#maybe I'm the only one who thinks ten days is unreasonable

[ladywaterfall]

my workplace told us months in advance that we're gonna have a big work party at the end of january but then only told us now - ten days in advance - that the dresscode is Great Gatsby as if I would have that on hand

[avatar-anna]

Unknown Number Part 2

the long anticipated part two to unknown number. enjoy!

Part Three is now up!

italics: y/n (unknown number)

bold: harry

(one day later)

HS: Hey, I haven't heard from you. Is everything okay?

HS: I know you're busy and everything, but maybe you feel differently after us talking?

HS: It doesn't have to be different. We can go back to just texting I don't mind.

(one day later)

HS: You're not avoiding me are you?

HS: June?

(one day later)

HS: I don't know what I did, but whatever it is I'm sorry.

HS: But I'm starting to get worried. Are you okay? Like safety wise? Cold shoulder I can take but I would feel awful if you were hurt or in danger or something?

HS: Can you at least let me know you're alright?

J is typing...

(twenty minutes later)

J: i'm fine

HS: Good!

HS: Did I do something?

J: no i just think i was served a cold dose of reality a couple days ago

J: sorry for disappearing on you

HS: It's okay.

HS: Would you be more comfortable if we just went back to texting?

J is typing...

J: maybe

HS: Maybe?

J: i...like the sound of your voice

HS: You do, do you? ;))

J: don't be smug!

HS: I'm not, I swear!

HS is typing...

HS: I like the sound of your voice too.

(later that evening)

Y/n stared down at her phone and wondered if she was the biggest asshole on the planet.

She was never supposed to know who H was. Sure, she'd thought about it, had stayed up for hours thinking about who might be on the other side of their conversations. But it was all guessing and daydreaming. Y/n never actually thought she'd figure it out. Or that H would stand for Harry. As in Harry mother fucking Styles.

The person Y/n had been texting wasn't some serial killer or internet troll or some random person. He was one of the most popular names in pop culture right now. And not only that, they were in the same vicinity for the next few months while Five Seconds of Summer opened for One Direction.

When she heard H's voice, when she realized H was Harry, Y/n ran. She high-tailed it back to the tour bus, shooting a quick text to One Direction's stylist to tell her she wasn't feeling well and if she could take care of her band. Y/n pretended to be sick for a couple days while she hid on the tour bus. No one questioned it, but she did feel a little guilty for not doing the job she was paid to do.

But what was she supposed to do? The potential for running into Harry was extremely high. Y/n had no idea what she would do if they spoke and he came to the same realization as she had. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to handle the disappointment on Harry's face when he saw her and knew.

Pursing her lips, she typed out a new message.

(ten minutes from the last text)

J: do you ever think about us meeting?

(five minutes later)

HS: All the time.

J: you do?

HS: Of course. I mean it's hard not to.

J: do you...think you'd ever be disappointed by meeting me?

HS: Uh no?

HS: Is there a reason for this line of questioning?

J: no not really. just curious

HS: Somehow I feel like that's not true.

J: i don't know

J: i'm not sure why i'm in my head about this it's not like we'll actually meet

HS: You really think that?

J: do you think we ever would?

HS: I don't know.

HS: But I think I'd like to. One day.

J: you don't even know me!

HS: I do though!

HS: And you know me too!

HS: Where is all of this coming from?

J: i just think we should be realistic

J: i texted you by accident and we've become like modern day pen pals or something

HS: So you...don't want to meet me? Ever?

J: it's not about want it's about practicality. i just don't think talking about us in that way is smart

HS: You brought it up!

HS: And what do you mean by us?

(fifteen minutes later)

HS: Oh, so you're gonna ignore me now? Real mature.

HS: You're the one who brought all of this up you know.

HS: But you're probably right. I know I've been bothering you, but I think you had the right idea. I think we need a little space.

(one day later)

Harry was unreasonably irritated. Angry didn't seem like the right word, but nothing about his situation was normal.

June was technically right. This whole thing was ridiculous and nonsensical and completely impractical. There was no scenario where they would ever meet or...

Harry couldn't even think about it. Thinking about June like that...thinking about June at all outside of their messages was stupid. He didn't need to be thinking about her, about anyone that way.

So why was he so frustrated?

Maybe it was that June wrote him off so quickly and seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn't like they ever needed to talk about the obvious, which was that they'd probably never meet despite the fact that he'd grown fond of her. Harry was perfectly content to talk about whatever popped into his head or June's latest Tinder date—though that topic was slowly starting to grate on Harry for reasons he refused to admit. Now it was a jumbled mess.

With his head bent, Harry walked toward craft services. He pulled out his phone, looking at past conversations and willing himself not to send another one. June hadn't responded to him since his last message, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, it was what he'd asked for, but he still was itching to talk to her. Harry had grown used to expecting a quick response, had enjoyed June's wit and charming personality with each message she sent.

And now it was all weird and Harry's emotions were all over the place.

"Oof! Hey, watch where you're going!"

Harry glared down at the young woman who'd bumped into him—or who he'd bumped into, but he was too caught up in his own world to realize it. The young woman's eyes widened in shock as she stepped away from him. She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Maybe a little squeaking.

He'd seen her around before, but not much. Honestly, these days Harry was usually holed up somewhere on the bus or at the venue texting June. But he'd seen the back of her head as she scurried around, or at a table on her own during lunch as she scrolled on her phone. He was pretty sure she was Five Seconds of Summer's stylist, but he didn't know for sure.

Raising his eyes at her expectantly. Harry waited for her to say something. "Sorry," she said, barely said. She was so quiet, Harry could hardly hear it. She looked scared of him, which made him feel bad. He was in a mood, but he didn't want to make anyone feel terrified of him, and this girl looked like she was about to cry.

He tried to apologize, but she scurried off before he could. Harry watched her go and sighed. He couldn't wait to get onstage and forget about June and the texts and all the ways she made him feel things he wasn't supposed to feel.

(later that night)

HS: Are we okay?

J: i don't know

J: i think so

HS: I feel like I'm going crazy.

J: how so?

HS: All I've been able to think about is our last conversation. I don't want to not talk to you.

HS: Can I admit something?

J: of course

HS is typing...

HS: I want to hear your voice again.

(five minutes later)

HS: You know, for the first time I think I actually kind of sounded like a creep.

HS: I didn't mean it in a creepy way I promise.

J: i know what you meant

J: in every other circumstance it would raise a red flag

HS: But this time?

J: i think i just want to hear your voice again too

HS: Yeah?

J: i'm not going to say it again to boost your ego

HS: :((

J: you know, you say all the time that you don't date, but i have a feeling you like having your ego fluffed

HS: Who doesn't?

J: attention whore. that's what you are!

HS: That was mean >:(

J: i would like to make it known that i'm sticking my tongue out right now

HS: I'm flipping you off!

(five minutes later)

J: so we're okay?

HS: Yeah. We're okay.

(one day later)

J: are boys always filled with energy?

HS: I would say 90 percent of the time. Why?

J: my clients are just...a lot sometimes

J: very nice but a lot

J: like the brothers i never asked for

HS: Aw. Are they getting on your case about your bad taste in men now too?

J: you're not as funny as you think you are

J: and maybe

J: they tease me about the constant beeping of my phone. they want to know who i'm texting all the time

HS: And what do you say?

J: that i'm texting my boyfriend

J: i feel like it keeps them at bay

HS: Boyfriend huh?

J: oh hush

HS: Don't tell anyone, but I like the sound of that.

J: don't tell anyone but i do too

(two minutes later)

J: i feel like we're wandering into dangerous territory here

HS: Maybe.

HS: I'm not as bothered about it as I thought though.

J: no?

HS: Are you?

HS: Sorry. You don't have to answer that.

J: that's ok. i just don't know how i feel

J: not a cop out just the truth

HS: I believe you. Will you tell me when you do know?

J: of course

(later that night)

J: how does one acquire a new mother?

HS: Typically through divorce.

J: that won't work. my parents are miserable people together. kindred spirits

HS: what did she do this time?

J: it's stupid

HS: Not if it made you upset.

(ten minutes later)

HS: June?

J: sorry i was crying

HS is typing...

(one minute later)

Y/n's eyes widened at the incoming phone call on her screen. She knew she shouldn't have told him she was upset, but she needed someone to talk to, and somehow H had become the person she confided in.

Even then she didn't expect Harry to call her.

Hesitantly, Y/n picked up the phone. "H—Hello?"

"Why were you crying, June?"

"I'm fine, H, I promise—"

"No, you're not. I can still hear it in your voice. What's wrong?"

"I..." Was their first conversation really going to be her crying to H about her family drama? Y/n knew perfectly well that he probably had a million other things he could be doing. She was aware that both bands typically went out after shows. The boys of Five Seconds of Summer had tried to persuade her to go out numerous times, but she had yet to take the bait. Y/n was perfectly happy to lay in her bunk and text H, who she now realized might have been in a bunk of his own a couple buses over. The thought made her stomach feel fluttery and nauseous at the same time.

"My mom posted on Facebook about one of my cousins who just got married," Y/n explained. "And she said, or commented, or whatever that she was, 'so happy' and 'so proud' of the 'daughter she always wanted.'"

"Oh, June, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine, I swear it's fine," Y/n insisted, but even as she said it, she felt more tears begin to leak from her eyes. "I knew she was disappointed. Marriage is a huge deal in my family, and I didn't want—She called her the daughter she always wanted. What kind of mother says that?"

Y/n knew she was something of an outcast in her family, but she never thought her mom would say something like that, and so publicly. Facebook was her family's way of staying connected. This was a message for her entire extended family, not just Y/n.

"June, I—I don't even know what to say. That's horrible," H said.

"And you know what's the worst part?" Y/n asked. "Deep down I can't help but wonder if I should just settle down and get married like she wants me to because really, what am I doing here? I've been trying to make my way in this industry, but at what cost? My family has all but disowned me, I hardly have any friends because I live in a new town that just eats up my meager paychecks, and—"

"Hey," H said gently. "Do you really think you'd be happier back home with...with a husband at, what? 22?"

Y/n sniffled and rubbed her eye. "Probably, not, but—"

"And do you want this?" he asked.

"I thought I did."

"June. Do. You. Want. This?" he repeated.

He was the only person Y/n would admit it to. "I...I really do, H."

"Then go for it," he said. "I believe in you. In a year or two, everyone is going to want to work with you. You'll be the one turning people down."

"If only."

"Hey, that's not the voice of a confident woman. I need to hear confidence."

"H—"

"No, I need confidence. I can't be the only one believing in you here," H said, which made you smile despite the tear stains on your cheeks. "Do you need me to shout it? Because I will. Don't think I won't."

Y/n tried to stop him, but H proceeded to shout—to whom, she wasn't sure—that she was the best stylist and that she was the coolest person he knew and all sorts of nonsense that made her giggle and continually tell him to shut up.

"Okay. That's enough! Harry, that's—"

She stopped immediately. It was a slip of the tongue. Y/n had gotten caught up in the moment and his name just...it just came out. Her heart stopped and her hands began to shake, nearly making her drop her phone in her lap.

Y/n prayed that he missed it, that amidst all the laughing and shouting, H didn't hear it. But the minute his name left her lips, it was dead quiet.

"How do you know my name?" he asked. His voice wasn't lighthearted anymore. It was stone cold, closed off.

"I...I don't—"

"You do. You just said Harry. How do you know me? Have you known the whole time?"

"No! I didn't—I don't—"

"I can't believe this. I can't believe that I...that I let myself fall for this. You—You lied!"

"I didn't lie! I swear, I never—I never knew anything until..."

"Until what?" he shouted, and you flinched.

What was she supposed to say? That they were on tour together? Harry would definitely think she stalked him then. He was so angry, there was no way he would listen to reason right now.

"Until what, June?"

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice just above a whisper.

"Don't try to contact me again, or I'll call the police," he said harshly before hanging up.

Y/n could only stare down at her phone in disbelief.

(two days later)

Y/n decided to spend her days perusing thrift stores. Hiding, really.

Her first-ever clients as a stylist were pretty low-maintenance. When she met them for the first time and saw their scuffed-up sneakers and ripped jeans, Y/n knew she wouldn't be stretching her creativity pretty far. But her job was to find clothes that represented her clients' image, which was exactly what she did.

While everyone else on tour was doing who knew what, Y/n went to local thrift stores in search of vintage t-shirts and good quality jeans that would be easy to move around him. One time, she came back with a pair of gorgeous leather boots that she thought would be perfect for Luke, but he said outright that he wouldn't wear them. Boys, honestly.

It wasn't much, but they appreciated when she came back with cool band and graphic shirts. She sewed up holes and ripped new ones when she was asked. Y/n felt like Snow White sometimes, and the boys were her dwarfs, but they were nice and funny and kept her distracted, which she needed right now.

She was in a small thrift store in Oregon, a couple pieces on her arm—two flannels, a baseball tee, a t-shirt with Kurt Cobain on it, and a couple leather bracelets. Now that she'd been on tour with the wonderful members of Five Seconds of Summer, Y/n had an idea of what each member liked. They had very similar styles and often shared the clothes she picked out for them—which honestly made her life easier considering her smaller-than-small budget.

But she still thought about H, of course she did. There were times when she felt compelled to go up to him at the concert venue, or even his tour bus, but she feared that would just make things worse. He already thought she was a stalker, she wasn't going to make it worse by just...appearing right in front of him.

She didn't know what to do, but not doing anything made her heart hurt. Not talking to him made her heart hurt. Y/n couldn't believe that this was how their text friendship turned out. Of all the ways she imagined this thing ending, having Harry block her number and him virtually hating her.

"Just this today, hun?" the woman behind the counter asked when she brought the clothes up.

Y/n nodded. After her major slip up, she hadn't done much talking. She felt like a ghost, floating from place to place without a word until she could go back to her bus bunk and look at old messages. Y/n didn't really want to be on this tour anymore, but she couldn't bring herself to quit. She didn't have the energy.

Back at the new concert venue, Y/n went to the boys' dressing room. They crowded around her as she showed them the shirts and bracelets. "I can cut up the sleeves on some of them if you want," she said quietly.

"Really?"

"That'd be awesome!"

"Maybe a couple holes around the neck?"

"Do you think you could write 'IDIOT' on this one?"

Y/n had only been half-listening, but she looked over at Michael with her brows raised when he said that. "You want me to write what?"

"I don't know, I think it'd be cool. Don't you?"

All four of them looked to her at that. Since the tour started, the boys went to her for fashion advice. That was technically her job, but it felt like she suddenly had four younger brothers.

"Y—Yeah. Very punk rock. I'll get on that right now."

"You're the best, June!"

"I could kiss you!"

"Please don't," she said, shoulders tensing when they all squeezed her.

The four boys left her alone in search of food—because they were always hungry—and Y/n got to work. Or tried to. She was alone for all of two seconds before the door slammed open.

"Really? You fucking stalked your way onto this tour?"

It was the first time Y/n had seen Harry since the one time she bumped into him in the hallway a few days ago. Y/n thought he'd looked irritated then, but he looked downright furious now. His face was red and mouth turned into an angry frown. Y/n tried to speak, but she couldn't. She just kept staring at him, hoping the words to explain would come.

"I—It's not what you think—"

"You're sick! Sick in the head! I'm calling security. I can't believe this," he said, muttering the last part.

Sniffling, Y/n looked down at the clothes she was supposed to fix up for the boys. Her boys, she sometimes thought. She couldn't believe this was actually happening. Harry was in front of her, and he...he was calling security on her.

"You—You don't have to do that," she finally said. When she stood up, Harry stepped away from her. "I'll go. I swear. I know how this looks, and I know you won't believe me, but this is a coincidence. But...I'll go. You don't need to call security. I'll leave."

Y/n grabbed her things and the boys' clothes, not looking at Harry once. She couldn't handle seeing the look in his eyes. But she felt it. His glare burned his skin. She shuffled out of the room, head bent with her things in her hands. On her way out, she bumped into something. Someone.

"Woah, June. Is everything okay?"

It was Luke. He looked concerned, but she couldn't find it in him to explain. "I'm—I'm fine. I'm just going to finish this stuff up on the bus, okay? I'll have it done before the show."

