#saw several opinions in a row they made me mad sorry. anyway

[spoolesofthread]

i think people should be. less weird about actual play shows. and also some of them should put more thought into their own home games

[svtskneecaps]

crew and cast

(gender neutral) reader x jihoon

genre: fluff + some?? angst? listen i tried lmao; words: 2.8k

well howdy @toxicsocial​ tis i, your tct secret santa. so uh, i can’t actually make people cry in a timely manner and i didn’t figure most people would be down to read like 9k of buildup, so!! the angst is minimal!!! but i tried really hard and i hope you like it i love you so much also i forgot to title it again until right now so don’t look at it too hard

You loved your high school’s theatre crew. From freshman year they’d been a staple in your life. It was refreshingly stable to be able to walk into the tech room anytime and reliably know what would be going on. Except, there was one thing about theatre you couldn’t stand: Lee Jihoon. You’d avoided him since freshman year, but unfortunately for you, you’d taken over the position of Run Crew Head and Prop Master, and he was the Student Director. You were forced to sit through every production meeting with him.

Which, fine. You’d do anything for the show to run well. But that didn’t change the fact that he made you want to commit a crime.

Or three.

“Great news guys!” you yelled, sweeping into the tech room. “The crutches still aren’t right and Jihoon wants us to repaint the brickwork on the platforms to be less ‘garish’ and the typewriter is from the 1940s when it should be from the 1890s and I’m going to set something on fire!”

Chan slammed his head against the nearest cabinet. “This is the third time he’s rejected the brickwork, oh my god.”

“Fourth time he’s hated the crutches too, and I’ve told him that the only period accurate typewriter in the basement is literally one wrong keystroke from breaking onstage but I guess he’s willing to take that risk for a typewriter that’s going to be in one scene.” You massaged your forehead. “I’m gonna stay late Wednesday so we can have our shit together by Hell Week.”

“I’ll have to join.” Chan peeled his head off the cabinet, cracking his knuckles. “You think Mingyu’s got time to spare? I might get him to help; there’s way too much platform for me to do in time.”

“Dunno, he’s pretty busy.” Vernon scooped a loose screw out of a sawdust pile and swept the whole thing into the dustpan. “Makeup’s been working hard to get the ‘ragged urchin’ look right.”

“I’ll con Soonyoung into it then, I don’t think they’re rehearsing the dance numbers tomorrow so he might be free.”

“I wish you luck with that, dude.” You scooped the crutch off the floor. “I gotta go beg costumes to let me into the basement storage and see if there’s another goddamn piece of fabric I can use for the crutches.”

“You have fun.”

You ended up getting lucky; Minghao already needed to go down there so you wouldn’t have to fight for cell signal to make sure you were allowed to deface the cloth scraps you’d found.

“You seem stressed,” he noted as he unlocked the basement door.

You snorted. “Stressed is an understatement.”

“Jihoon again?”

“If he tells me to redo the damn crutches again I’m going to nail him to the wall.”

Minghao lead the way down the stairs. “I really thought you had it that time.”

“Nothing is good enough for that guy.”

He shrugged. “He just wants the show to go well.”

“Yeah, well, so do I. He doesn’t have to get up everybody’s ass sticking his opinions where they don’t belong. He’s never been crew, why does he get to make us repaint the entire damn set anyway?”

“He’s the director.”

“Everyone else thought the bricks looked fine!”

Minghao looked at you sideways. “What’s your deal with Jihoon?”

“Like I said, poking his nose where it doesn’t--”

“No, you had beef before he got appointed Student Director.”

You sighed. “I don’t know. He’s always kind of been a pain even when he was ensemble.” You drove your finger into your temple. “And he broke a crucial prop that wasn’t his the night before the show opened and didn’t tell me.”

“You did props?”

“Buddy I was Prop Master. I literally didn’t find out until the Stage Manager tried to run that scene before school.” You glared absently at the shelves of typewriters to one side of the walkway. “I literally had to skip my last three classes and dinner to get a replacement and he never even apologized for it.”

Minghao whistled. “That’s unforgivable.”

“Tell me about it.” You waded through the costume racks to get to the bins of scraps in the back.

“And you’ve never considered forgiving and forgetting? I mean, it’s been two years.”

You sighed, leaning the crutch against a shelf. “I mean. . .”

He snickered. “Come on, it’s just you and me and the ghosts down here, you can say it.”

“I mean. . . he just makes me so mad!” You yanked the lid off a tote with a snap that echoed across the basement. “Like, every time I start thinking maybe he’s not so bad he pulls some other shit on me and I slam right back into hating his goddamn guts.”

“You’re on the same team,” Minghao called down the row. “You’re just trying to make the show better.”

“Making the show better shouldn’t involve painting the entire set three times.”

“I’m just saying, it’d put at least three years back on your lifespan.”

“Yeah yeah.”

You managed to update the crutches by the end of the day, and repainted the entire set on Wednesday--although you had to sacrifice your lunch and free periods and several hours after school to get it all done. Thursday left you with a finished set and another production meeting.

He didn’t like the bricks.

You saw red.

In the hallway, you pulled him aside.

“What don’t you like about the bricks?”

He frowned. “They detract attention from the actors.”

You wanted to seize him by the shoulders and shake him like a maraca. “It’s gray! It is the darkest most nondescript color we have in the buckets and you’re telling me it detracts attention from the actors? You haven’t even seen them rehearse with it!”

“It’s gonna be too much,” he argued. “It’s the same color as half the costumes--”

“I have seen every single costume in the show, it’s not even close to the same pigment!”

“Even still--”

“Listen,” you snapped, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “if you want the set redone in time for Hell Week then I expect to see you in the goddamn tech room tomorrow after school wearing something you don’t mind getting paint on because I’m not going to make Chan and Vernon repaint the entire damn set by themselves for the fifth time and I have to figure out how to keep that 1890s typewriter from falling apart, do I make myself clear?”

He looked almost disgusted at the prospect, but he nodded stiffly. “Crystal.”

You turned on your heel just as stiffly, striding away before you lost all composure.

To your complete surprise, Jihoon actually showed up the next day, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a shirt so faded that whatever decal had been on the front had long washed away.

“So he arrives!” Chan yelled from his perch on the desk, where he’d been watching you wrestle with the typewriter.

Jihoon looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he squared his shoulders. “Where do you need me?”

“We gotta move all the set pieces in before we start,” Chan said. “Then I’ll probably have you start on the legs. We gotta wait for Vernon before we can move the tall stuff. One sec, I’ll--” he bolted into the hallway.

Jihoon stared after him, then looked to you. “Where is he going?”

“To tell Vernon we’re actually doing the repaint.” You shrugged. “Honestly I’m surprised you showed up.”

“I said I would.”

“Actually you just said you understood the ultimatum; we had no idea if you’d show or not.”

“Oh.”

You shrugged. “Good to have you anyway.”

Chan returned with Vernon before the silence could get too awkward, and you helped them move all the platforms back into the tech room. From there, Vernon set up his speaker and the real work began.

Jihoon helped choose the color of the bricks (and Chan threatened to really break his leg if he changed his mind about it later), and they got to laying down the base coat. You went back to glaring at the typewriter and reading through every antiques article you could find online.

After trying seven different methods to no avail, you shoved your chair away from the desk. “Typewriters are hellspawn created by the Devil himself to punish unfortunate Prop Masters.”

Vernon snickered. “That good, huh?”

“I’m going to put a screwdriver through the keyboard,” you said mildly.

“Okay maybe don’t do that.” Chan paused to pull a clean paintbrush out of his pocket and throw it at you. “You know where the overalls are; come take a break.”

“Why do you just have that?” Jihoon asked.

“A painter is always prepared.”

Jihoon glanced at you. You shrugged. “I don’t question it.”

Between the four of you, you managed to finish all but one platform by the time Chan and Vernon had to go. Being older, you had infinite time, so you cracked your knuckles and sat back at the typewriter. Jihoon lingered in the doorway.

“You need any help?”

You looked up. “Nah, I think I got it. Thank you, though.”

He shifted. “Listen, I know we didn’t really get off on the right foot but, I’m sorry. I know I never really apologized for the prop, and I’m sorry for how long it took, too.”

You sighed. “It’s fine. It’s kind of unfair of me to hold it against you this long anyway, so, I’m sorry too.” It wasn’t the only reason he made you so angry, but that chip on your shoulder made a lot of other offenses you would have normally overlooked seem larger.

“Can we maybe start over?” he asked. “Freshman year all over again?”

You actually found yourself nodding. “As long as you don’t make us repaint the set ever again.”

He laughed, running a paint-stained hand through his hair. “No, I won’t. I can’t do that to your crew again.”

“Good. Cause we weren’t kidding about breaking your legs.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He hiked up his backpack. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Happy Hell Week.”

Hell Week was hell (and the sky is blue).

Three of the actors lost their voices four days before Opening Night. One of the glasses for the restaurant scene shattered during the dance number--even though it was supposed to be offstage already--and the third lead got very close to twisting her ankle after landing a jump wrong. The actors could never manage to find their light, there were technical glitches with the backstage mics, and you were so on edge that if you heard the word standby you’d jump so bad you’d bruise your knee on the table.

