#she contains multitudes!

[lavender-gayz]

I know Dulcie’s having a terrible time throughout, but episode 6 of Deadloch might be my favourite

“Well, I would say to them, Jeremy, that the killer is only targeting cis-het white men, and our market research shows that that's a far cry from our Feastival patron demographic. In fact, given that the victim demographic is usually responsible for the perpetration of violence, Deadloch may well be the safest place to be right now for many members of our Feastival community.”

“Imagine if you'd arrested Skye! I'd have divorced you on the spot.” (Promise?)

“And I know this because my wife told me because I am blended into this situation like an onion in a soup.”

“Who is taking notes? This is just numbers!”

“Ma'ams, sorry I'm late. I got poisoned.”

“It [the voice-to-text software] doesn't understand our accents.”

“Killer dyke! Not you; your mum!”

“Why does Margaret Carruthers get to decide who deserves what?” :(

“Ever since Trent got murdered, you and your mum have been creeping around like you're the fucking Hamburglar twins.”

“I’m pregnant and I can't be committed to this relationship if you're a serial killer.”

That shot of Margaret Carruthers in front of the antlers doubling as devil horns. That's the stuff, baby!!!

THE FIGHT

Cath blithely missing that Dulcie had been miserable for five years :(

“Maybe you'd have remembered the date better, Dulcie, if you were at home babysitting Tom with me that weekend instead of FUCKING SOME OTHER WOMAN IN A WORK SHOWER.”

“Right now, my job's more important than us, Cath. It's more important than you.” OOH.

Bobbing bodies at the Cinema Aquatica, or Floating Flicks. They’re both good names!

[searchingforserendipity25]

survivor + character of your choice

Thank you @nablah, this ask came just when needed! <3

Silence, Thicker Than Frost

It snowed, upon the thatched roofs of Edoras; the doors of Dwarrowdelf cast cold shadows upon a cold landscape, and even in the borders of the Golden Wood cold winds blew, bringing flecks of damp and a close, stifling smell of rot. 

Outside the bounds of her Girdle, it was the death of autumn, the start of what ould be a long, crop-killing winter, enough rain to flood the hills and wreck old trees from the ground. Most storms carried something of the Enemy’s will in them, these days; and the Enemy was an inventive creature, a craftsman of the sort Galadriel had known, once.

 No snow, in Lothlórien. No plant-killing ice; never, not ever a cold so terrible as to steal the breath from the body, and the spirit from the flesh. 

Even in summer, the clouds above Lothlórien were dark as iron, grumbling thunder, an did not dare unleash scatterings of lightning; her own will pressed against the vast force of it, pressing the ozone out, away, far from the shelter of her people. 

How Celebrían had loved the storms! Had loved them enough to beg her mother to allow some summertime drizzles to fall upon Lothlórien, the violent, wind-sweeping storms that made robes and hair and feet dance.

For love to her daughter and the humming of the yearning treees, Galadriel had allowed something of summer’s tempers to fall upon the land; but never anything of winter’s shadow had come upon Lothlórien. 

For Galadriel was the last one to have known Winter Itself, and she did not intend to ever invite it near, not even in memories. 

No one that lived on this side of the sea remembered the crossing of the Ice, and even those in the West have not felt in on their new skin: Galadriel was the last to carry the memories and marks, the last survivor of the Ice. 

-

It had been summer, an easy blooming season even outside the Golden Woods, when her daughter was caught; and summer again, when she went from her husband’s Homely House to the ship that would bear her across the wide sea, to Galadriel’s own childhood realm. A false spring, turned to blizzards; a summer of drough, an autumn of pests, a winter of sickness.

 Galadriel had been ambushed, beleaguered, engrossed. All of her power turned to upholding the safety of her people, Nenya’s power pulsing along with her heart’s beating. She had not dared search her out herself, or take her to Imladris; or say farewell in the shores of Mithlond, when the time came. 

