#tagging this with most things im talking about

[iwritefandomimagines]

A GOOD PLACE TO START — STEVE HARRINGTON

masterlist link broken rn. it’s pinned to my profile

pairing: scoops!steve harrington x bookstore worker!reader

description: you’d not known steve that well in school, but his reputation preceded him. the sight of him in your book store surprises you, but the conversation that follows you surprises you even more.

tags/warnings: angst if you squint, teasy cute flirtiness and then some real talk, tiny bit of hurt steve, mention of nancy, swearing (ofc it’s me), gender not specified, pg because it only goes as far as a cheek kiss for now lol

author’s note: eeeee i love steve harrington wholeheartedly and i can’t wait to make this a series. i hope you enjoy, im a lil rusty because it’s been a while. fluffy domestic (maybe established relationship, maybe initiation of it?) part two & more ideas in the pipeline… PLEASE let me know what you think and what you wanna see <3

———

The first time Steve set foot in your store was not of his own volition.

As with most things of late, it seemed, it was in fact at the behest of a very anxious Dustin who wanted a copy of some comic or other that had just been released in limited run and happened to be sold exclusively there.

Your eyes had found Steve Harrington the second he entered the store, and had rolled practically to the back of your head a second later as his found you.

That was something that hadn’t changed since high school.

He’d always been loud, always been confident. Always spoken to people without any real implication that he cared who he was speaking to beyond his core friendship group.

He looked momentarily bewildered and you couldn’t help but chuckle at what a sight to behold he was as he ambled in still wearing his Scoops Ahoy uniform.

The store was relatively small — you could never decide whether to blame the lack of enthusiasm for reading in Hawkins or the one rival book store in town and its very attractive owner — and the dim glow of its orange lighting lit him so well you might briefly be able to not perceive him as the devil incarnate.

Right, he might have been a perpetual pain in your ass in high school, but he’d never not been pretty.

And that was still the case even in his stupid work uniform.

��You’re telling me King Steve can read?”

Your lips curled up in a smirk, your arms folding across your chest as his hand fell to his hip with a shake of his head.

“Wow, Y/N,” his eyes widened in feigned surprise, tongue swiping across his lip for a moment, “That’s no way to treat a paying customer.”

Scoffing, your eyes trailed him as he took a final step and leaned forward onto the front counter, “That’s not a yes. What do you want, Harrington?”

His eyes flitted briefly around the store as if looking for something, “The kids want some lousy comic. S’posed to be out this week.”

You chuckled, choosing to ignore the small spread of warmth in your chest at the reminder of how much he cared for that group of kids.

He slid you a piece of paper containing its title, and for a moment you were relieved by the fact that you did in fact have one copy left and this wouldn’t have to turn into an argument.

“Ah, right,” you nodded, “You can’t look for it yourself on account of you not being able to read?”

“Still as funny as you were in school, huh,” his fake chuckle still lit his face up with a pretty smile and you cursed yourself for thinking so, “I can, in fact read. Tell you what, if you gave me your number I could even prove it.”

You weren’t as surprised by his request as you might have been before starting work in this shop — you’d heard many a whisper of Steve’s incessant flirtation with anyone and anything since he’d joined Scoops Ahoy.

You smirked, shaking your head with a laugh as he watched you carefully for your reaction.

“I think even you could manage reading a phone number,” you watched him huff, “And then what, I gotta listen to you yap on about your romantic exploits or something?”

Okay, maybe that was a little harsh.

“Why, would you get jealous, sweetheart?”

It took absolutely everything in you not to react with a squeal — but you were absolutely sure he’d noticed the prickle of a blush on your cheeks as his smirk only broadened.

You couldn’t believe that Steve Harrington was having this kind of effect on you, and you didn’t like that it was clear that he knew it.

You cleared your throat, hands resting on your hips now as you tried desperately to regain your composure.

“It’s no wonder you’re not having much luck with the ladies if you’re using lines like that, Stevie.”

For a moment you think you might have offended him, but he hides this quickly behind his usual lopsided grin, “No denial. But hey, what makes you think I’m so unsuccessful?”

“Have you forgotten that Robin is, like, one of my best friends?” you reminded him matter-of-factly, “Or was I really that much of a fleeting acquaintance to you in school that you don’t remember?”

He detects genuine insult in your tone, and for a second he almost reaches out to touch you when he knits his brows together and shakes his head, “You weren’t a fleeting acquaintance to me, are you kidding?”

For now, he doesn’t care that Robin is spilling gossip about his pitiful love life — he cares that you think he was totally unaware of you in high school.

Sure, you didn’t hang out. You didn’t talk much… Okay, maybe he got why you thought he was oblivious to your existence. But he wasn’t.

