I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT YOU ANYMORE. independent GUINEVERE BECK from netflix’s YOU. written by bee (24, she/they, est).
carrd.
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@blubrds
I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT YOU ANYMORE. independent GUINEVERE BECK from netflix’s YOU. written by bee (24, she/they, est).
carrd.

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Fleabag | 1x04
quarrytm:
neither inclined to take the apology nor to acknowledge the gratitude, travis simply gives a sniff in return, a response that shows just how much the sheriff prickled with irritation. should traivs have it his way, he’d blocked off any entrance coming into north kill, only allowing himself and his family in and out of the small town and up to the quarry. it’d be safer that way, for the hackett’s, and any other person who decided this was the best route to their desired destination. but even if he had the right, his brother wouldn’t allow him it. and so the best thing travis could do was scare people off.
‘ get in the car, ma’am, ’ the sheriff finally calls, walking away from her, man still silhouetted in the headlights as he makes his way back to the driver’s side door. left open, travis could hear the low static of a radio that no other sound came out of. his brother’s were quiet tonight. that was a good sign. it meant the woods were quiet for a reason. even still, he didn’t want this woman staying out here any longer than she already had been, lest she see something she shouldn’t. ‘ don’t got all night, ’ travis barks then, waiting impatiently for her to move.
OKAY, FUCK HIM? it’s not like you fucked up the car ; some jerk made you pay way too much money and gave you a car that broke down halfway to your destination. mr. cop over there isn’t the one out cash and left stranded in the middle of literal nowhere - he probably lives somewhere around here and has a bed to fall into tonight that isn’t probably laden with bedbugs. he was probably not anticipating having to cart you around out of his way. you can understand that, at least, that you’re an INCONVIENCE. it’s not a new feeling. that doesn’t make it suck any less. still - what option do you have? “i’ve gotta get my stuff out of the car,” you say, rounding the car to open the trunk. it’s a good thing you pack LIGHT, nothing but a backpack and a small duffle which you easily hoist out before checking the bars on your watch again. JUST IN CASE. still nothing, so what other choice do you have?
it’s not like you’re going to stay the night out here. so what choice do you have? you’re not sitting in the back seat like a criminal, though, and so you click the lock button on the key fob as you make your way to stand at the passenger side door. “beck,” you say, because what else is there to say? “i - uh - my name. guinevere beck, but i just go by beck. ma’am makes me feel old.”
so where does that end, Frank?
Yeah, I promise.

