#TECHNICALLY IT'S THURSDAY

[polarsirens]

This is death itself. This is the biggest and baddest thing in all of fairy tale, and you want to set it free.

[pcktknife]

dont like how ded came out or the composition so here's closeups of everybody else

[anachronic-cobra]

This app ruined my fucking brain I woke up half delirious with sleep and the only thought I was capable of forming, on loop, was "it's Suck Her Dick Sunday". It's Thursday.

[oneshotprincess]

WIP WEDNESDAY: TIMKON EDITION

[under-a-lilac-moon]

i love how in tma, the true supernatural statements literally can't be recorded with modern digital technology, only the lofi charm tape recorders

and in tmp, the true cases are the ones read out by recorded voices, the direct antithesis to tma in that the true cases are the most digitised they could be

i feel like this fits into this theory i've been thinking about the last few days, in that if we go with the thought process that the tmp and tma universes are different, jon+martin+jonah got transported from one universe to another and are trapped in the computers etc, it makes sense that there's been a kind of 'chemical reaction' of the fears when they escaped through the rift at the end of tma

i feel like the fears have kind of reacted together and created a new 'substance', they seem to work very differently in the magnus protocol universe, if they are even working within the same framework as tma to any extent.

this also fits with some of the theories that sam is going to be 'the alchemist' and how a lot of the tmp cases have revolved around transformation and transmutation, at least in the way i read them, like tmagp3, tmagp19, ink5oul's transformation...

i kinda explained this better somewhere else so here's a screenshot lol?

anyway erm i have no idea

[pretzlforpresident]

Bought this silver keychain at the fair yesterday. Prepare yourself for tomorrow little guy

[tswwwit]

How does sex work between Dipper and triangle bill? Or did they just keep things purely platonic?

Take whatever you think it is, then make it two steps weirder.

[incultas]

a glorious werner wednesday my friends

[essektheylyss]

it's THURSDAY and you know what that means? Mighty Nein sock time (for realsies edition)

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Wise Men Build Their Houses on Rocks While the Rest of Us Settle for Skeletons

EVERYONE is doing their DBDA prompt challenges in October, so I doubt I'm gonna do any one of them completely. I'm gonna have to pick and choose fave days/prompts and mix and match it. I really didn't think I was gonna get anything done for Catween, but I glanced at the prompt list last night, had an idea, and bashed this out. I probably would have gone into the ideas/questions it raises more if I'd had more time lmao So, Catwin enjoyers, I hope you like this weird little thing! 2.2k, rated M, also available on Ao3 (registered users only!)

“Are you quite sure that it’s in here?” Edwin called, a note of impatience slipping into his voice unbidden. He had no desire to waste several more hours searching for something not knowing if he was even in the correct room.

“Well, I didn’t throw it out,” came the dry response of Thomas from the next room, his voice muffled. As if it were buried in pillows which, given the time of day, it probably was. Thomas was and remained, despite his bipedal stints, a feline; and he rather had the sleep schedule to prove it. “Keep digging, Sherlock — you’ll smoke it out.”

Edwin rolled his eyes, and kept searching. He mustn’t lose his temper. He knew there was trust being placed in him, in being allowed to plum the depths of the Cat King’s hoard unsupervised. Especially for such frivolous purposes. Thomas didn’t even particularly care for Charles (allegedly), and certainly would not have thought to gift him a magical heirloom on what would have been his fifty-fifth birthday. But as soon as he’d let slip about a particular item he had in his collection, Edwin knew he had to have it for Charles; and he had ways of making Thomas see his side of things.

Unfortunately, the item in question was very small indeed — and Thomas’ organisational system was about what one might expect from the four-century hoard of an alley cat. Which was to say there was no clear system in place at all, everything thrown into the magically distended grotto with no rhyme or reason. That, or it was all organised in some manner which made sense only to the strange and animalistic whims of Thomas’ own mind. Perhaps he’d ordered everything by scent, in which case Edwin was truly lost at sea.

Edwin set his jaw, and carried on. A compact mirror, that’s what he was looking for. According to Thomas, it had an enchanted silver backing that reflected even ghosts. And Charles had mentioned several times recently that he sometimes wished he could ‘mess around’ a bit more with his eye make-up. Saw a bloke with gold eyeshadow in town today. How mint is that? and suchlike. Of course, as ghosts they had no need of cosmetics and could alter their appearances at will with a little practice, but it was damnably hard to judge the effects for oneself. One generally had to rely on second opinions. A small mirror would do just the trick. According to Thomas, it was a little flat disc, pink plastic with ‘hearts or some shit, like you’d find at Claire’s, y’know?’. Edwin was not sure who Claire was or why he was expected to know her taste, but a lurid pink plastic disc seemed enough information to go off.

