#so here's the second draft of it

[theguardianace]

aroace tsukasa take 2: return of the king (merry christmas @aroace-polysho!!!)

[ID: A digital drawing of Tenma Tsukasa, referenced from his "Brand New Style!" card. He is drawn exclusively in the aroace flag colors. /end ID]

[witchinatree]

i know the whole "do you think jon ever used his powers to Know what his parents looked like" thing is far more devastating than this but what if he tried using his powers to remember original sasha? jon and sasha always seemed closer than the rest, he picked her (and tim) to work with him and tolerated a lot more nonsense from her than anyone else (using his password to access his computer [161], debating his pronunciation of calliope [25], etc)

and ofc jon and martin became significantly closer as the podcast went on, but in the beginning he was cruel to martin when he gave a statement but accepting of sasha? idk i think their friendship was a lot deeper than we realized (ESPECIALLY since his first murder in season 5 was because NotThem provoked him about sasha) and i think jon wouldve used his powers to Know the original sasha, not sure if it wouldve worked though

so so sorry to distract from the post but can yall read the tags for me because i suffered immensely for this post

[magicaldreamfox1]

MAKING MY OLD GIFSET IDEAS — 15/25

“My papa just left. He scolded me for being a failure. I suck at everything I do. Well, I deserved that. Whatever I do, I can't seem to beat your boss.”

“Why do you have to compare?”

“Everyone just knows that I'm Vegas. From the minor family. Always under the main family.”

[i-like-forcefem]

Oooo darling~

I just bought the most lovely pair of shoes for you! And I decided that if you promise to be a Good Girl I’ll release your foot constraints and let you walk around in them!

“MmHHHMMmM”

Awwww, that gag never gets old does it? This will be just lovely~

These shoes match you cute little dress and make up better then I dreamed, now raise your cute little foot for me, doll, lets make you even cuter~

[redrattlers]

oh no, can’t shake this feeling

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

(context for watcher/listener!sausage can be found in the “videos” tag on my blog if you want it, but this ficlet can be read without said context)

- - -

“Y’know, of all the Hermits I was expecting to be pulling me into a dark corner tonight, I did not expect you to be first, Grian! I love the initiative!”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Grian says in a voice near a hiss. He’s got Sausage by the wrist, leading him into a small area of the upper floor of the tavern in Sanctaury that does look like it was built for the exact purpose Sausage is implying. Grian decides to ignore that as well.

“What are you doing here?” Grian’s straight to the point. He always has to be, with these Things, if he doesn’t want to get trapped in a loop of slant rhyming pleasantries.

“What do you mean?” Sausage asks, shaking his wrist out of Grian’s tight grip and leaning comfortably against the wall. “This is where I live. It’s my home. If anything, I should be asking you mysterious strangers what you’re doing here, but I’m sure you’ve heard that question enough for one day.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Grian crosses his arms and tries his best not to look petulant, but he sure feels like it. “I thought They’d given up on trying to snatch me back, so why would They send you of all people? What’s your game?”

Sausage laughs, honest to god laughs, like he can’t believe Grian’s even asking him such a question. Grian thinks it’s a reasonable question, in this scenario, but what he thinks and what’s reasonable rarely seems to matter with these things.

“They didn’t send me,” Sausage looks him up and down in that way that makes Grian have to physically stop himself from curling inwards. This is why he never talks to Them. “Nobody sends me anywhere, they don’t tell me what to do and I like it that way! I just do my own thing. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“No you’re not! You’re not- you can’t be! That’s not how this works!” Grian begins to notice that he’s no longer whisper-shouting and starting to just-normal-shout and takes a deep breath, trying not to draw the attention of his friends enjoying themselves on the floor below. And, realistically, in the other dark corners Sausage seems to have built into this place.

“That’s exactly how this works. You didn’t think you were the only person who’d left, did you?”

Grian opens his mouth, closes it, and thinks. In hindsight… yeah, he had kind of assumed he’d been the only person who’d left. Not for lack of trying, probably- but They’d tried for so long to get him back, kept him closely surveilled even when They’d accepted he was gone- surely some people had caved to that pressure eventually. When there was no sign They’d ever let up, ever let you go… he could understand eventually letting it overtake you.

