#( oh this hurt )

[runningmunson]

“Mummy”

[brontios-helm]

Destiny 2: The Sigh Released

[medusapelagia]

This hurt so badly!

I love it! Especially this sentence: “Stabs the plug angrily into the socket”

I felt it in like a punch in my stomach! 😭😭😭

Thank you 😭

Billy survives. And life gets better. Life gets better in ways Billy couldn't ever have imagined before, but as is usually the way for people like him of course it's all too good to be true.

The blackouts aren't bad in the beginning. He's losing time, sure, but only minutes at the most and there's a huge part of him that refuses to believe it's anything to be worried about. He doesn't even tell Steve it's happening. Why would he? Nothing's wrong. Then one day Steve finds him collapsed in the kitchen with blood coming out of his ears and shit gets serious real fucking quick.

There are scans and tests and they find the source pretty damn quickly all things considered. Dr Owens is kind enough to explain it to him in terms that make sense.

The mindflayer.

It isn't gone. It's hibernating. Probably waiting for the gate to open again so it can continue where it left off. They'd missed it the first time around because it hadn't been bigger than the tip of a pencil. Dr Owens points at the ghostly lines that make up Billy's brain, right at an innocent little dot hiding as deeply into Billy's head as it could possibly get and tells him it's now the size of a pea.

Even if the gate stayed closed forever (and that's a guarantee no one can make) the problem now is that it's growing.

Billy's infected with the beast like a returning cancer and they treat it like it is. Chemotherapy and radiation. They pump him full of chemicals as often as they dare and send him home in the passenger seat of Steve's car and there hasn't been a single trip where Steve didn't have to pull over so Billy could throw open the door and empty his stomach into the ditch.

And Billy knows what happens to people going through chemo. Who doesn't? But he's still horrified when he takes a shower one day and his hand comes away from his head with a huge clump of hair.

He chokes. Loud enough for Steve to knock on the bathroom door and ask if Billy's alright.

But Billy isn't listening. He's staring at the clump of hair clutched in his fist and somehow it's the last straw in a long line of fucked up shit Billy's had to go through recently. But he isn't gonna cling to his hair like some kind of middleaged, comb-over loser.

No fucking way.

Billy flicks the hair off his hand and turns off the water. He steps up to the sink, throws open the cupboard under it and yanks out the electric shaver. Stabs the plug angrily into the socket and turns it on, drowning out Steve's pleas for Billy to let him in.

He stares at himself in the mirror, at the strands of loose hair clinging wetly to his skin halfway down his chest and the thinning patch near his temple that seems so fucking obvious now...

It'll grow back. Billy knows it will. If he can just survive the goddamn chemo, it'll grow back.

He tries willing himself to lift his hand, to run the shaver over his head and just get it over with quick, like pulling off a bandaid, but there seems to be a disconnect between his mind and his hand. And Billy almost flies head first into a panic attack, momentarily conviced that the mindflayer is keeping his limbs locked up, but it's his own fear freezing him in place just as effectively. No matter how much he tells himself it's just hair, he can't make himself do it.

Steve's knocking takes on a frantic cadence until it stops altogether. Running footsteps pound outside the door until Steve comes smashing through it, eyes wild and worried.

"Billy?"

He stops. Stares. Looks at the trail of hair no doubt littered down Billy's back as it is his front. Sees the shaver and the look in Billy's eyes and something seems to click.

He approaches slowly. Gently tugs the shaver out of Billy's grip and turns it off before pulling Billy into his arms.

And Billy breathes shakily against Steve's neck, refuses to cry, but can't find it in himself not to care about this...

"Want me to help?" Steve offers after a while and Billy nods. Thinks the only possible way this is getting done is if someone else takes the wheel.

And Billy doesn't cry.

He's close when Steve runs the shaver over his neck for the last time and Billy feels the last lock brush off his shoulder and fall to the floor. He stares at the water-stained wall in front of him, too scared to glance at himself in the mirror.

