#typewriter asks

[typewriteringalaxy]

How about egg, hand, or lovely

there's egg and hand(s) in my WIP as fire loves innocence ! (which still needs more time to cook)

"Saw the wood elf by Rooba's today," Rye says and drops the bag of flour with a huff. "We'll get fresh meat, at least."

Peeta keeps his eyes on his bowl, trying not to react. The egg he had to split cracks unevenly, shell shards sinking in the batter.

He thinks of her hands tight around an otherworldly bow, the tip of her arrow aimed at his heart. And yet, it's not entirely fear that makes his heart race at the memory.

thank you for the ask and for coming up with this tag game!

[madameriasims4]

Hope your day is going well. I just wanted to ask if your off-the-grid typewriter was compatible with the current update.

As far as I know, the typewriter still works with the current update (and by that I mean that nobody has reached out to let me know that it's broken).

Between moving to a new apartment and having my C: drive fail on me, it took a lot longer for me to get my computer up and running, and by that point I had to spend a lot of time going through the broken/updated mods/cc lists that had accumulated.* Honestly I was starting to develop some anxiety about returning to making cc after spending that much time away, and I sort of avoided even launching the game for a while.

All that is to say that while I haven't specifically tested the typewriter since all the updates, it shouldn't break your game or anything. I am aware that it moves with the "mouse" animation, so I plan on updating it to fix that, and I will be re-testing everything else at the same time. I wish I could be more precise about when that will be, but just thinking about that typewriter still makes me anxious. I don't know how modders keep all their content up-to-date.

*Huge kudos to @luthsthings for creating and maintaining a thread every time there's an update. She does so much work for the community and it's such a thankless job. Please consider sending her some appreciation on her patreon.

[cupofsharks]

Draw Med annoying Misha while Misha is trying to write a story on his typewriter

He only wants ONE (1) surgery! And then maybe a second just for good measure.

[finalgirljesus]

[cvntroach5000]

Underneath it all, we're just savages

author's note: i dont know what the fuck is happening in the trailer, but thats okay. i have ideas and those ideas dont need this context, they just need to entertain me and i hope they can entertain you as well. nexos is not the actual name of the place and i dont like the codenames used for the lis in the event, so ill just be making shit up. do not take anything i say at face value, this is a self-indulgent space. also this is more of a preview than a whole fic, so please send feedback if you'd be interested to read more!

based on the new tommorows catch-22 trailer, written with the event outfit in mind, no use of y/n, reader has the command evol, if you feel like im referencing something no you do not

i think command evol reader is going to become a recurring thing on this blog, so stay tuned for more of that ig

pairing: sylus x reader (implied LaDS men x reader)

content warning: imprisonment, power imbalance, mind control, depiction of fictional mental ailments, descriptions of bodily discomfort

Becoming head warden of the Nexos Prison was not something you did out of ambition. It wasn't some kind of dream-come-true, a job and position you yearned to seize. It didn't make you feel fulfilled, it didn't bring you happiness nor satisfaction. It did ensure you had a roof over your head and food to fill your stomach, basic needs you suppose you were grateful to have taken care of.

But the reason you were here, overseeing the most dangerous wards and the most rabid prisoners was because they were yours. Madness tried to take them from you, so you followed them to the place where insanity rules to reclaim them. Once you'd succeeded, you'd leave this wretched place and take your prizes with you.

Six wards, six sectors in each. The sixth sector of every ward was your territory. Unless explicitly asked, other wardens steered clear of those places. Not that they were forbidden entry, but rather it was wise of them to stay away if they valued their lives. In each sixth sector was a lion's den, containing a single ferocious beast. People infected with insanity, distorted into abominations in body and mind.

You don't work on Sundays. This is a prison, not Hell, even if the lines seem to blur sometimes. The remaining six days, you make rounds through the wards, interrogating the predators residing in your sectors. As the number goes up, so does the level of contamination. The first one is quite sound of mind, even if his body acts out. The sixth one is wholly feral, lashing out physically and verbally, itching to tear everything near him to shreds. But it's okay, it's not like you play favorites with your charges. They are all precious in their own ways and working with them gives you purpose. The only gratification from this cursed fucking job.

Today, you're going to the Sixth Ward.

...Perhaps you do play favorites, after all.