“Did- did you leave, too?” Grian doesn’t remember the last time he saw Sausage’s face. He didn’t know him back then, of course. He probably would’ve connected the man with the person Pearl so often spoke about sooner. But he knows it’s been a long time, maybe even longer than the last time Grian had gone There. He doesn’t think Sausage had been There, that day. This might explain why.

“Eh, not quite?”

“What-“ Grian flails, both mentally and with his arms a bit. “What do you mean not quite?”

“Exactly what I said! I was never- it’s complicated, y’know?”

“Explain. Now.”

“Well, uh,” Sausage seems to flounder for the first time since this conversation started, which Grian is choosing to take as a victory. “Look, I wasn’t- they didn’t pick me. For this, or for anything, ever. Sometimes things just happen and you get yourself into a place you shouldn’t have and then… they can’t get rid of me, I can’t get rid of them, it is what it is.”

Grian stares at him for a long moment. Really stares at him, in the same way Sausage had looked him over earlier, in the same way that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. Judging by the sudden nerves in his eyes, Grian can assume he feels it too. Grian remembers his face. That had been the first thing he’d noticed, when the Hermits had arrived. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other, but Grian knew his face. And now that Grian was studying him, really trying to remember… he’s not sure he quite likes what memories he’s dredging up.

“What are you?”

“Grian!” Sausage’s voice drips with mock offense as he puts his hand up to partially cover his mouth. “We only just met, do you think that’s polite?”

“Answer the question,” Grian sighs. How Pearl deals with this man on the regular, he doesn’t know.

“Well, if you insist.” Sausage sighs, somehow even more exaggerated than his previous movements. “It’s just… if you’ll believe it, it’s somehow even harder to answer the first question.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Grian says. “They’re two very different People, you know.”

“But they’re the same species, when it all comes down to it. Like, you might be very different than a chicken, but you’re both birds in the long run.”

Grian pauses, fanning his wings out a bit behind him as he considers. “I don’t think that metaphor’s quite landing the way you want it to.”

“No, me neither. Anyways, let me continue.

When they don’t pick you, things go a little differently! You don’t get sorted onto one side or the other since, well, you’re not really supposed to be there? So I’m… whatever I want to be, really. I think I’m feeling like more of a Listener, today, but we’ll see how the mood shifts.”

Grian flinches at the Name, on instinct. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, so he files it away to be dealt with at a later date. As for the rest of what Sausage said-

“What?”

“You heard me.” Sausage shrugs. He’s so nonchalant, Grian thinks he might strangle him, if not for the worry that that’s exactly what he wants out of this, somehow.

“Did I? Did I hear you?” Grian wants to pace, but that requires leaving the security of the corner, so he forces his feet to root themselves to the floor. “I thought- I thought you had to- if you wanted to change sides, I thought you had to-“

Grian closes one eye and takes his thumb to it, twisting the finger into his eyelid. The gesture seems to get the point across.

“Well, that’s the funny thing about this, actually.” From the way he’s been talking, Grian assumed Sausage thought this whole thing was funny. He restrains himself from saying that out loud if only so Sausage will finish his explanation.

Sausage reaches up to his left eye, pulls his eye lid back a bit, and unceremoniously pops out his prosthetic eye.

“All these processes and rituals actually have a lot of loopholes.”

Grian doesn’t know what face he’s making, but it’s enough to make Sausage giggle while he pops the eye back in. Because of course he does. Because this how his day is going, apparently. Walk through a weird portal in his basement and wake up in a world filled with his friends who don’t recognize him and also a guy he only ever saw There, who he was never supposed to see again. Sure. Of course he’s laughing about it. Grian thinks if he was a slightly different person, he’d be laughing too. It is, undeniably, absurd.

“Well, I think we’re done here then!” Grian would probably object if he weren’t so shocked about the loopholes. As it is, he just stands there a bit stupidly.

