#deincs

She shifted uncomfortably. These clothes don’t quite fit her. They are too loose. This new planet that she found herself in was a strange place. Their customs and allegiances unknown to her. There were a few things that were reminiscent of Krypton, but so much was different. At least there was a way that she could stay safe. The Russians, while a little vague, had given Astra a cover. Something that she could use here. She still didn’t understand the dynamic they had with the Americans and why she was being asked to assist this particular agent in her mission, but at least it was something to do until she figured out what her own purpose would be. 

Susan Scarbo.

The name sounds clumsy, though Margaret Elizabeth Carter is hardly the one to judge such circumstances paltry as names. If you were going to judge her name, you'd assume her mother was Conservative expat who had fallen in love with Ronald Reagan within the heart of the 1980s. Rather, her great aunt Sharon had named her after a grandmother, and Peggy had become the name she answered to by the age of three.

She didn't know Susan Scarbo's excuse, though she knew the woman's abilities and supposed role in HYDRA. There was a method that her aunt had told about once, long ago, and SHIELD had found many cases with those same associations. Her 93-year-old aunt was suffering dementia and there was little to go on besides Peggy's own fond memories and Susan's fondness for Miami and women.

Peggy could do that, notably with a pattern circling around Purdy Lounge, an incredibly lesbian friendly cocktail lounge that seems to fit all of Scarbo's numbers. Save her utter devotion to the continuation of HYDRA.

Peggy eases right in. She's pretty, she prefers dramatic lipstick and retro-glam when having the chance to live something akin to normally and her time spent in England has given her one of those delightful Received Pronunciations when she bothers to focus on it. And tonight, she suspects, under the wig, she might have to.

I feel this so strongly

yeah, it’s one of those things, and it’s hard to come back. i try to be more careful now so it doesn’t happen again, but it’s still terrifying.

@deincs replied to your post:

I’m glad you came back.

“I know you’re wearing thin down to the core.”

@deincs sent me a meme seeing if I can lower my follower count || Meme Status: Still Accepting

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

1) Meryl Streep should not have won an Academy award for Kramer v Kramer. 

2) I really hate callout culture. I don’t know if that’s unpopular, but it certainly feels like it is, sometimes. I feel like Tumblr has become pretty toxic save for a few communities where people are great (lookin’ at you SG fandom, you’ve been so kind to me) and try to foster an open, positive environment, and then the rest of it is...so worrisome. So scary. People immediately jumping on bandwagons without researching. People toting up pitchforks based on heresay with no evidence.

Friends...I live in the US. I get enough of that from my politics, I don’t need it on tumblr.

3) Gordon Ramsey comes across particularly fake in his American version of Kitchen Nightmares to me. The UK version is wonderful and isn’t overly dramatized but...dear God the US version. There. It needed to be said. 

       ❝ charlie... ❞ a sigh. ❝ did MELISSA put you up to this ? because i specifically told her i don’t want to talk about any of that...HIPPIE CRAP anymore. not after...well, she knows. ❞

“your way of life.”  correction as hesitant as eyes that sweep across the other woman’s face, fingers that reach to brush along the golden sparkles sprinkled like stars across the crimson collar of her horrible sweater.  instead, one slender digit taps the tip end of her nose.  “a red clown’s nose and antlers might suit you better.”  accompanied with an effervescent grin, without the tightening of her jaw that would belie the heat of a temper stroking the inside of her belly - a joke.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but if you don’t drink, why are you at a bar?” Rhea glances to the other woman’s glass, half full of ice and water with a sliced lemon shoved onto its lip.

The alien bar is more empty than the woman’s glass, a few scattered patrons here and there: Chikhea in the back with her pale, scaled appearance, nursing a Sicardian Ale, on a break from her normal bouncer duties; Shyvean at the other end of the bar, hind legs resting on the top bar of his stool, tail curled around his ass; Kirani at the door, translucent eyes scanning the room, blinking like a snake as they pass over Rhea herself. Talle, more humanoid in appearance, works the bar, while a few others like her sit in the booths behind them. They might be human themselves; she can’t know everyone in the bar, especially not new faces.

But this woman, apparently just as human as they come, is new and unfamiliar and a riddle of intricacies. It’s odd enough that a recovering alcoholic (as the woman has said she is) would visit a bar with no intention to drink, odder still for one to visit a little known bar spread by word of mouth as a safe haven for aliens when said person is not one, and even more odd that she would do so alone. She will not ask point blank about the last two, not now, but the first seems within bounds.