Before he could say anything else, she left, trying to ignore what sounded like an argument starting in the room she'd vacated.

(three hours later)

Y/n was still on the tour bus fixing up the boys' clothes and waiting until it was time for her to leave for the airport. She knew she should've left right away, but she wanted to do this last thing. One last thing, and then she would be gone. It was almost time, and she'd finished cutting up the shirts, now she just needed to write the word 'IDIOT' on Michael's shirt. It was very fitting, Y/n felt like an absolute idiot for ever letting things get this far.

Still, she couldn't help but form a little smile as she sketched out the letters with a pencil. This job wasn't necessarily what Y/n had wanted, but it also wasn't what she initially expected. She liked the 5SOS guys, and she had to admit that there was something adventurous about going to a new city every few days. The point was, she liked it more than she thought she would, and now it was over.

(thirty minutes later)

Harry had been standing in front of the crew's tour bus for ten minutes. He wasn't sure if she was there, and he wasn't sure if he wanted her to be there. But he was standing in front of the bus door anyway, trying to decide if he was going to knock.

He'd been furious. Furious and alarmed and freaked out. When he'd gotten the first text from June, Harry immediately thought that she was some crazed fan who had somehow obtained his number. He slowly realized that wasn't the case, or so he thought. June had been lying this whole time, and not only that, she managed to become a crew member on tour.

When he heard her voice outside Five Seconds of Summer's dressing room, Harry was floored, and then he was scared, and then he was angry. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? It wasn't enough that he performed and gave all these little pieces of himself to the world. Why did everyone expect to give over all of himself?

And he talked to June about that at length, and he thought he was confiding in her, he thought they were sharing with each other. But she was...she was just lying to him.

And yet, she was still June. Months of texting and everything he felt didn't just evaporate because he discovered the truth. She was funny and charismatic and seemed to really like him, and he liked her too. A lot.

It was why he was at the bus. Harry wanted an explanation. He deserved that at least.

It took about a minute for the door to open after he knocked on it. She peeked her head out, watery red eyes surprised, and a little scared, to see him standing there. Mixed emotions flared in Harry's chest at the sight of her. Something squeezed his heart at finally putting a face to all the messages, to the girl he couldn't go more than a day without talking to. June was very pretty with a thick head of hair, high cheekbones, and pouty pink lips. Her nose was red, as if she'd been crying, and the part of Harry that cared about his friend hated seeing her like that, hated to know that this was how their first meeting was turning out. Harry had daydreamed about meeting June for the first time many times. A lot of times. None of his daydreams looked like this.

"Um, I promise I'm leaving. My flight is later tonight, and I just thought—It doesn't matter, I'll go."

Harry had met a good number of crazy fans over the years, and while he knew June was one of them, she seemed rather subdued. Instead of jumping him at any possible moment this entire tour, she minded her business and didn't try to talk to him once. Maybe he was believing in something he wanted to believe, but June didn't seem like the crazy stalker fan that she was.

"I want to talk. I want an explanation," he said.

June nodded, not opening the door any further but reaching her hand through the small crack. "I wrote it all down. I was going to give it to someone to give to you. It was the least I could do."

She didn't even want to talk to him? Was this all just an act to gain his sympathy? There was no way of knowing. If this was all one big con, June was a very good actress.

Harry took the note from June and unfolded it, reading it carefully.

H,

I just want to start off by saying that you have every right to be angry, I understand that I have betrayed your trust. And I have betrayed your trust, just not in the way that you might think.

I found out who you were a few days ago, it was why I was avoiding your texts. I'd overheard you talking to Michael and the other boys in their dressing room. It was right after we'd sent all our voice messages, and I just knew it was you who was behind the door. I couldn't quite believe it.

But I also didn't know how to tell you that I knew. I was shocked and confused...and to be honest I didn't know what to do with the information. I just...wasn't expecting you.

So I kept the secret for a little while I tried to figure out how to tell you, and...Well, you saw how that turned out.

I just want you to know that I had no idea who you were when we first started texting. I truly gave my number to some idiot that I slept with, and by some twist of fate, he gave me your number instead. I didn't want to text you, I didn't want to like you, I didn't...expect to share so much of myself with you. I know this is harder on you for so many reasons, and you are justified in not trusting me, but it was hard for me too. Part of me thought that if I told you and you saw me, really saw me, that you would be disappointed or not impressed or something like that. You mean meant mean a lot to me, and the thought of ruining our tentative friendship by us meeting scared me, so I foolishly thought I could avoid you the rest of the tour.

I'm sorry that you found out the way you did, and I'm sorry it caused you so much emotional pain. I know you probably won't trust anything I've said, but I hope this might help you understand. And with the hope that I don't come off as the obsessed stalker that you already think I am, I really did do like you, and all your secrets are safe with me, as I hope mine are with you.

All my love,

Yours,

Sincerely,

Best wishes,

June Bug

Harry looked read the letter once, then twice, then looked up at June, who was still hiding behind the bus door. It had closed that much more, like she was trying to shut him out.

He knew he had a right not to trust her, and part of him still didn't. But another him was pushing her toward him, drawing him to her. His gut was telling him to hear her out, that she was the June Bug from all of their messages.

His show was in a little over an hour. He had last minute things to do and pre-show rituals to complete, and he knew that people would start looking for him soon. But he didn't want to go.

"Can—Can I come in?" he found himself asking. "To talk?"

June's brows raised, like she wasn't quite expecting Harry to ask her that. Which was a valid thing to think, of course, but now he was hoping she would let him in. Or send him away so they could avoid a difficult conversation.

"Sure. Are you—Are you sure?" she asked him, thick brows furrowing. Harry would've found the wrinkle between them cute if it wasn't for the situation.

Was he sure? "Y—Yes."

Nodding, June opened the door further to let him inside. Harry's hand brushed against hers on his way past her, and she immediately recoiled. He ignored it, and looked down at her for the first time. Really looked at her.

She really was beautiful, there was no denying that. June had a kind face, one that held so much emotion in it. Harry felt like he could read every little feeling as it flitted across her face. And right now, she was looking at him like one word out of his mouth could make or break her. Unable to handle that kind of pressure, Harry focused on a little scar that cut into June's brow.

"Um, so obviously you're familiar with the layout of the bus. Do you want to sit at the couches in the back? Or the tables here, or we could just stand—"

"The couches are fine," Harry said.

“O—Okay. Couches it is."

June turned around and headed for the back of the bus, strands of her hair swishing with each step she took. Harry followed, wondering if he'd just made a huge mistake or was taking a risk worth taking.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

tags: @cookielovesbook-akie @sucker4angstt @l0v3e1i @bellesmith628 @marigold-morelli @obsessedmaggiemay @sophthearthoe

[siconetribal]

Put it on My Tab (18)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Warning:

Things as they should have been

A/N:

Thanks for patiently waiting! I had a safe and easy flight, but the jet lag was a real troublemaker. But now I'm back, less brain foggy and ready to type. Without further ado, here is the next part!

Please comment/like/reblog. If you’d like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know! I'd also greatly appreciate it if rebloggers remember to add the tags (or some at least).

As always, a huge thank you and shout out to @harlequin-hangout for the amazing banners you made for me.

If you’re new to the story, please check out the master post for the rest of the chapters.

Another day, another round of unreasonable customers not paying attention to the orders that are being called, and another coffee order from the caffeine fiend who has been showing up almost daily. The handsome young man caused quite the stir with the female employees, each rushing to be the one to take his order, only to be rejected. There was only one person he ordered from, and the one barista was Y/N. She did not know why or when this little routine started, but it was well known throughout the shifts. One customer came in on days only Y/N was in and only ever ordered from her. The idea would have been flattering if his level of consumption was not so concerning, and him obviously being younger than her and well off.

And he’s another Wayne. I think I’ve officially had it with Waynes. She let out a heavy sigh as she rang up her current customer. How long had it been since she last saw Jason? She wondered for the seventh time, looking at the digital date on the register. That awkwardly magical night to end it all was now two weeks behind her and not a single word from him. To be fair, I haven’t exactly reached out either, but what am I supposed to even say? I didn’t exactly ask him for pocket change, and he paid for dinner and made sure I was inside the building safe. Could he have just not been so great so that I could continue to hate him for some reason and move on with my life? It’s all his fault, clearly! She grabbed a cup, stuck on the label, and placed it in the queue before moving onto the next customer. 

Citlalli heard her sigh again and visibly frowned. The night Y/N came back with the money was a shock. The two of them stared at her phone and refreshed the app screen several times, expecting it to all vanish like it was some sort of glitch and error. Come the next day, it was still very much there, which meant they were now debt free. They refused to celebrate just yet. Y/N transferred the money to her bank, it cleared in a few days. Y/N called the hotel and paid the rest of the charges over the phone. The hotel register must have been ancient because it felt like forever until the little ding sounded to let everyone know the transaction was completed. A copy of the receipt was emailed and with that, it was done. Seeing the bill as paid in full was such a sight to behold that Citlalli even began to tear up. They were back to where they were before the coffee fiasco, which was far better than being behind. 

Everything was back to as it should be, or it should have been. Y/N was different. She was more relaxed now that she could drop a good number of shifts and others could cover, but there was a listlessness to her. Her motions were robotic, and she barely reacted to crazy customers who were prone to yelling or causing a scene. If anything, her lack of reaction made the tantrum thrower feel awkward, and they quietly just moved along. Maybe it was an adrenaline crash? A constant flight or fight mode was finally shut off and her body was simply trying to recover. The last time she had seen her like this was the time her cousin got them tangled with the Penguin. Citlalli was no better, the two did what needed to be done to keep the bills paid and their heads on their shoulders. 

“Oi, chica, I’ve been calling your name for the last ten minutes!” She snapped her fingers in front of Y/N’s face. “Are you going to give me an answer or what?!”

“Huh, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” She jerked her head back as the sharp sound brought her senses back into focus. The long day of work had come to an end and neither of the two were on the night shift, so they returned home and began to relax and unwind. “Answer what?”

“Where did you get these and when were you going to tell me?!” She firmly tapped her finger on two identical rectangular pieces of paper that magically appeared on the coffee table. They were not just simple waxy slips, either. They were a nice weight that had a lovely deign with a date and time stamped on each with the name of an upcoming charity gala printed in cursive and the famous W logo of Wayne Enterprises Inc. 

“Ah, those, well, those came from Nightwing when he left me a tip. I don’t think he meant to give them? At least, that’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m sure Bruce Wayne meant for him to have them to attend. I just don’t know how to go about returning them. How does one call a nighttime vigilante without lighting up the sky with the Bat Signal?” She pointed out the issue she was in.

“Three weeks,” Citlalli scowled. “Nearly a month of holding onto these, and you never once thought to tell me?! They were just laying there on the kitchen floor near the trash! Were you going to throw them out?!” She shoved her face in front of Y/N’s, their noses mere inches from touching. 

“I wasn’t planning to throw them out, but like I said, there’s no way to return them!” Y/N moved her head back.

“¡Ay, ay, ay!” She stood back and hit the heel of her free palm into her forehead a few times. “We could use them! We could go! This could be how we celebrate finally being debt free!” Citlalli grabbed the two tickets and waved them at Y/N. “This is fate, it was meant to be! ¡Por Dios!” She once again dove into a flurry of Spanish as she paced up and down the small living room. From the way she waved her arms around, twirled, Y/N could only gather that the frenzied energy was excitement.

“Cici,” she firmly called out to her overly energized friend for the umpteenth time. “Don't you think these tickets are tracked? That Bruce Wayne would know which ticket is whose? So, when someone tries to use someone else's, they can cross-reference. And even if by some unknown luck, they let it slide, for whatever reason; and we take the leap and attend, we don't have anything to wear aside from old catering uniforms and whatever dresses we have for parties and dates. I’m not trying to be the buzzkill, but we’re not equipped for this.”

Citlalli looked between Y/N and the tickets several times before coming around the table and flopping down onto the couch with a heavy sigh of defeat. Y/N could only sadly smile at the scene. It hurt to burst the bubble, but it needed to be done. A somber silence filled the apartment, broken only by the noise from their neighbors or some troublemakers outside. They could officially forget about this and move on.

“My abuela can help us. She’s a great seamstress, and my tía Maribel and tía Estrella have their own boutique. It’s nowhere near Wayne level price tags, but they make good money and live in a safer city. They made my and all my cousins quinceañera dresses, too. I’m sure they can come up with something for this, or at least let us borrow two dresses for the evening.” Citlalli sat up and looked straight at Y/N.

“You’re really not going to let this go, huh?” Y/N could only sigh and shake her head. “The party is in two weeks. When will we have the time to go and try on dresses between work and my pending call to come into the precinct for a formal interview?”

“Mr. B owes us for covering all those shifts he had no one to cover for. He’ll be grateful we took off unpaid so he doesn't have to pay us as much overtime.” She rolled her eyes. “My family will even open the shop after hours just for us to look, we don't need to go during the work hours. We can buy roundtrip train tickets and spend the night there. We might not even have to call off work either, we can swap shifts with someone! This is perfect! Ok, that's what we’ll do! I'm going to go call my family and see what days are best!” Once again, Citlalli was off running and Y/N was left speechless and trying to figure out how they went from reason to a whole thought out plan.

You know what, why not? It doesn’t hurt to try. If she really wanted to go, I was going to suggest checking some consignment shops or thrift stores in the richer parts of the city. We can use that plan as backup, though. She gets to see her grandmother this way and I can say hi to her family as well. She smiled while watching Citlalli’s face light up while talking in Spanish to her family on the phone. Y/N was willing to deal with the Waynes if it meant her best friend would be happy. It’s the least I can do for all her family has done for me over the years, trouble aside.

It was done. There was nothing left to do and there was no reason to ever see her again unless he wanted to go get coffee. He was not against coffee, but he was not an addict like someone he knew. He glanced at the door as Tim walked in with a rather large cup. Jason frowned to himself, looking back down at his book, but his gaze quickly snapped back up to the third Robin. He knew that logo, it was the logo of the cafe Y/N worked at.

Why would he go all the way over there for a cup of coffee? Did he realize I kept going there for them? No, I only did that twice. He can’t have caught on to anything from just that no matter how smart he is. Maybe he liked it? It’s a popular place and he may have been scouting the area. He stared at the cup, almost glaring at it. Must be mice to not have a reason to go there and see her without a care in teh world.

“What?” Tim’s voice cut off his jealous thoughts. The second Wayne son raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re the one giving a death glare to my coffee, I think I have a right to know why.”

“I’m trying to figure out what number this one is for the day. Your coffee addiction is just starting to get concerning.” He retorted.

“I’m not a coffee ‘addict’,” Tim took a rather loud sip of his drink to punctuate his point. “I’m a caffeine-based life form and as such, I must honor the ways of my people.”“By drinking your three times your weight in coffee?” Jason snorted as he tried to stop from laughing. Caffeine-based life form? She’d get a kick out of that one. I wonder, has he met her? A sharp, stabbing pain suddenly pierced his chest.“Who am I to get between you and your crazy cult? Chug away,”  he slightly bowed his head in respect. Tim nodded in return and left the room. Jason gently rubbed the spot above his heart, frowning once more. Must be nice indeed.

Tag: @vbecker10 @wordsfromshona @harlequin-hangout @harpy-space @tild3ath @gone-batty-fics @princessbl0ss0m @dakotali @antiquecultist

[theflyingfeeling]

Fifth Day of Gift-Giving: Fights (and Reconciliations)

Prompt(s): It had all just been a big misunderstanding and after finding that out, all they could do was laugh or... something else 😏

Today's piece is a standalone unrelated to the previous parts (because, being a hopeless conflict-avoider myself, I just couldn't make the Olli and Allu in that story have a fight of any sort; all the pining is plenty enough suffering for them, don't you agree? 🤧). Even this one is less about the fight and more about the reconciliation, I hope you enjoy (rated M for you pleasure) 😌💞

~

Olli stared at the empty bag. Where there used to be a perfectly balanced, hand-picked selection of the finest Finnish pick & mix candy that were supposed to last him the whole tour, there was now but a sad pile of sugar left. He closed his eyes and attempted to counted to ten, but reaching eleven, his blood was still boiling, so he decided to keep going until he'd stop clenching his fists and maybe come up with at least some level of adult reaction to this unfortunate event – in the end, it was just candy. It's not like he had suffered great economical loss or profoundly traumatic, unforgivable abuse; that being said, he was still pretty damn bitter about having spent the whole day looking forward to keeping his brain buzzing with some sugar in between the soundcheck and the show, only to peek in his bunk and find his secret stash exceptionally candyless.