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uhh i’m not sure what’s going on but i did see that there’s smth up with someone else called bee so like ... that’s not me! different bee!
voyeant:
eyes roll … thumb catching journal page’s edge && continuing on to the next as apparition speaks ; pen clicking obnoxiously . “ ‘course … dirty laundry makes’a big hit . ” she muses , vaguely wondering which shelf the memoir had wound up stashed upon . inky letters continue their scrawl across the notepad in her lap as nora speaks … eyes down . “ — congrats on that . ”
YOU NEVER HAD THE URGE TO THROW THINGS IN LIFE. it seems to be new, part of the whole being dead schtick. watching footage of dr nicky being paraded out of a courtroom in handcuffs makes you feel sick and you frown over at her, your strange new and only companion. “thanks,” the word falls from your lips like a weight and you watch as the screen shifts to a news reporter with the fakest looking mask of sympathy you’ve ever seen. POOR DEAD GUINEVERE BECK. “writing your actual murderers fucking alibi is just a great feeling.”
melnchly:
what do you do, when your sister’s boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer? when he kidnaps her and nearly kills her, and she turns all of that pain into a glory of ink and paper that bookstores can’t seem to keep on the shelves? if you’re anya, you don’t read the book at all. you buy as many as you can afford, and you give them away. all but one, which you keep hidden. slipped into a shoebox tucked beneath your bed. and then you help her move. just as anya had done, was doing, now. they haven’t spoken very much, and though that’s not exactly unusual, it’s strange in the intensity of it. as if there are things neither of them want to say, words that fling themselves forward anyway.
leaning against the counter, she picks up the wine and smiles, gives a little shrug. sips the wine, as though she knows exactly what she’s looking for in taste and bite and bouquet, whatever the hell else. “for what?” she asks, a brave attempt to break through it all, to lighten the move. “helping you move? i think i’ve lifted a grand total of two boxes since i’ve been here. but, though i hardly think that effort deserves the best wine i’ve ever known you to buy, i’ll accept it.” another sip, and she glances around the unfamiliar space. wonders how empty it’s going to feel, when she leaves. if her sister will ever feel safe behind open windows again. “i got you something, actually,” she says. leaves her wine to find the purse she’d left by the door. pulls out a gift-bag, tufts of tissue paper bursting from the top. “a little housewarming gift.” a montblanc pen, one she’d been saving for, is tucked into a box within the nest of tissue. “well.” a little roll of her eyes, classic anya. “clyde and i got you something.”
YOU FILL A GLASS OF YOUR OWN AND PRETEND YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE YOU’RE SUFFOCATING. this place feels better than your old one already - - - high enough that no one can see through your window from the street. the blinds are closed anyways. whatever you do, beck, don’t think about joe sending a rock through your window on accident. don’t think about how many times he must have stood there, watching you. don’t think about it. you smile a little, instead, and raise your glass to your lips and drink deep. “it’s not like it’s a high bar. this one came in a bottle instead of a box, so,” you raise the half-empty bottle as if to emphasize the point before setting it down on the kitchen island. another thing you didn’t think you’d ever have. it feels like it was paid in blood money, your blood and peach and benji and god, maybe candace, too. the police are looking into that one now.
the bag is nudged towards you and you set down the glass to part the fluffy tissue paper and peer inside. something in your stomach twists and you look back to anya with wide eyes. “oh my god, anya, you -” fingers open the box, pull the pen out with careful touch. it feels like your heart beats for the first time in months and you swallow back the sudden and infuriating feeling of being about to cry. “it’s gorgeous, you didn’t have to,” a beat, “you and clyde didn’t.” there’s a joking lilt to it that doesn’t hit the highs you once did with joy, but it comes closer than you have been in a long time. the pen is carefully put back in the box and the box set on the counter and you move forward to hug her ; a rare thing between you two.
voyeant:
█▐ @blubrds , ᵍᵘᶤᶰᵉᵛᵉʳᵉ ᵇᵉᶜᵏ … liked .
“ i’m just sayin’ , there’s easier ways to get through life than lettin’ people know all your business. ”
DON’T BE BITCHY. you have to remind yourself that. “fuck off,” you mutter, which is bitchy, oops. you’re the one sprawled on her couch, watching news coverage of YOUR OWN MURDER. “did you read my book, then?”
i can’t be here , okay? I , LIKE , NEED SOME MATCHA !

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AND THEN I SAW YOU. a study of love quinn from netflix’s you. heavily headcanon based, highly selective. written by tas. #𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐓
@ayzne
TODAY ISN’T A GOOD DAY. there’s something doctor nicky used to say about negative thinking, about how deciding a day is bad means you’ll see it as bad no matter what, but you’re doing your best to forget everything he said to you - - - even things you might have found helpful before. especially those ones. you’re pretty sure he lost his license, last you heard, SO. it’s a bad day, and it keeps getting worse by the minute. your phone in shards on the pavement is enough to decide that, even if you had slept the night before instead of pacing and smoking your newfound bad habit of rooftop cigarettes.
“fuck, sorry,” you stand from where you’re crouched, shattered phone in hand, and look more at the screen than the person you were in the path of as you try to click on the power button. no use, and you knew it before you even tried. GREAT. emergency trip to the apple store wasn’t on your list of things to do, but - - - it’s fine. you can afford it without worrying about dinner for the next several weeks now, which you’re - not used to, “murphy’s law, right?” you try to strike up friendly conversation and can’t help but feel wrongfooted ; it doesn’t come as easy as it used to.
and like this for a pre or during show verse starter!
Marge Piercy, “Intimacy.” The Moon Is Always Female
@melnchly
YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO TALK TO HER ANYMORE. well - you never did, but you’re worse at pretending now. the idea of a task being there to make it easier had seemed like a good idea ; who else would you ask to help you move? blythe and annika and lynn are still around, obviously, and would come if you asked, but they would also stare at you with their wide eyes and talk too softly. ethan is too horrified by it all to even look at you these days. at least you can afford MOVERS now, who have carted your things up the elevator ( elevator building money ) and unpacked them and put the things in the rooms you asked.
there’s the boxes of books to contend with, though. you’ve given away the ones joe gave you. they felt ... tainted. WRONG. titles smudged with his finger prints, and you could almost feel them being pressed into your throat when you looked at their spines. you hate that he ruined paula fox for you. “here,” you nudge a glass - freshly unpacked - of wine - freshly purchased - towards anya as you return from your sojourn through the unfamiliar kitchen, “thanks.”

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like this for a specifically survival au i verse starter!
You don’t know how to have me here. You don’t know how to deal with it. You don’t know how to even have a conversation with me.