No harm ever came from reading a book.

"Look, I... I may not be an explorer, or an adventurer, or a treasure-seeker, or a gunfighter, Mr. O'Connell, but I am proud of what I am. I... am a librarian!" Independent RP blog for Evelyn O'Connell (nee Carnahan) from 'The Mummy'. Please read rules and 'verse info before interacting.

[wemultitudinous]

WEMULTITUDINOUS

Multi-muse featuring muses from The Last Kingdom, Dragon Age, The Witcher, Hamilton, BBC Merlin, Leverage & more!

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

LOVE LANGUAGE.

tagged by @fasciinating

YOUR PRIMARY LOVE LANGUAGE IS: Acts of Service

Can helping with homework really be an expression of love? Absolutely! Anything you do to ease the burden of responsibilities weighing on an "Acts of Service" person will speak volumes. The words he or she most wants to hear: "Let me do that for you." Laziness, broken commitments, and making more work for them tell speakers of this language their feelings don’t matter. When others serve you out of love (and not obligation), you feel truly valued and loved.

33% Acts of Service 27% Physical touch 17% Quality Time 13% Receiving gifts 10% Words of affirmation

tagging: @bornbreathless @omniishambles (for jonathan!), @theresastargirl @rotreign @experimcnts  & anyone who’d like to yoink it!

[queensgcmbit]

“she is made of dreams and kindness and a gentle love; hope resonates just as deeply in her chest as emotions do.”

— her mind is a clear blue sky / i.s.

[bluetiefling]

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

traiilblazer‌:

“ Oof, y-ep, you got that right. Them right. …That right ”, Jim grunts, concurring to her evaluation of both his status and his lack of ability to walk a straight line, let alone shoot one. Dazedly, smile sloppy and broad, he turns his head to skim her fair face and how the light bounces through her brown curls, “ I am a great shot. ” What’s more, from what he can remember of their conversation so far, Jim’s trust in her seems less and less a product of blind, drug induced acceptance, and more a manner of intuition.  “ Do you uh, have a habit of rescuing damsels Evelyn? ” He should have been watching his feet, instead he was talking and stumbles over a root, latching onto her shoulder and leaning into her side for lack of another option. And biting his tongue while he’s at it. In agony, he cringes at the sky, hoping she’s stronger than she looks and that if he does go down, she has the sense to let him lay there. This is his fault. No one should die for it but him.

“Well,” she says, heaving them forward a few more steps. “Perhaps one day—I’ll let you—show me.”

It’s going to be slow going, she realises. Even with her support and guidance, the man is heavy and weaving to and fro; feverish and injured and doubtless more than a little dehydrated. She casts her eyes towards the horizon, trying to judge just how long they have before the sun goes down. It’ll be close, but if they can keep themselves on a relatively straight path without too many stops along the way, then they ought to make it.

Just as she’s thinking this, half opening her mouth to give some witty retort to his question, his foot catches on something and she finds her knees buckling under the unexpected weight he throws her way. They lurch, and she knows that she’s not strong enough to keep them upright. Wary of his leg, she manages something akin to a controlled descent, so that she ends up sitting down heavily, both arms around the man’s middle with him practically in her lap.

It’s hardly the most dignified first meeting she’s ever had, but then again etiquette rather went out of the window when the world ended.

“Not very well, apparently,” she says, blowing a puff of air from her mouth to dislodge the curl of hair that’s fallen across her face. She wriggles out from under him, standing and dusting herself off before leans down to try and haul him up. “But it is what it is, I suppose. I’m the closest thing to a white knight you’re going to get. C’mon now. Up we go.”

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

pupil-of-law‌:

