#// if i draw the attendant in anything else without a hat its going to be bald .this is in character i promise

[m0e-ru]

kirijo group in shambles. together we can make the economy fall. please vote the attendant @gayest-persona-character

[finelinevogue]

notes on love

summary - harry attends the football and you attend the baftas

pairing - fiance!harry x famous!reader

word count - ~1.5k

*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*

It was the first time Harry had made a public appearance in months.

Sans a hat on his head.

After braving a shave to solidify a new chapter in his life, Harry had decided that enough was enough and he just wanted to be seen again. Gain some new publicity.

“I can’t do this.” Harry’s voice rang through your phone.

Your phone was currently propped up on the vanity in front of you, whilst your stylist gracefully worked around you to get your hair and makeup done.

“H, baby. You’re going to a football match where over half the population there will be white bald men. You’ll blend right in.”

You took a sip of your apple juice in its carton as you suppressed a laugh. Harry rolled his eyes at you, taking the joke like the good sport he is.

“I actually have more hair than them. I’m not bald anymore.”

“See! Embrace the new hair, H. You look really good.”

Harry smiled at you then, his eyes which had previously been darting between watching you and looking out the moving car window were now permanently on you.

“Not as beautiful as you, though, love.”

“Don’t even have my makeup on yet.”

“Never needed it.”

You blew him a camera kiss for those words alone.

“Where are you now?” You reached for a slice of pineapple from the bowl of fruit you’d ordered from room service.

“About five minutes away I think. Are you still in the hotel?”

“Yeah. Don’t need to be ready until 5.”

You were getting ready for the BAFTAS, which Harry had hoped to be there with you for but you’d decided to take your nan as your date instead since she wanted to spend as much time with you as possible.

Harry was more than happy to let Nana, as he liked to call her, be your date to the BAFTAS. Plus, it meant that he could go see the football.

“You’re going to look so pretty.”

Harry had helped your pick out your dress, which was a sophisticated black to contrast the red carpet you’d be walking down. The dress itself was beautifully cut and shaped you in all the right places, making you look elegant and regal.

���I’m nervous.” You picked up your phone so the conversation felt a little more intimate, even though it was still over face-time.

“Why, love?”

“Don’t normally do stuff like this without you.” You pouted.

Harry wished he could kiss that pout away, “And yet the times that you do, you always end up winning! It’s like they never want you to win when i’m there.”

It was a running joke that Harry was your ‘bad luck charm’.

You didn’t believe that though. It’s just that other actors performed better and won, over you, because of it. If anything, you always won because you got to go home and drink hot tea and eat popcorn with your Harry.

“I’ll miss you.” Your face was so close to the camera that Harry could probably see up your nose.

“I miss you. Send me photos when you’re getting ready. I wanna see you before anyone else.”

“Okay.” You smiled. It was routine at this point to always show each other’s public outfits before anyone else.

“Have you got your ring?”

You held up your left hand and wiggled your ring finger in front of the camera. You blushed thinking about the moment that you got given the piece of delicate jewellery, with Harry on one knee.

“Always.”

“You going to wear it on the carpet?”

“Of course. Not going to draw attention to it though. I’ll let people discover it for themselves.”

Harry laughed at the thought. You two were practically the biggest, most A-List, celebrity couple around at the moment and so when people watch sight of you with the ring there’s no doubt it’s all people will talk about for weeks.

Someone told Harry they’d arrived at the venue, then.

“I have to go, honey, but text me updates please. Wanna see you get ready through photos, okay?”

“Okay.” You promised. “Text me to let me know you’re safely home later, please.”

Even though he was going back to his Manchester home, you still liked to know that he was safe and sound. Especially since you were in London and weren’t going to get to be with him tonight.

“Will do. I love you.” Harry kissed his fingers and then dotted them over the camera.

You returned the gesture, “I love you. Bye, bye, bye!”

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

You were just finishing getting ready and scrolling through Twitter.

Harry was trending worldwide for showcasing his new hair. His growing hair. No one had seen him like this since the end of Tour last year.

You pouted because you missed him a lot.

People were absolutely loving it. As always, a lot of people were losing their shit over Harry content. You were too, because you missed him.

“Oh, he looks so good!” Your stylist, Jamie, gasped behind you.

Jamie was currently fixing your hair and you had to say they had done an impressive job.

“I know.” You smiled to yourself.

“He looks like a sexy CEO.”

You laughed out loud at that, “When he puts on his glasses he does.” You agreed.

“Harry wears glasses?” Jamie gasped.

“Yeah, hang on..”

You started to go through your camera roll. It was only a few days ago that he had gotten new glasses, because he’d managed to lose his old ones. Typical.

You stopped on a photo of Harry sat in bed with the duvet up on his chest, a book in his lap and his glasses on. He didn’t realise you had taken the photo of him, but it was now one of your favourites.

“Oh damn…” Jamie gasped. “If your marriage ever goes south, tell him I’ll be available.”

You laughed again, shaking your head in dismissal but also approval.

You went back to Twitter to see if any of the Harrie accounts you follow have tweeted anything. You make yourself laugh as you look through their feral comments.

And just because you like to cause a riot on the internet you liked an insane tweet.

harriesmiles: the way that this photo makes me want to cling onto harry like a koala bear and never let go

It wasn’t long before you were trending with Harry.

Then the face-time call comes through from him.

“Am I done?” You asked Jamie quickly.

He nods, knowing you routine with Harry, and allows you to slip into the bathroom next to the bedroom.

You answered the call shortly after locking the bathroom door.

“Hellooo.” You said in a weird voice, feeling hyper from the Twitter craze.

“Hi, babe.” Harry was obviously outside and trying to watch where he was going, more than looking at you.

“Has the match finished?”

“Yeah.” And you honestly didn’t care enough about football to ask how it went. “Are you ready?”

Harry’s eyes flicked down to his screen momentarily, smirking when he catches sight of your glammed out makeup.

One thing Harry loved more than anything was you in a red-lip, so of course you had to make sure you had one for him - despite the fact he couldn’t kiss it off you tonight.

“What?” You giggled, watching him trying to suppress his smirk in public.

“You’re so annoying. I’m trying to act all cool and mysterious here and you’re making me smile like an idiot.”

You dipped your head and smiled, accentuating the blush that was already powdered onto your cheeks.

“H, honey, you’re walking through the streets of Manchester. No one cares about how you act. They’re probably all drunk anyways.”

“True, true.”

“Did you have a pint?” You propped your phone on the counter.

“Uh, yeah.” He said whilst trying to cross a road.

“Love, do you want to call me back when you’re at less risk of being hit by a car?” You sarcastically asked.

“No!” He yelped. “No. Needs to be now.”

You gave him a confused look but carried on regardless.

You shuffled back in the bathroom, giving him a full angle.

You watched in anticipation as Harry looked at you through his tiny screen, wishing it were ten times bigger.

“Wow.” Was all he said and you giggled like a girl having a high-school crush. “I love you so much.”

“So you like?” You swished your dress from side to side.

“Mhm. Wishing I wasn’t so far from you now.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll have all the kisses for you then.”

“Tomorrow it is, then.” Harry smirked to himself, kissing the camera.

Little did you know that tomorrow was coming a lot sooner. In fact, Harry had been running for the earliest train out of Manchester and down to London for the duration of the phone call. Because Harry was always going to show up for you.

[lilyharvord]

I saw another anon on king mavens page ask how Cal would react if mare died and they didn’t wanna answer bcuz it’ll make them go into a depressive state. So if u don’t mind how do YOU think Cal would react if Mare died. If u don’t wanna write this u don’t hv too tho

I too saw annie's response, and while it makes me super sad to think about as well.... I've thought about it... I may have started writing a fic about it once (it was like once chapter), and I had an idea. So I'll give you my branched ideas. They're loooong so I have put them under the read more.

idea 1: Mare dies before they are married, before anything.

It's horrific. People are shocked... the little lightning girl? Dead? Impossible. Cal doesn't immediately hear about it, he's so busy he's doesn't know something's happened until he walks into a room and everyone goes quiet and slowly looks at him like he might collapse right then and there. He finds out because Farley pulls him aside. She takes him away from everyone to a quiet little garden with a fountain and tells him what happened. When he hears, he just sort of gives her this confused look, like HE doesn't understand, doesn't believe. Then he sort of sinks down onto one of the benches and just sits there. Doesn't move, doesn't even seem to be breathing. Farley thinks he'll explode in a ball of heat and rage and pain, but instead he just gets really really quiet, and really cold. The air around her gets so cold her breath fogs in front of her. He asks her to leave him alone and she does. He sort of draws into himself after that, doesn't really speak to anyone, spends a lot of time running and sitting at his desk and staring out the window. He attends the funeral but is quiet the whole time, he only speaks to the Barrows and even then, there isn't much to say that wouldn't hurt either party. After that he BURIES himself in his work. He gets so good at it that one day he looks up and ten years have passed. He's still got the stack of letters they wrote to each other, and he even has the letter he had been drafting to send to her on the front where he lost her. It ends with the phrase: I miss you. And god does that ring true. He miss her like a limb he lost. It feels like a part of him was torn away, just like with Maven, just like with his father, just like with Nanabel when she passed a few years back, just like the hole his mother left without him even knowing it was there. He visits her grave that year, just sort of sits under the little tree they planted, looks out at the mountains as the sun sets behind him, and talks to her like he does with Maven, tells her about everything that's happening. After a while, he just falls quiet and sits there, digging his hand into the grass and dirt right above the grave, like he can dig down to her, like it's her skin and he can still feel it's warmth. He swallow really heavily and then says: I never met anyone else that made me feel the way you did... I don't think I ever will. You were it. You were going to be it. And then he gets up and leaves. He runs into Gisa down in the Ascendent, they grab coffee at what was once Mare's favorite coffee shop, now it's Gisa's. They talk about everything, never mentioning Mare. Gisa only asks once if he's seen anyone, and he just shakes his head, and she gives him a tiny smile and says: she wouldn't have minded... well if a random bolt of lightning came from the heaven and struck you, then I guess you would know she minded. They laugh about that, and then he leaves cause he has an early flight home. When he gets back, he puts the letters in a box and then puts that box in a drawer. He never sees anyone else though. Doesn't even really fool around with anyone either. He tries once, and the whole time he just thinks about her, thinks about all the what if's and could be's. He apologizes profusely to the girl and says that it's not going to work. Something in her understands, some weird warmth that she gets that makes her pull him into an extra tight hug before she leaves from his little apartment in Archeon. He doesn't mind being alone as much, he has his friends and a strange little belief/hope that someday, he will see Mare again. And when he does he is going to pull her into the tightest hug and never, ever let go again.

idea 2: Mare dies after they are married and have at least 1 child

This one hurts far more. He knows she's on missions, and they made a pact to never be on missions together so that if the unthinkable happens and one of them does die, Coriane will have the other at least. Its a god awful early hour of the morning when there is knock on the door. Coriane is sleeping in his and Mare's bed, she had a nightmare and immediately came for comforting snuggles. He thinks he's dreaming when the knock comes again, a little more instant this time. He gets up, and Coriane sleepily trails after him, curious as a cat always. When he answers the door, he picks her up and is still sort of half asleep. When he sees the young soldier standing on the porch in uniform and the most pained look on his face, he is suddenly wide awake. The soldier reaches up and removes his hat before pulling out an envelope with the official Montfort seal on it. He holds it out and quietly says, "I'm sorry."

When Cal takes it, he worries that his hand is shaking, but it is perfectly still, Coriane is falling asleep on his shoulder, not even aware of the ramification of what this little envelope means. And he just sort of looks up at the man and asks, "Do the Barrows know?" The man blinks before saying, "Protocol dictates immediate family are informed first... spouses are immediate family along with children. We leave it to them to inform the rest...I'm sorry again sir." Then he gives a little clean military salute and leaves. Cal stands there for a long time looking at empty space, wondering what comes next, what he is even supposed to do. Coriane answers for him: by lightly tapping his cheek and whispering that she's cold. He closes the door, and sets the letter on the little table by the door. There are already four other letters there. One, an invitation to Farley's wedding to Cordelia at the end of the month, and another is a letter from Julian addressed to all of them, most likely about his trip with Sara to see the land north of Montfort. But there is her name in beautiful script on both envelopes. There is her favorite jacket hanging on the peg she always hangs it on. There is the book she left on the table, chaptered at the exact part she was on. There is her favorite mug in the sink because Coriane asked to drink her milk from it last night. She is everywhere in the house, and yet that letter means she will never be in it again. Those were her things. They not longer are. He carries Coriane up the stairs and puts her back in their his bed and then lays next to her, watching her chest rise and fall as she sleeps, a tiny smile creeping to her lips as she dreams, completely and blissfully unaware of how her life has fundamentally changed now. Then he rolls and stares at the ceiling, but the tears come and they don't stop as they fall silently. He gets up and showers at dawn--he didn't sleep-- and cries a little more there. He has to crouch down under the scalding water and bite down on his knuckle to keep from sobbing out loud and waking Cori. It's pitiful, and he knows it. She would be furious with him for not being honest about how he feels and trying to hide it like its some ugly thing. But it feels ugly, a twisted ugly thing in his chest that is screaming and clawing at his insides. He stands, turns the shower off, steps out, shaves, does his morning routine, and then wakes Coriane and gets her ready. She's still sleepy, doesn't understand, asks him when mommy is coming home, when she will be back so they can go to the market and get ice cream. He says they'll go today, but his voice shakes, even as he tries to hide it. Then he takes her to the Barrows, tells Ruth and Daniel to gather all of them together. When they are all sitting before him in the living room, packing it to the brim, he takes out the letter and reads it. There is a horrible silence when he finishes and folds it before putting it back in the envelope. Ruth slowly pulls Coriane toward her and then lifts her into her lap and hugs her so tightly Cori actually whines about it for a second before she sees the look on Cal's face. They all sit in the kitchen after that and Ruth makes tea and she makes hot chocolate for the kids and gives Coriane an extra 4 marshmallows. The kids leave to go play and the adults sit and discuss the logistics, where is the will, was the a will? Do they have to adhere to anything if there isn't one? Would she want to... to be buried on Tuck with Shade? The will would probably say. Should they do that if there isn't one? Ruth offers to take care of Coriane while Cal deals with everything, settling paperwork, etc. etc. Then everyone kinda starts talking about everything again, and he just sits in silence and stares at this knot on the table that Mare pointed out to him because she said it looked like a turtle on its back. He traces it a few times, just sort of thinking about that moment and all the other times they would be in this kitchen doing dishes after family gatherings etc. Farley watches him from across the table

before getting up and nodding for him to follow her outside. Everyone pretty much doesn't notice them leave, or they pretend not to notice. They sit outside on the back porch in silence, just the two of them. After a little bit, it starts to snow. The first snow of the year. Farley holds her hand out to catch the flakes and says quietly: "I hate that it doesn't rain when these things happen. It always feels like it should be raining." He nods silently in agreement, and then she sets her hand on his shoulder, and he bends forward, letting the weight of it drop his head into his hand. He doesn't cry again, he honestly doesn't understand why he feels nothing now, just emptiness, and numbness from the tips of his fingers all the way to the tips of his toes. Even with Maven he didn't feel this way. He felt something then, something biting and hot like a pan that he touched when it just came off the stove. They sit like that for a long time before Coriane comes outside, and slips underneath his arm to snuggle against him. Farley gets up and leaves then, sensing she's said her peace and he understands she's there if he needs her. He holds Coriane close when the back door closes, and she whispers quietly to him, "Mommy's not coming home, is she?" and he just squeezes her once in answer. She frowns and stares out at the snow for a second and then turns around to face him and cups his cheeks in her little hands like she had seen Mare do a hundred times when Cal was in the middle of an especially hard day. She looks at him with a very serious expression for a child and he can see Mare in her when she does that, in the crease of her brows and the slight squint in her eyes. In the hint of chocolate brown in the curls of her hair. She will be furiously beautiful like her mother, and he had a feeling someday she will break a man's heart like his is breaking now. She looks at him for a good little bit and then says, "don't worry, I will take care of you." And he laughs, knowing that Mare always said the same thing. He pulls her close again and whispers with a thick voice, "it's my job to take care of you. But it's just us now... we have to take care of each other."

