that feminine urge to reunite with your best friend that you haven’t heard from in 5 years and rope her into investigating the disappearance of your gf/former bsf and maybe fall in love
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I love weird werewolves. I love weird sphinxes, weird mermaids, weird harpies, etc etc. I love when the human and animal traits are blended in a strange unconventional way and the line becomes blurred
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me wjen me when mw ejm😞😞😞 marvin and charlotte and whizzer and cordelia all say i love you to each pther as well in unoikely lovets and me when mw ejn chatlotte is thw forst to hold marvin at WHIZZERS FUNERAL😭😭😭
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aspec hamlet/ophelia/horatio
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yes the peacock miraculous obviously needs to be felix's and is extremely significant to him and there's so much poetry about the fact that he is the holder of the very miraculous that created him and him being the holder of it is deeply entrenched into the plot. HOWEVER.
sometimes i miss the cat!adrien vs dog!felix dynamic. because it was really fucking funny
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looking after hobie brown with a split lip and an almost black eye and he won’t stop touching you. it’s extremely distracting and you’d tell him so but you’d hate to see the look on his face when you admit he’s flustering you. so you let him be and scrub at the stream of blood trailing from his lip to his chin. you shuffle up his lap (yeah, you’re in his lap, and what about it? he was the one who put you here. he hadn’t given you much of a choice. insisted it was easier to reach and pulled you into him before you could protest) to get a better angle and his fingers press harder into your hips, his grip on you tightening as he tugs you up his lap, somewhat helpfully. you try to ignore the way it makes you feel. the way you’re now practically chest to chest and he can probably hear your heartbeat, it’s so damn loud.
and then, the very tips of his fingers dip underneath the hem of your shirt and brush your warm skin, and you decide you just can’t take it anymore.
“hobie,” you chide, soft and entirely too flustered.
“what?” he says back, dripping with ignorance, and you’d think he was genuinely clueless if you didn’t know him so well. he pushes his hand further up your back, his rough calloused fingers practically burning a mark on your already hot skin.
“quit it”, you say, though you don’t sound very convincing at all.
“quit what, babe?” hobie presses his palm to the small of your back, forcing you ever so closer. you gasp, pressed up against him, your hands braced on his shoulders, but he only smirks knowingly. “m’only helping you out.”
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i literally cannot wrap my head around the notion that there’s been a “decline” in “real art.” that music is shitty now, that books aren’t what they used to be, etc etc etc.
art is more broadly accessible than ever. it’s unbelievable. it’s divine. there’s so much art on this planet right now that i could pile it all up on a plate and devour it for the rest of my life without making a dent. denigrating the “quality” of “today’s art” is like ordering a three course meal at your favorite restaurant and complaining about a food truck on the other side of town
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