#you’re sick for this

[goblinthefrog]

STRANGER THINGS 4 VOLUME 2 SPOILERS

I have never once connected to a character the way I connected to Eddie. I knew there was a chance he would die, but I need him to live. He meant so much to me and I genuinely can’t explain the pain I feel right now. I just wanted him to live. I don’t care if he didn’t end up actually being queer or whatever. I just wanted him to get that damn diploma and play in his band for the rest of his life. I don’t think I’ll ever connect with a character like I did with him again. Fucking, fuck you duffers

[dozydawn]

Fenton Vaseline Glass Snail, Vintage Yellow Opalescent Uranium Glass

[ghostpunkrock]

when you ask him directly he says no but later he'll tell you one anyway.... real fucked up

[noodles-and-tea]

👀

[sincerelywhistler]

Ooohhhh don’t hurt em now, Davey ‼️

It’s a certain alpha’s proposal audio 1-year anniversary soon and I was feeling sentimental

He’s wearing Gabe’s wedding band around his neck teehee

[ambeauty]

Their friendship and awards season is the gift that keeps on giving 😩

[holographic-mars]

Rereading IDW and how Ravage and Co. found Soundwave and it’s lowkey really funny to me, she really just picked him up off the streets huh

[assiraphales]

the most gentle of zoro yeets

[nounaarts]

I’ll finish this another day is what I’ll keep telling myself for the next week or so

[fizzytoo]

amaya stopped by dali's to fix her sink (show off) and to meet her new cat, frankenstein <3

dali by @beebeesiims

[aro-throughyourchest]

Dream SMP enjoyers will create the most fucked up art and ideas of all time and then smile at you and caption “just beach days”

what the fuck

[bioswear]

I think more people should make peace with their dark sides, and I don’t mean that in an edgy way, I mean that in a “letting purity culture infect you to the point where you get frightened by even your own darker thoughts and impulses is NOT the healthy own you think it is” kind of way and

[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 any more.

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.

[formulapisces]

reblog or <horrific thing will happen to parent>

reblog to get <specific amount of money>

reblog for <luck and something about a crush>

reblog if you aren’t <racist, homophobic, etc>

reblog or else <terrible tragedy happens>

reblog if you care about <obviously a good cause but is baiting you to look like a horrible person if you don’t reblog it>

SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP

[save-the-villainous-cat]

I'm experiencing the worst nasal congestion of my life as I'm typing this so I'm begging for a villain pampering a sick hero, make it fluffy pls 🙏 (only if you want to write this ofc)

“Shirt off,” the villain ordered and the hero — despite protesting — took it off. “Fine. Swallow this.”

The villain gave them the painkillers and a glass of water. Unfortunately for them, the villain needed the hero alive. They were working together but the hero had gotten sick.

And they hadn’t stitched their wounds yet.

“Good. Lie down on your stomach.” The hero rolled with their eyes and sighed, annoyed beyond compare, yet they followed the order.

“I’m fine, you know,” the hero said but the cold had changed their voice and the wound had been looking quite nasty for two days now.

The villain didn’t answer, instead they sat down on the hero’s lower back and pulled the thread through the needle’s head. The hero wanted to turn around to look at them but the villain pushed their head back into the pillows.

“Do you have to sit on my ass?” The villain’s fingers brushed the swollen flesh around the hero’s wound, making the other hiss in pain.

“You can’t keep fighting when you’re injured,” the villain said. “I need you alive for the mission.”

“Because I have all the information?”

The villain didn’t answer. Their fingers were still in the hero’s hair, right where they had pushed them into the pillows. Before they took the alcohol from the nightstand, they let their fingers slide down the hero’s neck.

“You know, people die when they’re sick and working out.”

“It’s a mission,” the hero reminded them. “I can’t afford to get sick.”

“Incompetent behaviour.”

“Rude caretaker,” the hero answered. The villain cleaned the needle and the wound.

This time, the hero’s reaction was something close to a cuss-shriek and the villain felt a little bad for cleaning the wound without a warning.

“Easy…” Once again, their hand went through the hero’s hair and they were more than glad that the hero’s face was buried in the bed. “I need to stitch this and then you can sleep for as long as you please.”

The hero was ready to sacrifice everything, especially themselves and the villain wasn’t satisfied with that decision.

No one matched them in battle like the hero.

No one laughed at their jokes like the hero.

And no one looked at them like the hero.

“Relax, you’re being dramatic,” the villain said, rubbing their hand over the hero’s shoulder. “I’ll be quick.”

“Fine,” the hero mumbled into the pillows. “Can I put my hand on your thigh?”

“Yes.” The villain knew they were blushing. “Squeeze if you have to.”

[dayurno]

what gets me re: kevin with jean is that kevin is seriously the worst. like we see in-text specifically that kevin used to lean into jean’s space to whisper to him and it seems it was common enough to him that he didn’t think much of it (he did it once for asking jean to teach him french then again to make jean promise not to off himself), he said horrible things like ‘it could be our secret’ and ‘i don’t want to lose you’, he wrote jean memories and notes in postcards, he bought jean silly little magnets, even up to the point of tsc canon he was cradling jean’s face and gently touching his hand. so flirty! no wonder jean was down so horribly. no wonder nora sakavic said kevin was always the problem child