#well the fic is

[sunshikilo]

comic i did for really good gravity falls fic that everyone should read https://archiveofourown.org/works/57990373/chapters/147629779?view_adult=true

[michameinmicha]

Stumbled upon this random ship (in a fandom im not active in myself) that has like 150 works on ao3 which are all from just two people gifting each other fics about this pairing back and forth and theyve been doing it for 3 years... i think thats true love probably

[emberfaye]

You know what?

I love you, fics that take months to update. I click on the newest chapter and have no memory of this place and get to go back some chapters and rediscover how much i love everything about this story.

I love you, fics that take years to update. I think of you fondly, and know your names, go search for you and see an update from this year and scream, diving in uncaring of any missed details (i will finish the update and read you in reverse because this is a treat you have bestowed)

I love you, fics that probably will never update again. Thank you for being a roman empire for my mind, thank you for teaching me about the ephemeral fandom experience, for inspiring a thousand million what if-s, for being a comfort read and a nostalgia read and a reread.

I love you fic writers, who jump into projects and stories with enthusiasm. I love you when you succeed in pumping out those chapters and that love doesn't go away when you stop.

I love you fic writers who post and then get in your own head and never feel confident enough to update, whether it's at all or whether it's just that one story.

I love you fic writers, who have a fandom or media hurt you to the point of abandoning or having a hard time with their WIPs.

I love you fic writers, who lose interest or have life changes or illness or bad memory. Thank you for being part of the fandom, a core part of the fandom. Thank you for the time spent in the fandom.

I love you, fic writers who try out something new and then stop. You're so valid.

I love you, WIP fics that may or may not ever get finished. Thank you for brightening my day in the way only you could have.

[arunneronthird]

did u know 9 year old damian was canonly exactly like this

[chiptrillino-art]

something stranger and more wonderful

(ID in ALT text)

my art for @faux-fires (ao3 Link) fic "something stranger and more wonderful"

beta red by @ranilla-bean (ao3 Link) for this years @zukkabigbang2024 event. its truly a beautiful fic. Keeping you on your toes while reading. making you worry about sokka exposed to the whims of nature and zuko, all alone.

big thank you to reikah and rana for all the handholding during this project! And stoping me form overthinking details.

[batsyheere]

I sometimes just imagine the first time Phantom is introduced to the league as like, a fellow big league hero. As someone who works with Justice League Dark and took down the Ecto Acts with his own team and allies to be included under the meta acts like aliens. He knows Constantine and Zatanna and is a pretty common name in the magical community now even if usually as his human form "just Danny".

And suddenly he is surrounded by these "big time heroes" and aliens and champions and most would assume he'd be overwhelmed or in awe. Maybe nervous, or weirdly fixated on being in space.

But here's the kicker- Danny is dead. Technically part of the category ecto-entity, ghost, and thus belonging to the Infinite Realms. He has met a vast variety of characters who are far more chaotic and legendary than these people who have so much interpersonal drama it looks like one of the soap operas Tucker refuses to admit he watches. Wonder Woman? Danny has lunch with Pandora and visits the Greek sections of the realms when he needs to research old prophecies. Superman? Kryptonite is like rock candy and the dead of Krypton are either very sweet or very condescending and Danny has seen both in the Boy Scout. The less said about the Green Lanterns the better. The Flash family are entertaining but also headache inducing because Danny has heard the complaints about the timeline. Half a dozen other heroes and vigilantes have their own dramas that Danny could pick apart at the source for the many issues that started said drama, and that's not even beginning on the issues with Batman and the weird galley of children he has who are sometimes even worse than the dark knight himself.

Meanwhile the League find themselves growing more concerned and horrified the more Phantom manages to reference his adventures and rather stressful start as a vigilante. Constantine hasn't been more entertained in years.

