Felines of The Mortal Instruments - Church & Chairman Meow

“Church was doing what he often did when dropped - lying on his back with all four legs in the air, pretending to be dead in order to induce guilt in his owners.”

“Chairman Meow lay on the rag rug, all four legs sticking straight out in front of him like a dead deer.”    

Yesterday when I was on my way to work, I saw a lonesome cello sitting by itself at a bus stop, not even in a case or anything. The poor thing was probably going through some abandonment issues, but for all I know, it’s owner was among the group of musicians that were 10m down the path. Either way, I’m here for you, cello

One more for tonight.
Tried to come up with an outfit that was somewhat casual but also had a bit of a magic vibe to it? Its hard to see here though so heh that was kinda pointless.
Anyways, just think they could probably make their tail as big as they want to make a bed or anything?

I imagine theyre similar to a genie but instead of finding a lamp youd find a crown. Unlike some wish granting entities though theyre not spiteful. This may do to the fact that instead of being trapped in a small inconvenient place they are instead locked in a pocket dimension of their own so they have enough to do when not serving a master.
They grant wishes but kinda like genie from aladdin they got some rules, mainly against causing harm to others.
Theyre constantly poofing food out of nowhere and enjoy sharing with their current owner.

anonymous asked:

Rumbelle prompt: Silent tears hidden in the rain

As the final prompt from my 100 Follower Prompt-a-Thon, this was supposed to be angst…you see how well that worked out for me…

Thanks everyone for following my blog and for everyone who has ever read, liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me a message- This one’s for you.

Gazing at the painting before him, Robert Gold spared a moment to consider whether or not he was being punished.

Beside him, his son Neal was talking animatedly to the gallery owner, seemingly oblivious to his father’s discomfort. As the two delved deeper into the artistic motivations behind the pure white canvas, Robert glanced around to see if there was an escape route available to him.

As a major property holder of Storybrooke, Robert had plenty of businesses on his leasing list. Massage parlors, nail salons, boutiques and cafes aplenty, even the odd music store or hobby shop, but the Storybrooke Art Gallery was new even for him.

It was Neal’s pet project. After his son had moved back from cesspool that was New York City, Robert had given him some of the more marketable properties in hopes of letting the young man build up his own empire.

Instead, Neal had sold all the property and used the money to establish a cultural center. Storybrooke now had a concert hall, theatre and, of course, the new gallery.

Which had in turn brought Emma Swann to Storybrooke. The Boston art critic had leapt at the opportunity to open her own gallery and she brought with her a certain way of doing things. Neal was instantly taken, Robert, not so much.

She had insisted on a laundry list of things. Robert had of course demanded a few things in return, including a museum wing of the exhibit hall where certain pieces could be on display for the town. It had been finished with the rest of the gallery, but it currently stood empty. They still lacked a curator. Job interviews so far had been lackluster at best and Robert dreaded they would ever find the proper person to fill the role.

All of this brought him here, to the hell he currently found himself in on a Saturday night when he would much rather be at home.

Spotting an opening in the throng, Gold limped forward without alerting his son to his departure. The younger man, who went by his mother’s maiden name, Cassidy, did not seem to notice. Neal had barely spent a minute away from Ms. Swann that evening, leaving his fathers at odds. It was not that Robert disliked Ms. Swann, he just found her…irksome.

Making it to the relative safety of the small back room of the exhibit, Robert breathed a sigh of relief, even as he snagged a glass of champagne from the roving wait staff. The lights were dim enough in here that most patrons were passing it by, assuming it was one of the galleries not yet complete for the grand opening celebration. This suited him wonderfully. As he lowered his drink, he spared a look around.

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I identifiy as tank-owner kin, give me a fully functional tank with ammo or else you’re shaming my identity ad you need to check ur privilege, ideally by giving me a fully functional tank

darkderikkus asked:

"I've wondered if cat's tails are as sensitive as they say" the blond said with a smirk, grabbing his tail to keep him still and sliding his hand to the base to rub it.

“Anya! Don’t!” Cat Izaya took away the tail from that evil man and hid under a blanket.

“Touching the tail is a taboo. Only owner can.”