#shes so.........

[iababa]

some doodles i grubled

[emypony]

POV ur catgirl friend starts calling you Shiki-chan

i think Senti is WAY too composed all the time

i want this scrunkly embarrassed. give me some vulnerability 🙏 i wanna see her speechless

ALSO THE JAPANESE NICKNAME FOR HER IS SO CUTE. I'll never let shiki-chan live this down its way too cute. what wouldnt i give to hear felis saying it in her voice djfkhgdkfg

[obm-avenquire]

❥ thirteen ❥

She doesn’t use brushes unless they’re part of the product. 

Unfamiliar with makeup or not, her process is…a unique one. These days, it’s one she lets you observe, regularly growing bored of her assigned room and pushing her way into yours instead. She comes and goes like a stray cat, and like any unguided human, you leave that door open for her, and feed her interest. 

It goes two ways. There’s something curious about how she puts it all on, dipping her fingers into a thin white paste that she spreads across her face - foundation, presumably, but from the horror on Asmodeus’ face when he walked in the other day, it isn’t a normal kind. She tells you she made it herself, rolling her eyes as she cites how far away her cave is from everything else, and how annoying some of the Devildom shops are. You don’t have any reason to argue. You’ve seen stranger things down here, even if it should maybe worry you a little that she warns you not to touch it when it’s still in the jar like that.

You watch as she smears pigment across her eyelids, a powdery, vibrant substance that she blows into your face when you ask what it’s made of, turning away again to drag jagged lines of eyeliner into points, cleaning the neon yellow of her fingernails on the lapel of her uniform.

She’s an artist, albeit an unconventional one. 

“-How do you decide what you draw?” It’s not a question you think very hard about, absentminded as the study period drags on, and on, ink words trailing off into nothing on the page as you’re distracted by the uneven doodles she scrawls across her worksheets and up on to her arms, sat backwards on the bench in front of yours. 

“Hah?” Her eyebrows quirk upwards, pen tip stopping halfway through another cracked heart symbol on her wrist. You tilt your head to the side slightly, silently emphasising your question, opening your mouth to repeat it just as she stands, leaning forward to catch your face in her hand, hold still, nails digging into one cheek in a way that’s not quite painful, just noticeable. You hold your breath, eyes scrunched shut ‘til she pulls away, lightly slapping your hand away from your face when you instinctively go to touch where she’d drawn. “Like that.” She says, curtly, and it takes you a moment for you to understand that that’s her answer. “I don’t. It’s not like there’s any special meaning behind any of it.” 

She sticks her tongue out at you, piercing that you didn’t even know she had flashing dully in the light before she drops the pen on your desk, and with that she’s gone, leaving you to study alone. You don’t get much done, and when you check later, the heart she’s drawn on your cheek is uncharacteristically shaky. 

You can’t quite find it in yourself to wash it off, and when she sees you the next day she sputters something about humans not even being able to clean their own faces, trailing off into grumbles when you offer to get rid of it now, if it bothers her.

“-I just liked it, is all,” You tug at the sleeves of your uniform, flustered thinking about how it had all made your face burn, having spent too much time overthinking if she’d noticed, felt the heat through her fingers, or written it off as just another human thing.

For whatever reason, she drops the topic there, huffing about how humans always make things so weird.

Then again, artists are inherently unconventional, to some.

Today her face is bare. She’s in your room again, mouth and fingertips stained with the juice of some strange Devildom fruit that smells like blackberries and drips down her wrist in faint streaks of purple. 

“What, did you want some?”

She catches your eye and leans in close, close enough that you see how dark her eyes get when she looks at you, crinkling as her face splits into a crooked grin. Your eyes flit away for as long as you can drag them away. The bowl is empty, save for the dark, reddish black liquid that just barely covers the base, and later you’ll lament letting her use it, because the stain doesn’t leave for weeks, and replacing it to avoid Lucifer’s irritation is one thing, but the reminder of today is another. 

You don’t know how long it takes. It feels like forever, and far too short, her pupils blown out and glassy in a way that makes you dizzy.

(You’re embarrassed every time you think about it, distracted and bashful at the thought.)

“Oh,” You breathe, touching your lips with shaky hands, staring blankly when you pull away and your fingertips shine with tinted fluid. Her eyes don’t leave your mouth til you let out a thin laugh and she bristles, catlike. “We match-”

“And that’s enough to make you happy?” She’s placated as quickly as she was wary, scoffing as she leans on her hand, hiding her expression between her fingers, elbow digging into her thigh. “Are all humans that easy to please?” You only laugh again, bite in her words missing you entirely. Her face is red. It has nothing to do with the berries.

Like all artists, she has a sort of…signature. Something that marks her works as her own.

Once she gets a taste for it, she makes it a habit. 