The typewriter gave you more anxiety than it was worth. The actress using it had strict instructions not to actually touch the keys, because the only thing holding it together was gaff tape. You’d put Jun and Wonwoo in charge of bringing the desk it sat on onstage, because you trusted them to have it under control and keep it from tipping, because if it tipped at an angle any more than about 30 degrees, the keys would get out of alignment and that required time and experience to fix, of which you had neither.

Needless to say, you were two steps away from tearing your hair out.

At least you weren’t fighting with Jihoon, though. You’d even gone out to grab takeout with him for dinner, once, and yelling about all the problems in the car was really cathartic and you came back refreshed and relaxed, for once (only for every muscle in your back to clench at once because an actor bumped the prop table in their hurry to get in costume and one of the glasses fell over).

But it was Opening Night, and you were wound tighter than a spring waiting for everything to go wrong.

And it did.

Jihoon was in the hallway behind the stage, giving Joshua a few final notes about his big solo, and he didn’t check his surroundings closely enough. In his wild gesturing to demonstrate the level of enthusiasm, his arm clipped the typewriter.

And it fell.

He stared at it. Joshua stared at it. You could not tear your eyes from it.

The keys had tilted out of alignment. The bar holding the paper was skewed. The decorative paneling to one side had cracked down the middle. You didn’t have time to fix it before it went on. Maybe you couldn’t fix it at all.

“I am so sorry--” Jihoon started, but you stopped him with a hand, balling the other into a fist.

“Don’t,” you forced through your teeth, because you didn’t want to start yelling at him; it was an honest mistake and it was your fault for not resettling it on the desk after the last run. You were just seething with rage, at yourself, at the typewriter--you didn’t want to project it.

“Ten minutes to go!” someone yelled down the hall. You forced yourself to exhale, gingerly picking it up, flinching with every shift of the keys.

“Is there anything I can--”

“Get to the booth. Tell Seungcheol what happened, just-- be in your place. Jun!” you yelled into the tech room. His head jerked up. “I need you to take over headset for me, can you do that?”

His mouth fell open seeing the typewriter and he nodded, wordlessly, leaping to his feet and hurrying backstage.

Jihoon still stood there, looking between the typewriter and you with an anguished expression. “You’re sure you don’t--”

“I got it,” you said again, clipped. “I can handle it. I can-- just get to the booth, Jihoon!”

You hadn’t yelled. You knew enough not to yell when the audience was already in their seats. But your words had the same effect, because he flinched, and he nodded, and he turned the other way and ran.

Your rage was turning inward as fast as it was dulling, but you had a show to put on, so you placed the broken typewriter carefully on a counter in the tech room and sprinted for the basement.

You managed to get the 1970s typewriter back upstairs and on the desk before it went on, and the show went on without a hitch. The actors hit their marks, all the props found their way back to the prop table, and the pit orchestra didn’t have to loop a section for a missed cue even once.

You waited until everyone was gone before you let yourself cry.

“I really am sorry.”

You looked up.

Jihoon stood in the doorway, twisting his hands.

“It’s fine,” you said. “It’s partially my fault for not making sure it was centered right.” You rubbed your eyes with the palms of your hands, hoping to disguise the redness. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Do you want help?”

“I don’t know if it can even be fixed,” you said, staring blankly at the remains of the typewriter in front of you. “It might-- it might be beyond my help.”

For a long moment, you stared at it, mind spiralling.

You pushed yourself up. “They’ll want to lock up.” You slung your backpack over your shoulders. “I’ll just come in before the show and work on it. Maybe get Jun to grab me some McDonald’s or something and eat during the intermission.”

Jihoon’s brow furrowed. “That’s not healthy.”

“I’ve done it before.” You waved him off. “The show must go on, you know?” You slung your backpack over your shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The day came by in flashes as you researched the typewriter with a renewed vigor. You could probably use hot glue and some kind of putty to hide the crack in the paneling, you could probably put the keys back or at the very least tape them to look like they were back, from a distance. The bar at the top would be much harder but you hadn’t really inspected it the night before so maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as you thought it was?

You didn’t feel particularly hopeful when you stopped by the tech room to pick up the typewriter.

Until you saw the typewriter.

“What the fuck.” It was fixed. The keys aligned, the crack sealed, the bar sitting on top just as it was supposed to be. It looked exactly like it had when you’d first set it on that desk.

Jihoon came around the corner, dried putty staining his hands. “Hey,” he said, seeming tired but absolutely beaming at you.

“Did you do this?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I didn’t want you putting your health on the line.”

“Oh my god, thank you. I can’t-- this is incredible!” You kept tracing your fingers over the ridge formed by the sealed crack, but you couldn’t see it.

“I did a good job, then?” He put his hands in his pockets, grinning.

“Better than good, oh my god I could kiss you!”

Your cheeks burned when you realized what you’d said, but he laughed. “Whoa, buy me dinner first.”

“Bet,” you said, accepting it like a challenge. “You pick the place, I’ll pay.”

“Okay,” he said, and then lifted his hands. “I gotta wash up.”

“Meet you by the front door in five?”

“It’s a date.”

[schnoogles]

a Sansa never forgets written for the @jonsa-halloween event! Day 5: Ghost(s)/Clothes Read on Ao3

Sansa told Jon her costume part was going to be spicy. She did not disappoint. (idk i played fast and loose with the prompt today, but Ghost was mentioned and costumes are a kind of clothes??)

Jon was looking at his watch again. They should have left fifteen minutes ago if they wanted to make it to her parents’ charity Halloween ball in time. Tugging at his collar one more time, he sighed. Leave it to Sansa to pick such an uncomfortable costume. He supposed he did look good as a ringmaster though. Sansa had wanted them to go with a circus theme for this year’s event and he won’t lie, he’s excited to see what she’s chosen for herself. After last year’s spectacular theme of the ballet, where she dressed as a very sensual Black Swan, he was rather keen on seeing her in another similar costume. Maybe they’d win the costume contest again, she did say he’d absolutely love it. 

“Love, are you ready yet? We’re going to be late!” Jon shouted down the hallway.

“Sorry! It took a while putting Ghost in his costume, you know how he hates wearing clothes.”

Ghost? Why does he need a costume? Jon was really confused now. “Oh, is he coming with?”

“Yeah, sorry! Rickon said Lady’s been real sad lately, I think seeing Ghost will help.” 

Jon sighed in understanding. Their apartment currently only allowed for one pet, so Sansa had to leave Lady at her parents until they were able to buy a house of their own. Ned and Cat offered to help them out with buying a new house, but Sansa refused. 

Before Jon could ask what Ghost was wearing, the dog trotted out to the living room. And he was wearing the cutest ghost costume. He laughed, because Ghost looked like he thought the costume was the exact opposite of cute. Jon took a few photos before Sansa called out to him.

“Okay I’m ready!”

“Perfect!” He went to grab his car keys but immediately stopped and turned around at what she said next.

“Are you ready for the spiciest costume of the night?”

Jon gulped. Maybe being a little late to the party wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Slowly but surely, his gorgeous fiancée strutted out in a costume that Jon just couldn’t believe.

She was an elephant. 

Sansa proceeded to vogue in several poses that normally would have been very alluring to Jon if she wasn’t, you know, covered head to toe in an elephant costume.

Jon and Ghost tilted their head to the right.

“What do you think?” Sansa smirked.

“Oh- um.” Jon nodded. “I think it’s- …wow?”

She pouted at him. “You don’t like it?” Ghost whined and laid down while covering his face with his paws. “Oh no, even Ghostie doesn’t like it!”

“No no! I do! It’s uhh… you’ll definitely be warm tonight?”

“I guess,” Sansa looked guiltily at their dog, “But should I change? If Ghost really is afraid of me?”

“Nah, I think he’s just confused. Probably wondering why you’re dressed like that is all.” Jon reassured her, “Besides, we’ve no time for a costume change, we should head out.”

Sansa was doing her best to hold down her smile. “Alright then, ready to go?” 

“Yes ma’am.” He opened the door and let her out first. It wasn’t like Jon wanted her to wear something revealing. He just wasn’t expecting… that. Watching her walk towards their car was hilarious though. Her tail swishing to and fro as Ghost continued to shy away from her.

–

The Halloween Ball was a success and Jon couldn’t stop smiling the entire time. Catelyn said they’d probably raised more money than even last year and really, that’s what’s most important: the money raised for the local children’s hospital and schools. Winning the costume party for the second year in row had nothing to do with his smile. 

Truth be told, Jon had no idea how they won. Their costumes weren’t as elaborate as they were last year and honestly, a lot of people gave Sansa weird looks for her choice. She didn’t seem to care though. If anything, she seemed to be having the time of her life. Jon would occasionally catch her in fits of laughter while they were mingling with other people. At one point, she wasn’t even making a sound, she was just shaking with the look of pure mirth in her eyes. When Jon gave her a questioning look, she only laughed harder. He wondered if she had too much to drink because her costume was funny, but it wasn’t that funny. 

–

Once they were home and dressed in bed, Jon couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Alright honey, spill. What was up with tonight’s costume?”

She turned over to him and then busted out laughing.

