#I'm still writing it now but I'm book 3

[majorbuckyegan]

not me saving "luck of the draw" by frank murphy for this two week trip, and then spending the entire time writing clegan fic and reading about gauntwood

[yeonban]

Sorry for the static silence on here, I think I might've lost some marbles

[peanutseagle]

just finished reading the hunger games trilogy and when i tell you it changed me

[leos-regression-cove]

I think it says a lot about me as a person now that that the easiest way to make me cry as a child (and still now. I didn't think I'd tear up while writing this lmao) was to imply that the majesties and wonders of childhood and imagination are all a dream that inevitably leaves us as we get older that we can only regain in death and that the vivid inner worlds and personalities we give our toys in our early years either feel abandoned, vengeful, or die entirely as we age.

[thelionheartedo3]

dream sweet of me

summary: Nate Sewell has lived three centuries walking hand in hand with night terrors. The ones he's been facing recently are some of the worst yet.

pairing: Nate Sewell x f!Detective

notes: This takes place during book 3, between the building collapse scene and the game of pool scene!

wc: 2.1k

[read on ao3]

His hands are covered in concrete dust, broken bricks and splintered wood covering the hole that’s sunk into the ground. He digs, and digs, and no matter what, it feels like he’s not getting through.

Ely is down there. She’s down there with the anunnaki and Nate is above ground and not digging hard enough to get to her.

There’s a sound reminiscent of thunder, the same sound that had had him freezing in his tracks when the building fell in the first place. 

Wings crash through the blockade, sending a spray of dust and debris raining down on him. The anunnaki has Ely in his arms, her body battered, blood dripping down from her.

She’s conscious. Her eyes wild with fear as she tries to fight. Nate thinks he shouts her name, lunging, and her hand reaches out, fingers brushing his before he gets a grip on her wrist. 

Her hand is slick. Blood’s running down her arms in rivulets. Nate can’t smell, can’t think, only knows there’s fear coursing through him at the thought of losing her. 

He tries to hang on, but there’s no way to keep steady with the blood, and his fingers slide down.

The fear in her blue eyes is replaced by betrayal, tears running down her cheeks. “Nate—”

He wakes with a gasp, sitting upright, her name on his tongue. His heart races in his chest, pulse thundering, sweat sticking stray curls to his forehead. His fingers are dug so tightly into his duvet it almost rips apart in his hands. 

Nate is no stranger to nightmares.

This is not the first time he’s woken from a dream of her. This is not the first time he’s woken from a nightmare, terrors chasing him into wakefulness as his breath tears from his lungs. 

He cannot even say this is the first time he’s woken from a nightmare involving her, though. Involving him failing her.

His eyes dart around the room, taking stock. Just visible at the end of his bed, ears poke above the frame of the stuffed rabbit toy Ely had given him at the carnival all those months ago.

He exhales, the breath shuddering from him.

He’s in his room. 

He’s in the warehouse. 

He is safe. She is safe. 

Nate’s next exhale comes out less harsh, but no less shaky.

He tries to tell himself to calm down even as he’s pushing himself from the bed to head to the en suite. 

Even with Adam and Morgan out on patrol, Farah is here in the warehouse. If anything had happened, she would’ve woken in an instant to let him and Ely know. 

They’re fine. They’re all fine.

His fingers are trembling as his hand curls around the faucet. 

The water is cold enough that he flinches as he splashes it over his face. A needed system shock. He can barely call what he does a perfunctory wash, but his heart is still pounding and he knows there’s only one thing that can soothe him. 

Nate’s footsteps are silent as he walks through the halls of the warehouse, following the sound of Ely’s heartbeat like it's a siren song, luring him to the depths but instead of dread, all he feels with its steady, guiding rhythm is relief. 

He stops just outside her bedroom door, trying to smother down the sound of his own pulse by listening to what he can hear coming from within. Her heart beating, the slow and steady exhales from her breathing, tell him her dreams are clearly more peaceful than his had been. 

She deserves it, after everything. 

Nate’s eyes close. Burned into the back of his lids is the vivid image of Ely’s face, bruised and bloodied, tears in her eyes as she reached for him, the sound around them only that of giant wings beating in the air.

He tries to shove the image away with little success, squeezing his eyes tighter.

He’s grateful, at least, that he did not wake up shouting. Farah would’ve been banging down his door before he’d have been able to fully process dream from reality.

