~vern writes


Jules Verne (8 February 1828 – 24 March 1905) 

French novelist, poet, and playwright best known for his adventure novels and his profound influence on the literary genre of science fiction. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Cover and spine detail from The Fur Country; Or, Seventy Degrees North Latitude. Translated from the French of Jules verne. By N. D’Anvers. With One Hundred Illustrations. Boston: James R. Osgood and Company, 1874. 

*pops my head over your cubical wall* Oh, Hello. It’s 2:20am here and I’m heading off to bed but I thought I’d leave you a little something? I hope you like it. *wink*


The bass was strong and steady. A consistent heartbeat that he felt at different pressure points on himself. The club was packed, bodies pressing into each other and the faint smell of sweat, alcohol and hormones consumed the place. There was something different about tonight, what exactly he couldn’t pin down but it seemed like everyone was full of wild energy. He walked steadily across the crowd towards their table, ignoring the flirtatious looks shot his way. When he arrived though, there was only Kevin. Something close to anxiety shot through him as he leaned in to ask, “Where’s Neil?”

Kevin pointed into the throng of people, “Nicky took him.”  

Andrew leaned over the railing and looked down at the crowd. Finally he spotted them at the dead center of the dance floor. The lights flashed warm colors across their faces and Andrew could see Nicky smiling and swaying to the relentless pounding of the bass. He had his hands on Neil’s’ shoulders, swaying him along and Andrew was almost amused by the sight of Neil’s confused look until Nicky’s hands suddenly slide down Neil’s chest to grasp his hips, pulling him closer. He turned around and shot Kevin an order, “Don’t. Move.”

He cut straight through the crowd, parting it with the promise of death clearly radiating off him. When he finally reached them, he didn’t hesitate in placing a hand on Nicky’s shoulder, turning him around, and punching him in the solar plexus. He would have hit the ground if Andrew hadn’t pulled him close, giving the impression of a friend sporting another who had too much to drink.

“What did I tell you? You know I hate repeating myself.” Andrew whispered into his ear.

There was no response besides Nicky’s sharp inhales of breath, struggling to both respond to Andrew and get away from him. There was a gently pull on Andrews right wrist, Neil having come up beside him and Andrew could almost feel him pressed along his side. He wasn’t, even in the middle of a mass of bodies all pushing against each other. Neil always managed to keep that distance he needed between them, so even know if felt like he was being eclipsed by him, Andrew could see their only point of contact were the fingers gently encircled around his wrist.

He stared at him and though he meant it as something hard, something furious, something threating, it must have come out in a different way. Neil stared right back at him but his mouth had parted slightly, his breathing was harsher and-

“Go back to the table and keep Kevin Company. Do not try this again.” And with that Andrew shoved Nicky towards the stairs leading to their table without a backwards glance.

Neil was still watching him, no, studying him and Andrew felt that now familiar prickle across his skin. Always being on the giving end of such a look, it had messed with him for months having it directed his way. Made his heart race a little bit as it did now, made him think of soft lips, calloused hands, fierce, slate blue eyes. The music changed to another sultry slightly slowed bass sound and without hesitation, he pulled Neil those last two inches towards him, clutching his waist with an unforgiving grasp. Neil didn’t mind. He never seemed to mind. Slowly, so slow it could barely be registered as dancing, Andrew began to sway back and worth. Neil’s hands automatically came up and hesitated on Andrew’s shoulders for a second before being placed on the back of Andrew’s head.

They have never been this close in public. Well, surrounded by people while this close in public. It didn’t matter, they didn’t give a damn about people normally and here, pressed together as their bodies swayed, the air heavy and intoxicating and the lights soft and in shades of reds, purples, and blues, they could be anyone; the only ones.

Heat. It’s too much heat. He’s burning and taking Neil with him and god, how do normal people stand this? Do they even know? Has anyone ever felt this before? No, probably not. It’s far to terrifying. Andrew watches small beads of sweat begin to appear on Neil’s forehead, his upper lip, his neck, slowly dripping into his collarbone. It’s too easy to just lean in and place his mouth on there, run his tongue along the erratic pulse, ghost his lips up his neck and jaw landing a breath away from Neil’s mouth.

“Yes.” Neil whispers.

