#D∆WN

[web-novel-polls]

Web Novel Women Tournament 

[Please be kind and respectful in the notes. Anti-Propaganda is NOT allowed.]

Wen Qing from Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation

Submission: She is everything! She doesn't get enough screen time in the novel, but that proves just how amazing she is to make such an impression in spite of it. She is a great big sister, to both her brother Wen Ning and the protagonist Wei Wuxian. She is stern but kind. She's a doctor. She throws needles at people. She's everything! 

Previous Propaganda (MXTX Side Characters Tournament):

Su Xiyan from The Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System

[No propaganda submitted]

Additional Propaganda:

Time for some Propaganda! For someone who doesn't even appear in the main story, Su Xiyan is so important. She fell in love with someone she shouldn't have and died because of it. She kickstarted the whole plot and everything I know about her says she's amazing. For someone who we never see alive, her motivations are so important to the story. We know what she did, but finding out why she did it is so important. She helped save the world and she was dead at the time. She's a queen and I love her.

[elizabeth-mitchells]

[peculiarbeauty]

hiii !!!! omg say hi back pls . acknowledge my existence my cute mutuals. also known as cuteuals ...

[zappedbyzabka]

I know Johnny’s bitchiness (affectionate) does something for Daniel. Just look at his expression lmao

[possibilistfanfiction]

nightmare for the one word prompts

[a little sad but mostly very silly, butch bea universe]

//

'i really don't have to go today,' beatrice says, kissing your forehead before settling down next to you on the couch. you know she means it: beatrice means everything she says, first of all, and you have grown — despite your brain's best efforts to steer you otherwise — to trust her when she offers care. you take her in: her fresh haircut that she gets done every month now, usually neatly parted on the top, messy from sleep; her tender wrists; the soft skin of her thighs; the soft sweater you bought her last christmas, sleeves pulled down over her hands, which are always cold.

you sigh. you had had nightmares — more than one, which is rare this many years later, after the worst of it — and woken up with scars that you don't think about too often, or at least with too much pain or sorrow anymore, aching all over your body. your legs had been pins and needles — worse, you've discovered, than feeling nothing some days — and your spine had ached, the halo feeling your sorrow, sharing in it. beatrice had skipped her typical surf session this morning, partially because she'd woken up with you both times last night, and partially because she's worried. she doesn't try to hide it anymore, her concern written all over her gentle face, in her sweet eyes, her soft hands. you find it nestled along all the small things she did for you in the past two hours: bringing you pain meds along with an easy breakfast of scrambled eggs and your favorite rosemary sourdough toast, doing a few snuffles with korra's morning unkibble so she's calm and ready to work today for whatever you need, helping you, after your glum nod, transfer from bed to your chair. you twist the wedding band around on your finger, focus on the few freckles that sit on the tops of her hands because of her time in the sun. your life is real, you remind yourself. your time on the other side, every endless day you spent in hell, was worth it for this, for beatrice quietly and patiently sitting next to you, soft and always becoming more herself; for your family visiting at the end of the week, camila begging to go to universal studios, lilith grumbling but giving in; for the respect people owe you now, and ready give; for your dog and your bar and the edibles you share with beatrice some nights, easy with laughter, and the farofa you feel confident in making for dinner when your friends come over, a warm offering.

'no,' you decide on, firmly, and you know beatrice will trust you. 'we should go. it'll be fun.'

'it will be fun,' she says, the same gleam in her eye you remember from years ago when she was ready to "maim or kill" (lilith's words) anyone who was in the way of her and the mission, especially once you became involved.

'you remember this is, like, your weekly tennis match for fun, right?'

'of course, ava.'

the way she cracks her knuckles tells you that the for fun is lost on her for the most part. it's endlessly amusing to you, though, and quite harmless — although maybe not to her opponent's pride — so you don't bother to argue any further. 'okay, well, i think angela and ruth wanted to have lunch anyway today after their jazzercise class, so we can watch you play.'

'no catcalling.'

you pout. 'you're my wife.'

'not from you, not from ruth or angela.'

'they're old, bea. let them have some fun.'

'at my expense? no thank you. i need to focus while i compete.'

she's already sitting up straighter, eyes lively. she's playing david today, you think, if you remember the club's "adult intermediate to advanced tennis league" rotation correctly. he's a decent player, and their head to head record is relatively even. he's also a bit of an asshole, and a venture capitalist, so it stands to reason beatrice despises him.

'fine.' you squeeze her hand. 'but can you change your shirt between sets?'

'ava.'

'gratuitously towel off or something at least.'

'ava.'

'whatever,' you say. 'i'm wearing a bikini. at least ruth and angela will appreciate it.'

'oh, i'll appreciate it,' she says, and then laughs softly and leans over to kiss you.