The prison is a labyrinth, massive and intricate. Everything is made with enforced steel from Deepspace. It's cold and harsh, giving the place as little comforting energy as possible. You swear, if those who are sent here were not mad already, they'd be driven mad by the dreadful atmosphere. Nobody gives a shit to put up some pastel colored wallpaper or even a little photo of a sloth that says 'Hang in there'. Though natural light is scarce in the desolate wasteland beyond the prison gates, Nexos goes above and beyond to snuff it out and enshroud the whole facility in complete darkness. Some hallways are lit so poorly, the staff carry around lanterns to be able to navigate through them.

It only takes two hours of elavator rides, weaving through the dark halls and passing through security to arrive at your destination of the day. You climbed the chain of command so fervently when you first arrived here. You used to be nervous and unsure, worried you might mess up at your tasks. Anxious and insecure, struggling to communicate with the other staff. Now you barely notice the guards cowering and scattering as you pass by. You don't even feel a rush of adrenaline as you finally make your way to the gate to the Sixth Sector.

As the doors slide open, a long corridor comes into view. Even from the entrance you can feel the stiffling energy crackling from the cell at the end of the hallway. It's disorganised and weak, as if the air itself is calling out for help. You let slow, long steps guide you down this path you've walked hundreds of times before.

There he is.

You catch a glimpse of the shock of white hair in the darkness, an imposing figure leaning against the jailbars. Even sitting down and slouching, his hulking body looks massive. He doesn't react to the sound of your footsteps. You've made no effort to conceal your presence, yet he doesn't seem to notice you up until you are directly behind him.

His hand slams into the bars, snapping back in a sudden burst of instinct. He almost seems surprised to see you—he really didn't register your presence until now. Still, he lets out a low, breathy laugh. You can see his fangs gleaming in the faint light as he grins mischievously. His gaze seems shrouded by a dark cloud, pupils practically gleaming as they erractically scan over you.

"Well, hello there, dear supervisor. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" There's bite to his tone, yet he doesn't sound entirely sarcastic either.

You adjust your gloves and review the toolbox you have prepared outside his containment cell.

"Hello. I'm here for your routine interrogation." You announce robotically, as per protocol, "Do you know who I am?"

The prisoner exhales through his nose as though offended by your question. But he takes a moment to observe your face before slowly admitting,

"No. Should I?"

The furrow of his brow softens and he seems to genuinely rack his brain for an answer. He means to tease you, imply you're a nobody that he'd have no way of knowing. And yet he studies you carefully, searching your uniform for some kind of identifier; a name tag, ideally. Though there seems to be a thin metal plate over your right breast, he doesn't spy any words engraved in it.

"Noted." You finish preparing your tool box, setting it just outside the door of the cell.

"I will now be entering your cell. Stand in the middle of the room and raise your arms, please." You instruct him.

He snaps his teeth at you in defiance, but complies, positioning himself as you asked. A special set of chains snakes down from the ceiling, coiling around his wrists and pulling him upwards. He hisses as the links in the chain bite into his skin and he is hoisted high enough that even with his height, he's forced to stand up on his tip-toes.

You lift your hand up to the scanner on the door, activating the security lock. After authorising your identity through the biometric scanner, the bars of the door slide to the side. You leave your toolbox outside for now, slowly entering the beast's cage.

It is dreadfully barren, a single chair stationed in the corner and a pathetic, thin little mattress lying directly on the cold floor. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else that could be provided to predators of his level. They were so stripped of their senses, they barely registered the discomfort they lived in. Always pacing around like starving lions, they were restless. They didn't sleep, they simply collapsed from exhausion once the contamination couldn't force them to stay alert anymore. And they recovered fast, prowling in their cells again as soon as an hour later.

You hum in acknowledgement, stepping forward to inspect your charge. There's a few fresh bruises on him, some a ghoulish shade of purple. A couple of small scratches and one open cut. You suspect he'll heal up soon and create more wounds to replace the old ones. None of them ever had the same injuries two visits in a row. Still, this was a pretty tame entry on his record.

After circling around him, you are quite satisfied with your findings. You look at his face to find him staring back at you, analysing you with intensity to match yours. His eyes trail over the items lined at your belt; a whip, a pistol and a baton. You take the whip from its strap, caressing the leather as you do.

"Heh, I see you came here to play. Plan on beating the disobedience out of me?" He taunts you, but the crazed look in his eye tells you he's almost excited by the prospect.