He had only one suspect: the only other person in their midst who knew of the secret stash.

Olli supposed he had only himself to blame, however; he was famililar with Aleksi's sweet tooth. Yet, in his moment of weakness (that is, lost in the man's blue eyes and the magic his hand was perfoming on Olli's cock the other night), he had revealed the nook of his bunk bed in which he kept the goodies hidden from sight. Even during their afternoon nap the day before, they had hid the small plastic bag in between them, popping a piece of salmiak or a chocolate button in their (or each other's) mouths every now and then in between cuddles and giggles. Now, Olli realised letting Aleksi that close had been an evident mistake.

"Ale?"

"Hmmmmh?" the man replied from the lounge.

"Come here for a sec."

"What for?"

"Just...," Olli inhaled and exhaled, still trying to find the words that wouldn't completely blow the whole incident out of proportion, "just come here. There's something I want to ask you."

A subtle groan sounded from the lounge (the audacity), and with lazy, dragging steps, hair mishevelled, hands in his pockets, and mouth stretched in a yawn, Aleksi appeared next to him.

"What?" Aleksi mumbled.

You're lucky you're so fucking cute, Olli thought at the sight of him. A bastard, but a cute one.

Olli steered his gaze back to the crime scene, determined to not let Aleksi's endearing appearance distract him.

"It's empty," he growled instead.

"Häh?"

"You ate my fucking candy!" Olli spat out his words.

"The fuck are you on about, dude?"

"The fuck am I–" Olli had to pause to take inhale again, failing at keeping his cool. "The fuck are you about, eating other people's food like an animal?!"

"Someone's eaten your candy?"

"Yes, YOU DID!"

"What? No I fucking didn't! Why do you think it was me?"

"Because no one else knows about the candy but you!"

"Are you sure though? It's not easy to keep secrets around here, you know, all packed up in this bus like herrings in a barrel. Eventually someone else was ought to–"

"Oh my god, Aleksi, why can't you just admit it was you?"

"BECAUSE IT WASN'T!"

"The hell are you two squabbling about down there? I'm trying to have a nap!"

The two of them were startled by Niko's head appearing from a bunk above them. Until then, it didn't occur to Olli that others may have caught up on their argument, let alone that someone may have been trying to sleep through it.

"Oh, fuck, sorry. Olli's just a bit wound up over his–"

"Ooh, yeah, I'm so unreasonably wound up alright, because Aleksi's gobbled down all my fucking–"

"Jesus, Olli, get hold of yourself, it was me!"

Olli was already prepared for another string of accusations against Aleksi when Niko's words hit him and he was left with his mouth gaping open at the unexpected twist.

"Yeah, sorry bro. Saw the bag on your bed, must have fallen there from somewhere. Couldn't really help myself, got a terrible headache and I was desperate for some sugar. I'll make it up to you, so can you please stop shouting now?"

"Uhhhmm," Olli scratced the back of his own ear, suddenly embarrassed for quite a few reasons, "yeah, sorry. It's... it's cool, don't worry about it."

He was too ashamed to look at Aleksi directly, but from the corner of his eye he could see the man raising his eyebrows at him before he stomped away to the lounge area of the bus. Olli took a moment to rub his face and let out a long sigh before walking after him.

Aleksi was already slumped on the couch, his nose as if glued to his phone screen when Olli sat next to him.

"I'm sorry, Aleksi."

Aleksi kept his eyes on his device as he spoke in an icy voice that spooked Olli to the bone.

"Oh yeah? What for? For yelling at me for no reason? For accusing me of something I hadn't even done without letting me explain myself? Or perhaps for being such an uptight control freak about your candy? Because if I had a gigantic bag of sweets on tour, I'd totally let you have–"

"Yes, yes, all of that!" Olli wailed, bonking his forehead on Aleksi's shoulder. "I was just...really looking forward to eating some today."

"Yes, that became very clear."

"Alluuuuuuuuu, I'm sorryyyyyyyy," Olli whined against the man's sweater.

"Don't you 'Allu' me, I'm still upset," Aleksi muttered, although Olli could already feel him soften.

"Is there anything I could do to stop you being upset with me? I really am so sorry." To maximise the effect of his (at least partly innocent) plea, Olli stick out his bottom lip in a pout and put on his best puppy-eyes act. He almost struggled keeping his frown from turning into a victorious grin when Aleksi side-eyed him, lips twitching.

"Guess we can think of... something."

Olli was already loving the sound of that.

~*~*~

Olli wasn't exactly sure how 'trying to keep as quiet as possible while having your dick sucked by your bandmate in a moving tourbus in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep' was an apology rather than a punishment, but he wasn't complaining, quite the contrary; Aleksi's restrained moans were honey to his ears, his soft thighs felt heavenly under his palms, and the twitch of Aleksi's cock between his lips made blood rush to his own hardening member.

"Ahh, fuck, Olli, feels so good," Aleksi whispered breathlessly. Olli could tell he was close to finishing from the way his hips kept jerking, thrusting his erection deeper in Olli's greedy mouth, and the way his hands were grasping the cushions of the lounge sofa. Determined to catch Aleksi at his climax, Olli kept his eyes nailed to Aleksi's fluttering ones as he removed one hand from Aleksi's hip bone and wrapped his fingers around Aleksi's glistening cock, with just the tip remaining in his mouth.

Aleksi's soft whines then turned into surprised gasps when Olli's hand began working on his cock, pumping it while his tongue flicked around the sensitive head over and over until he could feel hot spurts of Aleksi's cum on his tongue and lips. He kept stroking the now pulsating erection, his lips grazing the tip just lightly enough to know it was driving Aleksi insane, not stopping until Aleksi's heavy panting turned into sobs from how sensitive he was becoming.

Having cleaned them both up, Olli sat next to blissful Aleksi and began palming the bulge on the front of his own trousers.

"So. Was that alright for you? Are we even now?"

"Oh, for sure, that was... that was nice. Thanks," Aleksi slurred, still trying to calm down his breathing. "Although... it's... not the whole truth, maybe. What Niko told you."

Olli furrowed his brows.

"What's that's supposed to mean?"

"I mean... yes, Niko ate the candy, but he didn't eat all of it. I had also been to your stash earlier today, but I swear I had put it back where I took it! I guess it really had rolled out, like Niko said, and... well."

Olli weighed Aleksi's words in his mind, still casually massaging his own erection through his pants.

"I see," he nodded.

"Please don't be mad. I promise I'll never eat your candy without asking ever again."

"Oh, you better," Olli snorted, "but, ummmm. Obviously I can't let this go unpunished."

"I'll do anything, as long as you won't start screaming at me like that again."

Honey to his ears.

"You would, huh?" Olli leaned in closer to whisper his command in Aleksi's ear, his nose brushing the soft hair on Aleksi's temple. "Better get on your knees, then."

[mariana-oconnor]

The Naval Treaty pt 4

The Moment of Truth

Will my immediate and instinctive dislike of Joseph Harrison be proved right, or will I be forced to admit that this crime is not his? (I make no promises regarding other crimes, however.)

What the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I could not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps...

Here we see Watson's focus on interpersonal matters, rather than on logistics. Holmes could have found a far easier and more sensible way to keep them apart if he wanted to.

...he calmly announced that he had no intention of leaving Woking.

Well no. You can't catch... the person... red-handed if you leave for London, now can you?

Gotta let them think you're in London and do the sneaky sneak.

I may be a little sleep deprived today, so this could be a little more unhinged than usual.

"Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and remaining with him until I see you again."

What, no? You're not letting Watson come? Bad Holmes. FIRST this means we don't get a first-hand account of you catching Jos- the unknown ne'erdowell in the act. SECOND Percy doesn't deserve to be left alone with the guy who hit him with sticks for years. He's been an idiot and failed utterly at both of the 2 jobs he had (copy treaty, don't let treaty be stolen) but he doesn't deserve that. Not to mention that Watson's going to be all sulky.

"It is fortunate that you are old school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over."

Oh yeah, the good old days.

“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps, ruefully. “We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of more immediate use here.”

Has no one else realised what the plan is? Percy was pretty good at this last time, I swear.

I'm being unreasonable. I have knowledge of the genre and the tropes that the characters do not have, as well as an awareness that I am reading a story and therefore only things that are relevant to the story are emphasised. Please accept my humblest apologies, Watson and Mr Phelps. There's no way Percy could ever suspect that the document he so carelessly allowed to be taken is in the same room where he was lying for almost ten weeks. Although he must suspect that the 'attempt on his life' was connected in some way.

Still... we must make allowances for the limitations of their vision, trapped as they are within the ink of the tale.

“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes.

Now that's got to be a lie. How else are you going to catch him... ahem, them in the act?

“You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?” “Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite distinctly.”

You didn't seem that certain earlier, Percy. And we all know that eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable about things like that. Although I will admit that I would go the other way and start doubting myself. Percy, apparently, has decided to double down.

I don't think that Joseph - or whoever the villain is - wants Percy dead per se, so why a knife. To pry up a floorboard?

"It is absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you, while the other threatens your life.”

I mean, you could be a little nicer to the guy who has barely recovered from a nine-week-long illness, Watson. Your bedside manner leaves a little to be desired. But you are, in fact, getting to the crux of the matter. The very sharp edge of Occam's Razor, if you will.

“But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae.” “I have known him for some time,” said I, “but I never knew him do anything yet without a very good reason.”

This seems patently false. The man does things without reason all the time. Not on cases, maybe. But he sticks his legs on top of the fireplace and goes off on tangents about the beauty of a rose being evidence of the existence of an allpowerful deity. I don't know if it's in the short stories or the longer ones, but he shoots the queen's initials into the wall of his lodgings.

Although I like how Percy says 'But he said he wasn't going' and Watson doesn't even really respond to that one way or the other. The 'I have known him for some time' could indicate that Watson can tell when he's lying.

But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his long illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous. In vain I endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the groove. He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing, speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should have in the morning. As the evening wore on his excitement became quite painful.

Watson is the worst at this. Stop trying to talk to him about things you're interested in and ask him what he's interested in. If in doubt, ask about his fiancee. That should get him talking, at least.

Also, Watson seems so put out that Percy is worried about the thing that his entire life hinges on. How very Victorian of him. Buck up, Percy. Stiff upper lip.

The next conversation is just so full of Watson being deliberately vague so as not to get Percy's hopes up and Percy utterly refusing to accept Watson talking around the subject. Honestly, at this point, they're both equally aggravating and amusing

It boils down to:

"Do you think Holmes has an idea? Argh, he doesn't, does he?"

"I've seen him solve other cases."

"But what about this one?"

Repeatedly, round and round in circles.

“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most taciturn."

Ah, finally, an actual answer that's a bit helpful and doesn't promise anything. Was that so hard? The poor man just wanted some reassurance and empathy. I can absolutely understand why the pair of you did not get along at school, you're clearly coming at the word from completely different ends of the Victorian hero spectrum. Well, honestly, Percy from a literary standpoint is firmly in the position of heroine, what with the sudden onset of fever from stress and being shut away in a room with people breaking in in the middle of the night. He's practically the heroine of a gothic novel, and Watson doesn't know how to deal with a man who embodies so many of the more stereotypical 'feminine' tropes. If it had been a woman, he would have thought to appeal to her emotions, I bet, but because Percy is a man, Watson's trying his best blokey comforting methods and failing miserably. He's stuck in the trap of gender roles and he doesn't even see it.

There's honestly probably quite a decent essay there about this story and reframing literary gender roles. I expect someone has already written it.

Sorry, my English Literature degree is getting in the way of a good time. Weird how that happens now, but very rarely happened while I was getting it. 😅

TO THE MEMES!

“He'll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instant sooner or later.”

Oh, oh, oh! It is a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor!

Standing in the window we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time before he came upstairs.

What the what now? I was going to say earlier 'don't leave Watson behind; what if Joseph gets violent?' but then I remembered Holmes is more than capable of taking care of himself, so I didn't. But apparently I was right to have that thought.

Joseph Harrison has so much to answer for.

Look... if it's not him, I'll apologise. But... but... it's him alright.

“After all,” said I, “the clue of the matter lies probably here in town.”

No. Because it's Joseph. Motherfucking. Harrison.

I am preparing my I told you sos.

Also, the man is injured. Why would he be injured if he hadn't come across someone in the process of ne'erdowelling? I suppose he could have trapped his hand in a door or something. But we're back to Occam's Razor again. Evidence points to him discovering something at least.

“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he answered...

Or he trapped it in a door, I guess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated.”

Darker than The Greek Interpreter? Because that shit was dark.

“Won't you tell us what has happened?” “After breakfast, my dear Watson."

Percy over here just dying of stress. Don't mind him. Lolol.

“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering a dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman."

Well, that's not an English fry-up.

Curry for breakfast in England? And it's not kedgeree? I genuinely can't tell if the comment about the 'scotch-woman' is intended to be a compliment or an insult. But I think kedgeree is more common in Scotland, so maybe that's the connection? I've never had it, only heard of it, and Wikipedia tells me the first known British recipe for it was in a Scottish cookbook. So I guess this is a reference to kedgeree? But chicken?

I know curry is eaten for breakfast in different parts of the world, but it's really not a very common thing over here. I suppose there was a lot of Indian influence on fashions in the Victorian Era, what with colonialism being at its peak and all, so maybe they were just trying it out and it eventually settled down to kedgeree?

"What have you here, Watson?” “Ham and eggs,” I answered.

OK, Watson's going more traditional. That makes sense. Although when did the traditional English Breakfast even originate?

The English Breakfast society tells me 14th-15th century, and I guess they should know.

“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose that you have no objection to helping me?”

Oh no. Oh no, Holmes. What did you do? Are you about to give this man another brain fever? I swear, between you and Watson you're going to murder him by accident.

Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream, and sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of blue-gray paper.

Happy surprise! Although still kind of a dick move for a man recovering from a stress-induced illness. Holmes does like to be a dramatic bitch sometimes, eh?

It's a nice dramatic moment, though. I can appreciate why he did it, even if I do feel for Percy in his poor, sleep-deprived, overly stressed state.

And now he's keeling over in a near faint, as well. Gothic Heroine, I'm telling you.

“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder. “It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.”

At least Holmes knows it was a dick move, even if he doesn't actually apologise.

“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further, and yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”

... I'm dying to hear about that damned bell. Seriously. THE BELL.

“After leaving you at the station I went for a charming walk through some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the precaution of filling my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my pocket."

This is not relevant. What...?

I'm so glad you had a nice little walk and honestly, a drink at a pub in a Surrey village sounds all kinds of delightful, but really... what?

Get to the bit where you tell everyone I was right all along!

Or the part where it turns out I've committed the heinous crime of being wrong on the Internet, I suppose.

"...witness the disreputable state of my trouser knees..."

No notes, I just love this phrase.

“The key!” ejaculated Phelps.

Okay, Percy. Calm down. That's what he just said.

"I was left squatting in the rhododendron-bush."

Let us take a moment to appreciate the strength of Sherlock Holmes' leg muscles.

"It was very long, though—almost as long, Watson, as when you and I waited in that deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the Speckled Band."

Callback! Take a shot!

"I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed back and the creaking of a key. A moment later the servant's door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out into the moonlight.”

(emphasis mine)

“Joseph!” ejaculated Phelps.

Percy is ejaculating all over the place, today.

Also... yeah... that's what he said. Joseph. Mmhm. Jo-seph.

I'm trying to be very calm and gracious about this, but please believe that I actually look like this ⬇⬇⬇

"...he proceeded to turn back the corner of the carpet in the neighborhood of the door. Presently he stopped and picked out a square piece of board..."

I was right about the floorboard too!

Not about him needing the knife for it, because apparently it's a whole plumbing thing, which makes sense and is kind of interesting, but... it counts, right?

“Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for, has Master Joseph."

