He's my dark prince, my baby girl, my satanic boyfriend with thighs that don't quit. He's handsome and pretty. He laughs like a creepy old man.
I love him.
795 notes
·
View notes
And of course everyone is talking about Loki and not about Doom Patrol
Fucking marketing
33 notes
·
View notes
A random thought: I wonder the extent of Blade's healing as a result of Shuhu
Like listen most of the injuries he's endured that we've known of have been stabs or slices or cuts like Jingliu and Dan Heng killing him, all he's come back from
But like if someone quickly and clean sliced one of Blade's limbs off in one swoop, what would happen? If his arm is close enough, would it start to reattach in the same way his skin was described as mending or would he just... grow another arm? Is it a matter of the limb having to be close to the main body it was detached from for it to reattach? And additionally, if he would instead grow a new arm, what happens to the arm from before? Would it be that being disconnected from the main body makes it lose the connection to the Abundance or would it keep working and like... grow a new Blade from that arm?
If someone did it slow enough would it just start to reconnect at one end while the other is being cut? What would happen if it was instead his head completely cut off? Is it even possible to move fast enough to detach anything from his body without it immediately beginning to heal enough to keep it even slightly attached?
I’m just very curious about the extent of the Abundance’s effect on him with what we still don’t know and he has a very specific form of immortality/invincibility so there’s a lot that seems specific just to him even more fun to think about exploring y’know! I don’t know if it’ll be explored though since the extent of violence shown on screen is restricted given the rating though maybe they could explore it via written words or recounted dialogue
I’m tempted to come up with an excuse of a fic plot just for this
21 notes
·
View notes
Taylor getting an honorary doctorate two years ago and then, I guess, fucking around with her friends and making a fake academic club about it?
Nerd.
17 notes
·
View notes
2024 we still doing it for Neji?
When I started this blog 7 years ago I sold my soul to a devil in exchange for writers inspiration and now I’m forever doing it for Neji
12 notes
·
View notes
There’s a lot on my head—
namely, a head,
like Marie Antoinette
used to have—
and King Charles
(the First)—
(the new one—whatever)—
(I think he still has one,
but it’s not in great shape).
But what of the mind?
Never mind—
but the body, it burns.
And I lie in my bed
looking at Joan of Arc
in a BBC feature—
condemned with a baby
(or, bastard)—
oh, Joan,
or Jeanne, la Pucelle—
a poor little maid
that a poor little Bard
suited up—in fine armor
to slutshame.
Oh well.
Oh well,
well well well
I’m not feeling these days
but for movies and books
that I gaze on. Praise God
for recurring malaise
and disease—
I’ve been struck with
for fifteen years now...
quite a chunk of my life
when I’m just 24,
and my grandmother’s baby—
(my grandmother’s dead)—
(but she wasn’t, before).
No, all four
of my grandparents saw
me grow up—as this wretch—
little nine-year-old girl
full of needles, I am—
I continue to be
in my hospital bed
glued to the TV.
What integrity
I must inspire in my elders—
their wise niece and daughter
a weakling, for now—
(no, not now,
but forever)—
I take the remote
and flip to cartoons.
I wrote poetry once—
(I still do—in my head)
(that thing I still have... despite)
and I wrote it for years
and I’m writing it now
in force—
in rebellion against
the skin and the bones
and the muscles, not moving
without consequence—
but the mind—
and the body!—
being idle... I hate it.
Even more than the pain,
or the punishment I submit to—
to claim Me my own
over this, my fatigue—
my war from some film
like a period piece—
so. I fight for some king?
Or for God? Heaven knows—
but I’m stylishly dressed,
eloquent, my last words
and woes of my tragedy—
(how nice that’d be)—
find heroic catharsis
for the audience to see...
but for Me? What of Me?
Oh, that’s Sunday. Or not.
Wait, it’s Friday?—They all look
the same in my house.
My garden’s no calendar,
my dog’s not my boss,
but my job is to live...
but loss... all of this—
losing years once again
of my bright little life.
Nana’s sore little girl,
I submit,
put my pen down again.
“Chorus—pretend Me I’m buried.” - a free verse poem written 7/07/2023
19 notes
·
View notes
I hope everyone who voted for Sweden is haunted by CHA CHA CHA in their dreams tonight
17 notes
·
View notes