But before Andrew can press forward, it’s Neil who rushes towards his mouth filled with a desperation and need he’d never shown before. They get lost. He’s falling. Down, down, down and no, not here. He gathers every inch of his will power, places the hand that somehow found itself inside Neil’s shirt at the base of his throat and presses, hard. The slight moan Neil lets out nearly has him pulling out a knife but he resist; barely. He tries again, forcing his head back. They’re both breathing heavily, chest, hips thighs still glued together. There is no question of desire, their hips still shifting slightly but not at all in a way that can be perceived as dancing.

Neil’s eyes are shut tight and Andrew takes a moment to watch his face. He looks broken apart, as if Andrew simply tossed him off the roof and is now holding the sharp pieces in his hands. He glances at the fingers still at the base of Neil’s throat, amazed that they aren’t covered in blood. He wonders if he ever looked this way and was angry that he couldn’t answer that with a clear no. Finally Neil opens his eyes and… would he ever stop staring at him like that? He looked at him as if Andrew was the beginning and the end of everything. As if there had never been anyone before; as if there wouldn’t be an after. Andrew couldn’t have this. He didn’t want this. But if that were really the case he wouldn’t be here, surrounded by hundreds of people and only really seeing one person. They’re just standing here now, holding on to each other like life lines and Andrew places more space between them though not without reluctance. Neil blinks and it’s as if the world comes rushing back to him. He pulls away slowly and finally they let go of one another.

“You aren’t a bad dancer.” Neil states.

He isn’t smiling, but he’s not smiling in the way that Andrew knows he actually is on the inside. He gives him a flat look and the corners of Neil’s mouth raise the slightest bit.

“One hundred and twenty-three.”

Andrew turns away before he can see a real smile on Neil’s face and starts to head towards the stairs before pausing. He glances back at Neil, who’s right at his back waiting for him to move forward. He tosses Andrew a questioning look and fuck it, it’s been a strange night already. Andrew reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together tightly and begins to pull them through the crowd.

When they get to the stairs, he calls back, “one hundred and twenty-four.”

He doesn’t have to turn to know Neil is beaming at him.

Write something that takes place during the twenty-four hours before your protagonist boards a submarine to live underwater for three years.

packing for the rest of your life

Title: packing for the rest of your life
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Word Count: 3802
Rating: G
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the first Spider-Man reboot (2012)
Summary: Gwen Stacy, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. // Or, Gwen Stacy makes her own choices (and makes a few friends along the way). 

Characters: Gwen Stacy, Peter Parker, Maria Hill, Darcy Lewis

Read: AO3 

johnnyjacqobis  asked:

olicity next door neighbors AU!!!! omg

Next-door neighbor AU/hear a bell when you meet your soulmate AU idk what’s happening, Meaghan, im sure it’s ur fault


Oliver meets his next-door neighbor for the first time when he’s hideously hungover. For once, it’s not his fault: Laurel and Tommy split up again the night before, which meant Tommy blundered his way over to Oliver’s place and hammered on the door until Oliver let him in, and then—all right, it probably is Oliver’s fault he’s hungover, he was the one who kept taking shots. In his defense, he was trying to keep up with Tommy, who gets viciously competitive and weepy when he’s drunk.

Anyway, there’s a knock on the door and he opens it as fast as he can because the sound is ricocheting around his skull and if Tommy wakes up before noon after drinking as much as he did last night, he’ll puke. Oliver would like to avoid that.

“So, hey,” says the girl at the door. Oliver stares down at her—his head is killing him, but he knows from hangovers; they aren’t usually accompanied by the sound of bells. “In retrospect I probably shouldn’t have come over here alone, but someone tried to break down my door last night—“ she stops short and stares back at him, which Oliver appreciates. The sound of bells is still resonating through him and he’s—really overwhelmed.

“I’m Oliver,” he says. “That—was probably Tommy at your door last night. I’m sorry.”

The girl nods, slowly. “I see.” She blinks and shakes herself—Oliver doesn’t know a lot about soul mates, but he’s sort of surprised that his is so adorable. “I’m Felicity.” 

“F. Smoak,” he says. He’s been staring at her mailbox for weeks—it’s right next to his. “Listen—“ he can hear Tommy stirring in the next room, and Oliver panics, steps over his threshold and into Felicity’s personal space, closing the apartment door behind him.

“Oh!” Felicity steps back and her hands kind of come up and hover for a second, like she might lose her balance. She doesn’t touch him; Oliver really wishes she would. He didn’t realize he had a thing for girls with glasses until approximately this second.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just—thought I heard something.”