“Okay…” Seeing Jon’s look of confusion only made her laugh harder. Her laughter was contagious though and he started as well. Still, Jon’s chuckling had nothing on Sansa, who was now laughing so hard she was wheezing. “Love, now you’ve got to tell me what’s so funny.”

With tears in her eyes, Sansa finally calmed down enough to answer him. “Do you remember? Do you remember how last summer, there was that event at the new zoo?”

“Yes,” Jon replied slowly, “The first opening, right? Where people were putting bids on which part of the zoo they wanted a dedication on?”

“Yeah that one. We raised tons of money for all the animals there.”

“Yeah. Still a weird way to raise money in my opinion.”

“Fair. Anyways, don’t you remember what happened with the elephants?”

It took Jon a moment before he snorted. “Oh my god yes. They couldn’t have elephants because of something or other and Cersei Lannister threw a damn fit.”

Sansa was giggling again. “She did.”

“Yeah it was kind of embarrassing. I remember everyone thought it was the funniest thing for her to be mad over. But wait, didn’t Cat say last week that she had some connection over in Essos that said they need a home for a few of their elephants?”

“Mhmmm.” Sansa nodded, grin still on her face.

Jon could see the points being made, but he still couldn’t make the connection. “Babe you gotta walk me through this.”

“So since my mum was the one who got the elephants for the zoo, the board decided to dedicate their sanctuary after her. You saw the fit Cersei threw when we didn’t even have elephants, can you imagine what she was like when she found out that we do and she didn’t even get to be part of the board meeting that made the decision on the naming?”

It clicked. “The same board who decides the winner of the costume contest?” Jon gave her a knowing look. 

“Yessir!” She looked very pleased with herself right now.

“And I’m guessing that the board understood your costume reference.” 

“Oh they fucking loved it. Everyone I talked to had a laugh.”

Jon looked down amusedly at Sansa. “So was the costume all an elaborate plan to make fun of Cersei or to win the contest?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Neither, I just wanted to see you wearing the clothes of a ringmaster.”

He kissed her. “Liar.”

[asouthernprincessupnorth]

Sweetener Tour, 19 September 2019, Sheffield

Hi guys! You can guess from the title what this post is about: Ariana Grande’s Sweetener Tour! I went to her concert with a very dear friend, Nabil, and let me tell you that it was amazing.

So, we bought the tickets way back in December 2018, if I’m not mistaken. When I found out that Ariana was coming to the UK, I thought I just had to see her at least once. Me and Nabil looked at her schedule and when I found out she was coming to f-ing Sheffield, I just knew that there is no way I could possibly miss out on it. I mean, Sheffield, of all places!

I got up as early as I could on the day of the ticket sales and within a minute that the tickets were being sold, I couldn’t get any. I kept on refreshing the page until it showed I could get two tickets on the f-ing Gold Circle, which is basically the most expensive ticket category (but not as expensive as VIP-Meet & Greet). After hastily agreeing with Nabil, I clicked on the purchase. Yep, I bought a very, very expensive concert ticket.

Me and Nabil went to the venue as soon as queuing was allowed by the Arena and we spent at least three-and-a-half to four hours in the queue. Was it worth it? It was. We got into the Standing area but I just knew that our Gold Circle tickets should’ve gotten us closer to the stage so I basically ran to the edge of the Standing area, showed our Gold wristbands to the security guards, and got ourselves into the f-ing Gold Circle. I ran and managed to stand on the second-to-front row. Let me tell you this: it felt awesome. Me and Nabil got slightly separated because he went to buy us some water (which each cost f-ing £2.50) and when he returned, two girls and a mother already stood behind me. But it’s okay. He was still very close to me and we managed to chat a bit during the concert. Also, so many young girls (preteens and even a child barely five years old) going there with their mummies and daddies. Wow.

Social House and Ella Mai opened the concert. I honestly loved Social House! I’d never heard their music apart from their collaboration with Ariana on Boyfriend but they had such positive, great energy and were very engaging with the audience. I might’ve not known any of their songs but when they left the stage, I knew that they made me want to listen to their EP. Ella Mai had a very beautiful voice but, sadly, I felt she wasn’t very engaging. The stage was rather circular/oval-shaped, with the central void being filled with VIP audience and the outer parts of the circle surrounded by Gold Circle (yes, I’m terrible at describing visual stuff in English). However, Ella stayed only on the main stage with the musicians and did not go around on the circular part, which made things less engaging (at least in my opinion).

Warning: The part about Ariana is very much all over the place.

Now. Now. Ariana. The songstress herself. Good God. She opened with the intro raindrops (an angel cried), and the crowds just went mad, including yours truly. We basically screamed and sang along and I saw that the stage was still empty but the visuals were starting. Oh. The visuals were very much all about the sun and stars and moon. When she started raindrops, it looked as though there was an eclipse or something.

And then, she rose up from the ground with her dancers in a very, very familiar setting: God is a woman as seen on the MTV VMAs 2018. Spread across a dining table, as though it was a reinterpretation of The Last Supper. And she sang. She had a very beautiful, very clear voice. I noticed, however, that the mic might not have been super clear because whenever she said anything that wasn’t her song lyrics (like when she greeted the audience or said something about the song no tears left to cry several songs after God is a woman), I couldn’t really hear what she said. Either that or she wasn’t very good in her pronunciation (this is actually one of the quite valid critiques of her vocal/singing. Yes, I love and adore Ariana but I also agree that sometimes she doesn’t enunciate well).

Anyway. I had a very, very magical 90 minutes listening and watching Ariana’s performance. She was generally energetic, fun, and engaging. She was appreciative of her band and her backup dancers, whom I think she genuinely sees as her friends. Ariana’s vocals, though, are the star of the show. Of course, what else do you expect from her? Every time she hit a high note it made me feel like I was being choked because how did she do it???? And she killed it. I’m pretty sure at some point I heard a whistle note from her, though it wasn’t as flexible as Mariah Carey’s had been in her prime. This isn’t a bad thing, though. It’s great that Ariana can do whistle notes, doesn’t mean she has to do it in the most vocally-acrobatic style because God knows stretching it too far can affect your other vocal abilities.

I loved every part of it, of course, but I really loved her performance of NASA. I guess that’s because it’s my favourite song off thank u, next. To be honest, lots of the songs were kind of a blur to me but in a good way: I couldn’t remember exactly how she did it because I was just so happy with singing and screaming at the top of my lungs. I hope that’s a good sign, though. Anyway. NASA was such a great performance and I honestly remember not being able to properly record a video of it because my phone’s camera is absolute crap and Ariana’s position onstage wasn’t strategic to mine. Still, I was like, f it I’ll sing my lungs out because that is what I want to do. I screamed so loud when she sang: “I’mma need space, I’mma need space”.

And also needy. I loved, loved, loved that song. needy is such a mood and I know it was a song of vulnerability but damn, I sang and screamed. It felt like pouring my heart out. I guess that’s exactly why thank u, next is my favourite Ariana album: it speaks to me. And when she sang, I know that she was singing what my heart felt, too. And it’s an amazing feeling.

Of course, no Ariana show would be complete without some sexy choreography, like in Side to Side and Into You. I sang and screamed but... mostly it was a blur. Again. I feel like because those songs are, so sorry to say this, generic provocative songs, it did not make me feel super connected or anything. It was fun to sing them and dance to them but wasn’t the most wow this is amazing OMG feeling. I did, however, enjoy break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored. Her vocals in that are amazing, oddly enough for that kind of song.

I also fell so much in love with R.E.M. I later found out it was at first a Beyonce song but Ariana made it a very, very lovely song. It’s actually very much like a lullaby and it’s such a sweet, sweet love song that sways your heart.

This has gone way, way too long (just like the intro of in my head, which wasn’t sung at the concert but used during an interval). Now. The grande finale: thank u, next. I recorded the whole performance and it actually made me feel rather emotional. I can’t possibly imagine singing the names of my exes every night for a year of touring, one of whom died of drug overdose and the other you thought you were going to marry. But Ariana sang it well. And again, I felt very connected to how she sang it. It’s not about whether you have as many exes as she does or anything: it’s about connecting on the understanding that you could take a lesson from the people in your past. And she closed the show with dances of love and pride.

So. I loved every second of it. It was worth every penny that I spent on it (though I would’ve loved if she’d sung for an extra 30 minutes lolz). It’s definitely something that I’ll remember for as long as I live, and I’m just ever so grateful that of all the places, I chose Sheffield and so did she, both in 2018. She delivered a beautiful, fun, entertaining performance and it was such an amazing way to close my postgraduate studies (sort of). It’s incredibly strong of her to embrace her vulnerability and create something that connects with others.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 15

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 15

Crowley and Aziraphale sat facing each other in the dying firelight.

They’d made themselves more or less presentable. Aziraphale had reconstituted most of his clothes from the firmament. Crowley had done the same, and looked immaculate, but had slung a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He met Aziraphale’s eyes and saw his own seriousness reflected back.

“OK,” he said. “We need a plan.”

He left a pause, in the vague hope Aziraphale would fill it with a bullet-pointed list of Anti-Antichrist measures he’d prepped in advance.

When this didn’t happen, Crowley gave a little cough and went on.

“I know him pretty well, I think. I was basically there his entire childhood. He thought I was imaginary, but I don’t think that matters.”