/

everything about beatrice, you decided years ago, is endearing. can she kill a man in, like, one second using just her hand? yes, sure, but you've seen her very skillfully practice her forms every morning for years, barring injury, and frown when anything is off, even by a breath. most people find her precision in all things kind of terrifying, but you've learned that some of it is a trauma response — from her childhood, from being a soldier, from losing you — and some of it is really just how she is. her books sorted exactly how she wants them — by genre, subgenre, and then author's last name — on the bookshelf; the meticulously labeled spices in your pantry, always in both their language of origin and english; her surfboards waxed perfectly and neatly stored in the small shed in your yard. everything about her precision is endearing because you understand her and you love her, and maybe the most endearing, or at least you think some days, is the way she treats rec league club tennis.

no matter how many times you've jokingly reminded her that your club isn't wimbeldon, she likes to wear all white little outfits; men's shorts and, your favorite, a neat polo. in the summer, she favors tanks, which you are not complaining about. she has three racquets and a very impressive bag like all the pros carry onto the court, special towels, pristine sneakers, and, when you're most amused, a wristband she very sincerely wipes her sweaty forehead on. since you'd met she'd loved watching tennis, and she'd taught you — as patiently as she has always taught you anything — the rules, her favorite players (not that it was, like, hard to think serena williams was the best athlete ever), common terms to know. you'd gone out with her a few times to the courts and she'd shown you proper form; you'd found out, eventually from her, that her dream as a little kid was to be a tennis pro, which was so charming and a little unexpected. you had thought she would've wanted to be some kind of scientist, maybe a really good lawyer, but her brother had dug out some pictures of little beatrice in her tennis getup, her expression so, so serious for a nine year old, and you'd fallen in love all over again.

she listens to her "pump-up music" — a lot of pop, surprisingly — as she drives you both to the club, focused already in her tennis outfit, complete with a quarterzip warmup top and everything. you're endlessly amused by her, in a way that most people are too intimidated to be, and you think it's good for her, to feel human, to not be taken so seriously when she should get to just enjoy things. your pain meds are helping by the time you get to the club, the pins and needles down your legs leveling out, the halo shaking off some of its deep sorrow, the memories of torture and abject aloneness that sometimes show up in your dreams. today is bright and sunny, the bluest sky, and your friends wave to you once you get out to the tables near the tennis courts. beatrice says a quick hello and then bustles off to start her very precise warm up routine, and you all wait until she's out of earshot to share a fond laugh.

'david today?'

'i swear she was rewatching coco and iga's last match yesterday to prepare.'

ruth pats your hand and angela orders a charcuterie for the table, gets prosecco for ruth and herself and — they both know you well enough by now that your chair usually means you've had to take medication, which you don't mix with alcohol — a cranberry soda for you, your favorite.

david shows up a few minutes later as you're gossiping, angela gasping at ruth's latest escapades with her new boyfriend while you laugh delightedly. he's the kind of muscular dude that likes to run along the beach shirtless because he thinks it's impressive but really it just looks ridiculous, the kind of dude that would give unwanted pointers in the gym. you don't have a disdain for him like beatrice does, because he's never done anything abhorrent to you personally, but when you see her steely gaze as he goes to his bench on the court, you get it. and, also, it's hot, so, like, you shoot a quick thanks to david and his douchey backwards cap for that.

/

things go just about as you'd expected: beatrice plays with the amount of passion you'd see in a wimbeldon final, and angela and ruth relentlessly whistle and cheer and boo. the charcuterie has a new truffle havarti you're all in love with, and the bottle of prosecco gets split happily while you watch. it's a fairly even match — david hits harder than beatrice but is slower and definitely stupider — and she wins the first set 6 games to 4. she gets mad at him for serving too slowly, and they briefly have an argument over whether or not one of his backhands was in. it's all deeply ridiculous for an afternoon at in an amateur club league, but beatrice and her overhand serves get you every single time.

she's down a break in the second set when she hits a drop shot that has david falling over his own feet, and you know it's over then. the second bea realizes someone is truly out of sorts, in any scenario, she's already won.

they shake hands after the match is over, beatrice taking the second set much quicker than the first, and then she makes her way over to your table and sits, very satisfied, in the chair next to you, a towel around her neck.

'my champion,' you say, and she rolls her eyes, accepting the congratulatory beer angela had already ordered for her as the last game was winding down with a thankful nod.

'great match, beatrice,' ruth says, half-sincere, half-teasing, but beatrice smiles anyway. sometimes, things are not good; sometimes, on the worst days, even now, even still, even with all this love, you still remember what it was like to suffer alone — without feeling, with too much feeling — for so much of your life. but beatrice slips into her quarterzip next to you and you smell sweat and laundry detergent and the pomade she puts in her hair, you feel the sun warming along your back and you hear the small group of children starting their lesson, laughing brightly. beatrice holds your hand and you'll nap later; you'll order takeout from your favorite thai place and watch the sunset on your patio; you'll fall asleep in her arms. you'll wake up and do it all over again — the loneliness, the pain, the longing — just for this.