“Right,” Felicity says. She looks pretty skeptical. “Anyway, I’m sure your friend is a nice person and all, but he scared the crap out of me last night. And I figured it wasn’t you, because you’ve lived here what, seven months—“

“Six months, three weeks,” Oliver says.

“Right, a while now, and we’ve never even spoken, so why would you try and break into my apartment? I figured it was a case of the wrong address.”

“Yeah,” Oliver says. He just lets that—hang there, awkwardly, until Felicity quirks her head to the side and purses her lips at him, a silent prompt to keep talking. “Um, yeah, I’m really sorry about him, he’s having a fight with his soulmate and it’s a huge fucking mess—can I buy you a cup of coffee?” He’s wearing a pair of athletic shorts and an old zip-front hooded sweatshirt. Felicity Smoak is wearing bright red chinos and a faded MIT t-shirt and, more importantly, looks like she’s showered in the past twelve hours. Oliver doesn’t have a chance.

“Oh, sure,” she says, like it’s easy. “You wanna get dressed first? You kind of look like a hot mess. Um. Not that you’re a mess. Or that I’m objectifying you—you just—never mind. Yes. I would like to get coffee with you.”

While she blushes and stammers, Oliver just thinks, oh, okay, that’s how it’s going to be.


And then obviously they go out for coffee and Oliver spends the first six months of her acquaintance wondering if she heard the bells too, because not everyone hears them, and she keeps talking about someone named Sara, and Felicity doesn’t say anything about soulmates at all, ever. (Turns out she was up early working on a problem set for a programming seminar she’s teaching and thought the sound was a teakettle or something, and has spent the last six months wondering why her hot neighbor has made her his new best friend, and also why he asks her so many questions about computers that really do not make sense. They figure it out when Felicity’s over at Oliver’s listening to Tommy have another emotional breakdown about how knowing your soulmate actually makes it harder for everyone involved, he swears to Christ, and Oliver just kind of says “amen,” and gets a six-pack out of the fridge, and then Felicity’s like, “Wait, you have a soulmate? And you guys aren’t together? There’s got to be a story there!” And that distracts Tommy from his misery long enough to spill the beans. The next six months are VERY INTERESTING.)

Jules Verne, Bitch | Michael Kindt

Have you ever read him? I bet you haven’t because only recently have his works, his actual works, become available in English. From Wikipedia: “Verne is generally considered a major literary author in France and most of Europe, where he has had a wide influence on the literary avant-garde and on surrealism. His reputation is markedly different in Anglophone regions, where he has often been labeled a writer of genre fiction or children’s books, largely because of the highly abridged and altered translations in which his novels are often reprinted.”

I am fascinated by the art of translation. No, it isn’t a science, not even close. I am often surprised at how people view translation. It seems so straightforward to them, but it so isn’t. There is a foreign word and you make it the English word. Simple, right?

Not so fast, skippy.

Keep Reading

thewintersoldierdisaster  asked:

Olicity chaperoning their kids' class trip! =)

“What I don’t understand,” Felicity said, lifting the last of the kindergarteners (Yancy, Richardson; not one of Connor’s friends, kind of an asshole, in the way only five-year-olds knew how to be assholes) out of the bus and down to Oliver’s open arms, “is how every time we leave the house, it becomes an unmitigated disaster.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Oliver deadpanned, relieving her of the five-year-old. “Board a yacht, spend five years on an island. Get on a school bus full of kindergarteners and get stuck in a sinkhole. It’s progress.”

“You got funny when you married me,” Felicity said. She looked behind her and grabbed her tote bag off the seat before carefully edging her way to the emergency door. “You definitely never made jokes like this before we got together. Ugh, sinkholes aren’t even common in this region!”

“Felicity,” Oliver said. He looked pained, and Felicity realized that if jumping from the wreckage of a teetering, upended school bus frightened her, the thought of missing her when she jumped was probably killing her husband.

“Okay, okay, keep your shirt on,” she said.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Oliver said.

“There are thirteen five-year-olds watching us, one of whom is your son,” Felicity sing-songed back. “Watch your mouth, mister.”

“Jump,” Oliver said. “I’ve got you, I won’t miss, it’s going to be fine—oof!”

“I’ve seen you bench-press more than my weight on a regular basis, I’m not that heavy,” she said, even though her tote bag had hit him pretty hard in the side. “You big softie. Okay, put me down—”

Oliver did put her down, but not before running one hand over her face and combing her hair out of her eyes. “Hey,” he said, very seriously, like they weren’t standing on the edge of a sinkhole with their only son’s kindergarten class. Felicity felt a rush of strong feeling at his tone of voice, but it probably wasn’t the best time to mention she thought she might be pregnant.

