the chance for tabula rasa, nothing changed. He was still fundamentally the same kid. Awkward, overlooked and forgotten. Though it may not be the axiom, it was a memory that hurt deep enough to cause tears to well. He allows himself the luxury of painful reminiscence so long as there is still beer in his bottle. Then he will compartmentalize and store those wretched memories in a shoebox in a closet of his mind. To be dusted off the next time he wishes to be reminded of his lonesome.

The next morning he is called in to his boss’ office. A not uncommon occurrence but, it catches him off Guard none the less.

“Sharpe, you can have a seat—” a heavy sigh of a man who’s out of options accompanies the request. “Thank you, sir.” “I need someone to meet with Imperial in New York and Watts is in London with BAT and Evans is off on vacation, I’d send quite literally anyone else, but there isn’t anyone else and you’re my last junior so…I guess you’re representing us in New York.”

Almost reluctantly, two boarding passes are slid across the mahogany. Reuben stares down at the offer in awe. He’d been away on business before but more so as a lackey. Never given the reigns. There are a few too many beats of silence in which his boss sorely regrets bringing up the whole ideal. He might just be better off having the meeting notes and documents faxed to the office.

“I’d be happy to, sir.” His hand lands atop the passes and shuffles them over to his side of the desk with some resistance. “Sharpe, these talks are important okay—” Not entirely true, but he’d tell Reuben these were nuclear armament talks if it meant assuring he’d actually get the job done. “I need you in there, representing us well,” “Have I ever failed to do that before?” “Do you want an honest answer?” “No, sir.” “Then I’d get out of my office and on the way to Reagan, your flight leaves in three hours.” “Yessir.”

With that, he headed home to pack a suitcase. It was as though the universe delivered him the opportunity on a silver platter. Comped travel, comped accommodation, no travel points— darn, and an excuse to visit Woodrow for once. He rarely if ever thought about returning unless explicitly asked. He was hardly ever asked. Just an occasional quarterly digest slipped into his mailbox of all the children they’d helped and how their work impacted the community. He wondered if he was supposed to be donating.

He took a cab, opting not to trust public transport on such a time-sensitive matter. The security line snaked, and he felt an immense level of scrutiny from the TSA guards before navigating to the business class lounge to not only look the part but feel it too. Stuffing mini muffins and bread rolls into his pockets for later. He wasn’t very fond of flying, it felt more akin to a game of chance than a practiced science. However, the attendants in their little blazers certainly eased tensions. LaGuardia is a mess of corridors, other disgruntled business passengers, and small children to trip over if not paying attention. Another taxi is written off as a travel expense, and he checks in at a Manhattan hotel he isn’t entirely sure the company could afford. It was growing more evident by the second that he wasn’t supposed to be the one on this trip.

There wasn’t even time to settle into the room before the start of the meeting. He just left his suitcase and headed back out with a messenger bag that had a pad of paper and maybe a pen if he was lucky. Despite the windows of the cab being rolled all the way up, it was as though the city’s volume was turned up to eleven. So many concurrent people, sounds and smells too. Even just standing on the corner felt like it drained him off all his energy. A tall glimmering office tower awaited him. Marble floors and packed elevators. He wondered how these people did it. Where they hid at the end of the day after passing about 10 000 people on the street. If being invisible in a city of seven million ever felt challenging. Though, he doubted the men in blocky charcoal grey suits and women in pencil skirts thought about things of that nature so intently.

The meeting was by all accounts boring. He sat in the far corner against the wall and listened to c-suites regurgitate information someone six floors down had spent months gathering then took another team a few weeks of rewording to sound strong and definite. He had gotten distracted by the view from the conference room windows. He looked north and wondered how far north he could see. Somewhere out there was his childhood home. As they moved onto upcoming legislation they heard was coming down the pipeline, Reuben had decided he would make the drive. Two and a half hours was manageable with a couple gas station stops for soda, Airheads and Jolly Ranchers. Then he’d drive back and see if Dante was on any fight cards, go to sleep and head back to D.C. the next morning.

