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@molecularricee
Hey!! i just realized i never posted about it on here but my commissions are open!! I do them through kofi (my link is https://ko-fi.com/molecularrice ) and i would super appreciate any support, including reposts. if you have other questions or just want to comm me through tumblr, my messages are open š«¶š«¶ hope you are all having a great day
Become a supporter of El (any pronouns) today! ā¤ļø Ko-fi lets you support the creators you love with no fees on donations.
I really wish butchhood wasn't conflated with being a protector so much, honestly.
I'm a very vulnerable butch. I'm chronically ill, invisibly physically disabled, and have a lot of mental health issues. My masculinity doesn't inherently make me more strong or powerful.
But there's a huge amount of butch culture built on butches being protective of femmes, or just being strong and working in very physically laborious jobs. It feels disheartening to be locked out of a major part of my culture, just because I'm disabled.
So here's to all the disabled butches who want, or are expected to, be strong because toxic masculinity has taught us the mascs are the protectors, but we can't be.
We're the ones who need people to slow down for us. We're the ones who need to sit down and catch our breath after walking a bit. We're the ones who need help. And that doesn't make us any less butch.
i think this is true but i also think a lot of people say ābutchā when they really mean āmascā. the term butch was designed largely in relation to blue collar, masculine women who took on a provider role in relationships, not just the aesthetic of masculinity. the term masc is a lot broader and just means āmasculine presenting peopleā without the additional cultural context.
HI EVERYONE sorry for disappearing. again. i need somewhere to post my COD art (iām hyperfixating hard). so here i am! have a price. expect more cod art soon
My wife is walking towards me across the dancefloor, and as she passes, the hollow dancers wither, their ribcages folding in upon themselves, bowing in deflation.
Allegraās face is cut with blood-black lines, etched squares and streets.
Her face is a jigsaw. Her face is a map.
Her eyes are doorways.
THIS IS AMAZING WTFFFFF I LOVE IT SM??!?? i just finished eskew a couple weeks ago and i lovveeee it, this is such a perfect depiction of the club scene
can everybody be quiet im working on my tma au where everythingās the same except theyre american now
theyre drinking big beverage and eating burger nowā¦.
this au is rapidly leaving joke territory, good luck with that 6 month coma jon i know your ass doesnt have health insurance
thsi is the most beautiful (horrible) thing ever. thank you ophi for sending this to me
i hope they confirm alice being trans not in a serious conversation but rather while they're like. exploring the magnus institute ruins and she trips and just goes "this floor is so fucking transphobic" and then they never mention it again
Inosaku doodle based off that one Twitter meme about lesbian ships :3c
put the Archivist in a washing machine call that Jonathan Spins
In protocol weāre working with digital media yeah?
Fanfiction Leitner
imagine the protocol version of leitner is just some gay teen who spends all their time on ao3 and randomly started stumbling across fanfiction that would curse you to like. have a foot fetish.
revised sam sketches i did this morning. tma fans follow me iām so cool and sexy and i make art
YOU WOULDNT DOWNLOAD AN ARCHIVIST
honk shoo honk shoo
themmmmm i miss them sm
first rough sam and alice designs :0 i love them sm already i cant wait for the next episode heheheheh ALSO feel free to talk to me about tma or anything really, i love talking to you guys :3
hey guys so. you may be asking where iāve been. iāve been right here. avoiding socialization. my bad. Iāve recently gotten into TGCF so expect a good amount of fanart for that ummmm. iāll still talk about tma donāt worry i wonāt abandon you
Sometimes I sit and think about how isolated Itachi was from the stem of existence that pushes through turbulent life.. He didn't have a part of himself that belonged to him, that was solely his. His identity or sense of self was stripped from him when he was barely able to walk. His needs as a child which are basic for every newborn, love, value, patience, a voice, formulaic and necessary to grow into a functioning adult, were denied all rights by his mother and father on account of internal warfare. What about his extended family? Did he have aunts and uncles who bonded w/him? Did they root for him when he accomplished his first steps, did they bring him little gifts and take family picnics and defend him when his mother got fed up with him being a naughty kid? Was Itachi ever allowed to be a naughty kid? Was he ever allowed to visit his cousins for play time as a kid? Sleepovers and holiday outings?
Did he ever have anyone in his corner AT ALL?
