#anyways this is awesome

[stealthrockdamage]

need to post my favourite tweet in the entire world

[blahlahblash]

They overreacted a bit. Just a wee bit.

Part 2

[ale-arro]

been going a little bit insane about this sentence from Ace by Angela Chen for the past week

[infizero]

ian flynn and ian jones-quartey twitter interaction nobody move

[housecow]

lol I hope you weren’t under the impression that the dress was hiding how ill fitting your bra was….

i’m not really worried abt that bc imagine these in that dress. if you’re at my height or taller than me: YOURE WELCOME

[goryfluff]

Googly-eyed Stubby Squid | Nautilus Live + their commentary

[knifearo]

being aromantic is like. hey btw you're going to live a life that is the culmination of most of society's worst nightmares. sorry lol ✌️ but then you turn around and take a really good hard look at it and it turns out that living in that nightmare is fucking awesome and you get to wake up every day and take that fear that other people have and laugh and hold it close until it's a great joy for you instead. and being happy is a radical act that you define instead of someone else. and you're sexy as fuck that's just a fact of life i don't make the rules on that one

[fauvester]

something something seeing things through different eyes

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

I can't believe people would slander ocean sunfish for having a lot of parasites. Uh, hello?? Every animal in nature has parasites dipshit, it came free with living in an ecosystem

[heynhay]

hey guys doing this funny thing where I draw klance once for nostalgic purposes. I hope it doesn’t incite a year-long fixation or anything haha.

[catmask]

in nicies news though one of my closest friends saw an old picture of me compare to one of me now and complimented me on how ive gained weight and look much healthier now and im

[mamawasatesttube]

the whole "jason rules crime alley and none of the other bats are allowed there!!1!" thing is so funny like. tim LITERALLY lives in the theater where bruce's parents died,

[ferritins]

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ | B. WAYNE

SUMMARY: You’re Bruce Wayne’s long suffering personal assistant. On a time crunch, you (re)teach him how to apply cologne.

NOTES: belligerent tension, Bruce is characterised more on the socialite side than Batman, though Batman is alluded to. Suggestive ending.

For all the years that you’ve been his PA, you’ve never quite understood the borderline hysteria surrounding Bruce Wayne.

The perils of having a pretty face and old money, you suppose; sex appeal sells, and the prestige of an established name and old money that lend him an air of modern-day Gilded Age aristocrat surely can’t hurt.

Not that it's of particular interest or importance to you; you're a member of the hoi polloi through and through.

The closest to celebrity you've ever come is being mistaken as Bruce’s latest paramour in some of your more extravagant efforts trying to prevent his sartorial and interpersonal disasters before they happen.

Speaking of which; as he goes to apply his cologne, you drop the lint roller you're passing over his broad shoulders and the elegant lines of his Kiton suit and grab his wrist before he can douse himself in the strong scent, aghast.

“You’re not putting cologne on like that, surely?”

Bruce quirks a dark eyebrow. "Unless you're expecting me to break the bottle over my head, sweetheart, there's not really another way to apply cologne."

“I am choosing to ignore that nickname, because unlike you, I am a consummate professional.” You inform Bruce, tone somewhere between haughty and resigned. “I know you know how to wear cologne. Mr. Pennyworth is the gentleman’s gentleman, there’s no way he didn’t teach you.”

“Oh, Alfred gets Mr. Pennyworth, but I get Bruce?”

“Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t tear loaned formal wear, disappear at inoppurtune moments, or make a tit of himself at networking events.” You huff. “You, however…”

Bruce chuckles, all baritenor delight at your insouciance towards him.

You roll your eyes.

Spray some on your wrists and dab them together, then come here and loosen your tie."

“Not that I'm not flattered, but I really don’t think we've got the time." He teases, daubing the cologne on his wrists, long fingers of his unoccupied hand working the Windsor knot of his tie loose.

Immune to his affected charm through long exposure, you sigh.

“Keep it in your trousers, Bruce. Tonight, you're learning how to wear cologne properly, again. Do you mind if I unbutton your collar?"

Bruce hums a permissive note, gaze hawkish as you step into his personal space.