He savoured the brief moments he’d hear your laugh, or work on a project with you. He watched from afar as you spent time with your real friends, seemingly so close but so far away.

Tommy had teased him once or twice about his longing stares, but that had just reminded him that you didn’t deserve to be brought into that group — that you deserved better.

So he’d continued to drink in your laughter from afar. Watched you kiss boys at parties from the other side of the room. Heard boys in the locker room gossip about how perfect you were, how pretty, how soft.

When you didn’t reply for a moment, he shook his head again, “You were unattainable, not invisible.”

At that, you snort.

A loud snort that you would almost be embarrassed by if you weren’t too busy trying to piece together what the hell he meant by that.

“Unattainable? Like King Steve was pining over little old me,” you licked your lips as your laughter continued, the intensity of his gaze not convincing you, “If you’d wanted to even be friends with me, you’d have tried. You always did get what you wanted.”

He doesn’t like that — you can see it in the way his eyes fall to his feet and his hands pull away from the counter.

You’ve hurt him, or brought up memories, or both, and he doesn’t know what to do with them for a brief moment.

“Did I? Look at me,” he swallows thickly as the teasing smile drains from your face, “I thought things were good. Then the one thing—person— I thought I got, I thought I really needed, just upped and left me for someone else and I can’t—I dunno... Just—King Steve got sweet nothing, really.”

Your eyes are sad now, and he can feel the pitying words threatening to spill from your pouty pink lips. He doesn’t want your pity and suddenly he regrets opening his mouth.

You sigh, “I’m sorry for saying that when we didn’t really know each other. Everyone’s got their own shit—I just find it hard to believe you ever noticed me more than you’re obligated to as a classmate, y’know?”

He nods, as if choosing his next words carefully, “I know, but I did. It’s just—I was scared and then Nancy happened and then even after that, things got complicated for me,” he looks like he wants to explain, but a frustrated sigh signals his internal debate has stopped him.

“And then I didn’t want to drag you into things so I just stayed away. And then you started here and I saw and Robin said I should either shit or get off the pot but I didn’t want to be weird,” he’s running hands through his hair as he speaks, frantic, “Man, I don’t know. I’m not King Steve anymore. I don’t know how to do these things with people that matter to me.”

You shrug, confused and overwhelmed and unsure if you really want to hear more of his explanation, “Right. Uh—I’m sorry. I—.”

You were utterly blindsided by the notion that he’d spoken to Robin about you, that he’d maybe kind of sort of had some semblance of an interest in you somewhere along the lines of your acquaintance, and for a second the silence between you is tense.

You stare at each other, mouths agape and expressions barely readable to the other for just a pause.

Then Steve looks defeated again, his eyes narrowed and the frown on his face more than evident.

You regret making any stupid comment about his luck with the ladies or your bitterness towards him in high school and now you too feel small and insecure and pathetic.

“Well, I’ll go and grab you that comic, if you’d like?” you offer, your voice almost a whisper as your softened gaze met his, “We’ve got one copy left that’s in the back. Perfect timing.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, taken aback by the swiftness of the return to the original subject and he nods, “Oh, sure. Thanks.”

You’re gone longer than you need to be, and for a beat he thinks you might not be coming back — instead leaving him to fester in his own confession until he’s too overwhelmed to wait any longer.

In truth, you spend five minutes staring blankly at the wall of boxed comics. Your head is a whirlwind and you briefly can’t even remember your name, let alone which issue you’re looking for.

But then you snap back to reality, snag the comic and saunter back to the counter where Steve has now taken off his Scoops hat and laid it on the counter, fiddling incessantly with its details.

“Got it,” you hum, trying your hardest to sweeten the mood and lighten the tension ever so slightly with a beaming smile.

He looks up, a smile finding his face now too, “Amazing, that’ll get Dustin off my ass for at least a week then, thank god.”

You chuckle, and warmth spreads through him again at the sight as he takes the comic from your hand and pulls cash out of his pockets to pay for it.

“I’m glad,” you hum, taking the cash and working with the dodgy old cash register to put it away before pulling a notepad from below the counter and clicking open a pen, “Two seconds.”

He’s got that bewildered expression on his face again as you briefly glance up at him, and your heart swells as he pulls his lip between his teeth.

That one strand of hair has fallen in front of his face again, and now you’re swooning and flustered and you once again can’t believe that you’re feeling this intensely towards Steve Harrington when you’d barely known him in school, barely seen him since, and now— here you were.

“My number,” you tear out the sheet you’ve just written on and slide it towards him, “You know, ‘cause if you’re going to need to come back in here again— for, for Dustin— you might want to practice your reading. My number is a good place to start.”

