#That's the wip title

[somerandomcryptid]

Dnb au where Techno is a nether gardener/merchant and Dream is a farmer that lives on the edge of his town and is kinda considered the village hermit

Techno looks scary to the townspeople because big ol' piglin in dark robes but he's actually really nice and friendly and just wants to talk and sell his funky nether flora. Everyone kinda thinks he's a witch (neutral), he's not. He plays into it sometimes for the bit, but he thinks he makes it clear that he's just some weirdo who likes plants from his home and wants to spread them with the overworld.

And Dream is incredibly resting bitch face and closed off to the point where everyone in the town just assumes he's mean. But he's so cottagecore that no one assumes he's like. Anything but a weird mean farmer. Secretly he has a little basement filled with crystals, herbs, mushrooms, and all the makings of a novice witch.

Not many in the town want Techno's wares when he passes through, but they point them in the direction of Dream's farm, nessaled into the crook of the woods at the edge of town.

Dream is infact very interested in Techno's wares. Techno doesn't get why he was warned that Dream is mean and rude when his eyes are sparkling so much at every mushroom and plant, and when Dream has to stifle a laugh and a smile every time he tells a joke.

He gets the weird feeling they've met before too....

[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

[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

[jacktypo]

finals stress is killing me so i've been sketching the aftersun posters as lilia and silver to decompress

[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 🫶🏻

[rcmclachlan]

UMMM bare and/or/both post-doheny park alt meeting pleeeeeease

"I don't know how you managed it on such short notice, Tommy, but I can't thank you enough," Bobby says, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the din. "We were in a bad way for a minute there."

"If you want to thank anyone, Captain Nash, thank Howie," Tommy says warmly. It takes Buck a hot second to realize who Tommy's talking about. "Although if you really wanted to thank me, I wouldn't say no to you calling my captain and smoothing things over. This wasn't exactly sanctioned."

"Tommy, did you steal that plane?" Hen asks, coloring within the edges of her disbelief with amusement. 

"How dare you impugn my honor, Firefighter Wilson. I'll have you know that I borrowed this plane, and that while, yes, it was without permission and technically I may have committed a felony, I have every intention of returning it."

Bobby's grinning so widely that the low light coming through the windshield catches his gums and makes them glisten. "I'll give Captain O'Dell a call the second we get back to the station. Don't worry, Tommy, I'll make sure this won't affect your job."

"I don't think it'll be that bad," Tommy says. "It was for an LAFD call, not a jaunt to Mexico. I'll probably just get yelled at, or grounded for a week. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Making waves at the 217, I see," Bobby says approvingly.

"More like sonic waves," Buck chimes in, then chokes on his own spit when Eddie tiredly smacks him on the back of the head. 

"I don't know who that was just now, but I like you," Tommy says with an audible grin.

wip titles game

[thesafecafe]

🗂️ wip tag game! 🗂️

make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. tag as many people as you have WIPs. people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

Thank you @shuadotcom for the tag! I have well over 60+ wips so I'm just gonna put a few up here:

"Open Windows"

"i still love her though"

"Say His Name"

"Scream 96' "

"Dark Whispers"

"Body"

"My Pretty Boy"

"Stay Forever"

"Care For Me"

"Within You"

"Devil I Know"

"Love You Like Me"

Tagging: @brownsugarbaybee, @hee0soo, @bad-euph0ria, @andysorbit, @calibabii21, @frenchkisstheabyss, @multifandomslxt, @agust-june, @welcometomyoasis, @potatomountain, @ja3hwa, @smileysuh

no pressure y'all <3

[malsorie]

WIP!!!!!

experimenting with nightwarden minthara hairstyles ideas

hehehe

[oacest]

don't make me fucking cry 🤏😭

[oleafia-art]

nothing can live up to promise, nothing can stop its narrative, nothing in place of catalysts

and you’ll never be pure again

[stevebabey]

WIP anon here! Post the last segment you wrote without context and pass this on to as many blogs as you wish! 💫

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that had just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that question came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. Picking it up, you give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head, lifting your gaze. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

an actual x reader fic in the works....? after this many moons??? it's more likely than u think 😁i'm posting so i feel pressure to actually keep writing it lmao <3 we love a lil faking dating moment

[cecilyv]

wip wednesday

@liminalmemories21 and I are still noodling away at this. Don't look now, but it's just more smut.

One of his neighbors threw parties on the roof — they generally ended at a reasonable time, so no one turned him in. The side benefit was the tables and chairs he left up there so he didn’t have to keep dragging them up the stairs. Tommy dropped into one heavily when the guy pushed him back. “We have to make this quick,” he says, as he climbs onto Tommy’s lap, long legs draped over his and his toes actually touch the ground. “Before your boss finds out you absconded with the truck?” The guy nods, reaching for the fly of Tommy’s jeans, popping the buttons expertly with one hand. Moments later, his palm is hot against Tommy, has to close his eyes as those long fingers wrap around him. The hand disappears for a second and Tommy opens is his eyes and what escapes his throat is definitely not a whine. He watches as the guy pulls his cock out, wraps his hand around them both. Tommy stares. Truth in advertising.

He’d say he has nobody to blame but himself for being so distracted that he doesn’t hear the roof door open, or the sound of someone walking across the roof.  But, sue him, he’s got maybe the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his lap, doing his damndest to make Tommy’s brains leak out his dick. Freezes when he hears someone clear their throat loudly behind him.  And then, “Firefighter Buckley!”

Tagging, erm, whomever wants to play? @geddyqueer @leashybebes @screamlet @alchemistc

[3cosmicfrogs]

“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another."

companion piece of the frankenverse

[amazingmsme]

Finally getting around to the Ody, Telemachus & Athena fic & I promise it won’t all be this angsty, but I just had to share this lil snippet

It felt... strange, watching the two of them interact. Watching his Telemachus spar with Athena stirred old memories that brought a bittersweet smile to his face. Oh, what could have been.

Telemachus had told him that Athena once called him her friend, on the day they first met. She didn't say his name, but he now knows she was referring to his father. Odysseus just wished she would've admitted that back then.

They both acted differently in each other's company; unlike they ever were with him.

Telemachus adored Athena. He looked forward to her visits, lighting up the moment she entered a room before running off for his next lesson. He was never so eager when Odysseus trained with him, questioning his methods and suggesting what Athena would do. He tried not to let it get under his skin, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't sting a little.

Athena might as well be a completely different person with Telemachus. She was patient and understanding, gently correcting him when he made a mistake. Odysseus seemed to remember her harsh tone and judging words when he was to screw up. It felt hypocritical, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.