#this is bad an unedited

[moondirti]

sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping

Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.

He's usually wary of public transport – would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube – but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.

He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts – mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly – it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds – but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.

You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.

You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.

With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.

The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.

Yeah. He stays on so long as you do – which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.

The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.

You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work – amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.

You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.

He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith – so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.

Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.

Kyle halts right in his tracks.

What is he doing?

You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.

His Captain’s voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.

You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant.

[azurlily]

Dont ask just read, this is what a bored and horny mind can come up with. Yes, this woman needs a name so for now we will call her LSM. What does that stand for? Lets find out together. Completely UNEDITED.

Lesbian Sugar Mommy

You had a daily schedule, a routine. You followed this routine everyday for years. For years. So you being poor as hell at only 24, being barely able to afford food and rent. It was an all time low for you, and an embarrassing one at that. Recently your friend recommends you try a sugar dating app. At first you thought it was stupid, but mulled it over and remembered how broke you were. You made a profile and it took a couple days before you matched with a woman. At first you were incredibly awkward when texting and felt embarrassed. She seemed like the kindest woman you've ever met. She understood you and was better than any man or woman you had previously dated.

You were honestly pretty enamored with her, she has dark green eyes. Like a forest green, god they're beautiful, and you swear they change color depending on what she's wearing. Her hair is long and dark, contrasting her lightly tan skin. Her hair is slightly curly, definitely not straight. In the many pictures she's sent you, you notice all her nails are perfect manicured, but two on each finger have been cut down completely. You didn't bother asking, weren't a virgin or stupid, simply poor. You two began talking a bit more about finances after a couple weeks. She listened to you talk about your financial situation, how you could barely keep a roof over your head. By the end of your two and a half hour conversation, you found yourself being wired $10,000. It wasn't as if it was out of nowhere considering what the conversation was, but it was surprising. LSM had said she wanted to give you a bit of money to keep you going for the month. She had not said she was give 10,000 fucking dollars! You didn't know what to do with the money. Other than pay your bills and let the rest sit.

For a couple days you were worried she'd want it all back, but no, instead she asked if you wanted more.

"Well I didn't give you that much...so I'm just making sure it's enough. I can give you plenty more, sugar."

You had reassured her it was enough, much more than enough. In the following days you were finding her flirting with you more, being more straightforward. You blushed everytime she made a crude joke, but you almost wished it was a statement.

When LSM had asked if you wanted to have dinner at her place you agreed. You wondered how the night would go, if you would fuck up and she'd be mad. You hoped the night went as well as possible, and if not, that she'd at least tell you.

The night went a lot of different ways. At first she was playing the kind and gracious host, then she was flirting with you. Finally you had both drank a little too much of her expensive red wine, and she fucked you against her king size bed.

You dont remember the first little bit, but you certainly remember how your night ended. Well not all of it, that woman has the sex drive of a beast. She continued until she couldn't, until you couldn't walk and she couldn't see straight. If nothing else; your legs will remember this until you die.

"Good morning sugar, how are you feeling? I hope I wasn't too rough on you, although I can't say it was entirely my fault. You kept begging me to keep going, and who am I to deny you?"

You whined, talking hurt, and you couldn't move without some part of your body below your waist hurting. You sit up just a enough and look at yourself in your phone mirror. Oh she knew exactly what she was doing, theres a massive bite mark on your shoulder. Everywhere else there's hickeys, like they're changing color.

"Before you get mad- please look at my back!"

She turned and you saw large scratch marks running down her back. From her shoulders to her ass, you can also see quite the array of bites on her shoulder. One looks like it was actually bleeding. Your reaction must be funny because she's laughing like crazy. She gently cups your face and kisses your lips.

"So pretty. My girl is so pretty arent you? Mommy's little girl."

You just laid in her arms for a while, letting her talk about whatever she wanted. You were tired and her touch made you weak. You began thinking about your job, did you have to call in to work today? Were you working today? You asked LSM, but she just smiled and shook her head.

"You wont need your job anymore, at least not this one. I've already sent your monthly allowance over to you. You can quit that job anytime, it'll give you more time for me."

Monthly allowance? You pulled away to check your bank account. Sure enough she had transferred over $40,000.

You stared at the number for a moment a then looked back at her. You assumed she was some sort of big millionaire, but now that you're looking around. Really looking. You dont want to know what this woman does for a living.

"Pay no mind sugar, now come here. I'll have someone bring breakfast and we can stay in bed all day!"

