#i forgot how to tag but then i remembered!

[synity]

Almost Had You(Requested)

(Hong Joshua x FemReader)

*Slow-burn, Unrequited love, Angst, Forbidden romance, Slice of life Bittersweet, emotional drama, Melancholy Romance*

I remember the moment I met Joshua as clearly as I remember my own name. It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks, no breathless stumbles into each other’s arms. Just a boy standing by the window, sipping ginger ale like it was something sacred, and looking at the world like he already understood it.

He wasn’t supposed to look at me.

But he did.

And I… I forgot how to breathe.

"Hey," he had said, that night. Just one word. Soft. Open. A word that should’ve been nothing.

But it sounded like the start of a symphony.

“Hey,” I returned, leaning against the table beside him, gripping my glass tighter than I should’ve. “Didn’t know strangers were allowed to stand there.”

“I was just admiring the light.” He smiled, the corners of his lips barely curving, and nodded toward the chandelier above. “It looks like it's floating.”

I turned my eyes upward. It did. Suspended like a secret, almost celestial. Just like that, we fell into something neither of us named.

He was my cousin’s friend. Not even invited just tagging along, another pretty face in a room full of loud laughter and too much wine. I was there because it was expected of me. The eldest daughter, the composed one, the quiet shadow always lingering behind her brighter little sister.

We talked for an hour. Then two. Laughed like the room wasn’t filled with a hundred other people. I told him I liked the way he looked at things like nothing escaped his notice. He told me he liked the way I listened like I wanted to catch every word before it vanished.

He asked for my number at the end of the night, and I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t want to give it. But because I already knew.

I already knew that if I gave it, there was no going back.

It was never official. But somehow, we kept finding each other.

Museum trips that just happened. Late-night calls that weren’t planned, just… needed. Books left half-finished so we could read them together. Hands brushing. Lingering. Never quite holding.

We were a breath away from something sacred, something too fragile to touch.

And then came her.

My sister. Younger by three years. Softer than I ever was. She had a laugh that wrapped itself around every room, a way of speaking that turned the dullest afternoon into poetry. Everyone loved her instantly.

Joshua included.

I saw it the first time they met. At our family home she breezed into the living room, fresh from class, in her ballet flats and oversized cardigan, and he looked at her like the sun had entered the room.

And I I watched my heart crawl to the back of my throat and choke there.

Later that night, she came into my room and flopped onto my bed, cheeks pink, smiling. “Your friend is cute.”

I smiled back. Like I hadn’t felt my whole world tilt six degrees left.

“Is he? You should talk to him more.”

I told myself it was the right thing. Told myself I was being noble. Told myself I didn’t really love him.

But my voice cracked on the word “more.”

He looked confused the next time we met. I was colder. Distant. Cutting conversations short. Laughing too lightly. Smiling too wide.

He noticed.

"You’re not… you," he said one night, after we ran into each other outside a bookstore.

“I’m just tired,” I lied.

He looked at me like he knew I was lying. Like he wanted to reach out. But I turned away before he could.

And when my sister texted him the next day, he replied.

She showed me the message with excitement dancing in her eyes, and I smiled like it didn’t sting. Like I didn’t taste blood in my mouth.

I sat at my desk that night and wrote in my journal: Somewhere in another life, I let myself want him. Somewhere, he was mine. But not here. Not this time.

A month passed. Then two.

He came to dinner more often. Not for me anymore. I watched her fall. I watched him try to keep his distance, at first. Maybe he thought of me. Maybe he remembered.

But eventually… He let go.

And she caught him.

I became a bystander to my own tragedy. The girl who introduced them. The sister who smiled at the engagement party. The one who stood beside her during dress fittings. Who helped her write her vows.

Who watched Joshua glance at her like she was the right choice, and at me like I was the wrong timing.

“You okay?” she asked me once, three weeks before the wedding.

We were in my room again. Her head was on my lap. I was braiding her hair.

