#cowriters

[levwrites]

Being cowriters sometimes means I have a cool idea I want to write out, but my cowriter has been kidnapped by Baldur's Gate 3.

If someone sees her, tell her I have some very dramatic enemies to lovers to offer.

[kindahoping4forever]

Cashton via Emma Rosen on IG

[theghostkingisdead]

dpxdc - Neglected Child AU

As one of his first acts as Ghost King, Danny basically created ghost CPS. Mostly they help new spirits come to terms with the fact that they're dead, but situations like Danny's are a lot more common than the Observants had lead him to believe. People who come back from the dead or are exposed to large quantities of unstable ectoplasm often lead sad, short second lives. Either because they are unable to obtain the nutrients their new forms require, or because their communities turn against them in fear. This is a story about Jason Todd.

There was a lot Jazz loved about her job. She loved helping young ghosts find acceptance. She loved matching cases with foster Fraids. She loved meeting new people. She loved the rare excuse to travel dimensions. But some days, Jazz was intimately reminded of why this program was formed in the first place.

Knock, knock, knock.

Jazz looked up from her laptop. “Come in!”

Apple – the ghost of a dryad whose tree was chopped down two summers ago – poked her head in.

“Uh, Lady- I mean, Ms. Phan-, no,” Apple took a shuddering breath. Jazz smiled encouragingly. The girl had only been working here for a season, and already she was making excellent progress. “Ms. Jasmine, there’s a city spirit here to see you, uh, on behalf of a uh, potential client.”

“Thank you, Apple, you can send them in.” Jazz said.

Apple flushed green, closing the door with a sigh. Jazz guessed she had about two minutes before the impromptu meeting began. She used the time to sweep some papers off her desk and into a drawer. It had been some time since she’d had a walk-in like this. Jazz had a strict open doors policy when it came to her office, despite the technical fact that her door was often closed; it was just easier to focus that way! She had no idea why most ghosts preferred to submit claims by mail, really it was much better for them to speak with an officer in person.

Thirty years ago, Jazz would’ve had trouble describing the spirit that walked through the doors. Fifty years ago, even looking at it would’ve been painful. But Jasmine Duchess Phantom had been living in the Infinite Realms for almost eighty years now, and liminal senses reached out subconsciously, cataloging scents and colors that her mortal mind would have balked at.

The shape of a steel-colored skeleton peered out at her from a billowing cloud of grey smoke, which curled around its feet and seeped across the floor. Jazz tasted gunmetal and sugar, smelled stale urine and burned bread, felt desperation-fear-hunger-love crash violently against her. Like a cliff to a wave, Jazz stood her ground, letting herself be tested. This spirit was old and afraid; when it spoke, it spoke in a million overlapping voices.

“My apologies for barging in unannounced, Your Grace. I come before you with an issue of great import. One I have reason to believe our King may have a personal interest in.”

Jazz nodded, “My doors are always open, City Spirit. I’m always happy to help. But before I hear your petition, may I know who I am addressing?”

The skeleton did not move that she could see, but Jazz heard windchimes like chittering laughter.

“I am Gotham, Your Grace. My apologies for my rudeness. I have little reason to travel these days and am unaccustomed to necessary introductions.”

Jazz nodded, committing the name and its taste to memory. “No need to apologize, Gotham. Your situation is not unique amongst your kind. Have a seat,” Jazz gestured at the plush couch across from her desk. “What troubles you so, to bring you so far from home?”

There was more windchime tittering, and Jazz wondered if the spirit was laughing or just readjusting itself on a plane she could not see. A nervous tick, perhaps? Maybe she could send Apple for something to make Gotham feel more at ease. Bullet casings or chocolate chip cookies would be equally soothing to this entity, Jazz guessed.

Gotham folded into itself, form blurring slightly before reforming on the couch, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “Many years ago, a mortal man pledged himself to my service. I accepted him as a City Guard, my mortal Champion. This man has many children who have likewise pledged themselves to my protection.”

Jazz smothered the urge to interrupt. She loathed the idea of child Guards; the fact that this City Spirit was here now asking for help meant that this instance had gone just as well as it usually did.

