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#especially obsessed
especially-obsessed · 27 days
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I’ve got a six hour flight ahead of me. I brought my tablet and a keyboard. Guess what’s coming 😏
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alwritey-aphrodite · 4 months
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Also the whole “do you know what they would call me if I was a man?” “strong?” “Reginald” scene literally had me laughing so hard I almost pissed myself
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perlukafarinn · 1 year
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this was published in 1976
(The Winged Dreamers by Jennifer Guttridge, published in Star Trek: The New Voyages)
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kittykatninja321 · 6 months
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wish more found family enjoyers understood "they should be at the club". Maybe the characters have no other choice, but it should be acknowledged that throwing some traumatized late teen/early 20 something straight into young parenthood when they haven't had a chance to heal or even figure out who they are is maybe not the best for their personal growth and actually somewhat sad. In a kinder world they would be at the club
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personinthepalace · 1 year
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My favorite bits from the Thinking Cloth
George's and Lockwood's doodles of each other
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CEO of Cooking Cocking
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Compliments :)
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Mustard is the fools condiment ≠ Lockwood is a fool
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Food
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Locklyle grammar flirting
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Literature quotes from Lockwood
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To-do list
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It's the cat again
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The trio 🥺
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the full thinking cloth (x) from Sophie Powell's instagram
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fayevalcntine · 6 months
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Vampire Appreciation Week: Favorite vampire fiction(s) OR first vampire obsession 
"A silver stake? A crucifix? What, did you think we haven't tried everything before? We've shot him, stabbed him, clubbed him, sprayed him with holy water, staked him through the heart, and STILL he lives! Do you understand? No-one knows how to kill Dracula!"
Van Helsing (2004), directed by Stephen Sommers
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nibbelraz · 6 months
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Shang Qinghua created Mobei Jun as his dream man, but also Mobei Jun's dream man is Shang Qinghua, meaning they both find each other irresistible no matter what world
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nosfelixculpa · 1 year
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[1800s newspaper seller voice]: low quality gifs of some high quality boys smoochin’ come and get ur low quality gifs of some high quality boys
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bugbrush · 3 months
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armful
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nomazee · 20 days
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“This is unnecessary.”
At Blade’s snide comment, you pull sharply at the strands of his hair in your hands. He grunts in displeasure before obediently quieting down, only a little scared of you scalping him if he annoys you any further. 
Perched behind him on the couch while he sits on the floor, your hands find themselves coming through his hair (long, smooth, untangled despite the fact that you’ve never seen him take a brush to it). Your efforts to part his hair with just your fingers are fruitless. His hair is thick on the top, so much so that you’re surprised his neck doesn’t constantly ache with the weight of it. Your hands pause, resting on the top of his head while you try and figure out how you’ll style it. 
“Be nice,” you warn, two hands on the sides of his head tilting it from side to side, treating him as a foam mannequin on which you can project your very thorough cosmetology skills. “Your fate is quite literally in my hands. I could knock you out and shave you bald very easily.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he says earnestly, and you can’t help the way your lips twinge into a smile. “This is clearly a hassle. My hair looks fine the way it is.”
“It does,” you admit, “but wouldn’t it be nice to try something new? And at no cost to you, aside from mild scalp pain. I’m good at hair. I did Kafka’s that one time.” You fail to mention that it was only one time for good reason. Kafka said that you handle hair the same way a lobster would handle a violin—that is, with clumsy hands and a clear lack of refinement. She had to hide every pair of scissors from you in fear that you'd give Silver Wolf microbangs.
As if on cue, your fingers get caught in an unexpected snag in Blade’s hair, and you pull and tug and yank as if expecting it to untangle on its own. Blade hisses and reaches a hand back to smack you on the wrist, turning around to glare at you. 
“Watch it,” he orders, gentle but firm. There’s not enough heat in his words to scare you, and his eyes are a particularly beautiful shade of copper in the dim, flickering light of this dingy lounge room. Whatever you say, beautiful, you think to yourself hysterically. 
After a few half-willed apologies from you and some nudges of encouragement, Blade finally relaxes enough to turn back around and tilt his head back in your lap, letting your fingers play with his hair nonsensically. A braid, you decide, would look quite nice on him. One long one down the back. If you had ribbon, you’d use some to tie his hair, but all you have is one of Kafka’s tragically thin hair ties. 