The first such disc he found, however, was neither plastic nor pink. It was clearly old, Edwin would put it back as far as the seventeenth century. French. He inspected it with curiosity, running his fingers along the gold surface, so worn and weathered it was hard to tell what the original design had been. He’d be interested to get a look with the lexicographical lenses on the task. The disc hung on the ends of a short gold chain, and the two halves closed with a simple kiss-lock clasp like a traditional coin purse. Edwin had sifted through a number of more interesting objects in his search, but for some reason the little thing held his attention. It possessed a certain magnetism, a certain draw of the eye.

He glanced, furtively, back towards the door, the bedroom, the presence of a sleeping Cat King. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t fool about with anything, given there were any number of powerful magical objects in residence.

And yet, the kiss-lock clasp parted under a flick of his thumb before he could think to question the wisdom of it.

It opened to reveal what one would expect in a compact of its time. A small mirror in the lid, slightly age-spotted but otherwise intact, and clearly not the enchanted one, for there was no sign of Edwin’s reflection. There was also a small, soft pad in the lower half for the application of powder. Although in other examples Edwin had seen, the pad tended to be off-white or blush pink. This one was neither. It was orange. The material was odd, too. He would’ve expected a fibrous wool or similar, but it wasn’t that. He cautiously brushed a finger across it, using the modicum of touch sensation lent to him by the magic of the Cat King’s realm to confirm his hunch. Yes, no mistaking it. Fur. Very fine, very soft fur. He lifted the edge of it, cautiously, and found another scrap of fur underneath — this one of a shorter pile, and a smoky grey colouring. And beneath that, one more; this one varying shades of brown, arranged in stripe-like formations.

Cat fur.

Tap. Taptaptap.

Edwin startled. That sound. Hollow and rattling, like hail on a window. He looked up, to the high, slit-like window in the pseudo-warehouse where Thomas had built his hideaway, but the sky was as fine as it ever was here. The Cat King had no use for anything but long summer days and fine, temperate nights in his realm.

Taptaptaptaptaptap!

No louder, but more insistent. And coming from his hands. Edwin looked down, sharply — and his mouth fell open.

There was a little cat behind the looking glass.

Edwin held the mirror aloft, closer to his face, peering intently. It was so small, barely scraping half an inch in height, smaller than even the dandelion sprites. And it was tapping upon the inside of the mirror with a miniscule paw. Edwin recognised the light clacking sound as the clack of claws on glass. It was a tabby cat, light brown with dark striping. In fact, its coat bore a striking resemblance to the swatch tucked into the bottom of the compact. It regarded Edwin with a challenging air, eyes alight and tail swishing.

Edwin blinked, unsure what the etiquette was for this sort of a meeting. “Good afternoon.”

The cat moved its mouth, as if speaking. But whatever was said, Edwin couldn’t hear through the glass — and the shape of a cat’s mouth was rather difficult to lip read.

“I’m afraid I cannot hear you,” he said, apologetic — to which the cat responded with a scraping swipe of its paw against the surface. “Well, it’s hardly my fault!”

And then, something else appeared, behind the cat. Something taller, draped in hues of grey and black. Not something, someone. A rather familiar someone.

Edwin squinted, certain he must be mistaken. “...Is that you, Thomas?”

The tiny man in the mirror visibly flinched, his yellow eyes widening. He looked like Thomas, but not quite. Despite the fact he was clearly much younger, his hair was greyer, flatter. And his manner of dress bore little similarity to Thomas’ modern, extravagant tastes. In fact, this little Thomas lookalike was about as old-fashioned as Edwin, or slightly older; though his style was more in line with the fashions Edwin had seen in the background of films depicting the old American west, rather than at home in his own Edwardian England. It was simple, workaday, trousers tucked into sturdy leather boots and held up by braces. A loose, soft shirt, a wide-brimmed hat. It was so very dull and practical, it scarcely made sense on Thomas’ frame; but that was surely his face, down to the most microscopic impression of a scar upon his lip.

The not-Thomas narrowed his eyes at Edwin, and leaned his elbow on the glass, mouthing something. Edwin thought he said: “Who wants to know?”

Edwin cocked his head. Curiouser and curiouser.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I was looking for something.”

The not-Thomas started mouthing something else, but Edwin was rather distracted by a third figure shouldering up beside him. This one even more familiar than the last.

No mistaking it; this one surely was Thomas. His Thomas — or rather, the Thomas he’d first met when he came to Port Townsend. From the dirty-blond hair to the leather skirt.

And unlike the other two, this one knew who Edwin was. Edwin could see his own name in the shapes formed by his lips, could see recognition glowing in his yellow eyes. He saw the name over and over, in fact, as the little Thomas repeated it while his hands pounded fruitlessly against the glass.

“Thomas,” Edwin breathed, bringing the mirror closer still. “Thomas, what is this? You’re in the next room, how can you be in here?”

