#curtaincalling

[heartorbit]

holy quintet looks kind of different

[eclaire-went-bam]

anyone else listen to any cluster b coded song and get really internally defensive over it because there's no way anybody else relates to it as viscerally as you do. like people listen to it because it's cool, or to cheer up from a break-up, or to pump themselves up before some event, and you're here like

"no actually at all times i have the need to start shit to stave off the ever-consuming boredom. no actually at all times i Am better than everyone in this room. no the egotypicals cannot relate to my entire life being constantly this song. no you don't get it you can't even confidently ask for a ketchup packet. I Am Going To Light A Fire."

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: The Fine Print

Anthony Crowley sells computer systems to London businesses–and specializes in sneaking extra charges and fees into the associated contracts. It’s not his fault no one actually reads the paperwork before signing it. He thinks mild-mannered bookshop owner Aziraphale Fell will be an easy mark; surely no one that old-fashioned and dotty will spot a few carefully-worded technical clauses in his contract. And then Aziraphale comes back with some very polite, very pointed questions – and Crowley decides that maybe pulling off the sale isn’t his first priority anymore…

Length: 42,219 words

AO3 Rating: Teen and Up

Best for: Pick-me-up, Safe in Public, Comedy, Human AU

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by curtaincall

*Minor Spoilers* This one made me smile so wide after! This is a lighthearted, fun, and energetic Human AU. Crowley is a computer system sales rep with a bit more than a professional interest in his latest client. More than just a meet cute, it gives our duo a case to solve when Crowley is told to drop Aziraphale as a client. Sure, you know who the bad guy is going be since it's a fanfiction (duh), but it's still a very fun journey! Also an excellent use of flirty bastard Aziraphale. Acting all innocent and naïve when he's anything but. I love that about him. All his protesting while actually preening over being fussed over. I'm weak for it. It's silly and I love silly. Excellent fic for being out and about. Easy to follow even if you keep getting interrupted from it, and no explicit content. This is a great one to queue up for passing time in public!

Read it here, fic by curtaincall

[bhdoneart]

another redesign: Luceil Solara, Enovae's dancestor! she's preppy but she will bully you

[orbiyoo]

im like i wish there were a different way to respond to peoples tags than just reblogging the post over and over but also thats kind of funny on its own

[smokinsid]

After eleven long years, the Bifrost is finally mine- and who better to wield it than Aesa Curtaincall's theatrical gay ass?

I haven't talked about Aesa yet, so let's:

She's so short that she's often mistaken for a human. There are no meaningful benefits to this except saving at the tailor.

She's a Mesmer in the Elonian tradition- picked up Miragerie during the Kralkatorrik crisis, while she was volunteering to help Vigil in Thunderhead Peaks. The upswing of this is that she fights by making numerous copies of herself, so that she can see how hot and awesome she looks in the midst of the chaos.

When Cantha opened, she went mostly as a tourist. I don't think of her as a Commander. She was an actress before the dragons got all ornery.

But now, there's wizards- and she's finally found her calling. She has a real knack for playing with magical artifacts, and is excellently attuned to the kind of emotion that really get the Kryptis going- she can lure something crazy to a rift just by fake-crying, while thinking about a sad time in her childhood for a few seconds.

She put together this genuinely heroic getup to make herself something of a herald in the Astral Ward. She loves cracking open rifts, yanking out demons, and showing off all over the battlefield. When you see the brilliant white leather and blazing cloak of living rainbow, you know that Aesa is here, and it's time to kick some meaty Kryptis buttcheeks.

Also she wants to kiss Peitha, so everyone get in line behind her.

[azfellandco]

I started reading this human AU fic where Aziraphale propositioned that he and Crowley be fake married for the holidays and there's been so so so many little details already hinting that Crowley already had a crush and agreed to this because of it and I'm just rubbing my hands together in glee about it because Aziraphale clearly does not know yet. but. he Will.

[per1w1nkl3]

oh? my god?? i just found out about the existence of (a few) fanfics in latin??? i can be a whole new level of annoying!!

[skyasimaru]

Need this for a thing. Incoming podfic... 

[heartorbit]

WHEEEEEE

[tommyyourdiscs]

heyyyy im tackle. they/them only. currently a snowchester citizen, proud lmanbergian and sadly a server veteran.

dream supporters dni. just because i was here from the start doesnt mean i support the actions of the admin, i think hes frankly a dickhead and has like five billion things wrong with him. wilbur soot is less problematic than this guy.

my url is an old joke from back in the day with those disc wars. tagging system in tags and all that. enjoy!

This is an rp account ran by @phantoids! This is specifically for a citizen oc thing with some friends! Enjoy! Send asks! Just stay in character please.

Currently set before Doomsday, follows loose DSMP canon.

Tagging system:

tackle talk - text posts, image posts, general posts pull on the line - answered asks fish out of the depths - anon asks trawling net - reblogs crab trap catch - queue

[harmonyhealinghub]

When the Curtain Falls Shaina Tranquilino November 20, 2024

The stage was set, the heavy velvet curtain rippling with anticipation as Spencer Hart stood in the wings. His heart thumped not from the familiar stirrings of stage fright but from the weight of this final performance. Thirty years. Thirty years of dimming lights, hushed whispers, and the rapture of applause that followed his every bow. Tonight, when the curtain fell, it would fall on more than just the show—it would fall on his career.

