when the reading, writing & watching tv slumps hit you all at the same time 🫠
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I AM SO BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORED
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coming out as a massively obsessive digital circus fangirl,,these little freaks have leeched onto my brain and I will be rocking in a corner mumbling to myself waiting for the next episode...
anyways here's the three stooges featuring my sister's jax design because it is super cool and awesome
plus some zoobie doodles because they r my fav 🫶
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Why do the American localizations keep trying to remove the queer relationships by adding incest?
Tell me I'm wrong, Netflix. Tell me there won't be some WEIRD VIBES because you wanted to remove the queer subtext from the 2024 adaptation of a book that was effectively used as legal evidence in the 1895 trials against the author for gross indecency (i.e., homosexual activity).
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From the people (me) who brought you HD Edgeworth spin... Gumspin
from the scant few people who remember me getting pissed at how inconsistent his hair spikes are, this... this certainly doesn't help LMAOOO. The pencil also switches! Lazy Capcom, lazy (i'm joking)
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You know what's the funniest thing in the k-pop industry? That when a female idol has a scandal it's always about them reading a feminist book or DATING and when a male idol has a scandal it's about SA and being a ped0. Guess who gets more shit
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Do you know how much media has been produced in the last decade? This really was the era of overstimulation where you never really could watch all the stuff there was.
So when people complain that TV will be bad now, so? Go back and watch all the stuff that's just rotting on streaming platforms it's not like it's 2007 and linear TV is your only option.
But most importantly just support the strike so that the people who make all the stuff you like can keep making it :)
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war god sukuna has no need for you. you know this as intimately as you know yourself.
he is a monstrous god, well-suited to the mantle he was given from birth; two pairs of muscular arms as thick as the average man’s torso, two cruel faces, a gaping maw carved into the hardness of his stomach. to peer into sukuna’s eyes is to see death and famine and destruction — wars raged long before you and long after you — and live through it all.
he has no need for you. he is perhaps more powerful than the entire pantheon, even the six-eyed-one and the curse-consumer, who swallows the sky every day to bring night. you have little understanding of the sheer magnitude of his power — your pathetic human brain can only fathom so much — but you know that sukuna, undoubtedly, is the very meaning of the word. and yet, he keeps you.
you are not a concubine, though he shirks those he has in favour of your company. you are not a general, nor an admiral, nor a soldier, and yet he seeks your counsel. you are not a mage, and hardly a grand priestess, and yet sukuna finds your door instead of that of his great temple, where hundreds live and breathe to serve him.
you had only reached the status of alter-maiden before your own temple was crushed to dust; little responsibility was given to you beyond tending the hearth, studying, and occasionally helping with chores. but sukuna dresses you in the finery of high priestesses — gauzy crimson dresses that bare your stomach and chest, fine golden jewellery and garnets that appear almost black in low light — and instructs you to dance in the way your superiors did. dances of worship, dances that he does not need, because he is already all-powerful.
the dances fit you like armour fits the weedy frame of a young boy — your legs don’t quite stretch far enough, your arms can’t move with a fluidity only gained by experience — but sukuna watches you like you are a sorceress, enchanting him with each step. he hushes uruame as they try to speak, insisting on remaining undisturbed during your worship — and when you finish, panting and glistening with sweat, your god only hums in satisfaction, grin all sharp-toothed and feral.
it must be blasphemous, you think, to perform such revered dances so clumsily—
but perhaps even more blasphemous, though, is the lingering touches your god fixes upon your waist; the hunger in his eyes as you dance; the scrape of his pointed nails against your jawline; the tent in his robes at the sound of your laboured breaths after dancing.
you fear the god of war means to have you in more ways than one — and worse still, you can’t find it within you to care.
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