He just hopes Farah’s rest is as peaceful as Ely’s.

With a soft sigh, Nate leans his forehead against her door, soaking in the almost-quiet of the night as he just listens.

As hard as he tries, though, it’s not enough to rid his mind of the image of Ely being ripped away from him.

He wants to see her. He needs to see her. All of his hypersenses can tell him she’s fine, but without seeing her—

He lifts his hand, not stepping away from where he’s still pressed to the door. One light knock, he tells himself. If it doesn’t wake her—(a good thing, the sensible part of his brain states)—he’ll just head to the kitchen. He’ll make himself a cup of tea and try to think of anything other than Ely being hunted down every second they’re—

It feels like he physically has to stop that train of thought. 

His fingers curl against his palm, digging in, and he raps his knuckles on the door. Just the once.

There’s a moment where Ely’s breathing shifts. For a heartbeat, he thinks she’ll resettle, but after another pause, he hears shuffling. There’s the sound of fabric rustling as blankets get pushed aside, a dull clink on the wood of her nightstand—checking the time, he thinks. Far too early, he knows. It doesn’t take long before her footsteps pad towards the door and Nate only steps away from it when the knob starts to turn. 

Nate’s seen Ely in her pyjamas before. She’s in an oversized tee tonight, the edges of bandages poking out from under the sleeves, the hem falling down her thighs just barely showcasing the shorts she’s wearing. There’s something about the tint to her cheeks, the heavy set of her eyelids as her slow blinks bring her eyes up to his that makes his chest ache.

She’s breathing. Safe. Alive.

And as exhausted as they are.

Guilt starts to prickle past the relief that courses through him, and he leans forward, hand reaching up to cup her cheek before a furrow can form on her brows.

“Ya rouhi,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from sleep.

Ely leans into his touch, warmth bleeding into him from her cheek, sighing a soft breath. Her eyes flutter close briefly before she blinks up at him.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says—not knowing if it’s truly a lie now or not—and he moves his hand to trail down her shoulder before he steps close, wrapping her up in his arms. “I just wanted to see you, is all.”

She settles into his embrace easily, arms winding loosely around his waist as she nuzzles against his chest. Just the feeling of her in his arms helps him feel stable again. She’s safe, and warm, and here, with him. Any flurries of anxiety vanish at her touch, any lingering worries are gone in this moment.

Nate doesn’t think he’s ever been able to feel so steady just by one person’s touch.

Three hundred years, and he’s never felt so at home as he does when he’s with her.

Ely hums softly, a questioning noise that rumbles against his chest where she’s buried her face.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” he says—and he means it this time. His heart’s calmed, and he loosens his grasp so she can peer up at him. 

She’d be upset with him calling her adorable, he thinks, but that’s the only word that seems fitting. Heavy eyes, pink cheeks, hair sleep-mussed and her clothes rumpled. 

He wants to kiss her.

She hums again—for the briefest moment Nate thinks he’s spoken aloud as she presses up onto the tips of her toes to peck a kiss to his cheek. 

“I can stay up with you,” she offers, voice gentle, “if you want to talk about it.”

Nate’s shaking his head before she’s finished. “No, no there’s no need. Truly. I’m sorry for waking you in the first place, I just—” needed to know you’re safe. You’re here. Breathing. With me.

That you still love me.

He’s not often tongue-tied. Not often so afraid to voice his words. But in this moment, he swallows them down, leaving the cut in his sentence as sharp and potent as it is.

Ely either doesn’t mind, or doesn’t notice, nodding along as if he had completed his thought. She slips her hand into his, squeezing gently before she steps back, further into the room.

Nate presses a smile onto his lips. “I should let you get back to sleep.”

His fingers start to go slack; Ely’s hold on tight. She tilts her head as she holds his gaze, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her features, but her blue eyes are as clear as crystals.

“Do you want to stay with me, tonight?”

His breath catches in his throat.

Ely clears her own delicately, a dusty pink blush burning across her face as her lashes dip to her cheeks when she looks down. “I just—I know I sleep better snuggled up to something after a nightmare, and I’m pretty sure you’d wrinkle your nose at me if I offered the shark for you to cuddle with.”

A laugh escapes him, ragged and soft. “Yes. Please.”

