Origami Around
Game of Thrones Daily
Janaina Medeiros
will byers stan first human second
blake kathryn
titsay
★
we're not kids anymore.
Cosimo Galluzzi
wallacepolsom
tumblr dot com
ojovivo
art blog(derogatory)
almost home
taylor price
trying on a metaphor
One Nice Bug Per Day
Product Placement
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@raaafl
my friend just told me that there's a secret second dashboard that solely contains posts from people you've turned on post notifications for, and when i click the link in the messages it opens it within the tumblr app, so the tumblr app also has a secret second dashboard for post notification blogs, and the only way to access it is to open the link for it within the app.
i literally love tumblr
my 3 apple tall child coco 💚🥥
ra ra rasputin is objectively the funniest song ever written it's like "rasputin was an advisor to the romanovs and honestly he was a bit of a power-hungry conman (oof)... but you're not here for a history lesson! you want to know how much he fucked, don't you? well i'll tell you: he fucked. he fucked often and severely."
and it's a banger
You listen to music regularly? Why? Have you even tried quitting? Could you quit? You get music stuck in your head? Wow. You're so ruined and music brained. I bet you make your partners listen to music with you when you have sex. Music addiction has really ruined a whole generation. You know it's not realistic to expect reverb in real life, right? You're probably so desensitized that you don't even feel anything anymore when you hear a bird singing that it wants some fuck.
I don't have a problem with people listening to music per se, but I do have a problem with the music industry exploiting & mistreating artists.
Personally, I abstain from all music in order to keep my hands clean but really music should just be illegal outright to protect musicians from abuse.
holy shit this person in the notes
Anyone got that comic about making up a strawman to make a point and then turning around and the strawman is standing there
This one?
soldiers gonna soldier
ці ты бачыш мяне?
can you see me?
This is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Perfect example of an untranslatable joke. 😂
babys first gay fiction podcast my beloved
hey sorry. can you stand a little further back and we try again
if anyone's read or written a fanfic with this exact dynamic for them let me know.
The Strongest Fairy, Cirno
Shes supposed to have a kind of delinquent gimmick, and idrc that the more modern clothes don't make much sense idk maybe its a slightly more modern gensokyo.
suwakana
Agatha Knapweed stared at the pixie. The pixie stared at its boots.
Very familiar boots, Agatha thought. Obviously made of leaves and leather and smeared with old pitch, but scale models of her own boots.
And then Agatha thought: Come to that…
“Are you supposed to be dressed like me?” she asked.
The pixie was already red. Now it glowed like a hot iron. “Yes, ma’am,” it squeaked.
“Beautiful handiwork” said Gertje the dwarf, looming in to look for herself. “Would you give us a twirl, darling?”
The pixie gave a shuffling, miserable approximation of a twirl. “I - I couldn’t finish the shield in time,” it said. “A few of us were planning on meeting tonight, and I really wanted to finish your shield in time to finish the costume, but I had-”
It swallowed, and shifted its grip on the scraps of paper it had clutched to its chest like a lifesaver. “Other things to finish.”
Agatha stared. The pixie had even painted one of its hands to match her prosthetic arm.
Dain the half-elf cleared his throat. “And this is because you’re all a - fan-jee-on?”
The pixie went back to staring at its boots. “Yes, sir,” it said. “A lot of p-pixies are doing it. We turn invisible and follow adventuring parties when they go d-dungeon-crawling.”
It turned glittery eyes full of embarrassed tears up at Agatha. “W-we’re dungeon fanatics,” it said. “Fan-dungeon - fangeon. W-we think you’re really c-c-cool.”
Agatha blinked. She felt as though she should say something.
“Well,” she said lamely. “That’s - something.” She cleared her throat. “So you’re the one who left the note this morning?”
She looked over at Barnum the gnome, who’d been quietly reading the tiny scrap of paper through a jeweler’s loupe. Now he stared at the rest of the party with a grey, sick expression, one eye hugely magnified through the lens.
“I can’t read this,” he said.
“Sure you can,” said Agatha. “I’ve seen you read fairy before.”
Barnum gave her a Look. He went back to the tiny page.
“‘Dain pushed Agatha against the cavern wall,’” Barnum read. “‘She whimpered. She felt the heat of his breath against her neck, felt his lips brush her collarbone, down her chest, across her exposed-’”
The noise Gertje made was a high, howling cackle. The pixie wailed.
Bricks of gingerbread were laid with layers of icing for mortar. Caramel coloured light gleamed through sugar glass windows.
The gingerbread… things stumbled through the kitchen on legs unused to walking. They leaned on each other, gingerbread hands on gingerbread shoulders, each about the height of a child.
Ethel Muckwillow, witch, stared at them in unmasked horror.
Agnes Blacktreacle said: “-And there I found them in the woods, starved to death, dead as a doornail. Well, I couldn’t leave that alone, otherwise people in the village would accuse me of something!”
She poured a spoonful of sugar into her tea and carefully lifted her cup when one of the things stumbled and slammed its gingerbread head into the table with a thunk and a sticky groan. “And I thought, I have all these baking supplies from when I made the house, so why not make some replacements?” she said, pouring another spoonful of sugar. “I whipped them up in about a day – once they figure out walking, I’ll send them back home, and nobody will be none the wiser.”