[rejectedbytheempty]

actually, ykw? imagine if simon had a civilian s/o and bc he’s constantly away and the partner is there most of the time anyways, he lets them decorate the place.

they make it so cozy with a million lamps with stained glass lampshades and tapestries on the walls and an unexpected number of stuffed animals on the bed.

one time, simon invites tf 141 to his flat and their jaws dropped, bc ofc simon didn’t warn them about the absolute pinterest board that his place was.

in fact, he hadn’t mentioned a partner at all, or to you that his team would be coming over so you’re still in one of simon’s raggedy old t-shirts with a handful of dry cereal halfway to your mouth.

it’s generally a shock for both parties, simon excluded, who seems to settle himself right in, kissing the top of your head, eyes crinkling slightly as he grins, looking rather like a cat showing off the bird he dragged in.

you had some choice words for him later, but for now, you brushed the crumbs off your face and wiped your hands off on your shirt before sticking your hand out to the team to introduce yourself.

surprisingly, it goes rather well. all things considered. the team is charmed by you and your ability to make ghost blush and smile endlessly. and you’re absolutely enamored with the fact that they keep complimenting your decor.

[demaparbat-hp]

Slow mornings in Ba Sing Se.

I needed something soft today, so here's a little sketch for @nerdylizj's breathtaking fic Forgetting is a kind of mercy.

[adler-obsessed]

god. Vivienne really is just. that character. She is taken to the circle so young she does not remember what her parents even looked like and someone had to tell her. She wouldn’t even know if they were telling the truth. She is ruthless, the terror and nightmare of the Orlesian court. She almost weeps when you find the Tranquil skulls in Redcliffe. She hates drop waists. She is harrowed younger than any other mage in living memory. She teaches Bull the steps to the dance of the six candles. He likens her to a Qunari dreadnought that has half the enemies on the ground before he’s even reached the front line. Her accent’s not Orlesian. No Free Marcher can tell where she is from either. Is her original voice another part of herself she cut off? She enchanted a duke within one meeting and they scandalised even Orlesian society. She was good friends with his wife. They possibly fucked too. No can control her. She’s been owned since the moment she was first brought to the Circle. She belongs to no people. There are a dozen leashes around her neck claiming otherwise. She makes fun of an elven god for setting his coattails on fire.  She is on the verge of banishing Cole back to the Fade all the time. She can’t help but grow to care for him at the end despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise. She hates herself for it. She thinks caring makes you weak. During the first conversation you have with her unmasked as a Trevelyan, she begs to know if you also cared about her childhood friend, Lydia. She tries to import illegal fur into Skyhold. Did she kill everything soft within her soul herself or did the Chantry sisters do it for her? She is impossible to prank. Some might say she’s even better than Sera at pranking. She was pulled into the game by the time she was nineteen. She’d faced worse things since she could first remember her dreams. Life has never been fair. One merely needs to be hard enough to survive. The blade at her neck when she lay on the floor of the harrowing chamber was no different from the hunger in her belly as child, a necessary pain that only drove her forward. Maker, was there ever any chance that she did not see cruelty as simply another word for life? Is there any version of her that does not end up surrounded by moral filth? 

[lgbtlunaverse]

There's a version of the "don't go grocery shopping while hungry" rule specifically for writers where you should never under any circumstances be allowed to touch your draft within 3 hours of reading a really good story. Because sometimes when you read something great your head goes "fuck this is so much better than my stuff I should make that more like THIS instead!" Look at me. That's the devil talking and you should close the document NOW.

[ghostbsuter]

To cover up the happenings of amity park, Danny comes up with a GENIUS idea (shut up Sam).

The small videos and pictures of him and the ghosts that managed to escape their city were dangerous if a hero were to look into their business.

With Tucker and Sam, they created a 'behind the scenes'.

(The video starts with Phantom. He's chasing something– someone, building's sweep past as the two duke it out midair.

That is, until someone yells.

"CUT!"

The background is taken away, leaving behind a green screen. Phantom and the ghost, now recognised as Ember Mclain, hang midair, dangling.

The camera zooms in on Phantom, as he slips off his white wig and scratches his scalp.

"Danny! Stop taking off the wig!" Someone yells off screen, to which Damny rolls his eyes to, screaming back a "but it's scratchy!".

The video stops there.)

They did NOT expect the amount of views this would get.

[numberonedukethomasapologist]

(This is so random and I'm going a bit insane at almost 3am😫)

Duke: Tim! Wssp?

Tim: *face half an inch away from his phone* reading.

Duke: reading what?