Unaware of her internal judgement, Gotham continued. “The second child died and revived some seven years ago, I…” This time, the rattling sound emanating from Gotham shook the room with the force of a thunderclap. “You have to understand, I don’t claim kids as champions, so technically he was never even under my protection. And when he came back, he ran! I don’t have power outside the city, you know, so even if, well, it’s not like there was anything I could have done differently,”

Jazz was aware that she was frowning. She could only guess what her aura felt like to Gotham, whose smoky aura was rapidly thickening. A bird puffing itself up to look bigger. A cheap trick. If Jazz were in a more compassionate mood, she might have felt embarrassed at such a juvenile display from a spirit decades older than herself.

“You neglected a child, or-” she cut off Gotham before it could protest, “allowed a child to be neglected. For seven years. What changed? Why petition him now and not then?”

Gotham chittered, “Well, you see, he came back to me just over a year ago, retook his pledge and everything. And, well, things were rough, I thought the fraid was just readjusting itself, but, er-”

“Tell me.”

“Well, the problem is I don’t exactly know what the boy is anymore, but he’s more ghostly than not, and his fraid’s fully human. If this infighting between my Guards goes on for any longer, it’ll tear me apart. I figured The King might want to step in, considering this boy might be a halfa, maybe he could help him and the fraid get back to normal.”

Jazz grinned. “Rest assured, Gotham, The Crown will indeed be taking special interest in your case.” Words dripped from her lips, caustic even to her own ears. “Now, why don’t you go outside and give Apple the rest of the details. I have some visits to make.”

[verstappentime]

are there really 0 lestappen fics of max taking care of charles when he had his tooth infection and was on painkillers for 2 race weekends in 2023 like come ONNNNN

[jonnymarzetti]

soon....

edit: THIS IS ART FOR A FANFICTION THAT IS NOW OUT!! GO READ IT, IT'S CALLED "oh silent god"

[indexvirus]

So, what do we think about this?

It's actually strange how, the more I read into SotE, the more I feel Miquella is not intentionally evil.

It's ironic. Before the DLC, my headcanon pretty much was him having Griffith-esque themes, wanting to make his own Falconia.

And now when the DLC has come out with all it implies, I feel I'm wrong. I feel increasingly there is a "tragic misunderstanding of one's own self and limits" leading to "end justifies the means" to "road to hell is paved with good intentions" here.

SotE doesn't undo Miquella's kindness.

He very much is still the character who grew frustrated with the uselessness of the Golden Order when it offered no deliverance for his suffering sister (Radagon's Ring of Light),

who fed his own blood to a sapling in hopes it would grow into a new Erdtree and provide a haven for the outcast (Haligtree Knight Armour, Old Albus Dialogue, Royal Knight Helm),

who developed unalloyed gold to ward off effects of outer gods such as the frenzied flame (Unalloyed Gold Needle, Note: Miquella's Needle),

and who wished to free Godwyn of his suffering (Golden Epitaph).

Miquella observes, learns and improves upon. What did he learn to make the decisions he did? To take the same path his mother took, inspired by the suffering inflicted on those dear to them, believing firmly the sacrifices would "fix the world".

Both made a promise/vow/prayer we never hear fully (Final Cutscene, Golden Braid).

The suffering of the Tarnished, of Godfrey, of the Misbegotten and the Omen for peace and order. The suffering of the Haligtree, of Malenia, of Radahn and Mohg, for equality and compassion.

Marika separated Radagon from herself, but love was what broke her, so Miquella separated St. Trina from himself and divested himself of his love.

But unlike Marika, who realized the mistakes she'd made and chose to defy the Greater Will, and Radagon who stayed delusionally loyal, it was Miquella who was delusional, and St. Trina who realized what a terrible mistake was in the making and what terrible mistakes had already been made...

St. Trina is Miquella. This is him asking "Make me stop, don't let me become a god, you must kill me, grant me forgiveness". At some point he realized what he'd done and only death would grant him forgiveness for it...

For what kind of a god would he become when he'd abandoned all he'd promised to save.

[velvetwyrme]

( ❌ ) Sorry! That name is taken :(

Figuring out a username is tough. So... why not outsource it ;)?

The upcoming chapters of Flipping Fate require Edge to have a username, so we figured we should open that up to y'all to decide! This is all for fun, so go buck wild! Do you want to give him the coolest, most badass username? Or perhaps you want him to be embarrassed to even type it? (Maybe his brother got into his account and changed it?)