“Any information will be helpful, I think,” Aziraphale volunteered.

“Hmm.” Crowley scratched his head. “OK. Uh. Friendless kid. Except for me. Maybe I could appeal to his better nature.”

He realised this was stupid as he said it. Adam was literally the reincarnation of Satan. On top of that, he’d had a tailor-made demonic upbringing. The better nature ship had sailed.

He drew a blank on helpful things to say. What else was there? He was utterly detached from humanity? He could remake reality on a whim? Fighting him would be even more pointless than trying to reason with him?

“He hates Hastur?” he managed.

Aziraphale looked blank.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

Crowley let out a breath. It sounded like a pressure valve wobbling under strain.

“OK, never mind. I’ve got to admit, angel, I can’t think of much that’s useful. It doesn’t look good, basically. Maybe we should cross that bridge when we come to it. Improvise something.”

He could tell by the look on Aziraphale’s face that this was already off to a poor start.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning? We need to get off this planet.”

That should be a bit better. Aziraphale was the ideas man when it came to getting from Planet A to Planet B.

Aziraphale looked put on the spot.

“Ah,” he said. “Er. We could fly?”

“Fly?”

“Right, sorry. That would take years.” Aziraphale fidgeted. He did that when he was stressed. This wasn’t going well.

“How about a portal?” Crowley suggested.

That somehow went over even worse. Aziraphale practically squirmed. Crowley thought portals were his thing.

“Portals are very complicated, Crowley.”

Crowley gestured with both arms. The cape moved with him. He was a bit fond of this cape.

“Don’t you just draw on the ground with chalk and pray?”

Aziraphale gave him an affronted look. “There are calculations involved.”

“Well, you’re clever. Can’t you figure them out?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Honestly, without reference books, or a clear idea of our current coordinates…”

Crowley tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “Well, just remake the one from your bookshop and… adjust it a bit?”

Aziraphale’s expression contained volumes.

“What,” said Crowley. “Would we end up inside a volcano on Jupiter or something?”

“No. It’s far more likely it would do nothing at all,” Aziraphale said, a little snide.

“Great.” Crowley lost the battle. He sounded frustrated. Fine, he might as well let it out. “You may as well try it, then. The only alternative really is that we start flapping and hope we run into another spaceship.”

“Yes, all right. I suppose we have no choice.” Aziraphale’s voice was clipped. Fine. They could both be annoyed.

“Damn right. I’m not flying for four light-years without a break.”

Crowley stood up and stretched his legs. He felt bad already for being snappish. It wasn’t fair on Aziraphale. He was, once again, going to be the one doing all the work. Crowley’s stomach gave a guilty squirm.

“Can I bring you anything?” he asked, a little gentler.

Aziraphale’s gem glowed, and a piece of chalk fell into his hand.

“The coffee machine should work inside the café Zadkiel made.” He still sounded a trifle cool.

“No problem.” Crowley hesitated. He bent down and kissed Aziraphale’s head. Some tension left his shoulders.

Crowley strolled out, leaving Aziraphale to begin the preparations.

~*~

???, ? days until Armageddon

Everything was bloody awful.

Crowley didn’t say it. Neither of them did. But it was hours later, maybe the next day on Earth already, or even the day after that. Adam could have razed the place to the ground by now, and they had accomplished absolutely sod-all.

Aziraphale’s fingers were stained with chalk. So were the ends of his hair. Crowley tactfully wasn’t mentioning this. It wasn’t as if he could get rid of it with a miracle, anyway.

Crowley’s job had been to fetch coffee, which he had done on a loop for the past however many hours it had been, to the point he’d practically worn a footpath between their front door and the café. Unfortunately, Crowley had never so much as switched on a coffee machine in his life. He had a similar heavy industrial device back at his flat, but he had always snapped his fingers to operate it. He listened to the whir of machinery, thought contentedly about how much electricity it was using,[1] and collected the perfectly made cup without further speculation of how it had got there.

Crowley’s attempts to wrangle some coffee out of the infernal[2] machine in the café, however, had gone about as swimmingly as Aziraphale’s attempts to make a working portal.

There was a chalk circle in the centre of the living room. It was around the same size as the one in Aziraphale’s bookshop. However, the squiggles overlaying it looked as though Hieronymus Bosch had had a go. It was as though Aziraphale had tried to duplicate his old portal, and then rotated five degrees and done the same again, laying copies on copies until the pattern that arose could make a physicist’s brain dribble out of their ears.

Crowley’s contribution to the endeavour was about twenty espresso cups filled with congealed liquids[3] that had been undrinkable when they were fresh, littered around the room.

He glumly handed the latest one to Aziraphale. Aziraphale accepted it, eyes wide and slightly mad. He raised it to his lips, reconsidered, looked into it, raised it to his lips again, smelled it, and put it down beside the last one. Crowley, for want of anything else to do, started collecting them all up. He’d stack them in the kitchen. Zadkiel had made them a kitchen, although it didn’t include a sink. Washing up had never been a thing that happened to either of them before. Crockery just got summoned from the aether and banished again when it was dirty.

Aziraphale scrubbed more chalk dust into his hair. He made a noise best described as that of a distressed penguin.

“I’m sure these runes are wrong,” he moaned.

Crowley risked a peek over his shoulder. “Which ones?” he hazarded.

“Who even knows. This is hopeless. I’m making this up as I go along and then filling in the gaps with nonsense. We’ll be lucky to end up in the right solar system.”

Crowley carefully avoided saying anything unhelpful about how some other solar systems were a bit of alright, really. He sat down beside Aziraphale.

“Maybe we should just get it as good as you think you’re going to and test it out.”

“You know we could teleport into a volcano on Jupiter, don’t you?”

“So we’ll climb back out and make another portal on Jupiter. At least it’s closer.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.

“You know what’s really eating away at me? Not getting a proper look at that book. I’ve never ignored a book before. It was a terrible time to start.”

“A book of prophecy’d be useful right about now,” Crowley admitted.

“I’m sure that young lady back in the Bentley mentioned an Agnes. She can’t have meant…”

Aziraphale trailed off. The prospect that his personal holy grail was within two feet of him for the entire day without him noticing was a thought too excruciating to contemplate.

He gasped, rummaged in his trouser pocket, and pulled out a tiny, charred scrap of paper.

“I forgot about this until now! Look, Crowley! This blew out of the book.”

Crowley scooted over. They both read it.

When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.

“That’s cheery,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale mouthed ‘choose your faces’ several times in a row. His face crumpled. Crowley patted him on the arm.

“Were you hoping it was a portal diagram?”

“Slightly,” Aziraphale confessed.

“It’s good news, in my opinion. If you think about it. We must get through this crisis in order to end up in, er. Another crisis.”

“Unless this isn’t about us at all.”

“Must be.”

Crowley had no hard evidence for this. It would just be really irritating to him, personally, if the one useful thing they’d turned up in the last two days wasn’t even anything to do with them.

“I reckon we should test the portal,” he said.

Aziraphale tossed down the chalk. “Fine. Why not. I’m going cross-eyed staring at the blasted thing.”

They got to their feet, wincing as joints popped. They’d acquired a few middle-aged human traits by accident over the years.

A quick dance and a fusion later, Zadkiel snapped his fingers for candles. They floated into place around the circle and lit themselves. He sat back down, cross-legged, and put his hands together in prayer. It gave his demon half a little headache, but it was ignorable.

He reached out to Her with a question and waited for Her answer.

Like a house with faulty wiring, the portal began, very faintly, to flicker.

Zadkiel prayed with all his might. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and reached into himself, offering himself up. There was something here, he just had to find it.

The portal blipped on, briefly.

A little smoke fart went up in the middle. All the candles blew out, emitting an unpleasant smell.

Zadkiel sat perfectly still. His cheek twitched.

“Fuuuu -”

He split apart.

“- ck!” Aziraphale remained sprawled on the floor. He looked on the verge of tears.

Crowley pulled himself into a seated position. He poked Aziraphale in the side.

“I didn’t think that was a bad start.”

“Yes, clearly we’re in two minds about it,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley withdrew his hand. He felt a little stupid. Bit hurt, too.

“I’m a pathetic excuse for an angel,” Aziraphale almost whispered.

“Hey!” Crowley felt, ridiculously, offended on Aziraphale’s behalf.

“It’s true. She made me to love humanity, and I abandoned them.”

Well. That. Crowley’s mouth opened, then closed.

“But She abandoned them too!” Aziraphale pushed himself upright. He looked anguished. “What kind of loving Creator would do that?”

“Er,” Crowley said.

He’d personally grappled with questions like these millennia ago, when he was young and angry - angrier - and arrived at the vague sense that he’d drive himself mad trying to understand some people, so he might as well just get on with things. He wasn’t sure how to handle Aziraphale suddenly plunging into the beginning of what was, for Crowley, a lifetime’s worth of existential angst.

“And I don’t even have time for a crisis of faith right now! This is all my fault. This entire scatter-brained plan was my idea. All I’ve done is strand us light-years from home in the middle of nowhere. I thought I was being so clever, Crowley. And daring, to turn my back on Heaven and flee into the night. But I should never have turned my back on Earth. It’s unforgivable.”

“That’s my line,” Crowley joked, feebly.

