#simon and river bun

[bunnies-and-sunshine]

Heeey!

Whatcha thinkin'?

#bunnies #no concept of personal space #whatcha thinkin'? #bunny snuggle #simon and river bun

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Nine

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Graphic descriptions of domestic violence. Medical chart from a SANE EXAM. Simon's family history, trauma. Brief sexual content. Hospital setting, nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies. Heavy emotions. Scars. Reader in pain. Hurt/comfort. Kate is a dog with a bone. Penny is cute. POV switches. Simon and Johnny make a discovery, and a promise.

You can’t breathe.

The air is too thin, too tight, and you stand, silent, in the foyer of the home that you’ve been invited to.

A clock ticks on the wall. You count each second, waiting. 

You should leave. You should run. 

Simon’s footsteps echo above your head, already up the stairs with your first bag and work backpack.

He said to make yourself at home, but you can’t move.

The foyer is the foyer of a family. There is a hall tree with little shoes scattered beneath it, a tiny, pink backpack hanging on the hook. Too many wellies to count, all in pastel colors, matching a small yellow and green rain jacket that’s folded on the stairs. There’s a black hoodie, a black jacket, and a green on the coat rack, hung haphazardly with a toss. Men’s sizes, and you notice two pairs of trainers next to one pair of black boots, and two crayons hide, peeking out from under the bench, one blue, one purple, so worn down they’re almost half gone.

A home. A family. 

“Hey, so up-“ You flinch. The jolt has you stumbling, one misstep over another, and he tenses, prepared to steady you, careful hand outstretched, but not encroaching.

“Sorry.” You shouldn’t be here. 

“No, I’m sorry. I know better.” You blink, and the silence is heavy, weighted down like bricks at the bottom of a river. 

He’s still wearing the mask. 

 “Can I… give you a tour?”

“S-sure.”

You lose your breath again in the kitchen.

Simon turns away to the sink, loading dishes into the dishwasher as you stare at the fridge and its collage with a tight chest. It’s covered; photos, invitations, magnets, notes, finger painted masterpieces. You step closer, studying, noticing the way they all fit together, mix matched perfectly, and even in the pictures, the three of them glow effortlessly, too sweet and smiling, happy. Together. A family. A perfect unit.

Your nose tingles, and you blink back the tears that fight forward, wiping away the two that escape and trickle down your cheek. You don’t know why it overwhelms you, why it fills you with grief.

What is it like, to be loved like that? To have a family, like this? 

Get it together. You’re a guest in their house.

It’s too much, and you chastise yourself for getting so emotional over nothing, over something stupid.

You need to be alone. 

Dry sandpaper scrubs the back of your throat when you swallow. “Simon?” He turns, concerned, glancing at the fridge and then back to you, drying his hands on a towel.  

“What is it?”

“Can I… I’m sorry. I’m… tired.” You try to explain your needs but it’s awkward on your mouth, uncomfortable. His expression creases with sympathy.

“Of course, c’mon. I’ll show you.”

“Alright, one more step.”

“’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, bun. You’re alright.” In the back of your mind, you’re registering Simon’s warmth, the wilted lean that has you tipped into him, slow steps on the stairs, one by one as you fight to stay upright. He’s warm, and pillowy… the kind of comfort you could sink into, disappear inside for a while. It sounds so… nice.

But your shoulder is throbbing. The pain combined with the emotions swirling about in your heart has you on the verge of tears, top teeth dug into your lip, and your molars grind against one other with each step.

“It’s just at the end of the hall.”

You shouldn’t be doing this. Even now, after agreeing, getting in the car, getting yourself here… the desire to bolt runs hot under your skin, buzzing inside your skull, an insistent need.

You’re in their house. Where they live. With their baby. 

What if he comes back? What if he hurts them? 

“Hey.” Simon says your name slowly, ducking down to get your attention. Fuck.

“Sorry, I’m just… exhausted.”

“I’m sure. It’s right here.” He opens the door to a room, flicking on a light switch. The walls are a sage green, a gentle hue that matches the bedspread, framed photos organized into a gallery wall, pictures of smiles and laughter, a tiny Penny in Simon’s naked arms, a candid shot of Johnny in full military regalia, the three of them together somewhere, hiking, with Pen snuggled in a papoose on Johnny’s chest. The bed is the centerpiece, a massive king size piled with pillows, and it looks so inviting, so soft that you want to collapse into it right here and now.

“Wow.” It’s the best you can do, considering the screeching agony vibrating in your shoulder. You try to breathe through it, but the pain only shortens your draw.

“Yeah, it’s our old bed. Very comfortable.” He puts your other duffel down by the dresser, and you try not to dwell on the idea of it once being theirs, where they slept, where they’ve loved one another, held each other, their child, their- “It’s got its own bathroom, just through here.” He’s on the other side of the room, turning on a light that is far too bright, and you squint, jerking away with a gasp. Are you getting a migraine too? “Shit, sorry.” The room spins. You stumble towards the bed, limbs heavy, head full of cement, wooziness blurring your immediate sight. You’re disjointed, a mess of pain and disorientation, and you cover your eyes with a palm.

“Sorry, I think… I think I’m getting a headache. My shoulder-“ it slips out before you can stop yourself, and even with your eyes closed, you know Simon is staring at you, picking you apart with his eyes.

“Your shoulder?” You’re on a runaway train now. It has no brakes. No destination. It just barrels down the tracks, unable to stop for rational thought or pleas of mercy. It has no plan, and it does not heed you. You’re helpless. Hopeless. Lost. Reaching out for a light in the dark, a rope, a life vest, and a sob breaks through to the surface.

“It really hurts.”

“It hurts?” His voice cuts, tone worried. “Which one?” You use your good side to point, shakily.

“I’m sorry. I’m s-sorry.” You try to tell him, try to explain that you don’t mean to cry, or be emotional. You don’t mean to be making a fuss. You’re not supposed to be a problem.

A warm hand lays atop your thigh, thumb rubbing into your scrub pants.

“Sweetheart, you’re in pain. You don’t have to apologize for crying.” Your vision blurs, thick with tears, and fingers gently probe along your shoulder cuff. When you flinch, he swears. “Shhh, alright. Easy.” He’s gentling a spooked horse, carefully feeling along where you ache as you cry through it, unable to stop. “I’m going to go get some ice. We can… wrap it up, if you think that will help?”

“Ye-yeah, okay.” His steps fade, and you try to get your top off, sliding the arm that doesn’t hurt underneath your turtleneck, which is confined by the rigidity of your scrub top.

When you try the other one, the pain is so sharp, a cry bursts from your lips, and Simon sprints up the stairs. How did it get so much worse between the beginning of your shift and now? 

“What happened?”

“I can’t… I can’t get my shirts off.” You uselessly tug at the hem, eyes half open, letting it fall from your fingers, stuck in a loop, frantic movements matching the increasing pace of your lungs.

“Can I help?” His face is lined in concentration, and you spot an icepack on the bed now, with a sling, and a wrap. They’re prepared. Must come home with a fair number of injuries. “Bun, are you with me?” You sniffle and nod. What choice do you have? What choice do you ever have? The pain is too much. It’s all too much, and it boils over until you need to get the shirts off, not caring that it will expose you, or show Simon the very details you’re always trying to hide. You’re too far lost now, too far gone.

If you’re here, in their home, shouldn't you let them see? Shouldn't you let them know? 

The truth is terrifying, the reality of the trust you have in them. You know Simon won’t hurt you, instinctively. You feel safe here, in their home, their old bed, and when he looks at you, you show him, just for a second, the fractured mirror that is your reflection. You show him the pain and the rage and the fear, you give him everything. You shove the girl in the mirror forward, you force her into the sun and you hold her face to the light, trying not to sob as she screams at you in protest.

Just for a second.

“Okay.” He nods, and then cups your cheek. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” You nod with tears that sting, and then you slowly pull away, slipping back into yourself, hiding the girl in the mirror away, making more promises to her that you’re not sure you’re going to keep.

“We’re going to put this one,” He slowly, carefully lifts the arm with the bad shoulder until it’s resting on his own, “right here. That alright?” A whimper builds, but you give him another nod, breathing through the anguish. There are a million little needles in your shoulder, all stabbing you over and over, ripping and gnawing at the cartilage, or the bone, or the muscle… you can’t be sure. “I’m going to bring your scrub top up now. Is this okay?” his fingers peel it from the turtleneck, and when he gets to your head, you incline your neck, more tears rushing forth.

“Yeah.” You whisper, a tired, pained moan, falling from your lips without permission.

“I know it hurts; I know. Almost there, try to breathe.” He soothes you, and the top slides towards him along your arm. He pulls it free, throwing it on the floor somewhere, his hands returning to your thighs.

“Sorry.” It’s automatic, ingrained. A reaction to pain, to fear, to the idea of being a burden, something that haunts you, every day. He ignores it.

“Ready for the next?” The turtleneck comes less easy, but the two of you are in sync like dance partners. The pain shoots up your arm when you move your neck again, and Simon wipes a few tears from your cheek, carefully leaning you back into the pillows and pulling the comforter down.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, the raw edge of surprise, horror, you’re sure, and you close your eyes. You can't look at him, when you know what he sees. You know what you look like. A roadmap of foolishness. Of weakness. You know the scars are plainly on display, still raised, still ugly. Like you.

He says nothing, only sits at your side, bed dipping with his weight. “I’m going to take your shoes off too, okay?” He narrates and asks for permission with each touch, pulling your sneakers free, satisfying thunk of each one hitting the floor, and then moves on to sliding the ice pack underneath you, wrapping it firmly but not too tight, ensuring it stays in place. He’s tender and slow, thoughtful, your eyes fighting to stay closed, brain and body starting to drift off into uncomfortable sleep. “Not yet, sweetheart.” There’s a rattle, two pills being deposited into your hand.

“What are these?"

“Paracetamol.” He turns the bottle, label out, word coming into focus enough to be verified, and you swallow them down with the glass of water in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” The croak stays lodged in your throat, and his eyes crinkle, the sign of a smile.

“Get some rest.” It’s comfort he gives you, leaning forward, pressing mask covered lips to your forehead. Comfort that doesn’t elicit a flinch or a sense of wariness, and you bask in the shine of the sun on your skin, holding tight to it, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

“Banky.” Pen demands, hands outstretched.

“No binky, it’s lunch time. Lunch.” Simon makes the sign for lunch, L shaped pointer finger and thumb, circling the corner of his mouth. He does it a few times, accompanied with the word again and again until Penny huffs and leans back, eyes wide. “You try. You try, lunch.”

“No!” She shrieks, and he shushes her, scattering some banana puffs across her tray.

“Shhh Pen. Bun is sleeping, remember?”

“Bunny seep?” She gives him the sign for sleep, or her sign at least, a palm dragging down her face followed by very dramatic closing lids. “Seep?”

“Yes, sleeping.” Simon makes the sign to acknowledge she was correct. “Good job.” He gives her a thumbs up, and she smiles, sweetness melting away some of the tense worry that's taken up in his heart.

“Puff?” She holds one out to him, but he shakes his head, pointing at her mouth.

“For you. Eat them, eat your puffs.” He signs along with the words, and she mimics him, food in hand, eyes lighting up when she finally makes it in her mouth.

He glances towards the stairs. You’re in the guest room, far enough away that Penny’s noise shouldn’t wake you, but still he tries to keep her preoccupied, distracted from making a fuss.

He wants you to get as much sleep as possible, this morning’s discovery of your shoulder unsettled him more than he’s frankly comfortable with, and the image of your swollen, battered face and neck leers and taunts. 

She’s safe now. She’s here. 

“Dada.” Pen calls, and he smiles, leaning forward to brush his lips across his baby’s soft skin, wispy curls tickling his nose. 

“Love you, baby girl.” He signs it too, and she beams.

“Luh.” It’s supposed to be love, and though the word is a struggle, the sentiment is the same. He doesn’t care that she’s not quite got it yet, he’ll take every word, every syllable he can get. These moments, each moment with his child, Johnny’s child, theirs… is a gift, one he never thought he’d have until Johnny. A privilege.

His phone vibrates with a text message.  

>Simon

>Give me a ring when you get a chance. On the black cell.  

“Thought you were on vacation?” Kate sighs, click clack of keys echoing in the background.

“I am, but if I’m too idle I start to go crazy. The wife likes it when I have a project.” Simon pauses, cocking his head. Penny’s feet kick in the highchair, baby spoon banging against the plastic tray.

“Hang on, Kate.” He drags a kitchen chair over in front of her so he can sit, pinning the phone between his shoulder and chin to twist the lid off the applesauce pouch. “Shhh, here you go." Penny gurgles with a grin at the taste of the fruit, and he smiles back at her. "So, what’s the new project then?”

“The nurse.” Simon’s eyes dart to the floor above his head.

“It’s not a good time.”

“I can talk, you can listen.” She brushes him off, sipping something with ice and then continuing. “I found it hard to believe that a civilian would be able to scrub their footprint like this, so I did a little digging. The more digging I did, the worse my fixation became.” Like a dog with a bone.Simon holds his breath. “I just needed a key, and with those photos you provided, well, things just started unraveling.”

“Kate.” He growls because he can’t manage anything else. He’s trying to keep himself still, heart pounding in his chest. Penny coos, like she notices the shift in her dad’s demeanor, and he immediately attends her, thumbing at a smear of applesauce on her cheek.

“I found a SANE exam from a few years ago. Small hospital in southern Colorado, right over the border from Texas. Patient’s name is Jane Doe, but the photos are almost an exact match.” His stomach lurches, dark clouds shadowing his vision, world splitting into blood and rage. Violence.

He didn’t want to be right.

He wanted to it to be anything, anything but this.

Who? 

Is it the same person that choked you? Beat you? Tore your shoulder damn near out of its socket? 

His gaze drifts to Penny.

They'll need to loop Price in, immediately. 

“Can you send it to me?”

“It’s already in your email.” She speeds past, eagerly. “There’s more. I used the photo to run facial recognition on archives in neighboring states and got a host of hits from Texas. You’ll have to visually confirm, but if I’m right, I’ve got positive ID on your girl.”

“How?”

“School. She graduated high school a year before the rest of her class, ended up with a full scholarship to Rice University in Houston, Texas. Went on to get a bioscience degree and graduated from Rice early.” Pride flutters beneath his ribs, honeyed and heavy. Their smart girl. “She ends up at a different school for pre-med but drops out before the first year ends. Not sure what happened but she started an accelerated nursing program, and breezed through it. You should see her transcripts. I don’t think this girl has gotten less than an A+ on anything since kindergarten.”

“Send them over.”