The funeral is in the spring. Cal pushed it off. Mare hated the winter. Even though she had happier memories of it now, her childhood and the painful clenching of her empty belly were like a permanent stain on the season. He would not bury her in that time. When the snow thaws and the ground melts, they release her ashes on a hill and leave stone for her on a hill under a tree, with a view of the mountains. There is a long line of epithet underneath her name: beloved daughter, sister, friend, wife, mother. Staring at it, Cal wonders if she knows just how important she had become. If she knew that she wasn't just a captain, or a figurehead that brought a centuries old regime to its knees. Everyone leaves after, the Barrows going last, but Cal and Coriane stay. Cal just sitting in the grass next to the grave, the wind in his hair while he watches the mountains for a little while. Coriane sits on the grave, probably not the nicest thing to do, but she does, and traces Mare's name over and over again on the stone with her little finger. "Mommy had a long name." She says as she traces the four names on the stone. Cal hesitated to put his name on there with hers, but he adopted the Barrow name as much as Mare took the Calore one when they married. And in the very, very short will she had drafted, that he almost didn't read because reading it made everything real, she asked that he put both their names on it (but to put his name before hers and she even made a little quip at him in the will about it which made him laugh, even as it made him cry). He glances at Cori after she says that and nods. She then crawls into his lap and they sit watching the mountains before Coriane says, "Uncle Julian says that when people die, they become the dirt that feeds the trees and the grass... do you think mommy is happy to be tree food?" He laughs and hugs her really close before saying, "She's not tree food. That dust we let go of today was mommy. She's on the winds now, traveling everywhere."

He does not remarry, no matter how many years pass, and how many women try to infer that it might be for the best if Coriane had mother in her life. He thinks its a stupid notion that he can't raise his own child on his own. And its hard, god is it hard. But he does it. He makes Coriane Barrow Calore into a women that Mare Molly Calore Barrow would have been very proud of. And he holds onto the notion that someday, when he dies, and they scatter his ashes, that his will find Mare's and they'll be together again that way.

[rohad93]

Werewolf in the hospital

As far as Halloween’s go, this one could have been better for her. It wasn’t often she ended an evening sitting in the ER, dressed as a werewolf, with a broken nose, but she couldn’t say now that it didn’t ever not happen!

The night had started fun enough. She’d been out with Gus and Willow at a party being thrown at one of their college’s many fraternity houses. One that was affectionately referred to as the ‘Illusion coven’ around campus because of its many resident students that were known for their penchant for pranks and being able to disappear without a trace when the heat was turned up in response, as well as a large handful of their students that were also members of the school’s ‘magic appreciation club’.

They of course, always threw the best parties, especially at Halloween.

This one had been no different. The music and lights could be seen from about two blocks away. There was a long line of students waiting to get in the front door, but luckily for her and Willow, Gus was a member, which got them through the door instantly.

The place was jammed packed when they finally arrived and Luz could barely hear herself think over the music that was trying to vibrate her teeth right out of her skull, but that didn’t stop her from making a beeline straight for the dancefloor with her friends in tow for the first hour. Excessive amounts of energy made dancing the perfect activity for her, even if she generally lacked any grace or coordination.

It was weird to finally be at one of these raging school parties after all the ones she had been purposely excluded from in high school.

After four years of being an outcast in high school and spending most Saturday night’s alone, watching anime or writing fanfiction to fill her spare time, she hadn’t expected her social life to really take off in college, though ‘take-off’ might have been a strong word for it. She still only had a handful of friends, but it was still a far cry from how she’d been a loner in high school.

Leaving to go to college out of state had given her an opportunity to start new, though she was still the same old Luz she had been her senior year, there were so many more people at her college with varying interests and backgrounds than her small-town high school where everyone had known each other since grade school and pretty much stuck together from the first grade on.

You release one nest of spiders at nap time and suddenly you’re branded for life as ‘that weird kid’. She didn’t like to admit how much that had really bothered her when she was a kid, but it just became the norm as she got older. It didn’t stop her enjoying life as much as she could, even if she had gotten thrown out of prom her senior year for wearing an otter onesie.

It was still nice to actually have friends now, one’s she could study with in the library or just have lunch with and not blink an eye when she said something totally bizarre, or at least bizarre by most people’s standards.

Meeting Willow, her dorm mate, and then Gus through her, had been a lifesaver and through them, she had met other student’s, some of which she shared classes with, like Viney, who despite being an upperclassman was only now taking her English comp basics so they worked together on group assignments, she was funny and easy to get along with. It didn’t take long for Luz to count her, along with Gus and Willow as her closest friends.

Viney was also dating Emira Blight, one of the infamous Blight twins, who were also members of the ‘Illusion Coven’, so she knew Viney was probably somewhere here among the many bodies packed into the large house, though the chances of running into her were slim.

She wasn’t at all surprised to see the copious amounts of alcohol that was everywhere either, that was one thing about college that TV had gotten right. College students drank; a lot.”

She watched three students doing a keg stand till beer squirted out of the guy on the kegs’ nose.

She snorted, grinning to herself and showing off the mouthful of sharp canines she had spent a good hour in the bathroom getting molded to fit too her teeth. She was, of course, the definition of a broke college student, attending entirely on a full scholarship, cause when you don’t have anyone to hang out with, you might as well study, and it was finally paying off, but she still had little in the way of personal spending money given her measly paycheck from working part-time at ‘The Owl House’ An owl themed diner just off campus owned by the most eccentric woman Luz had ever met, did not make for the most extravagant costume. But she made do with an old red flannel, ripped jeans, and some dollar store pointed ears and face paint. She had splurged a little on the fake teeth, she’d reuse them next year, werewolf was a classic after all.

Despite her less than ideal paycheck, Edalyn Clawthorne, or Eda ‘The Owl Lady’ as she was known around town, was good to her, letting her eat and drink for free or study there when she wasn’t working, and honestly, Luz kind of wanted to be Eda when she grew up. She was self-assured and didn’t care what anyone thought about her, not to mention surprisingly foxy for her age.

“You guys want something to drink?” Gus yelled at her and Willow to be heard over the pounding music and voices.

“Is there anything without an octane rating?” Willow questioned, as she watched an upperclassman drinking something straight out of the bottle at maximum speed.

After all, she and Willow were only nineteen, and Gus seventeen, he was crazy smart and had skipped a couple of grades. Luz had never had much interest in drinking, despite Eda sometimes offering her a drink from her flask with the Owl etched into the side.

She didn’t even know what was in it, only that Eda referred to it as “Mama’s magic Elixir’. She always said no and Eda would shrug and tip it back till it was empty.

“There’s punch, but I’d still be careful. Chances are good it’s already been spiked.” He shrugged.

“No thanks,” Willow shook her head and turned to look at something, the glitter on the wings of her fairy costume catching the bright colored lights overhead. She still hadn’t figured out what Gus was supposed to be. He was wearing a long red tube with a smiley face on it and long sleeves that went down to the ground that he flung about in excitement.  

“I might take my chances on those snacks!” Luz shouted, eyeing the array of treats laid out on the table for the taking. She was willing to bet no one had spiked the cake and it looked really good from here. Gus grinned and Willow rolled her eyes, smiling. Anyone who knew Luz for any amount of time knew she had a voracious appetite and an even bigger sweet tooth.

“Yeah, okay, just don’t eat everything.” Gus laughed at her.

“No promises!” She grinned back before moving across the room, trying to slide between the bodies that packed every square inch of the place and get to the refreshment table. People were moving in every direction around her as the music blared and the lights flashed, it was a little disorienting actually, but she had her eyes on the prize.

She had just made it to the table when the crowd surged and sent her careening into someone else standing there, slamming into their back and making them spill their drink.

“Watch it, nitwit! A voice growled at her before stopping. “Oh, hi, Luz.”

Luz blinked, realizing who exactly she had just slammed into, and swallowed thickly.

Amity Blight, who she did not exactly start off on the best foot with when classes had started a few months ago but now had a much more friendly relationship with.

Amity Blight, the smart and talented girl she shared creative writing and literature appreciation with. Amity Blight, who Luz had a teeny, tiny, minuscule... huge, crush on.

Amity Blight, who was dressed prettily as a witch, complete with black and green striped leggings and a pointed black hat and, who she had just slammed into and spilled her drink on.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Amity!” Luz grimaced at the wet spot now in the middle of Amity’s black blouse.

“Oh, it’s okay, really, no big deal!” Amity waved a hand, snatching a napkin off the table and dabbing at the spot.

“You sure? I could go...get you something or…,” she started, unsure.

“NO, no it’s fine, really…,” she insisted and Luz frowned. She must have embarrassed the other girl, her face was tinged red as she wiped at the spot, and was trying not to look Luz in the eyes.

‘Mierda’ Luz cursed under her breath.

Clearly, Amity did not want to talk about the spill anymore, so Luz cleared her throat, drawing the young woman’s gaze.

“What are you doing here? You don’t strike me as the… party type,” she asked and Amity rolled her eyes and Luz’s chest seized up, wondering if she’d insulted her until Amity spoke again.

“I’m not, but my brother and sister are members here and all but forced me to come tonight,” she huffed. “I’d much rather be back in my dorm, studying for our quiz in lit appreciation Monday and not getting a headache from this music.” she frowned and Luz blinked.

“Oh, Mierda! I forgot about the quiz!” Luz slapped her hands to her cheeks and Amity blinked at her before laughing.

“It was written on the board yesterday and the professor sent out an email reminder this morning.”

“Ugh, I didn’t check my email today,” she groaned, squishing her cheeks.

“Well, you still have tomorrow to study,” Amity offered.

“There was so much material to cover though…” Luz groaned. “I’m not gonna sleep all weekend, I’m going to have to cram till I push out every memory of the third grade just to make room for it all.” She frowned, already thinking about all the coffee she was going to have to drink before Monday morning, and on Monday morning.

Amity was biting her lip, thinking, but decided to take the chance.

“You can come study with me. Only if you want that is!” she quickly finished, pushing a stray strand of dyed, half mint, green, half auburn hair behind one of her ears.

“Really?” Luz asked.

“Yeah, I was just about to get out of here anyway, I’ve had enough of the party…” she said, looking around at all the people crowded into the room.

“Yeah, I’d love to!” Luz jumps on the opportunity, cause why wouldn’t she. “Oh, I came with Gus and Willow…” she remembers her friends somewhere in the house.

“Oh…” Amity seems to deflate a little at that. “Maybe another time?”

“No, it’s all good! I’m just gonna go tell them I’m headed out. You, uh, wanna meet outside?” she asks and Amity is smiling at her again and Luz just wants to melt into a puddle on the floor as those amber eyes stare back at her

“Yeah, I’ll wait for you.”    

“Great! I’ll be quick,” she promises as she runs back out into the crowd, looking for her friends. It takes her about ten minutes to find them in the living room.

“Hye guys, is it cool with you if I head out?”

“Where are you going?” Willow questions her.

“I ran into Amity, who reminded me we have a quiz in lit appreciation Monday and I really need to study and she offered to study with me, so…” she trails off, seeing the look Willow is giving her. The horticulture student is very aware of Luz’s crush, despite her never really saying anything about it. She does not count gushing to the shorter girl about how smart and pretty Amity is as ‘saying anything about it’.

“Why would you wanna leave a party to study?” Gus makes a face and Willow smirks.

“I think it’s more about who she’s studying with…” she says knowingly and Luz blushes as Gus blinks at her, confused.

“It’s cool, Luz. Go study with Amity.”

Luz does not care for the knowing way Willow says the other woman’s names, with a teasing lilt, but she’s not concerning herself with that for now.

“Thanks, guys, I’ll see you later,” She calls, already running toward the front door.  

She doesn’t immediately see Amity, in fact, the yard in front of the house is empty, everyone inside.

Luz frowns, looking around. Did she get tired of waiting?

Her chest aches a little at the thought, shoulders slumping, and is just about to turn around and go back in the house when she hears something that does not match the thumping bass of the music inside, voices. She walks quietly around to the side of the house and peeks around the wall curiously, if college has taught her anything it’s that there are students making out anywhere at any given time and not to look too closely into dark corners where sounds are coming from.  

Her eyes widen as she spots Amity right away, her back is pressed against the wall and a guy dressed in a toga is standing in front of her, leaning down over her. He’s not particularly big, but he’s standing uncomfortably close with his hands wrapped around both of her wrists, hands fisted, Amity is scowling angrily up at him. Luz’s brows furrow between her eyes and she frowns, walking over quickly.

“I said let go!” Amity snaps, trying to rip her hands free from his grip and he’s so close she can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Come on, just a little kiss, it’s Halloween…” He leans forward and Amity turns her head away,  sneering.

“I don’t care if it’s fucking Christmas!” she snarled. “I said no!”

“Hey!” Luz shouts standing just a few feet away now. “She said no!” she growled, lips pulled back over her fangs.

“Luz!” Amity stares at her wide-eyed.

“This is none of your business bitch, go howl at the moon,” he slurred before turning back to Amity and yanking on one of her hands. She yelps in pain as he jerks her and Luz is moving forward before she even knows it and her fist is connecting with the side of his face.

He goes fumbling backward, releasing Amity as he stumbles to his butt in the grass.

“Santa mierda, eso duele!” she hissed, shaking out her screaming hand.

“Come on!” Amity grabs her other hand and starts to pull her away but then the guy is scrambling to his feet and coming at her with a strangled yell and Luz does the first thing she can think of, she uses their joined hands to yank Amity behind her and then the guy’s fist connects with her face and her world an explosion of pain and crunching noises.

She’s only vaguely aware of Amity screaming her name as her back hits the grass and everything goes black for a second but then she’s quickly pulled back to consciousness by his hand fisted into the front of her shirt and her fight or flight instincts kick in and she’s swinging wildly at his ugly mug as quickly as she can.

Her hands protest every hit that connects with his stone-hard face but she doesn’t stop and he’s swinging back, but she can hardly feel it over the constant pain radiating from her nose through her whole body.

She just clenches her eyes shut and keeps swinging, punching him as hard as she can, but then there are more voices and two large burly guys have him in a stranglehold, pulling him off her.

Amity had dashed back inside to grab the houses ‘bouncers’ standing just inside the door.

“Oh my god, Luz!” Amity holds her hands over her mouth as she kneels onto the ground next to her, looking over her face in horror.

“Ugh…” is all she can manage and then Amity is grabbing her hand and helping to her feet and dragging her across the yard, fumbling, panicked through her purse before finally pulling out her keys. She unlocks the passenger side door of a small black sedan and carefully pushes Luz into the passenger seat.

“Keep your head tilted back,” she says before closing the door and hurrying around to the other side, and jumping in the driver’s seat.

It’s only now that Luz realizes she can taste blood and reaches up to touch her top lip and pulls her hand back to see her fingers covered in the crimson liquid.

‘Well, that’s not good,’ she thinks, but it definitely explains why her face hurts so bad.

She tilts her head back but can feel it dribbling down her chin and neck as Amity pulls away from the curb, much faster than the speed limit, Luz is sure as the tires squeal.

She runs her tongue across her teeth and feels a distinct lack of a point and groans, making Amity glance at her.

“I think I swallowed one of my teeth…,” she mumbles more to herself but Amity’s pained expression turns into a grimace as they speed down the road.

Which was how she found herself sitting next to her crush in the ER with her head tilted back and the front of her once white shirt stained crimson as her nose continues to bleed.

Halloween is apparently a very popular time for injury because it’s crowded and takes two hours for someone to see her, while they wait Amity fills out her paperwork for her.

“Birthday?” she asks glumly, and Luz tells her. She hasn’t said much since they left the party, she looks miserable, and that’s coming from someone who is doing their best impression of a fountain with her nose. She can’t stand that face Amity is making. “Allergies?”

“Lactose intolerant, so no milk IV’s,” she jokes, despite the incredible pain in her face. Amity starts to write but then stops, blinking, before turning to look at her grin.

“How can you joke? You just got beat up… because of me.” she frowns.

“No, I got my block busted because some guy was being a pendejo.” Luz frowns. “It wasn’t your fault, and I wasn’t just going to stand there and let him….do whatever he wanted!” she scowled, throwing up a hand.

Amity is looking at her with an unreadable expression, but before she can say anything they are calling her back.

“Oh goody, my turn.”

It takes forty-five minutes for them to tell her that her nose is broken, which she could have told them when she caught sight of herself in a mirror, a bloody mess and her nose pushed to the side at an odd angle. No wonder Amity had been so panicked and run all those red lights.

Putting it back in place is… not fun, and then the doctor stuffs gauze in her nose and splints the outside, telling her she needs to keep the gauze in for a week and then sends her on her way with a prescription for antibiotics and some mild painkillers.

Amity is waiting for her when she comes out.

“What did he say?” she stands as Luz walks back out into the waiting room and frowns at the splint on her face.

“It’s broke.” she shrugs and Amity grimaces as they walk out back to the parking lot.

“I am so sorry, Luz.” Amity frowned. “If I’d just…”

“Hey,” Luz cut her off, she wasn’t having any of that. “I told you, it’s not your fault, technically, I started that fight… didn’t win it, but I started it,” she laughed to herself.

“You are surprisingly chipper for someone who just got their nose broken…” Amity can’t help but smile a little at the other woman’s cheery disposition.

“It’s not the first time I’ve broken something you know. The first time someone helped me along, but hey! Besides, I helped you, and that’s good enough for me.” She smiled as they stopped next to Amity’s car. Amity has a small smile on her face as she unlocks the car. “I hope this is healed up by thanksgiving or my mom is going to have a cow…,” she mumbled as an afterthought. Amity giggled to herself.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

The drive is mostly quiet until they pull up into the parking lot in front of Luz’s dorm building. Willow is probably already back in their room.