Spencer's hands, once steady and sure, now trembled with age and the faint ache of past injuries. The role he’d chosen to go out on—a beleaguered king haunted by the echoes of past glories—felt achingly apt. He could sense the packed theater beyond the lights, the hum of an audience awaiting the last act from their favourite actor.

“Spence, break a leg out there,” came a voice from behind. It was Marla, his longtime friend and co-star, who offered a smile tinged with sadness. He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

The play began, and the world beyond the stage vanished. Spencer became the king who raged against time, mourned his waning power, and fought against the ghosts that taunted him from the shadows. His voice rang deep and commanding, holding the audience in a rapt silence that felt electric.

Then, as the final act drew to a close, Spencer fell to his knees under the spotlight, the king’s crown rolling away into the dark. The weight of the performance pressed upon him like a living thing. The applause swelled, surged, and thundered over him as he stood for the last time, taking in the sea of faces, some tearful, some cheering, but all caught in the shared spell of this moment. The curtain fell, and with it, so did the years he had devoted to the stage.

The days that followed were tinged with quietness. Spencer’s dressing room, once filled with flowers and the excited clamour of visiting fans, now sat empty but for the smell of old stage makeup and the echo of past conversations. He sat at his vanity, staring at his reflection, no longer the king but an aging man grappling with a life without the stage.

That’s when he noticed the letters. Piles of them, stacked neatly on the small table by the door. Spencer reached for the first one, a small envelope marked with careful handwriting. It read: Dear Mr. Hart, I wanted to thank you for your performance in The Last Voyage. My mother and I watched it during her illness, and it was the first time I saw her smile in months.

He sat back, eyes stinging. Letter after letter spoke of moments small and grand, where his roles had been more than just stories—they’d been lifelines, memories, escapes. A soldier’s recount of laughter in war-torn barracks over Spencer’s comedic role, a young aspiring actor inspired by his passion, a woman who said she’d found solace in his monologues during her darkest days.

Spencer pressed one against his chest, feeling the weight shift inside him. He’d thought the applause was the pinnacle, the fleeting reward of his craft. But here, in these quiet pages, was the soul of his work laid bare. The roles he’d inhabited had shaped moments in the lives of strangers, binding them together with invisible threads. His art had not just ended on the stage; it rippled through the world.

A knock on the door jolted him, and Marla stepped in, holding a small bouquet. “You’ve been holed up in here for days. How are you holding up, old friend?” she asked softly.

Spencer smiled, cradling the letters as though they were treasures. “Better than I thought,” he replied. “Turns out, the curtain doesn’t fall as hard when you know what’s beyond it.”

Marla’s eyes glistened as she understood, her fingers brushing his shoulder. Together, they sat amid the quiet reminders of a life lived in the light, the letters between them a testament that stories, once told, never truly end.

[lyrinami]

Dance of Decay

Checkpoint: Jib Mix Realistic XL-v14.0 Crystal Clarity

web-ui: stable-diffusion-webui (AUTOMATIC1111) ComfyUI

Other: Photoshop

[normally0]

Bridging the Gap: A Tale of Bridges, Curtains, and Equality

In a world where bridges vie for attention like models on a catwalk, simplicity takes centre stage. Enter our unassuming bridge, straddling the Thames with the grace of a ballerina in steel-toed boots. Designed by the minds at OMA, it's not just a bridge—it's a trompe l'oeil masterpiece, fooling the eye with its invisible bracing and Vierendeel truss.

But hold your applause, folks, because this bridge isn't just about getting from A to B. No, it's a metaphorical picture frame, capturing the ever-changing scenery of London like a selfie-loving tourist. From the bustling streets of Pimlico to the leafy tranquillity of St. James Park, every vista is a stroke in the canvas of urban life.

And speaking of canvases, let's talk about those curtains. Mies van der Rohe may have had his Crown Hall, but we've got our bridge—with a curtain to match. Who needs walls when you've got a curtain that can part the waters and tell stories of equality, unity, and a darn good view of the Thames?

But wait, there's more! Just when you thought this tale couldn't get any more tangled, along comes Covid-19, crashing the party like an uninvited guest. Suddenly, the bridge becomes a symbol of political folly, a victim of shifting travel choices and a work-from-home revolution.

But fear not, dear readers, for in this tale of bridges and curtains lies a glimmer of hope. As the dust settles and Brexit looms large, perhaps our humble bridge can serve as a beacon of unity, a reminder that sometimes, the best way forward is to build bridges—both literal and metaphorical.

So here's to the bridge builders, the curtain raisers, and the dreamers who dare to defy convention. May their bridges be sturdy, their curtains be billowing, and their stories be told for generations to come.

[travel-up-now]

(vía Cortina de ducha 'Nebulosa e Alcohol ' de sbsteam2000)

[dondidonde]

#adollshouse #jessicachastain #arianmoayed #jesmilledarbouze #tashalawrence #michaelpatrickthornton #okierieteonaodowan #stage #curtaincall #showsover #getoutside (at Hudson Theatre) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpehsNkuNHa/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=