anthrofreshtodeath

[anthrofreshtodeath]

definitely got a snippet for the prompt challenge that takes place in Rome coming out tomorrow

Racconti Romani by Jhumpa Lahiri 10/10 now I want to write about Rome

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i am a woman at war with herself, torn forever between my love of detective fiction and my hatred of cops and cop media

#detective is definitely a gender #cops can get bent

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Racconti Romani by Jhumpa Lahiri 10/10 now I want to write about Rome

#so good #somehow so italian

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low key been dying to know if you’ve had any motivation/time to sink into p fkn r?

God I wish. Every free moment I have is feeding my book/literature hyperfixation right now 😂

#ask anthrofreshtodeath #other than particularly vivid daydreams no I’m sorry

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This seems like kind of a dumb question but I'm not a writer so I don't know - is it more difficult to manage to say everything you want in few words in a short story like a prompt/one shot or more difficult to have enough to keep a multichapter story going and stay interesting??

Each has their own pros and cons. Being pithy enough to get a point across in a one shot is hard in a different way than organizing a long form fic is hard, but both are hard.

prompts are nice because I don’t worry about theme or message or organization as much. I just write.

with that said, I haven’t written anything long form in awhile and sometimes wonder if I still have the ability.

#ask anthrofreshtodeath #maybe im an ex writer 😅

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Just wandering if it is easier for you to write Jane or Maura?

Booth or Bones?

Do you identify with one of them more than the others?

this is a good question - neither is easier than the other for me to write. I relate to different aspects of each, and I think I tend to focus on different aspects for Jane and for Maura, but there’s not really one I prefer to write.

for Bones it’s different because I don’t have a lot of experience writing them. Writing dialogue for Brennan is easier because I relate to her autism, and I talk similarly. But for emotions and life experiences, I find Booth easier to write because it feels more familiar, especially to Jane.

I think I identify with different parts of all of them!

#ask anthrofreshtodeath #I have a soft spot for my Catholic detective husbands #but atheist autistic scientist wives are also v relatable

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Look, guys. I’d be an idiot to kill Hanson. Okay, the guy paid me buckets to write crap. Crap? You’re writing my film.

BONES | 7x12

#booth x brennan #bones tv

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hi I’m Lauren and while some people get irrationally angry about style and grammar in writing, I get irrationally angry about incorrect sports references 😂

#the worst is in a BOOK #cmon now - how many edits did this go through

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Looking forward to this prompt like always.

maybe they get slightly jealous while out, so they grab onto their partner's hand to establish their relationship

here it is! I have no idea what I just wrote but, you know, here we go:

—-

The Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala. If anything in Maura’s life is a black tie affair, it’s this. It comes once a year, in May, just as the spring gives way to summer temperatures, and, unfortunately, when the nascent MLB season really starts to take shape. Which usually means she takes a man, a doctor most times, instead of Jane: the person with whom she much prefers to attend these things. Not only is Jane Maura’s best friend - and thus makes it all genuinely more bearable - Jane has all the social skills Maura wishes she did when it came to fellow donors and hot shots. There are celebrities at this thing, for god’s sake. And that makes Maura nervous, especially since Jane so often has about five to eight games to catch up on by the time late May rolls around and refuses to come. Last time Maura had to bring a surgeon. But this year, by some miracle, the Red Sox have an off day on this Tuesday night, the same that the Gala is on. 

And Maura had known this fact for months. In fact, as soon as the regular season schedule was released. That meant that she started her get-Jane-to-the-Gala campaign while snow still raged outside and the year had barely begun. It culminates in the black, strapless gown she wears now, the one showing off her tanned shoulders and her three hundred dollar haircut complete with layers and highlights and the smell of priceless product. There are heels that highlight her calves and make her ass look fantastic; there is a pendant on her neck that draws attention to her perfectly supported breasts. There’s even a diamond ring on her right ring finger, big and belonging once to her mother, because Jane likes to look at things that remind her of tradition. 