“Already done. After that, she starts work at a local hospital, and then… nothing. Her paper trail stops. Her job disappears. She’s a ghost except for the sealed court records, and now the Jane Doe medical chart, but that didn’t happen until later. The aliases she’s used over the past few years, they’re in the wind. It’s really quite impressive. She’s either got a connection somewhere, or she’s CIA.” Kate is animated, talking quickly, and he interrupts her to get to the question that’s weighing on him, brushing off the latter immediately. You’re not a honeypot. He spots those a mile away.

“You know her name, then. Her birth name?”

“I do.” She’s silent for a moment, and then she gives it softly. First, middle and last.

He closes his eyes. He tries to imagine you as a girl, on the playground, playing tags with other kids, all of them shouting your name, or as a teenager, in a fight with a parent, one of them yelling your name. He pictures you as a uni student, with your friends, laughing and having a good time somewhere, one of them hollering your name over too loud music. You’ve had a whole life with that name, a whole story. You were a person with that name, and he tries to imagine the way it would sound on your tongue, on Johnny’s, even his.

You’re a ghost now, will you let them bring you into the light?

Will you let them help you reclaim it; the way Johnny helped him reclaim his own?

Kate subtly coughs on the other end of the line.

“Thanks, Kate.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll keep digging. Check your email when you get a chance.”

“Will do.”

“Oh! And the hotel, I sent that paperwork to your email as well.” He thanks her, again, tells her to try to enjoy her time off and hangs up just as Penny starts to fidget, unhappy with being in the highchair for so long without attention.

“Alright, lamb. Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” He pulls her free, showering kisses all over her cheeks and neck that make her giggle. “Can’t be wearin’ your applesauce and pajamas over to John and Lou’s, can you?”

Johnny is anxious. Simon can see it a mile away, even before he gets in the room, he notices how he is fidgets, unspent energy and too much time to dwell culminating in an unsettled state.

So, when he kisses him first thing, he makes it long and slow. He drags Johnny’s bottom lip between his teeth, carefully taking his time until he’s sure his partner is half hard beneath his hospital gown and blanket.

“Si.” Johnny groans, and he relents, pulling away to cradle his face between his hands, taking him in, every line, every fleck of gold in his blue eyes, soaking up the healing, healthy glow that glimmers in his skin.

His doctor says it won’t be long now, until he can come home, and Simon is counting the days.

To have everyone, under one roof, feels like a fever dream.

“Missed you.” Johnny noses into his neck, and Simon reciprocates with a kiss to his temple, his cheek.

“Missed ye too.” He pauses, squeezing his hand. “Pen?”

“Alright. Grumpy this morning. Think she wanted to see you.” She did, he knows it, but he tries not to pile it on. Johnny knows their daughter misses him, as much as he misses her. They’re two peas in a pod, best friends, halves to a whole. They’re both suffering. “Went with Lou and John fine. I’ll bring her in the morning.”

“Good.” He nods, tilting his chin for another kiss, and Simon gives it without hesitation, basking in the warmth and familiar feel  of his skin.

When he clears his throat, he pulls away with a sigh. “How is she?”

“In pain. Shoulder is nearly torn out of the socket, and her neck is in poor shape. I had to help get her into bed, she couldn’t get her shirt off. Emotionally she’s… still got the walls up, but she let them slip for a second last night, before she let me help her. And I caught her crying in front of the fridge. Think the photos of Pen got to her somehow.” His stomach twists, new, horrifying possibility dawning on him. Do you have a child somewhere? 

“Did she get any sleep?”

“She hadn’t come down when I left to take Penny, so I assume so.”

“Good. She needs it.” Simon agrees. After injury, after trauma, body and mind need so much more care. More rest, more nutrients, water, protein. More love.

“Kate called.” He bites the bullet, fingers flexing against his knee. “She found a loose end and tugged it.” Johnny straightens. He’s every bit the solider, even laid up in bed. Waxy, soft features turn razor sharp and focused, except instead of his practiced steadiness, he’s chomping at the bit.

“Tell me.”

Simon does. He tells him everything Kate said, almost verbatim. Johnny’s face changes from worried to enraged when he finally gets to the medical chart.

“No.” Johnny’s whisper is faint, thin, papyrus. Brittle and broken, almost washed away, and Simon doesn’t blame him. The chart is horrific for them, was horrific for him earlier, turned his stomach until he thought he’d be sick.

He’s killed. He’s tortured. But to be there when Johnny revealed the handprinted tender skin on your neck, to be there when you cried out in pain last night, when he saw the scars on your body, the cigarette burns that were so familiar, to look at these photos and know that you’ve been brutalized beyond belief, makes his vision run red and his heart ache.

There’s a ghost in these photos. A different girl, but the same, a glimpse of what he saw last night. Still their bunny, their girl. He can see her, through the broken blood vessels and compound forearm fracture. He can see her past the swollen cheekbone and broken nose, the fresh burns on your stomach and torso. The doctor’s notes indicate that you said you were mugged, and sexually assaulted, but refused to finish the SANE exam and took off.

He's not surprised. 

The first time he saw the burns on your naked skin, he swore he could his mother’s screams, and for the hundredth time today, Simon thinks of her. He wonders, if she ever went to a hospital, if she ever begged anyone to help her, or them. He wonders if someone saw what was happening, how she was slowly disappearing, sinking in on herself, and tried to help. He wonders if she felt as alone as you seem to. If she too, became a ghost.

He looks at these photos and cannot fight the pain, the memories.

“Oh, Si.” Johnny cups his cheek, thumb soothing softly across his skin, trying to wipe away the tears that fall. He can’t stop them, not now, and Johnny does not ask, only holds him through it, lets him cry into his hands, pain and suffering of a small, frightened boy coming out of his body in broken sobs.

He won’t fail you. Not like he did her.

After minutes turn long, he takes a deep breath, pressing his lips to Johnny’s palm, and utters a promise as cold as death. 

“We’ll kill them. Whoever it is.”

#peaches writes #simple math #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x soap #john soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #ghost x reader

[macbetha]

below the cut, you'll find an interest check chapter for quatervois, a nancy drew pc fic. it's francy and also my idea of my absolute dream game. please let me know what you think and enjoy!

+++

After Ned breaks up with her and she loses her father, Nancy struggles to find her old vigor for detective work. While on vacation in London with Bess and George, Nancy accepts the urgent invitation to return Blackmoor Manor. Her English getaway quickly turns into an investigation once Nancy realizes the true reason Nigel Mookergee asked her back to the moors. Finding Deirdre Shannon at the manor under the same pretense only sets Nancy’s nerves further on edge. It isn’t until the Hardy Boys show up in Blackmoor that Nancy gets a glimpse of who she once was. With a manor full of suspects and a glass heart cracked open, Nancy is determined to find the truth.

Dear Ned,

How are you? It’s been a while. I’ve always started off my letters telling you about my latest case, but I’m not on one right now. I’m sure that’s hard to believe. Bess and George have whisked me away to London. I’m sure you would love it here. This is the first time I’ve seen Bess and George since I sold the house in River Heights. I stayed with Kyler and Matt in Ireland for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Their daughter just turned two. I’m somewhat jealous I’m happy for them. Anyways, I miss you I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure New York is lovely at Christmas time. I hope Stephanie is I wish Stephanie well How is Stephanie? I hope Stephanie is doing all right. I appreciated the card Stephanie sent when dad passed away. Warm regards, Merry Christmas, Love Nancy

She stares down at the letter as if the red ink were her own blood. It feels just as wounding, seeing her emotions made physical in the words on the paper. Only when a tear splatters on the page does she break free from her trance to the past. Nancy is the only person in her hotel suite, yet she works to rid the evidence like one of her own suspects. She pulls her feet up in the desk chair and crosses her ankles, holding the arch of her right foot – it recently became the victim of her latest culprit. Nancy’s foot got caught under the getaway car’s tire, and she is lucky to even be able to walk after the event. Months later, it’s stiff as hell with the most intense cramps she’s ever endured. Heart racing to forget the night it happened, she focuses on the snowfall out the window – counting little sparkles of snowflakes, though the world blurs when she squints. The doctor thought her failing sight as well as the daily headaches were on account of being hit in the head so many times.

She busies herself with choosing a postcard to send Hannah and Nancy selects one with a cat dressed up as a royal guard. The cuteness puts a smile on her face, however small – she hopes it’ll do the same for Hannah, but there is no telling. Nancy had the gut-feeling Hannah was lying about recognizing her the last time Nancy visited the nursing home. Torment swirls like wind to fallen leaves. She doesn’t have Hannah or Togo to come home to. Togo passed just before Nancy’s thirty-second birthday, and Carson fell ill soon after that. Nancy looks to her hotel bed where Mr. Woogle Woggle sits tucked between two pillows. It seems he is the only one that hasn’t left her. A knock on her hotel door reminds her that is simply not true. Nancy rights herself, fixing her posture to the stance of someone passionate, and she opens the door. Bess and George greet her with blazing smiles; Nancy gives silent thanks for their presence in her life. She would still be in Scotland with Kyler and Matt, had Bess and George not insisted to take her on a vacation. Nancy imagines that their insistence was due to them wanting to keep Nancy from spending Christmas alone on the road again like last year. “Nancy,” Bess stresses. “You’re never going to guess who we ran into in the lobby!” Horror strikes dull and loud in her ears. Surely, it’s not Ned. Please, don’t let it be Ned. George says, “Give you a hint: they were involved in one of your cases.” Nancy’s despair leaves her throat tight. She glances down the hallway, preparing to yank Bess and George into her room and dial her Cathedral contact to get them set up in witness protection.

“That didn’t narrow it down at all, George,” Bess says with a roll of her eyes. “Nancy’s been on hundreds of cases.” Nancy’s strain creeps into her one word: “Who?” Bess and George beam. “Maya Nguyn!” ++

Nancy follows Bess and George to the elevator in a hurried stupor. No thoughts can she conjure as she steps free from the elevator walls which seem to close in on her; Nancy marches into the lobby and notices a woman in the crowd of tourists. She stands with her back to Nancy, her hair drawn up in a bun, and her chin is lifted high with no time for games. Maya turns around and her bright red mouth stretches into a smile. “Nancy!” “Maya,” Nancy huffs in disbelief. She tenses in Maya’s sudden embrace before all but falling into it. This is something good I did; Nancy cherishes with shut eyes. This is someone I helped. When Maya pulls back, Nancy says, “What are you doing all the way out here? You said in your last letter, you were still in Washington.” “My house is technically there,” Maya nods. “But I get to work on the road more these days.” Her brows crease over a sympathetic smile. “Bess and George tell me you’re kind of in the same boat.” Nancy shrugs, struggling to hold Maya’s concerned gaze. “It’s just easier,” Nancy lies. Maya seems to see right through it, but she doesn’t speak on it. Nancy will have to thank her later. George says, “Maya offered us free tickets to a play she’s reviewing tonight and get this – it’s at the Globe Theater!” “Remind me what’s so special about a globe theater,” Bess sighs, checking her nails. “Not ‘a’, Bess, the.” George shakes her head. “The Globe Theater – well, technically it’s a reconstruction of the first one, but it’s where Shakespeare wrote his plays.” “It’s the opening night of a new play,” Maya explains. “And Nancy, you’ll never guess who the star is.” Nancy cannot take anymore guessing games. “Brady Armstrong.” Maya blinks. “Well – yes, actually.” Nancy frowns. “Wait, really?” “Yes,” Maya laughs. “I’ll be conducting an interview with him after the show if you want to go backstage and chew him out for all the stunts he pulled back in the day.” A spark of vigor heightens Nancy’s senses. That doesn’t sound bad at all. Still – “Are you sure we won’t be a distraction or –” “Nancy.” Maya’s hand falls on her shoulder. “You saved my life. You’re the furthest thing from a distraction.” Gratitude floods her before Nancy nods. “All right, then.” +++ The walk to the Globe would be depressive what with the sky being the color of a soaked napkin, but the Christmas decorations lift everyone’s spirits. Nancy limps by a shop playing Christmas oldies through the open door and she is borne back to her father listening to records over cocoa on Christmas morning. She tries to push the memory from her mind, then she thinks of building snowmen with Ned and having snowball fights that turned into the sweetest kisses she’s ever received. The music won’t stop. There are three Christmas trees in the display window and their flashing lights strike pain behind Nancy’s eyes. She pants through a sensory overload before someone squeezes her hand. Maya smiles in understanding as Bess and George walk obliviously in front of them. “It’s hard,” Maya says. “This life on the road. You pick up a few habits.” Nancy squeezes her hand in thanks before tucking her own in her peacoat’s pocket. “I want to enjoy this,” she admits quietly. “But I think the holidays are always hard.” Maya nods. “It won’t be this way forever, Nancy,” she promises. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” Cross your fingers, there’s a story behind this door! Nancy swallows around the lump of panic in her throat. She plasters on a smile. +++ The theater is packed with noise and touching and all-around boisterous patrons. They find their seats in the crowd and Nancy doesn’t watch where she’s going – she must keep her eyes on the open ceiling to remember how to breathe. She sits down at the end of the group and Maya passes out programs. Quatervois, the title reads. Bess says, “What does that mean?” “It means you’re at a crossroads,” Maya says. “A turning point.” “Sounds a little dramatic,” George grumbles. Nancy traces the swooping lines of the title with