You’re pretty sure your heart stops at the sizeable grin that overtakes his face at these words, tongue swiping over his lips and his hands snatching the paper up immediately.

“Right, I’ll definitely be back. For Dustin. Makes sense,” you can hear the pride in his voice at the unexpected acquisition of your number. You, of all people, gave him your number(!), “Thanks, Y/N.”

You grin, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek before your brain has a chance to determine whether this is a good idea.

It’s Steve that blushes crimson now, accidentally leaning in to the brief moment of your lips on his cheek so that you linger momentarily.

You can feel the warmth of the blush that has reached his cheeks, and it takes everything in you not to emit a delighted hum and ask him when you’ll see him next.

You’re already getting in over your head despite this one interaction with him, and you remind yourself you should probably slow down.

He clears his throat, trying to pretend he wasn’t wholly affected by the kiss too, “You give all your customers a kiss on the cheek when they leave?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes at him and nudging his arm.

You debate telling him to fuck off, but figure that the dynamic between you has changed enough and you’ve just given him your number, for god’s sake, so you can flirt a little.

God knows you’ve waited long enough now that you think about it, and apparently so has he.

“Only the pretty ones,” you sing-song, holding eye contact as he gulps and watches you carefully.

“Noted,” he beams, leaning up to tuck a hair behind your ear and kiss your temple.

You chuckle, “And do you always kiss retail workers when you’re leaving their store too, then?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

God, you’re sure your palms are sweating and your knees are weak and your heart will burst out of your chest at any damn second.

How’re you managing to flirt with him so seamlessly now when you feel so crazily overwhelmed by whatever the fuck is going on?

“Noted. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” you offer him a sugary sweet smile as you grab a stack of books to start sorting, “You’re welcome in whenever. Even if it’s, uh, not for Dustin.”

“Good to know I’m welcome in public places after all,” he chuckles, the teasing grin he’d started this encounter with back to its full glory, “But better to know you want me here. Catch you later, Y/N.”

And with that, he’s turned on his heel and leaving the store — leaving your heart racing wildly and your mind wondering desperately when later might be.

His heart is beating rapidly too, the comic between his fingers gripped so tightly his knuckles are turning white.

He takes one last glance back at you and the way his stomach seems to swarm with butterflies at the small wave you send his way, he is certain of one thing.

He’ll be back very soon.

———

saw djo twice. rewatched stranger things. now here i am pining over steve again — this is a part one, probably to become an ongoing series ! pt 2 coming soon of domestic fluffiness, maybe a jealous!steve part soon too because y’all know i love writing jealousy fics …

ANYWAY please let me know what you think or request more stranger things fics or let me know what other things you’d like to see from scoops!steve x bookstore!reader <3

[wthphe1n]

Hcs — Gifts

Pairing: Yoo Wooin x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff / Romance / a dash of angst

Rating: PG-13

TW: Mild emotional manipulation (Wooin-style), hints of toxic family mentions

Word count: ↔️

A/N: Our sneaky snake boy is back. With a gift in his hand—but not without playing mind games first. This is the kind of “I got you something, but you better beg for it” type of energy. We lean into the sly, flirty, secretly-soft Wooin here. Let’s unpack that bad boy charm, yeah?

# If there’s anything off or weird, Im really sorry in advance.

(@shintaru @dzvelinaskebiyars )

⬥ Hcs – When it comes to giving you gifts…

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– He acts like he didn’t buy you anything. Every time.

Literally will sit across from you, poker-faced, watching you talk about your day… while a very obvious shopping bag is tucked under the table. Smirking silently like a little gremlin.

– Gift-giving is strategic.

He’s not the type to throw random stuff at you. Nah. He watches, waits, remembers the way your eyes lingered on something at the store, and buys it a week later when you least expect it.

– Packaging? What packaging.

The guy either throws it in a black tote bag or just hands it over in the store’s bag like, “Here.” But inside? It’s always the perfect size. The perfect color. The perfect thing. Suspiciously perfect.

– Custom pieces.

If he gets you a Chrome Hearts ring or bracelet? Won’t say a word about it either just watches your face light up.

– He hates birthdays but shows up with the most thoughtful gift.

Claims he doesn’t “do birthdays,” but shows up at your door at midnight with a bag of your favorite snacks, a necklace tucked inside a hoodie he stole from you weeks ago (and sprayed with his cologne).

– He never lets you buy him anything. But will lowkey get jealous if someone else gifts you something better.

“That’s a nice gift… you want me to throw it out for you?” He says it smiling, but his eyes? Dead serious.

– Gives you stuff during fights.