[izzyizumi]

{D I G I M O N} A d v e n t u r e {x T{e}xt P o s t(s) M e m e} ~ {A D O P T E E!}K O U S H I R O

{DO NOT R E-P O S T} {Do Not C o p y} (Please A s k to Use!) {DO NOT RE-P O S T TO OTHER S I T E S WITHOUT MY P E R M I S S I O N Under ANY Circumstances!!}

{Sharing p r i v a t e'ly is O.K, BUT P L E A S E DO NOT RE P O S T} *L I K E S O. K.

[r95irth]

He was half hidden by his sister but his aura shone through!! I'm glad you like my Wen Ning ;)

I liked giving the Wen curly hair. Secret : If Wen Qing unties her ponytail she will probably end up with the same hair cut as her brother.

[meirimerens]

the we dont have to talk about it image makes me absolutely lose my shit laughing whenever you post it btw. literally peak comedy

it's such a good image. so versatile too. everyone check out sorcha richardson's "don't talk about it" song of the summer

[silusvesuius]

remade this list a bit in total silence while gripping my head

[miasanmuller]

I was tagged by @smolnerdz to share 9 of my favorite books!

I tag @probayern @thomas-mvller @gxtzeizm and @youknowitsworthfightingfor :) Feel free to ignore it tho

[contradictory-equivalence]

zince e@ting the burned fl@v@rdizk i c@n't t@ste @nything. @h well. life iz h@rd but i'm h@rder

ZB)

[web-novel-polls]

Web Novel Quotes Tournament: Round 2-D, Match 47

Quote A: 

“Everything I have today, I have fought for! I will fight for what I don't have. I will change fortune if fate denies me! My fate is up to me and not the heavens!” - Shi Wudu, Heaven Official’s Blessing

Quote B: 

“Hanguang-jun endured the wait for so many years, but even now, his efforts have come to naught. Not only does Sect Leader Lan have reason to be impatient—it is also difficult for those of us watching from the sidelines to bear." - Jin Guangyao, Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation 

[Propaganda below]

Quote A Propaganda

Submission: THE most badass delivering in all of danmei history!! Bro is literally faced with death, covered in blood! He Xuan asked him if he showed remorse and Shi Wudu was like 'bitch no, remorse isn't real!' Shi Wudu is a BAMF and we all should be appreciating him more!!

Quote B Propaganda

Submission: tfw your sworn brother's brother's boyfriend doesn't know they're dating and it's SO agonising that you are compelled to interrupt your own hostage situation to chew him out (politely, of course)

[saltedsolenoid]

Hai sydnqay what's yr favorite kinda pie? And if I've asked that before yr favorite ice shape like you know how there's cubes and pebbles and circles??? I don't like the giant circles. And the weird shape fridges make that isn't really a shape I think. Wedges?

I don't recall a pie question> Could look through my half-done ask tag to see but i frankly don't want to do that. Anyways, i Love apple pie. But I'm also pretty solid on pecan pies. Controversially, i'm quite neutral on pies as a whole. They're fun to make but they hurt my tummy and are tiring to eat.

I've been getting really into pebble ice cubes lately, but those are hard to come by so a good secondary option would be cubes from a standard ice tray. They're the classic!

[daisychainsandbowties]

LB question here. What is Lilith’s opinion on the clone troopers? Does it change after Order 66 when the control chips activate and they essentially become very deadly flesh droids (at least, if we go by the 2017 Darth Vader comics)?

i’m just going to give you a bit of chapter 4 to answer this

///

Lilith tells her it’s from a red place. A planet.

Dathomir.

It’s just a name, just a word separated from them by many light-years of space. Crimson brings it up sometimes, when she wants Lilith to hit her.

When she wants to hit Lilith.

In brute strength – in raw fury – Crimson is stronger than both of them, and she loves to prove it by lifting Lilith's bruised shape off the floor of the command deck and dashing her against the consoles so that Beatrice has to undress odd bruises, too, when she undresses Lilith.

When they stand in her room, after, Lilith's face a mask of unbidden emotion, and it feels important to kiss her then. To swallow her whimpers as Beatrice undoes each button on her shirt, revealing a slice of skin bracketed by darker fabric.

Lilith retreats into herself, so far that Beatrice has to take her hand and guide her to the bed, pull the sheets up until they touch her chin. Her eyes are alert, following each movement, but it’s as if there’s a barrier between them – of sound, of silence.

