#not literally but also yes

[estrellami-1]

First Cuts

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“Alright, shithead,” Steve says fondly, rolling his eyes at Eddie. “Get here safe, alright? Over.”

“Can do. Over and out,” Dustin replies smugly.

Steve raises his brows at Eddie, who smirks. “It’s his tone, right?”

Steve laughs. “Always is.”

Robin had just left—something about family obligation that she couldn’t and didn’t actually want to get out of—but Eddie had stayed. Steve can’t deny it makes something burn brightly in his chest, warming up his whole body.

Steve turns to the kitchen, moving to nervously start making something. He wants to tell Dustin, but he’s man enough to admit he’s worried about what Dustin will think.

“Hey, Steve?” Eddie asks, just as he reaches the counter.

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you call me?” His voice is quiet, unsure. “I mean… Robin’s your soulmate, shouldn’t she have been the first person you told?”

Steve sighs and moves to the bar to take a seat. “Maybe,” he admits honestly. “But I called you because you’re a good listener, even when I’m not saying much of anything at all. You know how to read between the lines without going down an anxiety spiral like Robin would. And when I’m already anxious, I don’t need something else anxious to keep me there. And you’re calming. I like having you here.”

“Oh,” Eddie says.

Steve thinks they’re both blushing. He’s not willing to look up at Eddie to find out. “Yeah.”

“You, uh.” Eddie clears his throat. “You can call whenever. If you want. If you’re anxious, or just nervous, or just. Want someone there. You can call me.”

“Thanks,” Steve whispers, and they lapse into silence again.

His fingers start to itch, so he hops down from the stool and moves to open the fridge. “What’re you in the mood for? Sandwich?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, and it feels like an olive branch. “You know what I like.”

Dustin arrives not too much later, dumping his bike on the lawn and barging into the house and nosing around things that aren’t his. “Hey, dipshit,” Steve calls, hands covered in mayonnaise, “nose outta my stuff! Come get a sandwich.”

“Ooh,” Dustin calls back, “Turkey and mayo?”

“And mustard, you heathen,” Steve fires back. “Come and get it.”

No response. A minute later he walks in slowly, looking at a sheet of paper. “Uh. Steve?”

Steve hums, looks at him, and freezes before consciously exhaling, long and slow. “Yeah. That’s why I called you over here.” He wipes his hands on a towel, rounds the counter to Dustin. “I applied a while ago, didn’t think anything of it. But it’s…” he pauses, isn’t sure he can do it. Glances at Eddie, sees his encouraging nod, and takes a breath. “It’s a cosmetology school. I wanna do hair.”

Dustin’s silent for another long minute. Steve and Eddie are eyeing each other, unsure if this is a good or bad reaction. Finally, “Huh,” he says. “Okay, yeah, that makes total sense. I just don’t know how I missed it.”

Steve takes a breath. “Not everything’s about you, kid,” he says affectionately, rubbing his hair and stealing his acceptance letter back. “So, you think I can do it?”

“Well, you’re great with hair,” Dustin reasons. “You helped me with mine for the Snow Ball. And yours always looks great. And it’s actually noticeable when Robin lets you do hers. And you actually do like people, when they’re not being idiots, and you get to talk to people all day too. So yeah, I think this is kinda perfect for you, Steve.”

“Oh,” Steve says, blinking at Eddie, wide-eyed. He can tell by Eddie’s expression that neither of them had expected that. “Well,” he says, voice tight, and pulls Dustin into a side hug. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

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[originalartblog]

Someone's last crush didn't live up to the hype 😬

[demaparbat-hp]

She will (and he'll let her)

[theofficialpresidentoftheusa]

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…………they fucked in that Honda odyssey……I rest my case thank u

[gascreates]

a new star

[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.

[quesocheeso]

Tails of a Time Traveling Monkey (yes it’s a pun)

PART 1

Part 2

[noornight]

Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)

Based on this

[egophiliac]

(almost) four years in, and I finally had time to draw something for the anniversary! woo! 🎉🎉🎉

[bluegiragi]

patience and indulgence.

early access + nsfw on patreon

--

(hey i drew this comic in collaboration with the very talented author prettyunhinged, who wrote an amazing fic to go along with it!!! please leave a comment and kudos if u read it, it's so perfect >.< but also do look at the tags first lmao )

[markscherz]

Behold, the European platonic ideal of a frog.

[lotus-pear]

i love you royal trio (minus akechi)

[stargirl230]

moonlighting 🌚✨

i’m so rusty from not drawing for a whole semester (sobs) but its ok now because kaito's here

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated!)

[eveningdawn222]

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

[fence-time]

Wild life object show send post

[aibafiles]

metaphor prologue