forthegothicheroine:

The dream: I am a glamorous 1940s film star.  My man is an eccentric and obsessive director.  He makes films to showcase me.  We get called before HUAC.  I sail through their questioning.  He screams and calls them fascists and gets blacklisted.  We move to Europe.  We make weird experimental films through the sixties.  I start directing.  We come back to America in the seventies.  I win an Oscar as a formal sign of forgiveness.  My memoirs are not ghostwritten.  NARS names a lipstick after me.  I die over the age of 100, having lived long enough to sue Ryan Murphy.

batmanisagatewaydrug:

not to keep sounding like a Killmonger apologist but like… if T’Challa hadn’t killed him?? this would be such a great time to have a conveniently murderous cousin in the palace basement. “look alive and suit up, asshole. you’ve got anger issues and we’ve got approximately 7000 aliens in the backyard. get to work.” [Okoye yeets Killmonger out a window into the middle of the fight]