PUPPY MURDERER VIBES!

"Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to Forbes this morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well and good. But if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there, why, all the better for the government."

Another one where the villain is uncaught, although supposedly for the good of the government. (Honestly, the government deserves to have people question its security principles if a delayed cup of coffee is enough to put the entire political system of Europe at risk).

“And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!”

Who...

would...

have...

thunk it?

🙃🙃🙃🙃

“From what I have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything on earth to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a chance presented itself he did not allow either his sister's happiness or your reputation to hold his hand.”

OK, fine. I didn't get the motive right. Fine. I accept that I was wrong on that count.

But all this ignores the most important question? WHAT ABOUT THE BELL?

"I had already begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had intended to travel home with him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well, upon his way."

I also totally missed that...

I based my accusations on vibes and vibes alone, and missed all actual evidence to the fact. This seems like a win, but it is, in fact, a loss for logic and reason.

"...you told us in your narrative how you had turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor..."

I missed that, too.

Dude. I was terrible at this. Lmfao at my own incompetent, prejudicial blundering to the right idea. I'm a farce. This is hilarious. I love it.

Finding no one there he promptly rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper upon the table.

The bell! At last, the bell! It all makes sense now.

There I was imagining a premeditated crime, but in reality it was a crime of opportunity. Which I would have known if I had just read the text more closely. My high school teachers are all shaking their heads at me and sighing.

"...he had concealed it in what he thought was a very safe place, with the intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was to be had."

OK, man was intending to commit treason. Wasn't expecting that. Thought he was just trying to fuck up Percy's life. But no.

“I can only say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust."

Man was sus. Holmes agrees: Bad vibes. I got a Nat 20 Insight, Nat 1 Investigation.

I do not remember The Adventure of the Cardboard Box even a little bit, so that'll be fun next time. I wonder why it's controversial... or maybe I don't want to know. Guess I'll find out either way.

On that note, I will take my bows, and accept all due adulation on my brilliance and impeccable vibe checking.

[catsandgoodbooks]

Okay, so I was looking at the reblog challenge titles, and I have so many questions. What is Murders, Mysteries, and Parties? Is Pressure Cracks about Dream having a mental break down? Road Trip Time sounds cracky, I want to know ALL THE THINGS.

I get unreasonably excited about your writing.

Please share what you are willing to share. /nf

Murders, Mysteries, and Parties is a (relatively cracky) fic about everyone being invited to a fancy party by Techno+and friends, and everything being moderately okay before the Egg decides to ruin everything and start killing people. Once that starts happening, people seize the opportunity and start going after their enemies, and everyone else is desperately trying to figure out what is going on. (Most people think it's Dream, obviously. It's not) It would last for about a week, with an increasing amount of people dying each day/night, before people finally figure out that the Egg is behind it. I'm not sure if they ever find out it wasn't just the Egg.

Pressure Cracks is kind of about Dream having a mental breakdown, but it's also a weird eldritch horror thing about him being possessed by XD with a dash of body horror because why not. It takes place during the prison arc because that's just thematically appropriate and I like angst.

Road Trip Time is indeed very cracky: right now, it's just a little Modern-day AU thing about everyone+Ranboo going on a road trip together. It's complete chaos, and Ranboo is the only one who thinks this is unusual - he's very concerned the entire time. Don't worry Ranboo, everything's fine. It's all completely normal, just trust me.

I now have a sudden urge to write about everyone (or at least Dream+Tommy+maybe Tubbo+and maybe like ten other people, i don't know) being forced to go on an impromptu road trip and no one getting along. Maybe I'll do something with that

[seven-cents]

dont like how the matryoshka logs were taking up so much space so I'm gonna copy and paste them here so can get rid of them

Day 1

Dear Devlog,

Today is day one of my long and mentally torturous journey. I am writing to you at the hour of 11am.

I have made minimal progress today. But important progress. Starting with setting up my normal preferences, running tests to get the ratio. Lame stuff, yknow.

I went on to outline many of the scenes and character sprites, there are quite a bit of them so it was arduous but thankfully my best friend, quentin, was here to help me out with a hip new video. His help will be invaluable throughout this timeframe. I love you quentinreviews.

I feel pretty good about how its going, and I'm sure as long as I don't sleep or do anything else for even a moment I'll be done in time. Easy peasy for me, the laziest most adhd person on the planet.

Word count: 0

I can only hope I can make it at least playable before the madness sets in.

Day 2

The madness has set in.

Dear devlog, I feel like a clown and not in the hot way. I got minimal sleep due to me being woken up at an unreasonable hour.

This morning I heard a crackling in my walls, like electricity behind my outlet. This was super concerning since I had a bunch of flammable shit near it. I immediately hopped up and started rearranging my entire room, moving all my canvasses and paint in boxes and whatnot, and in my cleaning I found what looked to be several tiny beads. The crackling had been a necklace I had on a shelf snapping and all the beads falling on the ground. Now I have to unpack everything.

I did however did get quite a bit done, though, 3000 words worth. Most of it is garbage that I'm going to rewrite like ten times but it's something.

Word count: 3,295

Day 3

Dear devlog,

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

everything is a sick cesspit of misery

I got some sprites done tho. By done I mean they're NOTHIGN, but I will fix them later.

demon

Day 4

Didn't get any sleep last night! Had to do stuff today!

Yet, I'm still keeping up pace. With the power of a gallon of chocolate milk a day. HAHAHA.

now get in the hole cunt

Day 5

Dear Devlog,

I've grown to dislike these horrible paints. I have to use craft paints because they're not shiny. They're fifty cents each so I've bought maybe fifty of them. They're all brown and green. All I dream of is brown and green. I hate brown and green.

Who knows what I'll do with them when I finish.

Day 6

Gonna be hard times for the next few days. Won't be able to paint as much but hopefully I can make up for that in writing. Which is terrible because I only have a million paintings to do. Regardless, I can program and write at the same time. nbd.

Words: 4851

Day 7

I didn't update last night because I was so tired! and I had to take time out of my schedule for my weeping break.

The thing about this painting is, I hate it. Like it's way too late to change the colors or pretty much anything without losing a day. That's the problem with doing traditional art, I can't make tweaks without losing so much time. I'm on day 8, that's a little over a fourth way through and I'm looking at my checklist and I'm gonna throw up. But also it's okay. I'm moving things around to keep the important stuff first so some things may be cut.

Day 8

The name is starting to piss me off. I keep having to look it up to remember how to spell it.

I painted rats today.

Day 9

Wahoo! i finshed some painting. Some of the easiest but good enough. I want to get all of them through with by the twentieth so I can make alternates and then digitally edit them in the next ten days. I think I can have a scene and the menu done by today but who knows.

Day 10

couldnt do anything got too sick from pizza cookie

Day 11

look at this fucking bitch what the fuck is his problem

Day 12

I dont think i wanna paint ever again.

its like on every surface of my room. why am i like this why did i wanna do this. oh yeah, its my drive to be the best in the universe.

Day 13

People are gonna make fun of me for making a character look like a vagina. I KNOW I KNOW ITS SUPPOSED TO BE A VAGINA. you dont understand yuri.

Day 14

I've gotten most of the backgrounds almost done. I've got the sprites almost done. Well I don't have the hallway even remotely done because I just sort of forgot it was there. CGs need to be done. I've only got the sketches.

Day 15

ive watched all of adventure time painting these. now i need a new show.

Day 16

Yeah baby parts of the gui are done. Rats are done. That's all I really need right?

Day 17

behold. all my goddam sprites. there's at least fifteen. almost complete bitches.

Day 18

Have you ever seen a prettier textbox? No you haven't.

Day 19

I don't waaaaaaanna paint. I don't wanna do it. I don't wanna have to be like okay what colors should I use here if I fuck up I have to do everything over again. How many times do I have to paint the same thing. I hate painting AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Day 20

My goal was around 10000 words I'm like 9379 so like I'm almost there baby but it will probably be shorter. I might cut some things.

Day 21

8 days left. I have so much to do in eight days.

Day 22

ITS DAY 22

I stopped updating after this because i lost my cunting mind.

[larkral]

Chapter Four

Welcome to the end of the commentary! 🎉 I have fucking loved this and would like crazy encourage anyone to write about their writing if they want to. I'll read it!!!

The beginning of this chapter is a sideways reference to the beginning of Carry On, except that Simon is A LOT more self aware. He's working through shit. He knows he's obsessing over Baz because he's romantically interested in Baz, but it also manifests in a very similar way as canon. Regardless of whether you think Simon was in love with Baz at the beginning of Carry On, it's difficult to argue he wasn't focused on Baz. Same here! Hopefully this felt a little bit parallel, even though it obviously lasts for a much shorter period of time.

One thing I really like about this section is that Simon characterizes Baz's absence as "almost two weeks" where Baz later says it's been ten days. They're both right but their perspectives are different and so they're framing it differently. For Baz, the precision is important: he got back as quickly as he could. For Simon the length already feels interminable, and a week and a half may as well have been two weeks, because who knows when it will end! Probably not until it's been two weeks. Maybe forever. 

Something that was important to me about the initial scenes in this chapter was that I wanted the plot to be INCREDIBLY concise. I was inspired here by @facewithoutheart's Eight Months (Forever). I think that story is just mind-blowing, and I felt like it might be possible to accomplish a similar plot wrap up. 

Mainly I didn't want this initial section to do much more than resolve the Natasha plot and enable Simon and Baz to find each other again, since that's the reason Baz left. That necessitated Simon being a little bitter towards The Mage. In light of some of my more recent thoughts about the role that The Mage plays in Simon's life, I'm debating a bit if this is unreasonably precipitous. Of course that's a difficult question to answer, but here's where I landed in writing this: Simon has only ever had two points to anchor against—Penny and The Mage. I think there's an argument to be made for Agatha, but IMO the facts bear out to that being essentially a surface-level relationship at best. So, over the course of the blowjob marathon, Simon starts to anchor himself in Baz. And he notices the differences between what he's getting from Baz—attention, availability, jocularity, and an extremely pleasant physical experience (all this from someone who is nominally his enemy)—and what he's getting from The Mage—unreasonable expectations, unmeetable standards, and an absolute bare minimum of necessary care. And I think that with Penny as another anchor, there's space to realize how poorly he's being treated by The Mage. Not necessarily explicitly, not necessarily as a revelation, but under the surface. 

Anyway, uh, you know, I tried to pack that into a single paragraph where Simon is thinking about what he'd say to the mage about Baz being missing. I hope that landed for the reader (did it? You tell me) because immediately afterwards is when Simon steps out of The Mage's plans for him. 

This was a challenging scene to craft! Enough recognizable characters had to be there to tell Simon that Davy was lying in his note. Simon still had to give The Mage the benefit of the doubt (canonically he does and the situation is MUCH less ambiguous). Ebb obviously had to be there as a powerful mage/generally benevolent force/adult who could take over the needs-to-be-powerful mantle from Simon, and The Mage had to do something much more obviously bad-guy-behavior than he already had. Oh, plus something to prompt Simon to seek out Baz. 

Phew!!! All that in what I ideally wanted to be a single, short POV section. I am satisfied with this section, and I think it does the work it needs to do in the interest of the larger story I was telling. However, I don't love it the way I love… almost every other scene in this story. So it goes. 

So. Okay. Okay. Okay. So. The final sexy scene was HEAVILY influenced by a fic my best friend in the world wrote. She is a fucking genius and I'm not going to link her fic here because I can't talk about it in a way that doesn't spoil it, but know that there's a fic out there that's gorgeous and priceless to me and has destroyed my brain a thousand times over and this is a mere shadow of it. Reading the story my friend wrote made me realize that the obvious natural conclusion of the sexual-romantic arc of Good at Something was a one where they just cannot get enough of kissing each other. That the sex is there, and it's got its own purpose, but it's about the collision between them: the uncontained, uncouth, uninhibited force of them realizing that they belong together. And there's something really pure and essential to this feral, animalistic way of being together that's uninformed by a performative motivation, and unbounded by the ways that sexuality is observed. That's what my friend wrote, and that's what I was aiming for. I hope that makes some sense because it's just vital to me.

The next part of the scene I actually feel might be a bit too ambiguous, and that's kind of on purpose. It's about the humdrum and Simon getting control of his magic, and I don't explain it for several reasons. Reason the first: this is a love story, it's not a story about the humdrum or Davy or Natasha. It's a story that we as people in fandom understand to address those things because of our knowledge of canon, but I very intentionally gave that exceedingly little screen time because it's not what's going on here. Reason the second: Simon and Baz don't know what's happening, and I'm not about to explain something that the POV character cannot know just so the reader knows it. If I can't get it across using the narrative structures I've elected to employ, that's my own fault. 🤷 

Anyway, because I can explain what I was thinking here: 

IMO the Humdrum/Simon situation is related to Simon's childhood trauma and was compounded by the fact that Simon wasn't given appropriate tools to manage his magic. Or I suppose, more plainly: The Humdrum is not an inevitability of Simon Snow and the ritual magic under which he was conceived, but merely a potential result of that magic (that occurred as a result of the fucking horrible interpersonal things The Mage did to him after he was born). I think it's very reasonable to assume that the potential to wreak havoc on the magical atmosphere remains a part of Simon after this story, but that the regular meditative practice of giving Baz a bunch of blowjobs, along with the lived experience and continual reassurance of his capacity for competence and the confidence that he is anchored by affection/love on multiple dimensions (Penny and Baz) allowed Simon to rewire the Humdrum part of himself so that it wasn't lashing out with his own uncontrollable hunger. 

Moreover, and I tried really fucking hard to write Baz's final section to convey this, but I think the prophecy is both absolute bunk and is also nominally fulfilled by this series of events. Here's why: "and one will come to end us" for sure refers to Davy, and "and one will bring his fall" refers to …? Is it Baz who ends Davy's reign (arguably in this case yes), is it Simon  (in canon, maybe) Is it Penny (again, in canon, maybe), is it Davy himself (in both cases, arguably yes)? But wait! Prophecies like this are never specific enough that we can be sure they're being fulfilled. Look at Nostradamus! Look at the Torah/Quran/Bible! Look at literally any psychic or horoscope. (Look at me bringing my extreme skepticism to a romance fanfiction, just look at it.) 

Anyway: "let the greatest power of powers reign" is absolutely not about a person at all, otherwise wouldn't it be "may he or she save us all" instead of "may it save us all"? I think the greatest power of powers is acceptance and belonging. And that's both what ends the threat The Mage has created, and is just an objective truth. It's the thing that saves us all. 

The end. Thanks so much to everyone who reads this. As I've said several times, this fic is monstrously special to me and I'm overjoyed that some of you have also enjoyed it.

Directors cut ask—whatever chapter of Good at Something you want to talk about!

What's that? More Good at Something commentary? IF I MUST. (I'm going to. Y'all are going to get every chapter. It is decided) Here is my commentary on Chapter 2 of Good at Something. If you thought that the commentary on Chapter 1 was excessive, get ready for this. It's even longer! I have so many thoughts and here they are. Writing about writing: a thing I like to do

Good at something directors commentary on chapter two. Let's goooooo.

Okay, so I'm pretty sure that the main reason that I branched out from blowjobs in their dorm room was that the setting was beginning to lose interest for me, and I assumed that readers would be feeling similarly. Note: this was before I wrote the oft-opened-envelope scene, so I obviously walked that idea back.

Anyway, notice: the world continues apace despite the fellatio marathon these two are competing in. 

Also notice: they're getting very familiar with each other. Making jokes! Simon pressing up against Baz's back in the hallway, tugging Baz towards him with his belt loops. The goal was that this section start to feel mutually warm in addition to being hot. 

So, aside from a subtle shift in the intended vibe of their relationship, this scene stands out for me because it's got some rocking jokes. It's a very funny scene! "never lock a door with a boiled carrot" is a legit Irish idiom that I learned from a board game called Wise or Otherwise when I was probably 12, and I still think it's hilarious. Let it never be said that writers don't use every fucking thing in their lives as fodder.  "Top marks for consent." (Yes, we're still grading the blowjobs!)