She smiles, bright and happy, and takes another step back, tugging Nate forward to match her. She leaves him at the door as he shuts it behind them, heading to her bed and tossing the large stuffed shark atop it towards a chair before plopping herself down, patting the sheets.

Nate can’t help but hurry the few steps it takes to cross the room, lips curled up as Ely all but flops back onto the pillows. She tugs the blankets over them, settling at his side, and Nate slides an arm around her waist, kissing the top of her head.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs, nose nestled in the slope of his neck. 

He exhales a low breath, rustling strands of red curls. “Goodnight, ya rouhi.”

.

Nate wakes from a dreamless slumber to a warm weight on his chest. There’s a moment, as he blinks himself awake, where he’s not certain of what roused him. 

There are no clocks in Ely’s room, so Nate can only hazard a guess at the time, but dawn light isn’t slipping past her curtains’ edges quite yet.

He brings his eyes back from the window to look down at Ely where she’s half atop him, clinging to his shirt with the hand curled on his chest. She’s sleeping soundly, face relaxed, wisps of curls falling around her face. His arms, still wound around her waist, tighten slightly, holding her closer and closing his eyes once more—

That’s when there’s a soft knock on the door.

It matches what woke him in the first place. Ely sleeps on, but just beyond the door, Nate can hear Adam’s familiar heartbeat. 

As carefully and gently as he can, Nate shifts Ely back to the bed. Her hand stays tangled in his shirt, fingers still holding firm. He huffs a soft laugh, gingerly peeling them away, lifting her hand up to press a kiss to her palm before he gets up completely.

Adam looks like he’s just walked in from patrol when Nate swings the door open. He says nothing in greeting, simply raises an eyebrow at him.

“Let me go get dressed,” Nate says, keeping his voice soft. “I’ll be ready in but a moment.”

Adam nods. “We’ll be in the living room.”

He waits until Adam’s halfway down the hall before turning to sweep his eyes over Ely. His fingers tighten on the door as he hesitates, before he turns, stepping back into the room to head towards her desk. 

She has a stack of sticky notes, half buried under scraps of fabric and trimmed off ends of embroidery floss. He finds a pen, taking one of the notes to write out where the rest of the team will be, and promising that breakfast will be ready for her when she wakes. 

He takes the slip of paper and on his way back to the bed, gathers Ely's abandoned stuffed animal into the crook of his arm. He lays it close to her in the warmth his body left behind. Her fingers brush against it in her sleep, and Nate exhales a gentle laugh as she curls herself around it. He smooths her hair away from her forehead to press a kiss to her skin, leaving the note behind on the pillow he used.

Nate makes it to the door before he turns to look back for a final time at Ely. Safe. Sleeping. Not in the hands of those who are hunting her. 

With steps in time with her heartbeat, Nate slips out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. 

[gxlden-angels]

Me trying to comprehend anything from 1 Timothy 5:

[tracing-lines-in-the-infinite]

This is How You Lose The Time War made me bawl. It's gorgeously painful and I am so fucking excited to reread it later. I'm sure I missed so much on my first read through and it can only get better from here.

[astrxealis]

okay rambles but i started creatively writing in like ... 5th grade? and. oh god just a little encouragement to anyone looking to get into writing or insecure or whatnot, but HELLS, maybe it's to he expected with my (obviously) very young age and inexperience with writing then, but my writing was really. yeah. Yeah. but then i'm what... a lot older now, obviously, and my writing has gotten leagues better. i'm probably not a good example for this bcs childhood years development stuff are different etc etc BUT practicing writing more and whatnot really does go a long way :]

[leatherbookmark]

an interesting thing abt jgy antis is like. where is the source of their, shall we say, negative opinion of jgy? like, 1. jgy is a villain, he does horrible things with no remorse, he’s willing to do everything to achieve his selfish, egotistical goals. --> 2. the source of this claim: this, this and this scene. --> 3. alright, but to me -- says someone who’s not an anti -- this reads differently. that he did all those things, and did them on purpose and without remorse, is not that obvious to me. why do you think that? --> 4. well, obviously because he’s a villain and does horrible things with no remorse.

like... he’s evil because he does bad things, and he does bad things because he’s evil. i’m interested in how antis came by those opinions, but a, unfortunately i have them all blocked, and b, even if i or someone else made a poll, it wouldn’t be authentic because no sane anti is going to say “well, people hated him and wrote all those things about him on twt, so i started hating him as well”, or “i only care about wgxn, you could sell me anything about other characters if your arguments were convincing enough because i zoned out during the parts when wgxn weren’t on screen/pages of the book”. it’s all “written in the book/shown in the show” and “logical arguments you’d agree with if only you could read”.