“Right. So, as you already know, you want to put cologne at the pulse points on either side of your neck; your body heat will help the alcohol carrier agent evaporate faster. If you're using a lighter fragrance or a perfume oil, you'd put it behind your ears." You explain.

As you speak, you pluck the bottle of fragrance from his grasp with your unoccupied hand, and spritz his neck with it, swapping hands to hold his collar away and do the same the other side of his neck.

Finally, you spray the base of his neck; the mist of cologne gathers into a single small droplet that traces down into the hollow of his suprasternal notch.

“(All done.” You announce, stepping back.

Bruce buttons up his collar, works the silk of his tie back into a Windsor knot with infuriating ease.

“I still think it would have been less fuss to just spray it on over the fabric.”

“Lazy. Just be thankful you don't have to do your ankles." You say as you turn to put the bottle back on the dark oak of his dresser.

Heinously late, cognition kicks in, and the realisation of what you’ve just said strikes you like a thunderbolt. You close your eyes briefly, hoping against hope that Bruce’s more airheaded tendencies have kicked in, and the context has flown over his head.

When you finally steel yourself enough to turn back to face him, you find that the universe has not been so merciful; Bruce is staring at you, a wicked glee in his expression.

"Anyway! That’s specifically to perfume." You obfuscate. "The car is probably out front by now; if you're done, let's head out."

“No, no; you’re going to explain that delightful little tidbit before we go anywhere.”

Heat floods your face.

“You clearly know exactly what I meant. Let it go, it was a faux pas.”

Bruce says your name in a low rumble.

You parrot his name back at him in a faintly beseeching tone, begging him not to choose this moment to be a petty tyrant.

Bruce’s response is to raise an expectant eyebrow.

The standoff lasts as long as it takes you to check your watch, your resolve fracturing at the first hint of threat to your meticulously crafted schedule.

“Fine!” You snap, stepping close and dropping your voice to a murmur, to minimise the odds of anyone overhearing the frankly mortifying disclosure.

“You spray perfume on your ankles so that when you've got them over your partner's shoulders, they'll associate the perfume with you."

A faint flush floods the high planes of Bruce’s cheekbones, even as his smile turns gloating and distinctly carnivorous.

C Caught up in your own humiliation, you push past him, out of the dressing room, and quite miss the way his eyes trail down your legs to where the jut of your ankle bone is emphasised by your heels, and the considering smirk that his mouth pulls into as he follows you.

[umblrspectrum]

you'll never guess which movie i finally watched after 2 years of being lazy

[riality-check]

The eagerly awaited part 2 of the DILF!Steve concert saga is here!! Part 1, in case you missed it.

"You're not going."

"Come on! I haven't thrown up in an hour!"

"The drive to the venue is an hour and a half."

"Steve-"

"And if you throw up in my car-"

"Oh my God-"

"I'll kill you."

Steve doesn't need to see Dustin's eye roll in order to feel the full force of it through the phone.

"I'll just kill you. You'll have a headstone within the week that says Here Lies Dustin Henderson: Rightfully Murdered for Puking in Steve Harrington's Car," he continues as he packs Capri-Suns into the cooler for the car ride.

He doesn't remember ever being that thirsty as a kid, but if Anna wants strawberry kiwi, Anna gets strawberry kiwi. It helps that it's Steve's favorite flavor, too.

"I'd need a big ass headstone to fit all of that," Dustin snaps.

"Your big-ass ego would demand no less, shithead," Steve shoots back.

"Swear jar, Daddy!" Anna calls from her room, across the house because while she doesn't listen to Steve when he's right in front of her, she can hear him break the swear jar rule from halfway across the world.

He zips up the cooler, fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and throws it into the half-full soup can next to the stove.

(A quarter doesn't mean much, but Anna doesn't know that. The day Steve teaches that kid about inflation is the day his pockets become permanently empty.)

"Did she just swear jar you?" Dustin asks from over the phone.

"You baited me into it."

"I did no such thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're not coming, though, are you?"

Dustin sighs, and, for all his teasing, Steve does genuinely feel bad. "I still feel like if I breathe wrong, I'll hurl, so, no. I don't think I'll manage the car ride, nevermind the actual show."

"Sorry dude."

"Don't be. Some dickhead will live stream the whole thing on Instagram, anyway. I'll live vicariously through them."

