By Your Side Till You Heal, my daaaarlin' wife~
asked by mirthfulmortician

mirthfulmortician:

ectopicfantast:

Sakura stirs, and squints her eyes open. There’s a dazed moment where she’s not entirely certain where she is, but piece by piece the events come back to her.

Especially once she grows aware of the cast on her arm. Her eyes glance down, then to Undertaker. She gains a bit of a grin. “… Didn’t land it, did I?”

He held up a series of Polaroids, and proceeded to flipbook them, showing her precisely how she landed.

"You landed it, you did…far too enthusiastically~!"

Sakura’s brow shoots up, and she manages to sit up at this. “You got photos!?”

She takes one with her good arm. “Wh…” And starts cackling. “Holy shit!”

"This is by far one of the better ways I’ve woken up in a hospital. My gods — this is hilarious!"

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By Your Side Till You Heal, my daaaarlin' wife~
asked by mirthfulmortician

Sakura stirs, and squints her eyes open. There’s a dazed moment where she’s not entirely certain where she is, but piece by piece the events come back to her.

Especially once she grows aware of the cast on her arm. Her eyes glance down, then to Undertaker. She gains a bit of a grin. “… Didn’t land it, did I?”

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My muse is in the Hospital & will be recovering for a while. Send “By Your Side Till You Heal” for my muse’s Reaction to opening their eyes & seeing your muse at their side.

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imagine-your-oc:

Imagine your oc ordering none pizza with left beef

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I just love how Aradia has this huge smile on no matter what happens

homestuckbecausereasons:

tzredwoman:

the-broken-knight:

kyrabanks:

image

“Oh look John is now calling out Vriska on her bullshit.”

image

“Oh look, everyone has basically left Vriska.”

image

“Yeah bitch you better cry I know what you did to my ancestor.”

image

“I can’t wait to see everyone’s sure to be doom.”

image

I’M JUST REALLY EXCITED YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND

You now understand why I love Aradia

and people think shes a fucking emotionless boring character 

#aradiasmile

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[dear tumblr; today someone called me sempai.]

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Basic income heroes: Karl Widerquist edition

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sirida:

I got stuck on this image. Humor-less Carlos appearing helped too, heh.

Phones do seem to work an awful long time over there, don’t they?

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marilimmy:

villancikos:

The Anatomy of a mermaid

this is precious

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Toad Words

jumpingjacktrash:

the-real-seebs:

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

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[All things considered, today wasn’t so bad.]

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sadspaghetti:

when you think you’ve screwed something up but it all turns out ok in the end

image

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steampunktendencies:

Aaron Miller

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[Online appearances will be sporadic. Insects have re-infested in my home Set fire to all you love.]

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