mydearwtson

[mydearwtson]

[mydearwtson]

Thanks for sexualizing peoples trauma fuckhead

anytime

[mydearwtson]

Literally any show can be improved by adding more older women. Not many know this, but it’s true.

[mydearwtson]

collection of fonts i like / use a lot! all of these are free to download on the given site underneath. feel free to like & rb if this collection is useful.

[mydearwtson]

its of metal from heaven.... if I could write down all the prose I would

This calamity is a promise made to you. A prayer to you, and to your shadow which has become my second self, tucked behind me eye and growing in tandem with me, progressing outwards through the pupil, the smarter, truer, almost bursting reason for our wrath. Do not doubt me. Just look. The future stains the bleakness so pink. 

We had stood like this all night and now a gorgeous orange morning fell over Burn Street. Sunlight licked between bruising limestones, smokestacks and telegraphy spires, and the crumbling knuckled colonnades of an empire that’s long gone. Stripes of yellow everywhere. Yann I. Chauncey himself was depicted in a stained glass window above the foundry door. He watched from above in flat candy colors. 

The breeze melted on my tongue. Noxious and creamy. Far-off shops roasted cloves, quails, apricots, and wafting off the cobbles came a greasy wet animal petrichor and that citric bright zing of ichorite. Screaming birds unfurled from the eaves. 

[mydearwtson]

Lucrèce by Artemisia Gentileschi (detail)

[mydearwtson]

my qm stats rn are blowing my skull what !!!! is ! happening to me

[mydearwtson]

reminder to worldbuilders: don't get caught up in things that aren't important to the story you're writing, like plot and characters! instead, try to focus on what readers actually care about: detailed plate tectonics

[mydearwtson]

the venus girdle (cestum veneris) | aquatilis_expedition on ig

[mydearwtson]

this is the beginning of a historical fiction novel but honestly huge space opera lore inspo

[mydearwtson]

there is blood in the holy water 🩸

Photo by Iulia Iepure

insta | shop

[mydearwtson]

clinging desperately to this beta reader feedback

[mydearwtson]

agnes-briosch: stained glass window at petit palais, paris.

[mydearwtson]

[mydearwtson]

chaos terminal bookmarks !! there are. two lol

Eternity's social area for most oxygen breathers resembled a park, if it was drawn by a human child with crayons. The trees were purple, the sky was a dull orange with a fake sun crawling across it, and the green area was surrounding by a wide walkway and a series fo smaller kiosks and larger freestanding buildings for restaurants and services (the classic doctor, dentist, the Gneiss filer, which Mallory kept meaning to ask her friends about -- what did they file there?)

It was much larger than an elevator on Earth, with fuzzy walls and floor, something between carpet and fur. She tried not to think about it very often, but just now she realizes it was warm.

[mydearwtson]

returning to my ROOTs, some bookmarks from Liquid Snakes

The morning after the Blackout, as the memers, then the influencers, then the formal media dubbed it, Blake was there to nudge "epidemic of suicide" into the trending topics. The body count was lower than that of the four mass shootings that also occurred that Saturday, but those killings didn't have a photogenic and articular mayoral candidate to Robespierre them into addressing the real threat to public safety.

It was awkward to be so forthright with a stranger, to lust for their approval.

An opaque benefactor loomed behind all the succour and generosity.

a triptych of satisfaction

As this family fingered its scar tissue, tunnelling and scraping and digging so that the seepage could take on a form that they could memorialize and cherish, that Ebonee might pathologize, everyone in this cramped, ornate dining room new this awkward ritual produced an approximation. The dead girl was dead.

Her voice, lowered to a severe, unnatural calm that was soft as the peace right before a thunderstorm, signalled noncompliance was unthinkable...

His face dispensed a confirmation receipt

Streaks of violet and cinnabar sunlight smeared across the windhsield

His friend was forever privy to some private humor, no matter the situation.

her sciatica was a murmur rather than a siren

His sincerity was disarming

His command of the tiny space was balletic. He bent, pivoted, reached, every movement fluid.