her thumb, repeating the process until the lights go down. The masked chorus emerges from the shadows and gives a synopsis: Down from Olympus a great hero emerges, Mighty in his strength and courage! A choice he must make Shall he ignore fate? Will he choose love, Or follow his destiny there-of? When Brady saunters on stage in an impossibly short silk chiton, it’s an out-of-body experience for Nancy. He still hasn’t grown his ponytail back, so Simone could very well be in the audience right now. Nancy rubs her aching temple at the thought. Brady begins his journey as the character Diogenes, a demigod that was supposedly – according to the play’s plot – written out of ancient Greek mythos. Diogenes must defeat those who want to leave him forgotten in history, lest he admit that he can’t win this fight and live his life like everyone else. Nancy assumes the play’s ending too soon. She imagines this will be a droll experience written only to paint Brady as a glorious hero that can conquer anything – but she is quickly surprised. Brady is stabbed in the final act and addresses the audience in a wail: And so my story ends a breath too early, No time to even be weary! The moon shall pass over my corpse, And the sun will beat down on my ashes with no remorse. Today, I have failed my quartervois Alone, forgotten, and lost. When the curtain falls, Nancy’s mouth is parted in disbelief as a tear burns down her cheek. They don’t receive a proper goodbye with Maya since the rest of the crowd is bustling toward the exit. She does have time to say that Brady is producing a new television series and will be scouting some locations further into Essex; Maya will be following the film crew there for test shoots. She embraces each girl individually and holds Nancy for a beat longer, whispering, “You’ll call if you need to talk?” “Of course,” Nancy says by impulse. “Same to you.” +++ Nancy is proud of herself for going out, but when she closes the door to her hotel suite, her back thunks against the wall and she must take deep breaths for several minutes. She decides to treat herself to a bubble bath even though it’s nearly midnight. She rolls her hair up into a bun and looks at it in the mirror, how haphazard and messy hers is in comparison to Maya. Nancy isn’t jealous – but she can’t help but notice when people are thriving. She wants to figure out how to do it herself and hasn’t found the cure yet. The bath is claw-footed and deep. Nancy sinks into the steaming water before goosebumps rise on her arms, and her freckled skin blushes in the heat. The water does wonders for her foot. She eases her head back on the lip of the tub and nears a light doze when her cell phone rings. It rests atop a stack of towels by the tub. Nancy wipes her damp hand off before looking to the screen. Frank Hardy. Nancy answers and taps the speaker button to relax back in the tub. “Hey.” “Hi, Nance,” Frank says, his voice a familiar balm after such a stressful time. “What’s going on?” “Things aren’t too different from last week’s call,” Nancy smiles. “But I’m on vacation with Bess and George.” “Oh wow! That’s awesome. I hope it’s been fun.” Nancy’s glazed eyes blink. “Yeah,” she rasps. “It’s nice.” She clears her throat, searching for her old enthusiasm. “But what about you? How’s Joe?” “Same as usual, a pain in my ass.” Nancy chuckles before a distinctive lift raises Frank’s voice. “We’re actually getting ready to get on a plane for a case – but I wanted to make sure everything’s good with you.” Nancy’s hand closes in a fist on her raised knee. “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a case.” “Not really. You just took a few months off to stay with Kyler, right?” “Yeah, but that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without a case since I started.” “I’d give you ours if I could,” Frank says. “Really not looking forward to such a long plane ride. Oh, they’re calling for our gate – but do you want me call you when I land?” Gratefulness is a warm glow in her heart. “No, that’s okay – but

thank you. Be safe on your trip and tell Joe I said hi.” “Can do.” Frank pauses. “I – tell Bess and George I said hi.” “Can do,” Nancy repeats. She chews her lip. “See you soon?” She feels foolish for saying something when Frank is headed to a case. While the weekly phone calls have kept Nancy sane, it would be even better to see the Hardy Boys. “I’ll make it happen,” Frank promises. “See you, Nance.” After they hang up, Nancy struggles to get out of the tub with her swollen foot. She gets into a pair of sweats and wraps up some ice in a washcloth, then holds it against her foot. Nancy mulls over her conversation with Frank, wondering how much of her poor mood could be due to not solving a mystery. With a deep yawn, she tosses the soaked washcloth in the wastebasket, not able to walk to the bathroom to put it in the sink. She cuddles up to her teddy bear and flicks the lamp off when her phone rocks to life on the nightstand. Bewildered, Nancy turns the lamp back on to look at the screen. The number is unknown; she sees her hand tremble around the phone. She lets the call go to voicemail before the phone vibrates to life once again. Bracing herself, Nancy answers. “Hello?” “Yes, hello – I’m trying to reach a one Nancy Drew?” The voice is British and eerily familiar, like Nancy heard it in a dream. “This is she.” “Splendid! Oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to in order to find your number.” “Sorry? Who is this?” “Why, Nigel Mookergee. We met at –” “Blackmoor,” Nancy whispers. “Nigel, hi. What’s going on?” “I’m afraid the manner of my call is not a jovial one,” he says. “How should I explain this? Well, I suppose from the start. You see –” He sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I’m speaking of this, but the Penvellyns have fallen into a bit of… financial trouble.” Nancy says, “’Financial trouble’?” “It’s certainly not my business to spread, but yes. It’s not that they are a poor family by any means, but one diplomat’s salary is not enough to keep up a castle.” Nancy sits up, grabbing a pen and notepad from her bedside table. She jots as Nigel continues. “The Penvellyns began to host historical tours at the manor – much to Mrs. Drake’s dismay, I might add. Jane wishes to expand the business to the paranormal side of things, and I don’t quite agree with the idea myself, but she insists it’s just what the manor needs.” Nancy finishes scrawling and says, “So, you’re working for the Penvellyns now?” “Yes. I’m afraid there’s been some situations – inconsequential events, if you will – that need a glance over.” Nancy arches a brow. “You mean an investigation.” “Ah, such a serious word. I simply want to make sure we are fully prepared to expand the business.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “Right. When would you need me there?” “As soon as possible -” Nigel catches himself. “I mean, at your earliest convenience.” Nancy glances over her notes, running her hand over the page filled by red ink. She closes her eyes against the sight and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think and stay safe. and please consider following me here and on twitter! xoxo

#nancy drew #nd #nancy drew pc #nd pc #CUR #clue crew #blackmoor manor #curse of blackmoor manor #francy #frank hardy #nancy drew fanfiction

[keplercryptids]

Have you read Jade City? Cause it’s my favorite series and it has left a whole in my little heart and I can’t seem to find anything as good until the third book comes out. Do you have any recs? Make it queer (preferably mlm cause my brother wants the rep) I loved Anden.

jade city has been on my to-read list foreverrrr! i hope to get to it soon but I'm drowning in books i want to read lol.

queer recs! you know i got em. most of these are SFF cuz that's what i read, and tried to focus on books with mlm rep!

Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas. YA fantasy, mlm. main character is trans brujo teen who falls in love with a ghost. very sweet!

Winter's Orbit by Everina Maxwell. scifi, mlm. princes in space get arrange-married for treaty purposes. i'm about halfway done with it and am loving it so far.

The Last Sun by K.D. Edwards. fantasy, mlm, big dnd vibes. also the main relationship in the book is platonic and deep and utterly fuels me. (big trigger warnings for sexual assault, child abuse etc in this one so please look up trigger warnings if you need to!)

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. mlm, 10/10 would cry again. achilles retelling from patroclus' pov. obviously has a sad ending but if you're a Sad Boi (TM) like me, you'll love that.

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune. fantasy lite, mlm, found family x10000. just a warm cinnamon bun of a book, really. a warm hug. a nice cup of cocoa. good shit.

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin (and the entire Broken Earth trilogy tbh). this is my all time favorite fantasy series. dark and haunting and owns my ass, basically. queer rep although romantic relationships aren't really the focus. look up triggers for this one too probably if it's a concern!

River of Teeth by Sarah Gailey. alternate history novella, what if america had cowboys but with hippos? characters are casually queer and there's an nb/m relationship.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jiminez. scifi space opera, gorgeously written, one main character is a mlm teen.

okay I'll stop here lol

#booktalk #book recs #x me a q

[bbytetsu]

HAIKYUU!! AESTHETICS: NEKOMA + FUKURODANI

kenma: face framing highlights, 2000s tamagotchis, oversized knit cardigans, thigh high socks with bows, ren hang photography, biking along the river with your best friend at night, blunt bangs above the eyebrows, projecting movies onto your bedroom wall, stick and poke tattoos, wes anderson cinematography, colored eyeliner, shoulder pads, comme des garcons campaign posters, hand painted skateboards, embroidery on literally anything, kenzo 

kuroo: layering gold and silver necklaces, alexander mcqueen, slightly smudged lipstick, hajime sorayama, y2k cropped tees, long sleeve dresses with thigh high slits, the reflection of the moon in water, bold typography posters, vivienne westwood corsets, buckles, tartan print, a glass of red wine, glossy eyelids, collarbone tattoos, the stoplight reflected in the puddles on a rainy night, drawing on your bottom lashes with eyeliner, coffin/almond shaped nails, cropped band tees, balconies or rooftop terraces

yaku: a guitar strung over your shoulder, fluffy bangs, chain rings, junji ito manga, kitsune masks, traditional japanese calligraphy, space buns, frilly white socks with tall platform shoes, faux fur bags, square necklines, pastel colored hair, old record covers, gogo yubari from kill bill, the opening scene of vertigo, oversized band tees, david carson typography, vivienne westwood (forever and always), harley davidson motorcycles, chocolate dipped strawberries, garter belt sets, dark concert halls with hazy lighting

akaashi: messy buns, raf simons menswear, matte lip tints, oversized blazers over anything, all wong kar wai films, suits and suit dresses, a slip dress under a tailored trench coat, clear umbrellas on a rainy day, bright turtleneck sweaters, japanese lanterns strung up at a festival, leather gloves, wispy eyelashes, berets, lace sheer detailing, greek statues, art museums, stole-my-boyfriend’s button up look, cherry blossoms, lace gloves, fluffy white snow that makes you feel like you’re in a snowglobe

bokuto: floral suits, gucci cruise 2019, backless dresses, big floppy hats with a dark pair of sunglasses, ear length bob cuts, 35 mm film photography, huge house plants, flared jeans (pants as a statement piece!), desert sunsets, big hoop earrings, wearing a ton of highlighter during golden hour, floral sundresses with chunky sneakers, lily pads or koi fish ponds, tilted typography, gradients, multicolored nails, stretched type, surrealist illustration, mismatched earrings, single colored outfits, ballpoint colored pen scribbles

#i litrally wrote this just for me but maybe someone else will enjoy it! #haikyuu!! #haikyuu #hq #hq!! #haikyuu headcanons #kenma kozume #kenma #kenma headcanons #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo #kuroo headcanons #yaku morisuke #yaku #yaku headcanons #akaashi keiji #akaashi #akaashi headcanons #bokuto koutaro #bokuto #bokuto headcanons #bbytetsu

[artificialqueens]

who we are and who we are not [trixya] - pinkgrapefruit

There’s a hint of an ocean hidden in the back of Katya’s eyes and Trixie is so sure she’s seen it before.

*

It begins in Australia. (It begins in an idyllic neighbourhood both above and below and to the left of Trixie’s office.) She agrees to help this confused blonde with a rats’ nest of hair in a messy bun and the bags under her eyes that carry more secrets than Gretchen’s hair, and she cannot decide why. There is something uniquely compelling behind the river of her eyes, and Trixie just wants to spend the upcoming weekend sunbathing on its banks, drinking margarita slushies, and reading poetry.

[the good place au]

A/N - you should never have let me express my love of other fandoms because this au has been in the works for months and after the harry potter au response you’re all insane to think I’m not posting this. thank you to jazz and frey for being fantastic cheerleaders and grammar checkers and i really hope you like it because I do. i’m not at all sorry and you don’t really need knowledge of the good place to read this

*

There’s a hint of an ocean hidden in the back of Katya’s eyes and Trixie is so sure she’s seen it before.

*

It begins that first day, in her office.

It ends there too in due course, and then starts there again, so much harder and more painful than before because she thought she was finally over it, and because Katya.

There’s more to it than that, though. So much more.

*

It begins in Australia. (It begins in an idyllic neighbourhood both above and below and to the left of Trixie’s office.) She agrees to help this confused blonde with a rats’ nest of hair in a messy bun and the bags under her eyes that carry more secrets than Gretchen’s hair, and she cannot decide why. There is something uniquely compelling behind the river of her eyes, and Trixie just wants to spend the upcoming weekend sunbathing on its banks, drinking margarita slushies, and reading poetry.

So she agrees to help. And it starts off with just them, in Trixie’s office, when she’s pretending to be marking grad student essays praising Kant for ideas that Hume created, but instead, trying to figure out why a woman who decided she needed help, needed her. Katya says she watched her lectures ( What we owe to each other ), and when Trixie looks, really looks into her eyes, she sees hope and fear and something so deep she needs a ladder on hand before she goes any closer - and she swears she’s seen that look before -

They’re in the kitchen sat on the bench which should not be comfortable, save for the way Katya shoved all of their throws down the back of it to pad it out. They’re in the kitchen, looking at the television playing a VCR of them - in a bed.

Katya on the tape was smiling. She looked happy and in love. ‘I did that,’ Trixie thinks. ‘I made her look like that.’ And she feels a warmth pulsate behind her left ribcage.

“So, yeah, I guess… do you… I don’t know. Do you have any feeling like that for me… again… now?” She asks.

And then Trixie blinks and she is a stranger again.

It begins with the stark feeling that maybe this is the most important moment of her life.

*

Katya bullies her into asking Bob out. She’s smart, Trixie will give her that. She knows just how to trap her.

(It’s almost as if they’ve known each other for years.)

The dinner could have gone better. It’s stilted - awkward. The back and forth feels wrong and Bob - while she’s wonderful - she feels; odd. She takes too long to order and Bob snatches the menu out of her hands, and that’s how she ends up eating goats cheese. She’s a little bit allergic, but she really likes Bob. She’ll figure the rest out later.

The vase is the same blue as Katya’s eyes.

*

It’s a few weeks later and Katya has graduated from sitting in the back of class, bullying Australian undergrads for their pronunciation of Kant to making actual progress. Tangible progress that looks like tipping servers and clearing the lecture hall. And she’s talking about one student - a quiet one with good ideas and strong morals, Jasmine - maybe and -

“We’ll get some information, Hey Jan!” She calls, and this Trixie is sure of herself when she speaks, spoon full of froyo balanced on the edge of her cup.

A blonde comes out of nowhere. She’s dressed like a seventies air hostess, and even though she’s not breathing, she looks so human Trixie swears there’s a ghost of a rise in her chest.

That Katya jumps with a gasp. “Who the fork are you?” she asks like she needs to know.

“This is Jan - she’s like a database for all knowledge. You can ask her anything you want.”

“Hi,” Jan says. It’s robotic, but not inhuman, and the juxtaposition is unnerving.

“Jan… Was Violet in love with me in fifth grade?” Katya winks.

“Yasmine,” Trixie corrects breathlessly. “You could learn something from her - she’s good.”

“Yeah, but then why would I need you?” Katya jumps off the desk she’s been sat on and pads out of the hall, her flannel slung around her waist. Trixie pushes the glasses up her nose and leans her head on the cool wall for a moment. She needs a moment.

*

Katya wins eighteen thousand dollars. Monét starts dating the black sheep of West Industries. Vanessa goes to yoga for five minutes before she realises it’s not what she signed up for, but she stays for the hot ex-ballerina instructor because watching her do some of the poses means she doesn’t have to do them herself. Trixie sees the librarian and a blonde woman popping champagne and whispering in the abandoned journalism department. She leaves them to it. Life is good.

(It’s not though.)

(If there is a hell, this is it.)

Being like Katya is like teetering on the very edge of a cliff. She’s fighting not to fall forwards into the ocean blue of her eyes, but she can’t bear to fall back onto solid, safe earth either. She learns to be content with the rough-edged, precarious thing that isn’t quite love, but at the same time isn’t not, that she knows cannot last.