Head inclining to the side, Sebastian assented ’they didn’t say anything about a dead chap… But, they did tell someone what they saw down there. The Emperor. Augustus. But he didn’t announce it, or send anyone else to excavate it. The inscription the two locals reported from the stone pillar down there was only written down by a scribe presumably taking minutes of their meeting. But the Emperor never told anyone else about it. He didn’t announce the find to the Senate or anything. Augustus had it paved over, with black basalt, to cover up the older Archaic monuments underneath. Or to commemorate them. I haven’t worked that part out yet. I can’t think of any reason why he would pave over something like this, except - either part of his vanity building project for Rome, or something down there… threatened him somehow. Threatened the Julii’s claim to divinity, perhaps. If it was the early Empire then he would have been looking for sure footing to keep his claim to power steady after Actium.’ They had now passed several colleges, and Sebastian’s punting technique had been rather lacking as his gaze was fixed on Evie’s face as he told her this, rather than the river. They were now nearing Cherwell boathouse. This was as close to St. Giles as they were going to get. ‘Come on,’ he nodded in the direction of the west, where the Ashmolean library awaited. ‘I can show you.’ He helped her out of the boat but was striding onwards a little too eagerly to remember to put down the quant, and he was almost at the road when he realised he was still holding it and had to rush back again to deposit it. ‘Okay,’ he continued the story as they strolled through North Oxford towards St. Giles. ‘As I was saying, I found that original source. It’s all recounted in Rufus Festus, the meeting, and a drawing of the old Latin on the pillar. Which is what my old monk from mother’s library at home was copying from. But here’s another bit I don’t really understand. Rufus Festus’s account was found recently… in… the Oxyrynchus Papyri. That papyri had been sitting in an ancient rubbish dump since the 7th Century AD. No one in the middle ages touched it. The only reason I found it was because my Greek professor is working on translating the papyri now, and he recognised it when I told him. They found it in 1907.’ The Ashmolean was now almost looming in front of them as they crossed St. Giles. ‘It’s down here in the library. Professor Bickersteth has given me allowance to view it. He thinks I’m onto something.’ He stopped in the warm, thin filtered sunlight to turn and meet Evie’s eye; and an almost self-conscious glint flickered across the pupils. ‘Do you?’ he asked with seriousness.

“That’s an easy one to answer,” she says matter-of-factly. “He paved it over because he was a man who couldn’t stand any mythology that didn’t exist on his own terms. Rather typical, if you ask me. All that posturing and building big pointless monuments—they really should have let the women run things, in my opinion.”

She smiles, impish, pressing an almost-dimple into one cheek. It’s a common complaint of hers to anybody who will listen: all this dull and dry history about men and their buildings and their wars, and not nearly enough on all the sisters and wives and daughters who were just all living wonderful lives of their own that got thoroughly ignored.

Accepting his hand, she follows him from the boat eagerly, snatching at her skirts to keep from tripping and ending in the river. She’s so fascinated by the story he’s relating that she quite forgets about her parasol, abandoning it to the punt. Then again, she’s not the only one, and she laughs as he hurries back with the quant before he returns. He’s taller than her, and every few steps she has to skip a little to catch up, but she doesn’t complain; she’s just as eager to arrive at their destination.

In fact, so eager than when he halts in his path, her momentum carries her onwards a few steps ahead of him before she stops short and retraces her steps back to his side. She meets his gaze frankly, light confusion brushing her brows.

“Well it hardly matters what I think if Bickersteth is impressed,” she says matter-of-factly. “He knows more than I do.” 

Her eyes flicker up to the Ashmolean before them; the tall columns and the white marble frieze, the tall doors with which she’s awfully familiar, since she spends a great deal of her time within them, studying the objects on display or in Professor Winter’s book-lined office. 

“But for what it’s worth—yes, I do think you’re onto something.” She loops an arm around his and tugs him towards the steps of the Ashmolean. “Of course, I’ll be even more certain once you show me. Come on! Don’t be a tease.” 

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

legiion‌:

he can’t say he’s not surprised she’d come to Spock’s defense like that. but what he hasn’t expected was the little zinger she’s tossed right back. sure, McCoy had just compared her colleague or maybe they’re friends by now, to a fruit of all things. when he’s thinks about it, looks back over to where the scourge of his every good mood in sitting by the dead fire, McCoy considers a better assessment is that Spock’s more like a string bean or an asparagus—some kinda vegetable. he just about splutters when he realizes what Carnahan is implying.  McCoy scoffs, “ because, ” he retorts and it sounds lamer than it did in his head. something about Spock rubbed him the wrong way when they met. and well, the Doctor here ( and he’s a Doctor, too, by the way—he noticed ), seems like a nice person from what he can tell. it doesn’t make sense. and then his face is scrunching, mouth in a weird shape that’s both incredulous and wondering at the same time. he damn near shouts, “ he tells jokes? you gotta be shitting me. like what? ” 

“ an’ don’t tell me they’re ‘science-y’ either. somethin’ about the periodic table. i’d heard enough o’those from my little girl back ‘n the eighth grade. ” McCoy’s eyes bounce somewhere to the left, into the trees. he didn’t mean to bring that up. joanna. it’s too late to take it back now. McCoy ruffles his sleeves with a shake his upper body, dislodging the bad taste he’s just given himself, “ whatever, never mind him. ” a hand pops out of the pit of his arm, pointing at the table, “ just what’re you doin’ over here anyway? looks about as exciting as bananas. ” he comments, except this time, he means it. 

