#it refuses to let me @ you; so.)

[solanj]

The Imperium warrants any sacrifice

[doydoune]

something something about mentors and cycles and mentors and cycles

[egophiliac]

CROWLEY SSR THOUGHTS

there is zero basis for this, but I can't get this thought of my head

I don't know why I decided to draw it this way

[watermelinoe]

you cannot convince me that these people don't just hate women

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

ISAT & Dungeon Meshi swap!

[spicyet]

What are you looking for here? Scroll back up.

Just kidding, here’s a treat:

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A digital drawing of Lynne Hammond and Celia from The Magnus Archives drawn from the shoulders up. Both are slim Korean women with light skin. Lynne has long black hair in a high ponytail with a middle part, and she is wearing a white turtleneck, gold hoop earrings, industrial piercings, and a necklace, and winged eyeliner. Celia has a fully shaved head and patchy eyebrows, dark circles under her eyes, and she is wearing a purple scarf and dull green coat, and no jewelry. Lynne is looking at the viewer blankly, and Celia is smiling very anxiously up and to the side. Lynne is labelled as "Lynne Hammond" and Celia is labelled with "Celia" in quotes. The background is a grainy blur of green and purple and there is a faint overlay of pencil sketch lines over the whole image. end ID]

~~~~

finally decided to draw my versions of Lynne and "Celia" pre-protocol era. i already had a mental image of Lynne so i Refused to change it cuz i think it'd be fun if she was Very Different after her factory reset aksjhakdhj. i call her "is comp-femme a thing" and then ofc "celia" is. looking rough <3 and then she had her butch awakening in the protocol verse and that's my regular celia design YAY <3

[the-strawberryfarmer]

“I’m not letting him go”

:’)

[elsecrytt]

masochist gojo. gojo who's in love with pain, so much that it feels like pleasure, he can barely distinguish between the two anymore.

gojo who's so starved for touch. who's had an infinite space between himself and the whole world for so long, for so many years, every day in and day out.

gojo who's survived off glancing presses when a barista hands him a coffee, the rare hug from his students (who are mostly orphans) that he can't bring himself to decline.

gojo who craves more but can't bring himself to accept it except in fleeting moments with strangers or students.

his hands that long to be held. he wants it so bad that he teases a cursed spirit, laces his fingers with its own, right before he utterly crushes the being in battle, untouchable all over again.

gojo whose skin is hungry for someone else's. he hasn't felt the warmth of a hand in his own in so long. not since - since his youth.

gojo who sometimes wishes he could get hit. who sees the impact of curse techniques on his infinity and feels a wild, strange desire for them to go straight through and strike him.

he imagines it, vividly, being impaled by a long spear (inverted spear) that goes straight through him. how it would lance his flesh so cleanly.

being struck so hard, across the face, in the stomach, enough to knock the wind out of him.

enough to feel it with his whole body.

gojo who wants to be touched so bad he doesn't even care if it hurts anymore. infinity couldn't protect him from geto's betrayal.

gojo who keeps infinity up not because he doesn't want to get hit, but because he's terrified of what he might do when it happens.

gojo who got hard whenever geto sparred with him. he still doesn't know if it was because of geto, or because he had no infinity back then, no way to block the strikes.

he dreams of his youth. bruises littering his pale, pretty form like kisses, proof that he was human, there, that there was someone who could reach him.

dark purple things that turned pretty colors as they healed. he remembers pressing into them, relishing the hurt, feeling like he was getting hit (touched, reached, connected) all over again.

nothing ever touches him again. not like that. not like anything.

he never feels it. he never feels anything.

satoru gojo who wants, so very very badly, to feel something.

pain is a choice for him, always a choice. he alone has the privilege of deciding whether or not anything can touch him.

he could try to let more strangers touch him. one night stands, discreet arrangements. he had a pretty face and a body to match. there was no shortage of willing partners.

he lets them touch him, lets them hurt him. lets them drool over his body and use it at their leisure. they tell him he's beautiful, and he believes them.

white hair, blue eyes, sprawled out with a lean, unmarred body full of bare flesh for them to bite and scratch and bruise. he finds people who will do it, do it hard, fuck him up until he's lost entirely in the feeling of being touched, having someone against him, with him, above him.

it makes him feel like a piece of meat. it makes him feel good.

or he thinks it does, anyways.

sometimes, when he's gone particularly long without sleep, when his partner has gone particularly hard, he gets a real rush.

heart racing out of his chest. a cold sweat that overwhelms him. breaths coming in labored gasps. he can heal himself, he's physically fine, so this must all be in his head.

he acknowledges that information, distantly, like it's not happening to him. it doesn't help.

it feels like part of his body has been ripped away from him, something vital and important, and it's about to get up and run away.

always, always, it happens when his partner is no longer touching him. when he lays alone in the sheets, by his own volition, because of course these partners are not meant to be attachments.

love is not a privilege, though, not for the strongest sorcerer. it's a curse.

it's the only curse which infinity cannot protect him from.

so gojo stays untouchable. distant.

but the hunger doesn't go away. never.

he likes to imagine that suguru swallowed this one last curse before he died. something sweet and bitter, like losses at the arcade, sunny days at the beach, walking together with shoko, nanami, haibara.

but even suguru couldn't have absorbed this curse. it's in his bones, deep, longing and wanting even after he's dead and gone.