The winter Celebrían had spent in captivity had sapped her of such strength. She had lost toes to it, and swathes of skin; so much of her valour. Her good night’s sleep, and her certainty of safety. Galadriel had felt her, at times, far in her perception beyond the Wood, captured in the dark caves of the mountain passes, places so damp and lightless they held no shadow.

 She had felt her, and felt the Enemy’s power encroaching, and she had only been able to turn her great power to one of her duties. 

She had been glad, then, for what she had suffered in the ancient days of the Grinding Ice; had returned to her memories of the starless black fields and the treacherous bergs and floes with a vengeance, as if she might by the sharpness of recall do good to her daughter and wound the Enemy, and not merely herself.

In her selfish wrath Galadriel had thought, I understand this at least, my daughter, and I know you will survive this brief blight upon the business of your life. Had written many letters, and never received a reply; for Celebrían then had not been of a will to raise a hand to grasp her quill or uplift her voice to dictate any response.  

Celebrían had trembled all the way through the meager rainfall on the way from Imladris to the Havens, Galadriel had heard - gleaned, from her granddaughter’s memories. But Galadriel had not been there, either, to bless her crossing and kiss her thinned hands, to chafe them between her own and will all the warmth of her endless summers into her. 

-

Winter’s worst harshness never came to Lothlórien. No chill bit at its mellyrn to chew them from the outside, its golden and silver leaves never fell - no frost covered the living wood of the talans where its people dwelt. 

The ring Nenya allowed the Lady to do much that had once not been thought possible, even among the wisest of her people; such a preserving of beauty and plenty thar had had no equal in Ost-in-Edhil, nor Mithlond, nor anywhere but long-sacked and long-sunken Doriath.

There had been more of light and warmth and growth, to the Woods, before her daughter was harmed; now autumn was ever-chasing the boundaries of her power, a sly fox sniffing its way into the coop. She grew no stronger. And always weaker, very slowly and very perceptibly.

 To herself, at least. To her husband, certainly. It took a great deal out of Galadriel, this long defeat. A timeless time marked only by intervals of loss or the expectation of loss. 

“My lady,” Celeborn said. “May I?” 

“My lord,” said Galadriel, not moving. Her face was tilted upwards for the rain, but her mind was in the forest, among the deep roots, in the dark mulch, rooting with the beetles, prowling the high boughs with her guardsmen. 

He brought her a cape, finely woven by her own hand, and kept her company in her sleepless vigils. Clasped her hand, lent her his power; rooted her, Celeborn of Doriath, Celeborn of Lothlórien, her lord who was strong and steady as an unshakable tree. 

It was not that Galadriel was cold. 

It was only that hers was a false summer, her Wood’s and her body’s. She, who remembered the Ice, and the darkness, ached in the tender marrow of her bones. It was not a pain she had ever, ever tolerated the possibility of her daughter knowing. 

Far, far away, in a land of no winter, where Darkness was mended and all illness made whole, Celebrían had survived her time of darkness; Celebrían might be, even now, perhaps, dancing with the storm.

If the Enemy came, Galadriel would die for her people, and their land, and never join her with her own cold-harmed body, never give her what might there could be in a mother’s perfect, bitter understanding. 

One day, perhaps, they might dance together across the sea, as when Celebrían was a child leaping with her face turned to the rain. Galadriel foresaw much, but so much in her own defeat could only be given to hope without certainty. 

[motherfucker-unlimited]

The Teehee Tactician has pulled off another gay little gambit.

[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

[batboopp]

one of my favorite things about selina is the fact that she’s one of the most successful ‘criminals’ in gotham for one very, very important reason-when she commits a crime, she does not leave little bullshit clues or threatens kids or whatever other thing gotham criminals usually do. she gets in there, does what she needs, kicks ass very efficiently if she has too, and she gets the fuck out of there. I think most importantly to mention though is that when she steals, she goes out of her way to donate to charities-predominantly charities helping poc women or just women in general. it makes me think that most DC writers refer to her as a thief rather than a criminal or villain; to be a true gotham criminal, you need to not care about people outside of your mission at all. selina, even though she is far from perfect, loves and cares for others. a tiny part of herself hates her for that. but an even bigger part of her loves how she’ll claw the face off of some asshole that threatened a little girl on one of her crime sprees.