Tim: 🧍🏻‍♂️

Duke:🧍🏾‍♂️

Tim *mumbles*

Duke: huh?

Tim: *mumbles a bit louder* superbat😔

Duke: omg?? *whips out his phone and opens a recent tab* same?!

*staring at eachother in disbelief for a solid minute*

[Meanwhile in the other room]

Jason: *writing superbat fics*

[faeriekit]

"Okay." Danny slowly laid the already cold body back onto the table, ready to slide back it into the refuge of cold storage. "Okay. Dead guy. Stay there."

The body didn't move.

"Fantastic. Now. Hang out while I pour the embalming fluid into the pump, alright? It should only be a minute."

And it usually did; working in a funeral home wasn't extremely glamorous, but it paid the bills, and Danny had already been used to the rhyme and rhythm of negotiating death with the public by the time he sent in his mortuary school application. It had been a transition that made sense. And in the end, the degree had only cost him a few extra years post-graduation and a little dig into student loans, and now Danny had a stable 12-8 job and health insurance valid in the state of new jersey.

Today, though, the pump had that decided enough was enough. With a bang and a boom, the pump spat out a cloud of smoke and clunked uncomfortably.

The dead body sat up.

Danny scrambled over to push it back down. "No. We talked about this. Dead people don't move. If you want to stay here and have me put you back together all the time, you have to stay put. Got it?"

Whatever the weird gold-eye corpses were on in Gotham, they at least listened to him on occasion. They weren't ghosts, per se— they never pinged on any of the ghost detection devices Mom and Dad had packed in his going-away-to-college bag— but they were, despite being occasionally animate, perfectly deceased.

Weird. Danny had never gotten used to it. Still, they came in droves, too eager to sit on the top of the basement stairwell and lurk in the corners and stare endlessly at them with their weird, avian eyes, and sometimes they heralded the arrival similarly weird-ass bodies that had lost their heads or their arms or their limbs through the more conventional channels.

"I'm losing too much thread to all y'all coming in all the time," Danny complained to the dead body, who, at the moment, was the only person present to blame. "Stop getting your limbs cut off. This stuff is expensive, you know. It's a specialty order."

The body didn't even have the courtesy to blink. Rude.

"At least let them bury you this time. Every time one of you darts off when my back's turned, my boss thinks I'm stealing corpses. My coworkers think I'm building my own Frankenstein or something."

The corpse neither verbalized nor blinked, but Danny hadn't expected it to; with a sigh, he rolled the corpse back into cold storage, locked its little door (not that locking it in had ever stopped it) and called it quits for the night.

It's not like anyone was paying him for the extra hours anyway.

The whole fic on ao3

[robinsgrl]

toxic baby daddy rafe does something to me. no soft rafe (only with his girls and only sometimes). he’s abrasive and harsh. even more when someone messes with you. yooo where my panties at

mdni 18+

It’s been three months. Three months without Rafe as your boyfriend. Three months of his only title in your life being your baby daddy. There were days where you would refuse to even call him that.

In high school, you loved the sound of his voice. You loved how the palm of his hand felt at the small of your back. You loved that being around him brought you a sense of peace.

Now, all you two do is argue. About everything and anything. Even if you do start half of them. Not now, though.

“What I do in my spare time is none of your business!” Luckily, Samara’s in the living room, her noise cancelling headphones on as she watches some YouTube show, giggling when something funny comes up. You’d usually try and pay attention to her screen time but you can’t when Rafe is in your home and bitching at you.

“So you’re whoring it up when Samara’s with me?” His words are harsh, spitting them at you.

Your eyes are wide and bewildered as you look up at him, chest rising and falling from the intense match you’re having. “Listen to yourself! Whoring it up? Are you from the fifties? Women can have sex without being called a whore nowadays!”

“So you are fucking someone? Who is he.” It’s not a question. It’s a goddamn demand and you hate the way it makes your knees feel weak.

You scoff loudly, rolling your eyes. “I’m not fucking anyone.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, ___, Topper fucking saw you.”

“Topper’s your dick rider.” You spit back out. It comes without warning. His big hand falls on your neck, tightening around you. Your back pushes up against the wall, eyes wide and up on his as he stares down at you angrily.

