#fic coming soon i guess

[fartshitpiss]

okay but Stede in the performing arts.

Stede did theater in secondary school. it was as much about the dramatics as it was about finding something to keep him from the house. his first year he did crew, only because he nearly threw up before walking into his audition and decided crew was best for him. the second year was less nerve racking and he even landed himself a speaking role! sure, he only had two lines, but it was better than nothing! by the time he graduated he'd played three leading characters and, decidedly, he'd caught the bug.

much to his fathers dismay, Stede decided to go to university for performing arts. he agreed only to pay for a Practical Degree, but Stede had made up his mind and didn't let the financial cut off get in the way of his dreams. at uni he had the best time. and the worst. he laughed and he cried and he learned and he made friends and he loved every beautiful horrible breathtaking minute. he did more shows than he could recall during his schooling. each one, each role, whether he truly enjoyed it or not, was breathed to life with every ounce of passion and strength he had in him.

after uni he floated for a year, indesicive on his next steps. but, as any self respecting actor in his shoes would, Stede found himself packing his belongings and traveling to the big apple. Broadway. it was a tough crowd with more competition than he could imagine but he couldn't see himself happy anywhere else. there was a little bakery only a street from his apartment that he gets a job at to pay the bills. when he wasn't working he was auditioning for anything he could get his hands on. in the beginning he lands a small role here or there, all off Broadway but that didn't matter to him. he didn't get anything for awhile after that, long enough he started to doubt his dream, but then came his breakout.

it wasn't leading, but it was better than everything he'd done since secondary school. and on Broadway this time, at that. Stede would only build momentum from there until he made a name for himself. a true name, one outside of the Bonnets reign of terror, in a special little space carved out just for him.

and then one day, the first rehearsal of a new show, he runs into Edward Teach on crew. literally. causing the box of a dozen lightbulbs Ed was carrying to crash to the ground. they all broke except one, leaving Stede to apologize profusely for the remainder of the shows run.

[myokk]

🫶🫶🫶

[crabsnpersimmons]

me: i'm not gonna dive into the FNAF lore, it's just an endless rabbit hole

writing muse: but what if we base off this DCA AU off the MCI and Remnant and the Emily family?

me:

me: shouldn't you be working on the fic we're currently writing? the wholesome slice of life about the DCA as hairdressers? or even the restaurant fic?

writing muse: i crave violence

writing muse: and angst

[arolegos]

cooking up a ninjago arcane au rn and what if i was evil

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

The Twin Boys; One in Black, One in White

[thisapplepielife]

All Across the Universe, a new time-travel fic by @thisapplepielife.

Coming soon.

[rosyredlipstick]

ever after (4/9)

Jason divided most of the coin up into four coin purses, all different colors, with the rest sectioned off into two piles. They'd long since lost the shame of it; we’re basically borrowing it, Jason had said more than once. Once it was pumped back into the marketplace, into the tax tribute, it would eventually end up sitting in someone’s coffers. ... From the rich, to the poor. Nico could think of worse ways to make coin.

-

solangelo, 23k.

ao3

[damianbugs]

now that whumptober 2023 is over, i wanted to share everything (3 fics lol) i wrote with the referenced comic panel in the title! it was a personal theme i picked for myself that helped with inspiration when writing :)

DAY 5: WE'RE NOT DEAD (WE WALK). [Dick & Tim]

Grayson #5

DAY 9: THIS ISN'T PUNISHMENT (I LOVE YOU). [Bruce & Jason]

Batman (2016) #138

DAY 22: FALL FROM ON HIGH (TO FIND THE RIGHT PERSPECTIVE). [Bruce & Duke & Jason]

Batman and The Signal #3

[mangofresca]

cloudburst

He taps his fingers when he’s bored.

Not that Spain blames him. Not that Spain isn’t also just as bored, dulled, yearning and longing and aching for the willowed shade of broken sunlight through blooming Juniper trees, warmed by humid air and clouds so soft he could pull them from the skies, if only he had the will to lift a hand to them, to try.

His boss will likely scold him for not paying attention, but Spain can’t be bothered today, too unfocused to listen to off-handed bickering made worse through obligation, not when he can still hear the thumping of rain on the roof, pattering against the windows.

Not when he can watch Romano skate his nails against the table, pressing the soft of his fingertips up and down as if he were writing something, composing something, following the tune of a melody only half-constructed and–

Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.

Romano keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy, looking for all the world like he is two seconds away from drifting to sleep, but Spain can see the way his fingers move, curled, as if cradling the neck of an invisible guitar, other hand almost imperceptibly pressing down into the table, plucking notes Spain can almost hear being strummed aloud, if only he tried hard enough to listen.

Spain watches, head propped on an arm that fell asleep about half an hour ago, too lost and transfixed on the image of Romano shirking his duties in favor of– of writing, maybe, or composing, creating something Spain is already desperate to hear, to mold into his life in the way he molds everything Romano does, every noise Romano makes.

He’s out of his seat seconds before they’ve officially been dismissed, but Romano doesn’t notice, still in that world of tabletop timbres and notes unwritten, of hands born to cultivate.

“What are you playing?” Spain asks, and he smiles when Romano startles, eyes widening and fingers dropping, forming into fists atop pages with not one word written on them.