[finna-liveblog]

Did Wes Come back??? I stopped watching htgawm After his death

Oh boo so did I, but luckily for you I've never not been obsessed with my baby Wes Gibbons so I can in fact answer this, only not in a satisfying way ☹️

As far as I can tell, Wes is still dead at the end of the show. A flash forward showed Alfie walking into a room (or sum) and of course everyone freaked out because Wes is back with a new haircut and everything. But as it turns out, this was a misdirect. With more clarification on the scene later on, that was actually Christopher the grown up version of Wes and Laurel's son and he looks exactly like his father.

I never actually watched any of the scenes so I might have some details wrong but that's generally the idea.

I remember being super irritated when I found this out. I had already lost interest in the show for the most part years ago after he died so I wasn't super invested but I was still peeved. It was part of why I stopped watching anyway. Not just because Wes died but because they clearly didn't care about the fans that loved and cared about Wes. I always felt like they prioritized the shock and moment of devastation than the character as well as the people who cared about the character. We followed this character and were invested in him from the start and they just said fuck you and killed him for shock value? That tells me you don't care, and killing a character is my LEAST favorite way of shocking an audience and causing emotion. After seasons of doing it the right ways, this one felt cheap and unnecessary and heartbreaking to those who actually cared about him. Not only did Wes deserve better but the show did too, do that kinda dumb shit in the 100, not here.

And then on top of that, you play with people again by pretend bringing back that very same character, getting people invested again just to let them down again. Like... Okay fuck us ig. Cause there was no reason at all for y'all to bring Alfie back and let people believe for a moment that Wes could have still been alive this whole time other than "we're gonna really fuck with people"

At the end of the day he's just a character and it's just a show and the writers have the right to do whatever they want. But considering how big the show was and how much people talked about it and how furious people were when Wes died and how many people stopped watching and how it just kinda lost a bit of that shine that was there in the beginning, I wonder was it worth it? I mean really, was the bit worth it? Cause I don't think it was

Sorry to ramble. I clearly have a lot of feelings about this still

[brutlist]

<3

[fazcinatingblog]

There's no way I'm letting her near the positivity juice card I bought today

[rk800-is-hot-change-my-mind]

RAHHHHH I WANNA POST SOMETHING BUT I HAVE NOTHING TO POST

[ghostedeabha]

imagine like simon goes into some sort of surgery and has to be put under anesthesia, and when he gets out hes like still high asf on it 💀 and hes being a lil silly goose

okay this is such a cute idea omg, this is 100% based off that tiktok audio where it's like "my wife wouldn't like you touching me like that" "i AM your wife."

thank you so much for the request nonnie, a forehead kiss for you MWAH MWAH

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 563

warnings: none really, lots and lots of that good ol fluff, mentions of surgery, goofy simon, maybe a little ooc simon (he's high so it's fine)

a/n: i hope this is okay, i'm feeling a bit rusty with my writing but i've finally got back some motivation and energy to do so after the past two months of low energy and bad mental health. if you guys want to know a bit more about it and my mental health (i don't see why anyone would but lmao) let me know, i don't mind making a post about it if you guys want an explanation of some sort or whatever. anywho, sorry this is so short but i hope you still like it!! <3

a/n 2.0: i recently applied for a part time job at a bookstore so y'all pray for me that i get this job because i want it so bad. i am just gonna decide that i WILL get this job, because why wouldn't i?

simon had been out of surgery for just over an hour now, being a soldier you 'd think perhaps he was going under surgery for some kind of wound he had inflicted upon him on the battlefield but no, he was just getting his tonsils removed after a bad bout of tonsillitis ended up with him developing really bad tonsil stones.

so here you were, waiting by his bedside for him to wake up. the doctor and nurses reminded you just as he had gotten out that he may still be a little, well loopy, off of the meds depending on how quickly he woke up. you waited in a chair at his bedside, reading a book when you heard the blankets of the bed rustling just a little.

looking up from your book you see simon starting to wake up and you reach out to grasp his hand, only for him to rip it away from you when his eyes were fully opened.

