#meet the residents!

[bunnithechubs]

Residents of Canal Corner Townhomes

The Lanka Residence

When Ishaan married Sier years ago he had no idea he would be outnumbered by women in his life. Though no one laughs at his comedy routine he couldn't imagine a life without his girls. He just hopes their new quiet neighbors don't mind all the noise!

The Johnson Residence

The Johnsons might be new to Evergreen Harbor but that doesn't make them any less known in town. Dayna is the new critic of the Evergreen Esquire while Augustus is a new civil engineer in charge of bettering conifer station. Even their children are aspiring to make a name for themselves!

[demigods-posts]

headcanon that percy and annabeth have a relationship contract they made after they got together once the war came to pass. they outlined it on paper in percy's bedroom. typed up a final draft using sally's laptop. and printed out and laminated it at the local library on their two month anniversary. and they abide by it like it's the law.

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

rosemary

[szczurherbacany]

yyyyy yyy gays 👍

[larvamars]

how do I make it about them

[izzystizzys]

There is a scratch mark on the floor of the Council chambers that Mace has never noticed before. Not a deep one, mind, quite shallow. This matters because it’s making the white-hot pulse of agony stabbing through his eyeballs ebb momentarily. Then, he chances a glance upwards at the fidgeting Knight in front of them, and it returns in full force.

Huh, he’s never seen Oppo Rancisis’ face turn that colour before.

“Hmm”, Master Yoda hums, deep and scratchy. His expression is unreadable even to Mace beyond a baseline gremlinness, and the force with which he grips the edges of his seat is making his bones creak. Master of the Order you should become, they said. Follow the calling of the Force, you should. A fulfilling purpose, it will be. Mace is going to hunt the little goblin for sport when this is all over, and he’s going to laugh the whole time.

“Show us the livestream again, could you, Knight Parvo?” Yoda asks. Mace bursts a capillary, he’s pretty sure, and so does poor Knight Parvo, whose orange Mon Cala skin tips all the way into blood red with stress. “Most unusual, this is.”

“Absolutely not!”, Ki Adi intervenes before Mace has to, thank the Force for little mercies. Plo Koon’s tusks tremble slightly with either suppressed laughter or abject horror, maybe both, and Stass Allie has her head in her hands. “The holo stills should be enough”, Ki Adi proceeds to add, and Mace has to reconsider all feelings of grace he just felt towards his fellow Councillor.

He never wants to watch Yoda zoom in on someone’s abs again. Or Depa raise her eyebrows at the curve of thighs bent over the dripping front of a speeder.

“Speeder Wash For Our Troops”, his former padawan reads out loud from a still of what has to be hundreds of the things gathered in the public senate parking lot. “Fund Our Boys And Get A Wet Seeing-To!” The series of images features dozens of Coruscant Guard troopers in various stages of unkitted, gleaming and shining with soap suds and water. The fact that the whole thing is also massive shatterpoint after massive shatterpoint is, quite frankly, insulting.

“Well hello- oh dear”, Obi-Wan’s blue form crackles to life in his chair, followed by several sounds of choking that are definitely not him. Good, Mace thinks acidly. If he has to deal with this, then so does kriffing Skywalker. “I’m sorry, why am I looking at Commander Thorn using a washrag like a lasso on top of a speeder?”

“Oh, the Guard’s little fundraising project”, Bail Organa says, as he steps into the Council chambers. Normally, Mace likes the man well enough. Now, he just smiles and adds on, “I’ve already donated, in mine and Breha’s name. Remotely, of course.”

“The Guard’s fundraising speeder wash?”, Obi-Wan repeats, edges of his holo form flickering with what Mace suspects is Skywalker very unsubtly trying to edge in. Force, but the man really is horrible at any and all stealth, like kissing his secret wife in an open arena in front of his Master. “And they are fundraising for…?”

