Spelled The Way It Sounds

srrrevans asked: also indicative of the gender option graphic's lack of goodwill is "male" and "female" instead of "man" and "woman," imo. i'm with you; that's some condescending bullshit.

Blue tells me that he noticed that too; all the terminology is that sort of icky pseudo-medical/”biological” stuff people use when they’re sort of dicks.

srrrevans replied to your photoset: Rory Williams (me) and Amy Pond (Blue). The…

omg your costumes and genderbending are great

Ain’t no point to Halloween without genderbending, says Blue. 

atrickstertype asked: On your birthday, may I wish you the most vulgarly exciting of days? May your day be more explicitly titillating than A Cure For Boredom, more erotically satisfying than the best (and least socially acceptable) shag you've ever had, and may memories of it make you more pleasantly embarrassed than recounting that shag to your priest. May it involve more and better acts of depravity than a cross between Sweeney Todd and the Marquis de Sade, and may they all be exactly to your taste.

I have seventeen messages in my inbox and I am WAY too overwhelmed by it to answer them all and oh god what if I just look smug and terrible so I am answering one of Ruth’s because it is the second most obscene message I have—thanks Blue—and also because it is my birthday and I Do What I Want and also because by the numbers she had the most. (The most obscene one is also from her.)

(But I love you all, I do, thank you, you’re so amazingly sweet, it’s been a wonderful birthday, you all make me so happy with your willingness to put up with me and read my fic and tell me nice things.)

Rule 1: Post these rules. 
Rule 2: Answer the questions the tagger set for you and then make 11 new ones.
Rule 3: Tag 11 people and link them to your post.
Rule 4: Let them know you’ve tagged them.

From boxoftheskyking.

1) How do you feel about ghosts?

Every ghost walk I’ve ever been on has scared the SHIT out of me. I was terribly spooked by one of the colleges I visited during my senior year of highschool for no reason I could pin down; I found out later it’s famously haunted. We had the woman who was the inspiration for the show Ghost Whisperer come and speak to my college course on Magic, Witchcraft, and Religion. She was incredibly casual about it and we all left with a sense of the dead. I talk to dead relatives and animals like they are still around, just in case they can hear. I’m Catholic, and believe there’s something more after life has gone.

I don’t know. I really don’t. 

2) What is your go-to (or imagined) karaoke song?

Ahahaha. I Kissed a Girl because I know my friends would die laughing? Though man, I hate that song. Probably The Cave by Mumford and Sons, because I know it pretty well even though the range isn’t ideal. Wagon Wheel if by some goddamn miracle they have it. 

3) Would you rather win best Director, Screenplay, Actor, or Supporting Actor?

Screenplay. Some very minimal experience tells me I’m a piss-poor director, and a reasonably solid actor, and a fucking hilarious writer, though I suspect mostly by accident. 

4) Favorite cracky fandom idea.

I think that’s probably the idea I occasionally entertain of a John-Seb-Sherlock threesome. That’d work, right? Right?

5) Give me two names for your imaginary or potential children (even if you don’t want kids, surely the idea has crossed your mind in your erstwhile youth).

Edith and Mackenzie. 

6) If you had to go back and  change something about your life, gun to your head, what would you chose?

I—okay, guys. When I was really young, like thirteen or fourteen, I was caught up by this girl Cris who totally ruined my life and pushed me into coming out to a lot of people before I was ready, long before. She wrecked fandomish roleplaying for me for something like eight years, she was abusive and awful and in college I burned every letter she’d written me and everyone expects me to say I would change those three years. 

I wouldn’t. Not for the world I wouldn’t because I’m not me, without that time. 

What I would change is sleeping with my housemate Clara during college because OH MY GOD SHE WAS FUCKING INSANE DO NOT SHIT WHERE YOU EAT GUYS.

7) Take the first fictional character that pops into your head. That person shows up outside your door one morning, and stays for 24 hours. What do you do?

Captain Will Laurence from Naomi Novik’s Temeraire novels. I would be so sad if he had not brought his dragon and would ask him how long he’d been sleeping with Tenzing Tharkay and generally make him be Incredibly Offended at everything I said and did.  

If he brought Temeraire we would go flying.

8) Favorite meal.

Oh god, a glass of milk and a perfectly ripe macintosh apple and the leek-pea-and-bacon pasta Boyfriend and I make sometimes. 

9) Tell me a story of a moment in which you felt either real fear, pure delight, a dreamlike state of absurdity, or complete control.

When I was a kid I had a pony, from age eleven to nineteen. My mom and I would go out riding fairly often, me on Rory and her on a borrowed horse called BT. We had a couple of incidents, because BT was sort of like the simple dog, but nothing really big (he did fall off a footbridge once, but it was onto soft ground only a foot down and no one was hurt) until the day we went to Delaney Park. In order to get in or out of the park, you have to go across a half-mile of sand-pit and a raised dirt path maybe fifteen feet wide on foot or horseback; it’s fun, you can race in the sandpits, etc., and then there are woods and streams and a ton of paths and it’s awesome.

So mom and I are finishing up our ride—mind, this was in the days before cellphones were a real big thing, and the only one we carried was shoved down the side of my half-chap—and we come out of the woods at the top of the slope down into the sandpit.

And we look up to a yellow-dark sky and the smell of rain and thunder, very close. You cannot be out with a horse during a thunderstorm, and we had to cross this wide open space to get to the trailer and hi, lightening! and BT hated to load at the best of times and that is when my mother roared at me to gallop my pony across that half-mile and get the trailer open and him on, and she’d follow. 