[bluestation]

i found you in the future

[formosusiniquis]

When Mike Wheeler, red faced and still faintly tear stained, asks him how he knew he liked both Steve doesn’t know how to tell him it was his sister.

Before Nancy Wheeler it had only been boys. Before Nancy Wheeler Steve had been sure he was gay and knew well enough to keep it to himself; dating around enough to earn himself a protective reputation. Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been Marcus Summers, from the baseball team, during freshman year. Steve had gone to every game, and had been forced to make up excuses about schoolwork and his other commitments when asked why he hadn’t tried out for himself. Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been Tommy Hagan. The summer between seventh and eighth grade had been very kind to Tommy, he was sunkissed and boy next door sweet, Steve had wanted to hold his hand and count the freckles across the bridge of his nose. 

Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been his first love, a boy who only visited one summer, the year Steve turned ten. His name had changed every time they hung out but he’d favored E’s. Eli, Emmett, Elliott, Eric, Excalibur, Excelsior, and once for about an hour Wayne. His hair brushed his chin in pretty brown curls and his big brown eyes were always bright with excitement. He always got storm off mad when any of the other boys they’d played with that summer said he was acting like a girl, E would run off to the woods and Steve would always follow. E always came up with the best games anyway, he didn’t like playing soccer or HORSE or anything else with rules that couldn’t be bent; he preferred imagination games where they were knights or wizards. He didn’t laugh when Steve said he always liked playing house, but never wanted to be the dad because why would he want to be someone who never wanted to spend any time with his kids. E who, while insisting on being called Samwise all day, was his first kiss.

Cause he knows what Mike wants to hear. He’s seen the way Mike and Will have danced around each other since the last portal closed. He’s heard the things Mike has said to and about Will. He’s heard all about the week that Will was in the Upside Down. He’s heard all about the summer of ‘85. He’s heard all about the final off again that seems to officially mark the end of Mike and El romantically. He knows that Mike wants him to say that he’d never even thought about boys before he met Eddie. That there’s just something special about Eddie that makes him want to give up his lady killing ways. That Eddie was different. That it was okay that he was having these scary new thoughts, maybe Will was just an exception.

And Steve doesn’t know how to have that conversation. When he realized he liked both it was a relief, that maybe he could have something normal and wouldn't have to spend his life lying or hiding. 

But Eddie was different. Eddie was special. Eddie was probably it for Steve which is scary in a different way that he’s not ready to touch yet -- not when it’s only been three months.

There’s never been another girl since Nancy Wheeler, not really

There will never be another boy after Eddie Munson.

So he tries to help, as best he can. It’s easier with Eddie there, not quite dozing against his shoulder -- the kid’s emergencies always seem to come so late at night these days. “When I was ten, there was a boy whose name kept changing who decided prince charming should get to kiss his faithful knight. And when I was sixteen, your sister-”

Mike’s goodwill diminishes quickly as his sister gets introduced to the conversation.

“Stevie,” Eddie says. It’s not an admonishment for bringing up Nancy. It’s awestruck and watery. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember the first boy I ever loved," that word catches up with him a second later. Remember. 

Cause there's Eddie with his riot of brown curls and his Bambi eyes. Eddie, who has explained why soft feminine words chafe against his skin leaving him itchy and anxious. Eddie, who has an Uncle in Hawkins. Eddie who moved to town the summer before he entered high school with a buzzed head and his mother's last name. Eddie who finally settled into an E he liked best.

"Wheeler, here's a tip from me to you," Eddie says, his advice is always better received than Steve's anyway, "if you have to ask you probably already know."

"Straight people don't really spend much time wondering if they aren't really straight," Steve agrees.

They don't rush Mike out the door, a crisis is a crisis and even in the wake of new discoveries Mike deserves to be heard out. Deserves a chance to cry and rage and feel those emotions someplace safe from his Reaganite father -- just as much as Will deserves to have someone who knows what they want come to him, deserves better than experimentation.

