[*au]

anonymous asked:

carry on au where baz isn't a vampire he's a bee and it's the plot of the bee movie

i’m going to regret doing this but the rewritten chapter 61 where baz is a bee

BAZ

I think I might kiss him. He’s right here. And his lips are hanging open (mouth breather) and his eyes are human, human, human.

You’re so human, Simon Snow.

You got my share of it.

He shakes his head, and he’s saying something, and I think I might kiss him.

Because I’ve never kissed anything before. (I was afraid I might sting.) And I’ve never wanted to kiss anything but him. (I won’t sting. I won’t hurt him.)

I just want to kiss him, then go.

‘Simon…,’ I say. And then he kisses bee.

SIMON

I just want him to shut up and stop buzzing like this. I just want him to get up and fly behind me out of here. I just want to be back at Watford in our room, knowing he’s there, and that he isn’t hurting anyone, and no one is hurting him.

BAZ

Is this a good kiss? I don’t know

Snow’s mouth is big. Everything is big.

He’s pushing me, so I push back.

His bee repellant is rattling in my mouth and wings. His pulse is beating in my small body. And his mouth is killing everything I’m trying to think.

Simon Snow.

SIMON

Baz’s mouth is smaller than Agatha’s.

Because he’s a bee, I think, and then: No, because he’s an insect.

He’s not an insect. He’s just a villain.

He’s not a villain. He’s just a bee.

I’m kissing a bee.

I’m kissing Baz.

He’s so small, and the world is so human.


yup i regret it

3

A spinoff of my Evil Stan AU :D

A stray Portal Ford and his unfortunate Rick stumble upon the Human Henchmaniac, Stan “Piraña” Pines, loyal minion of one Bill Cipher.

Can they outwit the Ford-Killer Fish?

10

Nine years after the Woman was last seen in Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson receive anonymous tickets to fly to New York at the service of a mysterious singer who wants to hire them for a case. They discover that the client is Irene Adler, now going by an alias, having resided in America since Sherlock rescued her from execution in Karachi. She explains that the events of The Final Problem had exposed her survival to Mycroft, so now many of her enemies are able to hunt her down. Sherlock finds it strange that after years of being capable of protecting herself, Irene would reach out to him. There is more to the story than meets the eye…

Part 2 of this thing [X] :3c also inspired by Yamato’s pose~

Also I just realized that I reached over 2100 followers, thank you guys!! I have no idea why you follow this trash blog but I glad you do UwU here have this Laz

5

- alt universe where iwaizumi is captain of seijoh
- iwa and oikawa are still childhood bffs but they split off in middle school, with oikawa going to shiratorizawa and iwaizumi to kitadai/seijoh. the rivalry between these two powerhouse schools has never been more intense during their three years
- shiratori-kawa won’t stop antagonising/flirting with iwaizumi during their matches
- it’s pretty hilarious to watch no one else gets under seijoh’s captain’s skin like shiratorizawa’s captain does
-  akaashi is there bc im hella weak for iwaaka but also Damage Control
- (uniforms are inverse bc im self-indulgent like that)

ok but

AU where the Miraculous holders become Kwami of their item should they ever be fatally wounded while transformed or misuse their power:

  • Tikki reacts with mild interest when she meets Plagg, “So you’re the Kwami of the Cat Miraculous…”
  • Marinette asks what’s up, “Aren’t Kwami’s thousands of years old?”
  • Tikki clarifies, “I’m thousands of years old, but past Cat Noirs tend to be… recklessly loyal to their Ladybugs”
  • Kwamis retain certain characteristics of their past human lives–see Plagg’s cheese obsession
  • Tikki won’t tell Marinette how she became a Kwami, but she swears to never let Marinette put herself in mortal danger
  • Tikki once heard of a rumor that the Cat Kwami may have a chance to reincarnate every 9th holder
  • Kwamis are semi-immortal–they only cease to exist if their holder replaces them
  • One can never be sure whether their Kwami is serving punishment for their past misdeeds or gifted the chance of immortality for their sacrifice
  • I don’t know where all these grimdark ideas came from
  • I’m sorry
  • This was all a convoluted headcanon so I can draw a smol bitter hawkmoth as a Kwami

i’m supposed 2 be memeingTM but i’m reading a book w fairies in it which reminded me of my flower fairy kaneki au doodle from this summer (that one was more canon based tho..this is a fantasy au)…also i just wanna draw fantasy creatures….so…knight tsukiyama & fairy kaneki…i’m thinking maybe, he was dyin in kanekis forest & kaneki saved his life

Read Chapters One through Three here.