“It’s okay,” she leaned up and kissed him, just a quick peck on the edge of his mouth, before she stepped away, facing the class. She had to hand it to them: the kindergarteners were handling this a lot better than their teacher, who was visibly trying not to panic. “Line leaders! Who’re line leaders today? Two rows, away from the crash, come on!”


oh great, now I want to write a Kindergarten Cop AU, how could you (no but imagine how great that would be! Sent to track down Malcolm Merlyn, a notorious criminal, unconventional cop Oliver Queen and his partner Sara Lance infiltrate the elementary school Merlyn’s daughter allegedly attends—they’re not sure, of course, because the kid’s nanny ran off with her a while ago and no one’s been able to track them down. Sara gets food poisoning, so Oliver has to go undercover as a kindergarten teacher in order to find Thea Merlyn—he just didn’t expect to find Thea’s self-appointed protector, Felicity Smoak, and he didn’t expect to fall in love with her, either. (and he really didn’t expect to walk in on Sara and her fiancée, Nyssa al Ghul, but that’s a story for another time or maybe never, good grief.) 

sunday six

each sunday, post six or so sentences from a writing project

Felicity is at her desk when Oliver drags himself to the office in the morning. Today she’s wearing an electric blue dress; he thinks it’s the one she was wearing when they jumped out that window. It’s bright in the office before ten a.m., and she’s stuck a post-it note to the arm of her glasses to keep the sun out of her eyes.

“You know, you can lower the blinds,” he says, passing over her Starbucks order.

“It’s not worth it,” she says, her voice a little hoarse: he wonders if she had trouble sleeping, too. Oliver watches as she takes a long swallow from her coffee; she closes her eyes while she drinks, and the sun in the room highlights her face to the point where he can’t make out her specific features. “The sun’s gonna move eventually, that means I’m the winner.”

what is torn opens for the light

Title: what is torn opens for the light
Category: Arrow
Word Count: 1070
Rating: T
Spoilers: Know Nyssa? No spoilers.
Summary: Nyssa didn’t have to teach Sara how to hide a body. Sara learned how to do that all on her own. // Sara meets Nyssa al Ghul and falls in love. It feels a lot like honesty.
Read: AO3

Sunday sneak peek

There’s more of this, I just didn’t want to snip it so you get a RATHER LONG Sunday “six.”

Eventually, Oliver retires: he’s just turned forty-three and it’s long overdue. The catalyst is, like many of the catalysts in Oliver’s life, cringeworthy and embarrassing–his worse knee slips out of alignment when he goes to jump, and if Artemis Crock were anything less than what she is, he’d have fallen from a rooftop and crippled himself.

“Maybe I’ll go back out tonight,” is all Artemis says when she drags him back to the foundry. She has a strained look around the eyes, but otherwise doesn’t give much away; Artemis Crock very rarely gives anything away, at least for free.

They didn’t talk about the near-miss (“if we started, we’d never stop,” Felicity always says when they orient a new member of the team. “Although I will remind you that I took a bullet for the Canary one time, that’s absolutely essential information.”). Instead, Oliver spends the rest of the night going over inventory while Felicity coaches Artemis through a solo run of the city. Oliver thinks that Artemis is a better version of himself; she is at least trying to prove an entirely different point.

A few weeks after the rooftop incident, Oliver buys a little house a couple hours outside the city—a fucking ranch, no stairs, the most boring thing he could find—and he moves in without telling anyone, basically overnight. Felicity shows up on the doorstep about twelve hours later.

“Are you done sulking?” she asks. Oliver would bet that the car in the drive is crammed full of Felicity’s tech, and probably one-third of her current wardrobe. He hopes she packed the blue dress; she smiles more when she wears it, like she gets a charge out of wearing the color. “I’ve got a satellite phone on me, but I’d like to get the server set up sooner rather than later.”

Sunday why do I even pretend this is six

The “Nyssa and Felicity go on a transnational expedition to find Sara after she goes on the run” fic.

“I’m not very brave,” Felicity blurted out, “In case you were counting on that.”

Nyssa laughed, but very quietly, and pulled Felicity alongside and the in front of her, so she was herding her onto the boat at the end of the pier. The air smelled like water and fish and the summer stink of zebra mussels breeding and dying along the waterline. “You’re brave,” Nyssa said. “You volunteered even though you don’t know what you’re getting into, and it’s not because you are a stupid girl.”