[thedvilsinthedetails]

rosekiller microfic

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL ACE DAY YAYAYAY

here enjoy a rosekiller microfic [1066 words so idk how micro it really is but shhhh] with ace Evan and Barty ‘no homo but I think I love you’ Crouch Jr [I love them so much]

“Truth or dare?”

“Aw come on you guys know me, dare obviously.”

Barty grinned at the circle of his friends sat cross legged all around him.

“Mmm I’ve got one.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow challengingly, everyone knew Regulus gave out the most brutal dares. Barty wasn’t phased though, it was almost impossible to make Barty embarrassed honestly, outwardly at least. Last time he’d taken a dare from Regulus he’d gone around school in bright pink robes for the next week. 

“Bring it on Reggie.”

“I dare you to make out with Evan till I stop you.”

Barty scrunched his nose.

“Oh is that it?”

“Uh rude.”

Evan said.

Barty turned to him quickly, placing a hand on his best friend’s cheek.

“Don’t be like that Goldilocks you know I’m hopelessly in love with you. I just meant Reg usually gives…more dramatic dares.”

“Yeah whatever prick. And who says I wanna make out with this dickhead anyway. It’s Bee’s dare not mine.”

“Aw come on Rosie don’t you think I’m pretty.”

Barty batted his eyes and pretended to fan himself, Evan shoved him to the ground with a laugh. Evan had one of the prettiest laughs Barty had ever seen. He wasn’t gay or anything but the way Evan’s halo of blonde curls bounced up and down gently made his stomach flip. Barty sort of wanted to reach out and run a hand through those curls actually, they looked soft. Evan looked soft, in a big purple hoodie and smooth warm skin and red lips currently stretched out in a big smile that just made his whole face light up. Barty found himself joining in. Evan pulled him up off the wooden floor and ran a hand through Barty’s hair, messing it up affectionately.

“Fine, I guess I’ll do it.”

Barty turned, facing Evan properly and lifting a hand to his cheek as Evan pulled him in by the collar. They were so close now, hesitating just before their lips pressed and all Barty could think was EvanEvanEvan. 

He could smell him, the conditioner he used softly scented of toffee and pears.

He could feel his breath warm and tickling against his skin.

“Come on get on with it. 

Regulus huffed. And suddenly they were meeting in the middle and Evan’s lips were pressed against him and he tasted better than Barty could ever have imagined and and-wow. This was nice. This was lovely. Barty’s hands wandered to Evan’s hair, fingers running through it like he’d imagined only moments ago. But it was so much better than he’d imagined. Evan was so. And it was wonderful. And the way Evan had his arms wrapped around Barty’s waist, pulling him closer made the butterflies in his stomach just soar. He wanted to stay like this forever, just utterly surrounded by Evan. He loved this. He loved- Oh. Oh. 

Oh that’s what this was. 

And it all made sense suddenly.

Evan pulled back panting for a moment and Barty tried to bite back the smile he could feel forming on his face as he saw Evan’s kiss bitten lips. 

He leaned back in again to keep going but Evan glanced his eyes around and sighed.

“Barty.”

He motioned his hand out and Barty glanced around. The room was empty, the others must have snuck out while he and Evan were- he tried to stifle his smile again as he thought about it. He clearly didn’t manage very well because Evan flicked his arm angrily.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, no I wasn’t laughing I just…had fun.”

Evan glanced up at him eyes wide and pupils dilated.

“Y-you did?”

“Yeah. We could…keep going. Only if you wanted obviously.” Barty mumbled. 

Evan opened his mouth and then shut it again. 

“I- I don’t know if that’s such a good idea Barty.”

Barty felt his world crash down around him. Or it felt something like that at least.

“Yeah. Yeah it was stupid I shouldn’t have- I uh-“

His words felt like lead in his mouth. He was so stupid. So fucking dumb. He-

“Barty.”

Evan’s voice was soft and grounding. Evan’s hand on his shoulder was even more grounding. He looked up at his best friend.

“You good?” Evan asked.

“Yeah. Thanks. I just shouldn’t have said that.”

“Barty…do you like me?”

“I- yeah. A lot actually.”

It felt somehow wonderful and horrifyingly disarming to admit. He squirmed under Evan’s gaze. Vulnerable, as a rule, was not a thing Barty Crouch Jr strived to achieve. 

Evan’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh. Oh same. I really…”

Barty’s breath hitched. 

“Be my boyfriend, please.”

He asked voice scratchy and quiet.

Evan paused. He seemed to be having a conversation in his mind, eyebrows furrowing. Barty reached up and pressed a thumb between his two brows.