And Maura had promised, not with words per se, but quite forcefully, quite convincingly, that Jane’s attendance would be worthwhile. The promise had consisted of some rather pointed modeling in the guest bedroom while Jane sat in a lounge chair and watched, of even more pointed half-states of undress, including dropping the garment in front of her with her heels still on so that she could bend over in the skimpiest pair of underwear appropriate for a platonic home fashion show that she owned. It also consisted of the subtle increase in hand jewelry, answers to Jane’s questions about it being, “My mother gave it to me. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore; she finds such signs of commitment provincial. I vehemently disagree - especially when the signs are so exquisite. Don’t you think?”

Jane had sniffled. She’d stood, looking stiff and stupid as her mouth gaped at the ring Maura held out, before she finally said, “it’s on the wrong hand.”

Maura had chuckled warmly and replied, “for now.”

The stupidity intensified up until Jane mopped her jaw off the floor and excused herself to return upstairs. Maura then understood that she didn’t even need to invite Jane: she just needed to bring the Gala up. 

That happened about two weeks after the ring incident, which was about two weeks after the dress fitting. Maura stood in front of the vanity in her bedroom’s en suite, rubbing a European moisturizer into the skin just over her cheek bones. “You know, the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala is on the 28th this year,” she said with the most practiced nonchalance as she frowned to get more of the product into her pores. 

Jane had grunted. She leaned against the threshold to the bathroom and crossed her arms, using tox results for their current case as the excuse to be in Mauara’s inner sanctum. Maura had at least given her the courtesy of relaying those lab results before bringing the fundraiser up. “‘S an off day,” Jane said. 

Maura made a curious sound. “Hmm. Really?”

“Yeah,” Jane confirmed. “Want me to tag along?”

Maura pursed her lips so she didn’t smile. Jane isn’t hers. But she knows a secret: Jane wants to be, and so she admits she played a little dirty to have gotten Jane to accompany her.

Honestly, though, that was the nonverbal content of Maura’s promise: go, and becoming mine is a distinct, dirty possibility for you. “I’d like that,” she told Jane. “Do you need something to wear?”

She knew what Jane would say. Well, she knew the answer. Jane ended up saying, “I”ve seen what you’re wearing; I think I can cobble something together.”

Contrary to what even Jane herself might have believed, Maura hadn’t wanted to go shopping for Jane anyway - she wanted it on the table that Jane would be dressing to compliment her. Because that meant Jane in a suit. And Maura is attracted to the Jane she knows, not the Jane she can conjure by draping her in couture.

And so, Jane is here, at the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala, in May, instead of in front of a ballgame somewhere. Jane is here in a suit, with a very expensive white silk shirt under the jacket, with a sleeker, more understated boot than the aggressive block heel she often wears to work, her hair wild and beautiful and the perfect compliment to her sharp features.

It is, by all accounts as Maura returns from the restroom, a win. A complete victory on all fronts. Except, that is, Jane stands close to Doctor Melissa Henry - world renowned OBGYN and overall knockout - listening intently enough, leaning in close enough, to hear above the sociable din. 

Jane’s long fingers hold her champagne flute by the rim, the drink Maura had procured for her long before the trip to the restroom, and Jane hasn’t touched it. Hasn’t had a sip. Which, of course not, because Doctor Henry is Puerto Rican and curvaceous and a genius. Why would Jane interrupt her spell to imbibe? 

Doctor Henry leans close and says something into Jane’s ear, Jane who turns into the gesture yet again, and suddenly, they are both chuckling. And by god, it’s Jane’s handsome chuckle - the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and bestows upon her a crooked little grin.

Normally, Maura respects the hell out of Doctor Henry as a leader in the field of women’s medicine. She’s serious and principled and warm… and that’s the damn problem. Maura did a fucking bend and snap to get Jane here (thank Jane’s modern media bootcamp for that particularly relevant reference); she’s not letting go this easily. 

And again, she intends to fight dirty. 

