#EDIT I FORGOT TO TAG THIS AS ->

[swagstar]

dispencer talk

[hellspawnmotel]

I can't think of a nutcracker pun

[gludgenbell]

in one ear and out the other, cucumber-bro

[miiilowo]

Help an audhd + disabled trans dude move out and get away from his violent unstable mother (please)

pre-tldr: i need help with funds for moving into a new place, my mom is very violent and irrational, constantly yelling/stomping, i feel very unsafe and uncomfortable, we have over 15 cats she refuses to get rid of and its a huge drain on my mental health. its filthy here and i NEED to get out. ok full post now

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Hi 👋 my name is Milo. I'm 19, american, transmasc, audhd, got severe chronic pain and no medication for any of it. makes finding suitable jobs very difficult unfortunately

I currently live in an RV with my mom and have for around a year and a half after being homeless for about a year before that. We have a genuinely ABSURD number of cats (over 15 couped up in this tiny space), which is not only terrible for the cats, its terrible for my mental health, my moms, and is a big drain on our funds. We can barely afford to take care of them and no matter how much I plead with her to take some of them to a shelter or do SOMETHING she refuses to, so that should start painting a picture of the type of person I'm dealing with here.

Her temper is incredibly, INCREDIBLY short. She's impossible to be around, refuses to improve, is physically violent to our general surroundings / herself / occasionally the cats. She has thrown things at me before and threatened me. I generally dont feel safe or comfortable, and most times Ive tried getting her to stop any of the aforementioned behavior, she guilt trips me and things never change. Literally as I'm typing this she's been caterwauling, stomping and throwing things. What prompted this? No idea! This happens genuinely every single day. This is not an exaggeration. It's destroying my brain and I can't handle it anymore. This is going to sound particularly pitiful (sorry) but I do have capital T Trauma related to someone breaking into our house when I was home and loud noises / stomping / yelling does make me INCREDIBLY anxious, and no matter how many times I tell her this she doesn't give a shit. or if she does give a shit she doesnt give enough of a shit to change her attitude

She won't let me learn how to drive and (whether intentionally or not) obstructs any attempts I make to function as an adult. I'm currently self-employed on commissions, but it's not a living wage or something I could make into one (and remain sane. or keep up with). I'm actively searching for a job and have applied to several (fingers crossed) (will update this post when I get one) and, ideally, will be moving in with a friend of mine sometime in the late summer, but I need help with funds for moving in/covering rent for a bit/etc.

Since I do take commissions, if you want one of those and want to help with funds that way, that'll be an avenue for giving me money. I won't have them open 24/7 just to make things more manageable, but that'll be an option some of the time at least.

COMMISSION INFO (tumblr post link). Currently closed!

Otherwise, if you just wanna chip in (it would be VERY. VERY VERY VERY APPRECIATED):

Payp4l: millowo <- preferred

Venm0: miiilowo

GOAL: 720/4,000

see this ^^^ ? thats my art im gonna have comms open soon ooh ahh HERES A BUNCH MORE TO LOOK AT IF YOURE INTERESTED BELOW THE CUT

[anbaisai]

"(Sigh) We'll continue this another ti- mmf?!"

With a guy like Jamil, you really gotta pick up the slack sometimes. No tie to pull on though, so I guess we'll just have to use that hoodie!

(Inspired by this artwork by オレコ on Pixiv!)

Bonus Jamil for the rest of the day:

[hugs-and-stabbies]

The self-awareness on this guy 😞 someone pls send him an "are you bi?" quiz STAT

[buttercupshands]

repost because I deleted the original post accidentally haha

if you think you already saw it? it was because I'm paranoid and thought it was the scheduled one! haha happy anniversary!!!!!

[goonchef]

ohhhyhhhmygod oghmygod ohmyfod

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie (its rly scratching the itch atm), steve harrington being a sad drunk :(, angst with a happy ending, 1.4k

If you asked him how it transpired, Eddie couldn’t tell you — but somehow, there’s a drunk Steve Harrington on the Munson’s couch.

Physically, he’d hazard a guess Steve walked all the way from whatever party he’d been at. Which is a concern in itself—either Steve wandered through the woods or he wandered quite some way, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

The why of why Steve’s here—why he chose to sought out Eddie in particular—is another mystery altogether.

If Eddie had to guess, he’d say somewhere between the commonality of crashing at each other’s place to keep the nightmares at bay and a night of drinking is how Steve ended up here.

It’s nearing midnight the clock tells him, blinking red from the microwave. Steve’s holding a glass of water that he’s sipped from only once.

And he’s sad.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

“I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.

He should really get up and turn the lamp off, Eddie thinks to himself. Then Steve snuffles in his sleep, uses their intertwined fingers to bring him closer, and he forgets all about it.

[wistfulvulpine]

following the lost star

+ pre-case selfie!

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[kyoomilovr]

cant stop thinking about that post snowy made i have no idea how to link posts on here but ehghhh

[metamatronic]

Any funny moments when you play miitopia?

not what you asked—but this feels more like an attack on my taste tbh. miitopia’s just an isakei for me I suppose

[mizaruwu]

Give it up for court jester Ravio and his dearest assistant Sheerow!

[mayo-is-an-instrument]

[secretly-a-trekkie]

theyre scheming probably