Next comes piano bench sex! Leg over the shoulder sex! Sex where balance is an issue because come the fuck on if you were being blown in the middle of a room and had nothing to lean against you too would stack it. I have a LOT of "smut needs a dose of realism" opinions, and this is one of them. Orgasms: not generally good for one's ability to stand unsupported. 

Get ready for the broken record because….this scene is super hot. I adore it. It's an incredibly awkward scene as well, which for me makes it even better. They're figuring things out! The position they start in is really bad, and the position they end in is not much better! I did a lot more research than is reasonable to figure out if one could actually get into this position, and the position is precarious but still makes me think of a weighted blanket. 

And!!! And! The most important part of this scene is the laughing. The fall and the laughing and the way that overwhelming joy can intersect with the bodily pleasure of sex, and how they're wiring those things together for each other. Even though they're still looking past each other, seeing something different in each other's reactions to the situation than they're experiencing, and both believing themselves to be the more invested one, they're getting there. (Though, my heart, when Simon thinks Baz was kind of amused and Baz is like: I have been bitten by a highyena. See prev point re: looking past each other.)

This scene also includes one of my favorite descriptions of Baz tangling his hands in Simon's hair: "My fingertips are just hidden under his curls." And then afterwards (and truly you will be aghast when I say I did not realize that I was doing this as I did it) Simon jerks off almost exclusively to Baz's tenderness with him, including HAIR TOUCHING.

I feel once again honor bound to mention my influences, and in this case the influence that led to Simon's come-eating is HP headcanon I invested 100% in after reading a drarry fic that lives rent free in my head even now: @firethesound 's begging (fair warning: part of an unfinished WIP, and a big part of the reason I no longer hesitate to read something that's a WIP. I'm glad I read it even if there's never more). The headcanon (which is my own invention, not even slightly mentioned in the above fic) is: as a pubescent child growing up in unfriendly circumstances, the easiest way to dispose of the evidence of masturbation is to eat it. And if that's a part of all of one's initial sexual experiences, it's something that's likely to continue into maturity. Not necessarily as a fetish (though I'm not saying *never* as a fetish), but as a part of what it means for a sexual experience to feel complete. For Simon Snow, a character with a canonical oral fixation, this feels like a no brainer. You're welcome. 

Also in this scene: the very beginnings of plot!!! Simon's successful clean as a whistle came at the end of this scene, self-evident, fully formed in my brain, without any prompting. And is part of the reason I've started to really trust myself and my process as a discovery writer. Sometimes something I can't explain comes out of a story, and I know it's right because it feels right. It feels like what the characters would do, or feels like what happens in the story, and even if (as this was, intensely so) it's confusing and not what I think I'm doing here, not what I'm going for, not what I expected… sometimes it's just exactly where the story needs to go. In the last commentary I called Good at Something my magnum opus which is a bit of hyperbole, but also this story is my heart, and if I hadn't trusted the part of my brain that said "Simon does a clean as a whistle here, and it works" that wouldn't be true. This story wouldn't have gone where it went and I (perhaps, probably) wouldn't love it the way I do. 

Aaaaand this is originally where the chapter ended! And we went from this directly into Simon sees Baz and Agatha talking in the dining hall. We have @petedavidsonscock and @facewithoutheart to that for the fact that it didn't, because after lengthy discussions with both of them, I formulated the potty/editing/re-writing plans that concluded in the Mage's office blowjob! 

Baz's brain scene that follows does a lot of work, but the most important work is…they give weeks into the semester. Whyever would I be mentioning explicit timelines so frequently!? Can't say. Won't say. (You know why.) Also cements Baz's internal voice as snarky and hilarious. I love writing Baz's internal voice. 

Fuck, okay, Mage's office blowjob may actually be strong competition for my favorite sex scene in this fic. It's just wrapped up in so much emotion!! And uh, it's also incredibly hot. So. Sooooo, okay. Here's where I reveal that I originally conceived this type of blowjob (facefucking/deepthroating) as the final sexy exchange of the fic. The blowjobs all have a genre in my mind, and this one seemed like the natural conclusion of the sexual evolution of this story. But also as I worked in that direction it just seemed incorrect. Yes, it's like, the boss level of the blow job video game, but it's absolutely not the boss level of Simon and Baz's relationship, especially given that it doesn't facilitate emotional intimacy, which is where they're heading. So here it is, the final exam in the blowjob seminar, coming midway through the story. 

This chapter is full of my soapbox stands, it turns out, because I am OBSESSED with the fact that Simon isn't just bam immediately capable of deepthroating. As I said in response to a comment @bookish-bogwitch left on the fic: it's so important to me that it's not something he's innately capable of. This is a story about working at something and getting better at it. About built skill, and that includes Simon wanting to do something and working at it and getting there. As a result of that, I did too much research on what deepthroating is like and how you might achieve it. (My lived sexual experience has never involved a penis, so research is a firm necessity.)

Part of the reason this scene just incredibly does it for me is that they're both shaky and uncertain about how much of what they want they're going to get, and even so, they're going for it entirely. I think that's something that's characteristic of both Simon and Baz in relation to this scenario. Simon: going for it because he wants it until he realizes how much he needs it. Baz: going for it even though he thinks it'll destroy him, because he can't say no to how close it is to what he wants. 

Also, hello, parallel between my writing process and the scenario I've put Simon in: he's learning to trust himself. It has cascading results! 🎉 

And, oh man, okay, the end of this scene again references canon in a way that I am obsessed with as a part of fanfiction: Simon finds the book with a picture of Baz in it. He's gobsmacked by it. His reaction is so entirely changed by having begun to experience Baz in a different way, but it's also fundamentally similar. It gives me such a good feeling to think about moments in canon framed through changed circumstances in fic and vice versa. Different lenses on the same moments give such a deep view of these characters, perhaps even of humanity as a whole? 

(Also, and this is getting excessively long so I'll keep this short, but the moment when Baz is getting dire about what he thinks Simon is going to do with the book and then Simon surprises him, that is a kind of emotional chain yanking that I absolutely fucking love when an author does it to me. Do other people feel that way? I don't know. But I did it to you anyway, as a treat.)

[aarkose]

Everyone calls Dream a pathetic petty little baby girl and like, yeah he is - but 

And the characters themselves are like Morpheus is cold, unfeeling, harsh, cruel and yeah he can be and he holds intense grudges - but 

I haven't really seen anyone talk about the scene where he's facing the Corinthian, who Morpheus admits was his masterpiece. And our favourite nightmare pointedly says that Dream doesn't care about humanity. He only cares about himself, and his realm and his rules. 

Morpheus sort of gets exasperated here, like really dude? And tells us he contains the entire collective unconscious, without his rules it would consume him and humanity. Like maybe he's been there before, or close to it. He admitted he lost an entire universe before because he didn't take out their vortex.

His voice trembles on the word consume, like its always there, ready to crush him, like he's constantly battling, like he's tired, like no one's ever really asked, understood or comprehended that before and he's admitting it for maybe the first time or it's one of the very few. And of all the beings he's admitting it to the Corinthian who throws it in his face.

Death more or less says dream mopes and he should get over it. Fiddler's Green insinuates he's almost incapable of apology or empathy. Lucienne believes he dismisses their efforts and that he's harsh with his punishments. Gault in their defiance tries to make him see that things should be capable of change and wanting something different. 

No one seems to get the truth of him? Or part of it. Or if they do it's not apparent and it seems a great tragedy to me. When he says the entire collective unconscious, I'm assuming he means entire, as in not just human - as in all life including other species we don't know of, that are otherwise 'alien'. It seems almost unfathomable to me no one stops to think he's the way he is for a reason. 

Every single unconscious thought, decision, fear, nightmare, dream, hope - anything and everything that can manifest in dreams from the nonsensical and absurd to disturbing and whimsical, including concepts we don't even understand as humans. That is what Morpheus is made of. The screams dying in throats as people wake from horrors, the reoccurring scenes of falling, being chased, being late, the grief from loved ones dying, flying, school, sex - the ones that don't make any sense. 

The nightmares that are so real and strong you can't get back to sleep. The dreams that are so sweet or fantastic you wake up mourning their loss. Day dreams, dreams that pick up where they left off, lucid dreams, depraved and disturbing dreams. The little thoughts we have about others we'd never say out loud or tell another living soul but they exist. It's all real, part of what makes us who we are and every other being that can dream - no wonder Morpheus' voice trembles on the word consume. That has to be near maddening? Like he's riding the line between insanity at any given moment because dreams can be entirely bizarre as much as they can hold significant meaning. 

So he mopes? He's distant? He's cruel or uncaring. Unfeeling in how he operates - I feel like I would be too if I contained the concepts of the entirety of existence - everything his siblings govern exists in his realm in the form of dreams. You can dream about desire, death, destruction, delirium, destiny, despair, all of it. He doesn't feel enough? Distant? Ungrateful? 

I think he feels too much, way too much and he can only push it down so far, or hold it back just enough. It makes him seem so delicate in my mind, like those who bottle and bottle. Pushing everything down or back just to keep functioning and then one little thing makes them snap. Suddenly you've damned your former lover to ten thousand years in hell because that amount of time and processing doesn't seem unreasonable against the impossibly incomprehensible thing that is existences unconscious. Let's not forget the souls in hell or every other afterlife, if they also dream, the concept of dreams as goals, the act of dreaming, creation and destruction, every nasty little thought, every fucked up thing anyone has ever comprehended and every joy. 

Maybe that's why everyone's harsh on him in my eyes, that he should have all this perspective but seemingly doesn't? But he believes what he does because he has that perspective and some things within that spectrum do not change, they repeat because there's only so much that can exist, and that has to be tiresome. 

But honestly, the other Endless, dreams and nightmares should realise what he's dealing with? Especially those close to him, or orbiting because no one is ever really close, and if dreams and nightmares can dream then Morpheus should know those too. I'd probs keep everyone away from me if I was a scrambled construct of emotions.

Fuck me up honestly. My tiny human brain is snapping trying to even comprehend the inner workings of Dream. None of this even makes sense. Just let the man rest, give the baby girl some slack. He's got both feet off the edge and no one's got his back. I'm tired now.

TLDR: Dream probably is the way he is because being who he is, is a lot. 

[flowercrowncrip]

I want to talk about trans healthcare in England, and how it's particularly fucked if you're disabled. I think TERFS and their "think of the poor disabled girls" retorique around trans men have a lot to do with this. My ongoing top surgery saga is a pretty good example of what it's like being a disabled person seeking surgery.

My first top surgery was cancelled 4 days before it was due to happen in 2017. It was cancelled purely because I use a wheelchair. They were totally fine with me using crutches and having conditions that actually impact surgery, but using a wheelchair for a different condition was a step too far. My specialists (experts in my condition) didn't see a medical problem with me having top surgery, but my GIC doctor, (who saw the word wheelchair and googled my new condition for all of ten minutes) panicked.

I fought that clinic for three years. It got silly. Here are some real things a qualified GIC doctor told me:

"maybe you're not trans, and you're just sad you can't walk" (I became totally unable to walk age 18, and transitioned when I was 15... I'll let you do the maths)

The Daily Mail will write mean things about us they find out we let you, a poor disabled little girl trans man, have surgery (because apparently right wing newspapers are the definitive authority on trans healthcare /s)

Although my diagnosed mental health problems weren't an issue for them before I started using a wheelchair, simply being a wheelchair user and wanting top surgery was a symptom of a mental health problem so severe it alone disqualified me from surgery. This was because:

being okay with the truly microscopic chance surgery would make my disability worse is apparently "irrational", and shows a disregard for personal safety (it doesn't)

I, a person with experience of both, said that for me crushing dysphoria is a worse experience than getting round in a chair with wheels on it. And having different priorities than the ones my cis, abled doctor expected was somehow "alexithymia" because if I don't know that using a wheelchair is the worst thing that can happen short of dying, I must be totally unable to recognise my emotions (clearly bullshit).

You, a twenty one year old adult, need to bring your parents to your appointments so we can explain to them how unreasonable you're being. (Suspiciously close to TERF arguments about the age of capacity)

In the end I caused a massive schism in my GIC. The psychologists agreed that wanting top surgery while being disabled isn't a mental illness, that I had clear capacity to consent, understood the risks and benefits and that ultimately if I said I needed surgery, I should have it. The medical doctors (the ones that sign the referral) disagreed on every point. It got heated between them towards the end.

The head psychologist realised I was never going to get surgery if I stayed with that GIC, and that would obviously fuck up my mental health, so she wrote a letter to literally every GIC in England asking if they'd take me as a patient. Only one (out of like 7) agreed to take my case.

So I'm now with a new GIC. They're so far way better than the last one, but the bar is low. They re-referred me for surgery pretty much straight away, trusting that I obviously had a better insight into how my disability and my transness affect me than anyone else.

Unfortunately the surgeon they referred me to turned me down (for genuine reasons this time). Basically in the time wasted arguing with my GIC I developed a few new conditions that will actually have an impact on surgery and we've agreed that when I have surgery there has to be an intensive care bed available just in case. (To be clear, this was not the case when my first surgery was cancelled or for the majority of the fight with my previous GIC). Now I'm being referred (referral number three) to one of only two hospitals in the country that do top surgery have access to an intensive care bed

So despite having a date for my top surgery in 2017, I'm still waiting on it because doctors are transphobic, misogynistic and ableist with awful consequences.

[mizumiii]

I will kill you - Attempt

First part - Previous part - Table of contents

Desha x Fem!Reader

Credit : .

Hello! Here is the end of that shorter Desha fanfiction :D Finally, I decided to merge the two problematic parts, and I'm pretty satisfied with how it ended up.

I hope you'll like it too! 😳

You were packing your things. It was no use staying here any longer. Even if it was hard to ignore the little voice that did not want to leave, it was too late for you. You had already betrayed the trust of the Underworld’s people and even tried to kill your husband. You had no right to be sad or anything, you had chosen to do it. You could have rebelled sooner and explained everything to Desha, but you had kept lying while selling information to his enemies. Until you learned that you had been manipulated since the beginning. You had been played, used and thrown, and now you were nothing. 

You had thought that you had lost everything the day you had hidden in that closet with the two babies you were taking care of. But, Lian had made sure you gave up all you could still have: a new place, a new chance at life. Maybe if things had been different… Maybe…

You frown, you were being unreasonable, it was best like this. Desha would be able to find a better wife, and you would atone for your sins somewhere else, far away from here. It was already enough that you were not sentenced to death for what you have done.  

“Where are you going?” A rough voice inquired behind you. 

“I am leaving the castle”, you simply answered, not even daring to look directly at the one you had once called your husband. 

He was not really injured, unlike you whose hands were still bandaged. He was angry, seeing you like this, packing your things as if he could simply throw you by the windows after having had his way with you. Did you really think so little of him? He scratched his old wound, where you had stabbed him while saying you wanted to kill him. Could you be flying because of that?

“Who said you could leave?” He finally scoffed, hiding his ache behind aggressivity. 

“I have to”, you pointed out, trying to look unbothered.

Why has he come? It was only making things harder for you. The shame and guilt were eating you away. You turned your back to him, finishing your luggage. What a shame, you had come here with less than that, but you still felt as if you were leaving everything else behind.

“You promised to take care of my siblings, it’s all I need”, you quietly added before trying to exit the room. 

“I will not keep you against your will”, Desha commented on your path making you freeze. “But answer me: being wed to me, was it only a bore to you?”

You could still not look at him, but just the sound of his voice made clear to you that he was not in a good place either. Because of you, again. When did you learn to know him that well? When did you start to feel for him? It would have been so much easier if it had really been only a bore to you.

“You know it is not true…”, you finally answered, unable to lie to him and yourself. 

“Then why?”

“I tried to kill you!” You suddenly snapped. 

You glared at him, trying to scare him off for good, but he was only looking at you as if he was just checking on you. His large mouth was ironically twisted while he had his arms crossed on his chest. But you noticed that he was frowning, and his eyes were mixed with pain and anger. 

“You call that scratch like that?” He sneered while shaking his arm. 

“Not only that”, but you also squeezed your own arm, your head down. “I tried other times too…”

“You’re really taking me for a simple-minded”, he groaned. “I already knew it.”

“What? Why did you let me then?!” You shouted, too shocked to show any restraint. “I read the letters, you’re not even responsible for what happened ten years ago!”