She marches across the crowded ballroom to where the two women stand, where Doctor Henry places a steadying hand on Jane’s shoulder because her heels are tall and her ankles are crossed. A man bumps into a deadset Maura, by accident, but it only fuels her resolve. She continues, gaze forward, back straight, clutch in front of her hips (the ones that sway as she walks), until she approaches Jane and Doctor Henry. Then she stops.

For all her missing of social mores, Maura can synthesize the details of a situation like no other. So just as she approaches, she comes up to Jane’s left, because Jane’s right is occupied with the champagne. And also, coincidentally, Doctor Henry. All for the better, though, because this means that for her next act, the ring on her hand can do all the heavy lifting, even if it’s a mirror image of where it’s supposed to be. 

Her fingers find the ones at Jane’s side, and they slither between them. Once they’re all but entwined, she drags them up, skin brushing as they curl, just before manicured fingers scratch Jane’s palm one time. Then as she fans them back out, down and united again, she kisses Jane’s covered shoulder. Jane shivers and Maura knows it’s because of the metal rubbing on her ring finger. “My mother’s bete noir is here,” she says into the fabric of Jane’s jacket, relishing the delicate scratch against her gloss-softened lips. “The feud is as alive as ever.”

Boom.

Between the touching and the comment just for her, she’s got Jane. She knows she’s got Jane because instead of a statement about how rude it is not to greet the third party, Jane says in that gravel-rich timbre, “she still telling the story about how her daughter styled… who?”

“The Roman Prince of Cerveteri? At least once a function,” Maura replies quickly, all as she turns her gaze on Doctor Henry. “So sorry, Melissa - family issues. You know how it is.”

Family. Issues.

Jane stiffens further, grows warmer; Maura knows there’s blushing even if she can only see Melissa Henry’s straight-out-of-a-catalog face. 

“That I do,” Doctor Henry says. Gracefully she steps away from Jane. Is that a bit of fear Maura sees, too? “Do uh, do you two need a drink? I think I’m headed to the bar.”

Jane smiles with her lips closed and simply holds up her champagne flute. I’ve got plenty.

“I’ve had enough for the evening, but thank you,” Maura answers with a cordial smile.

When Doctor Henry walks away after a nod and a smirk of her own, Jane snorts. “I don’t think she’s coming back,” she says.

“God, I hope not,” says Maura. When Jane, without letting go of Maura’s hand, downs her entire drink and steps close enough for their fronts to touch, Maura honors the nonverbal request for an embrace by wrapping her free arm around Jane’s shoulders. “When you’re here, when you accompany me to these events, you’re mine,” she asserts with a growl of her own.

“I’m yours all the time,” Jane counters. She rests her head in the crook of Maura’s neck because in heels, Maura is tall enough.

Maura squeezes, and laughs lowly. “I know.”

#otp prompts February 2024 #morning reblog #why yes apparently I was feeling unhinged

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#lol #fanatics is trash and Nike is trash for letting fanatics sully their good name

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Maura & Jane | Rizzoli & Isles 2x08

#rizzles #rizzoli and isles #case in point

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Maura & Jane | Rizzoli & Isles 2x08

#rizzoli and isles #rizzles #mami says you stomp - you stomp #hear me out - this is possibly the hottest rizzles episode #endless content

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Looking forward to this prompt like always.

maybe they get slightly jealous while out, so they grab onto their partner's hand to establish their relationship

here it is! I have no idea what I just wrote but, you know, here we go:

—-

The Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala. If anything in Maura’s life is a black tie affair, it’s this. It comes once a year, in May, just as the spring gives way to summer temperatures, and, unfortunately, when the nascent MLB season really starts to take shape. Which usually means she takes a man, a doctor most times, instead of Jane: the person with whom she much prefers to attend these things. Not only is Jane Maura’s best friend - and thus makes it all genuinely more bearable - Jane has all the social skills Maura wishes she did when it came to fellow donors and hot shots. There are celebrities at this thing, for god’s sake. And that makes Maura nervous, especially since Jane so often has about five to eight games to catch up on by the time late May rolls around and refuses to come. Last time Maura had to bring a surgeon. But this year, by some miracle, the Red Sox have an off day on this Tuesday night, the same that the Gala is on. 

