#the voices are telling me to write fics

[shadows-aflame]

The thing about Enver Gortash that gets me the most is like

Here’s perhaps the most complex and well thought out character in the game. You can feel his presence all throughout as early as act 1 by seeing just how far his influence has come. He’s ruthless and irrevocably evil, but also broken in a way that doesn’t justify any of his wrongdoings. He’s a brilliant mind who clawed himself out of the hells and into this seat of power, yet he doesn’t want to rule alone.

He’s grieving over his partner, and it’s very apparent when you look at the actions he took after losing the Dark Urge.

He wants to rule with you. If you play as the Dark Urge, he clearly loves you in whatever manner you interpret that love to be.

But you can’t love him back.

[viperwhispered]

Rest

Guess what? I've got more Jamil x reader for y'all. You can also find this on ao3. No warnings, just 866 words of kinda fluffy(?) caretaking stuff with gender-neutral reader.

At this point, you know Jamil’s schedule almost as well as he does. So, when you have the chance, you head to Scarabia’s kitchen, hoping to spend some time with Jamil while he and the other students prepare dinner. 

However, when you enter, it takes you but a moment to notice Jamil’s uncharacteristic fumbling and the tired look in his eyes. The way Jamil’s chopping the vegetables has you worried about him cutting himself with that knife he’s usually so adept with, and it seems it’s only force of habit that’s keeping him on track.

You frown, and when your eyes meet Jamil’s, you can already see him put his guard up.

So he knows what state he is in, huh? And still, here he is.

It seems Jamil is reading your thoughts, all of him telling you drop it before any words are even said.

At least he still lets you lean in and give a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.

“Hello love. Do you still have a lot on your agenda for today?” you ask, keeping your tone low for at least some semblance of privacy in the busy kitchen.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” is the response you get.

Of course.

It takes a little more pestering before Jamil actually answers your question. Your lips purse. That list is far too long to your liking.

You take a moment to think, juggling your own plans and to-do list against the urgency of the things Jamil mentioned.

“Will Kalim be eating from that?” you ask, pointing at the food Jamil is preparing.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I won’t be touching that one, then. I’ve gotta do a few things but I’ll be back when you’re done here.”

“Don’t,” Jamil says with a glare, clearly aware of what you’re thinking.

Yet even his disapproving look doesn’t have the usual weight behind it.

“Yes. I will,” you say firmly, even as your heart curls inwards with another bout of concern.

Really, when did he get so tired?

And how did you not notice it earlier?

You leave the kitchen before Jamil can protest further, hurrying through the dorm corridors to find Kalim.

Soon you have an enthusiastic – and concerned – supporter for your plans. You have Kalim point out a few reliable Scarabia students to help with a few of the most urgent matters Jamil mentioned – cleaning up the common areas, delivering some paperwork to Crowley, preparing some dorm-wide notices – while you see to Kalim getting his school supplies in order for the following day. You even recruit a couple of third years to help Kalim with his homework.

You’ll see to the rest tomorrow – after all, you do also have a boyfriend to look after.

Your conversation over dinner can hardly be called anything else than an argument – despite Kalim’s best attempts at acting as a moderating force between you two. It is very tempting to ask Kalim to tell Jamil to take the rest of the day off – it’s not like Jamil would be willing to openly disobey a direct order. Still, you really don’t need to remind Jamil of his position on top of everything else that you’re already doing more or less against his wishes.

Eventually, however, Jamil’s had a square meal, the most urgent things on his to-do list are being taken care of, and you’ve managed to drag him to his bed.

“I really wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you murmur, your arms wrapped tightly around Jamil. You’re telling yourself you really do just want to cuddle, to offer some respite to Jamil. Still, there might also be a part of you worried that if you were to let go, he’d just jump up and get back to working himself to the bone.

Yet, for all his protestations, just the fact that you’ve gotten Jamil to lay down with you speaks volumes of his current exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave my duties, albi. You know this.”

“Making yourself too indispensable, is what you’re doing,” you protest.

Oh, you know it’s not so simple. Not with his background, not with all the expectations and assumptions.

But sometimes you really wish it would be.

Jamil merely scoffs in response to your words.