“Talk to me.”

Evan sighed softly.

“I can’t give you the things you want in a relationship.”

“Evan the thing I want is you.”

“I know. But I don’t, I hate sex, it just grosses me out and I don’t think I’ll ever want to do it and I know you like it and- and I don’t want you getting bored of just me.”

“How could I ever get bored of just you?” Barty murmured, eyes searching Evan’s face for some kind of plausible answer. Impossible. Because I could never be bored of him.

“Barty there’s no going back if this all blows up in our faces.”

Evan warned but Barty could feel the way his face had edged closer.

“Evan there already is no going back. Besides I never want to. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

And with that they kissed again. And when they broke apart again it was because Barty couldn’t stop grinning. Foreheads pressed together they breathed gently.

“So will you be my boyfriend?”

Barty asked with a chuckle.

Evan mussed up his hair again.

“What do you think you cunt?”

“Mmm I think your insults won’t work anymore now that I know how irresistible you find me.”

Evan groaned as Barty tugged him up to standing.

“I take it all back, I hate you.”

Barty laughed, pulling Evan to his bed. 

They fell asleep there, cuddling and whispering soft words and gentle laughter till Regulus found them in the morning, curled up against each other with soft smiles.

“Fucking FINALLY!”

Barty and Evan just laughed. 

[zinniapetals]

needed an upscaled version of this official art and thought I'd share ~

also some transparent pngs of skk + sskk + kyouka (+ oda)

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

tags: satoru x f!reader, gojo and reader are in an established relationship, gojo leaves for a work trip and returns, slight banter, fluff, slight insinuations of late night activities, giggles, lovesick Satoru and teasing reader🤍

"it's been a while since you've stayed the morning," trying to ignore satoru's incredibly cold hands, you sigh, attempting to minimize the shiver that runs down your spine. cream-colored blankets adorn your shared room. a trinket from singapore, a beautiful set of earrings, lay on your bedside serving as a physical embodiment of satoru's "I missed you" after being gone for almost 6 days on a trip abroad. something to do with clan formalities that you yourself aren't quite sure of.

his kisses linger on your bare shoulder like the strawberry powdered cookies you make on special occasions. he's always had an affinity for sweet things, which was why he always adored it when you wore sweetened fragrances. hence why his nose buries itself in your hair. he groans.

"you think I would leave my girl by choice?" the slight smirk and exhale against your skin makes you giggle, scrunching your nose in the process. "I only did the elders a favor because no one else could do it." he sleepily kisses your shoulder, "was gonna suggest doing it through zoom, but those old geezers barely know how to navigate the internet." you chuckle.

"is that your way of saying you'd rather stay with me instead?" he nods, enjoying how your silken soft fingers run against the roots of his hair. satoru thinks he could stay like this forever. in fact, he doubts the afterlife could be this comforting, so he tries to engrave the feeling to his memory, like a reflex he so wants to keep alive. repeating, repeating, repeating.

"maybe." he hums, "maybe I just like you as a friend." you heartily laugh, making the corner of his lips tug upwards.

"obviously my rivaling sense of humor has enamored you." you muse, "not the strongest now, hm?"

satoru knows if anyone else were to say these words, he wouldn't have allowed it, but hearing them from you makes his heart warm and feel like a lovesick teenager despite being a 28-year-old grown man. so he muses back.

"weren't so strong when I had you spread for me last night, now hm?" now it's your turn, and the way you laugh this time feels like drops of sunlight inside satoru's being. you've infected him. and all he can do is want more, basking in the beauty of your words, touch, and laughter. he sighs.

"God, you're so beautiful."

[ghost-proofbaby]

22 for your blurb game please 💕

pastel, this one hurt, ngl. absolutely devastating. i love it.

#22: "ORANGE JUICE" BY NOAH KAHAN (STEVE HARRINGTON)

"you said my heart has changed, and my soul has changed, and my heart - my heart."

warnings: pure. angst. all hurt, no comfort. mentions of issues with alcohol/alcohol addiction.

wc: 2.8k+

It was a mistake from the moment he’d received the invitation. He knew he should have tossed it into the trash, should have gone about his day and never lingered on the small postcard that had been sent to him from his hometown. There was a single good thing to come from him answering the call. 

And yet, he did. 

Hawkins, Indiana was one of the few graveyards filled with ghosts that could make Steve Harrington bleed. People, places, memories – were they all always this sharp? It was the only thing on his mind as he drove through town, through the streets he grew up in and past the stores he no longer shops at, and felt it all coming back to him. His skin never grew tougher, despite his delusional thinking these past few months, and was thin as thawing February ice, cracking under the sight of you. You, stood in the living room of Robin’s downtown apartment. You, who hadn’t so much as glanced at him since he entered the room. 