“Do you think this will get me out of the quiz Monday?” Luz wonders aloud as she unbuckles and Amity laughs.

“Doubtful... but…, if you’re up for it, I feel like I should at least treat you to breakfast or something for what you did… we could study after?” she offers.

Luz blinks at her, finally realizing what exactly is going on. She was certain before when Amity had asked her to study that she was just being nice, but the way she looks now, fingers tapping anxiously on the steering wheel and glancing at Luz out of the corner of her eye, she finally catches on and curses how oblivious she is at times.

“Like… a date?” she asks uncertainly and Amity flinches.

‘Y-Yeah.” she jerks her head in a nod and Luz is silent for a few seconds too long it seems. “If you don’t want to…!”

“No! No I do, want to go on a date with you, yes!” Luz nods, too fast, it makes her nose throb.  

“Really?” now Amity is turned to look at her, eyes wide, with a hopeful glint.

“Yes, absolutely.” Does she sound too eager? Probably, but she does not care, especially when Amity’s face lights up with that adorable little smile she’s seen on her face once or twice before in class when they talked and now she feels even dumber for not catching on quicker.

They plan for Amity to pick her up here at nine tomorrow morning and then Luz opens the door, but Amity stops her.

“Thank you, Luz… I don’t know what might have happened if you hadn’t shown up...” Amity says finally.

“Amity Blight, I will be your fearless champion anytime you need me too!” she declares, a fist on her chest. The bandages and bloodstains, as well as her nasally stuffed up voice, diminishes the gesture some, but Amity smiles adoringly at her none the less.

She hesitates a second before reaching across the console to lay a hand gently on Luz’s cheek before leaning forward to quickly kiss the other. Luz’s face erupts in red as her heart hammers in her chest.

“My fearless champion,” she agrees, cheeks a bright pink.

Luz’s face erupts in a grin.

Maybe the evening started poorly, but she can’t find it in herself to mind one bit.

[jenomark]

Part 3

➔Pairing: Idol!Haechan x Reader (Female) ➔Other Members/ Characters: Johnny ➔Genre: Smut (but with a plot!) ➔Warnings: vaginal penetration ➔Word count: 6,500

➔Summary: He’s an idol, a friend, and you took his virginity. Beginning your friends-with-benefits relationship with Haechan wasn’t the best idea, but you just can’t help yourself when it comes to him.

↞ Part 1 ↞ Part 2 

  You needed a soft place to land when you fell. He pretended like he wasn’t the right kind of landing, his Gemini lips razor sharp, the words pouring from his mouth meant to bewitch you. Though he’d never admit it, the boy was a soft caramel candy that melted between your lips, his chocolate center all over your tongue. Emotional unavailability turned into him showing up when you were sad, when you could feel nothing at all. He walked aimlessly until he found himself at your door. He always answered your calls. All the promises and needs in the world began to feel like commitment, his belongings placed strategically all over your apartment, the roof of his mouth hiding the dreaded B word. Boyfriend. Best friend.  In the darkness, he would feel you, notice you, make you real again. He would unwrap you like a piece of candy, moving you around in his fingers until he wanted a taste. In the light, you were free falling.

11:46 a.m.

You:  What do you mean Johnny is on his way?

11:52 a.m.

You: He’s here! What should I do? I’m not ready for this.

11:53 a.m.

You:  I am going to kill you, Donghyuck.

                          24 Hours before Haechan sent the texts

  Haechan let himself into your apartment. He never walked up your stairs unannounced. He told you he respected the line between privacy and whatever you were doing together, but you thought he was just too scared to see you in your natural habitat. Standing outside in the daylight made him nervous, and hiding behind doors had become so natural with his profession. You didn’t mind, even if it brought up a ton of questions you weren’t ready to answer. Secretly, you liked going to the top of your stairs and seeing him standing there, only his eyes visible underneath his Balenciaga hat. There were days he barely made it up the stairs before you jumped on him, your mouth and hands full of longing. 

“You’re late.” you said.

“Wrong,” he said. “It’s exactly ten in the morning. If I’m late, it’s because your clocks are wrong.”

  He trudged up the steps with his face looking down. In one of his hands was a gift bag, and in the the other, flowers so vibrantly red that you could see them in the darkness of the stairwell. When he reached the top of the steps, he pulled his mask down and pecked you on the lips. Watching him walk through your apartment felt natural. He knew exactly where to put the flowers. He padded around in your slippers, his movements so comfortable you would think he was shifting his mail from the table. He sat in his favorite chair facing you, his hands rummaging around in the bag he brought. There was something about his ease of existing that made you remember how you felt about him. He wasn’t quiet in the slightest. He yelled in your space, his lungs expanding to fill the room with a confident breath. You wheezed.  More and more, you were realizing he was everything you wanted to be, everything you wanted to be with. He won.

“You look handsome.” you said.

  Haechan’s hair was faded, and it matched his skin tone even better than his natural hair color did. Dark hair, you had come to realize, made him look more like a child. The Haechan before you was a man, the veins in his arm ropy and thick, like he had worked every day for the last ten years. You had looked at him many times before, but each time was more eye-opening than the last. You began to notice the little scars on his face without the shift of light. You could draw every mole on his body without a map, knew the faces he made when he was annoyed with menial things, and it was getting easier to spot all of the signs that you were falling for. 

“I know.” he said without his usual lack of enthusiasm. 

 Out from the bag came a box. You didn’t have to hear him say it to know what it was. He smiled when he pulled it out, ripping off the plastic like he was tearing into a present he had always wanted. Haechan got up from his chair to present you with his gift: a brand new phone to replace the one he had broken. You were a little taken aback, your eyes darting over the face of the box, and your hands not knowing what to do with themselves. 

“You know,” you said. “Most girls would expect jewelry.”

  He wasn’t listening. He unearthed the phone from its box and held it in his hands. You felt the weight of your own slightly damaged phone in your pocket. He once called you stubborn because you refused to upgrade to a better model, but you were never one to burn money on things you didn’t need. Your phone still worked. Besides, the ridiculous attachment you had to it was difficult to explain. 

“What do you think?” he asked, holding out the phone for you to inspect. “Do you like it?”

  Haechan had peeled away the plastic to reveal the phones shiny facade. It was the same model as his, but he held it differently in the palm of his hand. You could tell that he wanted you to be pleased by his act of generosity. You made eye contact with him and smiled. You didn’t want a new phone, and he knew that.

“It’s nice,” you said. “You didn’t have to buy me a new phone. I thought you were joking when you said that.”

  Again, Haechan wasn’t listening to you. He looked down at the phone and turned it on. He sat back down in the chair to fidget with it, his fingers smudging the screen. You sat on the edge of the couch and tucked your hands between your legs. 

“We can get everything properly set up tomorrow,” he said. “Until then, you’ll have to use your old phone.”

“Why tomorrow?” you asked. “Why not today?”

“I have a date today,” he said.  He checked the expensive watch on his wrist. “I really shouldn’t be here right now. “

“Oh,” you said. “A date?”

  Your voice sounded too high, too sad. You cleared your throat. You opened your mouth to say something else, but the message was marked for deletion. You blinked a few times, the make-up you wore last night making your eyes stick together. You felt like a robot waiting for someone to program the right things for you to say. Speak now. Tell him you’re not bothered. You stood up, wishing desperately that you could retract the emotion from your voice. You took the phone from his hands and thanked him quietly, dragging the bag out from between his legs. You felt awkward and silly for ever thinking that you could be more than just friends. You moved around the room, cleaning up things that were already clean. You needed to keep busy, needed to keep your mind distracted. You could feel Haechan watching you spiral, but you didn’t dare turn to look at him. You wanted to keep just a little bit more of your dignity. 

“Johnny set me up with another idol,” he said.  “ I’m sorry. I didn’t know about it until I came home last night. I was going to tell you, but I wanted to tell you in person.”

“No,” you said, still moving. “It’s okay. You don’t need to tell me anything, Donghyuck. You have your life, and I have mine. We’re adults.”

  Haechan stood up. His slippered feet were loud on your floor. Each step he took felt like a stab to your heart. You didn’t stop moving. You pushed a chair in. You shifted an empty box onto another table. You caressed a plant in passing, its leaves already dead. You wiped invisible dust from a table top. You stared at the clock on your wall a little too long, as if you too were expecting suitors to come knocking on your door. He was right. Your clock was running too fast. Haechan followed you as you moved, the sound of him making you nervous. He was trying to get your attention, but you were avoiding him. There was a speck of dirt across the room that you needed to attend to. You were going to rid it from this earth until he moved in front of you, blocking your path.

“Talk to me,” he said. “I want to be honest with you.”

“What should I say?”

  You dropped your arms to your side. You stared at him directly, your eyes so wide, your back ramrod straight. You wanted to give the appearance of confidence but you feared that you just looked unhinged. You took a deep breath and waited for him to talk, but he didn’t.

Even though you knew it was a mistake, you continued, “ I’m happy for you. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”

“It’s just a date,” he said. “I’m not getting married.”

“That’s good to hear,” you said. “Who knows? Maybe you will marry her and you’ll live happily ever after.” 

 The sarcasm was too thick to strain from your voice. You could feel the conversation turning sour, in real time. You looked at him and he looked at you, his beautiful face full of sun. You turned around and closed the blinds, in a huff. You didn’t want the outside world to see what kind of person you could become when you were backed into a corner. In your short time being with him, you both managed to keep the real world out of your relationship. You never fought with him. If you bickered, the make-up sex saved you from destruction. You never found an issue with anything he did.  For you, everything he did was a preface to the love story you sometimes fantasize about having with him. He was always the one person in your life whose relationship to you was well defined.  You were the one in the wrong. Even though you knew it well, you couldn’t stop your emotions from wreaking havoc on what you had built in your little apartment. Haechan didn’t just take the steps up to you all on his own. You were the one who met him halfway, and you walked the rest of the way up together.

“What’s wrong? You look sad, ” he asked. “Talk to me.”

 You tried moving past him, but he held you by your arms. You couldn’t look him in the eyes without crying, so he took your chin and forced you to. You didn’t know how to tell him that the thought of him being with someone else made you feel sick. It didn’t seem right to ask him not to go on the date. 

“Nothing is wrong,” you said. “Everything is okay, on my end.” 

  Haechan dropped your head. You could see the annoyance on his face. Though he tried to be patient, he was physically tired.  He looked away from you and looked at the blinds you had closed. You took a step back from him. You couldn’t help but wonder if it was sadness you read on his face, too.

“Are we friends?” he asked.

You were surprised by the question. “Of course we’re friends. Donghyuck, I’ve never wanted to be someone's friend as badly as I wanted to be yours. ”

 He looked back at you. He was searching your eyes for the truth, the real truth. He never quite trusted you with his thoughts, his fears, or his concerns. You hoped for profound conversations with him, but he was a wall full of locks.  Reading him was even more difficult than you thought it’d be. The sadness you thought you saw looked a little like humiliation when you opened the box to look inside. Were you the one who had read too much into the relationship? Did he show up at all hours of the night only because he felt sorry for you?

“Go on the date,” you said. “Live your life.” 

“Is that what you want?”

No. “ I want you to be happy.” 

  Haechan laughed. There was no joy in his laugh, only sorrow. “You frustrate me,” he said. He walked forward, and you walked backward until your back was up against the blinds. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I want you to go on the date.” you said. 

  Your automatic responses returned. You sounded dead inside, a hollow, metal body without any feeling. The moment he interlocked your fingers with his and looked down at the way your hands fit together, you could feel yourself becoming real. You had feelings, a heart, and thoughts in the shape of him. He touched his free hand to your cheek, warming your skin with his. He removed his hat and moved forward enough so that you could kiss his forehead. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said softly.

  Haechan picked you up and set you delicately on top of the table in front of the window. Your ass barely balanced on its edge, but with your legs wrapped around his waist, you kept yourself steady. As he kissed you, your head hit the window. You pulled the shirt tucked into his pants, but you didn’t let go of his hand. He lifted your arms together and pushed them against the blinds. You could hear them snapping in half, but you didn’t care. You could feel his tongue in your mouth. You could feel his devotion to you covering all your wounds, like a band-aid. 

“Not here,” you whispered.

  He lifted you up into his arms and tried carrying you to the bedroom, but you didn’t make it. You both capsized, sinking down onto the floor amidst boxes that didn’t belong to you, and a heart that didn’t, too. You looked up at him and brushed his hair from his face. He smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes.

  When you felt him move inside of you for what you promised yourself should be the last time, you lost yourself in the heat. You pushed him off of your body until he was on his back. You held his arms down so he couldn’t touch you, and you rode him until you were sure you had fucked him out of your system.

  You tormented yourself with thoughts of him meeting a woman without a face. Underneath the pixelations, she must have been pretty, but it didn’t matter. Around 3 p.m, you imagined him picking her up for the date. He would avoid the public's attention and roll up in a managers car, his window rolled down a little so she would know it was him. Maybe she was a singer, and when she got in the car, she sang him a song that made him fall in love with her. Those thoughts chased you through your day, even after you tried sleeping them away. Your hands felt full of his body, long after he left. Around 5 p.m,  you touched yourself, imagining it was his hand drawing up your inner thigh.

 When Haechan left, he looked back at you from the bottom of the stairs. You leaned against the wall and let your hair fall in front of your face. He left the new phone with you. As always, he was going to leave his jacket on the hook. You were angry with him for not actualizing how his date would affect you. You couldn’t continue to fuck someone else’s man, even if it was after something as harmless as a first date. You would give him space to figure out what he wanted.

“I’ll see you,” he said. 

  You knew he meant later, or tomorrow. He didn’t find much of a problem with dating someone casually and then coming over to your apartment to fuck you. You excused him because of his age, but you didn’t think it was that valid of an excuse. After you fucked, you asked him politely to get dressed and leave. Haechan dressed silently, looking at you the whole time he was buckling his belt. If you returned his gaze, you knew you’d never let him walk out of your life.

“Yeah.” you said.

“Is that all you’re going to say to me?” he asked.

  Haechan placed the hat back on his head. You fought the urge to bowling ball yourself down your stairs and knock that hat right from his head. You didn’t own him. You didn’t want to own him. You didn’t want to be upset, and you didn’t want to keep so damn silent about how you really felt. Deep down, you convinced yourself that maybe it was for the best. Your relationship might never have worked if you brought it beyond sex, and if it did, you weren’t sure the rest of the world would accept you. It was natural for Haechan to date another idol, to avoid the press for as long as possible before making an announcement on some shitty tabloid website. It was natural for you to shut people out, holding yourself up in your apartment and only caring about work and the five hundred boxes that crowded your space.

“We’ll talk later.” you said.

 You decided to smile, to hide behind the pain that both of you could see standing at the top of the stairs, your heart bleeding down into your shoe. He turned his back on you and walked out of your door, slamming it shut behind him. 

  Since he left, you’d been moping around. You cried a few times, throwing the tissues onto the floor once you were done with them. You kept the blind shuts and watched movies all day, your legs folded haphazardly underneath you. Around half past seven at night, your phone pinged. You reached for it underneath all the tissues. The cracks in the phone let the light shine dully, but it was so bright in the dark apartment that it hurt your eyes. 

“What do you want?” you asked out loud.

  You saw Haechan’s text on your lock screen, a picture of him smiling behind it. Ignoring it would have been the wise choice, but you were too nosy for that. You took your phone and slid the lock open, your eyes squinting to read the texts. 

Haechan: Hope you’re doing well, y/n! I’m having coffee in this cold weather. It doesn’t taste too great. Dress warmly and stay healthy. Remember to take care of yourself.  I love you.

  When you noticed it was an automated text, you dropped your phone on the couch. As a joke, Haechan had set you up with an account weeks ago. “This way, “ he said. “Even when I’m not with you, I’m with you.” The texts he sent sometimes made you laugh. You could always tell when he wrote something with you in mind. Thousands of girls saw it every day, but the message was always meant just for you. You picked up your phone again and looked at the message. As you did, a selfie came through. In it, he was barely smiling, and his finger was poking his cheek. Looking closely at the background, you could see that he was at home. You had never been at his dorms, but he had sent you many graphic pictures from his bed. 

 You sat up and looked around your apartment. He was home. You stood up, your legs asleep, the pins and needles stabbing all the way down to your feet. You started at a run, but the pain was so great that you stumbled into a few boxes, knocking them over with a loud crash. You couldn’t move fast enough. You ran down your steps, stuffed your angry feet into your shoes, grabbed his jacket from the hook and wrapped it around your body. Flinging open your front door, you were immediately met with wind and rain. You went out anyway, holding your face away from the spray. You called an Uber and waited too long, your body shivering. When the car came, you didn’t make pleasantries with the driver. You tapped your hands on your knees the whole time and looked out of the window, asking yourself a million times what you were doing.

