When I followed you earlier today and then realized this blog wasn't even two days old it made me feel like I invested in a startup.
Do you think if you did the lyrics for Fireflies by Owl City, your database would give us fireflies? (Will also accept owls. And there's a line about sheep too).
String identified:
t
t
t t a a
'Ca t' t a
A a ta
' t
t t ta a ta
' t a
Tat at at t
t' a t a tat ' at ta
Aa ' a
'Ca tg a t
'Ca ' gt a ta g
t ta gtg g
A t t t tac t ac
A tt a a
A c at
A c a t agg a ta
' t a
Tat at at t
t' a t a tat ' at ta
Aa ' a
'Ca tg a t
a a
a t a cac
(a ta aa )
'Ca c a ac
(a ta aa )
t ctg
(a ta aa )
' a t t t a a
T t
' 'ca at g
gt t a t a a
t ' a a
a gt a a
'Ca a a a t a a
' t a
Tat at at t
t' a t a tat ' at ta
Aa ' a
'Ca tg a t
a a
' t a
Tat at at t
t' a t a tat ' at ta
Aa ' a
'Ca tg a t
a a
' t a
Tat at at t
t' a t a tat ' at ta
Aa ' a
ca a a tg at t a
Closest match: Sepia lycidas genome assembly, chromosome: 36
Common name: Kisslip cuttlefish
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i think the thing that really gets me about pre-canon durge is their absolute sense of duty, and their utter isolation outside of the cult of bhaal.
most of the cultists seem eager to see durge upon their return, and one even says they were the first to feed him flesh. gortash tells them of an exhibition of a bhaalspawn's corpse and another bhaalspawn's creations and durge immediately plans to attack the hall of wonder to recover them. they then apparently entrust said bhaalspawn's corpse to sceleritas fel to "restore" through taxidermy. they deride orin for her artistry with corpses explicitly because "bhaal will never care" and because orin "[does] not understand lord bhaal".
even their infamous prayer for forgiveness is framed around their absolute submission to bhaal's plans, and the crime that requires forgiveness? admiring his rival's chosen. that's one line, and the next three paragraphs are swearing to carry out his plan exactly as they've been told to, all for his forgiveness.
hell, even their room reinforces this. orin has barely touched the place aside from installing her mother's corpse and her manifesto - and that is some of the only decoration. what was it before orin, an empty room with skulls, a bed, a desk, some chests and a wardrobe?
the durge didn't have any semblance of a life outside of bhaal, aside from gortash. and is it any surprise? the only other hint they ever had a life outside of the cult is the flashback of kid durge murdering their adopted family, all thanks to their father's urging.
bhaal even tries to force them back into isolation after they've been tadpoled by forcing them to kill alfira, and then trying to force a durge who resists him to kill their lover. if they continue resisting, bhaal kills them. bhaal will not allow them to have a life outside of him and, if it weren't for jergal, he would've succeeded.
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sun, i am on my knees begging while typing rn. PLEASEEEEEE HURT DBF!SIMON BACK. he has hurt reader and gotten away with it tooooo many times
im kinda zooted rn but
beg more, sweet thing.
okok but im feeling mean rn and i do want simon to start regretting. i wonder if it’ll take seeing john price treating his girl right for him to snap out of it. imagine if he got blindsided. if simon assumed that you would never look for affection somewhere else, not because you’re unlovable—dear gods, you are the perfect girl—but because what you needed was someone like simon. someone older, someone who provides for you, who spoils you. but simon got complacent. he thought that sprinkles of affection are enough.
but they aren’t, are they? yes, the thrill had been addicting but you’ve gotten too soft. too in love. you’ve forgotten that this should have been temporary, forgotten that simon isn’t one for commitment. you thought you would continue to be trapped in that endless cycle of eating the scraps of simon’s affection; living off of a passion that gets easily snuffed out.
then, john came along. beautiful and rugged and ‘old man’ john. john whose eyes are a storm as they gazed at you; whose hands have never strayed closer, only swiping your hair away or drying the tears staining your cheeks; whose words are short and curt but gentle and soft, and you realized that the timbre of his voice fills you up with want.
john who strapped his helmet on yours and plopped you on the back of his harley before dropping you off at your dorm. john who didn’t ask for anything—not your number, not a chance to climb up with you to your room. he did not even ask if you were going to be alright—john knew you wouldn’t be, and he rather stay silent than ask you to lie to him.
you felt so out of your element as you stood there, trembling, looking at him.
“i-…thank you,” you said.
john said don’t worry about it. said don’t forget to drink lots of water because crying can cause dehydration, and don’t forget to grab a chew because he heard your stomach grumble on the ride home. you don’t tell him that you are starved for something else so you nod and climb upstairs to your room, thinking that was the last you would see john.
but john isn’t the type to let what he loves slip from his grasp so he began to fill your days. he’s always there when simon can’t—doesn’t—come, filling up the hole in your heart one fragment at a time. always there to distract you from the yawning in your chest. always there to listen to you, to watch you, to spoil you.
he smells of ozone and burnt rubber and petrol. he has weary lines on his face and unimaginable exhaustion buried within his irises. he has scars on his palms and his forearms and on his knees. and yet, he is gorgeous to you. so gorgeous.
john’s the one who tells you he loves you first. you don’t say it back. not yet. he understands.
then, simon confronts him. asks what he’s doing with you; why is he driving you around in his harley; why is he picking you up from uni.
why is he putting a wedge between you and simon?
john downs his bourbon and rumbles, “cause i love her.”
and simon fumbles because—
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