You huff increduously, "My weapons are tools of self-defense."

He lets out a humorless laugh, "There is no such thing as a weapon for self-defense, sweetie. Weapons are always made with the intent to hurt, to maim. You cannot enforce peace."

You swiftly crack the whip, using it to seize the chair in the corner by one of its legs. You pull it towards yourself, halting its acceleration with your foot. You turn it to face the prisoner and sit down, crossing your legs. You like putting on little shows like this for him. They are wholly eccentric and unnecessary, but often, they help loosening a stuck cog in his brain. Something to work with later on, as you continue your routine interrogation.

"You know, you used to tell me that your body is a weapon. What about your body then? Does it, too, only know to hurt and to maim?"

He seems a little taken aback, but shakes it off quickly. He snarls, gnashing his teeth at you like a wild beast.

You sigh. You snap your fingers and the chains holding him up to the ceiling clatter to the ground. He grunts in surprise as his heels touch the ground. He rubs his sore wrists, red eyes raking over you in intrigue.

"Aren't you arrogant, letting your prey loose like that." He scoffs.

He's trying to figure out if you're stupid or if you've got an ace up your sleeve.

"Sylus."

His ears perk up at the sound of his name, so foreign yet so familiar. Nowadays, it means nothing to him. He can't even recall it himself. And yet, your voice and that name resonate with a primal part of his soul, buried under the layers of madness and contamination.

"Who—"

"Sit."

His brain barely registers the command before his body acts on it. His knees give out and he falls to the ground. It's like his nerves are on fire. More than a prisoner of this cell, he now feels imprisoned in his own body. Like a spirit, tethered to a hollow, useless shell. He can barely form thoughts as his entire being responds only to you and your instruction.

"What... Did you..."

"It's my Evol. Everyone obeys me, whether they want to or not. You are no exception."

Sylus's mind is racing a million miles per minute, yet it feels completely standstill at the same time. He's trying to comprehend this power, gauge its limits, figure out its weaknesses. Pinpoint the loophole he can exploit to escape your grasp. Through the haze over his mind, he registers how your eyes have a knowing glint in them. Like you know exactly what he's thinking, like he's an open book to you.

Can you—

"I cannot read minds, no." You clarify before he can even attempt to voice the question.

He notices the whip is gone from your hands. Instead, you play with the baton, inspecting it as you ponder your prey.

"You must be thinking 'There has to be a weakness I can use to break free'. You always loved testing the limits of my ability."

You're answering his questions, yet your words leave him more confused than before. Always? When did he ever see you use your Evol? When has he strategised with it in mind?

A sensation like an electric current runs violently through his body, making his brain tingle as though it's going to pop. It hurts to think, yet he can almost taste all the answers he seeks. They are like blood on his tongue, reeking of iron.

He strains his neck to look you in the eyes.

Your gaze is so empty, as though you are looking through him. Miles into the distance at versions of him he can't recall.

"What if I told you..."

There's a buzzing in his ears, growing louder by the second.

"That we've had this exact conversation hundreds of times before?"

The buzzing halts to a complete silence. And the prisoner slumps to the floor, unconscious.

You stare at his limp body for a moment. Then, you get out of your chair and pull up your notepad.

Another failure.

Tommorow, you're circling back to the first ward. Let's see if there's going to be any progress there.

As you fill out your report, you hear the faint sound of wind rushing through the corridor. Of course, there is no wind in Nexos Prison. Cawing echoes through the cramped space and a single mechanical crow flies into the open jail cell.

Mephisto perches on your shoulder, peering at the tablet in your hands. Then, his eyes shift over to the unconscious, white-haired man on the floor. He lets out a soft caw, flicking his metal wings. Absentmindedly, you reach up to scritch his head, even if the robotic bird can't really feel anything, only simulate the joy of being pet.

"Don't worry, Mephie. He'll return to us."

[taw-k]

Hc: Loki's Nordic runes are really good, he writes them like they're stamped on, but his English is the most incomprehensible ancient calligraphy you've ever seen and his math is even worse.

He writes like this

And his math looks like this

He insists it's completely normal and entirely readable.

[good-wine-and-cheese]

Lo-fi Kazuya to scream and die to

[ducktracy]

Are you familiar with Hundreds Of Beavers? It's the best Looney Tunes movie that isn't a Looney Tunes movie, and it's even free on Youtube if you'd like to watch it!