Steve snorts and picks up the cooler. He got Anna dressed beforehand, so it's just a matter of getting her to stop playing with whatever toy she dug up - Play-Doh has been the fixation of the week - in her room so they can go.

"Besides," Dustin continues, and Steve hates where this is going. "Anna loved the show, and you've got a reason-"

"Nope," Steve says, knocking on Anna's door. "Don't finish that sentence."

"All I'm saying-"

"I know what you're gong to say, which means you know my answer. I don't date."

Anna opens her door. From the little Steve can see inside, there are at least three containers of Play-Doh open and strewn across the floor. He thinks her Barbies are involved in it somehow.

"Time to go," Steve says, and he thinks, Please don't let there be Play-Doh in the Barbie hair.

"Five more minutes," Anna tries.

"Nope. Clean up and roll out."

"Hi, Anna," Dustin says through the phone.

"Uncle Dusty!" Anna shrieks, and she starts jumping up and down. "Are you comin', too?"

Dustin sighs, and Steve can't tell if it's at the nickname or if he's still cursing the universe. "No, but you and your dad have a great time, okay?"

"Can you, can you tell Daddy I should get five more minutes?"

Steve raises his eyebrows at her. Anna, to her credit, ignores him wonderfully.

"If you clean up," Dustin says, because he's actually Steve's favorite person right now, "you get to do more headbanging at the concert."

Anna gasps like Steve didn't already tell her that earlier today, and she gets to work on putting her toys away. Steve helps, of course, and he finds that there is, in fact, Play-Doh in two of her Barbies' hair.

Fun. They're going to turn into Buzzcut Barbies when Anna goes to sleep because he can already tell that they are the furthest thing from salvageable.

But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting Anna in the car, deploying the first two of many strawberry kiwi Capri Suns from the cooler, and making the drive to the venue, which Steve does with minimal road rage and accompanied by the Disney radio station.

Success by all metrics, really.

Dinner might as well be now, so Steve shells out a truly disgusting amount of money for overpriced chicken nuggets and fries at the venue. Anna will only eat half her portion but say she's hungry later, but that's what the snacks and water Steve smuggled in via his jacket are for.

They get to their seats, dinner finished up, just as the lights go down for the first opener. Steve looks to his left, half-expecting Eddie and his friends to be there before remembering that they won't be.

He tries not to feel too disappointed. He fails miserably.

The seat next to him, however, isn't empty. There's a note taped to the back of it, one addressed to Steve and Miss Anna, so Steve feels alright taking and opening it.

At the top, there's a messily scrawled phone number. Underneath, it says:

Here's my number. Probably a bad idea to call with all the noise. Texting works, though you should do that after the show. I'll be a little busy until then.

-Eddie

Steve puts the note in his pocket, puts Anna's ear defenders on, puts his own earplugs in, and looks at the stage, where-

Hang on.

He squints at the stage, where four guys have started playing a song that, frankly, sounds too much like literally all the music Steve listened to yesterday for him to care about all that much. The drummer is pretty small, with wild, curly hair. The bassist looks familiar. The lead singer, who is very talented but not to Steve's personal taste, also looks familiar. And the guitarist-

No way. No way in hell.

It's a total coincidence. Lots of guys have long, curly hair and heavy jewelry and big eyes and are wearing formal wear, for some reason, and catch Steve's eye, and-

"Thank you for such a great welcome!" the guitarist says, and his smile totally isn't doing anything to Steve, thanks very much.

Anna stops moving, where she's standing next to Steve, and climbs up into his lap to get a better look at the stage. She looks out, then back at Steve, then out, then back at Steve, making a face as confused as Steve feels.

Some days, he thinks he ended up with a clone, not a kid.

"I'll get off the mic in a second. I only do the talking because Jeff," the guitarist points at the lead singer, who ducks his head, "is really shy."

Jeff. That name is definitely relevant, but Steve is a permanent resident of denial.

"We fought about what song we were going to include next in our set list, so much so that we didn't decide until yesterday and had to consult a tiebreaker."

Okay, maybe Steve is a less permanent resident of denial than he thought.

"So, thank you to Miss Anna, who did great at headbanging for her first time-"

Anna whips around so fast, her forehead nearly collides with Steve's jaw.