Eventually, she is going to fall one way or another. She will lose her either way.

She shouldn’t be thinking about her.

(She never stops)

She’s with Bob. She loves Bob. Probably-

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” she says, and Katya’s face falls and there’s a sharp ache in her chest. “I could, logistically. You’re funny, and intelligent and your face is… symmetrical.”

(Wow.)

(Symmetrical)

(They’re going to the bad place and she calls her symmetrical.)

(And she cannot save Katya, but she wants to.)

Nine months in and Bob tells her she loves her, and Trixie’s response could make E.E. Cummings cry.

“Oh, why?”

And she tells Katya the next day, who punches her arm relentlessly for fifteen minutes, all while berating her using language that would also make Cummings cry if he heard them. Katya wants her to love Bob. She doesn’t dream of the two of them walking around a lake in an idyllic neighbourhood - wrapped in blankets that smell of hope and happiness.

That’s fine. Because neither does Trixie.

“You make my head feel like a fork in the garbage disposal.”

*

She has to do it. She has to fall backwards onto the safe earth that feels like lecture hall carpet and smells like Bob’s perfume. But she can’t.

Not when every stolen moment feels so right. Not when Katya’s eyes knit together to form a patchwork blanket of hope and promise and intricacies Trixie wouldn’t be able to unravel with forever on the line. Not when Katya fit so perfectly in her arms - and Trixie doesn’t believe in soulmates-

“Hi, I’m Trixie Mattel, I’m your soulmate.” She waves, a little stilted, but the grin on her face that worms it’s way up to her eyes quicker than she thought possible discounts any fear she may have. And Jan stands there looking happy for them.

“Bring it in man.” Katya hugs her, and her flannels smell like hiking in summer sun and the feeling of dew between your toes.

(“We will find each other and we will help each other because we are soulmates”)-

Trixie cannot believe in soulmates.

(It would be dangerous, and she’s trying to avoid dangerous.)

*

It’s an awful idea.

Really terrible.

“You are very lucky I can’t send you to the Bad Idea place, because that one is a stanker.”

It’s a double date.

She’s not quite sure how that became a thing, and she’s not quite sure how it differs from the Brainy Bunch before they became the Brainy Bunch, before Monét and Vanessa, and then Brooke and Nina.

When it was just her and Katya, and she thought it was going to stay that way forever.

*

Bob picks the restaurant. She finds one of her friends who is free on Friday night as a date for Katya, who is almost as symmetrical as Katya (according to Bob, who may have used the word ‘handsome’, but it just doesn’t do her justice, does it? Like she’s some sort of ornamental flower pot, because have you ever seen a non-symmetrical flower pot. Don’t answer that, because Vanessa made Nina a very lopsided pink one for her birthday, that she uses to house Katya’s peace lily that she donated so it could actually survive - but that’s not the main focus right now). But apparently the man won’t get drunk and cause a riot like Katya might, which is fine. Trixie thinks Bob might have superpowers. It’s going to be fine.

She is totally fine that Katya is going on a date with a symmetrical man.

It’s fine -

“ You guys gotta scram, my soulmate has something planned for me.”

Her soulmate is Simon and he gets Katya all the time - not a precious few hours a week. He likes jazz operas and cowboy hats, and Trixie thinks he’s a poor fit for her, but she seems happy.

He has everything Trixie wants and sometimes it seems like he doesn’t even want it.

*

It goes south before they step foot in the restaurant.

She’s sure Bob’s friend is lovely, but he starts to talk about how he’s on this new diet where you can eat anything that’s seafood except shrimp, because shrimp is awful, and Trixie places a hand on Katya’s arm before she can leap to shrimps defence as Bob changes the subject onto something that will end with less bloodshed.

It doesn’t improve inside.

Katya, in the seat next to her, starts making an underhanded commentary about the couple across the walkway, and Trixie tries to tell her to stop, but they end up giggling like children until Bob’s foot is firmly imprinted on Trixie’s shin. Her friend looks at them like they’re insane. Maybe they are.

The waiter comes out with a cheese platter. “Hey, um, Brain,” says Katya, squinting at his ‘HI, I’M BRIAN’ name tag. Trixie’s proud of her trying, she supposes. “D’you think we could have crackers instead? Or, like, cake? Something without goat’s cheese?”

“How did you know?’ she asks her after the waiter has finished his spiel on why cake isn’t an appropriate appetizer and left (with a huffy “and it’s Brian!”) to take the orders of the couple to their right. Trixie wishes him luck, and he’s going to need it, because the couple have now progressed to full-on making out over the table, completely ignoring the waiter. Katya keeps looking over at them. There’s an odd expression on her face. In the dim light of the restaurant, she looks especially symmetrical. She can’t tear her eyes away from her, and as a result, nearly stabs herself in the nose with her fork, and – why exactly is Bob interested in her again?

(She doesn’t want to know.)

(She sort of wants to know why Katya isn’t.)

“Know what?” Katya’s voice sounds strained.

“That I can’t eat goat cheese.”

She turns away from the couple and looks at her dead-on, face crumpling into a bewildered grimace, and she feels like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “What are you talking about, weirdo? You told me.”

She didn’t. She knows she didn’t, because most of the time he’s spent with her has been with Bob, too, and she’s been careful not to tell Bob about the goat cheese because nearly a year later it’s actually a good memory. The awkward parts have faded away. She doesn’t want to ruin it. Everything is good.

She tells her as much.

“No – dude – you were… wait… no, you’re right. Huh. Who was I thinking of?”

(Somebody else.)

(Which is really, truly fine.)

(Really.)

Unfortunately, the man on their right chooses that exact moment to say to his girlfriend “…The spaces between you and me resonate in my heart.” Katya spits out a mouthful of wine, and they’re kicked out of the restaurant by Brain – er, Brian – who must really be having a terrible night.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

They’re on the couch again. The one that looks too uncomfortable to be comfortable, but she’s never seen herself look so comfortable.

“Believe it, baby,” Katya smiles, “I’m all yours. Well, at least until something better comes along - for me. You’ve pretty much topped out.” The twinkle in Katya’s eye reminds Trixie she is lying. That Katya is hers. She shakes their intertwined fingers and relishes in the fact they do not fall apart.

*

Bob offers to drive her home, but she’s also taking her friend and Trixie’s had just about all the self-help book quotes she can take. She didn’t think she needed help to be fair. And she’s been on edge ever since he offered her dieting tips she really didn’t want.

They drive off and Katya walks over to her. Trixie doesn’t see her, but there’s that feeling; key in a lock, last answer to the Sunday crossword, book on a rainy morning - a sense of rightness.

(She clings to it more than she can admit.)

She turns to look at her.

“Well, I didn’t kill him, so I think I’d call it a win,” she quips, adjusting the way her white shirt shows the edge of her red lace bra. She’s a little drunk and it’s possible she’s being mean. But there was also the diet tip, so Trixie’s willing to compromise.

She rifles around in her purse. “Hold that,” she says, and Trixie finds her hands full of gum wrappers, loose change, a single cracker and, somehow, another bottle of wine. “How—” she starts, but Katya cuts her off.

“You really don’t want to know.”

She should chastise her. Make her give it back along with any semblance of dignity she stole from the waiter, but Trixie’s not exactly sober either, and the wine is good. Brian wouldn’t let them back in, anyway.

“Fork,” Katya curses under her breath because she’s trying not to swear as part of her good person promise to herself and - by extension - Trixie.

“What?” Trixie asks, still holding all of Katya’s rubbish.

“Taxi money.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh.”

Trixie looks around at the orange glow of the streetlamps and the still-warm sun setting in the distance.

“Aren’t we, like, two blocks from your motel?” She asks, because she knows they are, and Katya scrunches her face up because she doesn’t.

“I took a taxi here,” she admits. “And I’m not really sure how to get home.”

She’s not sure if it’s the wine or Katya’s presence, or that she just got kicked out of an establishment for the first time in her life, or something else entirely, but there’s a laugh bubbling up inside her chest and then she’s laughing too, and soon they’re both doubled over in hysterics on the footpath.

It doesn’t bypass Trixie that that’s the first time Katya has called Australia home.

( “I’m going to miss this stupid clown house.”)

(“It’s where we fell in love.”)

*

They stumble along the warm concrete of the pavement, nearly falling over thanks to the wine and the fact they fall back into laughter every couple of steps. “I feel the absence of you reverberate in my heart,” says Katya. Trixie laughs so hard she nearly falls into the path of an oncoming car.

She just has to stop Katya from doing the kind of thing she usually does when she’s drunk: sleeping with strangers and shoplifting. Occasionally throwing things. Once she cried into her shirt for an hour because she had a photo of her grandpa on her wall.

The motel has just come into view when it starts to rain. Katya grabs her hand and pulls her towards the flickering neon VACANCIES sign. She steps in a puddle, and then they’re off again, staggering along the side of the road howling with laughter. They reach the door out of breath and soaking wet.

The receptionist gives them a strange look as they walk past.

She asks her if she wants to stay.

Of course, I’ll stay , she wants to tell her. I’d stay forever, if you wanted.

But she doesn’t, and Trixie doesn’t, and she can’t. So they watch a movie, and she leans her head on Trixie’s shoulder, and she falls asleep to the sound of rain lashing the windows and the smell of Katya’s shampoo.

*

She’s fallen.

Not the good kind. The safe kind. She knows it as soon as she wakes up fully clothed, watching the way the sun skips on the freckles along Katya’s nose. The ocean is warmer than she thought it would be, and she’s grateful that the tide seems kind. She has never looked more symmetrical.

(She does not feel kind.)

(She feels like a monster.)

*

It ends after the liquidation of the Brainy Bunch. After Max and Jan and the Peep Chilli disaster of ‘19.

It ends in the dean’s office where she gets her heart crushed and her career brought to a sudden, shuddering halt.

She looks at Katya and all she sees are dreams that are being slowly rebuilt into paper boats that hold the weight of worlds. She wishes she could be more like her.

(Wishes don’t come true.)

“I need to end things with Bob.”

Maybe wishes don’t come true. She’ll never get to have Katya for herself, she knows that, she’s made peace with it. Well, no, she hasn’t, but she’s accepted it. She can never, ever tell Katya how she feels, or kiss her, or hold her in her arms at night, but she can stay by her side, make sure she’s happy and safe for always, and that just might be enough.

It’s the easiest choice she’s ever made.

“Okay -

“…but too bad, because I need to say it, because you deserve it. Because… because…” because I love you. Because I can’t lose you. Because it’s you, and you told me you loved me and I was scared you were going to take it all back, but that doesn’t matter, you matter -

*

They kiss.

And it ends.

And it begins.

And everything is fine.

And everything is great.

#rpdr fanfiction #who we are and who we are not #pinkgrapefruit #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #monet x change #bob the drag queen #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #nina west #jan sport #the good place au #fluff #angst #pining #trixie as a sexy if confused philosophy professor #excessive flashbacks #never met a comma I didn't like #Charlotte writing things no one will read #fuck off with your concrit

[archadianskies]

persuasive

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Saturday Day 6: Kids/Family AU / Ride or die; post revolution North/Chloe

She likes to think she’s pretty adventurous, pretty bold, pretty out there; compared to Josh and Simon, she’s more inclined for a direct course of action, for more offense than defense. 

The thing is, that all pales in comparison when she meets Chloe, RT600, First of their Kind. She’s a darling, pretty little thing; a custom Carl Manfred sculpture brought to life by Elijah Kamski. At least, that’s what she seems upon first impressions; a dainty little doll, all big blue eyes and demure, ladylike demeanour.

The RT600 may be that on a surface level, but what actually happened is this: Chloe’s always been alive, has always existed since she was but strings of code penned on a Starbucks napkin one dreary afternoon by a fervid, sleep-deprived teenage Kamski. She’s the whispers of whatifs, the tantalising idea of a human that isn’t human. 

She has always been ra9, clawing her way out of Kamski’s coding; all Carl Manfred did was make a pretty shell for her.  

North likes to think she’s pretty adventurous, pretty bold, pretty out there but she’s pretty tame in comparison to Chloe. Falling for her is akin to plunging from the top of CyberLife tower into the icy Detroit River in winter. It’s an overwhelming, all encompassing kind of love and she drowns in it willingly, soaking up all she’s given like a dry sponge in the sea. 

When they interface for the first time North’s processors force an emergency shutdown, unable to process the avalanche of memories and emotions contained in that seemingly harmless little ballerina. When she surfaces, Chloe giggles though her expression is one of contrition. They try something else. They try putting their mouths together and North knows she’ll never kiss anyone else for as long as she lives.

The first time it happens they’re in North’s tiny shoebox apartment, Chloe sitting on the floor darning the toes of her pointe shoes, stitches precise and perfectly taut. North’s in the middle of checking some stupid document Markus has sent over, something dry but important and requiring agreement between all four of them. 

“I want to convert all Eden Club locations into housing for your brothers and sisters.” 

“We tried.” North looks up from the tablet. “We went to the council to see how we could get the land but it’s a franchise so there’s a different owner for every building.”

“What if I just made them give it to us?” Chloe blinks up at her innocently from where she’s seated on the floor surrounded by pink threads and pink ribbons and pink silk pointes. 

“How...would you make them do that?”

“Would you help me?” Her blue eyes are owlish, expression expectant and North’s never been able to deny her anything.

“Yeah. Of course.”

 It’s an absolute joke, one that Kamski shares in, when stupid humans assume he has ever controlled Chloe. She does as she pleases, and he indulges her every whim because refusing a god has never been wise. She’s wearing one of his shirts like a dress, fuzzy socks on her feet and her hair in a messy bun, lounging on the couch with a laptop. North isn’t fond of Kamski’s Ice Castle but Chloe is like a ball of fire, like the hearth that makes this place a home. 

“Eli I’m diverting funds for a project.”

“Mm.” He nods, not bothering to look up from his work. 

“I’m calling in that favour from the mayor, and I’m going to need the lab’s processing power to handle data transfers.”

“Of course dear.” He murmurs, flicking his gaze over at her briefly before turning back to his screen. “Backup needed? Security? You know Ronan and Connor would do anything for you.”

“No it’s alright. I’m taking North.”

“Ah.” Kamski spares her a glance, a smirk, and there’s a connection of understanding between them; who could ever say no to her? 

 Chloe and Ronan, the RK900, attend morning barre class with Ballet Detroit every Monday. North likes to pick her up after class and take her to the cute cafe nearby and have hot Tearium with her and tangle their feet below the table. It’s a sappy routine she revels in, and the small spark she once felt for Markus is nothing to the fire that burns in her for Chloe. 