And Maura had known this fact for months. In fact, as soon as the regular season schedule was released. That meant that she started her get-Jane-to-the-Gala campaign while snow still raged outside and the year had barely begun. It culminates in the black, strapless gown she wears now, the one showing off her tanned shoulders and her three hundred dollar haircut complete with layers and highlights and the smell of priceless product. There are heels that highlight her calves and make her ass look fantastic; there is a pendant on her neck that draws attention to her perfectly supported breasts. There’s even a diamond ring on her right ring finger, big and belonging once to her mother, because Jane likes to look at things that remind her of tradition. 

And Maura had promised, not with words per se, but quite forcefully, quite convincingly, that Jane’s attendance would be worthwhile. The promise had consisted of some rather pointed modeling in the guest bedroom while Jane sat in a lounge chair and watched, of even more pointed half-states of undress, including dropping the garment in front of her with her heels still on so that she could bend over in the skimpiest pair of underwear appropriate for a platonic home fashion show that she owned. It also consisted of the subtle increase in hand jewelry, answers to Jane’s questions about it being, “My mother gave it to me. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore; she finds such signs of commitment provincial. I vehemently disagree - especially when the signs are so exquisite. Don’t you think?”

Jane had sniffled. She’d stood, looking stiff and stupid as her mouth gaped at the ring Maura held out, before she finally said, “it’s on the wrong hand.”

Maura had chuckled warmly and replied, “for now.”

The stupidity intensified up until Jane mopped her jaw off the floor and excused herself to return upstairs. Maura then understood that she didn’t even need to invite Jane: she just needed to bring the Gala up. 

That happened about two weeks after the ring incident, which was about two weeks after the dress fitting. Maura stood in front of the vanity in her bedroom’s en suite, rubbing a European moisturizer into the skin just over her cheek bones. “You know, the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala is on the 28th this year,” she said with the most practiced nonchalance as she frowned to get more of the product into her pores. 

Jane had grunted. She leaned against the threshold to the bathroom and crossed her arms, using tox results for their current case as the excuse to be in Mauara’s inner sanctum. Maura had at least given her the courtesy of relaying those lab results before bringing the fundraiser up. “‘S an off day,” Jane said. 

Maura made a curious sound. “Hmm. Really?”

“Yeah,” Jane confirmed. “Want me to tag along?”

Maura pursed her lips so she didn’t smile. Jane isn’t hers. But she knows a secret: Jane wants to be, and so she admits she played a little dirty to have gotten Jane to accompany her.

Honestly, though, that was the nonverbal content of Maura’s promise: go, and becoming mine is a distinct, dirty possibility for you. “I’d like that,” she told Jane. “Do you need something to wear?”

She knew what Jane would say. Well, she knew the answer. Jane ended up saying, “I”ve seen what you’re wearing; I think I can cobble something together.”

Contrary to what even Jane herself might have believed, Maura hadn’t wanted to go shopping for Jane anyway - she wanted it on the table that Jane would be dressing to compliment her. Because that meant Jane in a suit. And Maura is attracted to the Jane she knows, not the Jane she can conjure by draping her in couture.

And so, Jane is here, at the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala, in May, instead of in front of a ballgame somewhere. Jane is here in a suit, with a very expensive white silk shirt under the jacket, with a sleeker, more understated boot than the aggressive block heel she often wears to work, her hair wild and beautiful and the perfect compliment to her sharp features.

It is, by all accounts as Maura returns from the restroom, a win. A complete victory on all fronts. Except, that is, Jane stands close to Doctor Melissa Henry - world renowned OBGYN and overall knockout - listening intently enough, leaning in close enough, to hear above the sociable din. 