Sausage turns away to return to the party before turn around again for just a moment, reaching over, and ruffling Grian’s hair. That shocks him enough to shake him out of his stupor and swat Sausage’s hand away, though not before his hair is suitably messed up.

“What was that for?!”

Sausage smiles as he reaches up to rough up his own hair as well. “I assumed you didn’t want your friends asking questions about why you were dragging me into a dark corner, you know?” Sausage even goes far enough to pull his shirt a bit out of where it’s tucked into his pants, because of course he does. Grian tries not to cringe, but Sausage is right about this one thing. It is the easiest way to dodge any questions about where he’d gone off to- at the expense of the many knowing looks and teasing remarks he’ll be getting from the other Hermits instead.

“Have a good night, Grian!” Sausage calls over his shoulder as he turns to leave for real this time. “And remember, drinks are on me for all you guests tonight! You look like you need it.”

[locamotivednp]

BUT REALLY THO sister Daniel pretending to smoke is closest I’ve coming to understanding sexual attraction, including all the times I’ve had sex ashajaksk.

[three-headed-monster]

[nevermoorsource]

The first half of the Nevermoor graphic novel adaptation will be released in German in November 2024. If you find out that it's being translated into any other languages, please share!

[unordinaries]

presented without comment

(chapters 280 + 344)

[twingeof-cosmic-angst]

I can't believe they made an entire audio out of "Autism be dammed my boy can work a grill" ianto may be missing social cues but you bet your ass hes brought activities for the barbecue (in case Rhys didn't plan any)

[tinylittlelilac]

I’m looking to hire a hitman to kill this thing if you have any information dm me

[crystalpallette]

"Huh? Which one did I like best?"

happy birthday to the girl who started it all!! arle nadja my beloved darling I wish you only the best and only the spiciest of curries on your special day. I'm sorry I couldnt integrate curry into this piece

[twilight-zoned-out]

Do you think Bruno heard Mirabel singing Waiting on a Miracle and just...had this realization that he’d spent ten years hiding to try and protect her from being ostracized and he still ultimately failed?

Do you think Casita had that same realization when Mirabel left the party, and that’s why it only started to really break apart around then?

[teethkid67]

you begin your sunday on the couch, dress shoes still on, with a headache and a handful of stale gummy worms from the party last night. schlatt begins his with a cigar, and quackity starts with his arm as an ashtray. fundy is outside picking shotgun shells and fireball bottles out of the grass before you've even had time to say good morning.

it is not a good morning. dark like chew tobacco and slow as tar you realize no-one is coming to save you anymore. quackity won't look you in the eye, but he bites his cheek to keep his grin down as his gaze roams the walls like he can't wait to tear the place apart.

schlatt is the first to take something off the wall: an old, ugly painting wilbur picked up at a homegoods a million years ago. something he surely never gave much of a shit about, but you still flinch when schlatt lifts it from the nail and instructs you to get a garbage bag. but you fetch one and hold it open for him and then, when you put up no fight, and fundy is still outside, and quackity is still all shark smile, he tells you to start cleaning.

that is what it takes for them to begin picking your house to the bones. its methodically at first, dumping old takeaway boxes and draining vodka bottles, then harsh and uncaring like a flood or a struggle, toppling lamps and breaking mirrors. you dutifully pick up solo cups and half-empty pretzel bags and just as dutifully ignore anything that's not evidence of a party. eventually this catches up with you when schlatt tells you to kick it into fuckin' gear, kid, and jerks his chin at the fucking telephone of all things, this place isn't gonna clean itself.

a few minutes later quackity hands you an armful of everything that used to be pinned to your white fridge, looking a little sheepish but frankly not all that guilty. an old worksheet of fundy's is whats at the top of the stack, sunbleached from the window above the sink and with a broken chunk of now-gummy magnet stuck to the page.