“Here!” you shouted when the Uber driver didn’t stop immediately.

“Let me pull over.” he said gruffly, his hand turning the wheel. 

 You waited impatiently, looking over your shoulder to see if anyone was walking down the street. In his neighborhood, it was easy to get caught, which is why you always avoided his dorm. Walking into the members on accident was extra dynamite in your path. You wouldn’t know how to explain why you were standing outside of their building in Haechan’s jacket, and with a scared shitless expression on your face.

“Please hurry,” you whispered, biting your knuckles. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  You didn’t want to be too late. The whole ride over, you imagined how there was a possibility that he didn’t go home alone. You were the only person he had ever slept with. You didn’t know if he would take everything he learned from you and pass it onto someone else. You didn’t know if that was what he wanted.

  When the car pulled into the spot, you flung yourself out of it with only a thank you as a parting gift. You stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the building, breaking eye contact only as a couple passed you on the pavement. It had started snowing, the flakes falling from the sky so beautifully before they melted on the ground. You looked down at them landing on Haechan’s jacket, its beauty perfectly captured before it sunk down into the fabric. You looked back up at the building and thought about turning back when your phone pinged.

Haechan: Are you dressed warmly?

  At first, you thought it was another automated message. It wasn’t. You rubbed your thumb over his name, your fingernail getting stuck in the crack. You loved the phone so much, because every bit of him was all over it. You could transfer photos and keep them in clouds and drives, but his fingers were all over the buttons, and the memories of your smile were trapped behind the screen.  You ran your finger over the crack again, before replying:

You: I am. 

Haechan: Liar

  You looked down at your phone. Reading the word Liar made you feel emotional. You wiped a tear that had fallen on your cheek, with the back of your hand. You kept remembering how,  in the beginning,  you asked him if he was brave enough. You believed that you were the one prepared for him, but you weren’t. You were the coward. 

You: I’m very warm. You didn’t like the coffee?

Haechan: No

You: What was wrong with it?

Haechan: It wasn’t made by you

You: Oh.

Haechan: Are you going to tell me the truth now?”

You: About what?

  Your heart was hammering in your chest. You lifted your head up to the sky and felt the snow softening on your face. When you looked back down at your phone, he had already written back: 

Haechan: About being dressed warmly. I’ve worn that jacket, and it’s always made me cold.

 You smiled, because he was right. It took you too long to grasp what he had said. When you did, you looked up and there he was. Haechan put his phone back into his jacket and looked you up and down. The way you both stood mimicked the night you decided you couldn’t wait to have him any longer. This time, it was him who closed the gap between you. There were no thoughts, no words, no long, drawn out sighs. Haechan took a step toward you and pulled you against his chest. 

“Don’t worry, “ he said. “They won’t be back until midnight. We’re alone. ” 

  You clung to his arm in the elevator, your cheek taking a rest on his shoulder. The ride up to his dorms was mostly silent. Haechan hummed a song and you just listened, the warmth of the building making you feel sleepy. There was so much you wanted to confess, but it didn’t feel like the right time to talk. When the elevator stopped at his floor, he took your hands and moved you forward. 

“Are you ready to see where I live?” he asked. “Where I think about you every single night?”

 Your heart had been beating against your rib cage the entire time, and it wasn’t getting any quieter. You kept waiting for a manager to meet you at the door, for one of his members to catch you in the act of holding hands. When Haechan swung his front door open, you had to stop yourself from closing your eyes to shield yourself from any impending doom. 

“Ta-da.” he said, his voice sounding so small. 

  Haechan was right. You were alone. The living space was empty and dark, the only light coming from a source over the stove. You took a step inside and removed your shoes. He offered you his slippers which were too big for you, but you liked having a part of him in the way he had you.

“What do you think?” he asked.

  There was no girl waiting on the couch, her small face confused by your presence. There wasn’t anyone coming to pull the rug from underneath your feet. Haechan led you further inside, his hands never releasing yours. You didn’t want to pry too much into their private lives, so you swept your eyes over a few things before searching his face. He looked content with having you there, albeit, a little bit nervous. 

“I like it,” you said. “It’s much nicer than my place.”

“Obviously,” he said. 

  You nudged him, playfully. Haechan pulled you in the direction of a door. You could feel a sickness growing in your stomach. You didn’t think you were ready to see his bedroom, the life he led beyond your world. Though you worked for the same man, your lives couldn’t be any more different. Haechan put his hand on his doorknob. At the same time, you felt something tug harder on your insides.

“Wait,” you said, pulling his arm. “Are you sure you want me to see this? There is no going back, if we do.”

“It’s just my bedroom,” he said. “You don’t have to be so scared. You let me in. Now, let me. “

You nodded. “Okay.” 

  Haechan opened the door to reveal a bedroom that could have existed anywhere. His blankets and sheets were blue and plain. His white furniture was from IKEA, a wireless charger and a packet of make-up wipes resting on top. There was a speaker, a computer, and a bathroom off to the side. You kept expecting some kind of secret to jump out at you from behind the curtain, but when you looked at the window, you only saw your reflection staring back at you.

“Come in, “ he said. “ It’s really okay, I promise.”

 You walked further inside. Haechan shut and locked the door behind him. You stood awkwardly, your eyes taking in the symmetry of the room. You knew Johnny was his roommate and could figure out which things belonged to him. You didn’t love being among Johnny’s personal things when he didn’t know. You thought you could smell his cologne haunting you, but then you turned around to see a table with expensive bottles on top. Relax.

“It’s nice, “ you said. “This isn’t how I imagined it. I thought it would be messier.”

“Me?” he asked. “Messy?  You know me. I’m not messy.”

“Do I know you?” you asked.

  It was meant to be taken lightly, but Haechan’s face looked sad. You felt bad for saying it. You were going to apologize but then he took off his jacket and threw it in a corner of the room. You looked to where it fell, the lump it had become looking even more somber. When you turned back to him, he was pulling his shirt from his torso. You watched him strip until he was fully naked and standing at the end of his bed, his body for you to witness.

“This is me,” he said. “Your tongue knows me. Your hands, they’ve touched me in more places than this body. You find your way back to me when you’re sad. We try to fight it, but we’re not strong. You and I, we’re gutless. But I have a heart. I thought I could make it go away easily, but that isn’t true. You said I was intelligent once, and that isn’t true either. If I were intelligent, I would have told you a long time ago how I felt. I would have been brave. I accepted that date from Johnny because I was scared. “

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, shaking your head. 

“It does to me,” he said. “I wanted you to fight for me. If I couldn’t do it, I wanted it to be you. I’ve always wanted it to be you. When I finally got you, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want it to ever end, but I knew we couldn’t keep going like that. “

  You stood in his room, and you removed your clothes, too. Piece by piece, they fell at your feet, each wrapping plunging to the floor. Being naked was easy, with him. You had sex so many times that you’d lost count. Being exposed to him felt different. You could feel that there was nothing left blocking the path between you. 

“So, we stop,” you said, stripping the last piece of clothing. “ Donghyuck, let's please stop. I’m tired.”

  He breached the space, his mouth on yours, his tongue melting like snowflakes on yours. You wrapped your arms around his middle and kept your body pressed tightly to his. He fell backwards onto his bed, with you on top of him. His hands were tangled in your hair before wandering all down your back. The noises coming from his throat as he kissed you were desperate. You moved your kisses down his body, from the tip of his chin, down his throat, over his chest, and on the sides of his hips. He was quiet and still, his fists clenching and unclenching. 

“I love you.” he whispered.

  You looked up. You kissed his mouth and asked him to say it again. Each time he did, you swallowed the words to keep them safe. Haechan gripped your waist and flipped you over until you were on your back. You hit the bed hard, your head bouncing back up. You had bitten your lip and tasted metallic on your tongue, but the pain made you laugh. You felt so happy, even when he looked distressed. Haechan held you close like he had damaged you, his head obscured by your neck.

“It’s okay, “ you whispered. “That’s not the first time you made me bleed.”

  As if remembering how roughly he had fucked you before, Haechan’s lust woke up from a deep sleep. He used his arms to raise himself above you. He looked like he was lost in a daze of happiness, his hair already a mess, his eyes already gleaming. Though it wasn’t the first time you had sex that day, it was the first time you felt fully in one piece. There would be time for more honest talks, but right then, it was time to make love to him.  You touched his chest before moving your hand down his belly to play with the fine hair there. His strength was minimal, so his arms shook as he held himself in that position. You wrapped your hands around his cock, the softness of it welcoming you home. 

“Baby, the things you do to me.” he whimpered, his words from before summoning so many feelings within you.

  You let him take the lead. He had learned enough from you, heard enough from you. He let you get him hard before taking over, his cock primed for your body. He kissed you again, his lips so soft and wet. You pulled him down so that you could hug him as he entered you, his body filling you up with so much love. Knowing that it wasn’t going to be the last time made it feel better than you could have imagined. Getting to be with him in a place so personal as the bed he slept in every day, progressed your relationship further than you ever would have thought.

  When all was finished, you wanted to fall asleep in his arms. You didn’t want to remember that it wasn’t over yet, that you were still a secret tucked safely underneath his bed sheets. You held onto him for a little bit longer before you had to let go.

“What happens now?” you asked, getting dressed.

  Haechan smiled. He was sheepish, his body folding like an accordion, back and neck bent, his throat so full of the most magical music. He put on his clothes inside out and brushed the hair nervously from his forehead. 

“We do what normal couples do,” he said. “We keep moving forward.”

“But we’re not a normal couple.” you said.

  You were fully dressed and ready to go. When he was finished, he brought you out into the living room so that you could put on your shoes. While you did that, he went back into his bedroom to erase every trace of you. You didn’t know if his members would be able to hear your moans as soon as they stepped foot in the dorm, your voice clinging like static electricity onto the curtains. To you, the smell of fresh sex stuck to everything. It wasn’t difficult to take one look at Haechan’s bedroom and know that love lived there. 

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes. “ 

  Before he opened the front door, he kissed you one last time. You wanted him to sleep over at your place, but he had a schedule tomorrow. When one issue was moved from the path, a few more tumbled down. 

“But I will talk to you when I can,” he said. “And I will send you pictures of me so you don’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you.” you said. 

  You held him as you walked all the way to the elevator. He tried tickling you by slipping his fingers underneath your jacket, but you squirmed away. When you brought yourself back to him, you were both laughing and playing around. When the elevator signaled that it was getting ready to open, you parted naturally, but your hands were still moving towards each other like magnets.  When the elevator doors opened, Johnny stood there with headphones in his ears and his eyes looking from Haechan, to you. 

“Hello.” Johnny greeted you, pulling the headphones from his ears and letting them rest around his neck.

  You nodded in greeting, your brain trying to remember how you must have looked to him. You were dressed. Check. Your hair was not a mess. Check. Both of your shoes were on the right feet. Check. You were too scared to look at Haechan. You didn’t want your look to betray anything you did in his bedroom. Johnny was very intelligent, and you knew it wouldn’t take much to make him suspicious. A second passed while you were thinking all of this. You thought you were out of the clear before Haechan stepped away from you, widening the already wide gap between you. You looked over at him at the same time as Johnny. The guilt on Haechan’s face was printed in red all across his cheeks. 

“You’re back early.” Haechan said.

Johnny smiled. “Yeah. Were you not expecting me back?”

  When Johnny looked at you, you knew it was over. You expected him to question both of you on the spot, but he just raised his eyebrows at Haechan and walked past him. When the door to the dorm shut behind Johnny, Haechan breathed a sigh of relief, but you weren’t so relaxed.

“He knows.” you said.

“Johnny?” Haechan asked. “He doesn’t know anything. I think he’s oblivious.”

  You really tried to hold onto that belief for as long as you possibly could. For a moment, as night turned to day, you pretended like you had fooled everyone. 

                                                Present Day

11:54 a.m.

You: Donghyuck!!

  Your phone slipped out of your hands and onto the floor as a fist hammered at your front door. You didn’t care about having another crack in your screen. After all, what was one more crack in your mess of a life? Quietly, you walked down your stairs. You waited at the bottom and hoped that he would stop knocking, that Johnny would disappear altogether.

“I can hear you breathing.” Johnny said through the door.

  You smoothed out the clothes you wore last night. When you got home, you fell into bed emotionally exhausted, without bothering to change. You liked to think you fell asleep with a smile on your face, but you were worried sick about how much Johnny knew. Waking up to Haechan’s texts was a nasty but unsurprising shock. 

“Sorry.” you muttered.

  You opened up the front door and gave Johnny your best “I’m innocent!” smile. He wasn’t wearing the clothes from the night before. In fact, he looked almost too perfect: his clothes pressed and his hair and make-up done. 

“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“I’m kind of busy right now,” you said. “Maybe come back later?”

“I think you’ll want to let me in for this.” he said.

  Johnny took his phone out of his pocket. You looked at the way his fingers worked to pull up a screen. You held onto the door to brace yourself, which was smart of you do. Johnny lifted up his phone to show you a picture of Haechan holding you outside of the 127 dorm, his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Someone saw you and Haechan last night,“ he said. “ They pulled out their phone, took pictures, and then sold those pictures. The owner of those pictures now wants you to make an announcement through them, or they’re threatening to release a bunch of them today. So, can I come in now?”

  You took Johnny’s phone out of his hand and thumbed through a gallery of pictures taken outside of the building and what looked like pictures of the security footage from inside of the elevator. You handed the phone back to Johnny. You tried to work through the tornado of feelings swirling inside of you, but all that could come out of your mouth was a resounding “ Fuck.” 

[snivellussnoop]

He Wished a Lot of Things

A trans Snape/Snupin one-shot (which you can also find here on my AO3 and here on my Wattpad!)

On a side note, why do we only do trans Snape stuff for a single week? Let’s make this bitch year-round.

Word count: 2804

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

He saw them first in his second year as the boy stepped out of the showers, a towel wrapped around his waist and his chest entirely exposed. Beneath the long black hair, whose water-dripping tendrils had been strategically placed over his chest, Remus Lupin could have sworn he had just laid his eyes upon two long, red scars.

The image kept him awake at times. He never asked; he knew Severus Snape was touchy to talk to in the first place, and scars — which he knew from personal experience — were even touchier. So he kept himself quiet, feeling different about the boy from then on, wondering about the newfound mystery of him every time their eyes met from across a classroom. But the question remained, and so did the scars.

‘How did you get them?’ he scrawled eventually on a piece of parchment after weeks of grappling with the thought, passing the letter casually across the long table in the Charms room and slipping it under his thin fingers. It took what felt like years to get a simple reply; one in such elegant cursive that his own handwriting looked like aimless ink above it.

‘Get what?’

Such a fruitless answer. But Remus wasn’t expecting much else. He tagged along almost every day as his friends taunted the boy; of course his responses would be slow and guarded.

‘The scars,’ he wrote back, and then, because he knew that Severus was more often injured by others than by accidents, he revised his question. ‘Who did it to you?’

He watched in anticipation as Snape contemplated the words, scribbling something below them but not giving the square of parchment back. The wait was endless. The class was the longest Remus had ever attended.

But he was answered when they left the classroom as the hour marked the end of the lecture, Severus catching him by the door and shoving the piece of paper back into his grip.

“Biology did this to me, Remus,” he said plainly. “Now get out of my way.”

Snape pushed past Lupin, his green-accented robes flowing behind as he hurried down the hall. Remus watched in puzzlement, slowly unfolding the parchment and wondering what the boy’s answer was even supposed to mean. Biology gave him scars? He couldn’t have been born with them; they looked far too fresh.

Looking down at the parchment, Remus gave a small laugh. Severus had taken the past thirty minutes to draw a werewolf in the bottom lefthand corner, tongue lolled out, heart-eyed as it reached up at the moon. The moon, which Remus noted with another charmed giggle, wore a subtle frown in its center.

He didn’t ask about the scars again for years.

—

He saw them again in the courtyard, but really only because he was looking for them. They had faded a lot since Year Two, and he wouldn’t have noticed had he not previously known.

James Potter had picked another brawl with him, and, in embarrassment after realising that he was losing, had hexed the boy’s shirt off. His hair, shoulder-length now, wasn’t long enough to conceal the traces that were left, and Remus found himself staring. Studying. Almost forgetting where he was. He tried to piece together the puzzle of the two faint red lines across Snape’s ribs, following them from left to right, over and over, looped like a scratched record.

And this didn’t go unnoticed. Severus Snape, trying his best not to squirm under the humiliating attention, stared back.

Remus looked away.

—

“Why do you have scars?”

He had found him in the library, sitting in the farthest aisle from the entry, completely empty aside from the two of them and the slight traces of a mild mouse problem.

Severus narrowed his eyes, slipping a ribbon in to mark his current progress in his book and turning around to face Lupin with a look of blank scorn.

“Since when did the lore behind my physical attributes become your affair?” he hissed. “It isn’t difficult to avoid inquiry about a potentially sensitive subject.”