The gingerbread boy – or at least, the gingerbread thing decorated with icing to look like boy’s clothes and a glob of buttercream teased into a vaguely masculine hairstyle – held its head and groaned. The gingerbread thing with long, dark, marzipan hair twisted the hem of its gingerbread skirt nervously. It looked up at Agnes and opened its mouth to reveal a tongue made of a glacé cherry.
It said: “Aaaghlaglaglagglegglgl.”
Agnes clucked her tongue and got up to fuss over the gingerbread boy. She was wearing a frilly apron on top of the standard witching uniform. It didn't go well with the look at all.
Ethel Muckwillow stared at her fellow witch. Agnes had a tendency to go too far with these kinds of things, and it was just possible that this may have been too far even for her.
“Gingerbread changelings,” she said.
Agnes looked up from pressing a marshmallow bandage to the gingerbread boy’s forehead and beamed. “Gingelings, if you will,” she said.
“I won’t,” Ethel said. “They were sent into the woods because they and their parents were starving, and you will be sending them back a pair of giant gingerbread changelings.”
“Yes?”
Ethel waited for the penny to drop. It didn’t.
“Aggie,” she said. “They’re going to eat them.”
Agnes gasped and clasped her hands over the gingerbread things’ ears. “They wouldn’t!”
“They’re starving peasants and you’re going to deliver them a walking, talking Christmas dessert.”
Agnes looked at Ethel. She looked at the gingerbread things. She sagged. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Sorry.”
“What if — what if I made a fondant? I could try to hide the gingerbread with a fondant.”
Ethel looked at the gingerbread things. They stared back with gleaming, beady, currant eyes. The gingerbread girl had started to chew on its marzipan hair.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think that would help.”
When ogres travel, they do so in human shape.
They hate doing this. They think it’s beneath them. But they do it anyway.
The Vicomte Graoul de Saucisson – and this is another thing about ogres. Ogres as a species are nobility. There is no such thing as a low-born ogre. There is always room in the ogrish peerage for another vicomte, another prince, another branch to tie to the rotted tree – strode up to the chateau in human shape. The roses in the garden shivered as he passed by. The huge, high doors opened by themselves and he walked through them without a shift in his stride.
When the doors slammed shut behind him, he moved to shrug the shape off his shoulders like a coat.
Then he saw the woman.
He froze. He stared. She stared back.
He slowly pulled the shape back on. “Who are you?” he asked.
She looked mildly appalled. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing in my home?”
“Your home? This is–” He stopped. He reconsidered. “I am the Vicomte de Saucisson,” he said. “I’m looking for the Marquis de Pamplemousse. He is a… colleague of mine.”
“Oh,” she said. She could’ve looked more abashed. “I’m sorry, monsieur, he’s never mentioned you before. You must be here to share your congratulations, of course, I can fetch him right away.”
“He’s never mentioned you either,” the vicomte did not say. “Of course,” he said. “Congratulations. What about?”
She seemed surprised. “Have you not heard? Monsieur, the curse on my husband has been lifted.”
He stared. His lips started to form the words “What curse,” and then there was a sound like a horse falling down a set of stairs and a man he had never seen before wearing the marquis’s clothes came barrelling down the hall.
“Vicomte!” said the man with the marquis’s voice. “My human friend! The curse has been lifted, and I am a human once again!”
He was slightly out of breath when he reached the woman. He clasped her arm and grinned at him with manic desperation. “This is wonderful news! You must be here to share your congratulations!”
“Lie like hell,” said the man’s eyes.
The vicomte stared. “Oh!” he said. “My – human friend! Human once again! Words fail me. After all these–” (there was the slightest hesitation) “–years?”
The woman put her head at an angle and narrowed her eyes at him.
The man walked up, still grinning like a rictus chimpanzee, and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, of course! Darling, me and the vicomte are going to have a manly one-on-one conversation while he shares his congratulations, as we human men are wont to do.” And then with a strength that could only be ogrish, the marquis pulled the vicomte by the shoulder down the hall and into a drawing room.
When the bolt of the lock clicked into place behind them, the man wearing the marquis’s clothes visibly sagged.
“What the hell,” said the vicomte.
“You should’ve sent word ahead that you'd be coming today.”
“I never do.” He gesticulated and tried to conjure a single question out of the swarm buzzing in his brain. “What the hell is going on? Who was that? Why are you pretending to be human? What curse are we talking about?”
The marquis groaned and crumpled into a chair. As he did he shifted out of human shape, clothes magically tailoring themselves to contain his ogrish form, something like a moose and an orangutan.
“I had a moment of weakness.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a stroke?”
“I got married.”
“And that’s another thing–”
“Graoul, please.” He sighed and put his face in his talons. “Last winter a merchant broke into my home. He stole one of my roses, and in exchange I asked him to send me one of his daughters to be my bride.”
The vicomte nodded. This at least was a sacred and recognizable ogrish custom, and he did like to see the old ways in practice.
“And it was fine! It was perfectly lovely. She’s a wonderful woman, but one night I decided to put on a human shape to change things up in the bedroom, and she lost her mind! Started talking about how I was clearly an enchanted prince and that her love for me must’ve broken some curse and turned me human again! I had no idea how to tell her otherwise, and now I’ve done it for too long to back out.”
The vicomte stared. “Sorry,” he said. “You decided to turn into a human to spice things up in the bedroom, and that was the face you chose?”
The marquis growled. “If I knew I was going to be wearing it for the rest of my life I would’ve gone with something better.”