Thomas began to mouth something, furiously, but he was so small and talking so fast, it was impossible to make out from sight alone. In squinting to see, though, Edwin noticed something else about his Thomas. He was black-and-blue, vivid bruises and cuts decorating every exposed inch of his skin. Blood trailed from his lip, his nose, even his ear. Come to think of it, the other two didn’t look their best, either. The grey Thomas was sopping wet; it was only now Edwin realised his hair looked so flat because it was damp and plastered to his skull. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes sunken. The cat, the tabby cat which must surely be Thomas as well, also bore a significant scar; a deep, red gash down the centre of his plush belly. What a grim trio they made; gutted, drowned, beaten.

Dead.

Edwin took a steadying breath. “Thomas,” he said. “Remind me, please: how many lives do cats have?”

Thomas grimaced, and held up nine fingers.

“And you have had how many?”

Three fingers — and then, slowly, a fourth.

“You find it, yet?”

Edwin jumped, and snapped the compact shut — though the look on the little Thomas’ face as he did so would haunt him for quite some time. “Ah — not yet,” he called back to the bedroom. “But I must be closing in…”

He heard Thomas chuckle. “Come back to bed. I’ll track it down in the morning.”

Edwin swallowed, tightly, and slipped the little gold compact into his inner pocket. “I’ll be right along.”

~

“Thomas?”

“Hm?”

Edwin fidgeted, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Thomas hadn’t managed to coax him completely out of his clothes, this time, but he’d certainly made decent innings. “I wondered… when a cat dies, does it… haunt? As a human does?”

Thomas shrugged, not bothering to remove his hands from their languid repose behind his head. “Sure. It’s all souls, right?”

“Right. Yes. And…”

“And…?”

“And does that happen… with every death?”

Thomas cracked open one golden, knowing eye to regard him across the pillows. “Well, that depends.”

“On?”

“On how unlucky you get.” He stretched, his back arching sinuously off the bed. “On how much unfinished business you’re stuck with.”

“I see.” Edwin cleared his throat. “How… interesting.”

“Hmm. You know something, Edwin?”

“What?”

Thomas smirked, lazily, and drew his hand from behind his head. He raised it up high, then opened it — and the little golden compact tumbled to the end of its chain with a dainty rattle.

“You’re almost as bad a liar as you are a thief.”

Edwin blanched. “Ah. I can explain —”

“No no no. No explanation needed. I’m proud of you, y’know? Nice to see you coming out of your shell. Be gay, do crime, that’s what the kids are saying these days, right?”

Edwin’s brow furrowed. “Is it?”

“Ah, something like that, anyway.” With a flick of the chain, Thomas whipped the little disc into his hand, inspecting it thoughtfully.

Edwin, feeling at least relatively safe in his assumption that he was not about to face serious repercussions for his thievery, crossed his arms in annoyance. “You pickpocketed me,” he accused.

“Eh, does it really count if I’m stealing back something you stole from me?” Thomas threw him a fond, sharp-toothed grin. “I’m not sure you can even call it pickpocketing when it’s that easy. Kiss you just right and I could steal the shirt off your back.”

Rather than bicker further, Edwin huffed, and curled into Thomas’ side. A warm, strong arm wrapped around Edwin’s shoulders with no further prompting. “Will you tell me?” he said softly, tapping his fingers upon Thomas’ chest. His eyes never left the little mirror.

For a few long moments, it seemed Thomas wouldn’t answer.

“Did what I had to do,” he eventually admitted. “To get ‘em off my back.”

“Off your back?”

Thomas scowled, giving the compact a little shake. “Pushy little bitches.”

“I don’t understand. You mean they stay with you?”

“Cats don’t have houses to haunt, sweetheart.” Thomas sighed, putting the mirror down on his chest and letting his hand close over it. “In the end, all we’ve ever got is ourselves.”

Edwin nestled in closer. His hand landed atop Thomas’, atop the little metal disc where his restless old lives rattled like matches in a box. “That’s not strictly speaking true anymore, is it?” he said, propping his head upon Thomas’ shoulder. “You’ve got me, now.” He hummed. “And Charles, in a sense — I’m afraid we don’t come separately.”

Thomas gave a soft snort of laughter, and looked at him; a very old and aching sadness in his eyes. His smile, blunted, barely gleamed in the soft neon light. “Even ghosts move on eventually.”

Thanks for reading! I'd really, really love to know what you thought of it 💛💛💛 I imagine a lot of the prompts I fill this month on my main will be Payneland. That being said there will defo be some configurations of ships involving the Cat King, and MANY of them will need to be posted on my semi-secret-ish side smut account, so. DM me if you want that I guess xD Thank you all so much for your support of my fics, for your patience with Lonely Bones, and just generally for being the most delightful fandom I've been part of for absolute donkey's years 💛 be seeing you soon!!!

