#So take that as you will

[pokeberry5]

something like tim convinces himself that robin has to be a Boy™ and then steph becomes robin and shatters that conviction and all his repressed gender feelings come spilling out, but actually letting go of that conviction isn’t all that easy

if there's no homoerotic tension between you and the manifestation of your alter-ego that you’ve constructed in your mind, do you really have identity issues?

closeups + refs (leyendecker) + bonus:

[bamsara]

you ever thought about there being any followers who may have the hots for the pathetic wet cat we call narinder? there has to be at least one

I wouldn't say 'hots' persay but there is this one follower at the celebration/feast/wedding that gets quickly taught not to approuch the cat

I also have some bullet drafts for the lamb to briefly bring it up. How it happens varies but Narinder's reaction is all the same. They're currently placeholders for a scene I've yet to flesh out lmao

TW for some suggestive? dialogue

[icaruspendragon]

I made a post with a story about me and my brother, and ppl are tagging it saying I'm dean winchester. I've never seen supernatural is this an insult or a compliment? I seek your wisdom as an expert

you’re in therapy, right?

[blehbiez]

huzzah yearly tumblr post :3

[finemeal]

“The Last Danny”

[divorcedfiddleford]

it is friday my dudes (little hearts added by @tazmiilly)

[t3a-gh0st]

I miss them :(

[fullmoonfireball]

i've had this dialogue stuck in my brain for a while and only just got around to drawing it. Company President Lu Chacho may be stupid.

[steviewashere]

Master of Puppets (I'm Pulling Your Strings)

Rating: Mature (For Various Themes) CW: This whole fic is about Eddie drug dealing, Talks about Drugs, Implied/Referenced Drug Overdose, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Making Up, Dialogue Heavy, Worried Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Doing Questionable Things For The People You Love, Eddie Munson Deals Drugs So That He and Wayne Can Keep a Roof Over Their Heads (It's Not Uncommon)

Based on actual things I've heard from people I've known over the years, all of whom live in poverty and do this as a means to survive. Also, this debate I keep seeing online about how it's "OOC" for Eddie, a character living in poverty, to be selling hard drugs. As if he didn't almost sell ket to Chrissy? As if he didn't perform a song about drugs while in the Upside Down? Anyway. He definitely sells, and he most definitely has tried drugs before. That's all I'll say on that. Title from "Master of Puppets" by Metallica.

💵——————💵 He fists the handle of his lunchbox tighter. It’s not the same one as before spring break, but it was the cheapest one he could find. Some dinky red one that showed up in a thrift store; dented and chipped, squeaking on the hinges, but just enough room for what he actually needed it for. And he needs to go now to use it, but Steve’s throwing a tantrum over this—or at least, that’s what it feels like.

“I just”—Steve’s voice cracks, hands flailing in front of him. He’ll break one of Wayne’s mugs if he isn’t careful, Eddie thinks sourly.—“I don’t understand!” he crows, “why aren’t you stopping with this shit? Especially after Chrissy?”

“That’s a low blow,” Eddie rumbles.

Instead of apologizing, though, Steve rolls his eyes, puts his hands on his hips, and scoffs. “I’m right, though. You know that I’m right.”

Eddie huffs. “Okay, fine,” he snipes. “Fine, let’s say you’re right. Which, sure, you are a little bit. I should stop, especially after what happened to…But I don’t think you get it. I really don’t think you get it, despite me explaining it to you already!”

And he has, is the thing. Steve’s picked fights over this arrangement Eddie’s had with Rick countless times before. He’ll be making dinner and Eddie will say, “I have to go…got some business.” And Steve’ll huff, throw down whatever utensil he’s using, scowl as Eddie is walking out the door—doesn’t matter which place, it could be the new trailer or Steve’s new-ish apartment, he’s walking out. He’ll go distant for a couple hours afterwards, not wanting to touch, not wanting to talk. Which hurts, Eddie can admit. He knows Steve is trying to make a point, but if he could stop making it so direct and sharp, that would be great.

He squeezes his hand tighter again, the metal handle creaking with his strength. Blinks. Steve shifts in front of him, one foot in front. Hands still on his hips, like he’s scolding Eddie—maybe that’s really what he’s doing, now that he notices, like Eddie is some misbehaving child. He rolls his eyes at the realization.

“Explain it to me again,” Steve finally chuffs.

Eddie blows out a long, unrelenting breath. Sits back down in one of the breakfast nook dining chairs, knowing there’s no way to get around Steve to the door. Even if there’s a second door out to the porch, walking away is a big no-no in their relationship. So he sighs again, settling back in his seat. “It’s because”—he starts slowly—“I need to make end’s meet. Wayne and I need this money, Steve.”

