i haven't posted in a while because i'm currently under intensive workload and i'm kinda burnt out from it fighting for my life ngl
DONALD!!!!!!!! I am clinging to this man for dear life!!!! I would perform open-heart surgery on myself for this pathetic creature wtf!!!!
I love what they've done with his character in the animated series of Invincible!! Comic Donald is cool in his own way, but his animated counterpart just HITS different. This miserable man earned his sad meow meow status
Second sketch is me trying to decipher his body type because the artstyle clearly doesn't do justice to chubby muscular bodies and clearly, if they want Donald to be muscular, they can't unchonk him. Gotta do the lord's work.
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I've determined that my relationship to groups of straight men is I'm like a cute little monkey that can do tricks for them (ex. at a party at uni one time one of the guys brought like a 5kg(?) dumbbell from his room and had me try n lift it with my tiny E-based spaghetti arms, and when I labourously managed to they all cheered), or like- when I wanna say smth, they'll shush their other lads like "yo, shut up, the monkey's gonna talk! I wanna hear what it has to say!", like they don't sexualise me (cause issa monkey) but they're still endeared to me (cause is tiny and cute)
like you know those capuchin monkeys that people put in little outfits, that's what lads see when they look at me
it's giving freak show (affectionate) a little bit, but I think straight men not being interested in me while still being nice to me is possibly the best nonbinary deal I coulda gotten out of this
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The NoN Tumblr, please talk to me, is anyone there, can anyone hear me, there's a goober in my head, plea
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"Tell me again," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.
"I love you."
How long has it been since he heard those three little words? He had never gotten used to such simple expressions of affection in the past, and he certainly hasn't gotten used to it now after months of cessation. He can't bear to look at her. Tears start to well up in his eyes; his words are strangled in his throat. He is weak (always, still) for her and her alone.
"Again."
She says his name so sweetly that he can hear her smile when she says it, feeling the ghost of her soft fingers gently holding his cheek from the deepest vestiges of his memory.
"I love you."
His knees buckle under the weight of her love, sinking to the ground painfully swift in front of her. She doesn't motion to stop him, unable to.
"Please."
He doesn't know if he is asking her to continue or to stop because it's so much, too much.
"I love you. I'll love you forever and always. I'm yours."
And then he pitifully sobs at her feet, caving in on himself and shaking with his hands covering his face. He wants to hear those words cried from her lips for the rest of eternity, he wants them to be the last thing she says, he wants it all to be the truth. A part of him knows that her words are only honeyed lies and that she just repeated the sweet nothings he used to tell her once upon a time. Her tone sounds loving, but he knows, he knows that she's an actress who pleads with him for her life. But if he closes his eyes, he can imagine that those precious words are true.
She is still tied to a plush chair: strong, stable, yet suffocatingly soft (for her comfort, all for her) in a soundproofed room he designed to look familiar to her. He can't let her go. But he desperately wishes that his heart was able to so he could free her and himself from his violent lovesickness and prison of his own making.
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