We'll hold another poll with your submissions once this poll ends so that you guys can decide what username he gets stuck with >;3c

[edwardalbee]

🚬 thebear-deactivated05012023

hey guys i'm about to open a restaurant as a controlled re-creation of the traumatic and verbally abusive environment i grew up in. someone check on me if i start acting crazy

🍰 sydneyadamu

Carmy we are opening the restaurant in five minutes please process your trauma

🚬 thebear-deactivated05012023

zzzzz

🍰 sydneyadamu

CARMY YOUR TRAUMA

[sparrowlucero]

if that story is true and Moffat wrote the Doctor's Wife, why wouldn't he just give himself credit?

He didn't write the Doctor's Wife, exactly; it /is/ a work by Gaiman, it's just that Moffat is rumored to have done some pretty heavy rewrites which likely should have warranted a cowriting credit.

Quite honestly this is normal, pretty much any given episode you see is going to have a ton of input from the showrunner (yes, even the ones they said they didn't edit at all), and it's (to my knowledge) up to them if they feel that warrants a cowriting credit. If true, I'm sure Gaiman being a guest writer who's name would undoubtedly draw viewers was certainly a big factor in Moffat leaving himself uncredited; "co written by Neil Gaiman" is just not a good look for marketing.

(The only reason it's notable here is because Gaiman later came off as a bit unprofessional and vindictive toward the production over his second episode (which was very poorly received), usually describing it along the lines of him having wrote a great script he was very proud of and the people working on Doctor Who not understanding his vision or not giving him as much creative control. So "actually, it seems very likely that he had a lot of creative control on the bad one and a lot of rewrites and guidance on the good one" is just a funny little counter to it all.)

[aberfaeth]

don't give it a hand, offer it a soul

[dimension 20: fantasy high, Jace/Porter, missing scenes, coworkers with benefits to ???. ch 1/5, 3.5k.]

“If someone finds us here, I will not cast a single spell to stop them,” Jace says. “You draw attention like that, you clean it up.” Porter leisurely snaps an arcane lock onto the office door. He stops and looks back at Jace. In the moonlight seeping through the window, his face is wrought half of flesh, half of shadow. His eyes gleam bloody red as the sun. Jace’s body throbs, a furious heartbeat head to toe. He tells himself it’s a faulty response, some pulse of magic from the shatterstar in his chest. He tells himself that it’s not the sense-memory of straddling Porter’s thigh two nights ago, biting his mouth open till it turned the same shade of rage-hot red. “If someone finds us here, I’ll break their spine,” Porter says calmly. “And you��re certainly welcome to watch. Now, how do we draw this circle?” *** Five rituals, over the course of nine months.

so i've written prose for the first time in literally six months and it's about the antagonists who've had two canon scenes together. god bless!!! basically jade @jadeandquartzes and i were like, hey, what if porter needed jace's help to not die all those times he did the ambrosia thing? and also they had a terrible horrible situationship? &then we wrote so so many words about it. it’s gonna be five chapters, one uploaded each day until the fhjy finale drops. hope you enjoy!!

read don't give it a hand, offer it a soul here!

[leonardcohenofficial]

the article my co-writer and i finished up today is in the more theatre-y side of performance studies as we wrote about black feminist pedagogies and teaching in moments of crisis but when people ask me what projects i'm currently working on and i say well i have a chapter to write about bob dylan and highway 61 revisited and postmodern blues i have a burgeoning project about black incarcerated musicians and performance of resistance and i have a paper i'm working on about talking heads david byrne and autistic erotics and then i go but actually i'm a theatre person it causes mild confusion

[earth4angels]

important new jacaerys romance/smut fic news!

me and my very closest friend here, my wife @benjinotes will be cowriting a story together!! we will be posting a sneak peak one of these days of what we have planned but all i’m going to say is — it’s going to be super fluffy, smutty & with some comedy!

[theresthesnitch]

Should I make it Tumblr Official?

Let’s do it.

If your subscribed to my AO3, you’ll notice that you got an email saying I dropped a 470k word fic. Approximately a year ago, Quietlemonhush and I decided to post our new Wolfstarbucks Omegaverse fic under pseudonyms, and we posted the final chapter on Tuesday.

Today, it has over 2000 kudos and over 150,000 hits, and I am so immensely proud of the universe that we created. I know suddenly dropping nearly 700k words (in the series) on you all at once is *a lot*, but I hope you give it a chance. I cannot tell you enough how much fun I’ve had writing and posting this world.

If you’re interested, check out the link below. If you want, come bug me on discord or in my ask box about it.