Something like two hours later, though it felt like nine— they were finally set free. Coming up with an excuse to ditch the power luncheon and find a map with the location of a car rental place near enough to the edge of the island. There were some papers signed, license inspected and exchanging of a credit card before he was saddled with a new car for the next 24 hours. He white knuckles it out of the metro area, only relaxing slightly when it’s just him, the highway and a top 40 pop station. It is the second gas stop when the bends start growing increasingly familiar, and the friendly stop in starts to feel like an opportunity for the internal conflict he was dealing with yesterday to wage on. The things he could no longer vocalize to his birth parents had the opportunity to be heard and digested at Woodrow house, for better or for worse.

113568 is the code punched in at the gate not waiting for Beau to let him in. The conviction he had was a sort of now or never thing he wanted to take advantage of while it lasted. He parks and slams the car door with a ferocity he wasn’t even expecting himself to possess. As he pushes open the grand front doors, he is greeted by the entry hall and suddenly feels very small again. He stands in its vastness, chest rising and falling. There’s a faint sound of activity, which is both odd and comforting. He almost thought the place would freeze once they left. Preserved in a glass jar to be revisited when the embrace of childhood could be deemed comforting.

Without him telling them to, his feet take him to the sunroom first. There’s a smell of potted soil and leafy green in the air though it is empty. The early afternoon sun shone in making the air thick. It had at one time been one of his favourite room in the house though that memory can’t even prevail through the red mist. He’d try the library next, almost prolonging the inevitable. If he wasn’t in the sunroom, then he wouldn’t be reading in the library. He checks anyways, opening the door with a creak. It, too, had not changed. How was expected to be an adult here? He had always been a child within the confines of its walls. Like immaturity permeated the foundation and shot straight up through his legs.

Like lead, or if his shoes had been filled with cement— he begrudgingly drags himself up to the second floor. There’s an office door at the end of the hall that is ajar and whatever confidence he once had has disappeared like grains of sand through his fingers. His ears are already hot, but there’s a courtesy knock before he opens the door.

“Richard?” Hearing his name, Richard looks up from the catering contract he's reviewing for the upcoming gala. "Reuben?" His brows knit together in confusion, but a tentative smile tugs at his lips. "This is a surprise. You should have given us a heads-up. I'd have asked Mrs. Tristan to whip up something for you." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands dug deep in the pockets of his slacks. “There’s no need, I’m in the city for work. I can’t stay so, I just wanted to stop in for a minute,” “Then what brings you here, shouldn’t you be preoccupied with work?” Though his tone is light it’s the exact sort of thing the strike a very fragile part of Reuben’s ego. “I mean I would be if I did anything of value ever—” he starts with a shrug. “But I don’t, which is confusing because I should be. I should at least be more than a junior lobbyist. I don’t want to own the whole damn company, but I want to do something. Be somebody. I did everything you told me, I did Woodrow, I did the prep school with kids whose parents own small micronations. I did the good college. I did what you asked of all of us, so why isn’t it working? Why am I the only one out of all of us that’s going nowhere? Some of them are building rockets to fucking Mars or working with multi-millionaires, or running around on Broadway or writing the things that are turned into award-winning stage plays. Natalia is galavanting around Paris making a bigger impact on culture through a god damn magazine than half the politicians out there, Celia helps fucked up people in some deep genuine way, and Naomi is a fucking Michelin star chef in a restaurant I’ll never even get the chance to step into. Some of them are doing the hard, important, political jobs that don’t make the front page headlines, while Dante’s handing someone’s ass to them in front of a live audience for a purse that is more than some people will make in their entire lifetimes. They’re all out there doing fucking great, accomplishing things, and what about me? Where was my guidance? When were you gonna’ notice if I was a chess prodigy or head delegate or fucking, anything. Everybody’s got their thing and I don’t even have you, I never did. What did I have to do to get your attention? Has it worked— will it ever?”

Towards the end of his diatribe, his voice cracks and betrays him. He didn’t want to cry. It felt like such a silly thing to cry about but, with nothing concrete, these were the sorts of things that he felt his entirety being revolved around. “You forgot me, like I meant nothing. Just another name on a list. I don’t think I can ever forgive you fort that. I’m not sure I want to.”