Still, it is undeniable that he is slowly beginning to relax in your arms, slowly bringing his head closer to yours. His eyes are starting to flutter, too.

“I will still need to help Kalim with his homework, at the very least.”

You wonder who he is trying to convince more, you or himself.

“Amin and Khalil are helping him. They’re basically top of their classes, aren’t they? I’m sure they’ve got it.”

Still, Jamil frowns.

You sigh. He really is not letting go, is he?

“Do you want me to go supervise?” you ask.

And leave you, unsaid yet hanging there right after your words.

“Don’t,” Jamil eventually says, the word barely more than a breath.

It seems he has accepted his fate.

You softly caress Jamil’s hair, listening to his softening breathing.

And when you wake up, wholly unaware of having been lulled to sleep in the first place, it’s to the lightest of touches from Jamil’s fingers.

Tagging @diodellet @twstgo @crystallizsch @jamilvapologist @jamilsimpno69 as per request If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know!

[luvo27]

i have thought a LOT about how i like to write cass in my fics so here's one of the thoughts:

one thing that i do on purpose when writing from cass's pov is not use the babs or steph nicknames in the narration and this is something that i thought about because if i'm writing in steph's pov, i'll use the steph nickname from time to time but i don't use it for cass. i love love love love the scott puckett batgirl run, and one thing that really makes it unique to me is the lack of cass's narration and yes this is because she doesn't know english for a bit but even afterwards it's still fairly minimal, and there's very much the question of like, how on earth do you translate this very visual character into a written medium? the idea is like, trying to distance the narrator's voice from cass's voice. it's fun in a sense of like, i cant draw and use art to show how cass's thoughts work and how she connects things in her mind, but i can get the narrator to describe her thoughts even if in words not her own so cass might call stephanie by the nickname steph, but the narrator wouldn't, and all of the narration is like a second hand translation of what's actually happening in cass's head and sometimes it's more connected to cass's voice and sometimes it's less connected and i don't know if this is making any sense at all. basically if i were ever going to write a cass comic i think i'd write the narration in 3rd person most of the time

[finifugue]

Reject reality (Hungary GP) embrace delusion (Landoscar Bridgerton AU) - opening snippet of a fic which I will update whenever Event Horizon gets too depressing and existential. Pre-landoscar, pre-lestappen (minor). 1.6k so far and I'll probably edit the fuck out of it. One day.

It is in the words of another anonymous Lady, that the truth of our merry ton may be found: “a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

“Are you quite sure it’s hers?”

“Who’s else might it be? There aren’t any copycats brave enough to write under her name!”

These words, though plain to the learned man’s ear, ring clear to those nervous mamas which, on this bright day, are finally given the opportunity to demonstrate their mettle in a battle of wit, courage, and pride which has been tended to from near the moment of our country’s consummation. For today, dear reader, is the day the marriage market opens, and the sharp teeth of society await the new nobility to step from the solitude of darkness, to the blinding light.

“Let me see! Let me see!”

“Ow ‒ do not push me, George!”

For many a family, young misses are being decorated with as much wealth as their families possess ‒ such as in the Bridgerton family, where the long-awaited Eloise Bridgerton is rumoured to finally be stepping out from her Diamond sister’s shadow…

“Damn Bridgertons. They’re all she ever writes about, and the Featheringtons, and all those however else associated.”

“Would you rather Lady Whistledown write about you, Alex, and your escapades?”

“I did not say that. When did I say that?”

… But for others, the fervour of this day only sends the gossip mill into a feeding frenzy. For it seems that this season, moreso than any other, it is the gentlemen of the ton which invite scrutiny; particularly the likes of the noble Lords Albon, Russell, and Leclerc, who have once again failed to be seen courting any eligibles of the ton, and are well on their ways to becoming a trio of ‘Capital-R Rakes.’

“Bollocks.”

Lando bursts out laughing. He’s met with three identical, loathing stares from his best friends, all trussed up in their frilly cravats and long coats and beaver hats. In Lando’s humble opinion, they look rather silly ‒ though, he’d never say it. They all have such odd ideas about clothing, as they do with housing ‒ George’s bachelor apartment is lavishly decorated, velvet lining almost every available surface. He wipes a non-existent tear from his eye, just to piss them off. “’Capital-R Rakes?’ Blimey, better get a move on, then. No worse fate than a fucking Capital-R Rake.”

