Makeup, check. French braid side bun, check. Yvette the owl bag and coat check. Jewels; small black dress ? check
Rain ? check. I hope the bride’s shoulders will not be bare…
The faces of power.
These are GORGEOUS.
this beats the fuck out of that ‘beautified disney villains’ post that went around awhile back. oh yes please.
Ursula is freaking terrifying
about 24-30. I’ve been collecting since I was 8
Aw, that’s cute :) ! I wish I could send you some, but unfortunately, sending a package is quite expensive here =(
I collect owl figurines :)
Really ? : D That’s awesome ! I have two of them, actually. One in glass that I bought in Disneyland Paris and one that a friend gave me from Ukraine :). How many owls do you have ?
so you collect owls?
Yes I do :). Mostly jewels, but I currently have bags, keychains, stickers, papers, various craft supplies, a wallet, drawings… It’s not my favourite animal but I really love them !
(next level is clothes, but unfortunately I can’t really find them in my town =( )
A new friend in my owl collection ! I’m so in love with it, that’s atrocious. The indian shop where I bought it had several owl bag. I guess I will have another owl friend in my room next summer :))
I guess my next things will be a marvelous owl purse and a owl pencil case that I will sew myself !
And in this store, my mom bought me an awesome blue and black smooth coat. Shopping sometimes brought a lot of relief :)
In other news, I’m pretty sure I won the poetry slam for my classroom because my English teacher who’s usually really cynical said I was a really good poet and that my poem had a lot of really good feeling
And I mean
He pulled me aside after class just to say that
Hey congrats ! I hope you really win :) About what was your poem ?
ok, so when i saw pembroke’s post about printmaker!grantaire, i knew i had to draw it bc this is actually my headcanon. like, what would a classically trained painter with a bad case of cynicism and alcoholism do to earn his bread in the 1830’s? He’d make motherfucking prints.
He’d hole himself up in his garret with a stack of copperplates when the world would become too much. He’d find peace and serenity in the simplicity of trying to ink the perfect plate, gently wiping its surface over and over with tarpaulin, palm or forearm until satisfied. He’d find a quiet satisfaction in the physicality of the labor, cranking the heavy wheel of the press, or chiseling and filing away at the rough edges of a fresh plate. There would be the subtle element danger for him too, in the acid used to etch the plates and the rosin to tint them, and various chemicals used in the shop. He’d find companionship in chattering away for hours with his fellow printers.
The pleasure and distraction of a bustling print shop would allow him to forget, if only for a while, the fiery gaze of blue eyes, the disdainful toss of a gold crowned head, that passionate soul that threatened to consume his own.