A tear rolled down Aziraphale’s face. Crowley pressed close and kissed his temple. He had no idea what to say. Scraps of the wrong words tumbled across his brain, but nothing at all that was helpful.

He had to say something, though. No matter how badly it went. He drew a breath.

“OK, so we’ve both been massive cowardly idiots, that’s pretty obvious.”

“That’s incredibly non-reassuring,” Aziraphale hiccupped.

“But it doesn’t matter. You know what we need?”

Decades of pop culture flashed before his eyes. Oh, yes. He could do this.

“A redemption arc.”

Aziraphale looked up. On the plus side, he was no longer crying. On the other, he looked like he might vomit a tiny bit.

“Crowley, please tell me that isn’t a cinematographic reference?”

Crowley held up a hand. “Hear me out. We’ve both been incredible idiots and cowards. True enough. But you know what I’ve learned from humanity? If you show up late after messing everything up, give a speech that’s mostly about yourself, and save the day, everyone will forget the stupid, selfish stuff you did until that point. People have short memories. It’s the worst, best thing about them. You can be a flaming shit ninety percent of the time and turn it around at the last minute, and it only makes them like you more. But.”

He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes. This was the important part.

“You do have to actually save the day. Otherwise you look like an arsehole. So just focus on that. If we pull that off, we’ll be heroes, no matter how often we ran away and put ourselves first and let everyone down.”

Nailed it.

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth ajar.

“Crowley, that was the worst speech I have ever heard in my life. I actually feel worse now.”

Crowley’s confidence wavered. He pulled it back up by the fingernails. Stick the landing. He could do it.

“No, angel. My point is… people are forgiving. They’ll forgive you even when you can’t forgive yourself. That’s… the thing, isn’t it? Grace? Humans have it. You’ll never find it in Heaven, we both know that. You’re right - it was another thing entirely to abandon Earth. So let’s make up for it. I know you can get us back there. And we’ll save them all, together. And if you still want to beat yourself up, I won’t let you. We are on the same side. And you may be an idiot, but you’re also the cleverest person I know. So. Be clever.”

A faraway look appeared in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aha. Crowley tried not to lean forward expectantly.

“I just thought…” Aziraphale said. He sounded like a man basking in a sudden epiphany.

Crowley held his breath.

“...You obviously learned to write motivational speeches in Hell.”

OK. Fine. He wasn’t as moved as Crowley might have hoped. Crowley was willing not to mind, so long as they got a plan out of it.

“She said, playing with fyre…” Aziraphale read the scrap of paper again. “Could she have meant hellfire?”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t know how to make a portal to Hell either, if that’s what you’re -”

“What would happen if our sides summoned us back?”

Crowley blinked. “Kill us on sight, presumably?”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked disconcertingly blithe. “We could always cross that bridge when we came to it.”

So far, Crowley didn’t love where this was going, but he held his tongue. Aziraphale stood up and paced.

“We can’t make a portal from here to Earth, that’s a total dead end. But I can get to Earth from Heaven. And you could get back to Earth if you were in Hell. It’s as easy as stepping on the lift. All we need to do… is get on their radar. Perform a miracle as ourselves, unfused. They’ll see someone dallying around in space instead of preparing for Armageddon and summon us back.”

“And kill us on sight.”

“It’s mad enough to work!”

“I’m not sure about this -”

“We’re supposed to choose our faces wisely. She wrote us a clue… she means us to outfox them.”

He had a point. Crowley took the slip of paper from him and read it again.

“OK. I trust you. Let’s puzzle this out.”

~*~

An angel and demon faced each other over a scuffed chalk circle.

They had made their preparations. If things went according to plan, they would see each other again on Earth. If not… then this was goodbye.

Aziraphale leaned in and straightened Crowley’s tie. They exchanged smiles. Nothing that needed saying had gone unsaid.

“See you on the other side.”

They snapped their fingers.

Crowley made a shower of sparks. Aziraphale, a bunch of party balloons.

There was a pause, long enough for a pair of beleaguered actuaries to go, “hang on”.

Twin thunderclaps rang out.

Both of them were sucked into the air and vanished.

---

[1] None. None of Crowley’s appliances ran on electricity. None of them were even plugged in. Crowley didn’t understand this, however, so he mistakenly believed his coffee maker churned through factory-level quantities of electricity. It gave him a warm glow as he sipped his morning cappuccino.

[2] For once, not a compliment.

[3] And some solids.

(Link to next part)

[howardlinkedin]

Debriefing (And Other Bad Jokes) Part 4

Part 3 here: x

Next, Part 5: http://howardlinkedin.tumblr.com/post/168953427738/debriefing-and-other-bad-jokes-part-5

Summary: Slightly less ridiculous chapter about museum heists, unless your name is Howard Link, in which everything is still ridiculous, while Allen asks the Important Questions.

There are only three people who know the entire story of how Yuu Kanda went from absolutely loathing Allen Walker to something like positive, relationship affirming emotions. (No one can  make Kanda admit things like “love” or “romance,” even if they threatened death. Honestly, even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to succeed, seeing as the man would break the idiot who dared make threats in the first place inches away from death’s door.)

First there was the Bookman- which should be obvious given his skill set. The redhead even bragged about knowing the two were bound to become...whatever they were long before they even knew it. This bragging usually got a sword uncomfortably close to his crotch.

Next was Lenalee, who was Allen’s best friend and confidant. She actually had a front row seat to the drama that was Kanda’s and Allen’s relationship coming to a head. This was something she often reminded Allen when he was being particularly annoying, due to the fact that she had recorded most of it on her phone, and she was not afraid to use it.

Last, and probably the most baffling, was Johnny Gill. Baffling, because the forensic examiner hardly even made an appearance at the Department, choosing to spend his time at the Crime Labs. Lenalee and Lavi often wondered how the smaller man fit into this equation, since he was never around when the officers in question usually interacted.

Argued.

Violently flirted.

Everyone else working in or associated with the Black Order Police Department were simply secondhand observers. Many got whiplash when word actually got out that Kanda and Walker were A Thing.

---

Whatever Thing the two decided to be, was the question of the century. Only Allen and Kanda knew what, exactly, they were to each other, but it was there and sometimes it was less violent and more on the sweet side.

If you squint.

---

Noise Marie was the Order’s top surveillance specialist. At every stakeout, he was there, hidden away in a van, abandon building or any other nondescript location to listen in on the goings on with the officers under his care to watch.

Or rather, not so much watch.

Noise, legally blind that he was, could only listen. Which made his name rather ironic, which he was very well aware of, thank you very much.

The lack of proper sight never stopped him from being the best at what he does, however. No one questioned how his unique skill set works, but altogether accepted at the Order regardless.

So when the tell-tale buzz of the speakers tickled in, he responded immediately.

“This is Marie.”

“Allen here-” (In the background, Noise could hear the new Detective Inspector chide. “Walker, don’t give your name out in the middle of a job!”  The chiding was moot considering Link just also have out the rest of the officer’s name.

“Okay fine, Eagle One-” “I’m Eagle One.” Kanda grunted over his own communication. “Darling, only when I let you.”)

“I’m listening.” Marie tried not to sound amused. It was hard, but he was a professional and this was a job.

A high stakes job.

---

Once again, Link was able to actually do his job, and this time it looked more promising to be solved than the current murder case.

He listened and traded notes with Inspector Galmar, who had, up until now, been the only detective assigned to the Phantom G case.

(At the debriefing, Allen had commented that it was a rather cute name for a thief. Allen also though Kanda was cute when on the verge of homicide, so Link decided the officer’s opinion of anything was to be mad ravings of a crazy man.)

“And you say that somehow, anyone arrested during this case has been framed?” Link flipped through the stack of prints of the literal dozen fingerprints uncovered from every scene of the crime.

Galmar sighed heavily. “Yes, the problem we don’t know how or have any evidence besides obvious intuition. Unfortunately, the law can’t let anyone free from arrest just on those grounds.”

Unfortunate indeed, considering that all who were arrested claimed to never have been near the areas where valuables have been stolen. But, as far as the law was concerned, fingerprints don’t lie.

“So.” Walker, who had been a silent observer, until now, leeched himself at Link’s side and stared at the images. “This kid is able to lift copies of multiple prints from several officer, who happen to always be on site during a stake out, plant them and then make off with the loot?”

Link’s brow ticked at the loss of his personal space and elbowed the officer away. “Walker, let me work.”

He paused, narrowing in on the other’s comment. “You said ‘kid.’”

Allen grinned like a cheshire. “I did.” “And why,” Link’s suspicion once again rising. “Do you believe the thief is a kid? Clearly this level of skill is not something a mere child could do.”

Shrugging, Allen had the gall to look innocent and doe eyed. “No reason.”

“Walker.”

“Howard.”

Howard Link decided then and there he needed to make a doctors appointment for the amount of migraines he continued to suffer.

---

“I thought you were supposed to casing the layout of the museum.”

“I did.” Allen chirped. The Detective Inspector pinched the bridge of his nose. “Walker, you literally have been standing behind me this entire time. What part of that is casing anything?” Phantom G, as the acclaimed thief signed their M.O as, was most often known by the many notices they leave announcing their future plans of theft. The most frustrating aspect of their taunts was that they always delivered them to the scene where they threaten to loot, and always naming said object they are wanting to steal.