“GAR budget allocations have to come from somewhere”, Organa shrugs. “And with the tide of public opinion turning, they’ve been tending towards cuts. The Guard feels them more keenly than any other sector - they’ve been reduced from half to quarter rations, and medical supplies have not made more than a token appearance in the last draft. The Chancellor has cancelled three consecutive meetings on the matter, and thus it was agreed that a more hands-on approach was needed. Any surplus will go into the Army fund.”

“Surely it can’t be that dire”, Oppo protests, a slightly less concerning shade of purple now. Senator Organa shrugs again, jostling the smattering of cracks slowly building around his person in a way that makes Mace wince quietly. “It’s all publicly available data, Masters.”

It really can be that dire, as it turns out. And quarter rations is only scratching the surface of how dire, considering the Guard has apparently never had access to bacta in all their posting, and also includes requisitioning forms available to the Senate for reconditionings and decommissionings, two words Mace has only heard Ponds whispers amidst shuddering in the early days of the war before Shaak Ti went off and just about tore some throats out over it.

“Alright”, he concedes, rubbing at his temples. “Fair enough, we have failed to tackle a massive blind spot in the Guard’s well being. There is no Jedi assigned to Coruscant, and that’s an oversight on our behalf. But how in the everloving kriff did this get past the Chancellor and Commander Fox?!”

Who have both signed, black on white. Bail Organa smiles cryptically. “Well, if you scroll a bit past that one image, up to the industrial speeder in the back - Commander Fox is currently having credits stuffed into his codpiece in the back, I believe.”

“HE’S WHAT IN THE WHAT NOW”, Commander Cody screeches through the speaker of Obi-Wan’s holo image, and Mace has to summon every bit of Jedi-serenity he possesses in his body to keep from dropkicking a cackling Yoda through the chamber windows.

[rheya28]

Pier Dates and an old flame

[wisecrackingeric-2]

Have you seen this child?

-‘The Milk Carton’ by Madilyn Mei

[beanzbeanz001]

Haven’t posted on here in a while. Anyways. Infected Leon…..

More incoming

[wazzappp]

Couple of doodles cause they’re on my mind again

[chloesimaginationthings]

Rat girl meets Mouse girl

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

this AU

[inkonparchment]

Leon Kennedy x Reader - what a curious hotel in the middle of nowhere with a strange receptionist.

cw- blood, skulls, exposed bone, themes of drugging and kidnapping, dub-con if u squint. is this dead dove???😭

It's hot. The car's ac had long given up, blowing tepid air on your face. One hand gripping the steering wheel, you run your free hand around your neck, gathering perspiration on your palm and then flicking it away. The leather of the seats sticks uncomfortably to your exposed skin making you unable to relax, constantly shifting around, the unsticking sound making you grow more hot under the blaring sun.

You had been driving for so long now, the actual time gone from your mind. You weren't even sure where you were, the map haphazardly strewn about in the passenger seat of your old mustang. You grasp your empty water bottle shaking it dejectedly and then tossing it into the backseat.

You push up your sunglasses on the nose, sunlight reflecting from the road harsh on your features. You were driving on an abandoned single road, barren land on both sides, cacti dotting the faraway line of sight. Your throat was dry, lips parched as you continue on your journey, regretting not stopping over at the rest stop a few miles back.

You squint behind your shades, heat so sweltering that it was forming mirages of lakes right in front your eyes, so close in reach but disappearing in a moments notice. You breathe a sigh of relief when a lonesome signage greets you; "Hotel De La Mort UP AHEAD".

You keep your eyes peeled, leaning away from the leather of your seat, hair sticking to the back of your neck. You notice a tall, red building a little way down the road. You don't dare to blink in the case you blink and it disappears like the previous visions of lakes.

It doesn't and you can feel relief wash over you.

The sound of the handbrake is loud when you pull it, throwing open your door and clambering out, slamming it shut behind. You stand in its shadow, the red bricked building towering over you. You take off your sunglasses, holding them by the tips of your fingers, curiously looking at the peeling paint of the building the sign "Hotel De La Mort" a little skewed from its axis.