Jane’s long fingers hold her champagne flute by the rim, the drink Maura had procured for her long before the trip to the restroom, and Jane hasn’t touched it. Hasn’t had a sip. Which, of course not, because Doctor Henry is Puerto Rican and curvaceous and a genius. Why would Jane interrupt her spell to imbibe? 

Doctor Henry leans close and says something into Jane’s ear, Jane who turns into the gesture yet again, and suddenly, they are both chuckling. And by god, it’s Jane’s handsome chuckle - the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and bestows upon her a crooked little grin.

Normally, Maura respects the hell out of Doctor Henry as a leader in the field of women’s medicine. She’s serious and principled and warm… and that’s the damn problem. Maura did a fucking bend and snap to get Jane here (thank Jane’s modern media bootcamp for that particularly relevant reference); she’s not letting go this easily. 

And again, she intends to fight dirty. 

She marches across the crowded ballroom to where the two women stand, where Doctor Henry places a steadying hand on Jane’s shoulder because her heels are tall and her ankles are crossed. A man bumps into a deadset Maura, by accident, but it only fuels her resolve. She continues, gaze forward, back straight, clutch in front of her hips (the ones that sway as she walks), until she approaches Jane and Doctor Henry. Then she stops.

For all her missing of social mores, Maura can synthesize the details of a situation like no other. So just as she approaches, she comes up to Jane’s left, because Jane’s right is occupied with the champagne. And also, coincidentally, Doctor Henry. All for the better, though, because this means that for her next act, the ring on her hand can do all the heavy lifting, even if it’s a mirror image of where it’s supposed to be. 

Her fingers find the ones at Jane’s side, and they slither between them. Once they’re all but entwined, she drags them up, skin brushing as they curl, just before manicured fingers scratch Jane’s palm one time. Then as she fans them back out, down and united again, she kisses Jane’s covered shoulder. Jane shivers and Maura knows it’s because of the metal rubbing on her ring finger. “My mother’s bete noir is here,” she says into the fabric of Jane’s jacket, relishing the delicate scratch against her gloss-softened lips. “The feud is as alive as ever.”

Boom.

Between the touching and the comment just for her, she’s got Jane. She knows she’s got Jane because instead of a statement about how rude it is not to greet the third party, Jane says in that gravel-rich timbre, “she still telling the story about how her daughter styled… who?”

“The Roman Prince of Cerveteri? At least once a function,” Maura replies quickly, all as she turns her gaze on Doctor Henry. “So sorry, Melissa - family issues. You know how it is.”

Family. Issues.

Jane stiffens further, grows warmer; Maura knows there’s blushing even if she can only see Melissa Henry’s straight-out-of-a-catalog face. 

“That I do,” Doctor Henry says. Gracefully she steps away from Jane. Is that a bit of fear Maura sees, too? “Do uh, do you two need a drink? I think I’m headed to the bar.”

Jane smiles with her lips closed and simply holds up her champagne flute. I’ve got plenty.

“I’ve had enough for the evening, but thank you,” Maura answers with a cordial smile.

When Doctor Henry walks away after a nod and a smirk of her own, Jane snorts. “I don’t think she’s coming back,” she says.

“God, I hope not,” says Maura. When Jane, without letting go of Maura’s hand, downs her entire drink and steps close enough for their fronts to touch, Maura honors the nonverbal request for an embrace by wrapping her free arm around Jane’s shoulders. “When you’re here, when you accompany me to these events, you’re mine,” she asserts with a growl of her own.

“I’m yours all the time,” Jane counters. She rests her head in the crook of Maura’s neck because in heels, Maura is tall enough.

Maura squeezes, and laughs lowly. “I know.”

#lauren writes rizzoli and isles fanfiction #rizzoli and isles #otp prompts February 2024 #featuring Neanderthal Jane #and also Neanderthal Maura apparently lol #I just know they went home and fucked nasty after this

[anthrofreshtodeath]

I... I have things to say but I'm going to go back to writing my prompt challenges and say nothing.