The buzzing of the shaver continues and Billy frowns, looks up and turns around and that's when he finally chokes on tears. Reaches out to stop the shaver from going over Steve's head again, but it's already too late. And Billy cries ugly. Empties out all his frustrations and fears into huge sobs as he crumples in on himself.

The buzzing of the shaver stops and cool hands run over the fuzz on his head and his sensitive scalp. Breath brushes over his neck, followed by the softest pressure of lips.

Steve whispers into his skin.

"Now we match."

Billy looks down at the floor at their mixed strands of hair, reaches up blindly to cup the buzz on Steve's neck.

"I love you."

"I love you, too." Steve runs his hands down Billy's back in a calming motion. "Man, it's going to suck when I have to shave off my eyebrows."

Billy laughs through his tears.

.

.

.

So @trans-siberian-marching-band asked for Steve to maybe shave Billy's hair and I made it way more depressing than I intended, I'm so sorry. At least it ended kind of happily.

[hinamie]

to moving forward

[time-woods]

watched a friendplay mouthwashing i had only seen the demo when it first cameout so watchingthe full thing sure was an experience !

[mysillycomics]

[incorrect-splatoon]

Me too.

I made myself sad with this

[opaliscoeur]

@maegicks sent: from the moment you looked at me, i've been consumed - (from kylo ! )

somehow, someway, estrella was very cold. in all of her years growing up in opalis, she should be used to this. opalis was known for their freezing cold climate.. she should be ashamed of herself. there are several other reasons as to why she should be ashamed of herself ever since she left opalis with her mission. landing in hoth she had hoped she could get some supplies from the resistance base, however she had a trail on her end she couldn't shake loose in the sky. they tangle themselves in waves and weaves, her thumbs slamming down on the ammunition, groaning, she knows she's taken a hit on the ship, she feels it within her bones. the alarms go off throughout her ship, notifying she needed to eject. grabbing her pack from the solo seat next to her, she pushes two buttons at the same time. one to eject herself out of her ship. the second would be to self destruct her own ship, knowing it would blow his ship down. however, she wasn't anticipating the landing.

slow lids open, lashes blink several times as trying to take in her surroundings, her heart sinking into her chest as she realizes there is nothing in sight. it took her a few hours finding the small cave and shimmering herself down the cave wall, pissed off. what the hell was he thinking? it takes several more when he finally makes himself known, her sapphire orbs land on him slowly, calculated. two very purple lips form into a thin line as he enters the cave, furious with him. after all this time, he still proved himself over and over again. a part of her had hoped he would listen to her, she'd beg him often to just simply listen. estrella chooses to ignore him for the next hour, but when he finally speaks she grows even more confused.

"no, i don't believe that. you're a liar!"

[lotus-pear]

do you finally see me?

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

“Oh Rascal Children of Gaza” by Palestinian poet, Khaled Juma.

He was born and raised in Al-Shaboura Palestinian Refugee Camp, in the Gaza Strip. He lives there to this day. Before Israel’s latest war crimes, he worked as a school teacher and writer.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[wasyago]

tango doodles

first you make up a guy and then you struggle to draw him correctly

[bixels]

Scary Sunset.

I'm concepting things way outta order in this story, but I'm sure you can piece things together. Context is for a storybeat where, after defeating and capturing Adagio (thus having all three sirens in her possession), Sunset enacts her revenge plot to release the sirens on Canterlot as Thea discovers she's been manipulated. In a confrontation, the two scuffle and fight over the siren orbs while Sunset struggles with her conflicting wants and emotions.

[hinamie]

i don't normally participate in these redraw challenges but it's megumi so i'll make an exception

[mindonmymoneyandmoneyonmymind]

@demolisherspork on tiktok soo talented

[kensatou]

you think YOU had a bad day at work?

bonus: sid shrieking "no!!!! NO!!!!!" loud enough to be heard in the stands and on camera