You, who he had left behind. A bleeding wound that he’d stuffed with the gauze and ignored for a long eight months. The ghost with the sharpest knife. 

“Come and grab a drink,” Robin insists as she drags him through the front door, hardly letting him have the time to untie his shoes and shove them off with other familiar pairs of sneakers and boots, “We have so much to talk about, Dingus.”  

“I don’t…” 

The words die on his tongue. She’s not even listening, too eager to catch up with her best friend. 

I don’t drink anymore. 

He hadn’t drank since that last night, that last fight. Even the scent of whiskey made his stomach turn since he’d left. Vodka burned more than just his throat, and gin made his eyes water. He couldn’t drink. 

“Rob,” he tries as she drags him right past the couch, right past you, “Rob, I have to drive. I can’t-”

“You could stay the night,” she teasingly sings over her shoulder as she passes through the archway to her small kitchen, him right behind her. 

He could, but he won’t. He already saw the drink in your hand, and he already knows that the couch is your final resting place tonight. He won’t do that to you – he won’t hurt you, again. 

“I really can’t,” he sheepishly replies as she finally drops his hand. Her palms are colder, even more chilled than they had been after afternoons of slinging ice cream together at StarCourt. He doesn’t know if it’s because he had no heat to offer from his own palms, or if he’d just been a leech and absorbed all the warmth she’d offered in that small touch. “I promised my mom I’d visit with her and my dad while I’m in town. The Harringtons are already headache-inducing enough without a hangover.” 

It’s a sorry attempt at a joke, but Robin laughs anyway. The kind of laugh that cuts to his bone, that saws right through his thin skin and makes the first incision. He missed her – he misses her. She’s right here in front of him, and he’s never felt further away.

Robin navigates away from the bottles of chilled alcohol on the countertop either way, whether she’s realized to not push the topic or not, and heads straight to the fridge. 

“We might have some pop in here, if you really want. I’m pretty sure I bought some Coke on my last grocery run. Or- Oh!” she pauses, peeking her head back out from behind the fridge door, hiding something in her grasp as she grins radiantly, “How about some orange juice?” 

The carton is nearly crushed in her grasp, mostly empty as she holds it up. 

It immediately reminds him of all the summer clementines you’d shared with him before he’d burnt everything to the ground. Sticky and sweet, innocent and divine. Before the fight, before he’d packed away his entire life into his car and drove as far away from Indiana as he could. As far away from you as his half tank of gas could take him. 

The bile rises in his throat, but he nods anyway. 

He watches her navigate the unfamiliar kitchen; she knows it well, knows it like home. Every cupboard and every drawer, she clearly has them mesmerized, because this is her home. Hawkins is still Robin’s home, is still your home, even if Steve has sworn it off. 

“So,” Robin presses as she fills a crystal cup with orange juice, looking up eagerly at Steve.

It’s hard to be bitter when she looks at him like that. Like he’s done nothing wrong. “So?” 

“Tell me about it!” he jumps from her excitement, cringing as she hands over the glass, “Tell me all about the big city. Is it as cool and refreshing as you had dreamed it would be?” 

Steve looks anywhere but at his best friend. He looks over the chipping wallpaper in the hallway, flowery images faded from the years. He glances over the dated backsplash of the kitchen itself, noticing how the checker pattern clashes terribly with the steel appliances. His mother would have a fit if she stepped foot in this apartment – whoever had been the interior designer had had more than just questionable taste. The yellow-toned lights from overhead certainly wasn’t doing it any favors. 

“It’s-” More words doomed to die on his tongue. They’re ashen, stickier than any clementine. Bitter and biting, burning and cutting. There’s not a singular positive attribute about his new home he can think of mentioning, because it doesn’t really feel like home. And it’s funny, because he had said the same exact thing about Hawkins when he was leaving it behind. 

Looking back, this place felt more like home than any big and gouache city ever could. But it has nothing to do with back roads he once sped down, or lonely parks he once cried in. 

It has everything to do with the bright-eyed, soft-freckled girl in front of him. It has everything to do with the shadow that suddenly enters the entryway, quieter than ever as it leans against a splintering frame. 

“You made it.” 

Your voice is a whisper, so soft he swears he imagined it. But then his head turns, and you’re there. Not a figment of his imagination, not a dream he’ll wake up from in a cold sweat. You’re standing there, tangible as ever, arms crossed with a blank face. 

