#that's why this part is soooooo...
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dairine-bonnet · 2 days ago
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Canderous *after the battle with rakghouls on Taris*: Here, you shoot first, only then ask questions.
Amnesiac Revan: If I'd done that, you wouldn’t be giving me this advice now.
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mobius-m-mobius · 2 months ago
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#no wait wdym jesus saved him from the saw trap 🙃
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leonardalphachurch · 26 days ago
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temple is an unreliable narrator and is more at fault for biff’s death than he lets on/remembers: juicy. delicious. tragic. what’s the truth? does anyone even remember? how much blame falls on carolina? how much on temple? how much on biff? everyone has a different version of events and they’re all conflicting and no one knows what really happened except that biff ended up dead and temple can never, ever let that go.
temple is an unreliable narrator and is completely at fault for biff’s death and carolina had nothing to do with it: okay well you’ve made it even more boring than canon
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tsukasa · 3 months ago
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tbhk should focus on this stuff more often i have the time of my life when it does
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hotasfahrenheit · 4 months ago
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ope
I GOT CALLED OUT BY @poetry-protest-pornography ONCE AGAIN
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meet-you-at-the-north-star · 9 months ago
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James Badge Dale as Robert Leckie
The Pacific | Guadalcanal/Leckie - screencaps (part 1)
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misiahasahardname · 1 year ago
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screenshot redraws ! yayyyyy
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vacantgodling · 11 hours ago
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HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen
CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)
The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.
Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:
“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”
Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 
“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.
“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 
“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 
The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.
Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.
Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.
Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.
“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 
“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 
“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.
Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”
Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”
Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 
Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.
“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.
“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 
“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.
“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.
“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 
“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 
“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 
If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:
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Ki yin nana ma’sen
I do not talk much
Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo
But the rhythm knows my desires
Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana
Watch me dance and I will show you
Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon
If you leave I will follow
Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da
If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone
Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan
If you are water then I will drink it
Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.
It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.
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“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.
“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”
“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 
“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 
Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”
“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 
“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.
“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 
“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 
“I have sought you out, on occasion.”
“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”
“Our Khoda—”
“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.
“Would you like to try leading me?”
“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.
“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.
Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” 
“Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.
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labradorite-princess · 7 days ago
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Someone yell at me.
I'm skin picking the sores I've made on my face.
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foggyfanfic · 6 months ago
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There comes a point when you are doing too much research for fanfic, and that point is probably way before you’re looking up the interactions between the Cocos and Nazcas plates in order to decide where you would put a fictional island if you want it off the coast of Colombia.
#somebody take the internet away from me#because I am about ten minutes from taking this map of the Teri if plates and using it to map out the Disney Universe#because where would Atlantis be? with all the earthquakes it has to be on a fault line#Beuaty and the Beast takes place in rural France#but what about Frozen? Arandelle is vaguely Norway but is it a part of Norway? or next to it?#Tangled is sorta in Germany (even though their kingdom has a Spanish name)#plus thanks to the TV show we know there’s other kingdoms around Corona that are not Germany#Jesus Christ the Eurasian plate is huge#is this map accurate? it can’t actually be that big#is this why that woman from Amsterdam was so baffled by the idea of earthquakes?#ANYWAY!#this map says that the South American plate is moving west aka converging with the plates immediately west of it#and this map shows an underwater mountain range right where the South American plate meets the Nazcas plate soooooo#that’s where I would put a fictional island#just a little North east of Isla Isabela#it would be roughly triangular#relatively protected from hurricanes but would have frequent earthquakes#hmmmmm technically speaking that’s north of the equator and on the east side of the Pacific Ocean Gyre#so the water at the western beaches would still be pretty cool#the eastern beaches would be warmer#ok I’ve figured out the geography of my fictional Disney kingdom#now…#to figure out the actual plot of this fic#oh and that tag up there should say tetonic plates not Teri If plates#damn autocorrect
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ronanlynchbf · 9 months ago
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ugh like. WHATEVERRRRRRRRR
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willowcrowned · 2 years ago
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the irony of naomi novik’s books having very little fic on ao3 does not escape me. it does however annoy me a great deal
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catboyfurina · 1 year ago
