Write you updates here
“When thinking of iconic romance, ask yourself if any imagery (paintings, photographs, film-stills) comes to mind that is not showing heterosexual couples? Probably not,” says photographer Braden Summers of his photo series of everyday gay and lesbian couples from around the globe.
the diversity of colours is amazing oh my
In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.
In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.
In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman
with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to
when sins need to be wished away like warts,
the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own.
In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child
with drops of destiny mingled into his blood
and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies
with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.
In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.
It’s night when the door creaks open, a trail of light announcing the arrival of an even brighter presence. Loki eyes the door through a hooded gaze as Thor steps in, closing the door just as quickly as he enters, as if even the door must fall silent upon their secret.
He’s come from the bath: a towel hangs loose upon his tanned skin, revealing the jut of hipbones Loki has traced with his tongue more times than he can count. The beginnings of arousal burns in his gut as he lifts himself up, the silk sheet covering his body slipping down in a sweet caress, but not the one his body desires this evening. Thor walks with purpose, those cornflower blue eyes following the movement of the sheet as if he grows jealous of the linen touching Loki’s body. Loki bites back a laugh at the thought as he swings his legs over his bedside, and he doesn’t miss the way Thor follows that too, like every movement of Loki’s is something to devour, something to claim.
Hands planted behind him, Loki leans back, a slow, sinful incline to bare his naked body to his brother. Come and touch me.
It looks like Tom is about to fucking cry.
If he was touched, it’s kinda understandable.
I mean, think about it. He is cast as a villain. Sure, it’s a fun role (especially since it’s such a multifaceted, complicated character). He might make a name for himself in the world if you’re lucky, but really, what other expectations did he have?
The film’s protagonist is attractive (in the very masculine, classic sense), strong—the person everyone will root for.
I can believe it if Tom never thought that his character—the bad guy—would become not only the most popular character in the Thor series, but possibly one of the most popular characters in the entire MCU. (Honestly, I think only RDJ’s Tony Stark might have him beat.)
And it just hit him, in this moment, how much people love the work he’s done. It’s overwhelming. I’m happy for him.