“I made it,” he echoes back, voice even lower than yours. 

Three little words, and not a single one resembles what he really wants to say. 

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean it. Any of it.

If I bruise my knees now, will I ever see your forgiveness? 

You’re a picture frame frozen in time, looking the exact same as you had the day he’d watched you fade from his rear-view mirror. Same stubborn-set lips, same disapproving eyes. 

But more importantly, same soft hair. Same sweet perfume. Same shaking hands, built to hold, not fight. They should have never been forced to form angry fists; but he’d never given you a choice. He’d forced your hand – he’d taken all your soft curves and loving edges, and turned them colder than stone. Colder than Robin’s hand.

That was his fault to carry to his own grave. 

“I’ll… leave the two of you alone,” Robin says, slowly passing over the glass of juice as she takes a few steps towards the doorway. There’s a fear in her eyes, as if this is the real reason why she had drug him to the kitchen so quickly – she hadn’t wanted to run the risk of this. All this tension, all this hurt. But it was inevitable, and Steve had already put on his Sunday best in preparation for it. 

He waits on you to make the first move. Whatever happens, whatever is said is all in your hands. Hands he hopes have let go of the fists you’d had to raise against him. Hands he hopes will hold him gently, even if nothing more than metaphorically rather than physically. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel those hands hold him again; not as a lover, not as something to be gripped onto. They would never thread through his hair again in the morning light, and they would never fist his t-shirt through tears in a somber dusk. 

You make your way across the kitchen, just as Robin had, before you settle against the counter. You lean against it, facing him fully, arms still tightly crossed as you stare. And he stares right back. But it’s a losing game; he knows his gaze will always be softer on you than even the blankest of looks that you will give him. There will always be love behind his, and there will never be kindness behind yours again. 

He deserves it. He left you. You begged him and begged him not to, and he still left. 

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” you quietly admit after some silence, fingers pressing down into your bicep as if withholding yourself, “She mentioned she’d sent an invite but…” 

“But you figured I would be too busy?” he offers when you trail off.

“Something like that.” 

Something like that. God, he hates it, he hates this. He hates that all he wants is to take you in his arms, to admit all his sins and pray for forgiveness at your altar. He hates that all he can think about is how your lips tasted the last time they’d pressed against his – salty from your tears – as you’d exhausted your artillery of ways to get him to stay. He hates how he still feels the weight of your body curving and meeting him halfway, wrapped up in you but not tightly enough to not still wake in the morning and just drive away. 

Your eyes look over him, slowly trailing up and down, but nothing like they once had. “You’ve… changed.” 

That was putting it nicely. You were here, haunting him, but he was the one that resembled a ghost. Nothing more than a transparent sheet of the boy he had been. 

Maybe the city had been what changed him. Maybe his new job at some stuck up law firm had made more than just internal changes. Maybe it was his abstinence from alcohol that had changed him, letting the wrinkles in his face fade and making the moles across his cheek and neck a little more noticeable. Maybe the lack of sunshine had turned his hair darker. Maybe that had also turned him paler. 

But that’s not what you meant. He knew you saw right through him – you saw straight to the rotten core he’d been hiding away for six months. Something old, something abused, something tired. Something yearning to come home to a place that was never his at all. You were talking about all the sleepless nights sponsoring the bags beneath his eyes, all the guilt that was eating him alive from the inside out. All the missteps that he had taken that led him to the lifelong regret and mistakes he can’t ever take back. He could bandage the wounds, he would hold his chest high, but it doesn’t hide the bloodstains of the self-inflicted carnage. 

“So have you,” he nods, looking you up and down, lying through his teeth. 

The only change present was the one he’d already seen before he left. The one that sucked the light from your eyes as you asked him to just stay. Not even in Hawkins, but with you. You would have followed him to the ends of the worlds, you told him as much, and he’d still said no.

Why the Hell did he ever say no?

Your eyes dart to the crystal glass in his hand, “Isn’t it a bit late for a mimosa?” 

“What?” he follows your gaze, and sees the way you’re almost glaring at the glass in his hand, “It’s not- I- this isn’t a mimosa.” 

Your nose scrunches, “What? You always said that mixing cheap wine and orange juice still counted, it was just the poor man’s mimos-”

“There’s no alcohol in the glass.” 

Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, eyes squinting in disbelief. And then he sees it. God, he wishes he wouldn’t have witnessed it – the slow fall of your face, until you’re nothing more than a clean slate of marble again. 