“I’m feeling a little stupid now,” Felicity said.

“A good sign for your sense of self-preservation,” Nyssa said. “That’s why you’re a better pick than that big man you put up with.”

“Oh, him,” Felicity thought about Oliver, how strong he was, and how bad he was and thinking all the way through before he made a move. “He has his uses.”

“Not here,” Nyssa said.

freaoscanlin  asked:

You're gonna get 20 of these, but I'm legit curious about Arrow. *chinhands*

hahahaha whoops this got away from (i’m not sorry)

1. Arrow AU as the Bletchley Circle. It could go a lot of ways (I mean, for relationship integrity, but whatever).

Felicity Smoak seems like an ordinary woman, but here’s a secret that’s not really a secret: she’s good at patterns and she’s the very devil with a cryptogram. Here’s the secret that’s really A Secret: during the war, Felicity worked to break enemy codes at Bletchley Circle. During that time, she became close with a group of women with similar analytical talents: Sara Lance, who was astonishingly good with maps; Nyssa al Ghul, who could find any reference you ever wanted, and knew who to talk to in order to get hands on it; and Thea Merlyn, who had a knack for remembering vast amounts of data. (Possible alternatives: Sin or BARBARA GORDON, be still my heart, or look into Birds of Prey, which I am not familiar with)

The war is over and the women have signed the Official Secrets Act, and have all parted ways—there’s not much to talk about when you’re not allowed to talk about anything. Felicity has since gotten married, to a perfectly nice, boring man (could be Oliver aggressively not talking about his experiences during the war or it could be Barry aaaahhhhh imagine Barry crippled by the war and remaining cheerfully good despite his disability and his quiet, boring life, he’s just so grateful he made it out alive). They’re starting to talk about having a baby, maybe, it’s so much better in London nowadays, even though the police found another girl dead just the other day.

Except: Felicity realizes that it’s not just one dead girl, it’s four dead girls, and if she’s predicted the pattern correctly, there will be more dead girls. Desperate to stop the killer, she decides to put her skills to use. Before she gets started with that, she realizes she needs help, and so recruits her friends from Bletchley in order to do what the police cannot: figure out the killer’s patterns of behavior so they can stop him before he strikes again. They have one ally in the local law enforcement (Detective Lance! He disapproves of them consulting. But he signed the secrets act too and he knows they had to have done something during the war—Sara is a lot of things, and good at filing is not one of them). Lance is willing to work with them, but only up to a point: the Bletchley women will have to consult other members of the intelligence community (Walter Steele? MOIRA???) in order to find the killer. Meanwhile, their families begin to question why the women have reunited, and what exactly they’re up to.

2. I feel like there’s an excellent Sara/Nyssa dance school fic hiding someone deep in this fandom.

Can you see it? Sara Lance skipping her barre class because she’s utterly fed up with ballet culture and her stupid sister’s pas de deux critiques and just—it’s all pointless and she’s never gonna get a company gig because Sara’s body isn’t right for ballet. She’s heard it all her life, but she doesn’t know what else to do.

That’s around the same time she meets rising contemporary choreographer Nyssa al Ghul, who convinces Sara to sit in on her class. Okay, maybe Sara should join in, just for laughs. Okay, maybe there’s a dance showcase coming up and Nyssa wants Sara to perform her newest piece. Okay, maybe Sara and Nyssa fall in love.

(Also in this fic: ferocious dance mom Moira Queen, who also owns the company. Walter Steele, major donor and director of programming—under his guidance, the Dearden Dance Company has risen to great heights. Principal ballet dancer Laurel Lance is outwardly “all that” and inwardly struggling with vicious drug dependencies just to make it through her practice routines. Street dancer Roy Harper is actually kind of a shitty street dancer, but who is a good partner for his friend Sin. Thea Queen, just old enough to realize she does not want to be a dancer for the rest of her likely very short career, but not having any of the resources to say so to her mother. Oliver Queen, a powerhouse of a dancer who just doesn’t care anymore, and all the donors look at his old dance tapes and mutter about wasted potential—his parents were stars, you know. Add into the mix Felicity Smoak, one of Sara’s old friends, who is now the archivist at the company’s choreography library and one of the only really coherent people around who understands dance notation.)

