#she contains multitudes

[absolutechaosss]

Went into dungeon meshi expecting Marcille to be peak fail girl and she IS but I feel like it's extremely important context that she is mainly that within her party. Outside of that she is a highly dangerous mage with a massive repository of knowledge who routinely survives threats that insta kill other people. Inside her party she yells too loud about dinner plans and almost drowns to death in slime tho

[televised-eyes]

crowley s1: murdering via holy water, driving the bentley through hellfire and running into burning buildings, turning paintball guns into real guns, screaming at house plants, openly cursing out god, facing down satan with nothing but a car part, being damned by god for the second time wearing his soulmate’s face in order to save him

crowley s2: tidying up the bookshop, following aziraphale around, babysitting jimbriel, causing stormy weather so two people fall in love, talking in a baby voice to the bentley, politely escorting humans to safety, breaking into heaven to read a file, confessing his undying love to aziraphale and kissing the daylights out of him, driving slowly away

[dailydccomics]

very important Kory moments from Titans: Beast World #6

[shesmore-shoebill]

Amanda putting a cute little clip of her and Shayne quietly heckling the Fortnite stream on her story followed by a screencap of the tinky winky/whezmakofi choking with the caption "TGIF"..... never change, Amanda. never change.

[baflegacy]

i think its very funny to have the most charismatic person with atomic skills in flirting (amanda) also be the type of person to say or do the absolute wildest things and Double Down on it while still feeling the embarrassment that comes with it

[quecksilvereyes]

“You cannot live your life to please others. the choice must be yours.” Susan

Uh. So this prompt possessed me a little bit, I sure hope smoking isn't a trigger for you, anon.

____

Sometimes, in the summers, when the air is thick and heavy, dripping with unshed rain and pressing into the hollow of her clavicles, Susan Pevensie stands in her mother's garden, and bathes in the sun. She drapes her blouse, soaked with sweat, and her skirt, soaked with perfume, over the old rocking chair that has long since splintered under the weight of its age, and then:

A breath.

With closed eyes and soft mouth, rouge-dotted and lipstick-smeared, Susan Pevensie tilts her face towards the light. Her brassiere is damp with English rain that won't fall, her petticoats are stiff with English breeze that won't blow and her wrists are strung up by English strings that won't pull.

Blue skies are rare, here. England is grey, and England is cloudy, and England rains and rains and rains until it has made itself sick and its ground unsteady. Some weeks, the clouds hang low for so long that the sun cannot reach what it wishes to nourish. Some weeks, Susan sits by her window, her head pressed against the glass, and watches the clouds drip into fog, the fog drip into the earth, and the earth drown and cry. Until her skin matches the grey of the skies, until her mind drips from her every breath onto the paneled glass, until she can't see through the fog, anymore.

"Su", says her brother, then, his hands on her forehead, his mouth in her hair. "Susie." His hands, shaking and unsteady, are warm and getting warmer with every passed winter. His voice, soft and careful and stripped of teeth, drops steadily deeper. When he turns his head, the beginnings of a stubble scrape against her cheek.

"Light of my life, sun of my skies."

The skies are grey. The grass is grey. The fence is grey. The world is grey.

Peter's eyes are blue. The clouds don't gather around his pupils, and his irises are clear as they've been for days. The English sky has never echoed the yellow freckles.

The Narnian skies were ever centered around the pupil of her sun, in the soft yellow streaks of Peter's eyes.

Susan wets her lips. She doesn't wet her cheeks.

Peter climbs onto the bench. "My sister", he says softly. "Where have you gone?"

Susan buries her face in his chest and leaves behind great streaks of make-up on his bleached dress shirt: a mouth of lipstick, a blur of rouge, a dust of powder. Splotches of mascara, lines of kohl. Marks of eyeshadow.

Peter rubs her back, and Susan doesn't cry.

In the summers, she drinks the sun with greedy mouth and empty stomach and hungry, hungry skin. In the dripping air and the burning grass, Susan Pevensie strips to her undergarments - and breathes.

In, and out.

A breath, and then another.

Beyond her closed eyes, the world drips reds and oranges, and bright, stark yellows. Beyond her hollow mouth, the air coats her windpipe; a slow dripping of heat.

She is alone, here. She drops her ball-jointed limbs and her painted porcelain face, turns her opal glass palms right side up, and breathes.

Until her lungs settle, and the fog has run dry. Until the colours are a bit sharper, a bit brighter. A smear more familiar.

-

The party is slow. Nicotine gathers heavy on the ceiling, and the music is a little too loud to be ambient. The drinks are spiked, the hems are lifted, and Susan is standing by the door, watching her friend lose the last of her lipstick to a stranger's mouth.

The boy is. Well, he's fine. Polite and gentle, soft-spoken. He ducks his head and worries the tips of his fingers and the spread of his lips until they bleed. His hair would curl, if it was long enough, and when she blows smoke in his direction, he coughs.

Smiles.

Susan takes another drag of her cigarette. Flicks the ash to the floor. Smiles.

"You'll have to forgive the cigarette", she says around the smoke seeping from her mouth. "It calms me down."

The boy blinks at her, and wets his bottom lip. It is dark with blood, dotted purple where he has almost broken skin, swollen with the almost-injury. "I can't imagine anyone ever denies you much of anything", he says. "You're too pretty for that."