But in the transition, he saw it. The realization that he had changed, that he had made some of the right changes, just a little too late. He was capable of being a better man, just not for you. 

“Why not?” your voice is tight, lips a hard line as you refuse to meet his daring gaze.

Look at me, he begs. Please look at me and let me explain myself. 

“I haven’t drank since-” Since that night. Since that fight. Since you begged me to give it up, to call you beautiful without the whiskey flooding my bloodstream. Since you asked me to stay, and I still went. 

Unlike Robin, you know the words he can’t say. 

“That’s-” you choke on your words, your composure cracking for the first time since you’d entered the kitchen. You take a moment to clear your throat, “That’s good. That’s… great, Steve.” 

He can hear your hurt, clear as day. He can hear every question ricocheting in your mind: why couldn’t you have done that for me? Why couldn’t you have given me an inch when I gave you all my miles? 

He’s glad you don’t vocalize any of them. He doesn’t have a single answer. You deserve one, but he can’t offer one. 

It’s not supposed to be this way. You and him shouldn’t be leaning on opposite counters, oceans apart in the middle of Robin’s kitchen. It should be your kitchen – one shared between you and him. He should be holding you, twirling you around in the quiet of the night by the light of an open fridge, the only sounds being you stifling your giggles over the padding of bare feet. 

The two of you should’ve made it. 

You’d given him all of your love, every last drop, and he’d turned cheek and ran. You’d never risked asking for more, always settling only for what he was willing to give. No labels, no talks of the future. Hiding you away in the dead of night as the two of you shared cheap wine on rooftops, burying you between his sheets as he’d steal away another piece of you that he didn’t intend to keep but carried all the same. Sticky kisses, but only when no one was looking. Whispered admissions of devotion, but only when no one was listening. 

You always gave him a slice of your clementine, peeled and pleading and begging silently for anything in return, and he’d given you nothing. Just a mouthful of bloody goodbyes and nights reeking of whiskey. 

“You look beautiful,” he spits out before he can think better of it. The pulp of the juice is on his tongue, and you look so broken for just a second that he swears he can turn back time. He can make it right. He can offer you more than a burial ground. 

Your sad smile says it all. 

He’d finally said it. He’d finally admitted just a fraction of the hold you had him in, and not a single drop of alcohol in his system. No need to see you naked, no need to pretend the words hadn’t been uttered once the high was over. He’d finally said it. 

“I’ll see you around, Steve.”

And it was too late.

You leave the kitchen without another word, and it takes everything in him to not chuck the glass of orange juice at the wall. 

He didn’t even like orange juice. The pulp would get between his teeth and drive him mad, it left an odd film on his tongue he couldn’t stand, and it was always too sour for him to find refreshing. It’s the same reasons he hated oranges growing up. Until you, until your clementines. And he thinks if you walked back in, if you asked him to, if you held out a palm with a slice of all you had to offer to him again, he’d find a way to swallow the taste again without complaint. 

You’re not going to walk back in, though. 

It’s too late. 

So Steve crosses the room the counter you once leaned against, grabs the closest bottle of cheap whiskey, and pours. Straight into his mouth, not even bothering with the orange juice. 

He never thought a ghost’s knife would taste of clementines as it stabbed through his gut, even through the burn of alcohol. His mistake. 

[imsodishy]

Martin Brenner should have stayed dead. In S4 he should have been a ghost in the machine, existing only in El's memories. It would have perfectly paralleled how Vecna preyed on his victims, and it could have contrasted Max and the other kids running from traumatic memories with the power to harm them vs El confronting them in a safer context (in this iteration she would be freely choosing to go back in with Owens' support, rather than coerced by her primary abuser)

[seven-winged-liar]

✨Happy Star Wars Day!!!!!✨

[the-hyper-fix]

Op turned off reblogs but I 1000% agree

[mattodore]

the sim evolution was insane btw

[valentine-writes]

Could you possibly write headcanons for mutual pining or crushing w/ gwen? I love your writing sm :]

emptied closet.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited, i love mutual pining, girl help!! i accidently made it a little sad!!!!! situationship fr 」

「 gn!reader, romantic relationship <3 」

↳ ft. gwen stacy

author's note: sorry 4 taking FOREVERRR but,,, anon the way that i RAN to this ask. (/▽＼) LITERALLY LOGGED RIGHT IN THE MINUTE THE NOTIF POPPED UP... I LOVE WRITING FOR GWEN. I LOVE MUTUAL PINING!!!!! more than established relationships but letz not unpack that here /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ TRUST U CAME TO THE RIGHT PERSON.