THANKS TO THIS ASK I CAN NOW SAY I'VE SEEN IT! just streamed it with friends and had a good time :) i've had maybe 10 other people recommend it to me? including friends of relatives, so it's about time i watched it!

I HAD A GOOD TIME WATCHING WITH FRIENDS........... but i wish i could've liked it a bit more than i ended up doing :') i'm so stumped on this! i just wrote a Letterboxd review sort of pondering this over, which i recommend reading for more elucidated thoughts:

it has all the ingredients for something i should love, especially since i gobble up the most banal slapstick and awful puns and sight gags imaginable. i love stupid for stupid's sake. but i kept getting a recurring feeling of "i'd just rather be watching a LT short/Laurel and Hardy short/Chaplin short/Frank Tashlin film" instead. the technical prowess and love poured into this thing is 10000/10000, 5/5 stars, absolutely impeccable and we genuinely need more stupid stuff like this. but the humor was just too "millenial" for me and feels more like a late 00s era YouTube skit, i didn't like how repetitious some of the jokes were, wasn't a fan of the Indigenous stereotypes in the good year of our lord 2022 2025...

in short, my thoughts can be summed up as this (though i don't exactly feel it's the filmmakers who are wrong at all. i sincerely congratulate them for their hard work, it's genuinely moving!!)

[fedoraspooky]

I'm curious, what were the events that led to Jabber draining a toon in front of others? Since he's trying not to draw attention to himself and all.

He didn't! When i mentioned the other players' reactions were priceless, I was talking about the other players and not their characters. XD

You see, while working at Googie's Diner, Jabber had sorta befriended a mouse npc named Scrabbles. They were occasional co-conspirators for causing mischief and snagging free food from said diner, stuff like that. It didn't quite scratch the same itch as getting into trouble with his sibs, but it was better than nothing. Jabber was chatty about almost everything imaginable but he barely ever talked about his personal life, and was certainly not the open book that Scrabbles was, but they were pals at the very least- probably the closest Jabber's had to having a friend.

Since Jabber was fading pretty badly at the start of the game, Scrabbles offered to try and find a way to help him out in exchange for free fries. Said he had friends that could sneak them onto sets just to get a little bit of screen time. Jabber knew it wouldn't be enough to help him- he and his sibs used to sneak onto sets all the time in the early days... But he kept his trap shut and accepted anyway, it would be easier than trying to explain and opening up that whole can of worms. Scrabbles never even knew he had siblings.

At this point in the game, I should add, the other players didn't know who he was an expy of yet, just that he was one. The only things they knew about Jabber at that point were the description I gave of him at the start of the game, how he acted, whatever sparse few things about himself he WAS willing to talk about with Scrabbles and Muddy, and some out of character clues I dropped here and there when we were figuring out character relationships and what the other player characters might already know about him.

As the plot progressed, another player character Kay T.K. (our resident Sesame-Street-esque puppet gal who's show was about making fun crafts AND making friends!) had managed to track down Jabber because she remembered how easily he had snuck into her set during filming once, ages ago... And she needed his help to get a magical artifact that could solve a big problem she was dealing with (her show got bought out by schlock horror studio Buzzsaw Studios and they were reviving her as a mascot horror monster, but she didn't want to keep living in the twisted, scary form they'd given her and just wanted to be her old self again). What's the artifact? Something extremely powerful, that was mostly seen as a myth akin to the Holy Grail...

The Typewriter that writes The Script. Of reality itself.

And somehow, this powerful godly artifact ended up in the hands of Buzzsaw Studios, up at the very tippy top floor under lock and key. Kay T.K. needed someone who could slip past the guards and help her get to it so she could write herself back to normal. And well, if anyone's capable of slipping past security guards and defenses, it'd probably be this toon kid who's been doing it since the 1930s!

Jabber wholeheartedly agreed to help her out, but primarily because he wanted to get his hands on that Typewriter for himself.

If reviving his sibs would take a miracle, then well... He would Take a miracle!

Problem was, he was getting too faded to be of much use. His abilities were severely weakened and at the rate he was going, he'd be gone before their planned heist even started. He needed his strength back, and most importantly he needed to buy himself some more time...

So he got Scrabbles those fries.