They cross the bridge from late into early by the time Mike sets off. The sun is creeping up over the horizon and Mike looks solid, certain; the dawn hints at the man he is growing up to be. Though every instinct of Steve's begs him to drive the kid home, Eddie's soft hand lingering at his hip holds him fast. They wave instead, encouraging Mike to go home and to bed before he does anything; knowing his front bike tire is already pointed toward the Byers-Hopper place.

"The first boy you ever loved, huh, Stevie?" Eddie teases before the door has even managed to click shut.

"And the last, I'm hoping, if I play my cards right."

"You were always pretty good at that. You were the only person that summer who called me by my name, except Wayne."

"It was your name." He knows that's too simple. Knows how hard Eddie has had it, continues to have it. But that summer it had been that simple, Eddie trying on names like shirts each one fitting until they didn't. "For what it's worth, I like Eddie a lot more than Excalibur."

"Oh fuck off, I was going through a fantasy knight phase. Which I know you remember."

"Right a phase, and how much longer is this fantasy 'phase' going to last?"

They're the kind of tired that makes you feel drunk, when Eddie tackles Steve and sends them both to the floor and to giggles. Eddie might not have been his bi awakening, but Steve is pretty fine with him being his everything else.

[nerdpiggy]

Non-spoiler ISAT memes for the whole squad to enjoy :)

[cryptidotter]

Thinking about how when Harrow can't remember Gideon, she claims to love the Body exclusively

But then when she meets Alecto with her memories of Gideon, she leaves out the exclusive part

Between this and the Body reappearing in her hallucinations with golden eyes in HtN...I just have Thoughts!!!

[fairandfatalasfair]

One of the things I'm missing the most when I think about not getting a season 2 (and, by the same token, one of the things I love seeing in fanfic) is getting to see more of Crystal and Edwin growing into a relationship.

I think their back-and-forth would start to be a real point of entertainment for both of them, still with sharp edges but with a thread of warmth underlying it that belies the snippy tones. I think Crystal would start to keep a mental list of all the things that she can tweak Edwin's tail about that will genuinely annoy him, but not cause any real harm (and a parallel list of things that aren't funny, that make him shut down for real or retreat into stiff formality or foist her off on Charles until he can get himself together.) I think they would slip effortlessly back and forth between snarking at each other and ganging up on the rest of the world (Charles and Niko excepted) while Charles watches with stars in his eyes.

I want to see them showing up for each other, defending each other with words and with magic and with the right piece of information at the right time. I want to see them looking to each other for honesty, because they both know how to be cruel when they have to, and sometimes you need someone to just tell you the truth. I want to see them both understanding what it's like to be someone who doesn't think of themself as kind, or likeable, or good, but is trying.

I have so much love for snarky characters who are kind and generous and caring, but not necessarily nice or comfortable. I adore the kind of complicated friendship where you know you can trust their kindness because you've seen them at their most ruthless. They make me crazy. They could be so good for each other. They are so good for each other. I want to see where it goes.

[bisupergirl]

superman: secret files 2009 || action comics #1032

kara being able to fix kelex after he breaks because she used to tinker with the robot her family had back on krypton when she wanted to sneak out with thara <3 i love women in stem <3

[thelongestwalk]

'the prisoner' from @blacktabbygames Slay The Princess. if you're into horror and you haven't played this game yet, what are you waiting for?

[novelconcepts]

Anyway the most valid response to that episode is anyone repeating “AGATHA IS JOLENE???? …of course Agatha is Jolene.”

[mayasaura]

Makes me feel a kind of way how Gideon does not once question Nona's personality. Like, she knows who Nona is! She knows that's the Death of the Lord, the monster in the Tomb, a being as old as her universe, and she's furious with her. But she still sees Nona and adjusts her attitude to speak reassuringly to her, like a little kid. Even when she's grilling her about Harrow, it's: Where is she? It doesn't matter what the answer is, just tell me. I promise I won't get mad.

[jackietaylorsghost]

Ella Purnell as Jackie Taylor YELLOWJACKETS: 103. The Dollhouse