#I just want to stop being sick

[cherry-treelane]

all i feel is loneliness all i do is self-destruct

[dirtytransmasc]

having non chronically ill family is so fucking hard. they've never been ignored for years until there health issues have manifested from something manageable to something that will never go away, never stop hurting, never get better. they've never been ignored cause their BMI is above average so losing 10 pounds in the few months isn't a concern, never been told they should actually lose more weight while talking to a doctor about not being able to eat for days on end. they just don't understand and think that just because they're "going slow" at the start, means they'll actually do something in the long-term, when in reality, they either don't care or don't believe you and want to slap an anxiety diagnosis on you and move you on your way. they just don't understand.

[lwieserce]

Guys ughhhhhhh

[melouthechalk]

chipi chipi chapa chapa

ok people who is here: @tibbycaps @aresonist @vexdraticc @hopepetal @applestruda and @cherrifire wont tag anyone else under bc holy kittens there's a lot

I DREW AS MUCH AS I COULD.... OH MY GOD.... and Phil as breeze too lmao (i tried)

i know so many people here...oh my god... this is tragic.....

I HOPE I DIDNT FORGOR ANY LITTLE THINGS AAAGHHHHHHH

[crengarrion]

edit: please read my additions at the bottom before reblogging this post. please do not reblog this post without also reblogging the others i've linked!

if you saw my reblog(s) of ahmed's donation posts in which he includes his crypto wallets (and my links to those posts), anyone else's posts explaining how to donate to him using those wallets, or any aid post that mentions his ability to accept cryptocurrency and decided to villianise him and accuse him of being hamas for it... you are repulsive. you are not welcome here.

people are dying. paypal and ko-fi take percentages. paypal has a monthly withdrawal limit. i'm the first to admit i know nothing about cryptocurrencies, but ahmed has said it goes directly to him without a service taking a cut. i assume there are fewer or no withdrawal limits. it is harder to track and less regulated, which, in this case, provides an additional layer of security for people being precision targeted. get over it.

anyway. donate to ahmed's ko-fi. donate to ahmed's paypal. follow ahmed @90-ghost for updates on how to help him, and check his ko-fi and tumblr posts for updates. send him a nice ask. reblog his posts depicting he and his family's life in gaza. read tumblr user neaeach (naoual sahe)'s interview with ahmed. bring hope. listen to palestinians, don't speak over them.

ahmed's reblog of his interview, with a link to it:

direct link to the interview:

edit: i don't need reblogs, but palestinians, muslims, arabs, and other people suffering directly due to zionism and islamophobia do! please reblog their posts!! @el-shab-hussein has also made a post about these accusations against ahmed, which @fairuzfan added onto. and please reblog this post with ahmed's latest ko-fi update and all the ways you can DIRECTLY donate to him! thank you

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother further. No, Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[donelywell]

Seeing your art really is the visual equivalent of fluffy boi naptime snuggles

Jokes aside- thank you! I really do love drawing the warm sleepy stuff, so this means a lot!

[triglycercule]

nightmare viewing the murder time three as little toys but more in like a little spoiled kid kinda way. because it would be funny and if you take into the account that he was like 6 before getting corrupted and do some mental loopholes it would be even funnier. like these are his dolls (killer dust and horror) and this is their barbie dreamhouse (his castle). they all have to stay in one room because nightmare needs to keep his toys in a toy box. the toys only ever come out when he wants to play but oh damn it they keep on breaking out!! silly toys,,, and then he locks them into the room again.

nightmare serves them food with plastic tea cups and plastic plates and there is no food. there is no tea. they have to imagine the food because dolls can't literally eat. there are food containers and stuff in the house but its all just a bunch of empty boxes. horror starts tweaking out after he scavenges the kitchen and finds a cereal box and milk carton that have NOTHING in it (why keep empty boxes?????)

they have to go where he wants them to go. nightmare gets to dress them up in whatever he wants because theyre his dolls they can wear anything he wants. it gets incredibly embarrassing when the trio is forced to wear pink pretty dresses and fight like that. or they have to go around the castle doing stupid fucking roleplays and it gets weird because theyre being forced to reenact a bullying scene and nightmare's giving them the death stare if they don't get it right (is this projection. this must be some form of coping mechanism dust theorizes)

and then you know nightmare's not exactly the best toy owner so he loses a few of his dolls here and there. maybe they get destroyed when he was playing a bit too rough with them! (killer dies in battle for like the 29th time) but its okay because he can just go back on down to the store (something new) and buy. wait no. steal another doll and then put it back in his dreamhouse and BOOM he has a full set again!! so sweet so cute. his dolls don't have consciousness what are you talking about theyre begging to be let go?? that's all just your imagination. what do you mean you're asking about the several slowly dying bodies with removed arms or legs in his dungeon. oh that's just where the broken but not yet destroyed toys go dw theyre fine its humane

[xxplastic-cubexx]

need a hardened respectful fujo to sit down with james mcavoy and discuss cherik with him insteada this peanut gallery cause if i have to hear people laugh about a gay ship one more time i just might eat rocks

[talesoftheesun]

I refuse to acknowledge anything that happened in this volume. none of this happened. must've just been a heat induced fever dream. nope. no way.

[callie-flower]

"proship dni" this, "comship dni" that, "neutral dni" unfortunately the people you don't like are still human and deserve comfort. my fucking god shut the hell up you're just as annoying as they are and protest WAY too much about it. go unlearn your purity morality shit

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

note: i was thinking indoor spaces in particular, but forgot to mention it in the question itself in time!

[winepresswrath]

i am going to wind up on team #justiceforarmand but it's going to be so situational. justice for armand specifically during the period of time louis is all "oooh who needs labels." a very different kind of justice for armand on matters pertaining to claudia.

[burnt-kloverfield]

Spicy Mormon Take: Use your agency. Use it thoroughly. Make choices. Make mistakes. Do something different. Do what you want and become your whole perfect person. You're not going to become a whole perfected human being if you're constantly worried that you haven't given up your agency to God. He gave that to you. If He wanted you to be a carbon copy person who does no wrong, you wouldn't have it, now, would you? That was Satan's plan, to have no agency. God wants you to make decisions, to take action, to learn and grow from the results of your actions. "Your agency is the only thing you can give God." False. You can give Him a show. He is going to love you no matter how you use your agency, so you might as well revel in this beautiful thing we've been given. You get to decide what you do! Isn't that so cool??? Go be you! Make your choices! They're yours! Use your agency!

[hayaku14]

kuroba toichi you need to stay dead or im going to fucking kill you myself

[xysidhequeen]

Current count since I last slept: 41 hours.

I think I've capped out at 46 before, I'm not sure because my worst fit of insomnia had me in no position to check times. But I'll say 46. So if we hit 48 we're setting personal records!