No matter the security, the Phantom always, always got away with it. With false fingerprints left behind, the accused unconscious with the very same mask as the Phantom over their face.

It was a wonder the entire team working on the case thus far hadn’t quit out of frustration.

Especially considering how utterly ridiculous the masks were. What with the bright, flashy neon yellow.

This time, the threat was at the local museum, which happened to house a very expensive and very historical crown.

“I saw the glass case where the crown was.” Came Allen’s cheeky reply, as though that was all he needed to see.

And maybe it was? Because Link was beginning to believe that despite all of Walker’s oddities and nuances, they always worked.

---

Link took a glance around the open space of the museum. “Where is Officer Kanda?”

Allen waved a hand as if to portray ‘don’t worry!’

“He’s doing a better job than I am at canvasing the entire area.”

Because that’s what Kandas do, apparently. And Allens just pester and waste time around actual hard working investigators.

---

“Anyway,” Allen continued over the communication to Marie. “Quick question, and it’s very important that you answer.” “Yes?” Noise turned a dial at his soundstation, making the frequencies of the white noise in the area more clear.

“What are you getting me for my birthday?”

(“WALKER.”

The surveillance specialist could hear Kanda sigh over the detectives reprimand.)

“Because I’ve been thinking of a hat. A large fluffy warm hat. Maybe a matching scarf.”

(“Walker, we are WORKING now is not the time to-”

“Jesus Christ shut up, both of you.”)

This is when the museum alarms are set off.

---

Arrested was yet another framed officer, with the crown missing and Officer Allen Walker-

Well. He was engaging in an actual chase with the presumed true thief.

On the rooftops.

Link had to at least admit that the other man was dedicated to his job.

---

The thief- Phantom G, in all their neon glory, hopped, jumped and mauvered the rooftops with the skill only someone who understand the layout could accomplish.

“Hey, you know maybe bright colors weren’t the best idea in this situation.”

Unless your name is Allen Walker, in which case he somehow managed the ability to maneuver just as, if not more, fluid after the thief and the crown.

Said thief gasped, and nearly tripped when the officer swung from a railing and landed just in front of them. They made an attempt to dash to the right, but Allen, quick as he was, flashed the crown at the Phantom’s face.

Well, assumed face anyway. It was hard to tell, what with the huge mask and all.

“Sorry, but this is mine now.”

“WALKER! You can’t keep stolen property!” Link chose that moment to leap to the roof also.

Phantom G took the momentary distraction of the Detective to leap from the side of the building and slide down the emergency fire exit.

Allen put the crown on his head and followed suit, all smiles.

And Link? Well Link followed after because Walker You Can’t Put That on your Head It’s Valuable!

---

Once on ground, the thief shot their arm out and Allen yanked the Detective with him to slide down the ally and out of the way.

Inspector Howard Link did not squeak, he most certainly did not, no matter what Officer Allen Walker says. (Noise Marie caught it all on tape, and he is very sorry for the man’s dignity and pride.)

The wall where they had landed was sliced through with thin threads, almost invisible if not for the moonlight.

Allen’s smile dropped off his face.

“You know, a lot of people just had their lives ruined by you. Do you really want to add manslaughter to the list?” “Shut up!” Finally, the thief spoke. They sounded young, too young.

Link didn’t have time to analyze further, and took the moment to dash out and kick their legs from under them and slapped one wrist with handcuffs. They yelled in surprise.

“Link! Move!”

The detective barely had time to flinch away before the same threads as before shot from the Phantom’s free hand and into Link’s shoulder.

With a grunt, the blonde rolled away, holding the wound to stave the bleeding. The threads were very sharp indeed.

Suddenly, the threads were sliced through, and Kanda shot out like a bullet from seemingly nowhere at the thief. “If you want to play like an adult, then play with me.”

The other man had a grin what Link could only describe as maniacal.

The thief, no the kid, which was what they could only be, because they were too small and wiry to have been an adult, and their voice too, too young, let out a sudden screech in fear at the swordsman. They leapt up and clambered over window sills in an attempt to escape.

Their retreat was cut short when Kanda sliced the wall nearest their hand, impaling his sword clean through. “You really should rethink your actions right now.” The officer was as serious as they ever were, and the warning in their words were as sharp and dangerous as his sword.

The air was quiet for exactly two seconds before it was filled with sharp wailing. The Phantom Thief G slid down to the grown, heaving. The mask was becoming soaked with tears.

“Jesus Christ you’re loud.” Kanda complained, which was not really the time or place, but still altogether a very good observation.

The wailing and crying was indeed very loud and very shrill.

---

With the mask off, Phantom Thief G, as deduced by Allen earlier that day (and Link still demands to know how the officer figured that, much to his ever mounting frustration) a kid.

No more than nine years of age, identified by Marie as Timothy Hearst, was cuffed and placed into the awaiting police vehicle.

With Allen, who deemed it acceptable to coddle the criminal, and let himself be sobbed on in the back of the car.

“Walker, kid or not he’s still a-” “Shh Link, you’re scaring him.”

“NEED I REMIND YOU that he could have very well killed us, and managed to stab my arm.” The Detective hissed. His arm still hurt, mind. Miranda, who was also on standby, had wrapped it. The kid’s wailing only intensified. “I’m- I’M SORRY!!!” He bellowed.

“See, he’s sorry.” “Walker.”

Kanda ignored them all and snached the very expensive and valuable crown from his partner’s head and handed it over to Inspector Galmar. Allen ‘awed’ in disappointment.

Everything was too ridiculous anymore.

---

Timothy had cried himself to sleep in the Order’s jail cell. Wrapped in no less than three blankets and five downey pillows piled around him. 

No one commented on this.

In his office, Commissioner Lee read over Link’s report. “How could a child have this level of skill?” He inquired.

Allen, who commandeered the room’s only couch, piped up before the Inspector could respond, literally taking the words from his mouth. “He had help. No kid could ever pull this off without proper training.”

His silver eyes were far off, and Link didn’t like it. He also did not like how Walker obviously knew more than he let on.

Link was the detective, it was his job. Yet Officer Allen Walker was able to deduce just as fast and as much as he could.

“Training?” Still, he pressed on. Confrontations would happen later.

The white haired officer hummed, eyes flashing back to the present. “Yeah. Those needle threads aren’t something easily handled without being trained in them. No normal nine year old would ever have a working knowledge of them.”

“I see.” And Link did see. He also agreed. “I believe also that Hearst had help. To pre plan exactly who to frame and have them be an officer that would be stationed during each and every heist? There’s someone else working in the shadows.”

Commissioner Lee scowled at the thought of a kid having been wrapped up in this mess. It left a sour taste in his mouth. “Do we have any leads as to who, though, is the question.”

The Detective Inspector was at a loss there.

“Sheryl Kamelot.” Allen named, looking for all the world the most serious he has ever been. “This reeks of Noah, and Sheryl would be our best bet.”

Komui straighten at the names, and leaned on his elbows. “Explain Officer.” He demanded of his subordinate.

Allen also leaned forward, unconsciously flexing his scarred hand. “Sheryl’s pride in the Noah consists of finding kids who show talent, any talent really, and exploiting them in anyway.

Stealing, information gathering, murder - there’s no limit to what he’d train a child to do. My guess is that Timothy is rather new into the fold, which was why he was scared easily enough to surrender. Anyone worth their scuff in the Noah would have needed a lot more to put them into submission.”

Howard Link frowned, scowled, and tensed the longer Walker spoke. Because, how, how, how! How does the young officer know this? Where did he get this information? To have such an understanding of one of the Noah, was nothing short of terrifying.

Did he learn this during his arrest of Tyki Mikk? Or was it before during investigation? But, as far as Link knew, Walker was not assigned the Noah case first hand. That was General Cross Marian. Did Walker learn this from his mentor? Was Cross actually reporting directly to his adopted son, and both were keeping quiet?

Why wasn’t the Commissioner demanding these details?

There were too many questions surrounding Allen Walker, and Link despised the lack of answers.

---

Once away from the Commissioner’s office and steps down the hall, Link demanded his answers. “How? How do you have such knowledge?” His voice was thick with distrust and accusations that he hadn’t outright stated. The implication was still there, regardless. “And for that matter, how are you able to follow thieves across rooftops and spy those threads? You said it yourself it takes training. What are you hiding Allen Walker?”

They had both stopped their descent down the hall.

Contrary to their pause, Kanda was making his way to them, but by his movement he was in no hurry.

Allen only smiled that alarming and guileless smile of his that renders everyone around him defenseless but also paranoid at the same time. “Oh Link, you should have put the pieces together by now. You’ve read my file after all.”

If Link believed in in such things, he could have sworn the air turned chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He couldn’t even deny it, not with Kanda now directly behind his partner, like the shadow he always was. Tucked at his arm was Walker’s file, which had been stolen from Link’s apartment nights before.

[ceruleanvulpine]

asoue reread: les miserables (mills)

optometry! cross-dressing! hypnosis! me, in the background, speculating about the arc plot!

To Beatrice- My love flew like a butterfly Until death swooped down like a bat As the poet Emma Montana McElroy said: "That's the end of that."