The audacity. You’re pissed off, and he just shoves a box into your hands like “Take it. It’s been sitting in my backpack anyway.” Bro. You planned this.

– He never says “I bought this for you” – it’s always “It was lying around” or “Didn’t need it.”

You find a new hoodie in his room. Oversized, with the tags on. “You can wear it, I guess,” he says, watching you try it on like it wasn’t always meant for you.

– When you’re sad? That’s when he pulls out the soft stuff.

Handmade things. Notes. Sketches. A tiny Polaroid he took of you without you knowing. It’s all wrapped up in this “I don’t care” packaging. But he so cares.

– Jealous gift-giving is a thing.

If he feels like someone else is taking your attention? Suddenly he’s handing you something — expensive, cool, personal — with that lazy grin like, “What? I had it lying around.”

– Secret stashes.

You find out later he’s been keeping everything you ever gave him. Notes, receipts, even wrappers. He plays it off like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, but that drawer in his room? Yeah, it’s a shrine.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

BONUS SCENE – “Don’t Look In the Bag.”

You opened the door and there he was — Yoo Wooin, black hoodie over his head, yellow-tinted glasses reflecting your porch light, chewing gum like he had all the time in the world.

“What?” you asked.

He looked you up and down, smiled slow. “You always greet people with that sweet attitude, princess?”

Your eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

He held up a plain black paper bag and shook it a little. “Nothing. Just had this lying around.”

You reached out. He yanked it back instantly.

“Don’t look inside yet.”

“…Why?”

He leaned in, smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. “Because I said so.”

Classic.

You let him in anyway, rolling your eyes as he kicked off his shoes like he lived there. Which, let’s be real, he practically did.

Ten minutes passed. He was sprawled on your bed, arms behind his head, pretending to scroll through his phone while not watching you. You were still staring at the bag on your desk.

“…Can I open it now?”

“No.”

You pouted. “Why not?”

He looked over, his smirk sharpening. “Because I want you to suffer a little. Builds anticipation.”

You marched over. “I swear to God, Yoo Wooin—”

He caught your wrist before you touched it, tugging you down so you fell half on his chest.

His voice dropped low in your ear. “It’s not a big deal. Just something I saw that reminded me of you.”

Your heart skipped. That tone—half lazy, half sincere—always did things to you.

You turned your head, whispering back, “Then why are you making such a big deal?”

He glanced at you, took his glasses off slowly, eyes narrowing like he was sizing you up.

“…Because watching you squirm is fun.”

You groaned and reached for the bag again.

He didn’t stop you this time.

Inside: a velvet box. Inside that: nestled against a dark, plush lining, lay the Chrome Hearts CH Skinny Multi Cuff. Its sterling silver surface, adorned with a continuous band of meticulously crafted ‘CH Plus’ motifs, gleamed softly - each cross a tiny, distinct declaration of the brand’s iconic rock-and-roll aesthetic. ($900 USD)

“…Wooin,” you breathed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“This… is expensive.”

He shrugged.

“I liked it. Thought you’d look good wearing it when I pull your hoodie down.”

You choked. He laughed. You slapped his arm.

“Asshole…”

He caught your wrist again, turned you over until he was above you, grinning wide, eyes glittering with mischief.

“You’re welcome, babe.”

Yeah. He never gave gifts the normal way.

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A/N: ok but fr im a CH simp through n through so i planned on writing Wooin like this it kinda just happened. Tbh i poured my whole soul into that bonus scene so i rlly hope yall feel it.

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[stillandorsdoll]

River; James Kelly x Reader

You've got years of history neither of you talk about and a thousand ways you still love eachother without saying it.

It's always been him. And it's always hurt like this.

warnings & tags: female reader, angst, eventual smut, cursing, toxic-ish relationship, he's kinda possesive here.. oops my bad, smoking, alcohol, arguining, some crying during sex, car sex, fingering, oral [f recieving], unprotected p-in-v, etc!!

word count: 2.7k

note: hi im mainly just a star wars writer but i cant stop listening to certain songs and thinking about james kelly. so.. uh yeah made a whole seperate blog for this.. yeah. #rabid

The porch light flickers like its bulb might give out any moment now. You're already halfway up the driveway after slinking out of the passenger seat while your heels are in one hand as you drunkly giggle at whatever stupid thing the idiot dropping you off said.

Then, there's just the sound of a car door slamming behind you—the random guy from the club who drove you home in a Mustang. He doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t wait. Just peels off down the street like he’s late for something that doesn’t even exist.

You're wobbling on the porch steps when your toe catches on the lip of the concrete, causing you to stumble.

“Fuck,” you mutter, regaining balance, barely. You try and dig through your purse. Lip gloss. Lighter. Compact mirror. No keys.

