#i want these two out of my house

[payasita]

covet thy neighbor

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thanks for listening to my sad backstory. Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[choccy-milky]

part 2 to my modern AU📘📗💕 (part 1)

[sheerakk]

[hinamie]

congrats on your recovery n all yuuji but unfortunately for you I thought the scars were cool >:/

[littlebitofdnd]

Sandra-Lynn and Sklonda are having a "What Do We Do About Kristen" phone call as we speak

[moonstonecanyon]

So I made a GoFundMe....

I really really don't like asking for help normally, nor do I enjoy having to make something like this in the first place, but ongod I don't think I have many options IRL at the moment. I'm a funny little autistic transman named Vergil, also known as MoonstoneCanyon here and on Twitter, and PoisonPikeKing on AO3. I make funny little Megaman things and sometimes Sonic art too.

But also I've been struggling with homelessness IRL for a few months now. I am currently looking for a new job and new career ATM as well as any kind of affordable apartment in central New Jersey at the moment. Thankfully I have a car that I can live out of as a last resort, but... I'd much rather be able to live someone under a roof instead. I've set the goal to $1500 so that I can afford any possible security deposit as well as any first month's rent while I am unemployed for the time being.

If any of you are able to spread this GFM link around, or donate any to this, I really, sincerely appreciate this. Thank you as well for reading this far.

0/1500 usd goal

[shower-phantom-ideas]

I would like the record to stand that I don’t think the waynes think Danny is some sort of hot twink guy. Just the cutiest lil dude ever.

I want them to see his hero persona (give that boy a mask) and fantasise over how cute or hot they think he will be.

They hear his voice. They see his actions. His strength. And assume hes gonna be babe material.

Later it happens. The reveal. And hes just some guy. Just a dude. I mean it’s gonna be shellshock for them. No one but Damian is shocked cause they all assumed his looks would be face and upper body model levels. Bruce probably was thinking the poor lil guy was covered in bruises and injuries but didn’t know about our kids healing factor.

I stan pristine danny who only gets scars from ghost hunting equipment. And that dissection.

Let them over look Fenton cause hes too normal. Let them not even consider him cause hes so scrawny. Too much like a human child.

[buttercupshands]

rewatched Kurogiri's holiday story from ultra impact (not related to sketch at all)

(but it did inspire me)

on another note

finally!!

[hellenhighwater]

the only--the ONLY!--thing I had on my to do list for today was work on any of the commissioned paintings that I need to get done. That was it!

So instead I've sculpted a bunch of clay leaves to make into a mobile, gave a kitten a bath, rearranged the sunroom and repotted a few plants, watered my tomatoes, got some eggs from the doves, read a book, did some laundry, made a book press, made a video about making a book press, bought a detail sander and halloween candy, taught Vice to do a double high five, accidentally melted my gardening gloves, went to the animal shelter, and forgot to eat for the entire day.

So I'm pleased to announce that all executives are functioning at 0% capacity, as per normal.

[killjoy-prince]

House M.D. but it's when a character says the name of the episode

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

everyone gaze upon them

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! This question came up when I had family visiting, and I am genuinely unsure of how common this is

[introspectivememories]

[stuckinapril]

I don’t understand it when people say that Carrie was also the problem bc she was anxiously attached bc like …. maybe she had a moment or two but for the most part it was absolutely Big being such a selfish prick and then justifying it w “ohhh I have commitment issues bc my last marriage fell through” umm ur a 45 year old BABY actually

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Been thinking about Wayne Manor.

What it would be like as a haunted house, and Bruce Wayne cursed as its last living heir.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

In an upstairs bathroom, a leaky faucet drips water like tears. A strange stain darkens the bottom of the tub, where one of Bruce's ancestors had drowned herself after the loss of her lover.

No one ever uses that bathroom, yet there are days when Bruce can hear running water. And he would feel a grief so profound that it would leech all of the color out of the sky.

And he would remind himself, with renewed determination, of all the terrible fates that befell anyone who has loved a Wayne.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, older perhaps, than Gotham itself. Where the walls are overrun by kudzu vines, the fat purple clusters of their flowers all but hiding the weathered stone.