The first time I reread this I looked up the source of that poem, and it turns out to be from a third-grader in an asoue-themed poetry contest. Ms. McElroy (presumably no relation) says that she “like[s] sad stories, because after reading them you can get happy again until you're ready to read one again”. Relatable, Emma. 

But this book begins with the sentence "The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest, wondering if their lives would ever get any better," and you should be able to tell that the story that follows will be very different from the story of Gary or Emily or the family of cunning little chipmunks.

It doesn’t, Lemony, there are two full paragraphs before that sentence is said! 

And the only trophy they would win would be some sort of First Prize for Wretchedness.

Can someone draw the kids with a First Prize For Wretchedness Trophy, cool, thanks

I'm now the Vice President in Charge of Coins

¿¿¿??¿?

Mr. Poe took a piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. "His name is Mr. Wuz- Mr. Qui- I can't pronounce it. It's very long and complicated."

"I have given Mr. Bek- Mr. Duy- I have given your new caretaker a complete description of Count Olaf," said Mr. Poe. "So if by some stretch of the imagination he shows up in Paltryville, Mr. Sho- Mr. Gek- will notify the authorities."

Lifehack: if you discover Sir’s true name, you can compel him to release you from your lumber compact. 

Alongside the sidewalk, where a row of trees might have been, were towering stacks of old newspapers instead.

(squints) Doesn’t the fact that VFD stores old newspapers in stacks on the Paltryville streets get mentioned in UA or somewhere? (Or was that a fanfic? >.>)

Other than a sign I saw once that said "Beware" in letters made of dead monkeys, the "Lucky Smells Lumbermill" sign was the most disgusting sign on earth

?????¿

It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I'm sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that's the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the news again and again. For instance, I once loved a woman, who for various reasons could not marry me. If she had simply told me in person, I would have been very sad, of course, but eventually it might have passed. However, she chose instead to write a two-hundred-page book, explaining every single detail of the bad news at great length, and instead my sadness has been of impossible depth. When the book was first brought to me, by a flock of carrier pigeons, I stayed up all night reading it, and I read it still, over and over, and it is as if my darling Beatrice is bringing me bad news every day and every night of my life.

Lemony --

You know, I don’t think hearing it in person would have helped? 

Klaus frowned at the hand-drawn map that was attached to the note with another wad of gum, "This map looks pretty easy to read," he said. "The dormitory is straight ahead, between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself."

Violet looked straight ahead and saw a gray windowless building on the other side of the courtyard. "I don't want to live," she said, "between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself."

I love her...

I'm sure you have heard it said that appearance does not matter so much, and that it is what's on the inside that counts. This is, of course, utter nonsense, because if it were true then people who were good on the inside would never have to comb their hair or take a bath, and the whole world would smell even worse than it already does.

I’m not.. sure that follows.

"You must be Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire," the somebody said, and the children turned to see a very tall man with very short hair. He was wearing a bright blue vest and holding a peach. He smiled and walked toward them, but then frowned as he drew closer. "Why, you're covered in pieces of bark," he said. "I hope you haven't been hanging around the lumbermill. That can be very dangerous for small children."

Chaaaaaarles! 

He’s just as useless as every other adult in the damn series, but I have a soft spot for him anyway. Maybe because he’s Gay And Useless. 

"That doesn't matter," Charles replied. "When Sir has made up his mind, he has made up his mind. I know he sometimes is a little bit mean, but you'll have to excuse him. He had a very terrible childhood. Do you understand?"

Violet looked at the painting of the seashore, and thought once again of that dreadful day at the beach. "Yes," she sighed. "I understand. I think I'm having a very terrible childhood myself."

This is still such a good line.

But although all the workers looked tired, and sad, and hungry, none of them looked evil, or greedy, or had such awful manners.

):

and at that moment one of the children had a trick played on him which I hope has never been played on you. This trick involves sticking your foot out in front of a person who is walking, so the person trips and falls on the ground. A policeman did it to me once, when I was carrying a crystal ball belonging to a Gypsy fortune-teller who never forgave me for tumbling to the ground and shattering her ball into hundreds of pieces. It is a mean trick, and it is easy to do, and I'm sorry to say that Foreman Flacutono did it to Klaus right at this moment.

1. Was that Madame Lulu? 

2. The similar incident in ATWQ 3 still makes this funnier to me.

When they arrived at the dormitory, Violet and Sunny looked out the window to watch for him, and they were so anxious that it took them several minutes to realize that the window was not a real one, but one drawn on the blank wall with a ballpoint pen.

either they’re VERY anxious or this is some shockingly good ballpoint trompe l’oeil

"Klaus, we were so worried about you," Violet said, hugging her brother as he reached them. "You were gone for so long. Whatever happened to you?"

"I don't know," Klaus said, so quietly that his sisters had to lean forward to hear him. "I can't remember."

"You'd better get to bed, Klaus," Violet said. "Follow me."

 At last, Klaus spoke. "Yes, sir," he said, quietly.

Okay. People differ in their opinions on when this series Gets Horrifying. Monty’s death is upsetting, certainly, and Olaf trying to marry Violet is scary, and when he pushes Josephine off the boat it’s chilling...

But IMO hypnotized!Klaus is a sudden uptick in fear level. (At least, it’s the thing I very clearly remembered even after I hadn’t read the books in years.) He doesn’t take his shoes off before going to bed! And Violet does and then in the morning he gets up and goes off to work without putting them back on! That’s Horrifying(tm)

My chauffeur once told me that I would feel better in the morning, but when I woke up the two of us were still on a tiny island surrounded by man-eating crocodiles, and, as I'm sure you can understand, I didn't feel any better about it.

YOU OKAY, LEMONY?? 

Violet and Sunny sat down beside him, confused and frightened, and put their arms around their brother as though they were afraid he was floating away. They sat there like that, a heap of Baudelaires, until Foreman Flacutono clanged his pots together to signal the end of the break.

;-; ;-; ;-;

Then everyone had to blow on the stamp so it dried quickly.

That doesn’t seem efficient, but I don’t know what I expected from Sir. 

And I simply cannot describe the grotesque and unnerving sight—the words "grotesque" and "unnerving" here mean "twisted, tangled, stained, and gory"—of poor Phil's leg. It made Violet's and Sunny's stomachs turn to gaze upon it, but Phil looked up and gave them a weak smile.

Yikes!

"No, no," Phil said. "It's fine. I've never liked my left leg so much, anyway." "Not your leg, you overgrown midget," Foreman Flacutono said impatiently.

me: children

bald man: midgets

me: adults? 

bald man: overgrown midgets

...and at this point in the story of the Baudelaire orphans, I would like to interrupt for a moment and answer a question I'm sure you are asking yourself. It is an important question, one which many, many people have asked many, many times, in many, many places all over the world. The Baudelaire orphans have asked it, of course. Mr. Poe has asked it. I have asked it. My beloved Beatrice, before her untimely death, asked it, although she asked it too late. The question is: Where is Count Olaf?

That does seem like a pretty straightforward implication that, yep, it was Olaf. The books are not as subtle about this as tumblr user Istoki insinuated to me. :P

Dr. Orwell was a tall woman with blond hair pulled back from her head and fashioned into a tight, tight bun. She had big black boots on her feet, and was holding a long black cane with a shiny red jewel on the top.

Book Orwell was blonde? I had forgotten this.

Also jeez no wonder people think she’s hot. Boots! Boots.

"Have you ever encountered," Dr. Orwell said, "in your reading, the expression 'You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar'?"

Aw man I was mad at the netflix show for giving her Esmé’s line but it was her line all along! I was incorrect. 

The buildup to the payoff of that line is so good. Georgina is so much more competent than Olaf. 

"That wig and that lipstick don't fool us any more than your palebrown dress and sensible beige shoes. You're Count Olaf."

The word “palebrown” appears twice in this page and I am very perplexed. I also love... book Shirley: sensible receptionist’s outfit! Netflix Shirley: red red red red red re

Count Olaf shook his head. "But if you do something impolite to me" he said, "then I might do something impolite to you, like for instance tearing your hair out with my bare hands."

Zero to sudden threats of violence in two pages after his appearance: the Count Olaf MO!!!

"Possibly," Shirley said, crossing her legs and revealing long white stockings imprinted with the pattern of an eye.

#nice

"Don't be ab—" Violet said, but she stopped herself before she could say "surd." 

[...]

"Ab?" said a voice behind her. "What in the world does the word 'ab' mean?" 

Violet and Sunny turned around and saw Dr. Orwell leading Klaus into the waiting room. He was wearing another new pair of glasses and was looking confused. 

"Klaus!" Violet cried. "We were so worried ab—" She stopped herself before she could say "out" when she saw her brother's expression.

[...]

"There you go again, with 'ab,'" Dr. Orwell said. "Whatever in the world does it mean?" 

"'Ab' isn't a word, of course," Shirley said. "Only a stupid person would say a word like 'ab.'" 

"They are stupid, aren't they?" Dr. Orwell agreed, as though they were talking about the weather instead of insulting young children. "They must have very low self-esteem."

 "I couldn't agree more, Dr. Orwell," Shirley said.

"Call me Georgina," the horrible optometrist replied, winking. 