Met up with him in the alley outside the diner at night, when everyone had left, and... As Scrabbles snacked happily on them, Jabber thanked him for being such a good friend and, shockingly, finally opened up to him. Told him about his sibs. Told him about how they were created to be zany, but were too much so for the studio's liking. How they were locked away for so long, left to fade away...

But it was all going to be okay now. Because he found a way to fix everything.

And that's when he opened up his jaws, now lined with sharp teeth, and chomped down on him.

SO THERE YOU HAVE IT, THAT WAS THE LOVELY CLIFFHANGER I LEFT MY FRIENDS WITH FOR THE END OF PART 1. Like I said, their reactions? Priceless. XD

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

my friend! Can we have a little taste of what Charlie and Kayne’s first meeting is like in the prison pits!! Does he know Kayne sent Lorick to him!

Gray darling you spoil me <3 This has actually been an interaction ive been wanting to write for ages so you’ve ended up with about 800ish words of divine punishment, enjoy!

Everything was cold in the prison pits. Moisture hung in the air and clung to both the walls and the mortals clothing, soaking the world in a fine layer of damp. 

Huddled in the closest thing a mostly round pit had to a corner, the man formerly known as Charlie Dowd listened half delirious to the sound of footsteps.

The mortal may have been crazy sure, it had been a while since his food supply had run out (sadly there was only so long a corpse would keep for without rotting within such damp conditions) and the hunger had once again been beginning to affect his mind, but madness or not he knew that there shouldn’t be that many steps above him.

In the dreamlands time was weird, and down here in the pits it was pretty much non existent, but the few guards that traipsed along the walkways above him took far longer to make their rounds than whatever was seemingly pacing above him. 

There was nothing he could do to decipher this particular mystery without calling up to the walkways and he really didnt want to draw anymore attention to himself. However, it was something to focus on, something to lessen the boredom between moments of pure terror the man in the pits called his life. He shifted in and out of consciousness jutting his back into the frigid walls in an effort to stay aware of potential dangers and failing. An indeterminable amount of time passed in the blink of an eye, and at some point between time maybe or maybe not passing there was the feeling of all the air in the room disappearing and very suddenly reappearing alongside the sound of feet hitting packed, blood-soaked dirt.

The mortal awoke instantly. Every fibre of his body screaming at being catapulted out of their lethargy as he reached to his side for the knife he’d fashioned from a sharpened thigh bone and wrapped in yellow fabric.

“I wouldn’t bother with that if I were you!” a singsong voice chirped from the centre of the pit. 

Somewhere within the prisoner a man awoke with a memory. The recollection of Charlie Dowd scrambled for a face to pin to the voice but came back empty handed, nevertheless he recognised the sound and if Charlie recognised something that could only mean one thing. He wasn’t bored of him just yet. 

“What do you want King” The mortal drawled, false boredom plastered over his words in a feeble attempt to smother the small, shaking creature that had burrowed its way into his chest and taken root in his heart.

“Hmmm…” the King mused before walking over and taking his chin in His slender hand. Sharp nails dug into his neck as his head was tilted upwards to look at the speaker. 

“No, I’m afraid not Jailbird.” Came the smug response as Charlie’s gaze was forced to meet eyes as red as the embers of a dying star, swirling with the dust of a thousand nebulae shifting and condensing into flame amid the endless chaos between life and death.

There was a certain gravity to those eyes that made Charlie just want to fall further and further in until he became one with the fire.

He knew for certain that whatever the creature standing above him was not the King. The King was cold no matter His form, an enamel glaze over every calculated motion. The creature before him was anything but the steely monolith of The King. Everything about it was unadulterated and raw. It reminded him of salt over wounds, hurting like a bitch but doing something to help (why was he so certain it was gonna help him?) even if it did get a kick out of your pain.

“Now,” it said, whistling through its overly sharp teeth “its about time we get reacquainted, isnt it Mr Dowd?” 

“Reacquainted?” 

The creature held a hand to its chest in mock horror gasping as if rather than an earthen pit, this was polite society and he had just told it to go fuck itself with a chainsaw.

“Why, I know it wasnt around for veeery long but I always thought of myself as unforgettable but here you are…forgetting me! Im sorry pretty boy but its very difficult to murder every other version of oneself and have time to drop in and chat to interesting men who steal stones.” 