3. The Elementary crossover. (I have talked about this before, whatever.)

After it turns out that Sara has ties to a shadowy criminal mastermind named Moriarty—who may or may not be trading information regarding Sara’s activities in the League in exchange for special favors from the police in charge of her case—Team Arrow travels to New York in order to meet with the only available expert on Moriarty and her network.

That someone is, of course, Sherlock Holmes (Felicity tracked him down, which wasn’t exactly hard. For the record, she’s not a huge fan of Frozen, but she loved his performance). At the same time, they meet Joan Watson, but she turns out to have excellent advice as well (about life and about mirakuru, it’s all good). (Is Moriarty one of Nyssa’s ex-girlfriends????)

Bonus: Diggle, Bell, and Gregson go out for beers and talk sideways about crime fighting idiots who break the law more often than not, and also mess up interdepartmental dynamics more than not, but who mean we’ll which makes it harder to beat common sense into them.
Felicity and Alfredo give each other lessons on infiltrating secure systems (it’s all computers,” she says.).
Ms. Hudson and Sara go shopping together, not because Sara needs anything, but because Ms. Hudson knows what it’s like to survive and that’s an important thing to honor in a person.
Sherlock becomes a huge advocate for Felicity because it’s so nice to have another consulting hacker who doesn’t make him jump through hoops when HE’S JUST TRYING TO SOLVE MURDERS.

4. Inception AU (I’m not as sure about this one and I ran out of parallels.)

Intent on finding the people responsible for killing his father and corrupting his city, Oliver Queen teams up with a group of innovative, vigilante dream invaders: Extractor John Diggle, Forger Lyla Michaels, Point Person Felicity Smoak and Chemist Sara Lance. It should be simple: they’ll get in, get the list, and get out.

The only problem: Oliver’s a tourist, not an Architect, and his mazes are just islands overrun with projections of Shado Fei, Slade Wilson, Tommy Merlyn, and Laurel Lance—all of whom are angry at Oliver, and all of whom aren’t willing to let the team finish the job.

5. Return to Me AU (god I love this movie, it’s a sickness)

Shado Fei-Queen dies in an accident on the way home from dropping off her research notes about a potential trip to an island off the coast of China—she’s an award-winning botanist, and it’s looking like the university conservatory is going to approve the trip, which is great—more discoveries mean she’s that much closer to tenure, which means she’s that much closer to building the experimental greenhouses she’s always wanted. But it’s raining, and the other car careens through the intersection, and the next thing her husband Oliver knows, he’s a widower.

Never one to have a healthy approach to life, Oliver throws himself into rebuilding the experimental greenhouses Shado had her heart set on—he can get the funding, it’s figuring out all of her architectural notes that’s the problem. Well, that and fighting with the university. After a year of this, his friend John Diggle and Digg’s wife, Lyla, decide to intervene, because Oliver is not doing a great job as a solitary human being. They try setting him up with a series of Lyla’s work friends, which goes poorly, because Lyla’s work is classified and the people she works with are a little unique (that means difficult). (The date with Amanda Waller from what Lyla refers to unconvincingly as “accounting” is notably awful, and Oliver fakes an emergency finance meeting at 6:45 on a Friday night just to get away.)

Meanwhile: Felicity Smoak is having a pretty good year. She’s recovering well from the open-heart surgery she had a little over a year ago, though she still feels guilty that she’s alive because someone else is dead. Her computer consultation business is starting to pick up, and even though she’s a little lonely, things are good. Her best friend Sara and Sara’s wife, Nyssa, keep trying to set her up with people, because it’s not like Felicity had a chance to really meet people when she was having heart failure. (The date with Roy Harper, a friend of Sara’s friend Sin, is so wretched that they all pretend it never happened.)

Felicity doesn’t have any surviving family, but when she drops by the club Sara and Nyssa work at, she gets to be friends with Thea Queen and Tommy Merlyn. They manage the place, and when they hear her dad is out of the picture (“Your dad was a piece of shit? Pull up a chair.”) they become fast friends.

Eventually, Felicity and Oliver meet—and there’s an instant attraction. There’s one problem: neither one of them know that Felicty has Shado’s heart.

(PS: sorry Shado is still dead, I’m mad at myself for this one)


6. The Academia AU (I have def. talked about this one before)

Oliver is a spy for a government agency, but his cover these days is as an eternal graduate student at a major university. It’s perfect: no one expects him to attend classes during a “dissertation period,” he keeps odd hours and travels a lot “for conferences,” and he has access to all of the university databases, which is surprisingly helpful from time to time when he’s trying to build a profile or prep for an extraction from another country. The language lab is excellent as well. He likes the tapes.