It makes George roll his eyes. “Not all of us are content with bachelorhood, Lando. Some of us wish to appease our fathers.”

“Or our mamas,” Charles mutters. “Though it seems impossible.”

Scoffing derisively, Lando pushes himself up to a seated position from where he was lying on the chaise lounge, whipping the Whistledown article from Alex’s hands. “How very noble of you all.” His teeth clench, and he averts his gaze from them all, where they stare at him with a sort of tired pity that makes his bones itch. He lifts the page up, half-obscuring his face as he pretends to read it, not perceiving any of the writing at all.

There’s an awkward silence, in which Charles gives Alex and George a significant look, and in response Alex elbows George, who sighs. He sits next to Lando, where his feet had just rested. Puts a hand up, as if to rest on Lando’s shoulder, then thinks better of it and settles it on the back of the lounge, running a finger along the ornate mahogany frame. “Do not brood.”

“I am not brooding.”

George pokes him. “You are. You know we didn't mean anything by it. Besides, I do believe Charles’ mama frets about our marital statuses well enough to have more than enough spare for you.”

Against his better judgement, Lando cracks a smile, lightly shoving George away. “Fine, fine. I’m alright. George, keep reading this.” He pushes the page into his hands, lying back and throwing his legs over George’s thighs and resting his arms over his head. George, who has had to endure Lando’s dramatics and quick changes in temperament since they were children, just rolls his eyes.

Despite the misadventure of our most well-known Lords, it must be said, dear reader, that the polite society of the ton shall be graced with the presence of one who will be certain to turn every shrewd mama’s head: His Highness Oscar Piastri, Crown Prince of England.

Charles moans. “Oh, we are ruined. How are we going to compete in the marriage market with a prince?” Charles’ mother, as George had said, is becoming increasingly worried about his marriage prospects, despite the fact that he’s only in his twenties and a Duke, for God’s sake, and — and this part, in Lando’s mind, is the significantly more important factor — gorgeous enough that any of the eligibles would be chomping at the bit to have him court them. Not that Lando would ever let Charles hear him say that ‒ his head’s already far too big. If he knew that he’s been considered one of the most eligible bachelors of every season since he went on the marriage market, it would grow too heavy for his neck and he’d never be able to stand up.

Despite this, Lando feels a little sorry for him. He puts far too much pressure on himself. Lando pats him on the shoulder, smirking. “He can only take one spouse, Charles. I’m sure the rest of the eligibles would be content to settle for the likes of yourself… eventually.”

In return for his awfully kind and generous words, Charles grabs the Whistledown article and whaps him over the back of the head with it, as if he were an irritating insect instead of someone who’s seen Charles fall out of a tree trying to impress Alex’s pretty nanny when they were children. “You are rude and I do not know why we continue to spend time with you.”

“Because I buy you beer and lose at cards.”

“Your two only favourable traits.”

The Crown Prince has been the subject of all the conversation in society since the confirmation of his return to England from the perilous frontier of New Holland ‒ or as radical explorers of the New Age refer to the mysterious continent, the vast new colony of Australia. What he has been doing amid the penal colonies and military operations during his long expedition is unclear; certainly, his escapades are a topic which many a debutante will be sure to delve into in the battle that shall come, as the Prince’s favour is fought for.

Lando thinks about that. It is quite insane, really, that the King allowed his Crown Prince — his only son — to sail away across the globe to a new, faraway, tiny little colony full of the Empire’s criminals, utterly defenceless and all alone, with only a few military bases to house him. He wonders if the King simply did not care for his son. Or if his son wished too desperately to be away from all the pomp and pride of England’s society. Lando’s heard it said that Australia is vast, vaster even than the British Isles, full of life and animals completely different to those seen promenading the streets of Mayfair. “Why’s he decided to come back, then?”

Alex shrugs. “Perhaps he was lonely.”

“Perhaps his father became tired of him wasting his time in a colony a million miles from England, and called him home for supper,” George shoots back, before returning to the article.

