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"oscar isaac" "kristen stewart" "vampire" "thriller" "80s" ???? please

If the garden it all ends with isn’t the garden of Crowley's and Aziraphale's cottage, I'll combust into flames.

listen i get ppl are deeply into the whole “voldemort is far more powerful than harry”-thing because yeah, he is, but i also think harry should be allowed to bully him extensively. ‘powerplay this’, ‘powerplay that’ no! harry has no urge to be more powerful than voldemort! harry just wants to bully him!

doesn’t matter if harry ends up on his arm or through some convoluted fanfic logic in his head during the events of the series after he passes. harry’s sole goal is Ridicule The Dark Lord. he reminds voldemort daily that he got beaten by 1) a baby, 2) an 11yo boy with fire hands (apparently), 3) a 12yo boy with a sword and one (1) fang, 4) a 14yo boy who could run really quickly, and 5) a 17yo, malnourished, exhausted boy with a borrowed wand. he tells voldemort repeatedly that vee’s 15yo self bragged to harry’s 12yo self (no sword or fang yet) that he decided on his name change via anagram, like it’s cool. he reminds voldemort often that “lord flight from death” is a bit on the nose for a new name. he always says that whatever voldemort does is “no friend behaviour”. he tells voldemort things like “you know all of your followers except bella and barty would sell you to the devil for one corn chip right” and voldemort, without fail, will think “NO. THAT’S THE THING I’M SENSITIVE ABOUT”. he’s yelling “HA CRINGEE” about everything voldemort does. it’s devastating.

Klimt + The Addams Family

remembered this old sketch of mine & im being so normal about it xx

billy meets andy in fourth grade.

andy’s a year older than the rest of the class and doesn’t ever talk.

billy gets paired with him for a project and andy doesn’t move. billy stands up and calls his name but he still doesn’t turn around.

“andy’s deaf, billy.” ms. mackenzie tells him.

“oh.” billy’s eyes widen. he’s stumped, for a moment. “um. how do i…”

billy trails off. not sure what he wants to ask, exactly.

“just make sure he can read your lips.”

billy nods. he walks over to stand in front of andy and holds out a hand. like he sees adults do. andy raises his eyebrows but takes billy’s hand. shakes it. billy tells him his name and andy smiles.

andy’s taller than billy. most people are but billy still whales on anyone who makes fun of andy. billy’s small, sure. but he’s scrappy.

he’s sitting outside the principals office with mark p’s blood on his knuckles when andy walks past. billy pulls a face and andy laughs.

billy likes it when andy laughs.

andy uses sign language to talk to his sister and his aunt.

teaches billy, when he asks.

billy shows some of it to his mom. teaches her how to tuck her two middle fingers down, index and little finger pointed skyward and thumb sticking out.

“like this?” she asks, forehead creased in concentration.

“uh-huh.” billy smiles. puffs out his chest. proud. “it means ‘i love you.’”

billy’s walking andy home when andy points up at the stars dotting a purple sky. signs pretty. billy walks right into him when he suddenly stops walking.

andy catches billy when he stumbles.

sand shifts beneath billy’s feet as he leans up on his toes to kiss andy. it’s childish. a quick peck, awkward and clumsy. billy doesn’t really know why he did it but andy doesn’t frown or push billy away.

he smiles, instead.

signs pretty again and hugs billy tight.

billy’s mom leaves and neil loses his job. they move away and billy doesn’t see andy again. neil calls him words that didn’t exist in andy’s world.

when billy’s seventeen, neil packs up again. takes him, max and susan to hawkins. neil’s family. and billy.

billy locks eyes with steve harrington across the parking lot in september. gets on his knees and blows him in tina’s parents guest bathroom in october.

steve corners him in the showers after practice the next day. reopens the split on billy’s lip and gets blood all over his own.

they communicate with hands, mostly. grabbing, pushing, pulling. jerking each other off in the backseat of steve’s car. fists come in to play when billy finds steve in a house alone with a bunch of kids, max included.

billy’s bruises are somehow worse a week later and steve tells him to come over that evening. doesn’t ask. just tells.

billy sneers. spits and swears at steve.

rocks on his heels as he waits on the harrington’s doorstep at 9:15.

“you’re late.” steve says.

billy doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to.

something changes after that. steve fucks billy in his plaid nightmare of a room and drags him to the bathroom to dab at his cuts and scrapes right after.

brushes the backs of his knuckles across bruised ribs and frowns.

billy tugs at his hair and brings their lips together. almost gentle.

it’s too fragile for a name, whatever they have.

it’s summer when billy first mentions andy. billy’s sitting on steve’s bed and steve’s looking at him in the way that he does whenever billy reveals a part of himself. eager to soak it up and bask in it.

billy shows steve how to sign his name. how to say please and thank you, bitch and motherfucker.