Unfortunately, he’s still kind of a flailboat when it comes to accessing encrypted messages on his computer, so after a particularly rough mission he brings his laptop to the library science graduate assistant on duty, figuring she can help and knowing that librarians are sworn to a code of confidentiality or something.This is true, but the only problem is, Felicity Smoak sees right through him. With her keeping a close eye on his activities, it’s getting harder to pass as an eternal graduate student. (“Shouldn’t you at least be a postdoc now? How many years have you been writing your dissertation, five?”)

When a double agent from Oliver’s past shows up, pretending to be a visiting lecturer, Felicity’s big, beautiful brain puts too many pieces together and gets her in trouble—so much trouble that Oliver cuts his losses and tells her the truth. He’ll have a better chance of protecting her if she knows what he’s trying to do.

Eventually, Oliver tries to recruit Felicity to his organization. (“I’m not dropping out of school just to do research for you, Oliver, wait, does this agency have tuition assistance? does the provost know??”) She’s thinking about it.

THIS IS NOT EVEN TOUCHING: The Circus AU, the While You Were SLeeping AU, a lot of other AUs i should probably work on at some point.

Sunday six

Sara’s leaning over her in bed when Felicity wakes up, her hair loose and hanging down to tickle Felicity’s face. It’s the tickle that woke her; Felicity isn’t used the anything touching her face, and she’s even less used to waking up to another person.

“Why are you in my bed?” she asks, because it’s a pertinent question–the people in Felicity’s life are also mostly Oliver’s people, and prone to disaster because of the association.

Sara pulls Felicity’s covers away and steals a pillow, which is excellent impetus to get up.

“Everything’s fine,” Sara says. She smells like she’s been running, like sweat and peppermint oil and the leftover residue that’s still hanging around from when Felicity’s complex sprayed for mosquitoes at the start of the summer. “I just thought I’d see what the inside of your house looks like.”

ohmypreciousgirl  asked:

Joanlock - roommates in college AU

Joan walked in from her afternoon labs—they had finally started dissecting the cadaver, which was amazing, but had the unfortunate side effect of being scheduled for right after lunch. Earlier that day, Joan had eaten a salad; the cadaver’s fingernails were manicured before the body had been donated, and it bore an eerie resemblance to the slivered almonds she hadn’t previously given a second thought to. Joan was hungry now, but her gut roiled a little at the thought of the dining hall’s questionable stir-fry.

The house—Mr. Holmes had bought it after Sherlock enrolled, and Joan had moved in after Sherlock nearly got kicked out and needed someone to watch him for signs of incipient drug use—smelled warm, like beaten eggs and gluten; Sherlock was baking in the kitchen, and he shouted out to her as she hung up her coat. 


She rolled her eyes, sorting through the mail that had been mistakenly sent to the student center. “Did you pay the phone bill this month—what’s wrong?” She had walked into the kitchen only to find him pulling a batch of popovers from the over, baked to golden and tall perfection. “You only bake those when you’re upset.”

Sherlock kept his back to her—he always avoided eye contact after yelling throughout the house for her to come over by him, like it didn’t count if he ignored her for the first fifteen seconds they were in the same room—but pointed to an opened letter on the table before carefully piercing and removing the popovers from the pan.

It was a letter, handwritten, which meant it was from Jamie. Sherlock still called her Irene when he’d been awake for more than thirty hours in a row, but Joan had never known Jamie Moriarty before the kid gloves had come off, and so didn’t have the same nostalgic confusion clouding the issue.

“Put the popovers down,” Joan said, very carefully not moving over to the letter. Just because Sherlock had pointed it out didn’t mean he wanted her to read it.

“They’re Yorkshire puddings,” he sniffed, and tipped the contents of the pan out into a breadbasket. (“If you’re going to use my ingredients to stress bake,” Joan had told him, three weeks into her stay, “then you can damn well leave some for me to eat instead of throwing them out.”) “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson, you can read it, it’s just a letter.”

“There’s never ‘just’ anything, with you,” Joan said, but she let her shoulders relax down before she walked over to the counter by the stove. She didn’t look toward the letter on the table. “Answer my question. About the phone bill. It’s your month for electric and utilities, my month for cleaning, don’t think I didn’t notice you waited until after the first to pull out your chemistry set.”