It was at this moment that Charlies mind helpfully realised that the creature was in-fact covered in blood, its crimson suit drying a crusted black in places. He opened his mouth to say something, anything really in response, but the entity shushed him by placing its blood stained finger to his lips before continuing:

“Ok,ok, okokokokok, I did mean to check up on you, I cant have such a helpful little mortal steal away my stone right from under my nose without meeting them properly can I? You just happened to get pushed to the bottom of the pile. Im a busy guy, you cant blame me surely?”

Charlie wasnt listening anymore, he remembered the voice. There was a reason it had no face to be associated with. Egypt. The crypt. This was the disembodied voice that had followed and mocked him as he ran stone in hand through not so abandoned catacombs beneath the black pyramid.

 “-but old Hastur had his hands, wee-ell tentacles really, on you by then which threw a wrench in my plans. Its been just so damned difficult trying to track you down, but now, here you are! Tell you what, to get into your good graces, I’ll even pull a few strings and get you out of here in return for a favour down the line, hows that sound?” 

It sounded pretty fucking dodgy to Charlie but what other choice did he have? It was either owe some powerful stranger or suffer at the hands of the King and boy Charlie Dowd was not going spend any time longer at the mercy of that yellow prick.

“Id say you’ve got yourself a deal”

Charlie grinned at the thought of finally being free and the entity joined him, its face warping and stretching in bloody euphoria. 

“Wonderful” it whispered as it lent down and placed a tacky red kiss on Charlie’s forehead. 

Once again the static, ozoney feeling of air oozed its way across Charlies nerves, leaving only a grin in the air above him. Which said before laughing like a broken kettle: “And remember, patience is a virtue Jailbird!”

[lyrical-swiftie]

“𝗧͏𝗮͏𝘆͏𝗹͏𝗼͏𝗿͏ 𝗦͏𝘄͏𝗶͏𝗳͏𝘁͏ - …𝗥͏𝗲͏𝗮͏𝗱͏𝘆͏ 𝗙͏𝗼͏𝗿͏ 𝗜͏𝘁͏?”

[typewriteringalaxy]

if dathan was kenobi?

If Dathan Kenobi, son of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Satine Kryze, father of Rey Kenobi, lacking perhaps a strong connection to the Force but not his parents' other traits, if such a character existed, star wars and particularly the sequel trilogy could have been a lot more cohesive: a Kenobi trying to save a Skywalker, and either succeeding or getting corrupted too by the end. Even without Rey in the picture, it would've been nice to see more mentions of Satine (how a whole show set in Mandalore forgets her escapes me). Dathan Kenobi could've been a pilot, a diplomat, a Mandalorian commando, anything.

But unfortunately canon gave us Dathan, failed clone of Darth Sidious, left to live only to continue that raisin's bloodline, and finally father of Rey Palpatine. Thanks, I hate it.

[madameriasims4]

Just wanted to let y'all know that I'm retiring my OTG typewriter!

[Retired] Off-the-Grid Typewriter v.3 (BGC)

January 16, 2024 Edit:

This typewriter is now retired and no longer supported! I haven’t played TS4 in a long time and haven’t kept up with the updates so certain interactions may not function any more.

This typewriter uses custom tuning. For more information on the tuning process, and a more detailed changelog, see this post.

DL link and wall of text regarding interactions after the cut!

Keep reading

[the-writers-wrench]

I could've sworn you already answered this but I can't find the post -- is that your typewriter in your header? And if so, do you use it a lot?

[kingofdorkville]

"from flawed media"

all media is flawed, folks

[stupidlittlespirit]

Hello! I just finished reading the latest chapter of Doctor Doctor, and I am IN LOVE.

I love the angst, the buildup, the scenario, you weave words together AMAZINGLY! You made me fall in love with stanford Pines 🥺💜

Thank you for sharing your fic with the world. I write some fanfics myself but I never post em, kinda scary, but I admire you so much for being so talented!!! I hope to write as well as you. Take care!

Ahh thank you so much, that's really sweet of you! I'm so happy you enjoyed it, and especially that it made you love Ford haha that's my purpose on this earth!

Writing fics just for yourself is nice sometimes. I do it too, I have several that I just haven't published because they're for me and it's very comforting! Don't feel pressured to put anything out, but also don't let fear hold you back <3 This is a lovely community and in my experience people are very kind :)