His face nears yours, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. A shudder runs through your body and you want to shut your legs to help ease the sensation between them but he forces his knee to you. “I’ll kill any man who gets near you, do you fucking hear me?” His words are low and menacing. From anyone else, it’d be scary. It’d drive you away and straight to goddamn police station. But from him? You can’t deny how good it feels.

Rafe’s always been protective of you. Since you two met, he’s hovered around you like a scary dog, growling at anyone who came your way. It grew when you got knocked up in your senior year of high school. And it grew tenfold when your baby girl was born. But it got to be suffocating. You broke it off with him and it took him two weeks to realize you were being serious.

You would never admit that you made a mistake. Not ever. Admitting that you miss him only lets him win. It gives him a point. And yes, you should be mature enough to realize this isn’t a game but he’s so damn cocky about it. The last thing you need from Rafe is a bigger ego.

“Who is he?”

“Eric. Eric Jones.” You admit easily, breath shaky and full of a need for him.

“Did he fuck you?”

You can’t answer. He repeats himself.

“Did he fuck you?”

You nod, hands falling to his arm as his hand tightens on your neck. His eyes won’t leave your face, taking you in completely. You can see it all. The anger. The jealousy. The twinge of hurt. He pulls his hand from your neck and pulls away from you. “Call your mother. Tell her to pick Samara up.”

“What?”

“Just fucking do it.” And you do. Like always, you do as told and Samara’s off with her grandma for the night.

“He can’t fuck you like I can.” You’re a drooling mess as he pounds into you from behind, the sound of skin on skin meeting fills the room. His hand is in your hair, forcing your head back. “Tell me. Tell me how good I make you feel.”

The moans and whimpers coming from you won’t stop. You try to form words as he keeps shattering your world but it won’t come out. “Fucking slut. Answer me.” His hands trail down to your neck, pushing you up slightly to sit as he keeps fucking into you. Your back arches up against him, toes curling as you feel the building ache in the bottom of your belly.

He groans loudly as he feels your walls clench down on him as you curse out loud, grinding down on him to reach that peak you want so badly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight. He couldn’t even fuck you right, could he? My poor girl, getting fucked by amateurs.” His fingers trail down to your freed tits, pinching at your pebbled nipples. “I don’t care what break you think we’re on, when you need a good fucking, come to me. No one can ever make you this cock drunk.”

You’re nodding frantically, “yes, yes, fuck, Rafe! Rafe! Oh, fuck!” You come undone when his fingers find their way to your clit, rubbing at your sensitive and pulsing bundle of nerves.

At this very moment, you’re grateful for the house that Rafe bought you instead of cooping up in the one bedroom apartment you wanted when you moved out of his place. You had hated the power he had for giving you such a nice place but you’re grateful now as you moan and yell his name, body convulsing as his fingers keep working against you.

“Raaaafe, fuck!” He’s pushing deep and deeper as he pushes your front side back onto the bed. The overstimulation is making you writhe beneath him, pretty whimpers leaving your swollen and reddened lips. You can tell he’s reaching his own end when his thrusts become harder and longer, momentum slowing.

One pump. Two pumps. Three. Four. And he’s groaning in your ear, his front pressed up against your back as he comes inside of you from behind, your cunt fluttering around him at the full feeling of his load.

—

You awaken hours later to the bed dipping beside you. You had fallen asleep in Rafe’s arms after he had cleaned you up and whispered soothing and sweet nothings into your ear.

“Rafe?” You sit up tiredly, rubbing at your eyes to wipe the sleep away. His back is turned to you, the most relaxed you’d seen him in a while.

You scooch closer to him, pinched eyes trying to take a look at him. A small gasp leaves you as you see his bloodied and scarred hands. “Go back to sleep, baby.” His polo is covered in dribbles of blood, some drops of it drying up on his face.

You want to ask questions. You want to clean him up. But you can’t. You’re not a very good liar and the last time the police came around asking for your help, you almost broke, but Rafe was always thinking of you, his lawyer cleaning up the mess you made with the police. He had kissed and soothed you down from your teary apologies that night for being weak.

You nod, yawning softly, “okay… just… put the shirt in the wash.” It’s his turn to nod, a soft smile on his face as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.