She’s as unpredictable as ever in her appearances, but you can’t help but think that she’s around a lot more now. Her makeup changes, and you see her with actual branded products sometimes, though the powder she uses as eyeshadow never does change. Even so, the notes you lend her come back with a little skull and crossbones next to your name, and more days than not you find her in your room, complaining when you come back late or have to leave early, leaving trinkets in your pockets, taking a strange sort of mercy on you by leaving you as an exception to her usual traps.

Hearts and skulls and bones and flowers you don’t recognise.

You can’t help but feel that she only spares you because she leaves you with a whole different kind, though, like now, your hands bunched up by your sides as she straddles your legs, tilting your head back slightly as she uses her other hand to work whatever magic she feels like for the day, a small collection of palettes and products on either side of you laying open on your bed. You open and close your hands around the covers, finding it hard to stay still for so long. 

She’d told you off for fidgeting, once, threatening to tie up your hands if you couldn’t hold still, quickly thinking better of it and muttering some sort of excuse, don’t you dare overthink that, snapping the palette in her hand shut and slipping it in her pockets before she slips off of you, stalking out of the room, red-faced. 

She’s gone for a week before you find her again, catching you at the entrance of the colosseum, acting as though nothing had happened.

“-you even listening to me?” You’re snapped back into the present and she cuts you off again before the apology can even leave your lips. “Don’t bother. Just…hold still.” She says, as if you staying put will change anything about the way her hand shakes slightly, as if her eyes don’t keep dropping down to your mouth and back again, as if she isn’t just waiting to make a mistake. It’s as good of an excuse as any, really - if she’s already screwed up, what’s the harm in really ruining it with her mouth?

…It’s not like you’re complaining, though.

She brings you sweets and snacks as apologies, and thank-you’s, and sometimes for no reason at all. There’s always some excuse, some reason why she didn’t buy them just for the two of you to share, but you’re happy to indulge her white lies if it means she’ll keep coming to see you, even on the days where she won’t eat herself, having ‘accidentally’ bought something she hates but knows that you love, oddly peaceful as she watches you instead.

She brings more chaos into your everyday, somehow. It’s a feat that leaves you breathless in more ways than one. 

You can’t remember when it became normal for her to lock your arms together, grab your hand and lace your fingers with hers, when it became everyday for her to let her head fall in your lap and complain about the brothers, about angels, and Solomon avoiding her latest trap. You grow used to catching yourself in the mirror and seeing lipstick stains and skull tattoos in pen, and when you give her one in return, thoughtless impulse, she comes back again and again, insisting you go over it just one more time, so it doesn’t fade.

She dreams of one day making a masterpiece.

[borrelia]

ebony....................

[spiralcloudpassage]

the thing about bayonetta is that nobody will ever do anything quite like her

[liquidstar]

i always think abt my cousin in greece who's like obsessed with american culture, bc ill say that im going to a barbecue and she'll be like "wow.... a real life american barbecue... will there be red cups?" you bet your ass there'll be red cups. take my hand. have a hot dog. all your dreams can come true here at the real life american barbecue

[ski-ip]

something something dark magic

[opiumvampire]

fuck w me

[thedisablednaturalist]

Im fucking sobbing looking at the new black footed cat at Utah's Hogle zoo

Shes just a fucking baby

Baby with a 60% successful kill rate

[moveslikekeithrichards]

gertrude

[ID: a picture of an old, grumpy-looking brown tabby cat gazing dead-eyed into the camera.]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Expertise can't help you here.

[lordgolden]

oh god I got a picture of the moon you tumblr bitches are gonna LOVE

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[toadsrbutch]

pym’s soggy sundays are what makes life worth living tbh

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Lae'zel's character and her entire situation at the beginning of the game becomes so much more funny when you find out she's 22. It makes so much sense. Imagine you're 22 and you're exposed to this dangerous toxin or chemical or something - but not to worry, you learnt that this can be easily fixed, you just need to dial 911 real quick. Common knowledge. Everyone knows that. You learnt that in kindergarten, it's up there with fire alarm drills.

But the people you're stuck with have no concept of modern medicine and when you say "let's go to the hospital" they will say shit like "i think they kill people at the hospital" and "we should ask this swamp lady" or "this guy over there told me about this homoeopathic healer kind of guy but he got abducted" or "this random bard wants to help" and "I'm not going to dial 911 because I don't want the government to know my home address" or "maybe we should consider a deal with Satan". And then a bunch of them KEEP consuming the chemical because it makes them "stronger". One guy might explode for unrelated reasons. You have a few days before this situation is getting critical and suddenly they're solving crime and doing general charity for the community.

And FOR SOME REASON you still try to help these idiots and you STILL want to help them get the cure even though they all keep insisting the "doctors" at the "hospital" might try to "kill them" and they don't have insurance. And you keep telling them to just. go. to. the. hospital. before the time runs out and you all die very horribly of a very treatable condition.

And also you're 22 in a foreign country and you're responsible for shepherding this gaggle of idiots who are all ranging anywhere from 24 to 240 years old.