“what’s-” steve’s hair has fallen over his forehead and billy reaches out to brush it back. unthinking. “what’s ‘i love you’?”

billy freezes.

his heart pounds. they haven’t- they don’t-

“you sweet on someone, harrington?” teasing is easy and billy’s a coward.

“oh, you know.” steve shrugs and it would be casual if he wasn’t looking at billy like that. “kinda.”

“yeah?” billy looks away. focuses on steve’s boxers which billy knows have been in that exact spot on the floor for the last three days. “anyone i know?”

“you might.”

billy shakes his head, grins. “hot?” he asks.

steve just nods, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he edges his fingers towards billy’s on the comforter until they’re intertwined.

billy opens his mouth but steve leans forward and kisses the next smart ass response right off of his lips. winds long fingers into his hair and steals billy’s breath away.

makes his stomach do flips in that way that only steve can.

billy leaves with a smile on his face.

something crashes into his car on the drive back and everything goes dark.

five months, a ‘mall fire’, a shadow monster and seemingly endless hours stuck in a hospital bed later, billy finds himself in a house straight out of texas chainsaw, standing next to max as everyone debates on what to do next.

billy keeps quiet. doesn’t have much to say these days. he bites at his lower lip before looking across the room at steve.

steve smiles at him. something small and private.

everyone’s talking, no one’s paying attention to them.

steve raises his right hand. tucks his two middle fingers down and points the other two toward the ceiling, thumb sticking out.

billy’s cheeks flush and his heart pounds.

thinks it might jump right out of his chest if he isn’t careful.

his stomach does somersaults and he vows that if they get out of this, he’ll tell steve.

he’ll tell him.

for now he raises his left hand. two fingers down, two up, thumb out.

Greg Sage was born on October 21, 1951 in Portland, Oregon. He is an American guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter who is best known for being the primary songwriter of the Portland-based seminal punk rock group, Wipers.

Greg Sage’s fascination with recording began at a young age. In the 7th grade, Sage acquired a professional disc-cutting lathe with which he would cut records for himself and his schoolmates. This early experience not only sparked his interest in music but also laid the foundation for his innovative approach to recording and producing music.

Sage founded Wipers in Portland in 1977. Sage’s dark, reflective lyrics and his unorthodox arrangements quickly gained Wipers a cult following; likewise, their music has since had a profound influence over many forthcoming artists over the the almost five decades since their inception. Some have defined Sage’s musical approach as “substance-over-style” as well as “intricate”, “honest”, and so it goes.

Beyond his work with the Wipers, Sage has also pursued a solo career, releasing records such as Straight Ahead (1985), and Sacrifice (For Love) (1991). He operates his own label, Zeno Records, out of Phoenix, Arizona where he currently resides. Sage continues to influence new generations of musicians with his innovative approach to production and songwriting.

Tom would totally do this but make excuses for why it's Not pathetic at all. Of course not. It's only logical

guy who makes a spreadsheet to figure out if his crush likes him back

‘… and mostly researching ways to become immortal,’ Tom hears himself blabbing. He’s absolutely rat-arsed; evidently he’d underestimated Slughorn’s dedication to hedonism. The booze is strong.

‘Why the fuck would you want that?’ Harry mumbles, shoving Tom further into the musty dark of a cramped broom cupboard. Tom doesn’t know how they got here. ‘Not dying? Walking ‘round … but you’re just a fuck pile of zombie bones?’

‘Obviously,’ it takes a few tries for Tom to properly pronounce that word, ‘I’ll have to be healthily immortal. I just don’t know how.’

‘But you’ve already made your first Horcrux. No point denying, Tom, I know you have.’

Tom squints at Harry. In the low light, he can just make out the softened outline of his cheeks; his lips.

Tom forgets what he’s supposed to interrogate Harry about.

‘Dying is bad,’ he settles lamely. ‘Dying is – you’re everything, and then you’re nothing.’

Harry doesn’t speak for a while, he just looks at Tom, his breath ghosting Tom’s skin.

‘Boom – then nothing,’ Tom stresses. He wants Harry to understand.

‘Okay,’ Harry whispers, like he’s letting Tom in on a grand secret, ‘but sometimes you come back because somebody needs you so much.’

Tom shakes his head. ‘No one’s come back for me,’ he says, too drunk not to wallow in self-pity.

And Harry – to his intense dismay – pulls him into a tight hug, fingers digging into his back.

‘No,’ Tom complains, ‘not this.’

Secretly he thinks it’s not all that bad. Harry’s warm, lithe body a comfortable weight against his own. Harry’s hair, soft and springy and tickling his neck. Harry’s clean, masculine scent; of his body soap and the leather gear he wears to Quidditch practice …

‘You’re wrong,’ Harry says softly, his voice sounding muffled against Tom’s pullover. ‘I did.’

15052024 | @microficmay | nothing & everything

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