"Too pretty to be annoyed with?"

He shrugs. His shoulders are slumped forwards, and it makes his suit jacket sit oddly on the rounded curve of his back. "People love pretty things. Better to keep them around."

Her cigarette is stained with her lipstick, and the tips of her fingers drip with it. The smoke in her lungs is warm, and the alcohol in her blood is warmer, still, so Susan tilts her head. "When I was a little girl, my mother bought me a little lace collar. I wore it until it broke, and begged her to fix it when it had long become too threadbare to even be touched."

The boy nods, and takes a breath.

Susan clicks her tongue. "I'd gotten beet juice on it, and it wouldn't come out in the wash. No matter the soap, no matter the scrub. There was a small pink stain near the lapel, and it simply bled in all directions. So my mother soaked it in bleach."

The boy cannot pull his shoulders forwards any further. He cannot bend his back more. He digs his teeth into the purple marks on his lips.

"The bleach dissolved most of it. The lace was too delicate." Susan throws the cigarette stub on the floor and savours the last breath of it, the hot coating of her tongue. "If she hadn't tried to get the stain out, it wouldn't have broken."

The boy's teeth break his skin. The blood pools, dark and shy, around the enamel and into the corners of his mouth. "You couldn't have worn the stained collar", he says, with his soft voice and his soft eyes, his soft, soft hair.

"Why not?"

"Well", says the boy. His shirt is starched and bleached. There is a wrinkle ironed firmly into the placket. He coughs again. "It was already ruined before your mother bleached it. It was stained."

Susan crushes the stub underneath her shoe. The music covers the sound of the grinding and the soft hiss of the dying embers. "It was mine, and I loved it", she says. "Was it my mother's call to make what I could bear?"

The boy shrugs. "It's a lace collar. There are others."

Susan hums. "Perhaps. But I wanted this one." Across the room, someone spills red wine over someone else's lap. Someone else holds their cigarette too close to their lover's sleeve. "You shouldn't live your life to please others. You mind the smoke, and you mind the talking. And yet-"

The boy laughs. The corners of his eyes wrinkle, the apples of his cheeks flush dark, and the blood on his lips spreads slow across his teeth.

"And yet", he says, "here I am."

[askfussyfangs]

YAYYYYYYY WELCOME BACK KANAYA

Uh... Hello Again!

[thedragonagelesbian]

Woe gish be upon you

[thegreatyin]

in today's out of context episode of scoundrel RP adventures™:

veils graduates from merely literally physically maiming the scoundrel to conducting straight up targeted psychological warfare against her person. and her household in general.

and also she visits a bookshop (because she is a braggart)

[zoddamnit]

i drew my valley girl, eladrin elf witch, bella!

[hamofjustice]

what did they mean by this

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Convinced that the upper management of Hyperion knows Nisha as Jack's absolutely horrifying mysterious girlfriend in the leather coat who gets away with strangling and shooting board members mid-meeting if she feels like it.

Meanwhile lower management knows her as that "bored chick in the purple hat who sometimes just randomly hangs around any office or engineering deck she feels like and who's kind of rude but ultimately chill and very good at throwing peanuts at people's faces to see them flinch and no one knows what her deal is." She gets to make jokes about Jack sometimes without any mysterious turret taking her out and she doesn't seem to work/work here (but also she might have pushed a guy in a skag pen once, so...)

meanwhile Nisha just sometimes feels like hanging out somewhere where it isn't 60C°

[hal-1500]

I've said it before and I will definitely say it again but Jenny is a little cat in human form and, therefore, the perfect formula for writing her is this:

[ichiharas-familiar]

Inariya Fusanosuke is so perplexing. She has a comedy chibi-nekomimi side comic for her rape and fascism main comic. Everything she's written under Inariya is completely miserable and politically/morally questionable and oftentimes very physically gross but she also has a psuedonym that she uses to write pg-13 fluff about like... yuri on ice.

[door]

agatha agate report

GOOD: cuddled with her sister

BAD: beaned me in the face with her cinder block head

[thatscarletflycatcher]

‘Steve,’ said Temple suddenly, the thought of food in the immediate future possibly giving him the idea.

‘Yes?’ she said, with a curious smile.

‘I was wondering if, er, you . . .’ He broke off. For perhaps the first time Paul Temple knew what it meant when he used the word ‘bashful’ in one of his novels.

‘Well?’ prompted Steve.

‘If you’d—er—care to have dinner with me on … on Thursday?’ he said.

‘Thursday? Yes, of course,’ she said happily. ‘I’d love to.’

'Good. I shall be in town, so perhaps we can . . . er . . . lunch together, too?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Why not?’

‘We might even manage to have tea together, as a sort of, er—

‘I’d love to,’ she replied softly.

‘Oh, er, splendid,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s about all. Of course, there is breakfast, but—’

‘I always have breakfast in bed.’

‘In bed?’

‘Yes, in bed.’

‘Well, that’s a bit awkward!’

‘Of course,’ put in Steve a trifle glibly, ‘we could get married.’

‘Yes, I suppose we—’ Temple suddenly gasped. ‘I say... are you proposing?’

‘What do you think, Mr. Temple?’ she asked brightly, in a voice that was a perfect imitation of his. ‘What do you think?’

--Francis Durbridge, Send For Paul Temple (1938)