Personally, it's always a bit wild to me to see commentators interact with the Hunger Games franchise as if Collins were writing science fiction stories instead of essays with faces. She's just not that interested in fleshing out side characters or digging into the details of the worldbuilding. These characters are concepts and symbols before they're people. There's an almost mathematical precision to who and what she explores and how deeply she does it. This is a step or two away from pure allegory. If she were writing a couple of centuries ago, she'd have named her characters things like Innocence and Anger and Watch-Carefully-Your-Soul-Lest-Ye-Be-Damned, but since she's writing for modern audiences, she has to settle for puns and allusions. If she has another essay to write, she'll assign some faces to it; she's not going to look into backstories or other eras just for the sake of storytelling, and it's not a failing as a writer that she doesn't.
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Thinking about how, at the end of the day, at the fatal moment, the sunset of the Republic, it wasn’t Yoda, or Obi-Wan, or even the Chosen One himself standing in the way of Palpatine. It was Mace Windu.
Mace Windu, the inventor of Vaapad and Master of Form VII, the Jedi's strongest duelist, the only person to ever defeat Palpatine in combat. Mace Windu, Master of the Jedi Council and the youngest Master ever appointed to it, the revered leader of the Order. Mace Windu, who forgave even those who tried to kill him, who risked his life over and over again for his troops, who, after 3 years of desperate war, tried to negotiate with battle droids. Mace Windu, who knew the clones were created by the Sith and chose to trust them, who saw every Shatterpoint in the Republic, and loved it still, and fought for it until his last breath, until he was betrayed by Anakin, who he believed in and trusted despite everything.
Mace Windu, High General and hero of the Republic, the embodiment of the Light, the last and greatest champion of the Order, the best Jedi to ever live.
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How I've seen most people write Rangi coming out to her mom:
Rangi: Mom, I have something to tell you.
Hei-Ran: Go on.
Rangi: Kyoshi and I.....are.....together.
Hei-Ran: Oh I'm so happy for you.
*they hug it out, much wholesome*
How I think the coming out scene went:
Rangi: Mother. I need to tell you something, Kyoshi and I are together.
Hei-Ran: Oh thank the spirits. It finally happened.
Rangi: ???? You knew????
Hei-Ran: Sweetie, everyone in the mansion-no, all of Yokoya knew about it! Well except for Kyoshi.
Rangi: ????!! WHAT?!
Hei-Ran: I'm pretty sure Jianzhu thought you were dating, that's probably why he kidnapped you, you know?
Rangi: WH-HOW?!
Hei-Ran: Oh please, we saw your gay little ass running all over the damn mansion just to be near Kyoshi and to impress her. We were mute, not blind and deaf!
Rangi, having a crisis: I-wha-but-
Hei-Ran: Well, you aren't very good at hiding your emotions sweetie.
Rangi, flipping a nearby table: The fuck you mean I'm not?????!
Hei-Ran: Oh curses, go get Atuat, I owe her $5.
Rangi: YOU BETTED ON THIS????? WITH YOUR DOCTOR?????
Hei-Ran: Well Kelsang is dead, so I had to keep our bet alive somehow.
Rangi: I-*inhales* YOu know what? Doesn't matter! Do you accept Kyoshi or not?
Hei-Ran: Anybody who gives my girl that much cardio is 100% welcome into our family. In fact, I already added her to our family registry 2 years ago. As far as the Fire Nation is concerned, you two have been married for a while.
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I haven't been able to watch a ton of animated things over the last few years for a multitude of reasons (reason 1 being they're VERY distracting while I work, but I jumped back on the TDP train today and HERE ARE SOME DOODLES.
Listen, Aaravos has no RIGHT being…that way with THAT character design and also being that terrible. Horrible little bastard man (affectionate). Anyway, these are the ones who jumped out to me after my watch through so, enjoy XD
It's been a long time, but wow, they really fit my style ahaha XD
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☆ from gold, i am undone
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts
{☆} word count 0.9k
You weren't meant to be here.
You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.
You are changed, and you are whole.
But you are so unbearably broken.
A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.
Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.
All you see is a monster.
Something new, something old.
A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.
But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.
You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.
But you know it will not satisfy you.
Nothing does anymore.
You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.
And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.
There is nothing left but absolute authority.
You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?
Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.
Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.
You welcome it.
It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.
Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.
You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.
For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?
Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?
Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?
Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.
For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.
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Tonight’s waking up in a cold sweat at 2am mwiii thought is:
Ghost jumping to defend Soap’s honour and taking a dig at Price in the process. I’m too half-conscious to look up exact dialogue but after the flashback, Price apologises to Soap (for not letting him kill mak like he so desperately wanted.) Soap in turn responds with something like “It was the right call at the time,” professional, despite being so clearly riled up about it all. And immediately Ghost is inserting himself in with a brutally disdainful “At the time,” directed at Price. What the fuck.
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