#listen I'm an asshole at heart #but this time I will choose to keep the tirade inside #I'm sure y'all don't give a shit about my strong opinions anyway 😂

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Long time no see! 😂

How about "slowly intertwining fingers while the other is driving" ?

It's been awhile! This one is kind of angst-lite.

___

Jane wants only to drive. She wants to rev the engine of her cruiser; she longs for the satisfaction that cutting and weaving through traffic gives her. It’s asshole behavior, she knows - but she’s an asshole. She relishes being an asshole, especially when she’s angry and especially when she’s been handcuffed, when someone bridles her rage and forces her to swallow it down. 

Hope Martin and Paddy Doyle are quite good at that. 

So are the guards at the maximum security prison she’s just left with Hope and Maura in tow, because they quite literally would have cuffed her if she’d leapt over the table to throttle Paddy like she’d wanted to. But Paddy, and Hope, know that fact intimately. And that’s why Hope waited to be forced to talk to Paddy. And why Paddy shut up about Hope. They knew the only safe place for them to see one another and still get Jane and Maura the information they needed was to do it in prison. 

Because, like they surmised, Jane wants to kill the both of them. She wants to kill both of them with her bare hands and she wants to whip through the streets of Boston like a maniac and she can do neither.

Standstill traffic on the bridge back into the city.

It’s a one sentence horror-story to every Bostonian, really. But even more so to Jane today. Hope, coward that she is, has stayed completely silent in the backseat on the way into town, despite all the revelatory, criminal shit she shared in the interrogation room. Maura, saint that she is, also remains quiet, peering out the window of the passenger side while rain starts pelting it, sending periodic glances Jane’s way.

And Jane’s embarrassed by it, though she’d never say so out loud. It’s fucking embarrassing to have all this fire and nowhere to put it. To be so angry and to be so close to two confessed lawbreakers who repeatedly lied to and used their relationship with Maura to manipulate her and do nothing? Jane’s foot might punch a hole through the floor of the Crown Vic. All she can really do is shove her left leg against the driver’s side door, her knee up to the window, and squeeze the wheel until her knuckles blanche. Which means, on top of all the hellish shit she just endured, Maura now has to watch. She’s gotta make room for Jane’s mood. That makes Jane madder, more ashamed.

It reaches an apex when Maura resettles, apparently tired of counting raindrops, and releases a calming breath when her shoulders press against the padding of her seat - she lets the hand that had rested against her own face fall into her lap, and sneaks the other over to Jane’s on the console. 

Jane’s brows furrow and she considers yanking herself away. More than wanting to wound, Maura shouldn’t have to do this. Hold onto her weakness like this, pacify this. But Jane stays, because Maura’s fingers wrap slowly around her own, and the touch is warm and sweet and hot all at once as the cold from the outside threatens to seep in. 

So, Jane accepts the calming of the beast. Until, that is, Maura says something.

“I know you’ll never make me walk through those doors,” she says darkly to Jane, eyes stormy and assured. “You’ll never be the reason I go back.”

And then Jane realizes… their hands. Hope leans, is angled so that her gaze lines up right with their union. Maura speaks, her voice carrying toward the middle of the cab, so that Hope can hear. Jane understands that it isn’t placation at all - it’s a point. My relationship will never be as ugly and twisted as yours. Your relationship is and forever will be beneath mine. Maura has simply used Jane to make it.

Jane finds she likes being used much more than she likes being pitied. Even if she still wants to slap the bubble light on and burn through all the cars in front of them.

#lauren writes rizzoli and isles fanfiction #rizzoli and isles #otp prompts February 2024

[anthrofreshtodeath]

 Did you mean: your ultimate fave

template: 1, 2 | insp: 1, 2

#temperance brennan #bones tv

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Colonnato della Basilica di San Pietro, Vaticano, Roma, Italia.

#vaticano #roma #italia