“I am as responsible as Satun or Lian. I should have been there, but I prioritise my own gain over your clan’s safety.”

 You saw in his eyes how he was still carrying the terrible weight of all the deaths induced by his father or the war between the two of them. You were angry against him because he had let you in the dark for so long, and for what? To satisfy his own self-loathing!

“You're stupid! What would have happened to your people if I had succeeded?!” 

“I’m a lot of things but not stupid”, he shouted leaning forward. “As if you could do more than scratching me!”

“You big pretentious”, you mocked, half smiling in front of his too-large ego. 

He scoffed, smiling too. The bad air had strangely disappeared between the two of you, but you could still not stay here. It felt good to know that Desha was not blaming everything on you, however, you could not forgive yourself. 

“For what it's worth”, you added in a soft voice, “I do not think you’re responsible for my kin’s death. And… I am very grateful for the time spent here with you. I was happy for the first time in a long time.”

You finally found the strength to exit despite Desha taking almost all of the place, by simply being leaned on the wall next to the door. You were not expecting any kind words out of him and simply walked away, a bit relieved to have been able to say what you had on your heart. 

However, you had only stepped outside the room when you were held back by your arm. You froze, unable to decide what to do, and what to think about what was happening. Was it really Desha who was holding your hand? His hand was so warm, you always liked feeling his raspy fingers interlock with yours… You realised a bit too late what you were thinking, and felt mortified by it. 

“Do not leave me alone”, those words were so genuine and hurting, they made you shiver and cry in your heart. 

You felt like choking, and tears gathered in your eyes. 

“Why do you want me to stay? I only hurt you…”, you whispered without turning. 

“I was happy too”, he simply explained.

You felt his big arms slide around you, taking you in a warm and soft hug. Your will faltered and you slowly turned to face him. The pain on his face was hurting you, you only wanted to see him full of joy. 

“I want to stay too”, you finally admitted, unable to hold on to your tears any longer.

“I will not allow my wife to leave at the first excuse.”

You smiled before laughing softly. Desha froze, he had underestimated how good it would feel to see you looking so lighthearted. 

“Does that mean that I am still allowed to call you husband?” You jocked with a mutinous smile.

“You have to”, he pointed, showing his pointy tooth in a menacing stance that had not exactly that effect on you.

“Husband”, you hummed.

His eyes slightly widened, while his smile became way genuine, and your heart melted. It was really too late for you, you were definitely in love. And it would only make it more agonising for you. 

*

You silently looked around for a long moment. There was not much left, mainly dust and ashes, the only leftovers of a whole kind. It was sad but you had no more tears left to shed over it. 

However, your memories of that fateful night were quite vivid. That pile of rumbles had been your workplace, the nursery where you were taking care of the babies. And behind one of the closets, there was a hiding place where you had hidden with the two newborns you had in your arms when the alarm rang like in the exercises. However, the exercise never ended, and you have heard all your family and friends die while holding the two little lives on your chest. 

Thinking about it made your chest hurt as much as before, but at that time you were feeling at least satisfied. The two people responsible for your kind death had been killed, and the two little babies had become teenagers with long and safe lives in front of them. 

As for you… You had been used, manipulated and almost ended up killing the man who had tried to help your kind, and who had been nothing but kind to you. You never knew that all Tieflings were able to withstand magic without consequences, certainly, only the guardians were aware of it while the others just went on with their life without knowing what threat they were to gods and magicians. 

Anyway, you hoped to at least make things right with Jian's death. You had trained a lot to be able to oppose him, and now your ability was not much since you had lost most of your hands' faculties. But it was only a small price to pay. At this moment, you had left Desha’s castle, hoping to redeem yourself somewhere quiet. 

He had already been so lenient by not executing you for your betrayal, and allowing your siblings to have a secured life in the Underground kingdom, therefore losing your place as Desha's wife was only logical. Then, despite the King's wishes, leaving the castle had been the right and logical thing to do for you. Even if it made you empty and hurting. Living by Desha’s side had shown you what normal and loved life looked like and it was only making it more painful to lose it. But you could not allow yourself to enjoy it after everything you had done. 

Your eyes started to burn and you decided to forget all about your past. It was far too late for regrets, you could only keep living, hoping to redeem yourself for your mistakes. 

“As much as the idea of a honeymoon sounds good for me, I am now questioning your tastes in choosing a fine location.”

You swiftly turned, surprised to suddenly hear someone else so close to you. Your eyes widened, and the tears you had been holding back started to flow. 

“What are you doing here?” You succeeded in asking despite your hoarse voice. 

“What questions is this? Did you intend on going on our honeymoon without your husband?” 

Warmth spread in your chest, and you smiled.

[infinityactual]

So, it's been months, but this post has been stuck in my head since September and I'm a petty bitch, so.

Apparently I deleted the screencap I had wherein the fuckhead who capped my tags replied to my fuck you by attempting to accuse me of 'doubling down on refusing to improve' or somesuch bullshit.

Which is not at all what my point was.

My point - and I will die on this hill ten times over - is that when it comes to fanart or personal creativity, let people do whatever. Unless they ask for critique, just leave them alone and let them have fun. Keep your opinions to yourself. And that isn't asking anything unreasonable; it's basic creative courtesy.

HUGE post under the cut.

Before the above assclownery, I had seen a lot of posts from people complaining about artists drawing older men 'wrong'. And I think every single complaint revolved around "You're just drawing a 20 yo and giving him silver hair!! That's not an old man!" and honestly, I didn't think anything of it the first few times I saw this.

But as I saw it more, it started to bother me because it was always in reference to fanart, specifically.

Fanart. Something that fans of a given media draw out of love and appreciation for the characters in said media. Something fun, something not (usually) done for profit. So upon seeing yet another 'stop drawing twentysomethings with silver hair 2021' tag, I reblogged it with my own tags (capped in the linked post) and went about my day.

The thing that just made me instantly angry was the proclamation of "I'm an artist. Calm down and go look at some reference."

Obviously this person didn't bother to check things out before putting both feet in their mouth. I may not have a damn degree from some hoity-toity art school (no shade on people that do, some of the coolest ppl I've met have art degrees) but I'm sure as hell an artist. Creativity does not require a degree.

And guess what. I draw old characters.

The secondary point I'd been hoping to get across in the tags is that aging a face is fucking hard. It takes effort and practice and often doesn't look good with hard lines. A lot of age is shown in shadows and lines too fine to be rendered with any but a .005 pen; and even then, it still tends look off unless you're drawing on a fairly large scale.

And my tertiary point was that people age differently depending on a huge kaleidoscope of factors! How often do they go outside? Do they have any inherited or otherwise chronic health problems, mental or physical? Male, female, intersex or transgender (and how much have they transitioned, if at all?), do they use drugs or alcohol? How often? I could spend hours listing factors that contribute to a person's appearance, and age isn't the biggest factor by far.

Hell, take Lord Hood and Lasky for example:

Most people I ask, including people well outside the Halo fandom, put Hood's age between 70 and 80.

He's 64.

A lot of people put Lasky at around his late 30s, maybe early 40s on the absolute outside.

He's 48 or 49 by the time Halo 5 rolls around, maybe 50 during Infinite.

Hood looks much older than he is bc of all those wrinkles, like someone let him sit in the dryer too long. Meanwhile Lasky looks a lot younger than his actual age. And these are just two examples from a single game series.

So when I draw Lasky, I draw him as is:

The only obvious wrinkles he has are on his forehead, right above his eyebrows. That's also one of his few unique identifying features, and anyone reading this who knows anything about cartooning, caricatures or comics will likely know that you focus on the few unique features that make a person recognizable but still easy to draw.

But unless you're drawing professionally as a career or doing commission work, your primary goal should not be constant improvement; that's a real good way to hit burnout and lose your passion for something. Even professionals take breaks and doodle stupid 'bad' art on their own time for funsies. I can cite countless examples I've seen personally, from the legendary DnD artist Todd Lockwood to commission artists on this beloved hellsite just trying to make the rent.

Fanart and personal work isn't always about improvement or practice. And it shouldn't be!! People need to have the ability to just crank out stupid lil doodles of their beloved older men without fussing over making sure they get every wrinkle right to be certain they convey his exact age 'correctly', or whether they have the skills to do so. If I had a dime for every thing I didn't draw because I don't have the skill, I'd put Jeff Bezoar to fucking shame with my wealth. Creators - amateur and professional alike - should be able to do this without having to see people, especially other fucking creators, bad mouthing them in posts or tags or comments.

Constant improvement should never be a primary goal with any skill. Bad art is still art, every single person who has ever put pen to paper started out drawing 'cringey' art. Fanart and personal work not done as part of a career or for commission should not be subject to the same standards. And lastly

Even 'bad' art, stupid little doodles and fanart still contribute to the learning process.

Otherwise I would not be where I am. All of my skill was developed by drawing personal stuff or making fanart. My skill making vinyl stickers by hand that makes people say I'm talented all started years ago with one sticker that took me five attempts to make because I didn't know jack shit about working with vinyl at the time. I kept making personal stickers for my car sporadically for years, and over time I got better simply because I was doing. I wasn't making stickers with the goal of improving my skill with an Xacto knife. I was making stickers because I couldn't find any designs I wanted and goddammit I wanted unique stickers for my shitty lil Cobalt.

And I'm able to take Giuseppe from this:

to this:

Not because I was trying to improve my skill at rendering faces, but because he's my Short King and I love him, and I love drawing him, and I also love the idea that he gets to live to be an old grandpa.

And no, I did not use reference for this, I just fucking drew it because I wanted to, and pulled from my past experience drawing old men from back when I actually DID sit my ass down and trawl references and guides on how to add age to a face, because I wanted to learn how to draw my 70+ year old Mechwarrior better.

[catzula]

a/n: I just love Suna so much *screams*

honorable mentions: crackfic-like? The handsome-stranger-you-meet-at-the-airport au, swearing, 1.2k

It's a night flight.

Suna always preferred night flights, anyway.

Suna doesn't like flying. Sitting in a cramped seat for hours can't be anyone's favorite hobby, but he hates flying with a passion. For starters- it's unhygienic. The air has a strange smell to itself, as well, and it never fails to give him goosebumps and an urge to stop inhaling altogether.

He hates the tasteless coffee they serve, and the little packets of nuts remind him of the day he had discovered his nut allergy in a flight like this. The leather seats making him feel sticky with sweat, but the air conditioning brings him on the brink of hypothermia.

If there was an injection of sorts he could take that would put him in a coma during the flight, Suna wouldn't think twice before taking it, and based on all this, it's fair to say he can get a little cranky in airports.

As someone with not too much energy to spare, airports are exhausting for him. He already doesn't like running, but Kita is a little too punctual to let him rest or buy a coffee from Starbucks. The twins' fighting about something new every other minute never already driving him mad, but being surrounded by overly stressed people doesn't help, either.

"I will jump out of the window if I have to sit next to Atsumu on the flight." Suna had told the captain months before, the exact moment he had heard he would have to fly with the team.

That was the very reason the middle blockers seat was all the way in the back, located next to the window and a stranger. Suna can't be happier- all he wants is some peace and quiet, anyway, to wear his sleep mask and headphones and cut ties with reality as much as he can.

"You good there?" Suna barely hears Atsumu's irritating voice through his headphones, lips curling in annoyedly as he turns to the boy to send a glare- but to his surprise, the fake blond isn't looking at Suna.

"Oh, I- ah fuck- yeah!" He hears a voice, and it takes him a second to notice you who stands before the seats, arms reaching up for the overhead cabins and successfully blocking Suna from his seat. You must be the stranger he'll have to spend the next eight hours with, he supposes.

The tired gaze looks you up and down, you who is fighting a bag half your size- shouldn't that be under the plane?- and trying to push it into the overhead cabins. It's apparent you're struggling, arms shaking with the heaviness of the bag, biting your lip to muffle the sounds of your wrestling.

Despite your words, anyone who has eyes could tell you are, in fact, not fine.

In desperate need of a pair of longer arms, you peek at the tall brunette standing next to you; he's huge, broad shoulders and a height that makes you wonder if he hit his head on the way here. He looks familiar- if you weren't in as much of a pinch- you might've let out an audible gasp when you realized why he looked so familiar.

He's the stranger you'd seen earlier that day, standing in the line across of you, looking tired and black-painted nails scrolling down his phone. The all-black fit he has only adds to the mysterious aura surrounding him, arms slumped forward nonchalantly. You remember thinking if you'd ever see him or anyone as handsome ever again, making scenarios in your mind as to what kind of a man he is. You never thought you'd ever meet him again, though.

Suna notices the silent cry of help you have in your eyes, even when you avert your gaze away from him and mask your desperation- but he's no fool, he can tell when someone lookshim with an open need of help.

Well.

Suna admits he's no saint, either.

He can help you out, and you both can sit your seats, but he doesn't really care, nor has the energy to help you. All he wants to do is to sit down already -even though it would suffice if he just pushed the bag with his fingertips, but Atsumu beside you smiling at you does look a little more eager to help than he does, anyway. There you go, a prince charming ready to help.

Suna seems unfazed by the glare you send his way -any scenario you've created falling in disappointment, too, really? He wouldn't even offer to help?- as he bends in half to slip through the triangle-shaped gap you've created with your arms, slipping underneath them to get to his seat and-

A shriek outs your lips as you watch the bright blue bag slide from your fingertips, it's almost like slow motion, watching the object fall right on top of the boys' head.

"Ah! What the-" Suna groans in pain right after hearing a loud thump caused by the crash of the luggage and his skull. "What the fuck?"

Fox-like eyes are quick to find you, going between your panic-stricken and slightly amused face and the bag resting before your feet. "I-I'm so sorry!" You exclaim, but your strained voice sounds more like you're holding back a laugh instead of guilty.

Well. Karma is a bitch.

"Here, let me help." Atsumu offers maybe a little too late as he lifts your bag off the ground -Atsumu hopes he managed to hide how much he struggled, too. Honestly? What do you have in there?- and places it in the cupboard. "Thank you." You at least have the decency to look grateful at the blonde, giving him a pretty smile. "I'm so sorry," you repeat, turning your focus back to the brunette, who is rubbing his head in pain. "It just slipped out of my hand!"

To your dismay, Suna doesn't even spare you a glance as he mutters a "Whatever." Frowning and finally plopping himself down on his seat.

You narrow your eyes but stay silent as you do the same, too, settling in the seat, accidentally elbowing him one too many times as you try to get your damn jacket off.

You can feel his dissatisfied glare as the flight attendant brings the man sitting beside you a packet of ice, and you ignore the "tch!" sound he makes as he places the ice on the crown of his head.

"Bye, Suna!" The blonde you've seen earlier waves a goodbye at the stranger sitting next to you- Suna, you think, a pretty name for a man as cross as him.

"Are you okay?" You mutter under your breath, raising your gaze to take a better look at him. His face contorted in pain- he's the type of handsome you only get to meet in an airport. It's unfair how good-looking the man is, his shapely lip rolled between his teeth, deep-brown locks tousled and messy, and he has the prettiest eyes you've ever seen in your life.

Suna doesn't answer your question, but he makes it clear he's heard you with a scoff, eyes rolling in annoyance, averting his gaze to his phone. It makes you feel angry- being ignored as if you're a six-year-old kid.

"I'm not sorry, actually. You had it coming." You huff pettily, lips pursing when he keeps his silence.

"Okay, I'm a little sorry." You mutter after a few awkwardly silent seconds, suddenly feeling guilty. You did drop a heavy ass bag on his head, after all. "But not much."

You turn your eyes away from him when he sighs, annoyance evident in the sound. "And?" He hums, voice monotone and deep. "Which answer I give will make you stop talking to me?"

Suna knows that was unnecessary as hurt and embarrassment flash across your face- he notices that's the first time he even looked at you that night. Well, he can get unreasonable at airports, he agrees.

"That was rude." Suna comments after a few awkward seconds.

"It was." You agree. "But I was rude, as well."

"You kind of were."

To his answer, you can't hold back a lighthearted chuckle, the oddness of the situation dawning on the both of you. "This might be in the top 10 strangest ways I met someone." You chuckle, he does, too, but with a sarcastic quirk of his brow.