Summary: Secondary genders have been repressed for generations until one day they are suddenly back. James, Remus, and Sirius are just trying to navigate 7th year at Hogwarts without losing their minds. Luckily for them, they are best friends who are willing to help each other out. It's just a little bit of knotting between friends, right? Totally temporary.

[little-annie]

Metalhead!Steve & Trackstar!Eddie Series Coming Soon!

@tinytalkingtina and I have something cooking that we think you'll like!

[roselightfairy]

I know it’s been a million and a half years since there was any modverse collab content, but in honor of the WIP prompt reminding me that this existed - and our own sweet friends at home - have some modverse kitty content from me and @deheerkonijn to you!

(elf cats live a long time shhh)

...

The furniture in the parlor was . . . stiff.

Not hard, exactly – the sofa where Gimli sat was cushioned enough that no one could have complained, and even if that had been the problem, there were enough throw pillows (lying scattered across the floor where Legolas had tossed them) to remedy them. It was just that it was almost . . . a little too upright to be quite comfortable, as though made for someone with better posture than he had – even if Legolas, lounging horizontally with his legs across Gimli’s lap, seemed to belie that thought. It was like everything in this manor so far: ornately-carved taps and deep-basined sinks; vast archways and tall, narrow windows with fastenings too high to comfortably open. Beautiful architecture: a building made to be looked at, not lived in.

And yet live in it they did – Legolas, who had navigated this place as easily as he did his apartment at home, knowing exactly which staircase to tug Gimli up to dump their luggage unceremoniously on the bed, rummaging unself-consciously through a tall liquor cabinet to help himself (and Gimli, too) to wine that would have come with an absolutely forbidding price tag in Minas Tirith. Thranduil, who had walked in on Legolas doing this in the kitchen and made no comment but a droll, “More excited to see the wine than your own father, then?”

He sat perfectly upright across the room in his own armchair now, nodding along as Legolas spun an epic narrative of their train journey here. Gimli sat quietly and watched him – watched them, father and son, the ways they took up space in this sitting room. Thranduil’s posture made the space into a council table, the armchair into its head; he sat as though holding court – but Legolas was the one who ran it, whose conversation held the room in rapture, both of them rotating into the captivating orbit of his presence. Gimli wasn’t sure how he felt yet about the Prime Minister of Eryn Lasgalen, but this at least he could admire – that he had made this place, stiff and upright as it was, a home for Legolas.

“– and then he was like, ‘Who do you think you’re visiting, the PM?’ and Gimli just said, ‘Yes,’” Legolas was giggling now, nudging Gimli’s thigh with a heel. “Completely straight-faced! I couldn’t stop laughing. Tell him the rest, meleth.”

Gimli laughed, despite himself – and was this a skill that Legolas had inherited from his father, then? He could feel the effort to put him at ease, to spread Legolas’s own comfort into Gimli – and it was working, softening the room around him like the furniture at his back.

He closed a hand fondly around Legolas’s ankle, trying not to track Thranduil’s eyes tracking the motion. “There’s not much more to say,” he said. “Or, at least, he didn’t seem to think so. Shut up for the rest of the train ride. Not a peep.”

“It was great,” Legolas interjected. “You would have loved it, Dad.”

“I’m sure I would.” Was that smile indulgent or tolerant? Either one was more than Gimli had dared to expect. “Well, I am glad you made it here, at any rate.”

“Me too.” Legolas twisted to aim his most endearing hopeful smile right into Gimli’s face. “I’m glad to show Gimli this place finally.”

“I had hoped you would manage it before your wedding,” said Thranduil. “Some other fathers might have hard words to say about that.” This with an arched eyebrow to match the wryness of his voice. “But, ah well, at least you came eventually. Oh – hello, Smudge.”

Gimli blinked, the non sequitur soaring directly over his head. Had he missed something? – but then, even as he opened his mouth to speak, a patter-clacking interjected in the silence and he turned towards the sound to see a slender tortoiseshell cat slinking its way through the gap in the half-ajar door. It moved very slowly, one dainty paw in front of the other, pale eyes narrowed as it took them all in.

“Smudge?” Gimli said.

“Smudge!” Legolas exclaimed with delight at the same time. “My best friend! Oh, Gimli, she’s been around forever. How is she doing, Dad?”

“See for yourself.” The cat – Smudge – made her way slowly across the room, pausing in front of the couch where they sat even as Legolas dropped a hand to the floor. She sniffed delicately at his fingers, nosing up and down his hand before stretching her head forward until his fingers parted around her ears – but just as his hand contracted to scratch her head, she turned deliberately away, letting his fingers drag along the full length of her body before leaving him to hop up onto the arm of Thranduil’s chair.