"Why wouldn’t I be?" I said lightly.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, “Sometimes… I feel like there’s something I don’t know.”

My hands stilled.

"Like what?"

"Like…" she bit her lip. “Like you and Joshua used to be something. Or maybe wanted to be.”

Silence.

Heavy.

I smiled, just barely. "You read too many romance novels."

She laughed nervously. “Yeah. Maybe.”

And we didn’t talk about it again.

But the thing about secrets is: They don't go away. They just change shape.

They become glances across crowded rooms. They become the way his voice softens when he says my name. They become the way I memorize every part of the ceremony, just so I don’t cry.

The night before the wedding, he found me on the balcony. Alone. Holding a glass of champagne I hadn’t touched.

“Hey,” he said.

I turned slowly. “Hey.”

He stepped beside me, hands in his pockets, staring at the stars. “I thought maybe you’d be in there celebrating.”

“Too loud.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched like string between us.

Then—

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

My eyes flicked toward him.

“No,” I whispered.

“You should,” he said. “You really should.”

“I was the one who walked away, Joshua.”

"You introduced me to her."

“I know.”

He swallowed. “Why?”

I turned to face him fully now, tears burning the edges of my eyes. "You were never mine to keep."

He looked at me like I was the only person who had ever broken his heart.

"You were the first person I ever…" He trailed off.

"Don’t," I said. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

"Why not?"

“Because it’s too late.”

And then he did something reckless. Something stupid. He stepped forward. And he kissed me. Soft. Heartbreaking. The kind of kiss that tastes like finality. I kissed him back. Just once. Just long enough to remember. Then I pulled away.

“Tomorrow,” I said, breathless, “you marry my sister.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was praying. Or maybe cursing the stars.

And I walked away

The morning of the wedding, I stood in front of the mirror with a smile I had practiced for weeks.

My dress was the softest blue. Not white that was her color. Not gray though it suited my mood. Blue, like bruises. Like quiet heartbreak. Like pretending I was untouched.

In the dressing room, she twirled in her gown, her eyes shining. "Do you think he’ll cry when he sees me?"

I paused. Then smiled. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

She giggled, spinning again. “God, I hope I don’t trip walking down the aisle. You’ll catch me, right?”

“Always.”

And I meant it.

Even if I fell first. Even if he never caught me.

The ceremony was beautiful.

The kind of beauty you want to hate, but can’t. Because she looked like magic. Because he looked like he belonged. Because everything was perfect, on paper.

I stood beside her, holding her bouquet when she passed it to me. My heart was loud, a fist in my chest, but my face stayed still. I watched him as she walked toward him. And he watched me. Just for a second. A flash of something regret, maybe. Or apology. Or love, if I dared name it.

Then he turned away. And she took his hands.

“Do you take her”

I stopped listening.

Instead, I listened to the sound of silence between my ribs.

I looked at the floor. And when the priest said, “You may kiss the bride,” I forced myself to look up.

I watched them seal it with a kiss. And I clapped like everyone else.

At the reception, everything shimmered. Fairy lights strung through trees. Soft jazz humming beneath the laughter. People dancing, drinking, living. And me standing alone at the edge of it all, like the ghost of something almost real.

He found me again. Of course he did.

“You always disappear at parties,” he said quietly.

I didn’t look at him. “Maybe I don’t like being seen.”

“You liked it once.”

I turned to him then, sharp. “That was a different lifetime, Joshua.”

His jaw tightened. “I never stopped seeing you. That’s the problem.”

A beat.

I wanted to scream at him. To ask why he let me go. To ask why he didn’t fight harder. To ask if he was happy now, really, or just pretending like I was.

But I didn’t.

Because I still loved him. And love, for me, had always meant stepping aside.

“She loves you,” I said instead. “Don’t forget that.”

His eyes softened. “So did you.”

A pause.

“Still do.”

“Don’t,” I whispered.