He has a pretty smile, plump lips curving just enough to show you a glimpse of his white teeth, enhancing the sharp features of his face. "Only top ten? That's a shame."

You don't speak as Suna closes the sleeping mask over his eyes -it has a cat print on it too, how cute- as a smile still lingers on his lips. "Good thing I have eight hours to at least make it into top five."

[professorsnape394]

The Potions Master’s Apprentice

Chapter Ten: Breaking Boundaries

A/N: This is the tenth part to my fanfiction ‘The Potions Master’s Apprentice (Severus Snape x OC)’. Chapters 1-16 can be found already uploaded on Wattpad under the same name. Feel free to leave requests in my inbox for anything Snape related you want me to write. Leave a comment below if you wish to be added to my tag list.

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC (Dumbledore’s Granddaughter)

Summary: A talented young witch is employed as an apprentice professor at Hogwarts, but who will she be working under? Severus Snape is not best pleased with his new responsibility of taking on an apprentice, however she is relentless to create a friendship between them. Will she be successful? Or might the friendship just go a little two far? With the eyes of her grandfather constantly watching over them, an attempt at a relationship might not be in the cards for Aria Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Word Count: 3188

Warnings: mentions of male sex organ and sexual arousal. 

Credits to Gif Creator

After a long day of lessons all Aria Dumbledore wanted to do was rip off her uncomfortable heels and change into something she could relax in for the rest of the night. However working with Severus meant that her day did not end immediately after lessons like the other professors' did. With the amount of essays Snape gave out on the daily, it was a miracle he was able to mark them at all, with or without her. She understood now why he never slept, but what she couldn't wrap her head around was why he gave out so many essay in the first place.

At first Severus refused any help from Aria, insisting he didn't need an assistant, but gradually Aria managed to work her way into his routine and soon enough the pair were spending every night together in Snape's classroom, marking essays and making potions.

"Severus." Aria spoke up, as the teachers departed from the Great Hall after dinner, stopping Snape in his tracks. She let her hand rest lightly on his bicep for a second, allowing herself to fall in line as they returned to the dungeons together.

"Miss Dumbledore." He replied coldly, suppressing any thoughts that may have dared entered his mind when he felt her gentle touch on his arm.

"I was thinking... I know we usually spend the evening marking in the classroom, but its just so cold in there and dark too." Aria started. "And we have to squeeze around the desk, with all those papers- "

"What are you getting at Miss Dumbledore." He droned, looking over his shoulder at the woman.

"How about we switch it up for tonight, maybe do the marking in my quarters? Its warm, I have a fire, with couches we can sit at. And if that's not your thing then your welcome to sit at my desk, but I just can't spend another night breaking my back sitting hunched over one. My feet are killing me in these shoes and I'm sick of freezing to death." Aria continued to rant, waiting for Snape to stop her.

"You can stop trying to convince me. Though I may not appear it, I am not a completely unreasonable man, all you have to do is ask."

"Thank god." She groaned, as they turned the corner to the dungeons.

After collecting two large stacks of papers from the potions classroom, the professors made their way along the corridor to Aria's private quarters. Almost immediately after entering the room Aria kicked off her heels, and threw her cloak over the couch.

"Just make yourself at home, get comfortable. I need to go change."

Severus entered the room awkwardly, clutching onto his papers, not daring to touch anything except the air he occupied. For the first time in a long time he felt out of place at Hogwarts. Snape liked to be in control and the way he was able to do that was keeping to the places where he felt most comfortable and had power. As soon as he agreed to spend the evening in Aria's quarters he lost that power and the ability to feel like he had any superiority over the woman. Though he hated feeling out of place, he enjoyed the woman's company, despite the fact he pretended not to, and was willing to make a sacrifice or two in order to listen to her meaningless chatter.

The man slowly made his way around the room, gradually drifting towards her cluttered desk, dropping his papers amongst her own small stacks. Snape couldn't help but be drawn to an open letter Aria had left. His eyes scanned the letter, sickened by its mushy context, but he couldn't seem to pull his gaze away.

Severus was stunned to discover that Aria was in a relationship and yet had not mentioned it to anyone since her arrival. She seemed the type who would boast about the fact, telling everyone and anyone who would listen. It dawned on him that maybe she had mentioned it before, just not to him. After all, why would she? He didn't show any interest in her life, or share any information about himself with her. He had made it pretty clear that they weren't anything more than coworkers, so then why was he hurt by the fact she had not confided in him?

The thought quickly left his mind when the witch reentered the room, leaving him slightly dumbfounded. It was the first time he had witnessed her looking relaxed and casual opposed to the straight laced, well put together façade she put on around the students. Even before the start of term and on their trip to Hogsmeade she maintained an air of sophistication. Looking at her now she appeared as you would expect a 21 year old to appear. Her hair fell around her face in stunning natural beach waves, still a little messy from being held up in a bun all day. She had changed out of her painful heels and uncomfortable work clothes and now appeared in a pair of tight fitting exercise shorts paired with a large oversized t-shirt, that exposed her tanned shoulder and collarbone. Severus couldn't help but notice her lack of bra, but made a conscious effort to keep his gaze fixated on her face.

"What are you doing?" Aria laughed nervously, noticing her mentor standing awkwardly by her desk, staring at her a little too long.

"I was merely looking for a place to conduct my marking, but as the only work space in the room is full of meaningless clutter, then it seems I have no other choice than to move." He growled, over compensating for his earlier thoughts.

Aria went to object but decided it wasn't worth the hassle and simply grabbed her pile and took a seat next to Severus on the couch and got to working.

Seeing Aria in her natural form had Severus mesmerised. He had of course appreciated her attractiveness many times before, but now her beauty seemed more down to earth and natural. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Ever since she had come to his office and bandaged him up, his mind was swarming with thoughts of her once more. The way her fingers gently traced the patterns on his palm as she carefully tended to his wound. Every time he replayed the action in his head a wave of shivers ran up his spine, sending flutters straight to his stomach.

After marking a less than adequate amount of essays, Severus finally gave up trying. Out the corner of his eye he couldn't help but watch as Aria absentmindedly brushed one of her smooth bare legs against the other. His eyes continued to travel up her body, resting for second on a small section of her waist that had been left exposed from the way her top had shifted. Once again he couldn't help but notice the prominent outline of her bare breasts through the slightly transparent shirt. Snape felt his face flush with colour, and chose to swiftly move on. He became entranced as his gaze fell upon her face, watching her read intently, as she nibbled on the end of her quill, letting it bounce slightly between her teeth. Severus could not help his mind rush to a number of scenarios which he quickly dismissed.

Oblivious to the thoughts running through her colleagues mind, Aria continued marking the majority of her essays, before finally giving up.

"How about we take a little break." Aria suggested, throwing another essay on her 'done' pile.

"Very well." Severus agreed, not that he had been doing much anyway.

Aria took the opportunity to stretch her bones, turning her body to face Snape.

"you know, we spend a hell of a lot of time together, but all we ever do is work." Aria commented, standing up from where she had been sat on the couch.

"What are you getting at, Miss Dumbledore." Snape replied, turning his attention to a neglected book he found resting on her coffee table.

"I'm just saying that we're allowed to spend time together, without making it about work. Minerva and I often enjoy afternoon tea together, and I frequently visit Hagrid at his cabin for a chat, I don't see why we have to pretend to be marking essays just to be in each others company."

"I'm not pretending to do anything, Miss Dumbledore. The essays need to be marked, and whether you chose to help me or not, I will be spending my evenings doing the exact same thing either way."

Severus picked up a rogue book from her coffee table, dog-earing the page Aria had left the book lying open on and began to read from the beginning, curious to see what kind of literature she was interested in.

Meanwhile Aria had made her way through to her open plan kitchen and was currently rummaging through a number of cupboards but continued her conversation.

"We're the teachers Severus, the students will get the essays back when we say so, we do not have to rush to complete them as soon as they're handed back to us. Besides it would give the students a little more time in between essays to relax before they were immediately issued another." The clinking of glasses caught Severus' attention, so he too got up, meeting the woman in her kitchen.

"Have a drink." She offered, handing him a glass of deep red liquid, hoping to loosen up his inhibitions.

"I thought you didn't drink." Snape muttered, taking the drink from her.

"Like I said before, I don't drink often, or rather to excess. But if this is what it takes to get you to relax with me, then I'm willing to comprise." She winked, holding up her own glass to cheers the other professor.

"Despite the impression you may have gotten, Miss Dumbledore, I do not rely on alcohol to get through the day."

"I know that." Aria spoke, her tone becoming sadder. "I know that you were drinking a lot before the start of term because of me. I'm sorry I done that to you, I honestly did not think that the two of us having dinner together would be such a scandal. I was wrong, I know that now. But can't we just remain colleagues who enjoy each others company every once in a while." She hoped.

Severus took a deep intake of breath before taking a large gulp of wine.

"You were not the reason I turned to alcohol to drown my sorrows, Miss Dumbledore. Yes, I enjoy a glass of FireWhiskey or Nettle Wine once in a while, and occasionally I feel the need to indulge more than what is deemed appropriate. Usually it occurs in the summer and I have no one around me who cares. It only ever lasts a few days or so, a week at most, and after that I get back on track and its no longer a problem. It is true that your presence may have dug up some unfortunate memories of mine, but it was not your fault." Severus enunciated the last few words of his sentence, reassuring the woman not to blame herself for his small moment of weakness. The way her eyes sparkled in the light as they met his sent a wave of regret over him, wishing he had just accepted the wine and said nothing. An appreciated smile spread across his apprentice's face, thankful she had been reassured.

Professor Snape gulped down some more his of wine nervously, making his way back to the couch, Aria followed closely behind.

"So." He started, once again picking up the abandoned book, eager to change to subject. "I noticed your reading Pride and Prejudice, how are you finding it?"

"Oh." She smiled, biting her lip, slightly embarrassed. "It's one I'm currently reading." She said vaguely, bouncing down on the couch, sitting crossed legged.

"So your into muggle literature? I have read a few myself though I tend to stay away from the Brontes."

"It's Austen actually." She corrected, nodding towards the spine of the book, cradling her still relatively full glass of wine. "I have to admit, I'm a bit useless when it comes to reading. I love it so much, but I'm just too impatient, that's my problem." She laughed, getting frustrated with herself and running a hand through her tangled mass of hair.

Severus watched as she jumped from her seat, quickly collecting a few of the other novels she had left scattered around the place, all of which had been left balancing open mid-page. The woman returned with five or six books in her arms, all of which had been read half way through or almost to the very end, although none had been completely read through.

"I'm a bit of scatter brain, if I'm being completely honest. I've started all of these and every time I find a new book I completely disregard the one I was reading, too eager to start another, before finishing the first. Most of the time I forget where I've left them, so I couldn't finish them even if I wanted to. I swear Severus, If it wasn't for you keeping me on track with the students schedules, I'd go utterly mad and forget what I was supposed to be teaching." Aria let out a huge breath, dropping all of the books down in between her and Snape, before plopping herself down once more.

Snape suppressed the urge to laugh at the woman's dopiness, she was truly a character, but he secretly adored the absurdness she possessed. She kept it hidden so well in front of her grandfather and the students but often when they were alone she allowed her true personality to shine and that is when Severus felt his weakest with her. He could not possibly find a reason to be angry at her when she was feeling vulnerable enough to get comfortable around him.

The Potions Master took it upon himself to inspect each of the novels, before setting them aside, neatly piled high. He did, however, keep a hold of the original book, continuing from where he had left off.

Noticing the man getting engrossed in the book, Aria chose not to bother him with any more of her idle chatter and instead grabbed a notebook and quill from her bedroom and begun sketching. She was content with just being in each other's company and not working that she didn't mind that they were not talking. In fact, one of the things she loved most about their relationship was that they were able to sit in a comfortable silence without either of them feeling awkward.

After a few attempts of sketching objects around the room, she gave in trying and decided to focus on what she drew best. Not wanting to interrupt his train of thought by asking a meaningless question, such as if he would give her permission to draw him, Aria didn't see the big deal and went ahead with her sketch.

An hour or so passed and the couple were deep in their activities and not a word had been spoken since the last. By now Severus had removed his robes, the heat from the fire proving too much, though he still kept himself fully covered by the means of his overcoat. Aria, far too comfortable in her chambers, had now stretched out across the whole couch, her feet resting gently on the side of Severus' thigh, but he was yet to complain.

It wasn't until almost two hours into their activities that Severus thought too look at the clock. Time had gotten on, and usually the pair would have gone their separate ways by now, spending the rest of their nights alone. Strangely Professor Snape did not feel the urge to depart just yet and chose to stay a while longer. Aria had become absorbed in the sketch she was doing, and was not complaining he was still there. This was good enough for Severus. Looking up from her notepad every few seconds, but still utterly engaged in her drawing,  Aria had no idea what was currently going on in Snape's mind.

Once he had broke away from the book back to reality, Snape struggled to get himself to focus again. Instead his mind was preoccupied by how close he had let Aria get to him. He felt her wriggle her toes absentmindedly. It was almost as if she was beating out a tune against his leg, and he was very aware of every movement she made. Her feet had managed to make their way into his lap, and every small movement that brushed against his thigh, had Severus' heart beating faster.

The woman fidgeted relentlessly, her legs shifting in lap and her toes scrunching up against his inner thigh. Snape could not help the reaction his body was having as his assistant brushed against him, but the thoughts that entered his mind, only stimulated the problem he was having. Surely she must know what she was doing to him. The Professor kept his eyes on the page, though he took in none of the words. His face flushed pink, whether from the heat of the fire or his own imagination, he did not know. Snape allowed himself one look at the woman curious to see if her actions were deliberate. As he expected she was completely oblivious to the whole situation, simply sketching away, not a care in the world.

Looking at the woman only worsened the situation. He had tried to keep his thoughts at bay, in order to prevent his throbbing penis from doing what penis' do best. But seeing the young woman lay there in front of him, her body so close to his, rubbing against him. Severus could take it no longer. He felt himself growing, and he refused to endure the humiliation had she to notice, let alone the frustration that he would be able to do nothing about it.

Without warning Snape jumped from his position on the couch, grabbing his robes, and leaving the book where he sat. "It's late. I have to go." Was all he said bluntly, slamming the door as he practically flew from the room.

Aria Dumbledore had no words to say. She was less shocked by his sudden departure than the fact he had actually stayed with her all evening, spending some time together, in their own unique way. Abandoning her pad and quill, Aria slipped into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Severus on the other hand did not drift off so easily. He spent half the night damning himself for being so vulnerable and getting himself into that situation, and the other half dreaming of the possibilities that could have happened had he stayed. Though he knew nothing would have happened, even if he wanted it to. She was in a relationship and Snape was not one for physical affection. However, he allowed himself the small luxury of dreaming about her for one night.

Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel

@lizlil

[moth-and-raven]

CHAPTER FOUR

The rest of the day passes in a haze. Loud cheers met Nadia’s announcement and Portia slipped into the rush just in time to board the carriage, tear-stained but determined to fight through it.

I must have been imagining things. I don’t want to think poorly of Julian, but I have to face facts: people will do and say anything to keep themselves off the gallows. He’s smart. He’s charismatic. He knows I’m working with the Palace. I can’t help but think he was just trying to endear himself to me, taking advantage of how obviously attracted to him I am. I can’t blame him for that. It’s my own fault for chasing what was a pathetic pipe dream from the start.

I retreat to my room after we return to the palace. It’s not unreasonable, considering I haven’t slept much in the past few days. From my bed, I watch spots of sunlight creep across the ceiling until I fall asleep. At least it’s dreamless this time.

Portia comes to get me for dinner in the late evening, when the sky’s turned purple. She’s itching with curiosity, peeking at me from the corner of her eye the whole way to the dining hall. Before we enter, she clears her throat.

“So, um.”

“It was nothing.” If I keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll hurt less. “Did you—?”

“Safe and sound. At least as much as he can be.”

“How long had it been since—?”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth just like he does. “Ten years, give or take. The last time I saw him was right after his apprenticeship. He came back to Nevivon for a few months while he was figuring out what else to do. I was only sixteen, so he must’ve been… twenty-five?”