“It’s a nice color,” you comment absentmindedly, pretending that you can’t see the way Blade’s eyes have shut in contentment at your gentle prodding. “It changes in the light a little bit. It looks very blue now, but I’ve always thought it was black.” You section his hair off into three pieces, loosely laying one over the other over and over again. The aged gold ornament still hangs securely in his hair, and you don’t do anything to move it. It suits him. 
“It’s natural, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he tells you, the slightest twinge of a joke in his voice. It plays at your smile and at your heart, too. 
“You say that now, but you’ll be scrambling to come up with a lie when I find box dye in your bag.” 
He only hums in response, reluctantly enjoying the feeling of your hands on him—they’re gentle, and you can imagine he’s not quite used to this. It’s an addictive feeling, to have him at your mercy, even with just your hands in his hair. There’s trust, unspoken, lingering warmly in the air and settling like condensation on your skin. You could very easily do a number of things that would hurt Blade—kill him, almost. You’ve only ever thought of it a few times, and those were all a very long time ago. 
You don’t think of it that often anymore. All you’re paying attention to is Blade and the splitting ends of his hair and how nice he’d look with a red ribbon tied in. 
“We should go shopping,” you tell him, voice close to a whisper now. You’ve secured the end of his braid already, and your handiwork is admirable. The strands are neatly crossed over each other, uniform in size with each other as they taper down into the end. “Some clips for you would be nice.” Absentmindedly, you comb through the layers of hair near his face, digging your fingers gently into the sides of his face and scratching at his scalp. 
“And where exactly would we go shopping? We’re not exactly upstanding members of society in some people’s eyes.” 
“Then I’ll make clips for you,” you say, a naive kind of dedication in your tone. “I used to work with metal, a little bit. I could make jewelry. Ornaments for your hair. I’ll put a ribbon in next time.” 
“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” Blade asks doubtfully, in steep contrast with the way he lets your hands roam along his scalp, and the way his head leans back into you as if he’s comfortable. 
“You’re a loyal customer,” you quip, “you’d never let somebody else do your hair when you have me as a dedicated stylist.” 
“I’m your only customer.” 
“I know,” and in a moment of weakness—because at the end of the day that’s what you are, weak, malleable and moveable when you’re with Blade like this—you lean down just a little bit, pressing a stupid clumsy kiss on the crown of his head. Your fingers trail down to trace the bumps of the braid, the divots and grooves in it, made by your hands, and yours alone. “That just means I can put all my effort towards you alone.” 
“You shouldn’t.” And he means it when he says that, and it hurts you, puts a sickly pang in your chest that you want to reach for and tear out before it grows into something worse. 
“But I will,” you tell him. Blade is stubborn, but not stubborn enough to keep it up. Not now, not here, not when the overhead lights are flickering and making his hair look just a little bluer, illuminating the warmer ends of his hair, glinting off the metal ornament still clipped into it. He rests between your hands, still sitting on the cold floor, pretending that he isn’t falling asleep with you like the fool he secretly is.
—°+..。*゚。*゚+.*.。.—
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especially-obsessed · 2 years
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Boutta crank out some fics bc istg I just got my heart shattered by the guy I was talking to and I need to vent about it with some fluff and smut 🥵
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tomurakii · 6 days
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I just love clerics. I just love explorations of faith and devotion in a world where gods are provably real and also provably not omnipotent. I love obsession I love devotion I love giving your everything for an ideal or the approval of a higher being who can't or won't be devoted to you in return
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bamsara · 1 year
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being an adult means we can buy or make as much self-indulgent shit (as we can afford) and unironically have trinkets of our fave things cause our teen years was bullied for liking things and hiding/denying we were ever neurodivergent to the point of suicide. sucks for anyone that thinks its weird cringe but I'm going to try and allow myself to love myself in little ways now
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vvanessaives · 1 month
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James Fitzjames + Caravaggio's Entombment, David with the Head of Goliath, Penitent Magdalene, The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, Death of the Virgin, Bacchus
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5ummit · 2 months
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Source: 缭乱阁 | Weibo
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1920sitgirl · 5 months
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#bringbacklamettatrees
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