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once.

Then she appeared.

My sister. Radiant. Breathless. Eyes flickering between us.

Her smile faltered just slightly.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “I was looking all over.”

His hand hesitated before squeezing hers. She looked at me.

“Did I… interrupt something?”

The question was casual. Light. But her eyes weren’t.

I shook my head. “No. We were just talking.”

She looked between us again.

Then tilted her head, as if studying a painting from a new angle. “You two used to be close, huh?”

I nodded slowly. “We were friends.”

She stared a moment longer. Then smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Come dance with us,” she said to him. Then, to me, “Or are you going to disappear again?”

Her tone was joking. But it stung.

“I’ll watch,” I said softly.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She pulled him onto the dance floor. And he followed. But his eyes never quite left me.

Later, after cake and speeches and too many toasts, I stepped outside for air. The night was cool. The stars were blurred. And then I heard the door creak behind me.

I didn’t turn.

“I keep wondering,” she said softly, “if I imagined it.”

My breath caught.

She stepped beside me. “The way you looked at him. The way he looked at you.”

I closed my eyes.

“I wanted to believe it was just in my head,” she whispered. “That I was overthinking. That he was just nervous. That you were just… tired.”

I turned to her, finally. “You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

“Don’t I?” Her voice cracked. “Because I think I need to.”

Her lip trembled. “Tell me the truth.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Yes,” she asked again, voice trembling, “did you love him first?”

Silence.

Then

“I did.”

She flinched. Like I had slapped her.

“But I never-” I tried.

“You did.” Her voice was quiet. “Even if you never touched, even if you never spoke it you loved him. And he… he loved you back.”

I looked at her. My sister. My bright, beautiful, innocent sister.

And I saw it the crack forming in her heart.

I hated myself.

“I introduced you to him,” I whispered. “I stepped back. I let go.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Did you do it for me? Or for you?”

“I did it because he deserved happiness. Because you did. And because I wasn’t brave enough to take it for myself.”

She covered her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I choked.

She nodded slowly. “Me too.”

She turned away. Walked back into the warmth and music and glitter. And I stood in the cold, alone again. The song playing inside was slow. Romantic. And when I looked through the glass window, I saw them dancing. But her eyes weren’t on him. They were on me.

A YEAR LATER

They separated quietly. No lawyers. No shouting. Just sighs and silences.

“I need to be whole,” she said. “And I can’t be… if I’m living in someone else's love story.”

You begged her to hate you.

She refused.

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “I hate fate.”

And with that, she walked away.

Joshua found you a month later.

“You were never a secret,” he said. “You were a sacrifice.”

You let him hold you.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t let go.

EPILOGUE: LETTER TO THE PAST

Dear younger me, You were strong, even when you didn’t want to be. You loved with quiet dignity. You broke with silent grace. But you survived. And now, finally… you’re allowed to be happy.

[tempikotee]

vera i love u so much vera hi vera

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie (its rly scratching the itch atm), steve harrington being a sad drunk :(, angst with a happy ending, 1.4k

If you asked him how it transpired, Eddie couldn’t tell you — but somehow, there’s a drunk Steve Harrington on the Munson’s couch.

Physically, he’d hazard a guess Steve walked all the way from whatever party he’d been at. Which is a concern in itself—either Steve wandered through the woods or he wandered quite some way, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

The why of why Steve’s here—why he chose to sought out Eddie in particular—is another mystery altogether.

If Eddie had to guess, he’d say somewhere between the commonality of crashing at each other’s place to keep the nightmares at bay and a night of drinking is how Steve ended up here.

It’s nearing midnight the clock tells him, blinking red from the microwave. Steve’s holding a glass of water that he’s sipped from only once.

And he’s sad.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

“I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.

He should really get up and turn the lamp off, Eddie thinks to himself. Then Steve snuffles in his sleep, uses their intertwined fingers to bring him closer, and he forgets all about it.