No Itachi was thrust into the underbelly of war when he was 4 years old and his father brought him to a warzone, a valley of decomposing bodies, corpses that wreaked of blood and guts and bodily fluids. Out in the open. His father didn't do it to protect him from what was to come, to shield his formative sensibilities from the dangers of the ninja world, he did it to MANIPULATE and SECURE A WIN in the clan's favor. Here he had a son who exceeded every milestone a parent could pray for. Why not extort, manipulate, mansplain, manlight, and emotionally abuse my firstborn into becoming the ninja he was meant to be, through the flimsy front of a father who means well, all the while shaping his developing mental facilities into a tool for the future of the clan.
You can be sure Fugaku gloated and preened as he poetically unfolded the horrors of war to baby Itachi, ignoring that he was terrified to the point where he had nightmares every night of dead, blown up bodies or stray limbs, strewn discriminately with entrails and bones, swimming in a river of gore and blood. You can be sure it was those images Itachi saw every night when he closed his eyes, and when he woke up sweating and holding back screams no one was around to console him, hold his shaking and grieving lost soul until the convulsions calmed down, no one expected that of a prodigy.
No one expected a prodigy to be anything less than a killing machine, a well oiled infantry soldier, a perfectly honed stroke of luck for a clan who only knew abandonment and discrimination. Itachi was their shining light, their promising future, their only hope. No one expected a prodigy to distrust them, to turn against its own kin, to reshape the fate of all the ninja lands. No one expected a prodigy to betray them. No one expected a prodigy to fall. To fail.
Did Itachi have friends? Sasuke was the closest mirage he had to the living world. Sasuke was his constant. Shisui gave up. Shisui abandoned him. Every morsel of any shred of comfort Itachi longed for was slowly and deliberately removed from him, one by one, methodically by fate. The only last detail remaining was either to kill himself, or weild his hand and let fate steal the one last remaining bit of rationality, and that was choice. Itachi never had a choice from the moment he was conceived, to the moment his dying and crippled body failed him.
Itachi was never allowed a wife. Children of his own. A legacy. He didn't have a choice. He was never allowed to grow old. Grandchildren. He wasn't allowed the privilege of seeing Sasuke grow with his family. He wasn't allowed to love his nieces and nephews. He wasn't allowed the gift of settling down and pass on his genes to future prodigies. To thirst for the love of a woman. He wasn't to have connections that weren't of state and sanctioned by his superiors. Every single move he made was pre-planned and concerned with authority. Every single minutiae of his entire existence was woven with the fate of many others. Every aspect of life failed Itachi, from his family to his friends, to his superiors to his own body.
Sasuke was the only anomaly, the only piece of the puzzle that was whole, unmarred from the destructive forces commanding Itachi's fate.
(Sasuke discourse coming.)
- Written by my friend who is too lazy to post this on her blog and only wrote this to distract me from the fact that she hasn't started writing any of our fic
HATERS DO NOT CROSS THIS THRESHOLD.. Take your pathetic hate for a 2D drawing and whine on your own cringe blogs.
iām feeling normal and average.
Seaside Town Gothic
The wind blows through the boats in the port. It makes a low sound, and, if you listen closely, you think you can hear voices.
The seagulls have been gathering more than usual. In car parks and on lamp posts, telephone wires, chimney pots and in the streets. Their voices fill the air with bloodcurdling screams. You make sure not to meet their gaze.
Thereās an island about a mile offshore. Youāre sure it wasnāt there yesterday, but youāre also sure itās always been there. Faint memories come to you on the wind of picnics there long ago. You frown at what should be a familiar landscape. By morning, the island is gone.
The arcade is bustling, noisy, penny machines and the smell of hot dogs an attraction for the tourists. Colours and sounds entice them in. You never see anyone come out.
Every street you turn onto has a charity shop. They are staffed by little old ladies with teeth longer than you think teeth should be. Donations Wanted, claim the signs in the window. Donations Wanted, Donations Wanted, Donations Wanted.
A sea mist rolls in, hanging over the coast like a blanket. It moves on the air like streams. Familiar landmarks become obscured and then completely disappear. When it recedes, nothing feels quite the same. Youāre sure there wasnāt a pier there before.
The fog horns are bellowing in the shipping lane, the low roar echoing over the water. There is no fog to warn of. You hurry inside and lock the door.
Your train is delayed. A mechanical voice apologises for the delay. A train to a different location arrives. Nobody boards yet when it leaves the platform is empty. Sorry for the delay to this service, blares the voice, louder this time. Your train is never coming.
The sea is grey. It has always been grey. Except for when it turns shades of vivid crimson. Nobody mentions when it turns inky black.
Major @jonnywaistcoat vibes hereā¦
Your damn right !
this is literally peter lukas if peter lukas was an aesthetic instagram girlie
re listening to mag 120 giggles. iām an elias fucker and proud.