The same age I am now. I didn’t realize he was that much older than me, though I suppose it makes sense. He’s lived quite a life. Yet more reason for him to see nothing of interest in me.

Portia pushes on: “What will you say to—?”

“I’m not telling her anything.” I shake my head and look away. “I don’t have anything to tell her anyway.”

That’s not a lie. I may know more about him now, but nothing pertinent.

“She’ll ask.”

“I know.”

I must not be doing as good of a job hiding my sadness as I thought I was, because Portia rests her hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. I don’t have it in me to say that whatever she’s imagining isn’t true.

I can’t do this.

“Could you tell Nadia that I—” Humiliated, I choke on my tears. “I'm— I’ll be in the library.”

I’m already around the corner by the time she agrees. I don't know what I’m going to do there, but at least I’ll be alone. Again.

I may not remember beyond the last three years, but I know in my heart that I’ve never been loved like I am in my dreams. I probably never will be. With all the beautiful people out there, who would choose me, the fat twenty-five-year-old virgin so gullible she falls for every man who looks at her twice? What could I possibly offer someone like him?

Nothing.

Painful, empty nothing.

I end up at the library eventually. At least I can navigate the palace better than I could the South End. My tears have almost stopped before I feel the metal arc of the crescent moon still hanging around my neck and break apart again. I manage to reach an armchair, nestled in an alcove near a half-flight of stairs, and curl up in it as best I can to weather the storm.

I’m so ugly when I cry. Thank god no one can see it. No one ever should.

When the waves settle and my breath doesn’t feel so foreign in my lungs, I press my palms to my eyes and sigh heavily. I have a headache now, as I always do after I cry like that. I know I should be hungry, but I’m not. I don’t know what I am.

But I made a promise. To Nadia and to Julian. Even if I never see him again, I’ll help him as much as I can. And with all of his research, all the palace staff who knew both him and Lucio, all the magic echoes swirling around waiting for someone to hear them, I think I can help him a lot.

------

I was always more comfortable at night. I sleep a little bit, curled up in the armchair, but it’s not very comfortable and I wake up sore. I’m glad I came to the library, though: Julian’s desk is a mess of torn papers and marked-up books, underlines and strikethroughs and question marks in the margins, and I have so little time to piece it all together. If I hadn’t slept yesterday away… yesterday. I shouldn’t be thinking about yesterday. It was nothing. It is nothing.

He’ll be nothing if I can’t figure this out.

Portia brings me something to eat in the very early hours, right before dawn. Without saying a word, she draws up another chair and starts sorting through things too. She can read his handwriting much more easily than I can.

And Count Lucio’s name shows up. And again, and again. Lucio’s temperature rising. Lucio says wine tastes metallic. Alchemical fluid in Lucio’s prosthetic turned red, wouldn’t survive replacement. Observations in clipped clinical speech, but scrawled with ever-increasing desperation. Lucio spitting up blood. Lucio not sleeping, complaining of bad dreams. Lucio too weak to eat, still alive.

Notes on the dissection of a beetle, a cross-section of a human brain, a map of the palace with large red Xs over half the rooms in the east wing. Peeking over my shoulder, Portia points at them.

“That’s the Count’s Suite. He had the whole wing, actually. No one goes up there anymore.”

I straighten up, my joints crackling from the hours I've spent hunched over. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Nadia had the whole thing blocked off. It’s really dirty, from the— all the ash and stuff. And people say it’s haunted.”

“By Lucio?”

“I guess. One of the other housekeepers swears they saw the ghost of a weird guy at the top of the stairs once. That it looked right at them with spooky red eyes. I think they’re full of shit, but maybe it’s worth a look?”

There could be a thousand things worth a look. If I had more time… “I don’t know. I have a couple spells that might be able to pin down a ghost, but I’ve never actually tried them.”

“If it is Lucio, though, wouldn’t he be able to say who killed him?”

“Hm. That’s true. Is the wing locked?”

Portia grins and fishes in her pocket. “Not if you have keys.”

The main staircase is close to the library. I feel the air get colder as we approach, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck start to stand up even before Portia unlocks the corridor that leads to Lucio’s bedroom. It’s eerily quiet, all gray and black, luxury gone to ruin in the wake of a disaster. I’ve seen reproductions of burned-out buildings that look like this, after heavy battles. It crosses my mind that destruction of that caliber had taken extremely powerful magic to accomplish, not the actions of a single man weakened by pressure and long hours in the midst of a plague. Julian can’t even do magic. He said as much during our long conversation at the Raven. I can’t imagine anything else that would do this much damage without bringing the entire palace down.

Interesting.

Cinders crunch underfoot. Charred paintings watch us pass. A primal fear creeps along just behind us, whispering then asking then screaming at us to flee. I can feel my heart in my throat and adrenaline in my blood, every sense heightened. Tattered curtains move at the corner of my eye: I’m terrified to look and even more terrified not to.

But I can tell without bringing magic to my hand that there’s nothing here. At least nothing that wants to make itself known. There’s just a spark of pure rage somewhere deep inside the wing, but it doesn’t want to be seen. No ghosts, no goats, no ghost goats. No spooky red eyes. Just soot and smoke stains and three years of neglect. The fear lurking in the back of my mind isn’t supernatural, just the normal human mistrust of the dark and abandoned.

We go all the way to the end of the suite to no avail. Part of me thinks I should stay, but I’m getting tired now and the idea of sleeping in these rooms isn’t appealing. Portia takes my sigh as an admission of defeat and pats my arm. It was a distant hope anyway.

Near the end of the corridor as we leave, a small glimmer catches my attention. If I hadn’t been looking that way to start with, I never would’ve noticed it.

“Hey Portia, what’s in there?”

She lifts up the lantern and peers into the room. “Bath chamber, I think.”

We see it at the same time, as the light catches the red gleam again: falling from the sink are drops of blood. More of it trickles across the floor. The walls are stained from it, up to the window.

“What the fuck?”

My sentiments exactly. What is this? It can’t be actual blood, can it? This is the top floor of the palace. Is it bubbling up through the plumbing?

“Nadia’s gonna want to know about this,” Portia says in a small voice.

“Wait. Let me check it out first.”

She turns to look at me, pale in the lantern’s glow. “This is way beyond whatever my brother might have done. It could infect the whole palace!”

“Do you think it’s infectious?”

Portia frowns. “Did you… Were you in Vesuvia back then? During the Plague?”

There’s no point in lying. “No.”

“Neither was I, but I heard about it. Before I left Nevivon, some sailors docked and told everyone what they’d seen. People died so quickly, there wasn’t space to keep their bodies. And they were all red, their eyes and their fingertips, everywhere you could see veins.” She shudders. “I can’t believe Ilya worked with it and… and…”

She must’ve been so scared, knowing that he could die any day.

“You know that big ugly crematorium out in the bay?” she asks.

“The Lazaret.” Everyone knows about that. You can see it from shore, a jagged silhouette reminding everyone of the toll the Plague took on the city. I don’t like looking at it: it makes my heart ache.

“Yeah. Even with that, there were too many bodies. So many people… There was a rumor that the Palace stored the extra ones, until they could be burned.”

“Where would they have been able to keep them?”

“Dunno. But there’s a huge tunnel system under here, all the way down into the cliffs. And the dungeon’s really big.”

I’d wondered how Julian could escape the prison cells, when the only way out was through the palace itself. Tunnels would explain that, I suppose. “So do you think there’s still something tainting the water?”

Her eyes are wide in the dark. “There might be. Kinda like here, no one’s been in the dungeons for ages. Probably since then.”

I frown. It’s unlikely, but I can’t deny the evidence right in front of me. I take another step into the washroom and trace the flow towards the wall. Some of the stones are loose now, after years of water damage. There’s more than enough room for it all to drain away between them.

Weak dawn sunlight floods the horizon as I stand up and glance out the window. I can see most of the city from here, out across the harbor to the Lazaret and down through the South End and directly into the lush gardens below.

And beyond the gardens, flowing from the palace along the channel of an aqueduct, is a stream of blood red.

------

Nadia scowls at the dripping red water, then summons her bodyguard to her side and dispatches them with a whispered order. Both Portia and I follow her out of the wing, but Portia splits off at the base of the stairs to see to her duties while Nadia invites me into the dining hall for breakfast.

A massive, gaudy painting hangs over the table, eyeing us as we pick over the array of egg dishes and sliced fruit. It depicts a celebration scene, I think, presided over by a muscular blond man with his arms spread wide over a crowd of adoring citizens. Nadia notices me looking at it and chuckles.

“Admiring my late husband’s art sense, are you, Reyja?”

I don’t want to offend her, but I think Count Lucio should’ve stuck to partying. “It’s, um, very vibrant.”

“That was typical of him,” she laughs. “Ostentatious to a fault.”

People don’t talk about Lucio much, unless they’re cursing his name for all the damage he did to the city with his warmongering and overspending. I’m trying to solve his murder, but now that I think of it, I don’t know much about the man himself. “What was he like?”

Nadia grimaces. “Much as you’ve heard, I expect. Loud, brash, insolent. Committed to his life of luxury. I would not have married him, had I been sober when he proposed.”

She must catch my surprise, because she fixes me in her dark eyes and raises a brow as if daring me to judge her.

Of course I won’t. “How did you two meet?”

“He was visiting Prakra,” she says. “To present himself to Empress Nasrin, my mother, as the Count of Vesuvia. He had been in power for some time by then, as I recall. I believe he told me that he’d first come to this city nearly twenty years before, on a mercenary contract.”

“He wasn’t from here?”

“No. He was of the Southern tribes.”

That’s confusing. “How did he get to be Count?”

“The former Count grew quite fond of him. Lucio was named his heir shortly after he arrived, and took the throne shortly after that. He spoke often of the battle in which he lost his arm—” She points at the painting. Lucio’s left arm shines, gilded in gold leaf. “—the same in which Spada was killed.”

Lucio may have been bloodthirsty, especially fond of the fights to the death at the coliseum Vesuvia used to be famous for, but everyone knew his roots as a successful mercenary. Even in his forties, when he died, he was strong and virile.

Which was why his death came as such a shock. Who would’ve thought such a man would die in his bed, ravished by sickness and weak enough to fall to an unskilled assassin?

“What about the Plague?” I ask quietly. People talk about Lucio a little bit, but no one discusses the Plague at all, as if the mere mention of it will cause its return.

Nadia nods. “It appeared nearly overnight, five years ago. No one had seen its like before. To my knowledge, nothing like it has been seen since, either.”

“Do we know where it came from?”

“I’m afraid not. Little is known of it, save that it killed thirty thousand of my people in two years.”

Her people. Nadia may have been Prakran by birth, but this was her city now.

“I had been visiting my sisters when it struck,” Nadia continues, gaze unfocused as she looks back through her memories. “As such, I was forbidden from returning until we were certain it had passed.”

I remember the parade that welcomed her back, but I didn’t realize she’d been gone that long. It’s been less than a year: she must be so busy, trying to pull Vesuvia together again. No wonder the search for her husband’s murderer hadn’t been her top priority until now. “I’m sorry.”

She tilts her head, looking at me. “Understand this, Reyja: if the Plague has not truly left the city, and what you and dear Portia discovered today is proof of that, then the search for Doctor Devorak must be set aside. I am eager to see justice done, but one man’s life, when weighed against the lives of thousands, will not tip the scales. I hope I may rely upon your services regardless of that outcome.”

Her visit to the shop feels very far away. I’m attached to this now, however big it gets. “I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I have sent Yazakh to fetch an expert on the Plague from their estate. I hope they will return soon, but in the meantime, I urge you to rest. We may have much to consider in the coming days.”

I take a small pastry with me when I leave the table and make my way back to my room. I don’t doubt that she’s right, but even with this additional set of problems, I can’t keep my mind away from Julian. Thoughts of him cloud my head as I lay down for a nap and they’re still there when I wake up. My stomach isn’t happy with me, swirling with guilt and humiliation and anxiety, but I don’t know what to do about it.

The expert still hasn’t arrived when I go up to Lucio’s suite to check. I pass the library on the way back and my fingers fly to the silver moon pendant still around my neck, following the divot Julian’s own nerves wore in the metal. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look through his notes while I wait, if I can concentrate enough to get anything useful out of them.

I can’t.

When the sun sets again, I give up. Another day gone, and I’ve only discovered more things to do. I need something to focus on, something with a solution, something… something that might distract me from the fact that I’m no closer to clearing Julian’s name.

I can follow that water, if nothing else. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but maybe I can learn where it’s going. And I can get out of the palace, maybe work off some of this nervous energy. And I won’t be surrounded by pieces of him, distracting me from my mission. It’ll be perfect.

---------------

prev || next

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

Extremely interested about the Flash special because what. What is happening. Why. What's gonna happen. I wanna know.

DC doesn't just give out specials all willy nilly so this would have to be an event. Like not a 'cool arc' kinda event, a legit event. If it was just that Adams wanted a part 3 to OMW he would've just made a part 3 for Feb, so this isn't that. This is an event.

And my brain goes to a few things here:

a) Adams wanted a Flash family book to gauge interest. If the special does well he would be able to use that data to get a Flash Fam anthology book green lit. Adams has talked about wanting to make a Flash Fam anthology book a lot in the past so this could legit be it. If this is the case then I would expect the main Flash series to focus on Wally, Ace, Bart, Jay and Barry while the special focuses on maybe Jesse or Max. Or both.

In that case it wouldn't be an in universe event but you bet your bottom dollar it would still be a massive fucking deal. If I have to buy ten goddamn copies of that book to get a Max&Bart solo series with Jesse Quick backup stories you better fucking believe I will.

b) They keep saying that it's a minute real time but that 'you never know how long that is for speedsters'. So.... Uh... Linda's pregnant and is a speedster rn. If she's in a war for who knows how long she could legitimately progress through her pregnancy. I'm dead serious.

It's entirely dependent on how fast they're moving but at a speed around 1 Flash time month to 6~ real time seconds, that's 9 months in a minute. Again, this is entirely dependent on how fast they're moving. It's only a two issue arc so it probably won't be nine months long for them. But also it's really common for speedsters to spend a few months in Flash Time in one minute real time. So it's a possibility. They've literally all done it before. And they are fighting a war. Not a battle or a skirmish. A war. And they have less than ten people fighting off an entire army. So nine months isn't unreasonable.

If it is then it's possible that the OMW special is an epilogue that deals with Linda giving birth.

c) Barry and Iris get married. Wally and Linda are actually really lucky that they're both speedsters right now because Wally will be facing these difficult times side by side with his wife. At the end of the day he will have her support and love. Also his kids have superspeed so he isn't isolated from his family for the entire war. He can talk to them whenever he wants.

Barry won't have that. Iris isn't a speedster. He's going to be completely separated from her, in life or death situations, and he's going to see Wally with Linda and the kids. I can't imagine he's going to be thrilled about that. I can definitely see a situation where Barry, fresh from the war and longing for his wife, pops the question as soon as they win and gets married on the spot.

Adams has talked about how Barry is going through a midlife crisis right now. He wants what Wally has and he's terrified that he's going to screw it up but maybe this will push him to make the move.

d) Ace, Bart and/or both of them get a new mantle. Adams has not been subtle about wanting to progress these two and let them age. I don't think they're going to come back from the war as 20 year olds or anything but the war might be the thing that makes them want to change.

We've already seen the costume design and new name for Ace. In his Dark Crisis fantasy world he was 'Burst' and sported his future silver and red costume.

As for Bart, I don't know if Adams would make any changes to his costume or name. He certainly doesn't want the mantle for Irey. He's making a new one for her. But I wouldn't hate it if Bart became 'Mercury'. Max is retired and Bart is his legacy. It would be really neat in my opinion to pass that title down to him.

But yeah, to sum it up: the Special will probably be something special

WE'RE GETTING FOUR FLASH BOOKS IN JANUARY?!?!!

The Flash #790 (One Minute War Part 1) comes out Jan 3, there's a reprint of The Flash #123 (AKA the Flash of Two Worlds AKA the one where Barry and Jay met for the first time) on Jan 10, The Flash #791 (One Minute War Part 2) is out on Jan 17 and then we get a One Minute War Flash Special on the 31st!!

There's literally only one week in January that we don't have a Flash book!!!