"And to Steve, who's a big fan of American Psycho."

At the song name, the crowd loses their minds, and if Anna wasn't sitting right in front of him, Steve would join them.

Because what the fuck is happening right now?

His question isn't answered. In fact, about five more questions pop up in its stead when, during the bridge of the song, Jeff puts on a clear rain jacket and picks up a prop axe.

Please, God, don't let this traumatize my kid, Steve thinks.

Anna, thankfully, doesn't get scared. When Jeff brings the axe down, again and again, Steve's weirdo daughter fucking smiles. And giggles. It's kind of cute, actually.

When the song ends, she turns back to Steve.

"That's Eddie onstage," Steve says, and saying it, somehow, makes it real.

"I thought so!" Anna says, and she turns back to watch the show. Steve puts an arm around her waist so she doesn't fall off his lap when she bangs her head to the music.

The rest of the songs, in Steve's opinion, are better than the opening song. They're more melodic, which Steve can definitely get behind, and each of them has a gimmick onstage, all based off of various horror movies. It's ridiculous, but also really, really cool.

And Eddie, onstage, because it is the same guy who flirted with him and was so sweet to Anna yesterday, is really, really hot.

Steve has never had a thing for guitarists before. He's never had a thing for musicians before. Hell, until a year ago, he didn't realize he had a thing for men.

Eddie is. Uh. Yeah. Really doing it for him.

Steve doesn't know whether it's his enthusiasm, or the way he moves, or seeing his hair tied up, or the fucking dress pants and suspenders, or just his hands, but he does know he has to get himself in check because this is an all ages show and he's here with his daughter.

He already knows he can't add these songs to his grading playlist, not when they're accompanied by visuals of Eddie playing his guitar.

Sweet Jesus.

"Alright, that's our set!" Eddie says. "Thanks, y'all, for sticking around for us, and let's give it up for the next act!"

The crowd, including Anna and Steve, cheer as they exit and the lights go up.

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to add Eddie's number to his contacts, and is greeted by not one, not two, but sixteen missed calls from Dustin Henderson.

Naturally, Steve calls him back. "Who died?"

"What the fuck?" Dustin yells, and Steve just puts the phone on speaker to save the rest of his hearing. "Did Eddie fucking Munson just personally thank you from the stage?"

"Swear jar, Uncle Dusty!" Anna says.

"Sorry," Dustin says. "But Steve. Answers. Now."

"How do you even-"

"Instagram live. Is Eddie the guy you were telling me about yesterday?"

Steve takes his phone off speaker. Prior experience tells him that this conversation has a less than zero chance of staying PG, nevermind PG-13.

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is."

"The one who flirted with you, and you forgot to ask for his number."

"Well, I have it now."

"What?" Dustin shrieks, and Steve is incredibly thankful that he didn't take his earplugs out.

"He left me his number on the seat."

"Text him."

"I was going to, until I saw that you called me sixteen times."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie Munson was flirting with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands a pack of gummy bears to Anna when she taps his arm. "He could have just been nice. I don't even know if he's into guys."

"Have you looked at him?"

"Wow, Dustybuns, I didn't know you were homophobic."

"I think it's the complete opposite of homophobic to try to get you laid."

"Hanging up!" Steve shouts because a part of him will never see Dustin as any older than thirteen, and no thirteen year old should ever say that.

"Text-"

Steve hangs up the call. "Can I have a gummy bear?"

"No," Anna says, mouth full, in her seat, legs swinging.

"I bought them."

She shrugs. "You gave them to me. Mine now."

Steve stares. She stares right back.

He sighs and opens a new pack of gummy bears.

With his mouth full of sweet Haribo corpses, Steve takes out the note and adds Eddie to his contacts. Before he can overthink it, he sends him a message:

I guess I don't have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we're even on that front, I'm a teacher, and Anna's full time job is preschool.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and focuses on making this a good experience for Anna, who somehow wormed her way into a conversation with the intimidating-looking couple sitting next to her.

Because it's totally not like a literal rockstar is going to text him back. Right?

Part 3!!

[madootles]

consumed with the urge to draw with ed holding cat. that's all

edit: metal arm wrong side bc canvas flip