That’s when the door across the street creaks open.

“You’re gonna wake the whole fucking street up,” James Kelly mutters, crossing the street like it's nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t once fuck you in the backseat of his mom's car years ago.

Like he doesn't think about you every waking moment.

You look up at him. Your mascara is smudged, lips swollen from kissing the wrong mouth all night

“Thought you weren't speaking to me," you slur out.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just leans against your porch. One shoulder against the frame, a matchstick between his teeth.

“I wasn’t,” he shrugs. “Or I hadn't planned on it. Then I saw that dumbass peel out like he owned the street.” His voice is all gravel and resentment, and god, you’ve missed it. You missed it when he stopped coming around and stopped making up bullshit car excuses just to have a reason to see you.

And especially when he just up and vanished for a while.

James is closer to you on the porch now. His hands on your arms, holding you steady. His touch is rough yet weirdly tender, like he’s mad that it still means something.

Your keys jingle as he fishes them out of your purse, unlocking the door like it’s his house, like you’re his. Even after all this time.

“Thought you were mad at me,” you hiccup, half-teasing.

“Still am,” he says at first. And then he continues, his voice so soft now it makes your heart flutter, “but I don’t want you getting hurt out here.”

You blink up at him.

He's always like this.

“And you're drunk” he adds, unamused.

You whine and he fondly rolls his eyes.

He helps steady you like you're something delicate and breakable. Keeping his eyes on you as he quietly says: “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me,” you try to say, but it comes out soft. Tired. Like maybe you do.

He doesn’t respond. Just presses the keys into your palm and helps you inside, guiding you gently.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

When you wake up the next day, it's just past noon and the sunlight pours through your bedroom window. Your mouth is vaguely dry, your head is pounding, and your heart is still beating too fast from a dream you don't even remember anymore.

When you step out onto the porch, James is already in your driveway. He's under your car hood, just like he always used to be back then.

He doesn’t look up when you pad down the porch steps, wearing one of his old flannels that you stole three summers ago. He just shifts a wrench in his palm and mutters something about needing some other tool.

“You sure you’re not just breaking it worse to keep coming over?” you tease, voice light.

He quietly chuckles but doesn't say anything.

You lean against the car, arms crossed under your chest. The shirt you’re wearing dips low, the hem brushing your bare thighs.

You know he notices—he’s always does. And not once has he ever been subtle about it. But he doesn’t say anything yet. Just pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, balancing it between his lips.

You linger beside him and watch his clenched jaw. The way sweat gathers on his temples. Stepping in between his legs, you reach around him and pull the lighter out from his back pocket.

“Don’t burn me,” he mumbles.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Shut up.”

You strike the lighter and gently place it against the end of his cigarette, cupping your hand to block the wind. The tip flares and his eyes meet yours over the flame.

You both adore and despise the fact that if you hold eye contact with James Kelly for enough time, the memories start flooding back to you.

Like looking at him now. You’re sixteen again, sneaking beers in the shed behind his place. You’re seventeen, lighting a joint off the same cigarette. You’re eighteen, riding shotgun in his shitty car —the one from before the Camaro— bare legs up on the dash.

Execpt now.. you're older. And this feels softer. Sadder.

He exhales smoke.

You take the cigarette from his lips and take a drag yourself before asking, "You ever think about how many times we’ve done this?”

He furrows his eyebrow. “Smokin’ in the driveway?”

You shake your head. “This. You. Me. Summer. Pretending we’re just neighbors.”

His hand, though hesitant for a beat, lands on your hip. “Not pretendin’,” he says low. “I always knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was never gonna be just that.”

Your throat tightens. His thumb strokes absent circles through the flannel. You can see it in his gaze and creased brow, he's holding back from his emotions again.

“You’re still mad about last night,” you whisper, looking up at him.

“No,” he says. “I’m mad someone else got to hold you when I couldn't.”

You don’t reply. Just look at him. Really look at him. The way his eyes have always held too much. The sweat clinging to the back of his neck. The little nick on his knuckle.

All of him.

You pull the cigarette from his hand again, and blow the smoke right past his lips. There's a brief moment in the silence then where he just presses his forehead to yours.

“Stop smoking,” he grumbles finally, taking the cigarette from your hand.

You grin, too bright and too broken, “Says you.”

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

It’s too hot inside the bar.

The A/C’s busted, the fans are lazy, and your drink is mostly melted ice now. You’re flushed from the heat, lips glossed over. The short dress you dug out from your closet earlier clings to the curve of your spine. Your hair sticks to where his hand used to rest back when he still touched you in public.

But you didn’t come here with James.

Though you knew he’d show up anyway.