Sherlock—looked like he was crying, but Joan wasn’t going to mention it. He took the bill from her, forgetting he still had a paring knife in hand, and relieved her of the bill. Joan liberated a popover—in her experience, pudding came in a box and was served exclusively at children’s birthday parties, usually accompanied by ‘Nilla Wafers—and tore it open to expose its hollow interior.

“There’s jam,” Sherlock said. He opened the fridge—the door clanked ominously, overloaded with condiments—and pulled out a jar. It looked homemade, probably strawberry; Joan took it, and fished around in the drawer for a spoon. This was as good as an apology from Sherlock; when he took the phone bill from her and folded it into his apron pocket, she figured there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d pay it before they got a warning. 

She put jam on the popover, and then put it on a plate—Joan occasionally tried teaching Sherlock by example, even if it appeared to a lost cause—before she sat down at the table. Sherlock shuffled after her, slumping into his usual chair beside her with none of his usual grace or good posture.

“This isn’t the first letter I’ve had from her,” he said. “But this is the first time she’s said she’s going to come see me.” He shoved the letter closer to Joan before burying his face in his hands, a distinctly un-Sherlock-ish gesture. 

Joan licked her fingers and unfolded the paper. It was good quality, the same heavy linen she’d gotten her last scholarship on, and the ink had the skipped, bleary quality of a cheap Bic rollerball pen. Joan had a pack of them in her bag; they leaked and skipped by turns, but as far as pens went, they were ubiquitous.

She read the letter, ignoring the way Sherlock jogged one knee up and down, occasionally hitting it on the sharp overhand of the table.  When she’d finished, she got another popover and split it open.

“Eat something,” She told Sherlock. ‘Not this, I know you hate them, but eat something, and take a shower, and by then I’ll have figured out what to say to Jamie Moriarty.”

“You needn’t get involved,” Sherlock said. Joan wasn’t convinced, and took another bite of popover to prove her point. “Oh, very well, I’ll go an perform my ablutions, but I shan’t eat anything. I’m beyond such creature comforts.”

“You’re entirely made up of creature comforts,” Joan said. “And don’t use all the hot water, I had lab today would like to remove the smell of formaldehyde from my person before we deal with your ex-girlfriend.”


johnnyjacqobis  asked:

i have a question for you!! ok so one thing i admire a lot about your writing is it has this really quiet intensity, like everything is sort of charged and contained, is that something you do on purpose or does it just come naturally?? and what's the biggest difference in the writing you do for work and fandom stuff?

Thank you! It’s a combination of both, I think; I’m a pretty internal person, so that’s something I gravitate towards in writing, but over the years, I’ve worked to become a more succinct writer–I try to vary sentence lengths, have some kind of ebb and flow–and I try to figure out what a character thinks is essential even if it’s a hidden quality. I’ll try to marry more physical, outward moments to an internal narrative. That ends up looking like a very skeletonized description of someone’s posture or tone or clothing, or how they react to their environment.

When it comes to humans interacting, that’s definitely something I work at. I have a desk in an open office, where everyone works in the same room–except me, because my desk is behind a low wall, and no one can see me. I can still hear everything that goes on, which is marvelous for getting a feel for how people talk to each other.

I’m always worried my writing will sound melodramatic. I have really formal speech patterns and it’s a huge struggle to shrug off my neuroses so I can explore another character’s motivations. My biggest stumbling block is fulfilling an action. Which I don’t think anyone who has read my writing will be surprised by.

As far as writing for work: it depends! I write a lot of human interest journalism (which is very q&a, puff talk), but I also write about travel, food, and art. When I write about travel I almost always write about agriculture, and when I write about food I almost always write about the juxtaposition of formal cooking technique with “peasant food,” aka making really fancy versions of very plain dishes. (My people ran farms, so it’s my instant access point.)

Writing about art is different: I talk about history and influence, but I also look at how people respond to art on a visceral level. It’s not as academic as some art writing–the magazine I work for is not interested in thinking too hard–but my art writing has way more tension and honesty than anything else I turn in at work. (Also, I never get more than 800 words to work with, so my writing for work is a lot more straightforward–I’m hitting a short arc and a strict word count.) In one of my favorite assignments, I talked specifically about finding the uncanny in elements of the everyday, which is not so very far removed from how I write for fandom.

I’ve been writing for a really long time (and I’ve been working professionally as a writer for over five years). Every time I look back at old work I see parts I’m trying to develop and parts I’m trying to remove.

Thank you for asking such great questions!!!!!