There’s a long silence, where Reuben can her the blood rushing in his ears. Everything he was wearing felt too tight, his palms held pins and needles. The tears that once threatened now leak over his cheeks. He’s a kid masquerading in front of the dad he wished loved him. He wished he’d say something. Anything. It didn’t even have to be sorry. The sadness is quickly replaced with anger the longer the silence.

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” He mutters as he turns to leave. “Reuben- I—” “What, you what?” He turns back for one final acknowledgment but still, nothing could be produced. With that, he left. Determined to never see Woodrow again. It was cathartic in a way. Validating. All this hurt he held inside, it wasn’t for nothing. Richard didn’t care. He couldn’t acknowledge the things he had done, let alone Reuben’s feelings surrounding them. The distinction between him and them had been clear. He was a tether cord trailing behind. His hands curled into tight fists and unfurled repeatedly. He willed himself not to hit anything in the house, leave a mark that he’d even lived in it at all.

He steps out into the courtyard and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It had took so much conviction to get here, to confront Richard. Only for the world to keep spinning, the birds chirping, the smell of fresh cut grass on the air. He had ultimately changed nothing. If he was a little less sane, or maybe more, he’d laugh. Double over with laughter. Because it was honestly hilarious to think he’d walk out of there feeling anything different.

Turning the engine over he turns in the driveway and starts back towards the highway. There’s no radio this time, opting for the sound of a wind flitting past his open windows. There’s an overwhelming feeling as though he’s made a mistake. A tightness in his chest that flows down to the rest of his body. As much as he wanted to sever ties, they were all he had. It was better to exist on the outside of something than be a part of nothing. Almost instinctively, he breaks into sobs. Loud, uncontrollable, childlike, can’t see the road sobs. He slows to a halt in the deserted shoulder. Blond curls fall over the steering wheel as he puts his forehead to the leather. He had to go back and apologize and, say it was all just one big misunderstanding. He needed them more than they needed him and for right now that was okay, for he was nothing without his neediness. He dries his eyes with the arm of his suit jacket and pulls a U-turn. He had not got more than 45 minutes down the road.

He could accept not being a favourite. He could maybe learn to love the hands-off-ness of their relationship. Perhaps if Richard was too involved it would’ve of been more detrimental than beneficial. Maybe he’d still be living here, without a job. Coddled by the comfort Woodrow afforded. He’s prepared to say I’m sorry, and thank you and I love you and I tried my best and you did too. He reaches the second floor landing and the door is exactly how he left it, wide open. A clear look directly into Richard’s office.

Except it wasn’t Richard. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t even Woodrow. It was Virginia in 1989. Photos littered the walls— his dad’s naval tours, his mother with Mary-Beth and Adelia. Summer nights, holiday parties, the pair before he entered the picture. He walks slowly, as though approaching a mirage. Like if he moved too quickly the reality of the situation would appear to him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He could do the right thing for once. He couldn’t lose two people the exact same way. Time felt like a flat circle. He was in the past and present simultaneously. A gentle hand turns the slack face before him in his direction. He screams for Mrs. Tristan.

There’s a rush of people, EMTs, staff, and Reuben. He knows this feeling all to well. The sort of hollowness. The guilt could eat him whole. It had started in the soles of his feet. He follows behind the ambulance in the rented car. No radio, no wind. He turned left, while they turned right. He drove far and fast and hit Manhattan by the early evening. The allure of the hotel was gone. The sleek and luxe had turned into soulless and cold. He crawls onto the mattress and curls up to make himself small.

[opanchu]

love being a child of divorce cause i can ghost my dad

[lesbiangiratina]

Shout out to the person who added the eng translations for testament’s xx in-game voice lines to their quotes page. Testament is going to have the most fucked up quotes page because of you just give me a few days

[fortheloveofaussiegrit]

mark webber at the aus gp 2023 (📷mark peterson)

[coldercreation]

have a great day author!! take care of yourself :D

Awh thank you so much!! You too<3