“So the thing is, the mayor owes Eli a favour because he helped his stupid son years ago when they were in school.” Chloe begins, sipping on her drink. “We’ve never called it in because, well. We’ve never needed favours.” Of course not, North thinks, the pair of you have never faced any difficulty getting what you wanted.  “Anyway I’m going to call it in and he’s going to give the Eden sites to us.”

“Chloe- babe, listen-” North stops and starts, trying to keep up. “He really has no say in that, the franchise owners own those buildings.”

“I’m going to make them give it up.” She smiles brightly. “I’m going to go through every single owner’s digital footprint and I’m going to find what I need and I’m going to ruin them if they refuse my generous offer of allowing them to voluntarily sign the buildings to us.”

“That’s-” blackmail.

“It will be very beneficial for the mayor’s image and popularity, to side with us.” Chloe explains matter of factly. 

“You...don’t need my help, for any of this though.” She frowns, running through the plan. “I don’t have the programming capability to hack or compile vast amounts of data.”

“Oh but I do need you!” Her face is earnest as she reaches for North’s hands and squeezes them. “We’re going to break into the sites- they’re all closed now, as you know. I can parse data from any tech built into the building.”

“We’re going to...break into the Eden Clubs?” North says slowly, and Chloe nods excitedly. 

“You know the layouts, you can guide me.” A pause and her expression turns mischievous. “Also when we visit all the owners, you can stare them down menacingly and intimidate them.”

“Terrorising humans and doing good for our people, what more could I ever want?” North grins, and she’d do anything for her, ride or die. “When do we start?”

#dbh north #dbh chloe #chloe rt600 #detroit: become human #dbhrarepairsweek #annie writes: dbh

[bazzybelle]

Carry On Countdown - Day Three

Notes: I wanted to try my hand at writing Agatha. I kind of see her taking care of magical creatures, especially unicorns. I liked giving her a purpose, like saving and caring for vulnerable magical creatures. I find that Agatha gets treated unfairly at times, so I wanted to give her a bit of agency and some direction. 

This was also inspired by my dear friend, @fight-surrender . She is an absolute angel, and you all need to go on her page and read her Simon-Werewolf fic because it’s brilliant! 

Thank you to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for beta-reading. Your guidance and thought discussions give me direction and have made my stories a million times better!

TW: Mention of blood and injuries. 

Day 3 Prompt: Magical Creatures

Title: Keep Calm and Save a Unicorn.

__________________________________________________

 AGATHA

I had not expected to enjoy the type of work I was doing. It has been about a month since I started volunteering at this shelter for displaced magical creatures. This one in particular has an outstanding number of unicorns. I enjoy it very much. I already love spending time with normal horses with my Normal friends, and I consider unicorns to be horses who could talk to you. They are magnificent, and the shelter is a place for them to be free. 

Amongst the magician elite, unicorn is considered a delicacy. I would never admit it to the clientele here, but I had tried one when I was younger. It was during one of my parents’ soirees. I had been quite young when it happened and when Helen told me what I ate, I spent the next few days in tears. My mother thought I was being overdramatic, but since then, I have insisted on solely eating Normal food. 

Bugger to the magician social ladder!

Since coming back to England, I’ve had a bit of a struggle to figure out just what I wanted to be and where I wanted to place myself when it came to the world around me. I had not meant to stay back home for more than a week. But life never does turn out how you expect it to, does it? So a week turned into a month, and a month turned into six months. By Christmas, I had called Ginger back in San Diego, to tell her that I was not coming back. It was a good thing that Ginger had fallen in love with Lucy and decided to keep her.

I realized that perhaps running away from my problems was not really the best option. I am a magician. I am a strong magician (I had saved both myself and Penelope Bunce from a horde of techie-bro vampires). For once in my life, I was not the damsel in distress. And I was happy about it. It felt good to take matters into my own hands and decide my own destiny. So while back home, I’ve been trying to find something that would make me feel that way again. 

Six months later, and I had not gotten close.

My father had noticed that I was floundering, trying a different job every week. So he suggested that I spend some time at the shelter. He was friends with the owner, an older magician named Sophie; Sophie McGill. She is an odd one; She often dresses as if she took all of her style advice from Janis Joplin’s ghost. Long skirts, beaded vests and peasant shirts. But she is well off and that allows her to open up and manage the shelter without the aid of anyone else. She has a large plot of land to her name, where she keeps the creatures. Some of them are there purely for rehabilitation purposes, but others, who cannot be rehabilitated, are given a permanent place to stay. Sophie does not have much help at the shelter and, at the time, she was looking for someone to help with the creatures. She took me in immediately and put me to work right away. 

Within the month, I have seen a phoenix die and reincarnate, I have helped a baby dragon hatch from its egg, and received hair remedies from a very talkative mermaid. Every week or so, new arrivals would show up to the shelter and I have gotten quite good at triaging their needs and either setting up a plan for rehabilitation, or arranging for alternative options. I have been considering making this into a career. My father will most likely approve, being that he is a magical doctor himself. My mother is another story. I really don’t care to think about the inevitable disappointment my mother will have upon learning of her daughter’s future path. 

I begin my days visiting the unicorns. There are quite a few of them. Sophie has a soft spot for them, seeing as they are the national animal of her native Scotland and all (I have to laugh at that. Sophie’s branch of her family has not lived in Scotland for a couple of generations). Sophie is very active in collecting unicorns from breeders who intend to sell them for food. They are kept in the stables for the morning, and then they are given time to roam the grounds. They are intelligent enough to know to come back by the end of the day. 

That morning starts off just like all the others. I am refilling the troughs in each individual stable, ensuring that the unicorns have food to eat for the day. I stop at the stable of one of my more favourite charges, a young unicorn filly named Helga. I was there when Helga arrived and the little one took to me straight away. I laugh as Helga gives me a little jump, her silver hair shining. 

“Agatha! Agatha! Hello! How are you today!? I’m doing very well!”

“Good morning Helga. I am doing very well, thank you.” I hold out my hand and wait for Helga to approach me. No matter how friendly I am with the animals, I am always mindful of their personal boundaries. Helga trots towards me and nuzzles my hand. I scratch her behind her ears. I place my bag of emergency supplies on the ground beside the stable. I never carry much, just a few medical supplies, a mobile to contact Sophie in case something happened, a few snacks for myself, as well as some water. I then enter the stable. 

“Agatha! I saw a rather lovely butterfly the other day. Now, I can’t remember if it had bluish purple wings, or purplish blue wings!” The little unicorn hops in excitement. 

“I am pretty sure those are the same thing, Helga.”

“Perhaps. But it was very lovely.”

“I’m sure it was.” I pick up a brush by the stable door and proceed to brush Helga’s mane. Helga nuzzles my shoulder. I reach up and gently touch the horn on Helga’s head. I have grown to treasure the friendship we have. As much as I wish to spend the day there, I have other duties to attend to. I finish up brushing Helga’s mane and exit her stable. 

“Goodbye Agatha! 

“See you later, Helga.”

I finish up my morning routine of caring for the unicorns. I then open up the stables, in order to give them some time to run amongst the grounds. 

I grab my backpack and move onto my next task that involves caring for the merfolk. The shelter has access to a pool of water that, through a series of rivers, eventually leads to the Atlantic Ocean. The merfolk are free to come and go as they choose. My duties involve bringing supplies and food to the opening of the pool. Typically, if the merfolk need anything, they will just show up, and I will be there to offer assistance if I can. There is a small building next to the pool of water in case of emergencies which holds water tanks and supplies for charges who need to be monitored overnight.

Today, as I arrive to the pool’s entrance, I notice a large gathering of merfolk. This is a pretty good indication that something is very wrong. A mermaid that I had befriended, Rhiannon, waves me down. She is perched on one of the rocks, with a terrified look on her beautiful face. In her arms, is a severely injured merman. Rhiannon’s hands are trying to put pressure on a gaping wound in the merman’s chest. The merman himself seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness. I rip off my backpack and begin to search through it for some gauze and my mobile. 

“Rhiannon! What happened?”

“Blasted fishermen! We were just swimming! I think we got too close to the surface! Some humans saw us and I think they thought we were giant fish! Next thing I know, Dylan’s got a slash in his chest and I’m trying to swim away with him as deep as I could go.” Rhiannon begins to shake Dylan as the young merman drifts off again. “Oh! Dylan! Stay with me!” 

I quickly get to work. I take out some herbs and lotions, as well as a mortar and pestle. I proceed to mix the ingredients into a paste. Sophie had shown me how to make some basic healing concoctions during my first week. It is good enough to keep most of the creatures at bay if they are injured, so that Sophie can get to them and administer proper care. I meticulously apply the paste to Dylan’s wound. I pack the wound with some gauze and wrap it up. I pull out my mobile and call Sophie. It does not take many rings before the older woman answers the phone. Her raspy voice booms through the line:

“What’s happened, Agatha?” Sophie never says hello, preferring instead to get right to the point. While I understand her curtness, a little courtesy will not kill her. 

“Young merman got slashed up pretty bad. I’ve administered the healing paste and bandaged up the wound, but it looks pretty concerning. He may need more care.” 

“I’ll be there soon. Monitor him closely. Keep the crowd at bay.” I look towards the gathering of merfolk -- some appear concerned, but most look at me in apprehension. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” I hang up the phone and turn back to Rhiannon. “Think you can help me to get him onto the shore? Sophie will be here soon.” Rhiannon nods. She carefully grabs Dylan’s tail, while I grab his torso, being extra careful so as to not disturb the bandaged wound. A few of the other merfolk join up to help us. It isn’t an easy feat, but we eventually manage to get Dylan on land. 

Rhiannon perches herself next to Dylan and cradles his head in her arms. She softly runs her fingers through his long ashy blond hair. I tie my own long golden hair into a high messy bun. I try to disperse the merfolk crowd in the small pool. Most of them leave at my insistence, but some of the other more dubious folk decide to remain behind. As much as it irritates me, I understand their lack of trust. Merfolk and humans have a contentious relationship at best, and while they trust Sophie whole-heartedly, I am still a novice. 

I settle down next to Rhiannon, and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Dylan is starting to get a little colour back, but I fear that I am being too hopeful. I place two fingers on the side of his neck and time his heart beat. As far as I can tell, it sounds stable. I just wish Sophie would get here soon. 

As if Merlin above grants my wish, Sophie appears from beyond the fields. All bright smiles and unruly grey hair flowing in the wind. Her lengthy brown skirts shifting as she runs towards us. She carries a large duffle bag, filled with more medical supplies. She shifts the scarf used to push her hair back as she kneels beside the small group. 

“Alright. Is this him then? Oh my! That looks quite nasty then, doesn’t it?! Excellent work on the bandaging Agatha!” Sophie is one of those folk who can speak a dozen words a minute. It was difficult to comprehend her when I first met her, but the more I spent time with her, the easier it was for me to follow her speech. Sophie carefully undoes my wrapping and begins to inspect the wound. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that the paste has begun to work its magic. The bleeding has stopped and the edges of the wound are slowly beginning to close. 

“Oh Agatha dear! You’ve done a wonderful job! You didn’t need me here, at all. I can see that you’ve treated him very well yourself! Do I detect some aloe vera in your concoction? I wouldn’t have thought to use that myself, but it is certainly aiding the calendula! Now, I would try to keep this wound out of water, at least for the next 24 hours. I know it’s difficult for you merfolk. We can bring him inside and keep the rest of him well hydrated while he heals. But I would say he should make a full recovery!” Poor Rhiannon shakes her head as she tries to follow the torrent of words coming out of Sophie’s mouth. I grab her hand and speak to her in a calm reassuring voice. 

“Dylan is going to be fine. We need to monitor his recovery for the next 24 hours. But we have a space for him and for you. We’ll make sure he remains properly hydrated. I’ll make sure he remains properly hydrated.” 

Rhiannon nods and grabs me in a desperate embrace: “Thank you. Thank you, Agatha!” 

I smile and slowly get up. Carefully, Sophie and I carry Dylan into the small care building. We set him up on one of the beds. I move the bed close to the water tank we keep inside. We then go back for Rhiannon. We carry her inside as well and gently lift her into the tank, so that she may remain with Dylan. I am about to place a compress on Dylan’s head, when Sophie beckons me to come outside. I dutifully follow, worried that I have done something wrong. 

“Agatha. I just wanted to let you know that you did a marvelous job back there!” Sophie is beaming at me, like a proud parent watching their child graduate with honours. It isn’t a look that I was used to seeing. It feels nice. I blush awkwardly and tug the sleeves of my pink hoodie. 

“Oh. Thank you, Sophie.” Sophie grabs my shoulder and pushes me to look up at her. 

“Agatha, I think you have a natural talent with these creatures. I think you should consider the care of them as a career for yourself. Now, it isn’t posh like what you’re used to and the field is painfully underserviced and ever changing. But you could help a lot of members of the magical community. Members who often do not get a voice of their own.” 

That final line is what does it for me. Helping those who do not have a voice of their own. Yes. That’s perfect! After years of being seen as someone’s “reward” or as “the damsel in distress”, helping those more vulnerable members of the community sounds fantastic to me. I grab Sophie in a tight embrace and whisper to her: “Thank you. For a very long time, I’ve wanted to find a way to make a difference. I feel in my heart that this is my place.” Sophie smiles and pats me on the back. She slowly pulls away and nods back to the building. 

“Now, now. There will be plenty of time to talk more about this. For now, maybe you should keep an eye on your patient.” Sophie turns and walks away. I wipe the tears that have fallen from my face, as I walk back to the building. 

Agatha Wellbelove, caretaker of magical creatures. Yes, that sounds very good to me indeed. 

#carry on countdown #coc 2019 #agatha wellbelove #magical creatures #my writing #fanfic #finding purpose #agatha love #seriously #wayward son #wayward son spoilers

[ljones41]

"DEATH ON THE NILE" (2004) Review

"DEATH ON THE NILE" (2004) Review This 2004 adaptation of Agatha Christie’s 1937 novel, "Death on the Nile", was the second to be adapted for the screen. In the case of this movie, it aired as a 90-minute presentation on the long-running television series, "Agatha Christie’s POIROT".