“Oh,” Legolas laughed. “Is someone mad at me for being away?” His voice turned into a croon at those last words, the tone he used when mock-scolding Athelas and Simbelmyne. “Were you so, so lonely without me?”

“You might have come back to visit earlier for her sake, if not for your father’s.” Thranduil’s long-suffering tone was spoiled by the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips – and, to Gimli’s amazement, by the way the cat shoved her head into his hand, his fingers curling around the top of her head to scratch vigorously behind her ears. It might have looked regal, a monarch with his cat, except for the loud purring of the cat and the speed of his scratching fingers – not halfhearted at all, whatever he might claim.

“How are the kittens?” Legolas said. “I haven’t seen a picture in weeks – they must be so big!”

“Big enough to cause trouble.” Thranduil waved his unoccupied hand dismissively. “They’re around somewhere – they always turn up just when you don’t want them. Just like her.”

Did his voice – was that a shade of Legolas’s own croon in his voice?

“Smudge,” Gimli repeated, looking at the cat with a new respect. His first day in the home of Lasgalen’s Prime Minister and he had somehow already seen him soften!

“Smudge,” said Legolas, so fondly Gimli could practically see the hearts in his eyes. “She’s been around since I was a little kid; she’s like the mascot of this place. Cats live a long time here,” he added, at Gimli’s questioning look. “Must be the air.”

The air, or maybe the elves themselves – something about them that kept everything around them just a little younger than it should have been, just a little more sturdy. “How old is she then?”

“Late twenties now?” Thranduil mused. “She was only a kitten when she moved in” – moved in, Gimli noted, as if it had been a business negotiation – “but we didn’t know how old exactly.”

“But I was only a few years old,” said Legolas. “So yeah, must be late twenties. She was my best friend when I was little, Gimli. But she’s got a good few years left in her. Don’t you, Smudge? Come here!” He clicked his tongue.

Apparently, the cat’s ire was no more serious than Thranduil’s, for she hopped down from his chair and pattered her way across the floor back to Legolas’s beckoning fingers. When she reached them, though, he swept a hand under her and scooped her tiny body into the air as she squawked in displeasure. But Legolas only laughed, holding her up above his head as her paws flailed in the air.

“Ohh, you’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you,” he cooed, and lowered her onto his chest. “Come here, yes, that’s it.” In the same motion she had applied to Thranduil, Smudge drove her head into Legolas’s face, their noses colliding as Legolas giggled again. “Do you forgive me for leaving? Yes, I missed you, too. Oh, yes” – He laughed helplessly as the cat nuzzled his face, his neck, her paws now kneading at his chest. “Come here, I have someone for you to meet.” And without further ado he scooped her up again, sliding his whole body upright in the same motion, to present her to Gimli.

“Be careful,” Thranduil warned. “She doesn’t always take to strangers.”

“It’ll be okay,” said Legolas. “Just give her your hand to sniff.”

Gimli extended it cautiously. He’d never been much of a cat person – had never really understood how they ticked. But if this cat loved Legolas, surely they had at least that in common, right?

Her whiskers tickled his fingers, her nose cold and wet and velvety as it brushed just against his fingertips: once, twice. She withdrew, as if thinking – and then, cautiously, she nuzzled up against him just as she had with Legolas and Thranduil.

Gimli glanced to Legolas, and at his encouraging nod, he dared to scratch her behind the ears, too.

“She likes you,” said Legolas, grinning. “See, I told you she would!” He rested a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, warm and reassuring and meaningful. “Everybody does.”

In that moment, Gimli wasn’t sure Legolas was talking about the cat.

He flicked his eyes across the room to where Thranduil still sat, watching them – still with that tiny, almost soft smile, as though at the sight of his son, all of his dryness couldn’t help but fall away.

At least they had that in common. And Gimli felt, all of a sudden, a rush of fondness for Thranduil – for his father-in-law – for the home he had made for Legolas here, for the love he felt for his son and his cat. For sharing his fancy furniture and his expensive wine with Gimli, for welcoming him here, for the sake of the person they both loved.

And as an irrepressible smile began to bloom on his face in turn, as he relaxed back into his seat, Gimli thought that the sofa might have become just a touch more comfortable than it was.

[ssomepersonn]

The oc brainrot continues.....