#title is a wip

[eventheodds]

derringer meryl — outlaw au

Meryl’s parents died when she was young, so it was her father’s best friend, Roberto de Niro, that took her in and raised her. Roberto worked for the Bernardelli’s (actual profession tba), and he made enough to support himself and Meryl.

He kept many photos of her parents and made sure she never forgot them.

Then, one evening, Roberto never came home. Meryl, who was just about to leave for school in the city of November, left their apartment and found his body in an alley. He’d been shot several times in places where the murderer made sure that he’d not be getting up again.

The authorities were of no help, or chose not to be. And anyone who wanted to help turned away, knowing that this was the work of the Bernardelli’s—though they were connected well enough to make sure nothing would be traced back to them.

Back home, after she’d given Roberto a modest funeral, she found his work on what he amassed on the Bernardelli family; they were a crime family whose roots went deep in corruption, trafficking, coercion and anything they could sink their fingers into that would ensure they remained unchallenged.

Meryl never went to November City, she never enlisted in school, and instead found her father’s derringers and vowed to avenge Roberto’s death.

Her hits started on the outskirts of smaller cities and she would eventually make her way towards bigger areas where the Bernardelli’s influence was more potent.

She knows this isn’t a lifestyle where she comes out unscathed on the other side; she knows the risks, but Meryl Stryfe has made her decision and she means to honour her promise.

Important addendum: Because @full-of-mercy mentioned this, Meryl writes angry letters to the news agency whenever her title gets mistakenly written or said as Dillinger Meryl as opposed to Derringer Meryl.

[kaattlin]

i’ve been making a lot of fake comic issue covers lately—i swear they don’t all look like this

nightwing | batgirl | red robin | robin | spoiler | signal | oracle

[fnaf-pizzaplex-dating-sim]

Hiiii so I made a blog for this game so it's easier to keep track of everything! I'm in the process of making some testing sprites; but I can take/answer questions if amyone has any!

So this is in the very very early stages rn; But I'm in the process of making a fnaf dating sim! These are the sprites I'm working with rn

From left to right, Tall Adult, Average Adult, Wheelchair Adult as playable characters/npcs. Then there's Pre-Teen and Child for npcs

Working on a plus-size character sprite; but this is what I've got so far!

[suburbanbonfire]

the captain is back

[image description: Digital illustration of Jordan Eberle, a hockey player for the Seattle Kraken. The poster is mimicking the poster for the movie Akira, with Eberle as Kaneda, his back facing the viewer so that his face is obscured and the nameplate on his back is visible. He is mid-stride walking towards a giant red tentacle laying out on the ice, reaching for him.

At the bottom of the image is the word 'Kraken,' overlaid in red with the Japanese katakana symbols for 'Kraken'. End description.]

[horrorfilmlesbian]

consumed again by Visions and now I'm once again thousands of words into yet another fic that I probably didn't need to add to my wips but I swear it'll be short. ish.

anyway welcome 2 an amnesia fic wherein Garak forgets, but makes some new assumptions thanks to a fresh perspective on his ""friendship"" with Julian.

edit: AO3 link

[asterosea]

[sleepyhoon]

:p

stayed up until 2 am to get that hoon fic done and posted slept for like 6 hours then worked for 9 and now i’m headed home to write the jake knife play fic 🙂‍↕️

[levia-san]

this looks so ominous but the truth of the situation is that I finished it, didnt like YJHs head and redid it from the start didn't like the 2nd attempt redid it from the start now I'm at my 5th attempt someone save me

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[sassypantsjaxon]

Since there's nothing to prove me wrong and none of you can stop me, I've decided that TodoIida is canon

Okay. Look at them emotionally and physically supporting each other

Look at them being recognized as a perfect pair

You've never fallen in love with the boy who helped you find your right path? Because I have, and so has Iida

Look at Todoroki using Iida for protection and Iida completely understanding

Also, look at them graduating because they're adorable

Yeah. TodoIida canon.

[inkprilled]

Excerpt from wip Dead above

[salems-lots]

Still working on sheep dog postal dude i am just easily distracted and have 20 other wips

[petalstem]

With a tough leafbare now finished, the cats of PineClan are relieved for easier seasons again. With FernClan and the newly formed BrightClan now finally at a tentative peace, the Clans together once more are readying apprentices into their newly expanded world, with Acornpaw among them. However, Acornpaw isn't alone, as a starry-pelt cat guides her paws and tells of her a destiny she's always been slated for.

However, tensions between the new and old Clans stays strained, all of which is thrown into chaos after the sudden deaths of Fidgetstar and Palethicket, leaving PineClan seemingly without leadership. No one is left to fill their pawsteps, things are left in disarray as eyes turn to StarClan for guidance.

But as a new dawn rises, the visions given to the Medicine Cats becomes clear. Acornpaw is to lead them to their new future. As PineClan rejoices their newly found guidance, only few are left to wonder- what act of StarClan would allow an untrained apprentice to lead them?

---

My entry for @harriertail 's cover contest! I've never done an actual honest to God landscape before so. I'm both pleased and surprised I managed to get this done!

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

Come love, make me better than I was.

Come teach me a kinder way to say my own name.

Come knowing I, like everyone, have had my own blood on my hands.

Come help me to a gentler truth. Episode 20 or Wen Kexing's origins | Andrea Gibson, "Good Light"

Shidi. A-Xu, what nonsense are you calling me? What is wrong with you today? Have you deviated into insanity?

[rcmclachlan]

For the wip title game: post-doheny park alt meeting?

I should've mentioned this in the previous one, but I started writing this one before the S8 premiere. Then 8x06 sucked all the fun out of it and I ended up leaving it alone for a while, but since everything's made up and the points don't matter, it's so back baybeeeee!

The call picks up on the third ring and a friendly voice carols over the speaker, "Thank you for calling Kinard Air: We're not happy 'til you're not happy. This is Tommy speaking, how may I help you?"

"You really thought you could just dine and dash on us, Kinard?" Hen asks with the tone of someone who is incredibly offended. It's ruined by how hard she's grinning.

Bobby's turnouts squeak as he twists around in his seat, a startled smile curving his mouth and his eyebrows practically kissing his hairline. It seems like of all the voices in the world that could've come out of Hen's phone, he hadn't been expecting that one.

Buck throws Eddie a glance in askance, but all he gets back is a confused shrug.

The speaker crackles a little under the force of the guy's laugh, which is so infectious that a smile unexpectedly erupts on Buck's face. Some people are just like that. Maddie's one of those people: if she's smiling, so is everyone else around her.

"I think that was more of a deluge and dash," Tommy Kinard says cheerfully. "Did it do the trick? I dumped the whole payload, but there are a bunch of ingrounds below me if you need me to swing back for another go. I don't mind ruining Ashley Baxter's pool party for the greater good."

"Ashley Baxter?"

Hen swats at Buck's face when he crowds in close to hear better. He shrugs at the side-eye she gives him. Her friend just saved their asses and he sounds like a really cool guy, plus his voice is making something ping pleasantly in Buck's brain, the way a radio DJ with a deep register does sometimes. Maybe he's got a podcast.

"My least favorite teammate's kid, who's been whining all week about wanting her 13th birthday to go viral. I think I can help her out."

wip titles game

[justallihere]

i need motivation to write and i'm not finding it within myself so i'm offering you the tags for my next fic i'd like to see the light of day eventually. in return please hype me up so i actually write it. if you know the tv show this is based on i'll give you a gold star. thank you 🫶🏻