"uh, si? you okay, hon?" you ask gently, maybe he just wasn't feeling too well after waking up, or perhaps he wasn't wanting physical touch, that happened quite often and you always respected that space he may want when he wanted it.

"don't call me that." simon said, voice hoarse and scratchy from the surgery, he sounded a little angry.

"what?" you questioned, this wasn't like simon, you couldn't understand why he wouldn't want you speaking like this to him.

"i'm taken."

"i know." you replied with a short laugh.

"you should be touching me like that then."

it hit you then, he was woozy from the meds and didn't recognize you. the realization made you laugh a little more. you decided to have a bit of fun with this high version of your boyfriend.

"sorry about that simon. wanna tell me about your partner?"

"oh, (name)? they're amazing, you know they're so pretty. and they're funny too. they always know how to make me feel better, i miss them." simon replies, ranting and raving on and on to you about his partner, about you.

"you love them a lot, don't you?" you ask him with a smile, it felt so nice to hear all these lovely things about yourself, your boyfriend clearly unfiltered by the effects of the anesthesia he was under.

sure he definitely said sweet things to your face, but something about hearing it when he was basically high as shit made your heart pound a little more.

"i love them with my whole heart." simon replies, a goofy little smile on his face.

you can't help but reach out to gently caress his face at those words, body filling up with some much adoration for the soldier in front of you.

"hey! what did i say about touching me. i have a partner!" simon scolds, trying to dodge your touch.

"simon, love... i am your partner. it's me, (name)." you reply with a laugh.

simon takes a good long look at you when you tell him this, he stares at you, looks you up and down before letting out a soft and quiet "oh."

you begin to hear the beeping of his heart rate monitor speed up, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he stares up at you.

you couldn't help but laugh a little more at this. what a sweet idiot. your sweet idiot.

[neil-gaiman]

I'm sorry Neil, although I love your writing and agree with your opinions on most subjects I have to disagree with you on the writers' strike. No-one should have a more privileged life as a result of being clever and creative. I worked from the age of 15 to the age of 65 in low-paid jobs, taking 1 year off to go to drama school and 3 years off to get a fine art degree. I worked in terrible but necessary jobs, labouring, stacking boxes, unloading trucks, running errands, filing, going to work on a bicycle at all hours of the day and night on shift work in all kinds of weather. Even when I was a student I was still working in part-time cleani8ng jobs and even during periods of unemployment I worked in volunteer jobs for charities and social services.

According to Mensa I have an IQ of 160 and according to Plymouth University I have a BA hons in Fine Art but I cannot accept the idea that writers and other creative people should avoid normal jobs like driving an "Uber" or working in an office/shop/factory/construction site. To accept that idea would be to create a new aristocratic class when we should abolishing the old princes and aristocrats.

What we need, I feel sure, is a redistribution of labour so that everybody who can do so would spend some time each year in blue collar work and everybody who can would get higher education and a chance to make art of one sort or another.

The idea of doing other jobs to supplement writing or drawing shouldn't be seen as a terrible thing, a punishment or a suffering. Sharing the jobs around should be seen as normal.

I mean, I've done my half century of sweat labour and it didn't hurt me too much. I'm retired now and still making art of various kinds and I've never asked anyone to pay me for any art piece I've made. making art, writing, drawing etc. is the fun stuff which we get to do in exchange for the blue collar stuff which puts food on the table.

The worst pop song ever written was Sting/Dire Straits song "Money for Nothing" which ridicules the working class from a position of educational privilege.

So what's my question? My question is: What's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet? Sounds perfectly fine to me.

Nothing's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet. Writers and artists have been doing that since the dawn of time. Actors too.

But by the same token, there's nothing right about assuming that writing isn't a blue-collar job, or that writers and other people who make art can only make it for love and that thus they need other jobs to subsidise their craft.

I like living in a world in which the people who make the things that make the world worth living in get paid for their work. For me, that includes the people who make films and TV, books, art and music and comics.

Having spent a lot of time on film and TV sets, it's a blue-collar world on set, and everyone is working long and hard to make the shows you love. I'm never going to suggest that the riggers or the gaffers or the make-up team or the focus-pullers should drive ubers in order to have the privilege of being on the set and working there.

Or to put it another way, from the most blue-collar writer I ever knew...

[astrxealis]

i really want to write a song one day