The Prince is due to make his first appearance within society within the coming week, at the delightful annual occasion hosted by Lady Danbury ‒ the first ball of the season. Mamas, ensure your children are well prepared in their speeches and talents, for this author hears that the Crown Prince, though most entirely the Incomparable bachelor of the season, has, in fact, very little desire to marry ‒ nor, by many an account, to court at all.

That makes Lando roll his eyes a bit. Of course the Crown Prince of England has no desire to court ‒ to have mamas and eligibles fawning over him and pawing at his lapels for a chance to be next in line for the consort’s throne. Lando can only imagine the type of person to skirt his responsibilities to the throne to adventure the frontiers of the Empire ‒ self-interested, dull, puffed-up and vain. He’s convinced himself, then, that His Highness, the Crown Prince Oscar must be terribly arrogant.

“Ha!” George crows, righetous anger colouring his voice. “Simply because he is a Prince, he is afforded every excuse known to man ‒ no, the Crown Prince of England could never be considered a Capital-R Rake!”

“Well, yes, George, that would be because he’s the Crown Prince of England.”

“You know what I mean, Alex.” George shoots him a glare. “It seems that Piastri is the only person Whistledown refuses to name a rake. Apart from Lando, of course.”

It’s quite amazing, Lando thinks, how long George can hold a grudge. “I don’t think I pass across Lady Whistledown’s mind enough for her to even consider calling me names in her writing,” he replies tersely. “Same as she never talks about your cooks. Or your servants. Or your nannies ‒”

Sidling down beside him on the lounge which is absolutely not made to seat three people at once, Charles throws an arm over his shoulder. “Ah, but Lando, you are terrible at cooking, and you have never once had the indignity to serve us, and on account of the fact that you seem to have been raised in a barn, rather than Lord Rosberg’s countryside manor ‒”

“Charles‒”

“‒ I would not ever call you a nanny.” Charles grins at him. “Perhaps you are just more noble than us all, after all.”

A challenge, then, to all eligibles of the season; for charming Prince Piastri seems to have become the most fruitful task of all… and the most Herculean.

[remotewatch]

#thinking about cucking jack

I fear I cannot think of any man I’d be willing to let touch me to indulge in this fantasy + fucking another woman in front of him is basically doing charity work HOWEVER I’m a big big fan of the mental image of him in the cuck chair in his stupid little capris

[mumbos-waffle]

My best bit is whispering "the voices" and "the demons", my friends and family think I do this randomly, but really I do it whenever I think about my hyperfixation. meaning I do it pretty often. Multiple times a day I whisper to myself about the voices. Sometimes I forget to stop doing it in public, strangers don't know its a bit.

[planetkiimchi]

loml ♡

[babygirlgiles]

I understand that the person who obviously used chatgpt to comment on my fic probably had their heart in the right place but I genuinely would’ve preferred that they didn’t comment at all. I’ve gotten such a wide variety of comments over the years, from fully fleshed out essays that hit the character limit to wordless key smashes to “beautiful! Thanks for sharing!”. I’ve gotten heart emojis and comments in foreign languages and comments that apologize for not being eloquent or well thought out or any other variation on the theme of “not good enough” because English wasn’t their first language or because they were running late for work or because they’d stayed up until 3am finishing it. And every single time I’ve felt grateful someone took the time to read my work and type a heart emoji into that comment box and press post.

I understand why it’s intimidating to tell someone how much you love their art. I understand why that would feel vulnerable. But I was just vulnerable for 10,000 words so you could read this story. And you can’t be vulnerable long enough to tell me you liked it without using a plagiarism bot?

[onthepyre]

March 21, 2014 - the proposal

"You have five dollars?"

The payphone dims Svetlana's voice, crackles it, but the worry comes through loud and clear. It sets Mickey on edge.

"Yeah, I've got five bucks. Fuck you need it for?"

"I am at store on Halstead. Who are you with?"

"I - fuck, Svet, what the hell are you talking about?" Mickey stands as he speaks, picks up a crumpled ten from the coffee table and balls it tighter in his fist. "I'm home alone. What the fuck is going on?"

"Come here and I tell you."

Click, dial tone.

He finds her outside the shop, leaning against the brick wall. He drops the cash in her hand and catches her wrist as she turns away, insistent but gentle. She shakes him off.