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focalette / neuvalors whatever the ship name is orz
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#beeep#gi#query#i am a trans guy furina truther and i think a lot of fanon neuvalors is really focused on a sort of. somewhat misogynistic (imo) stereotype#idk a lot of fanon seems to really like Big Strong Protector Man and Hysterical Little Emotional Woman#and thaaats not up my alley BUT I SHALL ELABORATE ON WHAT IS !#first of all. i think both of them have feelings and emotions and shit. when fanon is like here are fontaines crybabies that fanon is like#yea. you get it this time#i think furina is really invested in pretending to be who he thinks fontaine wants as an archon#and i think part of that is pretending to be a cis woman. and i think that is also why he's so dramatic and over the top in part#fontaine wants a spectacle so he gives them a spectacle but (as seen by the fountain) does hide the less entertaining side#(or the side that he can't bear to let become entertainment)#and i think he doesn't and or can't hide as much of that from neuvillette#i think when theyre both tired and alone furina can drop the exaggeration . and that. that specifically is soooooo#and tying into the trans headcanon i think nvl is the only one who knows#i still dont think furina has said everything but like. neuvillette being the only one past that first incredibly high wall. yeag#and neuvillette is imo one of those people that likes ppl that are annoying (cough cough just like me fr fr rn)#buuuuut ngl i havent thought as hard about neuvis end of it#...i dont think theyd be together currently in canon tho this is one of those slowburn bait things#also. i don't think furinas a kid pensive emoji. i know its popular on like half the fandom but nnnot my headcanon#i dont think hes acting childish in a child way i think hes acting childish in a clown way#.....hopefully this isnt my sinister!baizhu headcanon moment that ages soooo poorly ahdsjfjshsgh
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infizero · 1 month ago
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stumbles out of we solved fnaf and we're not kidding covered inblood
#i watched all of matpat's reactions to it and i agree with his thoughts on it for the most part#i LOVE that that video exists i really admire people who are willing to start from scratch and reevaluate info the fandom has considered#set-in-stone bcuz i think esp with something like fnaf thats really important. to just take a step back and be like#''we all consider this canon at this point but is it actually? is there really no other explanation?''#and yeah i really admire that ability to just totally take a big swing and go against everything that's been considered well and done#its literally um. almost 6am (insert fnaf joke here) and i still havent gone to bed so. im not gonna write out all my thoughts#BUT. i think cassidy being the crying child is rlly interesting and simplifies things in a way i like while also making other things#way more complicated. so i dont really know. the michael being the vengeful spirit part i do NOT agree with#i get where they were going but a lot of their evidence isnt great and additionally i just dont like the idea bcuz it turns the ending#of pizzeria simulator and UCN from a bittersweet conclusion to a far less satisfying and more bummer ending where its just mike#torturing his dad forever and never getting to move on himself. like no that guy is chillin in the afterlife playing cards with henry#they did point out a lot of other cool stuff too that i hadnt really thought about before like michael in sister location being#stuffed into the same fredbear suit that he put the crying child into. thats soooooo fucking good and makes a lot of sense#again im not gonna go into every little thing but the one thing i disagreed with matpat on which the comment section also#mentioned repeatedly is him saying that he doesnt think william would send michael to his death. as everyone has pointed out#like....... he definitely would. hes like the worst father ever and michael is the scapegoat child who everything is blamed on#yes theres the question of why he would wait so long to ''punish'' michael. but its moreso just that william didnt CARE if michael lived#or died sending him to circus baby's. i really don't think that was a stretch considering william's horrible abusive behavior and literal#status as a serial killer. yeah its fucked up but its definitely not out of the realm of possibility#ANYWAYS. holy fuck i need to go to bed. wild life tomorrow. good night everyone#infizero.txt
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lovesickeros · 1 year ago
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Your writing is actually like so good like i literally can't do that stuff even tho I have written for God knows how many years atp like,,, HOW?? I COULDNT EVEN COME UP WITH A SIMPLE COMPLIMENT AND YET YOU WROTE
“Your eyes glow like the cresting of the sun over the horizon, painting the world in hues of gold – yet it also reminded me of the dipping of the moon below the waves, casting the briefest, most gentle of lights upon the world engulfed in darkness. In the depths of your eyes was the birth and death of stars in the infinite cosmos – glittering stars in a sea of empty, blank space that left me feeling lightheaded and breathless.” - even the gods bleed [pt 2]
JSHDHDJDJDN THANK YOU???? I worry all the flowery language feels awkward but i am a sucker for things like that i shove it into every fic i can..glad 2 know yall like it 🏃‍♂️
im also just incredibly dramatic. it's a careful balance between being descriptive enough to get my themes across but not enough to alienate any readers and if I can't describe colors then I'm going to be a menace to society and describe it in the most vague way possible. enjoy ur 500 word description of a plate /j
#asks#anon#like. i try to avoid mentioning specific characteristics (hair color eye color skin color hair type etc)#but also ensure the general theme of what im trying to convey gets across#like in the part of my fic you mentioned (etheral and otherworldly. a disconnect between humanity and reader)#both from the perspective of the acolytes and from the reader.#almost. whimsical. unnatural. out of place.#reader is the divine but they do not belong there.#i try to be vague with readers personality as well (unless specifically requested otherwise)#but i want there to be an unease. an unatural stillness.#sort of like that feeling when you see something that looks human but its. wrong in a way. in a way you cannot describe#there is something wrong and you do not know what. you know that you must run#so a vague level of horror at play um. but lowkey eldritch horror reader is my fav soooooo#i need reader to be freaking out their acolytes but pushing thru it bc why would they be afraid of their creator? of the divine?#but that feelings of wrongness lingers at the back of their mind every time they are near#also adding to it that i dont really describe about readers eyes is that it. moves#like. whenever readers eyes move so does the view of the stars/planets/galaxies moves with it.#not in the sense that the stars themselves move. but rather that like a camera the focus has been shifted.#and now they are seeing entirely new stars and galaxies.#pats reader this bad boy can fit so much eldritch horror beyond human comprehension in them!#wow this got off topic fast um.#oop 🏃‍♂️
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reflectionsofgalaxies · 6 months ago
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i’ve been cursed by beautiful wide hips that i do not want, and thick thighs that make finding pants that fit near fucking impossible.
if dresses weren’t seen by most people as inherently feminine and i wasn’t wildly uncomfortable being seen in them most of the time, i would wear dresses and nothing else simply for ease of not having to find pants that fit or match my shirts.
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