Except, perhaps, in the East Wing, where even the vines do not grow. The walls remain blackened, the windows cracked and warped. Here, there once lived an heir who thought that he could outlast the curse. Or perhaps he believed that there was no curse at all.

He had held the wedding on the grounds itself—ignoring the way the grass twisted around his bride's ankles like starving rats—and moved her into the East Wing that very night.

One would hope that they were happy in the week before the fire. Where the heat was so intense that it blackened the Manor's stone walls and the smoke that rose from it blotted out the sky.

One would hope they died instantly, suffocated in their sleep before they even knew what would happen.

And yet, Bruce knows they did not. Perhaps it is only his own pessimism. Or perhaps, the Manor wanted him to know.

It was she who died first. Her smooth skin turning cracked and leathery, blisters forming on her skin and bursting like the fat of a pig on a spit.

It was she who died first, and the heir had enough time to run away. To live with the knowledge of what he had done to her.

But he did not.

Instead, he lay down next to his bride and let the fire claim them both.

And Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Manor's wealth and tragedy memories, would wake up some nights with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, a cursed house. A house that has claimed everyone its heirs have ever loved.

But oh, it is hungry. Its once-thriving grounds have become dry and barren. The grass that had once twined around a doomed bride's ankles have grown yellowed and shriveled.

For while its previous owners have kept it fed with its share of tragedies, Bruce Wayne had starved it.

Bruce Wayne, who as a child would wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth, who once used an upstairs bathroom where the faucet drips water like tears.

Bruce Wayne, who promised himself that he would be the last heir Wayne Manor would ever have.

Now, imagine you. You who have lived in Gotham City, your whole life.

You who would pass by the Wayne Manor on the way to classes or to work, and you would look at its barren gardens and its cracked windows.

And you would feel...something.

A pull perhaps or an ache, one that could only settled by approaching this house, this cursed lot, placing your hands against the wrought iron gate so that you can get a better look.

And you would see its blackened walls and its barren gardens, the grass yellowed and withered and dead.

And you would feel a strange sort of tenderness for a place that looks so unloved.

You feel the cold of iron against your palms, a flash of heat.

And then—

"Ouch."

Somehow, you had cut yourself against the gate. A wide cut, a deep cut, straight against the meat of your palm.

You don't quite know how it happened. And perhaps, it did not matter, because the only thing you can focus on is the pain that throbbed against your skin like a heart.

You curse, try to staunch the flow, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of a figure.

Perhaps it was the mansion's old butler or perhaps one of its many ghosts. But as he approached, you knew that this could only be one person.

The heir to Wayne Manor was said to be a glib playboy, one who would spend rather spend his family's vast amount of wealth on drugs and women and sex than actually fixing his broken-down home.

And yet, when you meet him on that fateful day, he did not look like the blindingly beautiful man you had seen in the newspapers.

He didn't have a fixed smile that could have meant anything from loathing to adoration, he didn't wear a suit that cost more than your yearly salary.

That day, he looked human. He looked reachable.

Perhaps that was what made you accept the handkerchief he so graciously handed to you. Perhaps that is what makes you smile—a little clumsy, a little lopsided, but a smile all the same—as you say,

"Thanks a ton. See you around, Bruce Wayne."

And when you walk away, you do not look back.

You do not see what Bruce Wayne saw.

You do not see how your blood dries preternaturally fast on the surface of the black gate, as if something was drinking it in.

You do not see the way the grass along the driveway twists around your ankles like a starving rat.

And you definitely do not see the expression on Bruce Wayne's face when he realizes what it all meant.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its once-barren gardens now blooming with life. Galica roses with buds so heavy that their stems drooped, as if begging one to cut them and place them in a bouquet.

Imagine Wayne Manor, which has fed well on centuries' worth of tragedies, as a house starved.

For its latest heir, Bruce Wayne, had vowed never to fall in love.

Had vowed that whatever curse lingered in his family tree like the rot in an oak would die with him.

Imagine your blood drying on a wrought iron gate. And a leaky faucet that drips water like tears for a story that already has an ending.

Imagine a blackened wall, and the story of a man who lay down next to dead bride, to be consumed alive in a fire.

Imagine Wayne Manor, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

And now imagine: its hunger.