“Mm,” Remus replied, less morally driven than his usual as he remained phlegmatic against the very fair point. “Luckily, the nerves on one’s chest are often not very sensitive at all, causing related issues to not hurt much in the least aside from inward intrusion.”

“Insightful,” Severus replied snarkily, closing his book and tucking it under his arm. “Charming that my skin is so important to you. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were interested.”

He stood up, and Remus, although towering over him in terms of height, felt suddenly very small.

“But I am interested,” he choked out, clearly missing the meaning behind the term. Snape closed his eyes and sighed with a deep and tired sense of resignation.

“My scars were put there by none other than myself,” he replied. “Don’t be concerned by this; I’m not actively suicidal and the process was beneficial, if anything. Incredibly safe.”

And he left. Remus said nothing. Somehow, although given more information, the situation became even more cryptic, and he understood less and less as he went.

But that was what Snape was. To him, anyway, the boy was an enigma first and an interest second. There was nothing else to it, and nothing else to him. Ambiguity and nothing else. Ambiguity and scars.

—

Remus saw Severus again at the Yule Ball, not like he was difficult to spot, being the only person there in all black, a sleek tunic covering his scarred frame.

“You really went for a new look, didn’t you?” he found himself asking snidely, smirking at the lack of change in his clothing. “That shade of black is just a touch lighter than usual. That’s a big step for you.”

“That shade of unwelcome involvement still hasn’t left your repertoire, however,” Severus was quick to reply. “I’ve been here for three minutes and you’ve shown up already. I should have stayed back and studied like I wanted to.”

A reply left Lupin’s lips before he could filter it out. It was disjointed, random, almost desperate, hitting them both head-on and leaving Severus more shocked than he’d ever inherently been.

“Dance with me.”

There was a silence, the soft motion of a punch glass being set down on tablecloth, and a shocked verbal receipt.

“What?”

Remus knew he couldn’t back out of his own words. He was too timid; too stubborn to admit to anything as a fault.

Giving a slight bow, he held out his hand as the music picked up. An offering, for once, that wasn’t ill-intended.

Tentatively, like a lamb accepting slaughter, the boy’s hand slipped into his.

—

“Potter can’t know.”

Snape whispered it through feverish kisses, leaning back against a pillar in the corridor as Remus lost sight of his own reserve, grasping at his shoulders, his hair, anything he could possibly bring closer to himself.

“James,” he corrected, pulling them both around the corner in the hall as he noticed the faint sound of a stray student’s footsteps, “won’t suspect a thing.”

—

“Good riddance to this bloody school,” Remus heard Sirius scoff as they packed their suitcases for the last time, all carrying diplomas and wearing flashy hats. Remus always found the hats silly, but he saw now why people were so fond of them when they left.

“Is James already back home? I know Peter left last night and I haven’t seen either of them since,” Lupin said, opening the dorm dresser drawers and forcing the last of his sweaters inside his case.

“Yeah. I think they took the last available train together yesterday,” Black replied. “Shame. We could have all left together like the years before. Like old times. This is the last time we’ll be leaving as students, you know.”

A small crunch came from under one of Lupin’s sweaters as he nodded in response. “Yeah,” he said. “Shame indeed. I’ll miss these memories. This school. It’s become my home, you know. And these last few hours…”

Pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from under his sweater, Remus paused as he saw a faded pair of handwriting styles and a silly illustration of a werewolf. His heart jumping in his chest, he put the drawing back under the sweater and closed his suitcase, picking it up and preparing to leave.

“…this is it.”

Sirius took their things to be loaded onto the train. Remus himself spent a good hour wandering the halls, so empty, so familiar, wishing them all a sincere goodbye. He scanned the small groups of people that were still left, hoping somewhere in the back of his head that the artist of the drawing under his shirt would still be in the building somewhere.

He wanted to speak to him. To ask him about what he would be doing in the war. To offer his address; to offer connection. But he didn’t find the boy anywhere, nor did he find a trace of him. No vandalised books, no cursive notes, and nobody in a sleek black tunic.

He was told by Horace Slughorn to check the library. He thanked him, but insincerely; he’d already looked there, and it was empty.

—

If he knew where Snape resided, he would have shown up. Written, at least. But all he had was the drawing. That was all he had for years. For a long time, he wasn’t even sure the man still existed.

November of 1981 left him connectionless and alone. He felt himself slipping into nothing, the sand of eternity slowly rising over his head until he couldn’t breathe. Every day was a nightmare.

He relied on the Prophet for his entertainment, for his distraction. Anything to make him forget, even for a moment. Anything at all.

And then something did make him forget that he was alone. An announcement that one couldn’t look past. That he couldn’t, anyway.

It wasn’t a major headline, but it was on the bottom left of the front page, announced in capital bold letters with a small, grainy picture too blurry to decipher.

HOGWARTS POTIONS PROFESSOR HORACE SLUGHORN REPLACED IN POSITION BY SEVERUS SNAPE

Immediately, without even thinking, Remus threw the paper on the floor, stood up, and grabbed his coat.

—

“I’d like to see Professor Snape.”

He was directed down to the dungeons, which he approached slowly, stopping for minutes on end to stare at the architecture he’d almost forgotten; the arcs and pillars that he grew up between. He didn’t need a map of this place. His feet knew the way down the spiral staircase. His very skeleton understood the path necessary for the destination of Slughorn’s old office.

He knocked on the door three times. It opened just before he could knock a fourth.

They were both still for a long time.

The response was quiet.

“Lupin.”

Remus wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave. He felt uncomfortable to be once again under the confusing gaze of Severus Snape.

“I saw your name in the Prophet,” he said plainly. “I’m… sorry to intrude. If you want me to go, I—”

“How very timidly-mannered to leave upon an inkling of silence,” Snape said, attempting to sound scornful, but his tone was weak; almost relieved. As he stepped aside to let Lupin into the room, Remus understood with a sudden sort of mental blow that Snape had just recently lost all of his connections, too.

He walked softly inside, taking one step to the left as Severus closed the door behind him. And then, jokingly:

“Potter can’t know.”

Sadly, they laughed.

—

Lupin didn’t even ask to see him anymore. He just walked right in.

Snape provided him with an extra key, one he used often for their weekly rendezvous, once leaving a toothbrush there on accident and never bothering to take it home again. Little by little, the visits became normal, essential, even. They became fueled by connection, by touch, by everything they had lost since graduation.

Little by little, they’d see more of one another. Day by day, Snape would unbutton his sleeves just a little more, finally comfortable enough to show the grotesque mark on his wrist, and Lupin would wear his shirts a little looser, exposing the scars on his neck as they led up to the ones on his jaw and nose. Closeness was their comfort, and they’d revel in it like Shakespearean kings, like Duncan of Scotland, doomed as he was, surrounded by the small joys of his imperfect world and his tarnished reign. Though their environment was muddled by blades of wilted and bloodied grass, the small fireflies within, the light that, although rare, warmed the hands and entranced the eyes like none other, were what they noticed the most.

They one day found themselves undoing the clasps of one another’s shirts, their kisses slow and even, their breaths soft. Lupin’s hands found themselves running across the bare skin of Snape’s chest, smooth, oddly hairless, comfortingly warm. His fingers found themselves on his ribcage. They lived there. And then they stopped.

Although they were almost completely invisible, his hands had found the scars. Scars that, over time, he had forgotten about. 

Running his fingers over the rough lines, he looked down at them, and then back up at Severus, who had a sudden expression of what seemed almost like terror.

Remus gave them another examination. He noticed their placement, their edges, how each one stretched in a long like under his pectorals, as if something had been above them that was removed.

And then he understood.

His breath catching in his throat, Remus realised that there was so much about this man he didn’t know. There were struggles that he and his friends had only added to. Parts of him and his life that he never got to see.

He understood then why Snape was built the way he was, why his waist was thin around the center and wider around the hips, why his neck was sleek and his collarbones strong, why his skin was smooth and had a significant lack of hair. He understood why he never saw him shaving and never noticed forgotten stubble on the curves of his jaw. He understood why he would hide his chest with his long hair after a shower; why he said that biology was what gave him these marks in the first place. He understood why he hid himself with tight, concealing clothes and why he would shy away from the connected questions.

All at once, Remus understood the scars.

Quietly, softly, he placed a hand on Snape’s back, pulling him as close as he possibly could. He watched the scared, vulnerable eyes below him and, in an instant, wished he could undo everything he and his friends had ever done to him. He wished he could have supported him; kept himself from prying. He wished a lot of things.

“They don’t define you, you know,” he said eventually, his thumb tracing Snape’s bottom lip as he stroked his hair. “It took me years to understand that about myself, but it’s true. It’s true for me, and it’s true for you.”

Severus looked like the most fragile thing on Earth.

“Do you find them distasteful?” he whispered out, leaning his face into Remus’ bare shoulders, self-directed venom behind his every syllable. “Do they drive you away, knowing about them? About why they’re here?”

“Hey,” Lupin replied, soft as he hugged him close and leaned his chin on the top of his head. “Don’t worry.”

He held him as if it was the last time he ever would. He didn’t let go. He wouldn’t let himself. Fighting back a newfound wave of emotion, he closed his eyes and wished he could articulate how little this knowledge would change anything. How Severus was just as beautiful to him as he had always been. How he didn’t care about the body he used to have or what he used to be, because, to Remus, he was still Severus Snape. He was always Severus Snape, and he always had been, and he always would be, no matter what. 

Always.

Still, words were never his strong suit. Emotions never left his lips in prose. So what he said was barely as elegant, not even close to what he wanted to communicate.

But what he said communicated it well enough, because, once he spoke them, they both turned into a crumbling mess of tears and sniffles, holding one another as tightly as they both could manage. His heart thudding in his chest, his breath hitched with a feeling he couldn’t describe, he chose a very decent thing to say. A thing that left them in a very peaceful silence for a very long time.

It was a whisper. And it was safe.

“I have scars, too.”

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (1/4)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don't fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Presenting my contribution to the @cssns​! “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern is a favorite book of mine that I have long thought would make for an excellent CS AU. And so, I’m finally doing it. At length. 

I was incredibly lucky to be paired with @eirabach​ for this event, who created the beautiful art attached above. She has such amazing ideas for bringing this fic to life in all its atmospheric glory that I never would have thought of. Her art is also posted on her tumblr; go give it all the love it deserves!

Thanks also go to @snidgetsafan​, my ever-phenomenal beta, and @ohmightydevviepuu​, who read the book at my urging and then agreed to read my monster to make sure nothing important was left out. This fic is better for both their efforts. 

Tagging the usual suspects for now. If you want to be added to (or removed from!) this list, just shoot me a message: @welllpthisishappening​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think! Next chapter will be posted whenever I get it done. 

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

There is never any warning of its arrival; no handbills stuck to the lampposts or announcement from some other lucky town that yours will be next. It is simply there one morning, all the black and white tents taking on a particularly mystical quality in the light of the sunrise. At the front gate is a sign:

                       Le Cirque des Rêves

                   Open sunset until sunrise

(And what a curious idea, that; a circus that is only open at night.)

The circus is a place where anything can happen, and routinely does. Those who visit leave with an awareness that no street-side carnival or traveling minstrel will ever induce such enjoyment again; everything must naturally pale in comparison. The illusionist is somehow more magical, the fortune-teller more wise, the contortionists and acrobats more daring. The world of the circus, created all in black and white and silver and lit by delicate lanterns and a great bonfire at its center, feels otherworldly - and you somehow feel that it just might be. 

In a word, the circus is magic, brought to life right in front of your eyes, and you know you will never be the same for having witnessed it. 

Our story does not begin at the circus, however; it only ends there.

———

Our story begins in the back corner of a smoky tavern, or a grimy alley, or a dimly lit dressing room of a theater, or any number of other places that exist in-between the rest of humanity, overlooked, utterly invisible in their mundanity.

(In truth, it does not matter where our story begins - only that it does.)

A woman sits in a darkened corner. More attentive observers might recognize her as the famed stage magician, Circe the Enchantress, capable of tricks beyond their wildest imagination.

(Even the most observant wouldn’t realize that all of Circe’s “tricks” are gloriously real; the human mind is excellent at not seeing things that it doesn’t want to acknowledge.)

(The most observant won’t notice the way she purposefully draws the shadows further around herself, either, just to ensure that the rest of humanity around her can’t penetrate the curtain of dark.)

Circe isn’t her real name, of course; it just sounds good on a playbill, capable of attracting people from far and wide. These days, she goes by Regina Mills, though there’s been other names before that: Corwin and King and Bowen and Smith. Names aren’t much of a concern for those as old as she, just another passing distraction when you’ve witnessed hundreds of years.

Hundreds of years don’t make the waiting any easier when the person you’re expecting can’t bother to arrive on time.

“You’re late,” she comments drily when her companion finally arrives, a slight man with a slighter limp. They may as well be a study in opposites; where Regina plays with shadow to avoid notice, he’s draped himself in a spell that causes an observer’s eyes to glance away without seeing; while Regina tries on names like hats over the decades and centuries, changing with every whim, her companion has allowed his own moniker to become lost to time, known only now to very few and only as Mr. Gold. 

“Au contraire, dearie,” he replies mildly, though the irritated glint in his eye would terrify anyone else. “I arrived exactly when I needed to. What is time to those like us, anyhow?”

“A convenient construct that keeps those you have appointments with from waiting around for any longer than they have to.” 

Mr. Gold studiously ignores the quip.  “Why did you ask me here tonight, Regina?” 

“I’m in the mood for a game,” she says, faux-casually. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper competition.”

“Ah yes,” her companion smirks. “If I remember right, my contestant defeated yours last time.”

“On a technicality,” Regina corrects through gritted teeth.

“In this world of absolutes, I often find a technicality is all it takes to shift the balance. And magic, true power… that’s the greatest technicality of them all.”

“I’m rather less inclined to deal in technicalities, at least where the matter of starting a new game is involved,” Regina snaps. Any minute shred of patience or humor she might have possessed is long since gone, even if her companion remains unruffled. “It really boils down to: do you want to, or not?”

“Never let it be said I turn down a challenge, dearie.” This time, it’s impossible to miss the menace behind the supposed endearment. “In fact, I’d say you were the one being… shall we say, vague about the details of this all. Do you have a venue in mind? Or are you leaving that particular bit up to me?”

Regina waves a dismissive hand. “Do as you will. You know I’m not much interested in that, anyways.”

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

“Perhaps I simply have faith that my contestant will prevail regardless.”

That piques Gold’s interest. “You already have a candidate in mind, then?”

“And fully anticipate taking them as a student, yes. I suppose you’ll want to be there to bind them to the competition?”

“You know me well.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Regina mutters under her breath. They both know, however, that Mr. Gold hears the words regardless. 

Carefully, the man in question stands from the table, supporting himself on a gilt-ended cane. Any limp that might necessitate such an accessory has long since been corrected; some things are more about the effect, anyways. “If there’s nothing else, Regina, I have other matters to attend to.”

“I expect you do,” Regina smirks. “After all, I’ve already spotted my player, and you’ve yet to find yours.”

“That is true,” Gold concedes with a deceptive mildness. “But remember, dearie: it isn’t about how the game starts, or when, or where. It’s about where it ends. And I have full confidence my acolyte will be able to last the distance.”

With their business concluded, both magicians fade back into the night. Pedestrians continue along the streets, occasionally interrupted by a horse and carriage, all unaware of the true nature of the beings weaving through their midst.

(Dozens of lives have been altered with this ten minute conversation, but the world at large will never know that either.)

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

That’s to be expected, in some ways; she’s an orphan, after all, having spent all 6 years of her life bouncing between begging in the children’s homes and begging on the streets, desperate for the help of others and receiving very little of it. 

But Emma is different, in a way that scares others and has left her to bounce around for years. Emma can do things that others can’t do, like the sparks that dance between her fingers and all the little things that sometimes move, falling off shelves and tables and everything else, whenever she’s upset. She can’t control it, not really, and in a life like hers, there are far too many opportunities to be upset. 

A lady had seen her the other day - one of the fancy ladies by the theaters, the kind that usually pretend they don’t see Emma, like her very existence might dirty their skirts. Emma hadn’t meant to - she never means for these things to happen. But the days are getting colder, and when she really starts to shiver, even with her arms curled around herself to conserve heat, sometimes the little sparks just happen. It’s like whatever this thing is is just trying to keep her warm too.

And no one should have seen her, tucked away in that corner, but the lady is already looking around with a frown on her face like she’s searching for something, and when she turns Emma’s way, it just happens. The lady’s eyes focus on Emma, drawn by those little shoots of light, even as she shoves her hands into her armpits. Emma expects gasping, or screaming, or maybe even a panicked shout for the police - it wouldn’t be the first time - but instead, the lady just tilts her head and narrows her eyes, as if she’s seen something interesting. Then she nods abruptly and leaves.