Our Story

[December 24, 1992]

The yellow mocks him. Lines of it cross the walls, broad brushstrokes that climb from floor to the ceiling, ceiling to floor. Back again. FAITH.

Once, Jamie and Claire had laughed at the names underneath, the written ghosts of other possibilities:

“How about Lambert?”

“Nay, Dalhousie is much better. 

Dalhousie?” Claire’s paintbrush strike-through, a definite no. “That sounds like a bloody sneeze!”

He thinks of them now: the would-be Dalhousie, the would-be Lambert who still exist, half-formed, beneath the layers of paint. Two futures they’d decidedly rejected, covering them with white and then, finally, in the brightest yellow. F-A-I-T-H, they’d declared instead. So bold and sure – the future they’d chosen and surrendered, by force, to the grave. I dinna ken how to say this, man, but the hospital called and…

It was the prison guard who’d told Jamie this, watery eyes peering apologies through the bars. For the first time since Jamie’s arrest, the man’s scowl had lifted, and under the twitching bush of mustache, a grimmer line rose up, solid as any wall. (That line marks the end of this part of the story. Jamie and Claire’s marigold paradise, gone forever.)

Jamie sees the proof of this all around him: the crib is empty, its sheets unused and its teddy unloved. A bed that will wait and wait, its expectations never met. Right above, the mobile’s flowers droop, dead before tiny fingers could swat them into life. Jamie rips it from the ceiling, and the plaster falls. Little chips of white on his shoulders.

It has been eight months since Claire kneeled alone, veiled in black. It has been eight months since Jamie wept in orange, that very same day, behind a sheet of Plexiglass. He had stared into the other side, willing every visitor’s face into Claire’s. (She never came.) 

And it has been eight days since Claire left and Jamie woke up, drowning in their empty cot. He still smells her, all flowers and wet soil because, even gone, she is there beneath his skin (and he, still under hers; a layer she will never shed).

Outside, Jamie hears carolers sing, voices carried on the upward swing of the wind. Silent night, holy night. He slides the window open, letting the ice fill his lungs. He holds his breath, welcomes the sting, and listens for the reassuring sounds of her. Claire, a memory under the gusts and song:

“You should’ve seen the hernia I treated today!”

“He shushed me, can you believe it? What a wanker.”

“Chinese take-out for dinner, yeah?”

“Jamie, will you come to bed?”

But his wife grows faint beneath the rising bellows, the carolers cheered by the promise of warmth. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. And so Jamie exhales – nothing else to do but mouth along, swallow that calm, bright place within the wind; conjure it inside the studio. 

In this new place, Jamie does not betray his wife or know the cold, unforgiving grip of handcuffs and the cold, unforgiving grip of grief. In this place, husbands say the right words and wives accept them, do not leave in the dead of night. Here is a place where things make sense, and where babies breathe. Holy infant so tender and mild.

And yet. Jamie and Claire’s home, with its frozen pipes and its skeleton crib, is not that place, does not make sense anymore. The great, illogical impossibility of it all – this:

It was here that Jamie, so desperate for money, siphoned off what little they had. A gamble gone wrong, behind Claire’s back and against his word. And it is here that Jamie wrapped his wrists each morning, bandaging the marks of four weeks in a cell. His skin had bruised, like his heart, which still sits feather-light in his chest. So soft, so quiet. So much of it gone, without Claire.

From his window, Jamie watches the carolers advance towards a church, its doors sprung wide. Their footprints sign farewells in the snow, walking away, away, away. The wind howls in their wake, alive with Jamie’s loneliness. 

“Come back!” he yells from above, and his own voice is a shock to him. He yells a second time, more frantic now, “Turn around! D’ye hear me?” It comes so easily, these pleas to the retreating strangers. So much easier than calling his wife, begging for her forgiveness, because finally – finally! – he has found the words. Come back, come back, come back. 

