Your White Boyfriend Will Do Nothing For You. Leave Him. Join My Terrorist Organization

is she... y'know... a friend of jimbo?

Marcille is so funny to me. she's such a bait and switch. when we're first introduced to her you see this cute girl who's totally distraught at everything Laios does and you think she's gonna be the tropey token girl in the party who does the healing and stays out of the fights and has to be the designated Team Mom. but that's not Marcille at all. she's only on healing duty because Falin isn't around. she's a frontline attacker and she's constantly thinking about murder and explosions.

dungeon meshi really said "so there's this incredibly powerful black mage whose signature spell is "explode your skull" and she loves necromancy and is wanted in 5 countries. she can heal in a pinch but when she does it, it hurts, because there isn't a gentle bone in her body" and then she looks like this. i love her so much

Not romantic nor platonic but a secret third thing

(Warren Godby and Gordon Porlock)

Man, I almost drank myself to death yesterday, I can't even remember my name, if only there was someone that could help me.

The the trustworthy and saint-like lieutenant:

watch out im going kittymode *hits the blunt until i go nonverbal and stares at you slow blinking* ... meow. meow. meow . mroww. meow.. mrrrrow.. meow. meow

I made a thing

Kim with lungs 🫁

the navidson record goes crazy

my three wee smoking girlfriends

Sunrise, Room #2 [Disco Elysium]

Summary:

You come down the next morning to the fishing shack in the village to find the detective bathing in the sea. “Detective,” you say. “I’m pleased to note you availing yourself of the facilities.” “Kim, it’s fucking freezing,” he says, seriously. His hair hangs wet and limp, darker like this, and his chops draggle down his face. He looks like a half-drowned dog you had once seen Eyes pull out of L’Esperance. You’ve got to let him use your shower, you decide.

Rating: T

Pairing: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi

Word Count: ~11K

You come down the next morning to the fishing shack in the village to find the detective bathing in the sea. It must be frigid, you think, and then, ah, yes, there must not be a shower in the shack.

You’re grateful that he seems to be bathing regularly, after your gentle nudge on Tuesday, when he had sat in your shared tub for a long time that night. You thought you had heard a sob or two, but refused to knock and find out. Let the man retain some semblance of privacy, you’d thought, as if you hadn’t seen him earlier that day strip down to his incredibly dirty briefs in the middle of the street to change his pants to something that “would make him notice clues better.” Now, watching him bathe in the sea, you’re of the opinion that perhaps water that is minus six degrees centigrade at its warmest may not be the best thing for him right now.

The detective is a white blur in the gray ocean, his back turned towards you as he rubs himself down quickly. He’s singing something you can’t quite catch - something about mist, something about white cliffs. You see, and try not to see, rising out of the water, the detective's broad shoulders, slumping forward a little - the line down his back indicating muscle long gone to fat - the hair on his shoulders matted and wet, growing sparser further down - the gleam of his wet skin in the morning sun, which is pale and faint, peeking through the clouds. He is very white against the dark sea. You look up at the sky, then half-turn away. It’s going to be another cold day, you think. You push your hands in your pockets and hunch your shoulders. At least you had taken a nice, hot shower that morning, and had even gotten a cup of coffee out of Garte for two reál.

Read the rest on AO3.