Emma doesn’t expect to see the lady again - indeed, she rather thinks she’s dodged a bullet. But a week later, she rounds the corner with a filched apple and runs straight into the lady.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Emma mumbles, ducking her head and trying to scoot around the older woman. When the lady darts out an elegant hand to grab Emma’s arm and hold her in place, panic courses through her veins. “Please, Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear —”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” the lady snaps, tugging Emma into the mouth of an unnaturally quiet alley. “I don’t care about whatever you ‘didn’t do’. I want to talk about what you did the other day.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma mumbles, staring studiously at her feet.

“Of course you do - the lights, in your hands. Don’t lie to me. That’s a gift, don’t you know that?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“Your gift - it can do wonderful things. It makes you special.”

“I’m not special.”

The lady considers that for a moment before answering. “No. But you could be. I could teach you.”

Now that catches Emma’s attention. “You can? How?”

“I can do things like that too,” the lady explains with a smile that seems more smug than pleased. Sure enough, when the lady turns her hand upright, a small ball of flame burns there. Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head as she watches that little lick of fire - like her own, in so many ways.

“If you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” the lady says. It sounds like an order, not an offer; Emma knows how to recognize those. Still, maybe…

“Like a mother?” she asks hopefully, even if she knows that’s unlikely.

The lady scrunches her nose in a kind of instinctual disgust. It’s about as much as Emma expected. “Heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds. “No, more like… you’d be my apprentice, and I’d teach you our trade.”

That seems odd to Emma; this lady, with her fancy dress and her fancy hat and her posh accent, doesn’t seem like the type who should have to work. “What’s your work?”

For the first time this whole conversation, the lady bends down to properly meet Emma’s eyes. Emma straightens a bit at the gesture, already able to tell she’s about to impart something important. “Magic,” the woman tells her with a smug, adult kind of smile.

“Magic isn’t real,” Emma says back, almost automatically. Six years in orphanages and left to her own devices have long since proved there are no fairy godmothers in this world, not for little girls like her. 

The woman straightens. “The bits of it you have dancing around your fingers right now say otherwise.”

Emma looks down in horror to see it again - the sparks that she tries so hard to hide, that give her so much trouble. For all the mad things this lady says, she’s the first to not look at the display in alarm or even fear. 

“You can make it go away?”

“I can teach you to control it,” the lady corrects, “and so much more. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, Emma. Don’t be such a fool as to reject that.”

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

Emma goes with the lady, who she learns is called Regina. She never learns how Regina knew her name, but writes it off as magic.

(There are far worse fates for lost girls like her.)

———

Emma has been with Regina for a week when the strange man shows up backstage at the theater where Regina is performing.

One week isn’t a lot of time in the grand scheme of an apprenticeship, but her teacher is guiding Emma to recognize magic in the world - the way it pulls toward Emma like an odd kind of magnet and traces linger in the air for hours. Emma has learned to see the faint, radiating glow of magic around her own mentor; this man doesn’t quite have the same glow, but there’s a hum that emanates from him that she thinks might be the same thing. 

Regina introduces the man as a friend, but Emma doesn’t think that’s quite right. She’s always had a knack for recognizing lies - maybe that’s a kind of magic, she wonders now - and her benefactor isn’t quite telling the truth. Maybe that’s one of the half-lies that adults tell, when they think the truth is too difficult for a child to comprehend.

Regardless of what the man might be - friend, foe, acquaintance, something else altogether - Emma can’t help but feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. The sparks burst and dance around her fingertips again, entirely without her say-so - something the man quickly notices.

“You’ve found a natural talent, then?” The words are addressed at Regina, but his eyes never leave Emma.

“I told you I had someone in mind,” Regina bites back, just barely on the right side of civility. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have all day.”

“Patience was never your strong suit, was it, Regina?” The man’s tone is mild, but his eyes flash with displeasure. Still, he crouches in front of Emma, granting her his full attention. Though he carries a cane, the movement doesn’t appear to pain him in the way she expects. “What do they call you, young miss?”

She doesn’t particularly want to answer, but Regina has a particular look in her eye that says that she doesn’t really have a choice. “Emma,” she finally mumbles, avoiding the man’s eyes.

“Emma,” he parrots back. “What a lovely name. May I see your hand, Emma?”

Silently, she offers it, palm facing up. Once she does so, the man slips a plain gold ring off his pinky finger, sliding it onto Emma’s own ring finger instead. Curiously, Emma looks at the bauble; it is far too loose on her small finger at first, but as she watches, the band shrinks to fit until it’s a perfect fit. It doesn’t stop though, continuing to tighten and tighten until the metal sears into her skin, burning the flesh until she cries out in pain and tears spring to her eyes. 

And then it’s over. The mysterious man lifts her hand with deceptively soft and delicate fingers, removing that awful ring from her digit to slip it back onto his own.

“You’ll do well, Emma.” The name almost sounds like an insult in his cold voice. “I wish you good fortune.”

(Emma doesn’t notice the item wrapped in a handkerchief Regina passes to the odd man, never realizes that it contains a silver ring to match the one he just used on her, too focused on rubbing at the smooth, scarred skin on her finger where the odd man’s ring just branded her and trying to chase the memory of pain away. One day, she will understand the way that this moment and that ring bound her to a future she didn’t fully understand.

But today, Emma is six, and all she knows is that her finger hurts.)

“You don’t want to do this yourself?” Mr. Gold asks, tucking the handkerchief and ring into his inner breast pocket.

“Obviously not. I’m not nearly as mistrusting as you are,” Regina replies.

(One day soon, Mr. Gold knows he will have cause to execute this binding on a student of his own. It does not matter much to him whether Regina is present for such a binding, though he thinks her a fool for her own sake. After all, knowledge is power - and there is no power greater than knowing your opponent.)

———

A strange man comes to Killian’s school on a Wednesday when he is eight, the kind of day where everything is shifting and changing.

(School is a generous word for this place, as none of the children ever leave, no homes or families to return to at the end of the day. Killian has a brother, three years older, but their mother is long dead. As for their father… as Liam says, the less said about the bastard, the better. There is a reason the two boys have found themselves in this children’s home by any other name.)

The man doesn’t say much, and explains even less. A selection of children, three boys and two girls - including Killian and Liam - are pulled from their regular classes and made to sit for an exam, only instructed to read all the instructions before beginning. The man must have money; the test is printed, each letter pressed in black ink onto the crisp page. It feels like a silly use of money, at least to Killian - he’d much rather use it at one of the concession vendors down by the river - but it’s impressive all the same. The test itself is not fully any one subject; there are translations of languages he doesn’t understand and number puzzles and a curious instruction at the end to only answer questions numbered in multiples of three. At the very end - question 57 - is a short answer question: Why do you think you are here today, and why are you taking this test?

Killian looks around the room at the other children, all diligently working on their own exams. There’s no obvious connector between the five children in the room; Liam has always been brilliant, but Killian is a middling student, and the other boy even lower than that. Some of them are known as quiet and well behaved, but some are not. Some are leaders, some are followers. There’s no obvious pattern.

As to why he’s taking this test… it’s obvious that the man must want to evaluate something, but Killian can’t begin to understand what. As far as his young brain can discern, the exam is about recognizing patterns and following directions. He couldn’t even begin to figure out why.

Killian stares at the space for his answer for what feels like hours. Even after nearly three years in this home, or perhaps because of it, he still has a strong desire to please, to give adults the answers they want to hear; in this case, he just doesn’t know what that is. Finally, as the other children start to put down their pencils, he hurriedly scrawls an answer.

Does it really matter?

After the exams are collected, the children are called in to speak with the man, one by one. None of the conversations are very long, and each trails out with a look of confusion on their face afterwards. Killian tries to catch Liam’s eye as his brother leaves the headmistress’ office, but Liam just furrows his brow and shrugs his shoulders in confusion.

The man holds Killian’s test in his hands when he finally enters the office, appearing to examine his answers. The man is perfectly ordinary in every way; neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, with hair that is not quite brown or blond or grey. The only thing that sets him apart is his clothing - the expensive suit, the perfectly shined shoes, the gold-tipped cane. 

“Does it really matter?” the man quips, diving straight in and obviously quoting Killian’s own response.

Killian swallows heavily; he wouldn’t have written that in the first place if he knew this was coming. “Sir?”

“Your answer,” he expands, as if that needs clarifying. “I’d be curious to hear why you gave that particular answer.”

Killian flushes and looks at his shoes, but the man just waits until he finally answers. “It was obvious you had a reason for having us sit that exam,” he finally explains, “and I had no idea why that was. I didn’t want to guess.”

“You could have left it blank,” the man points out. “Several of the others did. Why the question?”

Killian shrugs. “I wanted to know.” Then, when the silence stretches out between them: “Was that wrong?”

The man stares in silence for a moment longer, before shaking his head. “I would like to take you on as my student,” he declares. When Killian hesitates, his tone turns sharp. “Are you opposed to that?”

“What about my brother?” Killian asks, meeker than he’d like.

“I am only interested in taking one student.” His words are dismissive, bordering on uncaring, and Killian’s stomach plummets.

“But what will happen to him? He’s the only thing I have left.”

“I’m more interested in what happens to you, particularly in relation to my offer, than in your brother.”

In a burst of courage (or, he’ll think in later years, foolishness), Killian pulls himself together to make a fateful declaration. “I’ll go with you… but only if you send Liam - send my brother to school.”

“This is a school.”

“A good school,” Killian clarifies. “The best one. One that will let him do anything he wants when he’s grown up.”

There’s a pause as the mystery man seems to study Killian, though his face gives nothing away. Killian’s heart climbs into his throat as he waits, but he holds his ground. That seems important, somehow - like he’s engaging in some kind of unknown battle. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the odd man tilts his head in a half shrug, as if such a concession is nothing to him. Who knows; with the kind of money he obviously has, maybe it really is nothing. “We have a deal. Go get your things - we leave today.”

(Months later, after many lessons that Killian doesn’t yet understand, the man - Mr. Gold - has Killian place a ring on his finger, a loop of silver that burns a band of flesh on his thumb. A binding, Mr. Gold calls it, tying Killian to a contest that he does not yet understand.

However, it is this transaction - Liam’s education for Killian’s own - that binds him far sooner and better than magic ever could.)

——— 

Magic, Emma finds, is a thread upon the breeze - swirling around them all, lighting upon branches and settling into corners, just waiting to be noticed and harnessed. And Emma does - she feels it, and knows it, and asks it for favors. Dye the dress. Fold the sheet. Heal the dove. The magic deigns to come and wind through her fingers, grip a thread and pull and alter the world to her liking. 

Magic, she finds, is whimsy and wildness all in one, there for her to use and set free once again. Magic is power, more than she will ever wield; her role is but to borrow and return, like a toy set neatly back on a shelf. 

Magic, she finds, is a living thing all its own, and if she works very hard, she just might earn its trust.

Emma grows to enjoy a better childhood than she ever expected before Regina took her off the streets, though it is far from gentle. It is a childhood spent moving from place to place, hopping all over Europe and even to the Americas as Regina performs in theaters around the world. Regina demands nothing less than perfection in their lessons, and Emma grows used to performing the same tasks over and over until her mentor is satisfied - turning tea cups into mice and materializing all manner of objects from unseen rooms and healing her fingertips from where Regina slices the skin with a knife, each scar a supposed indication that she’s not trying hard enough.

But in time, Emma learns and she grows. At 18, Regina deems her skills honed enough to rent her out as a medium, calling upon Emma’s skills to rattle dishes and peer into people’s deepest, saddest thoughts to echo back just what they want to hear. Emma hates every moment of it - lying to people already wracked with grief, taking their money and offering them little satisfaction. She tries to comfort the bereaved as best she can in these sessions, but it’s often of little use. Emma may dread these hollow performances, but what choice does she have? As long as she’s under Regina’s tutelage and protection, Emma’s choices are not her own. 

(She may not know nearly as much about this competition as she should, but Emma longs for the beginning of the contest all the same, if only to finally crawl out from underneath Regina’s thumb.)

———

Magic, Killian finds, is a well of ink, the feeling of satisfaction deep within him when pen births onto page the perfect word, a descriptor for all the things he knew but could never say. It takes hours and years of study, but Killian learns all the ways to channel that pool - each spell, each rune, each intricate bit of charmwork. Magic is hard, but Mr. Gold says all power worth having is; besides, Killian has always been diligent. 

(The lessons are much more interesting than his regular schoolwork, anyways.)

Magic, he learns, is there, if one just knows how to look for it. Most people will go their entire lives without being aware of that; he’s special to have learned. Knowing opens a whole universe of possibility; after that, it’s all down to technique, and finding the right language to channel it. 

Magic, he finds, is a tool, and if he works very hard, he just might be able to harness it to his will. 

Killian’s childhood is a regimented one, filled with books and careful note taking, mastering the theory and principle of every bit of magic he encounters before being allowed to put it to use. As the years stack up, his head fills with runes and symbols and all manner of magical words, like another language he’s slowly become fluent in. In time, Killian learns to piece all of it together into a powerful language only known to a select few - words that can make things happen, that can alter the very world around them. The language of magic, at its very core.

Mr. Gold may be a distant mentor, not prone to affection and rarely even telling Killian he’s proud or pleased, but he keeps his word. Liam attends the best boys’ school that money can secure, impressing his teachers with his innate curiosity and intelligence and making a whole host of friends who are happy to host him on school holidays. Once a month, Mr. Gold takes Killian to see Liam, or brings Liam to see Killian, all with a transport more efficient than any train or carriage. In between, the brothers gladly fill the weeks with exchanged letters, keeping one another apprised of their lives. Killian had told Liam about this arrangement from the beginning - the magic, the competition he’ll one day engage in - and his older brother offers all the pride that Killian doesn’t receive from his mentor. It’s not the path that either anticipated following as children, but it’s a much better life than either expected. There’s a lot to be grateful for.

As Killian grows into a man and learns how to study independently, his enigmatic teacher leaves him to his own devices. Killian prefers it that way, really; though he’s always been grateful for the mysterious, once in a lifetime opportunity he’s been offered, Killian has never been close to his benefactor, not by a long shot. There’s a feeling that hangs over every interaction that he’s never been able to shake, that he owes Mr. Gold in ways he’ll never fully understand. It’s never made for an easy relationship.

Besides, he likes his independence. He is granted a little flat in a quiet and respectable part of the city, with room for a library and a pretty view of a nearby park. It’s more than an orphan like him ever imagined he could have before this opportunity fell in his lap. There are moments of loneliness, but no more than he’s grown used to in youth; besides, as adults, Liam drops by for conversation and a nightcap far more frequently. It’s a little life he’s carved out for himself, with his notebooks and spellbooks and everything in its place, even as he continues the interminable wait for a contest he still barely knows anything about.

It’s all the more surprising, then, when one day the knock at his front door reveals none other but his teacher, as neatly turned out as ever and utterly unexpected.

“Won’t you come in?” Killian asks, stepping aside in welcome. He doesn’t much expect the invitation to be accepted, but he asks all the same; he’s used to interactions with his teacher being strictly business. 

Sure enough: “That won’t be necessary. This will only be a moment.” Gold’s tone might generously be described as brusque, if Killian was in a mood to be so generous. He’s not, particularly. 

“What can I do for you, then?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Madigan will be seeking a secretary and assistant,” Gold tells him, handing over someone else’s calling card. “You will apply for that position.”

It’s an odd command; Killian’s benefactor has never cultivated much of an opinion about his life of study and leisure up to this point. But suddenly, it clicks. “Is this about the challenge?”

“Mr. Madigan and his companions will be creating a venue.” Technically, it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but over the years, Killian has learned to read those answers as well as any book. It’s an affirmative. “It will be to your advantage to become part of that circle.”

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

Killian looks down to examine the address on the calling card, and by the time he looks up again, Gold is gone. His teacher does that, he’s learned - found a way to move through the world while barely leaving a mark upon it. With the conversation clearly over, Killian closes his flat door.

(All the while, a metaphorical door of possibility has been thrown wide open.)

———

Mr. Jefferson Madigan may be the man for whom the word eccentric was crafted.

The townhouse is only a townhouse in the aristocratic sense of the word, more an elaborate and enormous monolith situated in town than just a normal dwelling. The door knocker is cast in the shape of two dragons, and curtains in a variety of different and garish colors peek through the window. At the bottom of what are otherwise staid, conventional stone steps are marble statues of a rabbit and a dormouse where regal lions might usually be.

It all makes sense when the man himself opens the door. While Killian has taken care to dress neatly in a trim, dark colored suit and tie, making his best attempt at the appearance of professionalism, Madigan is a riot of colors and patterns that Killian isn’t entirely certain match, but seem fitting all the same. Behind him, the entry hall is decorated in a jewel-tone blue with golden patterns and baseboards, but that makes a little more sense now that Killian has seen the man himself.

“Are you here about the vaudeville acts? Because I’m afraid that we’re rather moved on from that idea,” he says without introduction, words tumbling one right over the other in a jumble.