▸ ouugh boy... it's a slow burn for sure. gwen is a little too careful with her feelings with you. it's not a secret to anyone that you two like each other,, but the fact that you've both been beating around the bush for so long leaves both of you with doubts

▸ frankly, it's a mess on both ends. a very sweet, cute, and innocent mess of emotions and anxieties that spiral into simply never talking about it any deeper. for a while you're both okay with this arrangement– being gwen's best friend, and her being yours.

so what if your feelings were decidedly not very platonic? not acting on it didn't mean a thing if the two of you were comfortable.

▸ comfort being used very loosely here. she couldn't suppress the fluttering in her chest when you looked into her eyes– too close for any semblance of comfort.

maybe you'd look a little too close, noticing the rosy hue in her cheeks, or the lovelorn gaze she held whenever she saw you. gwen knew she was supposed to be cool about this arrangement.

she was supposed to be okay with the sweetness that was just played off as friendliness, the flirtatious comments that were just the two of you being playful– she was supposed to be okay with it being just a puppy love. that's what you seemed to mutually agree on after all, right? some things can go unspoken. gwen had gotten good at reading between the lines with you. you both liked each other, that was certain– she just liked you a little more than you had bargained for.

▸ or, so she had thought. turns out, love can make even the most observant people very very stupid.

"red's a nice colour on you." she had mentioned once. suddenly, you found yourself reaching for clothing and accessories of the same colour.

"i think you'd like this song." she'd say, casually handing an earbud to you so the two of you could listen. a few days after, you'd catch yourself humming the melody absentmindedly while going about your day.

"damn, this is comfy–" she remarked, wearing a hoodie you had lent to her for your impromptu sleepover. and you just... gave it to her. the minute she put it on, it was no longer yours. chronic clothes stealer gwen,, ur closet? nah. not anymore.

how she didn't recognize your little signals as quiet ways of expressing how much she meant to you was beyond you.

▸ not like you were in the clear either. gwen wasn't sure how many times she had tried keyword being tried to signal she wanted just a little more than being close friends. you two were both particularly talented in quiet "i love you"s.

now why were you so surprised when neither of you could hear them properly?

-

this was a familiar situation for the both of you. she was over for another sleepover, seated on your couch and buried in blankets and pillows, the third movie of the night playing on the tv. neither of you were watching at this point– but the background noise and light in the dark and quiet room helped, especially considering you were on the brink of unconsciousness.

you and gwen reached a lull in your conversation. you could barely remember what you were talking about in the first place. it didn't matter anymore.

she says your name, causing you to wake up just a bit as you glance over at her– and she pauses, hesitating to say something.

"hm?" you tilt your head at her slightly, trying to prompt her to speak again.

she thinks she's smooth playing it off, glancing back over at the tv screen and making a random comment about the movie. it's nothing particularly insightful– more of a way to fill the silence.

"...the animation's really good in this one."

you know she hadn't been paying attention to it this entire time. you know she's been waiting to say something else. she always seems to have something on her mind. sometimes, you get tired of waiting.

but she smiles at you, nervously– waiting for a response.

the words that come out of your lips are a half-hearted attempt at sounding alive.

"it's late." she tells you, glancing at the clock on the wall. 12 am.

you only shrug. "i've been up longer."

"i know. i'm usually on call with you when that happens anyways." gwen comments, recalling far too many late nights with you over the phone. not like she actually means to complain about them. "you give me all your bad habits."

the words are meant to be lighthearted and playful, but for a moment, they hold much more weight than intended.

'like the habit of never wanting to say it first?' you think of retorting. but even half asleep, you can't seem to confront her. your better judgement tells you it's not the time.

so instead, you play along, trying to joke around. "yeah. like i give you all my clothes. equilibrium and all that."

and the way she buys it, laughing as she gently smacks your arm, telling you to shut up– it's almost enough to make your smile real.

you both decide to call it a night and get ready for bed. it's long overdue. as she pushes the blankets and pillows off of her, standing up and extending an arm to you to help you up– she catches you looking at her a beat too long.

and there's that fluttering in her chest again. your silent observation of her makes her face start heating up, as she begins to fidget with the strings of her hoodie and–

"that's mine, isn't it?" your eyes are fixed on the hoodie she's wearing, all too familiar, even in the dimly lit living room.