But when it counted, Jamie had turned inward and away, had said nothing. Wasn’t silence better than the wrong words? Smile, rub your hand along her back, take her to bed and fill the void with another, different child? But in that silence, Claire had heard the rip – that swift severance of the bright, red string between them. The two of them, suddenly on their own, waging separate wars against the world. And so she’d left – and he has not called.

“Come back!” he yells again. His desperation echoes between the buildings. “Hey, up here!”

For a second, Jamie thinks they’ve heard him. Their shuffling stops and a woman, fingers clutching her naked neck, turns around. She looks to the ground, all frenzied eyes, before someone grabs her, saying, “It’s cold! Leave it!” She resists at first, peering over her shoulder, but then forges onwards with the crowd. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace… 

It is quiet now. Jamie closes the window and leans against it, coming face to face with the empty crib. It is this, this above all else, that does not make sense to him. Hadn’t he seen the pictures – those blurry, vague promises of a little girl? Tacked them to the visor of his car, folded them into his wallet to brandish at the office? And hadn’t he felt the kicks against Claire’s stomach, and assembled this crib, this damn crib? 

And yet – there is nothing that makes sense.

And yet – he knows handcuffs and he knows grief.

And yet – she’d had no words to accept, simply left in the dead of night.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

The baby did not breathe.


(Later, Jamie will rise from his sleep and look out the window. He will follow the path of the sinking sun until it catches a necklace, glaring golden in the snow. Jamie will brace the storm, put the necklace in his pocket. Wait. And when the sidewalk has melted, he will place the necklace there, precisely where it was dropped, for the caroler to find.

Of all the things that do not make sense, he is sure of this: soon, the woman will remember her father clasping it around her neck. Or she will remember when her boyfriend said, “I saw this, and I thought of you.” When she tried it on, just a child, in front of her mother’s mirror. She will remember how much she loves this necklace, this slice of paradise in the dark, cold winter, and she will look for it. This, Jamie knows: she will come back.)


Before she signs the papers, her lawyer asks, “Are ye sure of this, Claire?”

And when she sees the page, filled with so many endings, she wants to say, “No. No, I’m not sure.”

No, I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. 

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

But, Claire thinks, what other option is there? How else to forget the butterfly ears, or the way Faith’s skin had caught the dawn? Such a beautiful, translucent thing: strawberry hair, blue lightning across the pales of her lids. How else to forget that Claire had clung to the hospital sheets, so damp and so bloody, after they’d taken Faith away? Just to remember, please, she’d cried. Those dirty sheets, the only sign that the child had ever been there. Please, please. Just to remember.

She’s grown so tired of remembering, now craves the oblivion of forget. She does not want the memory of Jamie’s sleep-smile, lit red and blue (just like their daughter) by the Christmas tree’s glow. She does not want the memory of how she almost didn’t leave, how she’d stood in the gateway to their marigold paradise, paralyzed. A moment in time where she might have gone back, lain down beside her husband and unpacked the suitcase. Never called Ned Gowan. (A red herring, that moment passed as soon as it began.)

Standing there that night, Claire had watched Jamie sleep and wondered: Would she have been like you? and Would she have looked like you? And the answers, so immediate and so clear in the rainbow tree light were, Yes. Because how could God resist?

And so what else is there to do but sign the papers? Jamie, day-after-day, staring back at her with their would-be-child’s face. Claire had closed the door, had not looked back. Because how could she possibly stay?

At her silence, Ned Gowan probes again, “Are ye sure of this, Claire?” and calmly, calmly she takes the pen. She signs along the blank line, and every loop of her name – now: Beauchamp, Beauchamp, Beauchamp – swirls with all her doubts.

No, I’m not sure.

No, I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.

I don’t know. 

I don’t know. 

I don’t  –

No.


(If the heart moves at the speed of light, then it will shatter upon impact. A million broken shards, all strewn across the world. Pieces of Claire will remain in that studio, in that cot, in her husband’s arms. But most will be found buried deep below the ground. Inside the tiny, wooden box that holds their baby girl.)