STOP BEING SO MEAN TO THESE CHILDREN.. Also “”Call me Georgina,” the horrible optometrist replied, winking,” is such an incredible sentence? I’m glad they’re exes in the show.

Violet tried to smile at Phil, but her smiling muscles just stayed put. She knew—or she thought she knew, anyway, because she was actually wrong—that the only thing in disguise was Count Olaf.

... Wait, what else is in disguise? ... Orwell’s sword-cane? 

"Hypnosis! Count Olaf! Fiti! I've had enough of your excuses!" he yelled.

Sir is terrible, but this is the second or third time he’s just accepted Sunny’s baby talk as comprehensible speech, which amuses me. Also Klaus isn’t at this meeting because he’s hypnotized and VIOLET THOUGHT HE MIGHT MURDER SIR

"They are being treated like members of the family," Sir said. "Many of my cousins live there in the dormitory. I refuse to argue with you, Charles! You're my partner! Your job is to iron my shirts and cook my omelettes, not boss me around!"

"You're right, of course," Charles said softly. "I'm sorry."

Sorry Charles(tm). your inability to stand up to sir doesn’t excuse letting the children be neglected but i do still feel bad for you

Violet and Sunny sighed, and thought of their poor hypnotized brother. Klaus seemed so different from the brother they knew that it was almost as if Count Olaf had already succeeded with his dastardly scheme, and destroyed one of the Baudelaire orphans.

):

His eyes were usually all squinty from reading, and now they were wide as if he had been watching TV instead.

>:T

1. Introduction 1 2. Basic Ophthalmology 105 3. Nearsightedness and Farsightedness 279 4. Blindness 311 5. Itchy Eyelashes 398 6. Damaged Pupils 501 7. Blinking Problems 612 8. Winking Problems 650 9. Surgical Practices 783 10. Glasses, Monocles, and Contact Lenses 857 

11. Sunglasses 926 12. Hypnosis and Mind Control 927 13. Which Eye Color Is the Best One? 1,000

I’m still losing my mind about this table of contents from Dr. Orwell’s book. Which eye color *is* the best one, anyway? How big of a problem are itchy eyelashes? Why is there only one page on sunglasses? 

AND ARE THERE ANY BOOKS IN THIS UNIVERSE WITH A NUMBER OF CHAPTERS OTHER THAN THIRTEEN

"We just stopped by to make sure everything went well," Dr. Orwell said, gesturing to the saw with her black cane. "And I'm certainly glad we did. Lucky!" she shouted to Klaus. "Do not listen to your sisters!"

This moment in the book: p good. This moment in the show: made me fall in love with Dr. Orwell a little. She’s just so satisfied with her own cleverness! 

"Oh no you can't!" Klaus cried, and stepped forward to push Charles out of the way.

"Oh yes we can!" Foreman Flacutono said, and stuck his foot out again. You would think that such a trick would only work a maximum of two times, but in this case you would be wrong, and in this case Klaus fell to the floor again, his head clanging against the pile of debarkers and tiny green boxes.

YOU WOULD THINK THAT SUCH A TRICK WOULD ONLY WORK A MAXIMUM OF TWO TIMES

There are also, like, six lines of “Oh no you can’t!”/”Oh yes we can!” from various characters, including an “Oh toonoy!” from Sunny. Then Sunny bites Dr Orwell on the hand and Orwell yells “Gack!”, breaking the combo. 

Then..

But then she smiled and used an expression that was in French: "En garde!" "En garde!," as you may know, is an expression people use when they wish to announce the beginning of a sword-fight, and with a wicked smile, Dr. Orwell pressed the red jewel on top of her black cane, and a shiny blade emerged from the opposite end. In just one second, her cane had become a sword, which she then pointed at the youngest Baudelaire orphan. But Sunny, being only an infant, had no sword. She only had her four sharp teeth, and, looking Dr. Orwell right in the eye, she opened her mouth and pointed all four at this despicable person.

I understand why this wasn’t in the show... but I love it so much. It’s so fucking ridiculous. Lemony describes the dramatic clanging of blades ringing against each other except that SUNNY JUST HAS HER TEETH. Also: 

There is a loud clink! noise that a sword makes when it hits another sword—or, in this case, a tooth—and whenever I hear it I am reminded of a swordfight I was forced to have with a television repairman not long ago.

Macros I need: “Thanks Lemony,” “u ok Lemony” 

Klaus needed to invent something to stop the machine, and he needed to invent it right away.

God, I love that in this book Violet has to research hypnosis and Klaus has to invent a thing. I think I’m overall glad they didn’t include it, because Klaus’ stretched-gum-log-grabber is kind of silly ... but the skill-swapping is really cute and I hope we get to see it later on.

Hukkita —hukkita—hukkita! The machine began making the loudest and roughest sound Klaus had ever heard. Charles closed his eyes, and Klaus knew that the blade must have hit the bottom of his foot.

HEY THIS IS TERRIFYING JUST FYI

Gathering up all of his strength—and, after working at a lumbermill for a while, he actually had quite a bit of strength for a young boy—he grabbed his invention, and pulled. Klaus pulled on his debarker, and the debarker pulled on the gum, and the gum pulled on the log, and to the relief of all three Baudelaire orphans the log moved to one side.

THE GUM WOULD JUST STRETCH, HANIEL

(i know, i know, it’s not strictly realistic! but! aaaaaa) 

For just as Dr. Orwell was about to bring her sword down on little Sunny's throat, the door of the lumbermill opened and Sir walked into the room. "What in the world is going on?" he barked, and Dr. Orwell turned to him, absolutely surprised. When people are absolutely surprised, they sometimes take a step backward, and taking a step backward can sometimes lead to an accident. Such was the case at this moment, for when Dr. Orwell stepped backward, she stepped into the path of the whirring saw, and there was a very ghastly accident indeed.

I love, uh... 

This thing Lemony does where he goes from describing a specific situation to describing something in general terms that MIGHT happen or SOMETIMES happens, but which has ominous implications for the current situation, and then after this suspense-building, worrying delay gets back to the main story. See also: Violet reads the first, incredibly dense sentence of Dr. Orwell’s book, looks at the table of contents to see where to skip to, and then Lemony immediately launches into a definition of “stylistic consistency” and you know exactly where it’s headed. 

Anyway. Yes. Doctor Orwell. This works better when she’s .. about to stab.. Sunny on the ground, instead of carrying her as in the show. 

The Baudelaire orphans sat together on the floor of Sir's office and looked up at the adults discussing the situation, wondering how in the world they could talk about it so calmly. The word "dreadful," even when used three times in a row, did not seem like a dreadful enough word to describe everything that had happened. Violet was still trembling from how Klaus had looked while hypnotized. Klaus was still shivering from how Charles had almost been sliced up. Sunny was still shaking from how she had almost been killed in the swordfight with Dr. Orwell. And, of course, all three orphans were still shuddering from how Dr. Orwell had met her demise, a phrase which here means "stepped into the path of the sawing machine." The children felt as if they could barely speak at all, let alone participate in a conversation.

Aaaand getting sawed up is a lot less of a Disney Villain Death than stepping backwards and disappearing into a fire, huh? If I were a child of fourteen, twelve, or one, I would not like to see someone sawed up.

"If your left ankle does not have a tattoo of an eye on it," Mr. Poe said, "then you are most certainly not Count Olaf."

Shirley's eyes shone very, very bright, and she gave everyone in the room a big, toothy smile. "And what if it does?" she asked, and hitched up her skirt slightly. "What if it does have a tattoo of an eye on it?"

Stop!! smiling!!!

Count Olaf shrugged, sending his wig toppling to the floor, and smiled at the Baudelaires in a way they were sorry to recognize. It was a certain smile that Count Olaf had just when it looked like he was trapped. It was a smile that looked as if Count Olaf were telling a joke, and it was a smile accompanied by his eyes shining brightly and his evil brain working furiously.

We’re four for four on this phenomenon!

Even a boarding school sounded like it would be better than their days with Foreman Flacutono, Dr. Orwell, and the evil Shirley. I'm sorry to tell you that the orphans were wrong about boarding school being better, but at the moment they knew nothing of the troubles ahead of them, only of the troubles behind them, and the troubles that had escaped out the window.

I mean, at least they get to make some friends there.

(and boarding school isn’t INHERENTLY bad ok)

"Well, let me think," Phil said, and thought for a moment. In the background, the orphans could hear the dim sounds of Mr. Poe describing Count Olaf to somebody on the telephone. "You're alive," Phil said finally. "That's lucky. And I'm sure we can think of something else."

I like that the culmination of Phil’s useless optimism in the book is.. well, yeah, everything sucks, but the kids are genuinely a little cheered by thinking about how they could have died and didn’t. A bunch of the earlier books have about one page of hopefulness at the end. I don’t think it lasts. 

LEMONY SNICKET grew up near the sea and currently lives beneath it. To his horror and dismay he has no wife or children, only enemies, associates, and the occasional loyal manservant. His trial has been delayed, so he is free to continue researching and writing the tragic tales of the Baudelaire orphans for HarperCollins.

Let’s see, he was living in the city, he was going to be put on trial, now his trial’s been delayed and he’s (presumably) living on the Queequeg. At what point do we start getting the worrying asides about “the author’s execution has been cancelled”? :P