“Why not just get a job?” Steve asks—for the thousandth time, mind you. “And…And I’m sure Wayne makes enough at the plant! You don’t need to do this dangerous thing, you don’t need to”—

“I do!” Eddie shouts, jaw closing tight, molars grinding together. Finally, after what seems like eons in this argument, Steve is startled into complete silence. His hands fall away from his hips. His eyes widen. He even takes a step back. Eddie hates that he did that, but a part of him recognizes that it was deserved. Quiet as a mouse, “I do, Steve. I do need to do this. Wayne doesn’t make enough at the plant, I don’t know why you assume that shit. But he doesn’t. He makes like…a few bucks over minimum wage, which sure as hell isn’t a lot—I’m sure you know that, with Family Video and all—it’s less than what he made before spring break. Can’t get myself a job, Steve. Nobody wants to associate themselves with a Munson.”

Not that they really did before, he thinks bitterly. His dad, Al, really did a number. Really made himself a spectacle in Hawkins’ police department. Made himself a home within a maximum security prison. But he’s not willing to explain this all again to Steve—they’ve had this conversation what feels like years ago, but was surely only a few months.

He continues, shaking with an undercurrent of both anger and a sour sadness. “I have to do this, Steve,” he speaks quieter than before, “I know it’s dangerous. Somebody could come up with a knife or a gun or beat me black and blue, I’d barely know what’s happening. I’m a runner, sure, but I ain’t a fighter. And…I know what I do. The shit that I supply to Hawkins? This is the kind of shit that gets people killed. The kind of shit people make money for.

“Nothing about what I do is ethical. I get that. I know, in fact. My job relies completely on people’s desires and none of those desires are healthy or good or safe. Hell, I should know, it’s what got me the job in the first place.” And, well, he hasn’t said that out loud before.

Steve must realize that because he’s coming closer, sitting across. Trying to reach his hands out, but backtracking almost immediately. Like Eddie’s something untouchable now, something feral. Like he might bite the hand. Yet Steve still speaks to him, brokenly, too quiet, “What? What do you mean?” A devastation Eddie never wanted to know.

He levels Steve with a stare. God, he really doesn’t want to explain this. “Steve,” he breathes. “I…You think I’d sell a bad supply?” Eddie asks rhetorically. Still, Steve tries to open his mouth to answer, but Eddie stops him with a palm out, letting it slither back to the tabletop. His other hand fiddles with the squeaking handle of his lunchbox. Speaking low again, he admits, “I was going to do ket with Chrissy the night she came over.” He remembers the way he was going to dim the lights even more, how he was going to let her pick a movie, how he was going to hold her hand just in case. “I was going to sit on my uncle’s sofa, while he was out working, making good and honest money. And I was going to show her how to use it. Was gonna sit right there”—and he points at the middle seat of the floral sofa—“and have her on my right. Was going to get a minimal high and sit with her until she came down from her own.”

Across from him, Steve swallows hard. But his head is turned towards the couch, when Eddie looks back. His hands are fisted tight in front of him. Settled heavy on the table. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak. Just keeps staring at that spot. Like maybe he’s seeing just what Eddie was going to do. Like maybe he’s taking in the reality of this awful livelihood. Like maybe he’s understanding, even if the tightness of his jaw wants to stop learning.

When Steve still doesn’t look his way, Eddie admits in a murmur, “I do some kind of drug with all my first timers, whatever they want. When Tommy came over for weed for one of your parties? I smoked with him. Wanted to make sure he knew what he was doing. Wanted to make sure he’d be able to show all of you guys. Wanted to make sure he wasn’t gonna get sick on me. And I did the same with…I’ve done cocaine with Billy Hargrove. Any time somebody wants something from me, when they’re a first time client, I sit with them. It’s the one time that rivalries go out the window.”

Steve finally looks back to him at that. An unreadable expression on his face. Somewhere between aching and awful understanding, but there’s still a question in him, yet he doesn’t speak.

“Wish I could stop doing this as my job. But for now, this is what I do. Not all of it is easy. Have to be lucrative, quiet. Sometimes people get pissed at my prices and threaten to sell me out to the cops, as if they aren’t doing something illegal, too. And, yes,  I do get weapons pointed at me from time to time, robbed then and there. I’ve seen one person overdose, which was horrific in its own way—called an ambulance and everything. I’ve seen people waste away right in front of me.

“And I”—he sighs a grievance. Long and suffering. Rubs his fingers at his temples, the inevitable headache that will burn him alive from this.—“I’ve been guilty for a good portion of my life, Steve. It’s my fault that a lot of people end up the way they do, maybe not entirely, I can see the defiance in your eyes. But I do play a part. And…I try my best to avoid them after some time, but that’s not always my call. Sometimes Rick agrees with me. Sometimes he pushes me back out there to get a specific person’s money—especially if their family is a high earner.

“Chrissy probably would’ve been a returning customer. Just like Tommy and Billy were. Like Jason was at one point. I hate that. I hate knowing that I’m supplying them. I hate that I know what it’s like to be in their shoes, returning and returning and returning. It’s why I denied the heavy painkillers back in the hospital. It’s why I refuse to let you have more than weed in my supply, even if all you want is something to make you knock-out. It’s why I do my best to sell as infrequent as possible.