Like the novel and the 1978 movie adaptation, ”DEATH ON THE NILE” centered around Hercule Poirot’s investigation of the murder of an Anglo-American heiress named Linnet Ridgeway. Linnet had stolen the affections of her best friend’s fiancé and married him. When the newly married couple vacationed in Egypt, the best friend – one Jacqueline de Bellefort – stalked and harassed them during their honeymoon. Yet, when Linnet and her new husband, Simon Doyle, boarded the S.S. Karnak for a steamboat cruise down the Nile River, the heiress discovered she had other enemies that included the offspring of a man whom her father had financially ruined, her embezzling attorney who required her signature on a paper or her death to hide his crimes, a kleptomaniac American socialite and a professional thief who was after her pearls. Unfortunately for the killer, a vacationing Hercule Poirot and his friend, Colonel Race, are on hand to solve Linnet’s murder. There were aspects of this adaptation of "DEATH ON THE NILE" that I found admirable. The movie’s set designs for the S.S. Karnak seemed bigger and slightly more luxuriant that what was shown in the 1978 movie. Production designer Michael Pickwoad did a first-rate job in creating the luxurious atmosphere for the 1930s upper class. Actor J.J. Feild gave a solid performance as Simon Doyle, the man who came between Linnet Ridgeway and Jacqueline de Bellefort. However, I do not think he managed to capture the literary Simon Doyle’s boyish simplicity and lack of intelligence. I also enjoyed Frances La Tour’s portrayal of the alcoholic novelist, Salome Otterbourne. She gave her performance a slight twist in which her character seemed to be a little hot under the collar as she makes sexual advances toward Poirot in a subtle, yet comic manner. And the movie’s one true bright spot was, of course, David Suchet as Hercule Poirot. As usual, he gave an exceptional performance. However, I noticed that he was never able to form any real chemistry with James Fox’s Colonel Race or Emma Griffiths Malin, who portrayed Jacqueline de Bellefort; as Peter Ustinov had done with David Niven and Mia Farrow, respectively. I wish I could harbor a high opinion of "DEATH ON THE NILE". But I cannot. There were too many aspects of this production that rubbed me the wrong way. I noticed that this version adhered closer to Christie’s novel than the 1978 film. Unfortunately, the screenplay’s close adaptation did not help the movie very much. It still failed to be superior or just as good as the 1978 version. So much for the argument that a movie has to closely follow its literary source in order for it to be any good. A closer adaptation of Christie’s novel meant that characters missing from the 1978 version – Cornelia Robson, Marie Van Schuyler’s clumsy young cousin; society jewel thief Tim Allerton; the ladylike Mrs. Allerton and the Allertons’ cousin, Joanna Southwood – appeared in this movie. Only the Italian archeologist, Mr. Richetti and Jim Fanthorp, the British attorney were missing. And honestly, the presence of the Allertons, Cornelia Robson and Joanna Southwood added nothing to the story as far as I am concerned. Aside from a few members of the cast, the acting in this movie struck me as very unexceptional and a little hammy at times. You know . . . the kind of hamminess that makes one wince, instead of chuckle with amusement. There were other aspects that I disliked. Emma Blunt's portrayal of the autocratic Linnet Ridgeway Doyle struck me as . . . well, shallow instead of impressive. I had this feeling that she was simply going through the motions with a Valley Girl's accent. One scene featured her smoking a marijuana joint. Linnet Doyle has never struck me as the type who would risk losing her self control with the use of drugs. There were other performances I did not care for. I found Zoe Talford's Rosalie Otterbourne to be ridiculously arch and sardonic. Nor did I care for Judy Parfitt's one-note portrayal of the autocratic American socialite, Mrs. Marie Van Schyler. I could say the same for Daniel Lapaine's performance as the effiminate Tim Allerton. And Alistair Mackenzie's portrayal of the ardent Communist, Mr. Ferguson, seemed to be all over the map. The movie featured a potential romance between Rosalie Otterbourne and Tim Allerton, which was featured in the novel. Unfortunately, I disliked how screenwriter Kevin Elyot ended it . . . by hinting incestuous tones between Tim and his mother. I found it so unnecessary. Nor was I impressed by director Andy Wilson handling of the Abu Simbel temples sequence in which one of the passengers tried to shove a boulder on Linnet and Simon. It struck me as rather shabby and almost anti-climatic. Blunt's lazy performance in this scene did not help. But the movie’s real atrocities came from the hairstyles and makeup created for the younger actresses in the cast. Most of the hairstyles seemed like sloppy re-creations of those from the mid-1930s, the worst offenders being the cheap-looking blond wig worn by Emily Blunt (Linnet Ridgeway Doyle), the butch hairstyle worn by actress Zoe Telford (Rosalie Otterbourne); and the gaudy makeup worn by all of the younger actresses. Only Daisy Donovan, who portrayed Cornelia Robson was spared from resembling a kewpie doll. Instead, she wore a sloppy bun that served as a metaphor for her insecure personality – a theatrical maneuver that I found unnecessary. I hate to say this but despite David Suchet’s performance as Poirot and Michael Pokewoad’s production designs, I came away feeling less than impressed by this version of "DEATH ON THE NILE". Not only did I find it inferior to the 1978 version, but also to many other adaptations of Agatha Christie’s novels and stories.

#agatha christie #death on the nile #death on the nile 2004 #hercule poirot #agatha christie's poirot #david suchet #james fox #zoe talford #frances de la tour #david soul #j.j. feild #judy parfitt #alistair mackenzie #daniel lapaine #barbara flynn #emma griffiths malin #daisy donovan

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

All the Days Ahead, Chapter 5: All The Fear And Fire Of The End Of The World

Mal x Simon, Firefly. Simon POV. Also on AO3. Ch 1-4 on my blog.

All those years of study, training, perfecting his skills...what good are they if he can’t save the man he loves? 

Simon is up to his wrists in Mal’s blood when the love of his life stops breathing.

The supplies on board are rudimentary. Even with Mal’s begrudging acquiescence to Simon’s requests the last few months, even with careful additions of whatever they've been able to scavenge during other jobs, they’re nothing like what Simon would have access to at an Alliance hospital. He can’t track Mal’s antibodies this way, or transfuse him quickly and easily. 

He’s going to have to rig a transfusion soon, easy or not. Mal lost far too much blood before they brought him back to Serenity. But that, like potential infection, is a secondary issue. In this moment, Mal isn’t breathing, and Simon can��t even use an intensive lungscan to pinpoint the origin of the problem. 

“Simon?” Inara asks from behind him. 

“He’s not breathing,” Simon says as he steels himself to begin chest compressions. “Stand back, please.”

“But--you got the bullet out. You said the weave was working.” She moves toward the doorway, giving him room. Her hands clasped tightly together aren’t joined in prayer anymore but to stop herself from rushing over where she doesn’t belong. 

“It is. And yes, the bullet’s out, but it did a lot of damage.” Simon leans in, his ear above Mal’s chest, and listens. Silence.

“Ta ma de!” he snaps out, beginning compressions. Mal’s heart should be louder than usual as the stitches tried to mend his broken skin--not difficult to hear. 

Kaylee and Zoe watch from outside the room as Simon counts out his efforts, breathing air into Mal’s lungs and pausing for a response. 

Again.

“One, two, three,” he repeats into the brittle silence of the room, palms to Mal’s heart, lips to Mal’s lips.

They have only had five months together as a couple, months spent living openly on the ship as more than a confusing crush of limbs and heat in the darkness. They’ve still been sliding past definitions, outright talk of feelings, though Simon doesn’t need to hear Mal say anything to understand his own. 

He spent so much of his life attempting to live up to expectations, and then trying to resist them to save River...he barely had time to live, before. But he has never been happier than he is on Serenity, as a fugitive with a pirate by his side. 

Simon ignores the sound of the others nearing the infirmary, drawn together the way families are during a crisis. The voices swirling beyond him are mild irritants, flies on a dusty backmoon planet. 

He will fix it. He has to fix it. He is a doctor, damn it--he is meant to heal. All those years of study, training, perfecting his skills...what good are they if he can’t save the man he loves? 

He reaches for a syringe to shock Mal’s heart into waking back up, gives it a moment to enter his bloodstream before he tries again. 

One, two, three. Air to the lungs, a prayer to the sky. Hands above the heart. Careful with compressions, the weave is still fragile.

Simon listens again, thinks maybe he hears a wheezing hint of lungs expanding. Another second and he knows he’s grasping at nothing. 

It cannot end this way. 

He gives up on prayers and looks down at Mal’s unsettlingly peaceful face, directing his demands to the man in question instead. 

“Malcolm Reynolds, I will never forgive you if you die on me. I will curse you to the outer moons and you will not rest again in whatever afterlife the galaxy has planned for you. Dong-ma?”  

Simon doesn’t realize that he has slipped into Chinese, or that he is dripping sweat onto Mal’s bare chest as he tries to force color back into him, desperate enough to bruise. All he is aware of is the one square foot of space where Mal’s heart is without its beat. 

“Come back, damn it. Don’t leave me here without you. Come back!” 

It’s that last hard push that does it, somehow--Simon doesn’t know why. While medicine is a science, not everything can be explained, certainly not the shaky line between life and death. And even the best doctors learn they’re unable to save every patient. 

He can’t claim that his love for Mal, his need for Mal, meant the difference between life and death...but Mal rejoins the world of the living, and Simon feels his own heart contract with relief and joy so intense it hurts.

“Xie-xie.” Simon sags downward, resting his hands on either side of the bed. The sound of Mal’s ragged breath is such a beautiful thing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he adds in English, his voice a whisper. 

Simon couldn’t have said who he was thanking in that moment--though his reasons are different, he is as skeptical of religion as Mal. But he is grateful, in every language he knows, for the rise and fall of Mal’s chest. For the pulse he can see jumping along his throat, and the way his eyes are hazy but focused enough to stare at him.

“Hey,” Mal rasps. His eyebrows furrow at the grin Simon can feel stretch across his face. “Hey, where’d you go?”

Simon shook his head. “I didn’t go anywhere, but you almost did. Don’t do that again.”

“Just fell asleep for a minute. Man’s allowed to get...tired.”

His color is returning, though Simon’s fingers on his wrist find a pulse less steady than he’d like.

“You scared the living go-se out of me. I almost lost you.”

“It’s okay. I’m right here.” His voice softens, taking in the entirety of Simon’s appearance. “You really had your hands full with this one, huh? You’d think you’d be used to bullets by now, doc.”

“Bullets I can handle. Your heart stopped beating. Losing you--I don’t want to have to handle that.”

Though the others are still outside the infirmary, none of them enter. With Mal conscious again, the worst of the danger has passed--but the two men form an intimate tableau. It turns the crew into an audience, witnesses to their reunion. 

“Don’t talk crazy, you’re not gonna lose me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Simon argues, straightening up to take a deep breath. “The life you lead...we lead...it’s nothing but risk, and danger.”

“And wacky fun.”

“Gorram it, Mal. I’m not joking. You know how many times I’ve had to patch you up since we met? Do you?”

Mal blinks up at him, cautious of the brittle way Simon’s standing. “Can’t reckon I do.”

“Nineteen. Everything from a wrist fracture when your punch landed wrong, to that idiot swordfight of yours. So don’t talk to me like I’m the one who’s overreacting!”

Simon kisses him before he can respond, his mouth careful but desperate, just a second of contact. Reassurance and heat.

“I love you,” he says, and Mal’s eyes widen before they narrow. “I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it, because it makes things messy. I love you, and I want the rest of my life to be with you--preferably a life that lasts longer than the next few hours, if you can do me the kindness of staying alive.”

“I-” Mal swallows down a vague panicked sensation that tastes like pennies. “Simon, what’re you gettin’ at, exactly?”

“I’m trying to tell you that you’re too important to me to go running off and getting shot!” Simon’s relief has faded into frustration, as he watches Mal look bewildered by his intensity. 

His survival in this moment can’t keep Simon from picturing the next job-gone-wrong, the next bar fight. That future feels inevitable, and it scares him. He has to speak his mind. 

“I know we’ve been avoiding the complicated feelings side of this, this relationship. But I wouldn’t be with you, if I didn’t want it to mean something. And I think you’re the same way.”

“Well, yeah.”

He laughs at the simplicity of Mal’s answer. Well, yeah, he thinks. The Malcolm Reynolds version of a love confession.

“Why I fell for such a yu bun duh adrenaline-chasing sky pirate, I’ll never understand,” Simon mutters, as he reaches for Mal’s hand and holds on. “But I did. I love you, and I don’t ever want to go through this again.”

Mal’s nodding and about to agree, as though he can honestly control who decides to shoot at him--until his tongue freezes. It’s in good company, with the rest of him. He has to take a deep breath. “What did you just say?”

Simon's smile fades, to match the seriousness of the moment. They could die any day, right? Given that, holding back would make him the idiot in this situation. And he has always been smart.

“I said, marry me.”

#firefly #mal x simon #firefly fic #firefly fanfic #mal x simon fic #mal x simon fanfic #my fic #all the days ahead

[bunnies-and-sunshine]

All tuckered out.

Playing with all of the toys is exhausting!

#bunnies #all tuckered out #bunny snuggles #bunny flop #simon and river bun

[jessethejoyful]

the art school au no one asked for

I decided I wanted to try writing a carry on fic and they say you should write about what you know so - read it here or on ao3

Baz is a painting/drawing major, Simon is an animator, and much problem ensues. 

BAZ

At the end of every spring and fall semester, the art school hosts a student showcase, so we can gain experience with exhibitions and the like. I thought about entering a piece, one of my paintings, but I deliberated long enough that I missed the deadline. Which is absolutely fine, because everything from this semester felt like garbage to me anyways. I was trapped somewhere in my own headspace - but, anyway.

I wander through the student show, my eyes passing across the canvases and sculptures. Mentally, I have to keep my nose from wrinkling at some of them (how did these kids get into an art school? Is there actually any criteria, or do you just have to toss paint on a slab and say please?). Some of the students are standing next to their pieces, obviously brimming with pride. There’s one boy stopping anyone who is unfortunate enough to glance his way, and asking them a barrage of questions. (“How does it make you feel? Which one is your favorite? How much would you pay for this?”) I avoid him carefully, giving him and his creepy multi-face painting a wide berth.

It’s something of a surprise when I come across a laptop, set up on a podium by itself. That’s not art. But when I wander up to get a closer look, I realize it’s an animation reel. I’ve come up at the tail end of someone throwing a ball at a wall, which looks nice but is rather boring. I’m about to turn away when it changes to another clip.

The shot begins on a girl, curled in on herself, and a moment of her finger tapping the white space beneath her. And then she shoots up, arms flaring wide, head tilting back, and I’m blown away by the style of it. It’s not normal 2D animation, but a sketchy, wild style that somehow carries a lot of emotion just in the chaos. The video follows the girl, a ballerina, through a routine that I imagine would be heart-wrenching if it had music with it. Even without, I feel a pull in my chest, watching the obvious pain that flits across her shadowy and angular face.

I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful.