[grimark]

severance is quickly approaching locked tomb levels of “it doesn’t even matter if you see a spoiler because half of the spoilers make no fucking sense until you see them in context”

[attractthecrows]

let it also be said that I love the Mahariel + Lavellan worldstate. It's so haunted. You are Dalish, you are not a part of human culture, but by happenstance you're dragged into it and to the forefront of hell to save a world that hates and fears your people. You have no choice. You can never return to your home, to the familiar, to anything you've ever known. You will be an echo; Mahariel echoing Garahel, Lavellan echoing Mahariel. You're so proud of your Dalish heritage, but your identity doesn't matter at all. Doomed to be a martyr for a people that do not respect you and cannot understand you, while your clan mourns, lamenting that they cannot bury you, no life-tree to stand as your memory. You're a hero. You're already dead. You died the moment you left your clan.

[ashwii]

Flowers are in bloom as the birds will tell

[slavhew]

made them to strike fear into my heart whenever i falter in my studies

no text ver under the cut

[bloodof-leaves]

Various 999 doodles i made since finishing the game a couple weeks ago ✌✌✌

[bayheart]

I just joined the transformers fandom thanks to tfOne and just started s2 of the tfa series. And I gotta say, I’m beginning to hop on the JazzOp train thanks to your art and lil snippets I’ve seen

WEEPS!!!!!! WAILS!!!!!!!!!!! i've kept this ask open in a tab for weeks to stare at lovingly (and remind myself to finish this drawing).... THE DREAM THE GOAL ... I'M SO GLAD TO HAVE INFLUENCED U ONTO THE JAZZOP TRAIN !!!!! there's drinks and snacks to ur right thank u for boarding :] DO ENJOY UR TFA WATCH AND WELCOME INTO DA TF FANDOM!!!

a gift i offer..... TFOne gave Me, Personally, everything i have literally ever wanted in my life but most importantly these guys had multiple significant interactions and had me rending my garments in that theater. love and light

[when-sanpape-arts]

the most reluctant man to ever become a yakuza chairperson

[varilien]

pine barrens by jakey THEEE existential personhood horrors song ever.... applies to the stans uncomfortably well tbh (╥﹏╥)

Palestine: Funds | Action | eSims | Info Sudan Resources | Congo Resources | Lebanese Red Cross

[a2zillustration]

Gale and I had the exact same reaction when we opened that door.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[hair-dice]

I wonder how goddamn hot it must be inside AM. Y'know? That's a computer they're inside. Knowing my own laptop, they must be boiling! Pains me to even think about the state of the rest of the world, not that there's anything left to inhabit it.

Can you imagine burying your hands through the sharp rocks and gravel, feeling past the frequently disturbed soil, down to the metal casing below? Your hands start to feel warmer and warmer the deeper they dig, until you're shocked by a sudden burning sensation on your fingertips.

You'd be warm the whole time, no matter where you stood. It's a wonder how there's even ice still on the planet-- if it's even real. If you left your hands on the metal shell, you'd feel the burn first. As the nerves in your palms slowly died yet again, the flesh sizzling, you'd begin to feel the vibrations of the machinery inside.

Millions and millions of miles of raw technological power, and you at the heart of it. Lay your cheek on the steel. Press yourself against it. Feel the stinging pain. Tomorrow, you'd feel it again. Then the next day, you'd feel it again. Then again, and again, until one day you'd have nothing left to burn for the Mastercomputer's sick enjoyment. It burns, no less than real love ever would.

[fairyroses]

He was about to kill you, Lex. Or divulge something you didn't want me to know.

— SMALLVILLE, "Forever" (4.21)

+ bonus from "Arctic" (7.20):

[nesciobescio]

You'd think this was meant to be a christmas bk art but no i just love drawing khun in scarfs and this time bam managed to get in as well (figuratively and literally)

[lotus-lamps]

like father like son

hes just toji but smol