Svetlana's in and out of the store as quickly as she can be, emerging with a paper bag and her jaw clenched. She nods at Mickey as she passes him, and helpless, he follows her back in the direction of home.

"My period is a week late," she says through gritted teeth.

"Shit," Mickey answers.

"Maybe it is nothing. But I worry."

They walk back in silence, her heels clicking against the concrete. It's stiflingly quiet for the endless five minutes she spends in the bathroom. Svetlana breaks it with long string of angry Russian, which Mickey assumes must be curses. He's in the bathroom in seconds, parking himself on the edge of the tub, next to the toilet where she sits with her head in her hands.

"I cannot take care of baby," she says, and her voice is shaking, thin.

"Hey, we'll work this out," Mickey tells her, though he's not sure where he's going with it. "What do you need? Crib, clothes, toys? Abortion? Dad keeps most of what we make, but I have cash, and anything in this house would go for a hundred or more at a pawn shop. How much?"

"No, you do not understand," she answers, turning her eyes up to the ceiling, squeezing them shut tight. "I am illegal immigrant. I have no money, no house, no real job, no husband. It is not a good place for baby."

And fuck, Mickey's heart might break.

"We can deal with that," he tells her.

"Bullshit. How will we deal with it? You marry me?"

Finally, Svetlana looks him in the face. Her eyes are glassy, her brow furrowed; judging by the burn in his throat, Mickey will soon look the same.

"Why not?"

"Not funny, Mishka," she says. The first tear falls, but she's quick to wipe it away.

"No, I mean it. It's not a bad idea - you can live here, work with me instead, keep books or something, I don't fucking know. It's not like we'd have to start banging or whatever. You and the baby would have a place to sleep, at least, and family to fall back on."

A hint of a smile cracks Svetlana's face. Mickey keeps talking.

"It would keep Dad's nose out of my personal business for once in his goddamn life. You could keep seeing what's-her-face if you want to, or whoever. Nothing has to change about that. I mean, shit, Svet." His breath catches, but he forces calm; one long, slow breath. "If I was gonna marry a woman, it'd be you."

"You mean that?"

"Of course I fuckin' mean it."

[rigginsstreet]

1 and 9

How many fics have you worked on since January?

psh ummmm i wouldnt even know how to count it lmao i cant even go by what i posted on ao3 cuz i posted fics this year that i wrote and posted on tumblr before this year and then i have ficlets on here i havent posted to ao3 so who knows really. then theres stuff in my google docs i havent finished

9. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

rimming, ghost hunting, and benny's burgers because i cranked it out real quick so there was no time to be unhappy, as i am with any other proper fic i write lmao

[ghostbusterscantcatchme]

I’ve never been proud of my writing, only ever seen the mistakes, but realising i’ve gone from being in tears about struggling to write in high school to being praised for my writing means so much to me. It’s not gotten easier to write but it has become more worth the efffort

[gothsuguru]

getting an iced pumpkin chai in the morning and then my personal goal is to spend the whole day writing and i hope i can come back to this post tomorrow and rb w how much progress i’ve made!!!

[finifugue]

Back on the landoscar grind. Newest fic idea to grip my soul and shake until words come out is an apocalypse AU - SHUT UP !!! I CAN SEE YOU LAUGHING AT ME !!! "oh ao3 user finifugue writing an overcomplicated weird postapocalyptic landoscar AU? fork found in kitchen" QUIET! I AM A ONE TRICK PONY AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY !!!

Anyway. Y'all know that one tumblr post from way back when talking about a story where every single apocalypse is happening all at the same time? Basically that, and all the drivers - or, like, most of the drivers - are from different apocalypses. So like, Oscar's living his Mad Max cowboy nightmares while Lando's living his Fallout nuclear aftermath nightmares. They kiss about it.

There are also dinosaurs? idk how that happened. Lewis is one of them. Jk he's only like 55 in this fic and everyone else is old too. Writing about dirty depressed bitter old twink death bear rebirth landoscar>>>>>

[quietwingsinthesky]

unfortunately i unironically enjoy stupid my little pony horror stories why am i like this

[chaoticnerdsstuff]

[lifeisabitch-butimcute]

writing in uncharted territory this week