“But business calls, sweetheart. I’ve got a debt to Rick. Groceries need to be bought. The power needs to stay on. And especially, I’m not going to let Wayne down. If something happens to me, it’s one less mouth to feed.” With that final statement, he stands up from his seat. Walks around the table with his lunchbox and gets as far as his hand on the knob before Steve is tugging on him. He whirls back around with a bitter retort on his tongue, but is stopped in his tracks by Steve’s impossibly wider eyes and an incessancy to his expression. He raises his eyebrows in silent question.

“Let me come with you,” Steve rushes out.

“Steve, no, that’s”—

“Just to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. I don’t want to see Wayne mourning again, please. I don’t want to mourn—I won’t…I promise I won’t intervene unless something gets serious. I promise.”

Eddie stands idle, contemplating. His chest is caving in. “I don’t want to drag you into my mess. I don’t want you to get hurt. You can’t even be there all the time,” is what he settles on.

However, Steve just takes that in stride. “I know, but I can be there today. I was probably going to go home and wait for you to call me afterwards. It’s just the one deal…right?”

“Yeah,” he answers quietly. Tries not to think of Steve at home biting at his fingernails, gnawing down to the bone until he gets that phone call. Like he’s imagined Wayne doing from time to time. But he fails, because of course he does. He’ll always fail to say no to Steve’s eyes; those pleading, loudly expressive ones of his. “If you come with, you have to wait in the car. Only come to the picnic table if I’m not back in fifteen minutes. It’s just a weed deal, shouldn’t be anything more than that. But I don’t want them to spot you. You hold priority over the money, always.”

Steve gets up from his seat. He holds steady and firm to Eddie’s arm. A murmur from his chest, “I wish you didn’t have to do this. But…I promise I’ll be better about it.”

“I…I know you will,” he whispers, “and I know this isn’t easy for you, either. I’m sorry.”

Against Eddie’s shoulder, Steve lays his cheek. Squishing it up his face, squinting his left eye. “Maybe one of these days we’ll go and find ourselves something better? And I'm sorry, too...I just get so worried, Eds. I love you too much, y’know.”

Eddie squishes his own cheek atop Steve’s head. “I love you,” he breathes into Steve’s hair. His free hand reaches over and holds Steve’s closest one. Squeezes once. “We’ll talk about it later, though, okay? For now, I just need to do this. I’ll even let you pick the music in the car, how’s that?”

“All I want is for you to not go somewhere that I can’t follow or find you in. But sure, I’ll put in a Queen tape. See how long it takes until you get sick of my singing voice.”

“Never, sweetheart. Never.” And he’s not quite sure which part of Steve’s statement he’s saying that to. He knows he won’t go far, though. Not with Steve tailing after him.

💵——————💵

[cryingincrocs]

something about being hopelessly devoted...

I realized last night that I've been watching Stranger Things since 2016 yet never drew fanart for it?? Ever??? so in a haze I threw this together very simple but it got the worm out (for now)

[theultimatekamehamehavoc]

I don't think Makoto's handling life too well Honestly, same with Byakuya too.

What are you staring at, my good man?!

[wet-toast-slime]

sun haven ocs, Brie and Santiago! If ppl are curious, i can share more in them. i love them very much

[thisisnotkitty]

there's nothing quite like a ship that i've known about for less than 24 hours with two characters who have never interacted and one of the characters being a side character with 5 lines that gets me writing 1.3k in an hour!

[berrystrawbs]

sestina 02

Three street corners down a boy is hilarious and the laugh in his chest feels something like fate. He chokes over the sound of his father, axed timber, shuts his eyes and dreams of life. Another new beginning. A mouth opens in his chest, cavernous urge to clarify because running cannot be the only option, safety is not a lost, lonely option. Because children find cowardice hilarious with eyes black and empty to clarify  that some shut-eye on tree bark is certain fate. The goodness is coming. Don’t stop beginning. He cries wax tears and ignores father. Timber- wood falls in the forest and anyway "Timber!" will cover a sound, if there is one, (an option to end or keep living), a beginning,  unkempt and he’s heavenly, hilarious.  Scream and the echo crawls back, slow fate muddled touch. He’ll beg: "Answer me. Clarify." He joins Mama in the kitchen, early morning to clarify (wear a lie) he wasn’t out kissing boys last night, just timber like daddy, machine-cog turned eye-to-eye back to fate. “You’d say, Mama, if there was another option?” She laughs and he smiles but it’s not hilarious  and there’s a new feeling like a disease beginning, huddled deep in his chest and it’s only just beginning to rain. When the water’s gone, fog-windows will clarify what it is to ache when a boy calls him hilarious with a smile in his eyes, sunlit dark timber  or similar. To wonder if this is an option, for a boy to look like he’d swallow down fate, like he’d exhale it through a sigh and fate would see to it that he leapt, ending beginning. To test if he’d do it all over, given the option. Or if he’d be honest with one chance to clarify  that forest-felled favor splinters into ax-hewn timber. And he’d laugh like this boy was someone hilarious. His voice fighting fate, two-to-two to clarify: this is his beginning. Silent fallen timber  will scream an option. He’ll smile. Hilarious.

[zer0expektation]

NO ONE will stop me from drawing Sam Winchester with almost-yellow eyes and red pupils