“You mean you can’t tell when he’s joking?” she asks, false disbelief painted teasingly across her face, amusement curling the corners of her mouth and wrinkling the edges of her eyes. Spock is, as she’s discovered, a man of many layers, each of them unexpected. There was a time, of course, when she couldn’t tell either—but surviving the end of the world with a man really lends you some insight into him.

She catches, too, the doctor carefully not flinching after he drops the name. Joanna. Compassion wells up inside her, a deep sympathy for the worst sort of torture any parent could possibly imagine. Evie doesn’t have any children, and she can’t imagine what it must be to lose somebody so precious. That sympathy plays across her face for a moment—she’s never been terribly good at hiding what she’s feeling—before she drops her eyes to her makeshift workstation, giving him the space to escape from the memory the only way he can. It’s not her place to ask, she knows, although she’s desperate to.

Telling stories of those they’ve lost are the only way to keep them alive, now. She isn’t sure that he’ll feel the same.

“A great deal less exciting, I’m afraid,” she says, with a falsely chipper tone. “We still hope to find a cure you know, or at the very least a vaccine. Trouble is, we’d have to find a way to get it into the bloodstream. I’m working with what I can.”

A gesture towards the apples, and a one-shouldered shrug lead a smile.

“You’re a medical man. Any help appreciated, of course. Don’t suppose you’ve got a history in virology, a few clever ideas, and some impressive DIY skills up your sleeves?”

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

MUN VS. MUSE

tagged by: @fasciinating

tagging: @omniishambles @bornbreathless @experimcnts @rotreign & whoever wants to yoink it!

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

bornbreathless‌:

It is, she’ll admit, a fair point. It’s not like she just stubbed her toe or something, bullet wounds are just a little bit more serious, and if Char wasn’t a walking corpse it would likely have left her in a lot more pain than she was in right now.

“Hey, you don’t now how many bullets I’ve pulled out of myself before. Practically an expert by now.” That might be an exaggeration, sure she’s managed to get herself shot a few times, but most of the bullets went straight through and just left her with the stitching. Just her luck that that hadn’t happened here.

“You sure you know what you’re doing”? She eyes the tweezers warily, trying to buy herself time to come up with literally any solution that didn’t involve a complete stranger rummaging around in her guts, but comes up blank. Might as well get it over with. Maybe she won’t even realise there’s something weird going on.

Maybe pigs can fly.

Char sighs and drops her hands away from the wound, trying to leave it as unobstructed as possible. “It’s about two inches in. Try not to nick anything, yeah?”

Evie’s movements are brisk and businesslike as she sets out the tweezers, an emptied stationery holder that will do to drop the bullet into once she’s got a hold of it, and what little the first aid kit has in the way of bandages, wound coverings, and gauze.

“Of course,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Do you think one ends up working in laboratory like this without the requisite experience in biology and anatomy?”

Not that she’s ever pulled a bullet out of anybody; she’s done an awful lot of poring thorough books and microscope slides, but not all that much rummaging around in people, save for for her human anatomy practicals in university. But that had been rummaging around inside someone who was already dead, and there wasn’t much more harm she could do.

No need for this woman to know that. She lets out a steadying breath, and sets to work. She can’t help but let her gaze flicker up to the woman’s face when she uses one hand to apply pressure either side of the wound, and slides the tweezers in—wary of the pain she must be causing, and somewhat nervous that she might simply keel over in a dead faint.

“I’ve got it,” she murmurs after a moment, probing the edges of the bullet very carefully to ascertain its exact position without shifting it. “This is going to hurt like hell, I’m afraid. Ready?”

[coco-no-more]

Welp, I guess I have a weakness for nerdy librarians.

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

omniishambles‌:

   “Goad you? I’d do nothing of the sort!” He said, just a hint of mischief flashing in his eyes. 

 But then Evy was turning the box over and over, her slim fingers alighting on the answer to the puzzle more swiftly than anybody else could. He knew she’d figure it out, grinning at her affectionately as she started to work the buttons she’d found. 

 And see? Wasn’t she having fun figuring it out?

 As she was pressing down the box suddenly clicked open, the casing sliding apart to reveal something inside wrapped in a thin piece of cloth. There was burnished gold underneath, though Adonia could tell it was more than just gold, other strange metals going towards the creation of the item inside. 

 Whatever it was, it was heavy. And old. And, he sensed now, valuable.