WRITE about a time you had to make a difficult decision, it reads in big letters. explain what the decision was and what choice you made. At the top is a big, circled 100.

report cards and sticky notes and novelty magnets are joined by your vomit in the big bin at the curb. with your hands on your knees you take inventory. theres a box of shampoo and soap bars taken from the bathroom, and a bag of bedsheets and pillowcases. theres schlatt's car in your driveway and it makes your heart jackrabbit. wilbur doesn't drive. even if he did, his car wouldn't be out front.

you go back inside and take on the rest of the house with a newfound sense of numbness—emptying your stomach had probably helped. fundy has appeared again, and you help him bag up the books that schlatt had swiped off the mantle to make room for his shotgun. no matter what you do, he won't say a word to you.

eventually you are both led by an eager quackity to the backyard shed, where he hands you a hatchet and fundy a hacksaw and tells you to take down the fence.

schlatt says no more fence, he says, why would we need a fucking fence? so we gotta take the stupid thing down.

you swallow your pride with globs of spit and swing for the support beams so fundy, who quickly abandoned the hacksaw, can tear out the boards with his bare hands. he's mad, if the look on his face and the way he pries at the panels are any indication. at who is anyones guess. you're starting to think it might not be schlatt. quackity arms himself with a chainsaw and has a great, violent time laughing and breaking the wood into manageable sizes for your fireplace.

schlatt comes to lean against the railing on your raised porch and watches the three of you work, smoking what you think is his third cigar of the day. in his other hand is tommy's favorite glass, about a third full with whiskey and ice.

he and quackity shout over the roar of the chainsaw about next steps; living room paint color, new sheets for the bed, what to make for dinner. your arms shake and the afternoon sky darkens with clouds. when the temperature drops and the sky begins to spit down rain, schlatt and quackity duck inside with a shout to finish up out there.

by the time the fence is gone, the sun has set behind the woods, you're soaked to your skin, and your fingers are blue with cold and red with blood blisters. you collapse on the couch–the same one you've slept on for almost as long as you can remember–and shut your eyes against a living room you no longer recognize. fundy disappears into his bedroom and comes back in a set of dry clothes. quackity frowns and tells you to get up, you'll ruin the upholstery, then offers you a slice of mostly-cold pizza.

you slide to sit on the floor instead and pick the onions and bell peppers off the piece of pizza. your stomach turns. thuds and bangs echo through the house, and then its a terrible jerky screech as schlatt and quackity drag wilbur's old executive desk down the hall and through the front door. the corners dig lines into the linoleum and papers and knickknacks are strewn through the whole house.

there's tax records in there, you say, watching a wheat penny skid beneath the couch. they're in the second drawer on the left. and probably the deed, too.

schlatt makes a dismissive noise. don't need 'em. he doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

as they're turning it through the front door, you watch schlatt grab a silver ring from a rolled-open drawer. he turns it over in his hand before passing it to quackity, who slips it on his finger and examines it under the light. don't get any ideas, honey, schlatt grumbles, and quackity squawks something about schlatt running out on him as they push the desk the rest of the way through the door. they both cackle as it tumbles down the front porch stairs.

you lean forward to pick up an old microwave manual and a receipt for a goodwill donation. for a moment, you can almost pretend you're just spring cleaning while wilbur files your stupid taxes; tommy shredding shit you don't need anymore and threatening to shove your fingers into the blades; fundy sorting grocery receipts. then schlatt slams the front door shut, and the house shakes, and they laugh the whole way down the hall to wilbur's room, quackity still watching the ring sparkle as he turns his hand this way and that. their conversation grows muffled behind the locked bedroom door.

you stare down the hall from your place on the floor. the rain rattles against the house. there're splinters in your hands. you feel like you missed your opportunity to cry about it all, so you finish your pizza instead, even the crusts. then you pull yourself to you feet, socks squelching in your dress shoes, and grab another trash bag and your hoodie from the coat closet.

slowly, you creep through the front door and down the steps, past schlatt's pontiac, and begin hunting through the bags and piles of your whole life for anything you can save.

[murderous-coffeebean]

Touch

Some Vetvimes for y'all~

Discworld © Terry Pratchett / art © Murderous-Coffeebean (tumblr & dA)