[starqueensthings]

I’ve been trying to think of a funny caption for these for an embarrassingly long time, but the only thing coming to mind is “WHEEENNNNN the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that’s amoreeeEEEEE.”

one of the originals for your viewing pleasure

ragu: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @starrylothcat @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @sunshinedaydream @clonemedickix @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @rabbitstu99 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator

[a-memory-a-distant-echo]

sort of surprisingly, i've written a number of thousands of word this week, so i'm doing wip wednesday, i guess? (no the words are not all on the same project, yes at least a couple hundred of them are on something i'm explicitly not writing, no they're not all good or useful words, but we're going to go with it and celebrate the functional, thank you so much for your understanding.)

anyhow have…the start of a difang fic set just after they stop shan gudao?

‘Give him some space,’ Li Lianhua had said, and Di Feisheng had listened to him. After all, who knew Fang Duobing better than Li Lianhua?

But now, alone, Di Feisheng finds himself remembering Fang Duobing walking away, his head bowed. Li Lianhua would have wanted space. But Fang Duobing was not Li Lianhua. 

He finds him at the second inn that he checks. It’s the less nice of the two, and for a moment he hesitates. If Fang Duobing is here, maybe he truly doesn’t wish to be disturbed. 

He would know, though, that they would know to look for him here. Or, at least, Li Lianhua would. Maybe he only seeks to avoid his family right now. 

If he wishes to be alone, Fang Duobing will simply send him away. He hasn’t been shy of telling Di Feisheng to leave before, and this time, Di Feisheng will listen.

Decision made, he makes himself stop hiding his qi and knocks on the door. It’s uncomfortable, but he won’t force Fang Duobing to open the door to someone unknown, nor will he enter Fang Duobing's space uninvited, not now. 

If the door doesn’t open by the time he counts to ten, he decides, he will accept the dismissal and leave.

He gets to three.

Fang Duobing has been crying, but opens the door and steps back, nodding for Di Feisheng to enter. ‘Di mengzhu,’ he says, too politely. 

Di Feisheng shuts the door behind him, and Fang Duobing looks at him expectantly. 

This was a mistake, he thinks. He says, ‘I can leave, if you want. He said you’d want some space, but—’ 

‘That damned—’ chokes out Fang Duobing, and then he gulps air and turns away. Di Feisheng lets him, and waits. It’s a long time before Fang Duobing speaks again. ‘I thought… I thought this would feel different,’ he says, finally. When he turns around, his face is wet.

‘You thought you would feel free,’ Di Feisheng offers. Fang Duobing's head jerks up with shocked recognition, and Di Feisheng lets him stare. He knows they were there after him. He knows what they would have seen. Fang Duobing isn’t so foolish he wouldn’t have put it together.

[ikiprian]

wip wednesday: damian inherits bruce’s adoption issues au! (wip: one-shot) (1k/3k)

“Damian,” Bruce starts, gently. “How many cats do you have?”

Damian sniffs. Captain Alfred shifts unhappily in his arms, so he readjusts his one-armed hold. “Don’t be foolish, Father. Alfred is known to be the only cat here.”

Behind his back, he used his free hand to signal Return to Base to Silly Alfred. Unfortunately, direct scrutiny limits Damian’s movement and confuses the hand sign. Double unfortunately, Silly Alfred is a master of charisma, not obedience. He continues to bat at the coiled door stopper as if he’s not about to compromise his entire squad.

“That’s a sentence with one too many clauses,” Jason pokes.

“This concerns you, how, Todd?” Damian snaps. “You don’t even live here!”

“Ooh, and there’s a sentence with a few too many claws-es!” Jason’s smirk stretches wide, almost into a proper smile. Clearly, he is enjoying the idea of Damian getting caught. Does he not understand what is at stake?

“Bruce?” comes a tired voice. Tim, the fool, stumbles into the room, apparently done with his weekend-long casework bender. “The computer’s running some numbers— can you make sure nobody touches the program ‘til I wake up?”

In his arms is Friendly Alfred. Hungry Alfred trots after his heels.

Bruce, for all his mastery of deceit and the fine-tuned control of expression that entails, freezes.

[tearsover8eers]

Karezi thurdays!! this may or may not be a reaccuring thing.

also they're both girls in this one.

[vamp-bites]

Vashwood watercolor doodle for @acetrigunweek day 5: casual nudity :)

Based on/a redoing of an older sketch of mine that ill leave under the cut!

This was sketched back in September. I've noticed a habit of mine of sketching vashwood shirtless, it's fun, i can visibly shove my transgender agenda on them (except I accidentally covered where WW's top surgery scars would be with Vash's arm this time oops)

[raisans-art]

Thoughtless Emmet Thursday but I put him in eeveeloution style playboy bunny suits

I only have 2 so far, sylveon and glaceon =w=

Enjoy them