You’re halfway through another drink, laughing at something dumb another guy just said. Some man who feels too tall, too charming, with his hands brushing the small of your back like he’s got permission. You don’t stop him.

Across the room, James sees it. He's standing near the bar with his arms crossed and jaw taut. He hasn't looked away since you walked in.

But he hasn’t moved, either.

So you let the guy’s hand linger and you laugh a little too hard at his stupid jokes. You make sure not to flinch when his fingers brush your bare thigh.

James still doesn't do anything.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Later on, when you're two and a half drinks in and feeling suffocated by the noise, you swiftly excuse yourself and head outside.

The night air hits you like a slap, it's thick with humidity and regret.

Trying to breathe, you lean against the brick wall, picking out a stray cigarette sticking out from your bag. You try digging for your lighter out of your purse with shaking fingers but it's all so overwhelming.

Trembling still, you try to light your shaky cigarette but miss.

You try another time, you miss again.

By the third time you're cursing under your breath.

Then—

“Didn't I tell you to quit this shit already?” James' voice is low, but sharp. Cutting.

You don’t even look at him. “Why? You got something to say?”

He takes the lighter and cigarette from your hand, sticking it between his lips. “You looked real cozy in there,” he growls under his breath.

You scoff. “Don't act like you still care"

He laughs once, short and bitter. “You really want to do this right now?”

You round on him. “Do what? Talk? Communicate? Like normal fuckin’ people?”

“You let him touch you.”

“You let him!” you yell. “You stood there and let him!”

He steps in closer. “You think I didn’t want to fucking kill him?”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re not mine anymore!” he spits back.

That shuts you up.

Your chest heaves. His fists are clenched but he's still trying keep his temper. There's just piercing silence and crickets ringing out around you two for a while.

“You were,” he says, quieter now. “You were mine. I lost that.”

You shake your head. “You left! You got caught up in stupid shit. Again. You gave it up.”

He looks at you with those sad eyes he's constantly trying to hide behind his stoicism. Then, low and trembling, he says: "You’re still the only thing I ever think about... to get through everything.”

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You don’t make it far from the bar.

James' hand is on your wrist, the other already fumbling for the handle of the car. He shoves the back door open like it’s muscle memory.

James drags into the backseat like he’s forgotten how to be gentle, but then he lays you down like you're something fragile and breakable anyway.

You fall back first onto the sticky leather seats, breath caught in your throat, dress bunched up around your hips. The door slams shut behind him, muffling the world outside.

The windows are already fogging.

He’s on top of you before either of you speak. Mouth on your neck, one hand pushing your thigh aside like he can’t even wait to ask. His fingers find your panties, already damp, already clinging to you.

“I hate you,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, voice breaking already.

He groans against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “I know.”

Your back lifts off the seat when his two fingers slip inside you, slow and deliberate. His palm presses against your clit, just enough pressure to make you cry out.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, dragging his mouth back to yours. “You let anyone else have you like this?”

You can’t even speak. Just shake your head, glassy-eyed, whining against his lips. “No. Only you. It’s always been you.”

He freezes for a second.

And because you're embarassed at the sudden confession, you reach for his jeans to undress him, but he stops you. He nudges your hand away and drops to his knees on the floorboard between your legs.

“Wait,” he says roughly, eyes locked on where your panties are already soaked through. “Let me taste you first. Please.”

You blink down at him, lips parted. “Ja—”

His fingers hook the lace of your underwear down to your ankles, slow and deliberate. His breath brushes your inner thigh, and then he groans at the first sight of you bare like that.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re dripping.”

You try to say something back. You really do. But then his tongue is on you. And you can’t think at all.

He starts slow, teasing—long licks up your slit, soft flicks over your clit. He's already gripping your thighs, keeping you down to meet his mouth.

He groans like this is the part of making love with you he missed the most.

Your hands shoot to his hair, hips jerking, breath coming in ragged gasps. He keeps eating you out like he knows you. Like he remembers everything. That spot right by your clit, the angle you like. His tongue circles you once, twice, then seals his mouth over you and sucks.

Your thighs clamp around his head.

Your voice breaks.

And he fucking smiles into you.

James keeps licking, kissing, dragging his tongue through your pussy like he’s starving, like this is punishment and worship in equal measure.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he pants between strokes. “You let anyone else eat this pussy?”

You can’t even answer. Can’t form words. You’re grinding down on his face, thighs trembling, moaning his name like it’s the only thing you remember.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you for a moment, his lips covered in your slick. His eyes drink you in like this, the way you always come undone under him.