"was."

gwen gives you a cheeky grin before grabbing your wrist and gently tugging you onto your feet. "c'mon. let's go."

as you trail her, you can't help but wonder when one of you is finally going to speak up. how much more red you can wear? how many songs can you get stuck in your head? how many hoodies you can give? how much longer until she finally decides to say something? you head is swarmed with these thoughts.

gwen notices your silence– worried by it– and looks over at you.

"are you okay?" she asks, the concern in her voice the sweetest thing to your ears. and for a minute, you decide that maybe a little more of this back and forth wouldn't hurt.

"...tired."

you'll just unpack it another day. for now, a half-hearted excuse would do. it always does.

one day, one of you would have to be brave enough. but for now, the comfort in stalling was okay. it all just made sense. you, gwen, admiring from afar– and your dwindling closet.

[hueberryshortcake]

Glittering Goldie, breaking hearts and committing crimes since 1953 I mean 1896

[harryforvogue]

hades!harry & persephone reunite tomorrow at 12:30PM EST on tumblr & wattpad 🖤❤️

[anambermusicbox]

Excerpt from 2024 人物 interview, found here:

For example, [while redoing the album] Qian Lei "forced" him to write a song. Qian Lei thought, this new album was extremely significant to him, so there should be a song Zhou Shen wrote himself. What's more, others have criticized him for not being able to compose. But Qian Lei knows he can---and quite well too. "It's not possible someone with strong emotions and a sensitive heart to not be able to write a good melody, it's completely not possible." Usually, Zhou Shen will hum out a melody and record it with his phone---sound engineer Xu Wei has listened to them and thought the melody lines were really good, and could absolutely be straightened out into an original song. But Zhou Shen always felt it wasn't good enough, and even said, to compose beside such a skilled composer like Lei-ge, it would be like an elementary schooler insisting on reciting their composition in front of a doctorate holder---so imprudent. His friends all know his personality---for a "master in self-deprication," being unduly humble was a daily occurrence. His old friend of ten years, lyricist 沃特艾文儿 said: "Not just composing---when I first met him, he even thought his singing was bad. It was so upsetting to me. I'm very relieved that he at least recognizes his singing ability now." Qian Lei has also listened to Zhou Shen's compositions before, and told him, isn't this pretty good? Zhou Shen said, don't mess with me. Qian Lei said, I'm serious, I'm not joking, it's quite good. Zhou Shen said, bye bye. Qian Lei said, bye bye yourself. Thus, when working on the new album, he would use every means possible to force him to write a song. One moment he would "hold a hammer behind him and get him to hurry up and write," the next moment he would set his mind at ease, saying "you don't have to overthink it, gradually the more you write the easier it will be. I'm here, so don't worry." This song was written at Qian Lei's home---once the first step of writing was taken, the rest went smoothly. Musically, Zhou Shen already had things in mind, and a few hours later, the main melody was basically set. Zhou Shen also participated a lot in writing the lyrics. He really liked the line "I can catch the flowers floating in the wind; I don't care whether I fall into the galaxy or into the mud." But "no matter how I sang it, it felt a little off, like it was missing something." He hummed it and hummed it, and out of nowhere added a soft, low, even a little "rude", "嘿，少管我," and "suddenly it came to life." Before, Zhou Shen had always wanted to write a song called "少管我." In his earlier years, he had randomly used these words in replies to fans, and in an interview where he talked about how his fans were never satisfied no matter what he changed his profile picture to, he ended up jokingly shouting "少管我, " and it then went viral. After that, Zhou Shen thought, as a singer, if one day I could turn "少管我" into a song, how interesting would that be. These past few years, he found a lot of people to compose its melody, but he always felt the melodies weren't quite what he wanted. The album that was cancelled also had a song in it named "少管我," but he still felt it wasn't quite right. Until now, it came to him like a "gift" from above. The first impression many people get from these three words is more or less rigid, sharp, harsh, stubborn, and capricious. But to Zhou Shen, a rebellious attitude is easy but truly knowing yourself is a long journey. "It's not necessarily about rebelling against the whole world, but you have to clearly know what version of yourself you want to be, and only then can you become yourself."

The day of the interview at an art park in Tongzhou, Beijing, the sky darkened a little. Zhou Shen took out his cell phone and played the unmixed recording of "少管我." The melody was light, "like travelling, very free." He shook his head to beat, and listened to the song he had listened to countless times one more time. "When I was writing this song and its lyrics, I didn't have "少管我" in mind, but in the end it became the "少管我" that I wanted." Moments like these, sparks flying, you think, "that’s right"---that's the biggest joy in making an album.

[nicollekidman]

pressing publish on ao3 for the first time in nine years is like. genuinely humiliating in some sort of deep way.