Something happened on Dathomir. The leakage of the Force gives snatches of it to her sometimes, when she’s sitting with her head tipped into Lilith’s, foreheads sweat-slick against each other and all the focus in the world at the meeting-point of their hips.

It makes her hands shake, catching flickers of sight, sound, sensation passing out of Lilith's mouth and into hers.

She thinks of them as ghosts, going down inside her to touch her ribs and run incorporeal palms over the shiny beating of her heart.

They’re in the habit of rescuing each other, and maybe that’s a problem or maybe it’s just physics. Beatrice feels, sometimes, that if only she could parse the meaning behind all of these motions, she might stumble across something worth saving.

Lilith gives her many things to put in her mouth, but this she does by accident.

Snatches.

Of smoke rolling in her mouth, tears stinging as she walks through the wake of it all, passing the troopers scattered around in dust-caked white. The warriors all strewn in the courtyard. Horns growing out of their heads and how they remind Lilith of wreaths, of crowns, and always, inexhaustibly, of home.

Blood on the sandstone turning it the colour of rust and Lilith gathering the bodies of small girls into her arms. Carrying them out of their dim dormitory, lined with beds and tattered blankets. She holds them even as her arms shake, looking away from the loll of their heads.

Lilith hides their faces in the fabric of her cloak as she carries them past the troopers. The clones hardly twitch at the sight, and she keeps her eyes on the fortress doors, trying not to misplace the sight in the memory of a dozen battlefields. Of crouching in bombed-out hovels with her droids sifting through the shadows - long-limbed and reaching out to her in the dark as she peered at the troopers marching by.

But more often than not the clones caught them in the open, and more than once Lilith stood in the aftermath alone, drenched in blood from using her hands to dispatch the last of them. Turned savage by the sight of thin metal limbs lying broken all around her, like a forest of swords driven into the ground.

There was never any point in taking them home with her; dead droids were recycled for their parts. Instead, she kept a tube of paint in her pocket and dabbed a red stripe onto their brows when they fell.

And now the clones are staining the bleak black walls of her home. She can see where their blaster bolts have cracked the stone in the courtyard. It's filled with the stench of cauterized death.

She carries the children past them and tries to hold her anger away from the weight in her arms.

It takes an hour to bring each of them out to the edge of the swamp. Lilith turns over their hands so the palms face upward, so they can come close to touching the sky.

The nightsisters she will stitch into their cocoons, as they so desire, but the girls are not yet anything. They don’t deserve to be wrapped away into darkness.

So she takes them away from the fortress and its walls. Away from the troopers. She carries them as far as she can from their own wounds, the blood on the mattresses from precise stabs, burning the fabric when the lightsaber punctured through underneath. She could smell the redness of that, too. A colour like crimson.

The blood seemed to leak out of them forever and ever, pushing through the burned ends of broken arteries.

She kneels, running her nails through the bloodstains on her arms, dabbed there when she untangled feather-light bodies out of blood-pooled mattresses.

She tries to coax their eyelids shut, but they refuse, staring glassily up at the red-washed sky. Lilith stares at them, thinking, associations stealing out like hands from thorn bushes, fingers bitten by sharp points.

She kneels there on the edge of the plateau that was her home, looking out at the sunrise. The sky reflected in sightless eyes all around her and an ache deep-seated in her bones from fractional lightspeed, hopping from system to system in a stupid attempt to get here first.

But she didn’t. Corpses already cold when she carried them in a dim reflection of her own departure. Lilith, lingering at the graveside with a feeling like she ought to lay down and decompose beneath the red star she loves, atop the red planet she hates.

It’s memory, and so it is slippery, passing through their fingers with the cool ease that Lilith passes her tongue in through Beatrice's lips.

She doesn’t notice the memories falling out of her, but Beatrice feels it all, a web of cracks proliferating over Lilith’s torso. She feels it when she tastes her skin, her breasts, when they’re so close that death would have to find them both to take either of them.

Something bad happened on Dathomir, but it’s couched in too many layers for Beatrice to unravel the tragedy of it all. The planet still exists, but it’s a wasteland, but it was always a wasteland.

Lilith dreams of sour fruit, dead children. A sickbed and her mother’s hands.

Her language is an echo of all that, so of course it manifests at the strangest times, when everything is stretched too thin for the grief to hold itself back.

Beatrice always feels the urge to reach up and taste it, to know the texture of it, but Lilith only ever breaks – and it feels like that, a break - into her native tongue when she is angry, or afraid, and so Beatrice has only tasted it harshly.

It is a language of hooking ‘s’ sounds and clipped ‘a’ sounds, softer around the letter ‘m’. Beatrice thinks that, like Lilith’s curled fingers, it is something that should be taken onto the tongue and held there, the way Lilith held her, back when they were not yet in love.