Running before that storm is easily one of my most terrifying and most incredible memories, hands up and tangled in his mane, knees tight to the saddle and sneaking looks backward under my arm like a jockey to check on my mom. 

10) What is your favorite spot upon which to be kissed?

The back of my neck, which is also my favorite place for someone I trust to put a hand. 

…there is no number eleven. J! 

Questions and tagged under the readmore. 

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srrrevans asked: Completely selfish request! It is probably apparent that one of the reasons I like the Moran family is because I feel the badbrains themes real hard. some... interesting... familial emotional clashes lately have made me long for a moment of Jim teaching Siobhan how to handle herself, a bit. // ♥

“I tried to stop her, Mr. Moran. I tried. I did.” Tommy looks bruised around the mouth and eyes, but whether she’s been at him or he’s just worn down, he doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter, they’re early, they shouldn’t even be home for two hours yet. Siobhan is in the next room. Panting like a dog run from wolves, eyes showing white around the edges like a panicked horse, not precisely afraid but right on the edge of losing control—hm.

“Enough,” says Jim, not ungently, and Tommy sucks in a long breath, blinks those shallow blue eyes, and goes silent. He taps a long finger against his mouth, thinking, then gestures carelessly towards the garden. “The tomatoes need weeding. Ask Sebastian to help you, when he gets home.”

The boy looks for a moment like he’s going to protest, gaze pendulum-swinging towards the doorway, towards Siobhan, and his shoulders suggest reluctance. Jim lifts his chin a little, and Tommy doesn’t move, and then Siobhan makes a trapped-animal noise that makes both of them flinch all over. 

“I can help you—” begins Tommy, so like Sebastian in his course unswerving.

“No.” 

Shaved neck bows, short blond hairs catching the sun, and he goes. Jim lets out a long hum with almost a groan at the end of it, and his daughter moans too.

How bad? 

Too bad.

Can you bear it?

If I must.

Jim keeps his distance. The risk of being caught and held is high just now, too high. Seb’s not home. The boy is still only fifteen. He has to steer it, steer her.

“Siobhan.” He drops each syllable carefully into the air between them. Dark eyes flicker beneath their lids and do not look at him. “Siobhan.” More of a hiss, this time, on the first letter, and she twists her head and glares, dull. Jim settles one hand against the tabletop, each fingertip in turn and then his thumb, the palm, the heel, the thin skinned delicacy of his wrist. Siobhan’s breath creaks and stutters in his lungs, then eases. 

They watch each other.

Jim flips his hand over, empty palm, open. 

Siobhan rolls her head on her neck, cracks her jaw sharply, and then groans again, subvocal, before dropping her hand, palm down, to rest over his. Her fingers are cool and very light against pale scars, and unmoving.

Jim nods, small and neat, then digs his fingernails into the soft skin of her wrist, half-moons marks not quite deep enough to bleed. All Siobhan’s muscles go tense, and there is a snarl building somewhere deep in her throat when Jim says, “Focus.”

Her pupils are blown and black, her chin lifted, and Jim grabs her forearm and shakes hard and says it again, “Siobhan, focus.”

Siobhan focuses, jaw a little dropped, and Jim’s voice smoothes out. “Pet. This isn’t ideal.” Or safe, in the long run—no matter. “But you can’t rely on Tommy. Not always. Siobhan.” Her eyes flick to his jawline, his face. It has to be you. You alone, angel, my darling girl. She huffs out a breath, not quite a threat.

Blood pounds just beneath the skin where Jim’s nails dig in.

He waits, watching the big muscle in her neck, and the veins standing out, and when both of them have eased Jim starts to pull away. 

The trapped-animal noise is not voluntary, and Siobhan presses her wrist hard against her mum’s hand, against the careful doled-out pain, expression turned inward, mastering herself, bringing to heel the things she does not yet have words for. Jim sits, impassive, and holds on.

When Seb comes home they are still there. 

srrrevans asked: indigo, violet?

Indigo: Hm. Probably my greatest flaw is more in how I write than in my actual writing; I’m a little shoddy about editing and thinking critically about what I write. Sometimes I rely too much on shortcuts, instead of thinking of new ways to phrase or say things; this is a lot more obvious in my prose than my poetry (you can catch it in my fanfiction if you’re paying attention). Also I don’t finish things reliably if people don’t chase me down.

Edited to add, fucking dialog. I struggle with making it sound true and real. I’m good at thinking of the body language that goes along with it, and writing that, but man I freeze up when they start talking ;.;

Violet: Oh gosh. I love the moments that make Boyfriend look up from his proofreading and go, Oh sweetheart, that’s lovely. I love finding exactly the right words for what I want to say, I love breaking a line and realizing it’s in the perfect fucking place, that it makes the whole poem shift and breathe and move. 

srrrevans:

#all of which reminds me #when my internet broke i reread my pdf of ‘working holiday’#and had related thoughts about jim (+family!) #i should copypaste them to you somewhere

DID YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE JUST LEARNED THAT I COULD TRACK MYSELF AS A TAG

YOU SHOULD TELL ME ALL YOUR THOUGHTS

srrrevans asked: ahaha you ship Doctor/Master toooo. I guess I shouldn't be surprised when Moriarty fans are also Master fans, really. :D

More sort of incidentally! They just have a terribly intense, fascinating relationship that I find really interesting. But I do love me some Simms Master.