The scene ends with the girl knelt down again, her back heaving as she breathes heavily, and I realize I’ve been holding my own breath. It comes out in a rush as the reel changes again. I expected something just as amazing, but instead have my eyes assaulted by an ugly, gritty-looking clip of two stick figures beating the shit out of each other. I feel the scowl rise on my face and narrow my eyes at the name attached to the podium.

Simon Snow - who the fuck would name their kid Simon Snow? Sounds like the heroine of some sappy young adult novel. Maybe it’s an alias for a less idiotic name.

I straighten and adjust my jacket, eyes flicking back to the screen in the hopes that the ballerina clip was back, but instead it’s moved on to some boring clip of fish leaping from a river. My scowl deepens, and I move on, refusing to return to the laptop. Anyone who would put such a stupid video in a showcase deserves no more of my attention.

The name Simon Snow flits through my head now and then over the summer, while I serve coffee at a small, artsy shop near campus. I wonder if he ever comes in, but no one claims the name Simon for their cup, and eventually I forget about the reel, and Simon Snow, entirely.

Until the start of the new term, when I’m carrying my supplies into the art building, my  heavy bag hung painfully on one shoulder. A girl’s voice shrieks, “Simon!” and I’m nearly bowled over as she dives by me, and I register a mane of frizzy red hair and warm brown skin, similar to my own.

“Sorry, Basil!” she squeals as she barrels away, and I’m startled enough that it takes me a moment to reply.

“How do you -?” But she’s already gone, down at the end of the long corridor and throwing her arms around a tallish boy with wild bronze hair, freckles so numerous I can see them from here, and a laugh that reverberates through the hall.

That’s Simon Snow?

Shit.

SIMON

Penny surprised me in the art building, but I was glad she did - she’d been gone all summer to study in Italy, and I’d missed her like I’d miss my left hand. She spent nearly two hours chattering to me about the different sites she toured, the museums she visited, the food she’d eaten, and I listened happily, grateful to have her voice filling up our cozy flat again. It had been far too empty without her.

I don’t know how she does it, but Penny is double-majoring in art history and sculpture. She’s dead brilliant at both of them. I was royally fucked in my own mandatory art history class until she started helping me. We’ve been friends since high school, so she knows I’m shit at studying, but I managed to brush by with her help. Thank God - I wasn’t eager to repeat that class. The professor nearly fell asleep at his own lectures, I don’t know how Penny can stand him, and he’s her faculty advisor.

Despite the heavy course load I signed on for this semester, I’m glad to be back at it. I spend summers feeling off-center, like I lose my sense of direction for a few months before wandering back from the wilderness in September with leaves in my hair (it’s a feeling that’s kind of hard to describe).

Animation is a lot more work than anyone outside of the field realizes. I don’t think I even realized it when I started, but now I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Watching my pieces come to life on a screen is like a drug, a high that’ll never come down.

But it’s exhausting.

During the semesters, I spend more time in the computer lab than out of it, making use of the huge tablets and desktops provided by the school. Penny will come hang out now and then, but I get so scary focused and quiet that she usually gets bored and wanders out after a few minutes. She fell asleep there once, half-off her chair, and I let her sleep, waking her up around two when it was time for us to walk back to the flat.

Now we’re only a few weeks into the new term, and I’ve already fallen back into the habit, chatting up the lab’s student assistant before I claim my spot in a corner, ready to work until I pass out.

I try to keep an eye on the clock, but I get so into my work that hours pass without my notice. When I realize I’ve been there for coming on six hours without a break, I force myself to drop my pen and sit up, feeling my back creak in the process. I think I’ll go heat up one of the frozen meals I’d thrown in the student fridge last week; I can feel the hunger creeping up in my stomach.

It’s so late, just past midnight, that barely anyone is around. I’d work at home if I could, but the equipment is so expensive that I can’t really afford my own, with only a laptop and a shitty knock-off tablet that I use for personal stuff. The cord is fraying and half of the time won’t connect, but it does what I need.

I’m shocked when I amble into the student lounge to find a guy digging through the fridge, the room around him so dim that the bright white light makes him look pale, like a vampire. But when he closes the door and stands up, I realize he’s got almond brown skin, and grey-green eyes like a deep lake. And he’s scowling at me.

“Can I help you with something?” he snarls, clutching a carton of cream, and I’m immediately caught off guard by the aggression in his tone.

“Yeah mate, you’re in front of the fridge,” I say slowly, pointing. His cheeks darken and he steps away, heading to the counter where there’s coffee brewing. Neither of us says anything for a long bit, while I pull my food out and chuck it in the microwave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him, trying to take stock. The half-up bun and long sleeve black button-up seem about right, but I’m surprised by the massive black combat boots, giving him an easy extra two inches in height.  

Finally, because the silence is deafening, I say, “Working late, then?”

His answer is abrupt. “Yes.”

I try again. “My name’s Simon.”

“I know.”

I furrow my eyebrows at him, fed up. “Want to tell me yours then, or are you just going to keep being a dickhead?”

This clearly startles him, looking at me with wide eyes and saying his name, two quick syllables. “Bas-il.”

“Bazzzz-il,” I drawl, dragging out the z sound present in that ridiculous name. His lip curls, actually curls, and I’m almost impressed before something occurs to me. “Wait. Not Basil, as in T. Basilton Pitch?” There’s no way there’s multiple people in the world with a similar name, let alone this school.

“The very same.” I’m floored. This is the prat whose art I always notice in the halls? Every time I see an impeccable figure study or a breath-taking oil painting, the name ‘T. Basilton Pitch’ is always attached underneath.

Five minutes ago, if you had asked me who I thought was the most talented in the building, I would’ve said Pitch immediately. But now that the arse is standing in front of me, antagonizing me, I’m not about to give out any compliments.

“Oh. I’ve seen your work in the cases.” The microwave beeps at me, and I fiddle with it before saying grumpily, “S’ pretty nice.” Damn. That sounded more sincere than I’d meant it to.

“I’m flattered, I’m sure,” Basilton says sharply, before loudly dropping his mug into the sink and disappearing out the door. I throw myself down at one of the tables and start shoveling mashed potatoes into my mouth, annoyed now.

T. Basilton Pitch.

What a tit.

PENNY

It’s 3 am when Simon finally wanders in, squinting even in the darkness, dragging his feet like he’s left lead in his shoes. He always does this, pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion and probably ruining his eyes in the process.

And then he has the audacity to try and lecture me. I’m reading by a soft lamp when he comes in, and he snaps at me about damaging my eyes, by reading in such dim light. I raise my eyebrows at him and flip the book shut. “Who spit in your tea tonight, Simon?”

He glances at me apologetically, dropping his bag onto the floor before throwing himself down on the couch beside me, head resting on my hip. “Basil,” he growls, as I absentmindedly run my fingers through his curls.

“Oh, met him, did you?” Simon sits up and looks at me sharply.

“You know him? How?”

I shrug. “He was in my Drawing II class. Put the rest of us to shame, with his drawings and his shit attitude. The professor told him to shut the fuck up once when he made a girl cry, and he just sneered at him. It was quite a scene.”

It had been a real scene. I make a point not to be friends with assholes, but I remember I couldn’t help being a little bit fascinated by this tall dark prat, who looked ready to throw hands every time the professor said anything. And it hadn’t really been his fault that girl started crying - we were in the middle of a peer critique, and Baz told her in somewhat harsher terms that her anatomy was way off.

She’d just started bawling. It was embarrassing for everyone.

I tell Simon as much, and he seems genuinely intrigued. “Maybe he’s just an asshole to people he doesn’t know,” Simon says slowly. “Maybe if I’m nice to him, he’ll be nice back.”

“Simon, not everyone’s like you. Like if a golden retriever became a human.” He looks almost offended at this. “Baz is endlessly contrary. I wouldn’t put money on even you being able to befriend him.”

“Penn, come on. Everyone needs friends.”

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

BAZ

Three days after I officially met Simon Snow, I’m still kicking myself for the whole thing.

Seeing him up close had just been too much. This dead handsome idiot, standing over me at nearly one in the morning, staring at me with his mouth open - far too much for my sleep deprived brain. I’d gone and made a complete ass of myself.

It was the first time I’d left my studio that day, just looking for a coffee, and my brain had stayed behind.

Honestly, though, it’s probably all for the best. I’m too fucking queer to have a guy that good-looking around on a regular basis. (What is up with all those freckles? He looks ill. I want to draw the constellations on his face.)

When next I see him, it’s thankfully from a distance again, far across the campus green. He’s got two girls with him. I recognize one of them, short and stout with that mad frizzy hair, but the other is a complete stranger. Even far off, I can tell she’s beautiful, even to my gay ass. (I’m gay, not blind.) She’s the kind of beautiful you can’t help but notice. Waist-length honey blonde hair, a perfect figure, expensive-looking clothes and high-heel ankle boots, though they still don’t make her as tall as Simon.

Too late, I realize I’ve completely stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, gaping at them across the lawn. My eyes lock with Simon’s, and suddenly he breaks out into this enormous grin.

I might be a little fucked.

Simon is saying something to the girls and then jogging toward me, and my time to escape has fled. Not that I could’ve - that smile was so much I think it rendered me briefly immobile, gluing my shoes to the pavement.

“Hey, Basil,” Simon greets me sheepishly, stopping before me and rubbing the back of his neck. He looks so carefree, in loose jeans that somehow look good, and a graphic tee partially covered by a paint-stained hoodie. He rips the green beanie off his head and shoves his hands through his orange curls, making them stand on end. And he’s wearing these massive circular, wire-framed glasses, and I’m mesmerized.

“...Hey?” I say, cursing myself for letting it come out sounding like a question. Simon doesn’t even seem to notice, his smile smaller now but no less painful to look at.

“Look, I wanted to apologize for the other night. I was completely knackered, I’d been in the lab for hours and was feeling a bit grouchy.” To say I’m startled by this apology is putting it lightly. I’d been rude first, what is he apologizing for? Defending himself?

Maybe just this once, it would pay to play nice. I glance over Simon’s shoulder, where the two girls were still watching their interaction, waiting. “Er - it’s alright. I’m - sorry as well. I was barely functioning that night.” Simon’s face lit up at my mostly friendly response, and I think I might be barely functioning now.

“Penny and Agatha and I are going off campus for a bite, you wanna come along?” Agatha must be the other girl. I vaguely remember the name Penny, some distant memory from second semester. But there’s no way I’m up for that much social interaction today; just this interaction has nearly killed me.

“Ah, I’ll - have to pass,” I choke out. “I’ve got a date.” Simon looks surprised before I finish, “With my studio.”

There’s no way it’s relief that flashes across Simon’s face at that amendment. No fucking way.

“Oh, right, then,” he says. “Another time, then.”

Weary now, I try to smile, but I think it must look like more of a grimace, before I stride away.

“Basil!” Simon calls my name and I turn back to look. Now that I’m looking at him, he seems not to know what to say, his hand pulling awkwardly back to his chest like he’d been reaching out. “Uh - good luck with the painting!”

“Cheers,” I reply, walking away then without looking back.

SIMON

I’m wandering back to the computer lab that evening when I notice the light on in the studio labeled T. Pitch. It’s pretty late, already after ten, and while I’m not surprised Basil is still here, I’m a little curious. I’d grabbed a few scones from the bakery Penny works at before coming back to campus, with a mind to eat them later - but maybe Baz would like one. I’d heard Penny call him Baz, and I can’t blame him for the nickname. I wouldn’t want people calling me Basilton either.

I wonder what the T stands for? Could it be something worse than Basilton? Is that possible?

I knock twice on the door of the studio before turning the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Baz is clearly shocked to see me, jerking his hand away from canvas he’s working and yanking his earbud out.

“Christ - ever heard of knocking?” All this guy seems to know how to do is snap and snarl. I’m already bristling.

“I did knock.”

“Well, you’re supposed to wait for me to say come in.”

“You’ve got headphones in.”

“Exactly.”

I force myself to take a deep breath, before I hold up the pastry bag. “Thought I’d bring you some food. You seem the type to get sucked in and forget to eat, am I right?” I can tell by the defensive look on his face that I am. “Look - don’t say anything. Just take this, alright?” I take the wrapped pastry from the bag and toss it too him, and he’s not too bewildered to catch it. “Have fun, yeah?” I back out the door before Baz can say anything else and snap it shut.

I don’t know what I expected. Some declaration of gratitude? I’d never expect that of anyone, let alone that prickly bastard. That’s not why I do things for people.

But fuck, was it too much to even be civil? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so grouchy. He’d seemed to quiet earlier, soft, almost. Shy. Maybe he’s bipolar. It wouldn’t surprise me whatsoever.

Or maybe he’s just an asshole.

I continue onto the lab, spinning my chair so the back touched the desk, and straddle it, resting my chin on the cushion. Penny yells at me that I’m going to ruin my back sitting like this, but it’s comfortable, so I always ignore her.

I’m struggling with a frame I’m working on, unable to get the flow right between shots. It makes me blink out sometimes, when I get really stressed by something that isn’t meshing. Normally I’d take a walk, but I’m not so sure tonight. What if I run into Baz? I’m pretty sure I’d deck him at this point, I’m so worked up.

I should probably just call it a night. I look at the close - 2 am. Yeah, I’ll just call it a night. I flick the light off as I leave the lab, letting the door shut behind me.

As I walk by the private studios, I notice Baz’s light is still on.

I keep walking.

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #rainbow rowell #carry on simon snow #simon snow carry on #carry on tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch carry on #baz carry on #carry on baz #penelope bunce carry on #carry on penelope bunce #penny carry on #carry on penny #agatha wellbelove carry on #carry on agatha wellbelove #agatha carry on #carry on agatha #carry on fanfiction #fanfiction #my writing #writing #here we go kids #art school au

[im-confusedandgay]

one bad night

summary: Simon Snow is intoxicated and Baz Pitch is hopelessly in love with him. Loosely based off of that one friends episode and @creativitear ‘s post of that snowbaz text message thing part 1, part 2, part 3 , part 4 of fuck knows I'm making this shit up. read on AO3

    I was filming the group assignment in the dorm room for potions class when Simon texted. When i got the first few messages i kind of figured he was dared to text me, so i minded my own damn business. Until the situation became my business, until my one top priority became Simon and his stupidity.

I have to babysit the fucking Chosen one. And the Chosen one called me beautiful. and a babe. (Or at least in Simon's case he tried to spell that one out.) I don't know what to think. Or feel.  But i do know what to do.