 Jonathan had been holding his breath, now watching as his sister held the mysterious item in her hands. Adonia shot up Jonathan’s arm, curling around his neck with her whiskers twitching in anticipation as they watched the unveiling.

   “Is that-” Adonia began, craning her long body forward to get a better look. Jonathan’s blue eyes widened as the fabric fell away in Evy’s hands, revealing an alethiometer within. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly rather dry.

   “I think perhaps, Evy, you owe me lunch.”

“Yes,” she says faintly, staring in surprise down at the open box in her hand, the faded fabric that still half covers what is undeniably an alethiometer within. She reaches a tentative hand in, careful fingers smoothing away the rest of the fabric covering. “Yes, I...I think I rather do.”

Diogenes hops closer, head twisting so that first one blinking, black eye and then the other can focus on it. Then he turns his head to blink up at Jonathan.

“ — and you’re sure you picked this up on a dig?” he asks. Evie waves a hand, vaguely, the fascination lowering her brows distracting her from that particular worry.

“Alethiometers are incredibly rare,” Evie breathes. “Supposedly, only six were ever made before Emperor Frederick outlawed them as occult and burned their creator at the stake. Very grizzly. Very... dangerous.”

Her gaze lifts slowly to meet Jonathan’s own.

“You didn’t tell anybody else about this, did you?” she asks, urgency creeping into her tone. “I hate to think of the kinds of things people would do to get their hands on this thing.” She still hasn’t touched it, held back by some note of lingering caution. Besides, what would she do with it? She’s no alethiometrist. She’s got no idea how they work, beyond basic principles she’s heard about in stories.

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

dreamaboutdeadguys‌:

okay there’s about a week’s worth of things in the queue and i’m all out words for the moment. ilu all, stay healthy and safe my loves!

p.s!!!! if any mutuals want a starter, then just let me know. don’t be shy - if i follow you, then i want to write with you. i am always ready to create any crossover or au (just ask the ppl i write with). things? things!

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

okay there’s about a week’s worth of things in the queue and i’m all out words for the moment. ilu all, stay healthy and safe my loves!

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

catch me being horribly emotional about about rick & evie still being so in love and finding adventure together even after being married for years with a kid. thank u good night

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

crawls in

i’m here. i’m watching the mummy returns. i’m grappling with myself to write. no promises but yo... i’m tryin.

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

y’all sorry i am being slow as balls, being back at work is kicking my ASS

[dreamaboutdeadguys]

theresastargirl‌:

“Yes, a few digs. Nothing significant, really. Just a few broken items and such, but it was still interesting to see it all up close. It was part of the reason I was in Egypt in the first place.” Ophelia admitted, watching as the other woman moved about. 

She could tell it wasn’t the best idea to drop the news like this, and she did feel bad that this was how she found out, but at least she knew now. They could both scold Jonathan later for it. 

“He is, yes. I wasn’t expecting a chaperone, but it turned out to be a good decision. I was bound to get lost a bit too easily if I didn’t have one, and I probably wouldn’t have learned nearly as much as I did either without him.” 

She moves towards the sofa, nodding a bit as she sits down. “Yes, he did mention that. Same for me, actually. My family’s gone as well. Lost in the war…” She trails off a bit before seeing the bottle being offered. 

“Oh, yes please. I’m rubbish at opening bottles as well, though drinking from them, I have no problem.” She replies with a smile. “Rick is your husband, yeah? I’ve heard about him. American, right? He sounds nice from what I’ve been told. Both of you, really, Jonathan painted in a really nice light. I’m sure it’s not far from the truth either.”

“And I don’t suppose during any of these digs you—oh, I don’t know, fell into any of the holes? Hit your head?” It’s the sort of teasing she hands out to her brother all the time—the sort of teasing that she’ll most certainly be handing out to him later, after she’s berated him for a while—but she immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound cruel. It’s all just so unexpected that I can’t help but find it a little funny.”

She pours a generous three fingers of whisky—no point in being stingy about these things, if you’re going to do them—and presses the glass into Ophelia’s hands, paired with a sympathetic smile, and a murmured apology.

“Oh, yes, he’s American,” she says, with a distracted smile. “But we try not to hold it against him. We fell in love on a dig too, you know. Well—in a manner of speaking.”

Somewhere between prison and an excavation and the imminent end of the world; she couldn’t pinpoint it precisely. To say that Rick O’Connell had taken her entirely by surprise is something of an understatement.

“I wouldn’t trust a thing Jonathan has said,” she says, waving a hand but a wielding a smile to show she’s (mostly) joking. “He’s the reason Rick and I met, actually. Has he told you?”