You shrug, walking towards the big brown doors, gold doorknob encrusted with glittering jewels, cool under your touch. You twist the knob, cool air bursting through the cracked open door, grabbing you in its embrace and lulling you inside. The door shuts with a loud click, the noise reverberating in the hallway.

Your jaw falls away. The room was huge, deceptively so from the humble look it had from the outside. Multiple grand chandeliers hang from the ceiling, various gems adorning the gold of the chandelier, the colours glittering down onto you. Large columns decorate the sides, drapes of maroon velvet curtains hanging from them, paintings on gigantic canvases littered across the walls. The furniture is almost Victorian, matching with the drapes in maroon and black.

You try to locate the air-conditioners or the vents, anyplace from where the cool wind was bellowing from, carrying a scent so sickly sweet with it. Despite the blazing sun outside, it was completely dark inside save for the lights from the chandeliers and the light fixtures.

A throat being cleared breaks you from your gawking, eyes searching for the source. You finally find it; a man standing diligently behind a desk with a sign that says "Welcome" on the dark wood just a few paces from in front of you. You eye the man who is looking at you intently, hands neatly folded in the front of him.

He's clothed in what you assume is the staff uniform. A maroon blazer, black collar shirt with a black tie and black trousers, stripe of gold on every article. The golden of his hair accompanied with striking blue eyes, glittering like sapphires is what catches you off guard. You approach the desk.

"Checking in?" He smiles wide and sweet.

You lick your parched lips, "I don't have a reservation."

He shakes his head, chuckling with a glint in his eye, "You don't need one here."

"Oh," You shift on your feet. "Yes I'd like to check in."

He simply nods, sweet smile widening but not reaching his eyes. The sickly sweet smell returns, a blast of chill air, you blink and the façade flickers; blood fills your nostrils, oozing from the walls, rips in the perfect curtains and the canvases. The receptionist's visage flickers, handsome angular, face replaced by torn skin one side showing a hollow skull staring back at you, clothes tattered, collarbones protruding from his flesh.

Before you can gag, you blink and it disappears. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, goosebumps fresh on your skin. You look over your shoulder in fear but there is nothing to be afraid of, the state of the hotel still pristine. You look back at the man, still smiling, as he hands you keys.

"Your luggage will be brought to you." He steps back. "We hope you enjoy your stay with us." And then disappears behind the door at his back.

You stand there dumbfounded, staring at the keys he had given you, the bronze cold against your palm. Room 013. You shiver, hand against your forehead, owing the crazy vision to your dehydration.

You locate the elevators and walk towards them. The thirst grows on your tongue, the sweet smell greeting you once more, coming across a small table on your way. You stop to inspect it. Sitting on top of it is a bowl of pomegranates, a bronze pitcher and a tall glass filled with red liquid.

The sight of it salivates your tongue, hand moving on its own accord as your fingers wrap around it. You bring it up to your lips, ignoring the screaming voice in your head telling you to stop, and drink. The sweet and sourness of the juice floods your taste buds, the sickeningly perfumed smell filling your nostrils.

The world slips from your grip, glass crashing against the floor as your slump. But you don't hit the ground, encircled by a pair of strong arms pulling you taught against a muscled body. With heavy lidded eyes to look to see who it is who has saved you.

And its the man from the reception. Only he looks different. His golden hair is now pulled back, styled into various curls and waves, glint in his blue eyes, dressed in a sharp all black suit with golden cufflinks. He grins wide at you, nothing in it to warm you but to plunge you in icy waters.

He leans down, lips capturing yours softly, his tongue darting to run against yours, lapping up the speckles of the red liquid left behind. He rests his forehead against your, his breath fanning against your nose as your consciousness is pulled into the dark.

"My wife."

[thyhauntedmansion]

“Why am I the only one who remembers?”

…

[book-lover85]

Stay at home dad and artist on commission Keefe

[high-speed-r]

When God was making Neil Newbon, he really said “I’m going to make the most perfect man in every conceivable way” with his whole chest

He legitimately checks every possible box on what it takes to make the best person ever