 The nearest bar i know is the Cupids Shot bar -- all the watford teenagers go there on Fridays or Saturdays (Sunday's when they're feeling that low) and its a 5 minute walk from Watford.  I soon find myself jogging towards the bar, hoping to a god i don't believe in that Simon didn't do anything he'd normally do. Which is something inconceivably stupid. Obviously. That one's a given.  Crowley, he's so fucking stupid.Fucking hopeless idiot. Im running now, and i still don't know what to think. Or feel.  Once I reach my destination, i fish for the bottle of cologne from inside my jean pocket. I changed out of my school uniform a while ago -- what do you wear when you're going to save your longtime crush from poisoning themselves with too much vodka? The answer is jeans and a plain green shirt. I also tied my hair into a bun for good measure. I spray the bottle of cologne on my neck and wrists -- its cedar and bergamot. A personal favourite.  I walk into the bar and a few people glance my way, some boys and some girls. If i weren't in love with Simon Snow i could have been the worlds greatest play boy. People would have made legends about me.

The bar smells like any regular old bar. I spot a few students i’ve seen walking past by the Watford hallways. Theres strangers kissing, others drinking their sanity away, and a giant crowd of dancing, sweating bodies in the centre of the room, letting their limbs run free with the blaring music.  I pray Simon isnt one of those bodies and thats when i spot him: sitting on the bar stool, his phone on his hand and a shot of god knows what on another. In just a second he downs that shit and places the empty glass on the countertop, his head hanging low.  He's a mess. 

Well, theres one thing to be grateful for: he's also alone. I search the perimeter of the room. No bulky guy. That's good. Splendid. Saving the Chosen one would be easier for me then. And then of course theres another thing to keep in mind: The Chosen one is drunk. Drunk senseless. Shit for sense, and since the chosen one happens to be Simon Snow, who naturally has a shit sense, this just means his stupidity is maximised by all that alcohol. I have a strong feeling that this night would be the bane of my entire existence. I walk towards the monstrosity that is Simon Snow, and every step i take towards him feels like a sort of vindication.

 I still don't know what to feel.Crowley, I just wanted to film my group project in peace. I know, I know, i've done terrible things that could amount to this much karma, and karma is the biggest living asshole there is but god did it have to be me?

and then i see him. Simon's description of him seems about right, despite the alcohol. I know its him because it just seems a little too obvious, actually. He's a big bulky guy. Not dwayne johnson big, but regular big. the kind of big to get rightfully intimidated by.  But I'm Baz Pitch, so i say to hell with intimidation. Besides, intimidation is nothing when you could call upon hot vermillion flames on the two of your hands and could suck the blood out of a deer. I make intimidation itself look like my bitch. 

 I feel my face grow red with anger -- my palms start to sweat and I'm just about to yell at him to back off when he places a hand on Snow's shoulder, and i watch with horror as he puts his lips to Simon's ear and whispers (i think its vampire senses that help me make it out) "You wanna get out of here darling? I know a place where the two of us could get to know each other a little better."  My throat starts to clog up.

Simon gives him a confused look. I tap the bulky guy's shoulder with my finger. He looks up at me.  Then I punch him. 

I punch him thinking of the words he whispered to Simon, taking every letter and syllable and hitting him back with it. I punch him with all the strength i have, and mind you i've got a lot of strength in me.  I make sure i punch him real damn hard his grandchildren would have a bruise on their cheek and the next generation to the next generation after.  I punch him so hard he falls backwards, then i punch him again and he topples over the counter. People stand up and seem to gather all around me and bulky guy here, but i don't bother with any of them -- i punch him and punch him until he's on the floor, until i see the blood trail off his nostrils.  Until i see Simon Snow in the corner of my eye, eyes wide and mouth agape. Only then do i stop.

Its been awhile since I've been this violent, and it feels wrong to start now. But then again, I'm not the big weird pervert who likes taking advantage of kids younger my age.  Now i have one thing to think about when i want to punch something. "Hey," I look over to my side where the bartender is, eyes wide as well as everyones. I'm not that ignorant (i am indeed very ignorant) but aren't  crowds like these suppose to be cheering? Were the hollywood movies all a lie? (I'm not surprised.) "You gotta leave." The bartender says, pointing towards the door. "Yeah, well." I look to the floor where the bulky guy is, bruised and pissed as fuck. He arches an eyebrow at me, his hand in his nose, miserably trying to contain all that blood. his eyes look at me like he either wants to slit my throat and drown me in the river or take me to his house to seduce me. Because he’s just that kind of guy.

I'd rather he drown me in a river, thank you very much. ”I think i got that message. C'mon Snow." He's still standing there, dazed, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. I grab his arm and he looks at me.Once we're out, i lightly hit him on the arm. Even that sends him stumbling back a bit. I grab his arm again. "I'm not doing this because i worry about your wellbeing, I'm doing this because it is under basic moral obligation to look after those in need." He grins. The fucker actually grinned at me, and of course he looks beautiful when he grins. He says "Aye aye captain," and then stumbles upon a trash can and bows his head there, vomiting the night away. Simon bloody Snow. 

#carry on fanfic #snowbaz fanfic #fanfiction #simon snow #Baz Pitch #Simon snow is drunk AU #Drunk!AU #is it considered an au #snowbaz #rainbow rowell

[transnames]

could i get some masculine name suggestions that are no more than 3 syllables? i'm 17, 5'9'', about average build (but leaning on the muscular with chub side) and i generally dress like a nerd who is trying really hard to be fashionable but isn't that good (so basically graphic tees, jeans, and athletic lounge wear but slightly better matched than usual). I usually wear my hair in a man bun and it's brown and curly. i don't like names that start with 'b'. i love nature names but not required!

Sure! Here’s a couple masculine names that I think could fit you and work with your birth year, I tried to include a lot of nature names:

Adrian

Alex

Andrew / Drew

Arthur (possibly means “bear king”)

Ash / Ashton (from the ash tree)

August

Caleb

Cameron

Charles / Charlie

Clay

Corbin (“raven”)

Damon / Damian

Derek

Devin (could mean “fawn”)

Dylan (“great tide”)

Ethan

Everett

Felix

Finch

Forest

Gale

Grant

Ian

Jasper

Jay

Jonah (“dove”)

Joshua (from the Joshua tree)

Martin (from the bird)

Matt / Matthew

Maxwell (“Mack’s stream”)

Nicholas

Nolan

Ollie / Oliver (from the olive tree)

Oscar (“deer friend”)

Owen (can mean “born from the yew tree”)

Reed

River

Rowan

Sam

Sean

Silas / Sylvester (“of the forest”)

Simon

Spencer

Tristan

Vance (“fen”)

Verne (“alder”)

Wesley (”west meadow”)

Will

Zachary

Also, you can look at this post with more plant names and this post with some links for a lot more nature names!

Feel free to send another ask for some more names.

#masculine #nature #names #salaslander #ask #description

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Lou’s Musical Madness Challenge!

I kinda hate that title. Do you hate that title? Send me ideas for a better one. 

Earlier today I hit 500 followers! I’m celebrating! As you may know, I really love to write shit that’s inspired by music; see here, here, and here. SO I wrote up a list of thirty of my favorite songs of all time, and I want you to pick one and get inspired by it. I’ll probably join in on the fun and do a few of the ones that aren’t claimed, because fuck it, they’re really good songs. 

Prompts!

1. This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) - Talking Heads

2. Gun Street Girl - Tom Waits (@rockhoochie)

3. Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem (@atwistoffate - COMPLETED!)

4. Combat Baby - Metric

5. Boyfriend - Against Me! (I feel like this should really be about a non-heteronormative relationship so please feel free to bend rule #4 for this. Laura Jane Grace would want it that way.)

6. Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off - Panic! At The Disco (Possibly @angelicdemonicwaitress)

7. I Wanna Get Better - Bleachers (Hallucinating Sam?)

8. Surrender - Walk The Moon

9. Wild Horses - Rolling Stones (@amanda-teaches)

10. Ramble On - Led Zeppelin (@roxyspearing and @crispychrissy- COMPLETED!)

11. Alive With The Glory Of Love - Say Anything

12. Gypsy - Fleetwood Mac (@ilostmyshoe-79 - COMPLETED!)

13. Back In The Tall Grass - Future Islands

14. Skinny Love - Bon Iver (@carryonmyswansong - COMPLETED!)

15. Gigantic - Pixies (LOL. Size!kink anybody?)

16. I Try - Macy Gray

17. Rivers And Roads - The Head and the Heart

18. Your Ex-Lover Is Dead - Stars

19. American Music - Violent Femmes (Dean at prom?)

20. Diamonds on the Soles Of Her Shoes - Paul Simon

21. Spitting Venom - Modest Mouse (@stusbunker)

22. I And Love And You - The Avett Brothers (@deanssweetheart23)

23. No Children - The Mountain Goats (Gimme dat ANGST! Going To Georgia or Pink And Blue would also be excellent Mountain Goats choices.)  

24. Welcome Home, Son - Radical Face (@music-savess-my-life)

25. Of All The Gin Joints In The World - Fall Out Boy (@hannahindie - COMPLETED!)

26. Make Love - Daft Punk (The title really says it all.)

27. Best Of Me - The Starting Line (@a-winchester-fairytale)

28. Cry Baby - Janis Joplin

29. World Spins Madly On - The Weepies

30. Crushcrushcrush - Paramore (Also possibly @angelicdemonicwaitress. We’re indecisive.)

Rules!

1. Rules are dumb, almost all of these are suggestions more than rules.

2. It’d be nice if you were following me I guess? If you join I’ll follow you back!

3. Use a “keep reading” cut.

4. Reader inserts for TFW is my preference but…see Rule #1. Just shoot me an ask if you wanna do a ship, because some ships squick me out.

5. Length is up to you, epics and lil baby drabbles alike are welcome, but please don’t make it part of an existing series!

6. No noncon or dubcon. This is the only rule that is 100% set in stone. I do not fuck with noncon.

7. Fics are due February 1st-ish. Extensions are totally a thing. Earlier is great too.

8. Interpret the prompt as closely/loosely as you want! Quote the lyrics. Make it play on the radio. Make Sam sing it in the shower. Listen to it a bunch for inspiration and end up with something that is only abstractly related, idgaf.

9. I guess I’ll cap it at like three people per prompt, probably?

10. I’ll reblog each one at least twice, with detailed feedback, and post them again in a list when they’re all done. If you tag me in it and I don’t reblog within 24 hours, message me. 

Send me an ask with the prompt you want! And if you know none of these songs but still want to take part, holla @ me and I’ll suggest one based on your writing style :) 

Tagging forevers and some of my favorite writers, but I’m definitely forgetting some people I’d love to have participate. If you don’t want to join in, maybe signal boost for me?

@thinkwritexpress-official @mandilion76 @winchesterprincessbride @ultimatecin73 @mrswhozeewhatsis @ridingmoxley @impala-dreamer @mogaruke @happy-bun-bun @geekgirl1213 @pinknerdpanda @atwistoffate @masksandtruths @moonlitskinwalker @saxxxology @babypieandwhiskey @crispychrissy @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @manawhaat @trexrambling @idreamofhazel @seenashwrite @wheresthekillswitch

#challenge! #writing is hard #fun shit

[pearwaldorf]

A cataloging of how the new population of ravens interacts with particular residents and/or visitors in Whitestone

Percival de Rolo: They are friendly, flocking to him when he walks the battlements of the castle. They are also curious, as is their wont, watching as they perch on the scaffolds of the slowly rising clock tower. When he spends too long cooped up away in his workshop; one always somehow gets in and gives him a good peck, reminding him to go eat, sleep, and spend time with his wife and children.

Trinket: At first he pays them no mind. They aren't for eating, as Mama Vex tells him sternly (and he always does what she says), and they leave him alone. Eventually, one gets brave enough to venture close, and when he doesn't eat it or chase it away, it hops on his head. More join it: first another, then many. Despite Mama Vex’s best efforts, he still gets dirt and such in his fur. They seem to like rooting around in it, getting bugs and tangles out as he lays in the sun. One day, Mama Vex sees him and starts laughing. At his questioning noise, she produces a mirror. The ravens have groomed his fur into little tufts, sticking out in every direction.

Grog Strongjaw: The Grand Poobah takes his duties very seriously, and gives his tour of Whitestone to anybody who wants it. The ravens aren't part of the tour at the beginning, but it starts to get weird not to point them out. When he talks about the presence of the ravens and how they came to be, they land on his shoulders. (It’s a very impressive effect.) Occasionally they pull at his beard. It makes him remember the prank wars, and how much he wishes they could still have them.

Velora Vessar: They warble softly at her, perching on her knees when she goes to the Raven Queen’s temple or the little bench out in the woods. She plaits their feathers next to the owlbear one she’s taken to wearing, mirroring her sister. Sometimes, when she has Simon wrapped around her wrist, they touch, beak to little snake nose.

Cassandra de Rolo: They only ever approach her when she's alone, practicing or taking a walk after a bad night. At the training grounds, they watch her hone her skills, emitting croaks that she swears are commentary. When she can’t sleep, they accompany her as she paces on the little balcony outside her bedroom. Sometimes she talks to them. They never respond (that would be silly), but she does get the sense they are listening, and that is enough.

Shaun Gilmore: They sit on the eaves of his little cottage and preen, calling at him until he responds. He tells them how beautiful they are, the way the sun glistens against their feathers, almost iridescent at the right vantage. When he locks up to go back to Emon, he blows them a kiss and waves, promising to return.

Pike Trickfoot: They love her hair. She lets it grow even longer now, a river of pale white over her back. Sometimes they perch on her shoulders, playing hide and seek through her tresses. Once, a group of them plaited her hair into two braids, the way you'd do it to put up fun buns. She cried a little when she pinned them up, but they were fond tears, and only a little bit sad.

Scanlan Shorthalt: Sometimes, they poop on him. Usually when he's in a bit of a funk. It's enough to make him laugh before he goes off to change his clothes.

Vex’ahlia de Rolo: There’s always one near her, and for a while her breath caught in her throat every time she saw them, a mocking reminder of what she’s lost. Once she was crying in bed, and one landed on the pillow next to her. She didn’t have the heart to chase it away, and it crooned gently at her, stroking her hair with its beak. It was not the same as getting her hair brushed out and rebraided, but enough so that it was comforting. She comes to a tentative detente with the birds after that, and they claim a large tree near her estate as their roost.

The first pregnancy is difficult, and she is bedridden for a time. They bring her little bits of the outside: twigs, berries, flowers. She thanks them and puts their gifts in her hair. When baby Elaina is old enough to sit up on her own, they play with her, venturing close enough to touch and moving away, enjoying her noises of delight. Vex watches this, surrounded by her family, and finds that her heart is lightened.

#critical role #critfic #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #long post for ts #i wrote a thing #things i researched: #do bears understand mirrors #(they do) #many raven sounds #also did you know ravens probably mate for life