Not that Spain blames him. His own are the same, after all.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Romano snaps, cheeks ruddy with caught-out indignation, and Spain knows he was right, that he’d formed himself an audience for a performer who didn’t know he was being watched.

“You were playing something,” he says, beaming when Romano collects his papers with more stumbled force than necessary, always too combative, too cagey with his vulnerabilities.

Romano huffs, says nothing, brushing past Spain with shoulders that are a little too tense for comfort.

Spain follows, whistling, doing his best to find the cadence of whatever rhythm Romano had been tapping against the table.

It takes two months for Romano to bring it up again, and when he does, it’s by dropping down next to Spain in the sand, feet and ankles damp with dusk-sweetened sea foam, hands steady and curled around a guitar he had always insisted he rarely used, that sits too comfortably in his lap to be anything less than adored.

“Don’t say anything,” is all Romano says, and Spain can only bring himself to smile, arms pressed atop his knees as he feels the kiss of broken waves and clumped seaweed against his toes. He’s more than content to wait, would always be content to wait if it meant Romano pressing himself into the space at Spain’s side, frown on his lips like he’s shy, wary.

Romano shoots him a look—I mean it, bastard!—but Spain only rests his chin on his arms, watching with slowly blinking eyes and a smile he is sure is horrifically besotted.

Romano doesn’t look at him when he plays, head tilted down so his hair falls across his forehead, curling around his eyebrows and the rounds of his ears. Spain bites back the urge to brush it away, and when Romano begins to hum, the softest accompaniment to a tune Spain has never heard, Spain can feel his heartbeat in the palms of his hands, in the urge to mold himself against Romano’s back, to be close and close and close.

Still, he does not move, waiting until Romano’s fingers pluck the final string, mumbling hums and soft breaths petering out until the only noise left is the swell of the ocean and the rustle of air through grains of sand and surf.

Spain blinks—once, twice—and Romano clears his throat, forefinger and thumb drawing absentminded patterns across the guitar’s body.

“I wrote it,” he says, voice low, deep, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been working on it for…fuck, I don’t know how long. A while, I guess. Mostly when I mi–”

He flushes pink, voice cutting off in a choke, and Spain sits up immediately, thinks he knows, and his delight is immeasurable, second only to grand, enamored infatuation.

“When you what?” he asks, because how can he not when Romano is looking like that, like he’s already cursing himself for speaking, as if Spain wouldn’t lay himself and his heart and his soul bare just to find the words humanity hasn’t created yet.

“Forget it.” Romano is scowling, bristling in that way he gets when he speaks before thinking, when Spain is close enough to hear him—when he’s paying attention—and Spain couldn’t forget this if he was given a millennium, if he was given an eternity and longer.

“When you what?” he asks again, because he has to, has to, would be a fool not to, would die, maybe, if he doesn’t. “When you…miss me?”

Romano shoots him a look so blistering and venomous that Spain knows he’s right, knows immediately and without question he’s right, and his hand is around Romano’s wrist before Romano even has the chance to stand, to run, because of course he’d run, and Spain can’t bear the weight of solitude right now, anyway.

“You wrote a song for me.”

Romano splutters, snarls. “It is not– I didn’t fucking write it for you!”

Spain could kiss him, wants to, wants to. “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me!”

“Are you even listening to me? I just said I didn’t–”

He’s red, so red, every shade the most beautiful color Spain has ever seen, and he can’t find it within himself to temper the need to touch, to be close and closer still, to kiss, fingers following the curve of ocean-misted waves caught on dark eyelashes, tangling in knots around his knuckles.

“My song,” he insists, lips light as they brush the warm of Romano’s mouth.

“Not what I sai–”

Spain swallows the words he knows are only half-hearted, can feel the truth in the press of the guitar into his sternum, in the hand fisted in his shirt, in the lips humming against his.

[bloos-bloo]

THE TEARS I HAVE ON MY FACE- LOOK AT MY BABYYYY-

SHAMURA MY LOVE- I LOVE YOUUUU-

Thank you @flowersgoldandgraphite for this amazing fan art :’D YOU MAKE ME WANNA SPIN IN CIRCLES- IM SPINNING RN!!! ME!! GOING WEEEEEEE-

JABSINSBDKSNSJSKDBDJ-

I’m so normal-

[fluffyfangirl]

[seventh-district]

.

[stairwaydowntohell]

ao3 being down has made me realize things about myself id rather not know tbh

i cant survive without my fics 😭 to the point where its a problem

and what making it worse is that i cant do anything to help besides stopping trying to access the site in order to not overwhelm it even more

and shoutout to the people doing everything the can to give us ao3 back. hwaiting ✊️❤️

[roosteraloha]

2.6k into my Jake comfort fic !! It’s almost finished :)

was about to ask if y’all liked my bradley sick fic, only to realise I never posted it…

[plantenjoyer]

I SWEAR I KEEP TRYING TO DO ART BUT THEN SOMETHING GETS IN THE WAY AND THEN I PROCRASTINATE AND THEN SIX MONTHS PASS

[cha1cedony]

So much Fantasy Life stuff I want to write I’m going crazy. I wish there was a transcript of all the dialogue that I could reference… Soooo many dysfunctional families to analyze