“I… No,” Killian manages to stutter out. A question like that has a way of putting a man off-guard. “I was led to believe you were in need of a secretary or assistant?”

“Ah. That makes more sense.” Mr. Madigan nods as if to cement it in his head. “Have you done that kind of work before?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, that’s fine, I’ve never had a secretary before either.” By the look on his face, Madigan would be much more comfortable conducting an interview for a vaudeville actor than a secretary. “Then can you… I don’t know. Read and write and do sums? File things? I don’t think I’ve ever filed something in my life,” he mutters to himself.

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

“Well then good, you’re hired. Do you think I need to be filing things? It’s something I’ve never really thought about before.”

Jefferson, as he prefers to be called (“Don’t even try that Mr. Madigan nonsense, I won’t answer to it.”), is planning a circus - what Killian imagines is the venue he’s heard about for a decade and a half. And it sounds magnificent the way Jefferson describes it - something otherworldly. More an entire sensory experience than just a show, spanning dozens of tents and food stands and performers scattered across the grounds. The way he envisions it, the endeavor is more experience than anything else - simultaneously a performance space and a theater and a zoo and a venue for all kinds of edible delicacies. Perhaps carnival would be the better word, but Jefferson insists on circus. 

“There’s a sense of mystery to the word, Killian,” he decrees while jotting down what is doubtless another half-baked idea on the back of a receipt. “Anyone can hold a carnival, but a circus… marvelous, magical things happen at the circus. It will look better in the papers anyways.”

(Killian will need to do so much filing to keep all this in order.)

It quickly becomes obvious that Jefferson is primarily an ideas man - and while his ideas are spectacular in so many ways, he needs assistance in bringing those ideas to life. It’s immediately obvious why he needs an assistant; for a man who spends so much of his time with his head in the clouds, lost in ideals and fanciful imagining, it’s hard to manage the practicalities of the day-to-day implementation. 

There are investors of course, men who flit in and out of the planning at will as if just to make sure that their money is actually being used properly. Killian isn’t fully surprised to see his mentor is one of them; doubtless, that’s how he knew to direct Killian to Jefferson’s door in the first place. He doubts that anyone else truly remembers the man, however; Killian has long since learned to recognize the cloak of forgetability his teacher likes to draw around himself. 

(There are different kinds of power, Killian has learned over the years - the kind that comes from everyone knowing what you can do, and the kind that comes from no one knowing what you can do.)

Killian learns that he is a late addition, comparatively speaking; a small collection of people have already been met on the matter, creating a small stack of roughly sketched plans that he’s sure will inevitably grow by the day. Jefferson holds a reputation, Killian has learned, for a series of elaborate late-night soirées known only as Midnight Dinners, famously exclusive events with over a dozen exotic courses and unmatched entertainments. Jefferson is a producer by trade, an entertainer in every bit of his being, and these private entertainments may be the pinnacle of his accomplishments.

(Or may have been, at least; Killian has a feeling that this circus he envisions may surpass anything else.)

The circus is born at one of these dinners - an intimate one, with only five attendees, handpicked by Jefferson as the men and women necessary to bring his vision to life. The vaguest outline was sketched that first night, tacked to the walls in the emerald green study Jefferson has set aside especially for the circus and its plans. Already, there is a stack of opened envelopes on a side table, filled with ideas the other attendees simply couldn’t hold onto until the next meeting.

They’re an interesting collection, certainly. Madame Constance Blue is a former opera singer who’s found a second career in fashion. Her eye for color and aesthetic is fabled as being unmatched - a talent she brings to this endeavor to create a cohesive environment that looks like another world on the outskirts of the city. Elsa and Anna Frost are a pair of sisters, socialites who have tried a little bit of everything, from a stint in the ballet and art school to a time as librarians they will only speak about after great persuasion. Where Madame Blue may create a visual environment for the circus, the Misses Frost are experts on the feel - all of the rest of those details from the positioning of signage to the very scents in the air, those details that so few consider but still manage to sell or doom an experience. Their little group, most meetings, is rounded out by Mr. August Booth, an architect and engineer by trade, who draws up marvelous plans for each tent and attraction. All of it embodies an elegant simplicity centered around a series of circles, one curve bleeding into another in a way that feels organic, nearly living. It makes the straight black and white stripes of the tents all the more striking in contrast to this world of elegant curves. One contributor’s work bleeds into the other, all with Jefferson at the helm to lend his ideas of what kinds of things should be presented, creating a venue that feels like a realization of all their dreams.

(The last attendee, Mr. Gold - who betrays no indication that he and Killian are even remotely acquainted - has no particular, obvious specialty that he lends to the endeavor. In fact, he barely seems to speak and is nearly forgotten in the rest of the bustle of the Circus Dinners. Somehow, though, even if no one can put their finger on what exactly Mr. Gold does, it is agreed that his contributions are essential, and that everything runs smoother and more productively at those few dinners he does attend.)

(He is always referred to by surname; though the other attendees are certain they were told his first name upon first introduction, they have no memory of what that moniker might be, and decide it would be rude to ask. )

With each dinner, the Circus fleshes out a little bit more, each piece carefully filed away so it can all fit together later. There are designs for the gates and August’s wonderful blueprints for the butterfly tents and lists of confections that must be offered. As time keeps churning forward, the members of their little dinner group increasingly start to travel, seeking out the perfect craftsmen and performers and creators to bring this endeavor to life. There are acrobats training in France and an intricate clock being crafted in Germany and Jefferson and Killian will be travelling to Scotland next week to see about a pair of big cat trainers as August travels to Austria to see about some trained horses.

But tonight, they’re all here for dinner, and there’s an unexpected guest at the door. A tall, slender woman, who claims to be a sword swallower.

“What’s the harm?” Jefferson asks when Killian informs him cautiously, sweeping his arm in a grand motion. The Circus Dinners are exclusive, and nearly sacred, but she’s here about the circus. And Jefferson has always been generous by nature. “Show her in, Jones, we’ll set another plate at the table.”

The woman introduces herself as Mulan - no second name, and no indication whether that’s her given name or surname. As the clock strikes midnight and the first plates are brought out, she climbs the low dais usually reserved for a pianist and begins her demonstration.

And it is so much more than just a sword swallowing act. Mulan moves with an almost supernatural grace, whirling her blades in an intricate and deadly dance. She tosses her swords and balances them on the tips of fingers and the ridge of her chin. And she does send the swords down her gullet, in ways that make Anna and Elsa and even composed August gasp. Each move blends one into another into another, beautiful in a savage way that leaves them all on the edge of their seats as she twirls and even flips. It mesmerizes their little audience, as delicate appetizers sit untouched on their plates.

At the conclusion of her display, Mulan resheathes her swords with a satisfying hiss of metal against metal before executing a dramatic bow, nearly bending in half in the process. Their audience erupts into applause; across from Killian, Jefferson springs to his feet in a standing ovation.

“Brilliant! Simply brilliant!” Jefferson darts up to the platform to shake Mulan’s hand vigorously, much to her apparent amusement. “We simply must have you for the circus. A platform out in the open in the crowds, right near the center, don’t you think, Elsa?”

“It certainly would be a shame to hide her away in a tent,” the blonde agrees. “I don’t think we’ll find anyone else to match her talent, either. Would you be comfortable with that? Performing to a passing crowd?” she addresses Mulan to finish. 

Mulan nods solemnly, though a slight smile dances in her eyes and on her lips. “My skills are not limited by venue, you’ll find.”

“Excellent!” Jefferson crows. “You know, this is exactly what the Circus should be. More than expected. Anything but mundane. Up close and pressing past anything seen before and - oh! It’s just perfect. Welcome to the Circus, Madame.”

Jefferson’s words become a mantra as they move forward - to push boundaries, to seek people and things that are more than anyone would ever imagine.

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

Looking back, once they come to know one another better, Killian will find it fitting that he meets Belle in a used book store.

He’s taken to wandering these stores on his rare days off with a pair of notebooks in his jacket pocket - one for little bits of magical research, and the other for chronicling any ideas he might stumble across for the Circus. Over time, Killian has discovered that odd, unusual, and even historic tomes have a way of accumulating in used bookshops, overlooked and nearly lost to time. On shelves such as these, Killian has located alchemical treatises and books of magical theory and even a potions compendium that appeared to the untrained eye to be a simple accounting of folk remedies. In a way, he supposes that’s right; it just overlooks the dash of magic that’s an extra, if necessary ingredient. These old bookstores are a good source, too, of unusual and exotic attractions and obscure ideas for confections. Whenever Killian stumbles across something he hasn’t seen before that he thinks will be of use, he records it carefully in the pertinent notebook, one tucked into each of his coat pockets, before purchasing the volume or returning it to its place on the so-often messy and cluttered shelves. 

This particular day had been less than fruitful, though Killian would never call it wasted. Even if he doesn’t manage to excavate any scrap of information, the whole environment is calming - something Killian sorely needs, more often than not. He walks back to his flat at a leisurely pace, just enjoying the crisp fall day, when he suddenly realizes - 

One of his pockets is lighter than it ought to be. 

Quickly, Killian doubles back to the bookshop. This isn’t the first time this has happened - it’s all too easy to accidentally leave a little leather-bound notebook on a shelf in an environment full of other leather-bound books, and Killian does remember pulling out the notebook to record a particular line of a spell he’d remembered he had already recorded just as soon as his pencil had lifted off the page. A quick check of the notebook in his other pocket reveals that it is, indeed, his magic notes that are missing. It’s a mild irritant, but nothing unusual for a man with a million other things on his mind.

What is more unusual, however, is to turn the corner only to see a young woman outside the shop, paging through what appears to be his own notes with a look of marked interest on her face.

She’s pretty, Killian notes, with prim brunette curls that frame her face below a beribboned, feathered hat and a petite frame that seems dwarfed by the yellow dress beneath a neat burgundy jacket. He only spares a moment to look, however, before he intervenes for the sake of his book. If she’s half as clever as that intent crinkle in her brow suggests, it may be too late.

The young lady jerks her head to attention as Killian clears his throat, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. “I believe you have something of mine,” he comments, nodding towards the book in her hand. 

“Ah, yes.” She carefully closes the pages, handing the little notebook back to him. “You’ll be Mr. Jones, then?” Killian nods an affirmative as he takes the book back - not that it stops her string of thoughts. “I do promise that I was trying to bring it back, sir - I saw you leave it down that one aisle where the cat particularly likes to sleep - but you had already left and, I see now, most likely had turned a corner and, well, I’ve already been a little curious and I just couldn’t resist flipping through the pages and —”

“Miss, it’s fine” he smiles. “I’m just relieved to have it back. That little notebook is indispensable to me.”

“I recognize some of the symbols in there,” his companion blurts out. Killian is discovering she has a tendency to do that while nervous. “Alchemical symbols, and astrological ones. Not the rest, but… well, those are all over the pages.”

“And what would you know about alchemical and astrological symbols? Seems an unusual hobby for a proper young lady, Miss…”

“Belle French. I read a lot of books.”

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

“Yes.” She blushes again. “I came into possession of a deck of tarot cards a few years ago. It seemed worth doing my research. The alchemical bits were an accident that expanded into a separate research project.”

“You read the tarot then? I wouldn’t have expected that of a dignified lady like yourself.”

“Only for myself,” she admits. “It’s not precisely something you can practice at the average tea party. I find myself more curious what a proper young man like yourself,” she mocks his own tone, “is doing with a notebook full of such symbols.”

“Perhaps I, too, accidentally conducted extensive research into alchemy.”

Miss French fixes him with a skeptical look. “I don’t believe that for a moment. What’s the real reason?”

Killian sighs. “That’s… rather a longer story. Best settled somewhere else, if it must be told. Would you care to join me at a bistro I know?”

That should be the end of the matter. No proper young woman would agree to such a thing.

But Miss Belle French seems to be no such proper young woman, and she says yes.

It takes a hearty sip of wine once they’re settled in Killian’s favorite Parisian-style bistro for him to muster the words to speak. “I am… a student. Of sorts.”

“A student of what?” Miss French asks around her own, more delicate sip.

Now is the moment of truth, where she believes him or she doesn’t. “Of magic.”

Miss French’s brow furrows for just a confusion. “Magic? Like the illusion acts you see at the theaters?”

“A little more than that,” he tries to explain. “It’s… well. When you read your cards, does it feel like some rote interpretation? Or like you’re channeling something, the mere conduit for the cards?”

“The latter, I suppose.”

“That’s a form of magic. A very special one, actually, one that not everyone can find. I can’t.”

“So your… magic isn’t like that then?”

“It’s more like… a secret language,” Killian tries to explain. “It’s something I can find deep within me, and speak into existence.”

His lovely companion still looks unconvinced - not that he can blame her. It’s a lot to wrap one’s head around. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you,” she’s careful to say. “But you must admit, Mr. Jones, that it’s an awful lot to take in.”

Killian thinks for a moment, before settling in his mind on a way to prove it. “Is there anywhere you’ve ever wanted to go? Someplace you’ve never seen, but always wanted to?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the beach, and see the ocean,” she replies wistfully.

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding. 

“Then take my hands, and close your eyes.”

With her soft hands in his own, Killian draws upon the words, murmuring them into the back corner of the cafe where they sit. Slowly, the dim lighting and faint smell of smoke dissipates, replaced by warm sunlight and the faint rush of the tide coming in.

Miss French opens her eyes without his asking, gasping as she takes in the illusion of an environment he’s created. Gulls circle overhead; were she to remove her shoes, she’d feel soft sand beneath her toes, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“It’s marvelous,” she breathes. “And you did all this?”

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

It’s evident that in this moment, at least, she doesn’t care about much more; she’s too enthralled with the ocean in front of her. 

“You know, Mr. Jones, I think we were meant to meet today,” she murmurs. “And I don’t even need the cards to say it.”

She becomes a friend, over time, over cups of tea and discussions of his studies and her practice with her tarot cards; the first real friend he’s ever had. Mr. Gold doesn’t approve, claiming that she’s a distraction, but Killian doesn’t much care. She makes his life better, in those hours he isn’t called away by the circus. And as the planning rolls on, turning into reality, she lends a listening ear every step of the way. 

Neither of them can predict how much will change with the hiring of the illusionist.

———

It’s been years of this - the constant preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand, of being tested, being pushed to what Emma believes are her very limits before discovering that she still has more to give, to bleed, to learn. A sense of anticipation hangs over her entire life, such as it is, and she doesn’t even know what she’s waiting for, or how long it will take to get here. Regina has told her time and again to be patient, that things will become clearer in time, that this isn’t something frivolous, you foolish girl, you can’t rush it, but Emma has never been one for patience. She is 24, and it has been 18 years, and there is still no sign of whatever this competition is, or will be.

Until one day, a neat envelope appears on the dressing table in Emma’s room in the ostentatious flat she has shared with Regina since the very beginning whenever they’re in London.

It would be in your best interest to present yourself at the below address on June the 19th.

The missive isn’t signed, but Emma doesn’t need a signature anyways; it’s evident in the neat gilt letters on the crisp cream-colored parchment that this message is from the man with the cane. Mr. Gold, half a memory whispers, though he’s done his very best to remove himself from memory. There is no postmark, and no messenger; it is clear to Emma that this card has appeared without the intervention of a human hand. Not that the man she suspects would need such mundane means to deliver a message. Emma has grown up surrounded by and steeped in magic, and she has long since learned to recognize true power - and even though she was only a child the single time she met the man with the gold-tipped cane, she’d felt even then the magic clustered all around him like metal filings to a magnet. To a man like that, delivery of this message would be the easiest thing in the world. 

There’s a newspaper clipping too, Emma realizes as she slowly moves to find and show her teacher. It’s an advertisement, seeking an illusionist, with the address of a modest theater at which she should apply.

Seeking an extraordinary individual to marvel and amaze, the cramped newsprint proclaims. An unmatched opportunity to become part of an unprecedented entertainment spectacle.

“What have you got there?” Regina asks when Emma enters their parlor, examining every inch of the message and its attached advertisement. The words are closer to a demand than an inquiry, but Emma isn’t particularly surprised; these kinds of interactions have always been her teacher’s modus operandi. 

“A note. I found it on my dressing table.” Carefully, Emma passes the documents to Regina for the other woman’s examination. As Regina reads the words, a devious kind of smile inches its way across her face. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asks Emma with that same odd smile. It only widens when Emma shakes her head in the negative. “It means we’ve reached the beginning.”

And with those six words, the next phase of Emma’s life begins.

———

Killian thought he knew what to expect - but he never expected her.

They’d placed advertisements in all the major papers, seeking an illusionist for the circus - a magician. Jefferson, for all his endless inspiration and imagination, has never realized that the most fitting candidate for this particular job has been silently at his side for the past two years, through every bit of planning. Jefferson never realizes that there’s a reason that this has all come together unnaturally smoothly, as if aided by unseen forces.

Jefferson, for all his endless imagination, will never believe that humans are capable of anything more than illusion, will never believe that true magic is possible.