He dives back in and this time, he doesn’t stop until you come hard. Until you're crying, shaking, and sobbing his name over and over like a prayer. He groans into your pussy like he’s coming too, like getting you off did something to his soul.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is damp and glistening. His lips are red. He looks wrecked. He drags two fingers through your slick, still watching you unravel, before he slips them into his mouth and sucks them clean.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Then he unzips his jeans and his pants are shoved down in one frantic motion. He barely gives you time to blink before he’s lining himself up, sliding the blunt head of his cock against your entrance.

You claw down at his shoulder blade, arching into him. "P-Please." you whine.

With that, James pushes in slowly, inch by inch. Until he bottoms out and you swear you can't breathe.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like fuckin’ home.”

You’re already shaking and clenching around him.

“Why does this feel so good,” you whimper, your nails biting into his skin, “when everything else about this.. us.. hurts?”

He starts to move in long, slow thrusts that drag against your walls and make your vision blur.

“‘Cause you’re mine,” he breathes. “I know I fucked up. But no matter how long we're apart or who touched you, no matter what I said before.. you’re mine.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in deeper and harder. He keeps fucking into you like he never stopped being yours.

Your bodies slide together with the heat and sweat of summer, the car rocking steadily. He braces one hand beside your head while the other tangles in your hair, kissing you like he wants to crawl inside your lungs and stay there.

Your eyes start to brim with tears and James says your name like it's something holy. He softly kisses your tears when they start falling down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sniffle, lips brushing his. “I missed you every fuckin’ day.”

“I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry—god, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—”

His thrusts get rougher and deeper. You clench around him with every slam into you, gasping, crying, shaking.

“I don’t wanna do this with anyone else,” he breathes, voice gone and desperate.

And when you come, it’s devastating. You're choking on a sob while the shockwaves wrack your whole body. His cock is buried in you while your mouth falls open and you sob against his shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his neck like if you let go, you’d fall apart.

He follows right after and comes deep and hot inside of you. Spilling into you like he means it, like he wants to stay there forever.

James' breath against your neck is heavy and erratic while one hand holds the back of your head like a promise he’s never kept before.

Afterwards, you don’t really say anything. Just run your hand through his hair and kiss his face all over.

He whispers, too quiet to mean anything but too honest to mean nothing:

“I love you. I just never know how to do it right.”

♡ (end) ♡

[nyannyannyanx3]

"this thing is just a phase"

1) just because something is not understandable to you (mainly because of bigotry and ignorance), doesn't not mean it's a temporary thing that somebody identifies as.

2) even if it was a phase, that still does not mean it's bad, confusing, etc. everyone has gone through many phases through life, like emo, furry, weeb, etc phases. A therian, gay, etc phase is no different from them.

3) stereotyping everybody's experience and personal being as "just a phase" because of some people is.. immature and idiotic. what a surprise.

People change, some don't. People can realize who they are at any age, any look, any gender, any thing. You aren't "cool" or "tough" by spreading hate.

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[abstractfrog]

Happy 1 year anniversary to Mr Sherlock Holmes! Here's a litttleee celebratory comic from me

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[gay-pidgeons]

we all got that one friend who we wish was a woman so he could be our idealized wife amirite or amirite 🤣

[erinwantstowrite]

seeing a lot of people complaining about the fics they don't see, and not enough people picking up a pen to write it themselves 🤨

[purpleleavesday]

BY THE WAY this is what gumshoe says if you present him mia's profile in stolen turnabout

IT MADE ME GO SO INSANE. AAAAAAGHHHH I LOVE THIS GAME

[remxedmoon]

You should tell us about color psychology that sounds cool as hell

YES… HA HA HA… YES!

GGGOD I WISH I WASN’T OUT OF THE HOUSE RIGHT NOW. but i’ve been thinking about colors literally all day so you all get to be subject to my madness! sorry this is long and rambly wauaua. nightmarishly long post under the cut.

okay. first things first, a few basics. color theory and color psychology tend to get confused a lot in discussions, but they usually refer to different things. color theory is more about we physically perceive colors (color wheels and color schemes the like), while color psychology focuses on our emotional response to colors. if you’re familiar with the children’s hospital color theory post, that poster wasn’t actually talking about color theory, but color psychology (and also it’s incredibly surface level and heavily misunderstands the subject because in what fucking universe does the quantity of positive associations with a color matter more than the context it’s used in and sorry i have personal beef with this tumblr post).

color theory is also a special interest of mine but i’m not gonna touch on it too much here because it’s not entirely important. mmmaybe another time…

essentially, certain colors (and color combinations) have associations in our brains and that affect our behavior and emotions. these associations are also very much affected by the context a color is used in. colors don’t exist in a vacuum! so while red can symbolize passion and love when used in something like a dress or a bouquet of flowers, it has a very different connotation when it’s, say, splattered on the walls or smeared on the ground in a snail trail.

or for a less Children’s Hospital Themed example, i’ll put my euphrasie and king designs here!