gojo is hungry. he is so, so hungry. and he has nothing to eat that will not leave him just as empty as before.

touch-starved. love-starved. pain-craving.

if someone could hurt him then it wouldn't matter that he was terrified of attachment. they could latch onto him, into his heart, under his skin. bury themselves in his chest like they belonged.

they could kill a hundred and twelve people and it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't be able to kill them.

gojo is hungry, so hungry.

please feed him.

[theactualsunshinechild]

I think Aventio and Screwtio shippers shouldn't fight. After all, Ratio has two hands!

That's right. Two hands.

One for his chalk.

One for his codex.

Both of which he's holding in an embarrassed death grip as they chat away with each other about him.

[arctixout]

x

[ind1c0lite]

something about desperately wanting to trust

[casualavocados]

#he doesn't want to fight with you ai di, he wants to Kiss🙄💘🥺

Nat Chen as CHEN YI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023)

[ineffectualbookseller]

The way Azirphale is underestimated and practically infantalized by heaven is so closely tied to his femininity and I think we should talk about it more because I just want to shout about how relatable the way he's treated in his workplace is as a woman working in a traditionally male field

It's in all the little niggling comments from your boss about personal things that hold no bearing on your work

and the assumption that what you're doing must be simple if it was assigned to you

your work is trivialized

and you get these the placating smiles when you're told plans and proposals are rejected and passed over

or when your complaints are dismissed

and you get more of the same from upper management

it all feels so frustrating and draining but you're at work so all you can do is take a breathe put on that mask and move on with your day

It is all so deteimental to your emotional well being and textually, so much of this is tied to Aziraphale's softness, his gayness - his femininity

The thing about working in an environment and gives you this feeling - of being simultaneously destrought watching your belief in yourself get chipped away but also just so irate becuase you know you don't deserve it - is how it builds. It sinks under your skin and feeds into this indignant dejection until you can have a moment of release - but Azirphale doesn't get to bitch about it over drinks with friends, he doesn't get a lunch break where he can go for a walk and listen to an angry scandi death metal playlist, he doesn't even get the chance to cry about it in the bathroom for 5 minutes before confronting it again

(And I talked a little bit about it in the tags of this beautiful photoset but this all comes into play whenever Crowley dismisses his plans or calls him an idiot. These are purely emotional reactions; I really don't think Crowley means much by it - he respects Aziraphale's opinion and genuinely thinks he's brilliant - but Crowley is so quick to use this terminology when Aziraphale is making a decision Crowley thinks is wrong and he doesn't know how much this hurts Aziraphale. Just like Aziraphale doesn't understand the true impact the Fall had on Crowley, Crowley doesn't understand the ways heaven has been tearing away at Aziraphale's self worth)

Aziraphale has been facing this constant drip of denigration since before the beginning of time and has never released the pressure valve. At this point, he's a bomb waiting to go off

[unpretty]

my final verdict now that i am nearing the end of this clusterfuck is that if you are setting up your own website to sell or paywall content you should not bother sending a newsletter unless you're really fucking determined

i am now paying for

SMTP2GO to actually process emails and not have them get sent straight to spam (note that the free version of this works fine for basic account stuff for your users) [this is $10 a month or $100 a year]

MailPoet refused to actually send emails for me but i still have to pay for the creator plan that doesn't include processing emails, because that's the only way to ensure that only paying members get emails (sending emails to nonpaying members would make it even more expensive) [this is $11 a month or $114 a year]

a PO box, because you're required to have an address in the footer of your emails and i'm not giving out my home address [this is $19 every three months or $58 a year]

none of which i would have to do if i just kept saying "if you want emails use an rss to email service like feedrabbit, here's a link, good fucking luck"

[visenyaism]

Anastasia is THE ghost haunting the lockedtomb narrative. Failed the lyctor trials because she could not bear to ask her cavalier, someone she loved, to die for her. Her punishment for that act was to be asked to guard the tomb and die for Alecto, who swore a cavalier oath to her quietly in the cold dark. Anastasia was too human and Alecto wasn’t human enough and so they got sent into the dark together to waste away. And she died. But she’s the only Cavalier whose name is remembered by her house!!!!! The Ninth was never supposed to exist but carried on and on for a Myriad because of the resilience and love and devotion Anastasia, the only human on the Mithraeum, had for the world.

All of her descendants have to be necromancers because that’s what love is, and that’s what god is: someone has to pass the candle to the next one forever. Anastasia died for Alecto, so now all her descendants have to LIVE for her. That promise is too much to ask of anyone. It’s what kept the Ninth House and their memory alive in the face of the negligence of god himself, but it’s also a curse. Anastasia’s oath is what dooms Harrowhark into being a war crime since her birth, it’s Gideon dying for Harrow because she doesn’t know how to live for her, but it’s also what made baby Harrow sneak down into the tomb and see Alecto and decide that she wanted to live…..love is god and love is a curse and god is a promise to endure made between a fallen angel and a failed disciple sent to languish in a tomb ten thousand years before the story even began. and they were both girls