(of course the saturation and brightness of these blues play a massive part in how they’re perceived but this is not a post about color theory this is n)

and, of course, combining colors in a piece can also change their meanings!! i’m about to get real fucking normal.

i’m gonna be focusing on the color combo of red and yellow here because it’s the one that’s most relevant to my art (and also it’s really interesting.) basically, seeing these two colors together activates the part of our brain that controls our appetite, making us actually feel hungry. this is why so many food companies use red and yellow in their branding! it’s neat stuff!!

also, if you’re familiar with it, this is why the mv for butcher vanity uses this color palette!! along with red’s general associations with danger and blood, the color combo also physically induces hunger. pretty fitting for a song about cannibalism!

(there is also red’s association with lust and passion and how that intersects with the double meaning in the lyrics but i cannot derail this post into being an analysis of butcher vanity i’m sorry. we’d be here all week. maybe another day... wipes a tear from my eye)

and i think this might be the reason why some people feel hungry when they see my art, even when i’m not drawing food. while i don’t tend to use red outright, most of my art has very warm undertones (red-oranges and yellows especially), which could be activating that hunger response??

(ah fuck color theory managed to weasel its way into this post again)

admittedly this part is just speculation on my end. i think my rendering style and Shapes also play a role in it, but it’s interesting for me to think about!!

this is only scratching the surface of how complicated colors can get. i was going to go on an entire tangent about color grading and how green lighting can make a scene feel unnerving but this post is already Too Fucking Long. aaaa super sorry if this is Rambly or hard to understand!! i’m not Entirely sure how much the average person knows about color theory and psychology so if there’s any confusing terms here i’m fine with adding stuff for clarity!

wauauuaa thank you so much for asking!!!! i love talking about colors.

tl;dr colors have a bunch of different emotions and meanings tied to them, but you’ve gotta pay attention to the context in which it’s being used. so maybe take a step back before you put that thick red trail on the floor of your children’s hospital.

[meamiki]

mira !!! :]

[canonically47]

why couldnt i have become obsessed with something useful like maths or something what the FUCK is toxic old man yaoi

[a-loose-collection-of-ants]

I love your depiction of Hamilton and Lafayette, it’s so funny! Lafayette is so sweet and happy and Hamilton just has beef w/ the entire world. I can’t wait to see more of their brotherly relations in ur AMAZING art style

God, they're so narrative foil coded

Seriously though, there's some fantastic contrast between them. They're just similar enough (both roughly the same age, both insecure and glory hungry, + their "shared father" or whatever Lafayette said) - and yet they manage to be exact opposites at the same time.

I could say more but I think this bit from Mike Duncan's biography about Lafayette basically gets at what I'm trying to say:

"Like Lafayette, Hamilton grew up without a father. He also lost his mother to a fatal illness at almost the same age Lafayette lost his. But where the tragedies of Lafayette’s childhood made him the heir of a fabulous fortune, the tragedies of Hamilton’s illegitimate childhood left him systematically cut out of his family’s inheritance. So where the dark clouds of Lafayette’s life were lined with silver, the dark clouds of Hamilton’s life were simply dark. Lafayette emerged from childhood buoyant and effusive, Hamilton cynical and reticent. But even though Hamilton started life a penniless bastard on the periphery of European civilization, and Lafayette started life an insanely wealthy heir in the heart of a great kingdom, they fell into an easy friendship. French was not the only language the two young men shared. The also shared a code of personal honor and a desire to prove themselves to the world." -Mike Duncan, Hero of Two Worlds, The Marquis de Lafayette in the Age of Revolution

Now, I am not qualified to speak on the real figures, but I do like to write. So, there is a narrative opportunity here that drives me insane.

Like, cast Hamilton as brilliant, but overly cynical with a habit of assuming the worst in people, and give him a negative character arc where he comes close to recognizing the potential good of humanity but ultimately falls into his more authoritarian tendencies. Then contrast him with Lafayette who's more naive. He's not quite sheltered but unfamiliar with the sort of selfishness and greed he'd have encountered if he grew up in a more vulnerable financial position. In coming to America he, like Hamilton, is forced to reckon with contempt, greed, and the failings of democratic government. But, unlike Hamilton, still manages to come out of it with a generally positive opinion of humanity.

I'm just saying, if I were writing history to contain ✨themes ✨ they are a perfect opportunity.

[dreamsy990]

TELEMACHUS AND ANTINOUS. FINALLY

[taxlthomas]

this is basically my crazy origin story btw