(That’s for the best, really; Mr. Gold just needs a pawn to create a venue, and Killian… well, Killian just wants, nay, needs to limit the collateral lives disrupted for the purposes of this competition.)

Attending the auditions as Jefferson’s personal secretary to record any decisions ultimately made, Killian expects a long parade of conmen, of charlatans and fakers and all the normal cast of characters that pass for magicians in a world that refuses to see the truth. And he gets them in spades, with card tricks and pretty assistants and poorly behaved rabbits who are more interested in exploring the legs of the mezzanine chairs than disappearing into hats. Maybe those kinds of displays would be good enough for most undertakings; the public will be expecting the normal sort of “magic” displays, after all. 

But this is for the circus - and the circus must be more than that. 

(It’s for exactly that reason that Killian draws a tricky bit of magic about himself that he picked up from his mentor years ago - a charm to smother any traces of magic about him, to make him seem so ordinary that strangers’ eyes don’t bother to linger. He may expect a long line of fakes, but on the off chance this attracts someone of more genuine talent… Killian isn’t taking any chances.)

Killian never even sees her coming. It’s their last appointment of the day after a chain of disappointments, and frankly, he’s ready for a cup of tea, or perhaps a glass of something stronger. But then the young man who works at the theater is clearing his throat to announce the next applicant, and Killian looks up —

And it’s her. 

The woman before him is beautiful - collected, quiet, but with a confidence that shows in her bearing, in the straightness of her spine and the sure look on her face. She wears an emerald green dress with a black velvet jacket with trailing sleeves, and she looks a picture - possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She looks more suited to fashionable tea rooms, or strolling along the street to perhaps visit an acquaintance, or any of those other ordinary things women of means and unnatural beauty do with their days. It’s obvious, though, that ordinary is the last word that could be used to describe her. Even from across the room, he can sense the magic that clings to her skin like traces of ink - true magic, not the facsimiles he’s suffered through all day. 

He knows immediately that this woman - whoever she may be - is the opponent he’s been anticipating for 18 years, since he was only 8 years old, and the knowledge simultaneously exhilarates and terrifies him.

(Even if he’s been working for two years to help bring this competition, this circus to life, it suddenly feels real to see his competitor across from him, flesh and blood and blond curls.)

(He has no business forming an attachment, but she already fascinates him on a level far more personal than professional.)

“Your name?” Killian hears Jefferson ask, as if from a distance. That’s not the reality of this situation, really; his employer sits in the seat right in front of Killian’s own, barely two feet apart. It’s hard to focus on anything else, though, with an angel standing in front of them all. 

“Emma Swan,” she answers. Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s sure, and with its own particular melody. “I understand you’re looking for an illusionist.”

“We are indeed, Miss Swan. And do you believe you’re the man - my pardon, woman for the job?” Jefferson wears what Killian has learned is his most charming smile, and Killian feels an unwarranted flash of irritation. Can’t he see this creature isn’t for him? Isn’t some simpering young girl to melt at his attentions?

(It’s a relief to see that, while Miss Swan does smile back, it’s only a smirk of seeming amusement. She’s here for other things, they both know, even if Jefferson doesn’t.)

“That’s for your judgement, isn’t it?” As Emma poses the question, she carefully strips out of her jacket, only to toss it carelessly towards a chair. As the fabric sails through the air, however, it miraculously turns into a raven, circling the room before landing back in one of the investors’ laps, abruptly a stack of folded velvet once more. Miss Swan may make it look easy, nearly thoughtless, but it’s evident to Killian that she’s performed a very impressive piece of magic - and evident to all those less observant as well. The amused little smirk returns as Miss Swan calmly folds her hands atop the green satin of her dress. “But I believe so, yes.”

What follows is exactly the impressive spectacle of magic they’d hoped to find, but Killian never believed they would.

The gentlemen’s handkerchiefs turn into doves, which fly to perch at the edge of the stage. The delicate flowers of the wallpaper peel from the walls to beautiful, fragrant life. At one point, their chairs all lift to hover a foot above the ground. One trick flows into the next, and into the next again, all conducted by the extraordinary Miss Swan with graceful hands and barely any appearance of effort. It feels like the entire audience, small though it might be, holds its breath as the magician completes her display, conjuring her crisply folded jacket back into a raven. In a flurry of feathers, the bird dives towards its mistress as the audience watches anxiously, only to reappear as a drapery once again on the pale, delicate arms of the enchanting Miss Swan. 

Ahead of Killian, Jefferson and the other producers explode into a flurry of applause - a well earned ovation, in his not-so-humble opinion. That was… spectacular. Amazing. Magical.

“Bravo, Miss Swan!” Jefferson calls, jumping nimbly up the stairs at the front of the stage to shake her hand. “I think you’re just the thing we’ve been looking for. Won’t she look lovely, Constance?”

“She’ll make a statement, certainly,” Madame Blue replies. This might be the closest Killian has seen the formidable woman to satisfaction. “We’ll have to plan the wardrobe carefully, of course. Something… striking. A bit out of the ordinary, with outer layers to remove. That trick with the jacket was extraordinary,” she finally addresses the subject of their discussion. “I imagine you’ll want to incorporate it.”

“I had planned to in some form, yes,” Miss Swan confirms. “Is there a particular… concern you have about my clothing?”

“Please don’t mistake us, Miss Swan,” Jefferson hurries to assure her. “You look absolutely lovely. We’re trying to create an entire atmosphere in this endeavor, you see. An entire circus, all in black and white and silver. Including its members. Madame Blue, here, is an invaluable help in creating that.”

“I see,” Miss Swan nods. “So I suppose you’re thinking something more like this?” 

As she speaks, they’re treated to one final trick, as the green of her skirts flees at the touch of a finger, changing to pearly skirts that slowly give way to an ink black hem. As with every display of her magic, it’s graceful, effortless; more than that, as her dress completes its transformation, skirts widening to a dramatic sweep in the process, she looks like the very essence of everything they want the circus to be. 

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

“Splendid! Oh, absolutely marvelous. Never tell me how you do that. Yes, that will do very nicely indeed, Miss Swan. You’re hired.”

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

Killian shows up at Liam’s door that night, to the small but comfortable apartment a junior banker shouldn’t yet be able to afford on his salary.

(He’s always been sure to care for his brother, the same way his brother always cared for him.)

He must look a wreck when Liam opens the door, as his brother moves to pour them both a measure of rum without even being asked. His neat necktie has been loosened in the past hour and his hair is doubtless a riot from running his hand up the back, but Killian thinks it’s more whatever look he wears on his face that spurs Liam into action.

“I met them today. Her,” Killian finally confides once they’re both settled into the plush, if hideous armchairs in front of the fire.

“Who’s this, now?”

“My competitor.” Killian attempts a chuckle, but can’t quite manage it. “This game I’ve been prepared for for so long… the other person was always just some amorphous concept. Of course there’d be a competitor, it’s a game. But… I met her today, Liam.”

Liam takes another sip from his tumbler. “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

Killian fiddles with the scar on his thumb as he thinks, the seared band of skin the contract tying him to this competition. It doesn’t bother him, never has, really; most days, he wears a silver ring to conceal the mark from the many curious eyes in Jefferson’s winding townhome, but he’s taken the piece of jewelry off tonight. Tonight is a night for confession, for laying his myriad of confused feelings on the table, not for concealment. 

“I don’t know that it’s bad, per se,” he finally replies. “It’s just… she was never a person until today. I know I’ve been working with Jefferson and his colleagues for two years to bring the venue for this competition to life, but meeting a real, live person is something else. It made it real, in a way.”

“And you’d rather it wasn’t,” Liam infers.

Killian says nothing, ready to neither confirm nor deny that. It’s been an unexpected day, and he’s still trying to process the novelty of having a name and a face. This has been years of his life - 18 years of them - and it finally feels like the waiting is done. 

Liam tries again. “What’s she like, then?”

“Composed.” It’s too stiff a word for the vibrant creature he witnessed today, but it’s the first that comes to mind. She’d seemed perfectly composed, fully in control of everything around her. There’s more than that, though. “She was confident, mostly, in that kind of understated way where you could tell she knew exactly what she was doing without ever having to brag about it. She seemed bloody brilliant, honestly,” Killian admits.

“That sounds like an awful lot of admiration for a woman you’re supposed to view as your foe,” Liam comments with that lift of the brow Killian adopted himself years and years ago. 

“She’s beautiful,” Killian says simply. “She’s perfectly lovely, and honestly? I don’t really want to battle her.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Killian replies truthfully.

He never expected this knowledge to create more questions than answers.

(Killian is beginning to think that just may be the way of this competition; frustration and confusion at every turn.)

(As his mentor has so often says: magic comes with a price.)

———

Now that he knows his competition, it becomes obvious that Miss Swan has an advantage over Killian: while he may exist outside the Circus, maneuvering the board from afar, she’ll live right in the heart of it, manipulating things from within. After all these years, Killian still only knows that the Circus is meant to be a venue for him to test and stretch his abilities beyond anything he ever imagined until, inexplicably, one of them is crowned the winner. From his standpoint, Miss Swan will find that much easier, as she doesn’t have a distance to reckon with. Hell, he won’t even know when she makes a move, so to speak.

Unexpectedly, it is Belle who finds a solution to that. 

“I could be your spy, you know,” she proposes. They’ve long since abandoned formal last names and proper tea shops for lounging in his flat, her with a book and he with one of his notebooks or some circus plans he’s perfecting. So, too, has Belle long since been apprised of all the misty particulars of this competition.

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you need a way to hear the news of the circus, right? Everything this Miss Swan does, at least in regards to the Circus. All the little changes she might make.”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s true, too, that the Circus still needs a fortune teller.”

Realization slowly dawns. “Belle, I couldn’t ask you to —”

“You’re not asking; I’m offering,” she interrupts. “I can read my cards for visitors. You’ll be so busy with the Circus, anyways, and making your own moves in this competition, that we’ll barely see each other anymore. You can arrange that, right? To hire me as the fortune teller?”

“Of course - but Belle, are you certain?”

“Nothing is ever certain, Killian,” she scolds affectionately, good-naturedly. “But I want to help. And besides, I’ve always wanted to see the world. What better opportunity will I find, or make?”

When Killian personally vouches for Belle to Jefferson, her hiring is arranged as quickly as promised. He can’t help but feel like this is a mistake, somehow, but the benefits are undeniable. Belle packs her bags and promises to be a faithful correspondent - a promise he knows she’ll admirably fulfill.

(He tries not to think about how she’s one more life he’s tied to the Circus, one more article of collateral damage if and when this all ends.)

———

After so long in her contained world, constantly under Regina’s critical eye, Emma finds she loves the communal atmosphere of the circus. Emma’s little compartment is so much more compact than the rooms she’s grown used to over the years, but there’s a particular coziness that feels more comfortable than anything she’s known before. Maybe it’s the knowledge that this space is truly hers, without monitoring or judgement. She lines the walls with spell books and herbal manuals and silly novels, hangs cages for her doves from the ceiling, shoves a small desk in one corner and a well padded armchair in the other, and spreads a brightly pieced quilt over the bunk’s mattress. She makes it home, in a way she’d never thought she’d achieve. 

(She’s wanted a home since she was a child, went with Regina in partial hope that she’d find one, but it’s only now at the age of 24 that she’s made it with her own two hands and a good bit of magic.)

She watches the circus come together too, in staging grounds just outside of London. Each tent is carefully constructed in black and white stripes, though their height and circumference vary. The acrobats’ tents soar the highest, starting to fade into the starry skies to accommodate the trapezes and tightropes beneath the cloth surface. On the other end of the spectrum the fortune teller’s tent is barely large enough for two people and a table. 

Emma’s tent is somewhere in between. It’s not large, by any means, but there’s enough space for a clearing at the center and two rows of chairs circling all the way around the edges. It’s interactive, in a way Emma never imagined a theater could be when she was a child under Regina’s care. Then again, it’s not really a theater, is it? It’s more a… space. An arena. Truthfully, Emma isn’t sure there’s a word for the intimate feel of this arrangement. Her audience will be right there, enhancing the display in a way Emma hadn’t imagined. Then again, when you’re practicing true magic instead of illusion, you don’t need that extra separation. 

Once it’s time to eventually move on, the whole venue has been carefully constructed to fold and stow away into a series of boxcars and containers for transport. It’s all a little unbelievable, really, the ease with which something so sprawling can stow so neatly away. There’s an atmosphere at the circus, however, even amongst its members, that anything might happen, and the logistics are never questioned as the specially hired crew of workers scurry about, practicing folding and unfolding each tent into their respective boxcars. Maybe they already know that something supernatural is at work; the longer Emma spends at the circus, the more she wonders if this is the one place on Earth where magic can exist in plain sight without question.

(There’s something about the traces of magic at the folds and joints of each structure that feels familiar in a way Emma can’t quite put her finger on - like she’s encountered it before. It’s a rare trace of her competitor in an environment where she still doesn’t know their identity.)

If the circus is the first real home Emma’s ever found, then its members may be her first real family. She’s always felt… different, all too aware of how her abilities have set her apart from other people since she was a little girl. The wonderful thing that she’s discovered is that everyone is a little odd at the circus, even without magic. There are contortionists and animal tamers and acrobats and all manner of other performers, all good people who don’t fit within the bounds of conventional society. Even the vendors, the souvenir sellers and the concession dealers, are the kind of people more willing to believe in the unusual without question. It’s a welcoming, accepting, happy environment that Emma revels in.

There are individuals that Emma makes particular friends with. Ruby, who, along with her husband Graham, works with wolves , is an absolute spitfire who keeps them all entertained with her wit and predictions for the circus. Mary Margaret, who performs tricks with a flock of trained birds, and her husband David, one of the stagehands, are as sweet a couple as Emma’s ever seen and determined to spread that love to everyone else around them as well. It feels a little like they’ve adopted her as an adult child, set upon caring for her in any way they can, and Emma finds she kind of likes it. 

(There’s the fortune teller, too - Belle, a kind and quiet woman that Emma is friendly with, if not close. Somehow, Emma gets the feeling that Belle knows more about this whole thing than anyone else, but can’t put her finger on why. She’d know if the petite little brunette was her opponent, she’s sure; surely she’d sense her opponent’s own magic, the way she can always see the way her own gathers like dozens of little stray hairs about her person.)

There’s a feeling of comradery amongst the group of them, of family. They’re a stability that Emma craves in the midst of all this uncertainty, a support system even if she can’t reveal the stakes she’s facing. As simple a word as it is, they’re friends, and that’s a thing that’s been sorely lacking Emma’s entire life. 

Mulan, however, is a different story. It’s not that they’re not friends - Emma would say that they’re consistently friendly. Emma had immediately noticed the way magic had clung to the other woman in the same way that it does to herself. Here, Mulan may be a sword swallower, but she’s undeniably a powerful magician too. 

“This isn’t the first time that such a competition has been staged,” Mulan tells her over tea as her spoon stirs in sugar without apparent human hand, a thread of magic spooling and unspooling about the metal over and over again.

“So how do I win, then?” If Mulan has been in her shoes before - and indeed, the other woman’s particular brand of magic suggests she trained under Emma’s own mentor, Regina - then this could be a critical advantage for Emma.

But Mulan shakes her head. “That’s something you have to discover in your own time. I’m here merely as… an observer. Support, perhaps. But not to interfere.”

(Even as she says the words, Emma can see a sadness in Mulan’s eyes that sends a stab of foreboding through Emma’s heart.)

There’s an entire universe of possibilities contained within the wrought iron gates, different ways this all could play out. Emma feels within her heart that even if the circus hasn’t opened, the competition has already begun; after all, she’s already tied her own magic to its construction, the way it expands and contracts and travels, lending her own abilities to those enchantments someone else already set. 

There will be a chance to test that tomorrow, as all of this is folded up and moved to where the circus will celebrate its opening night in barely 72 hours’ time. It’s a delicate business, but will be worth it when the effect is finally unveiled - or at least Emma hopes it will be. It’s hard to imagine anyone not loving the circus, in all its wonder, just as much as they do, but dozens of lives are tied to the circus - now dozens of homes and salaries and futures. It’s hard not to feel a little nervous about all that is to come, for their sakes if not her own. 

Above the ticketing booths at the front gates of the circus sits an enormous cuckoo clock, with figures and designs constantly shifting, changing from black to white and back again. Emma likes to come and watch the clock in the moments she takes for herself; there’s something about the simple, elegant mechanics that calms her, shows her the beauty that can exist without magic. Her entire world will change once again once the circus opens its gates for the first time, but the clock is a reminder that change is more than inevitable - it is natural, and sometimes even good. 

As the clock ticks the minutes away overhead, Emma closes her eyes and centers herself. All around her, she can feel the energies of all the people who bring the circus to life - happy and excited and good, in a way she hadn’t known existed. All these lives in her hands, caught up in this competition without even knowing it.

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

There’s a party, the night before the circus opens its gates for the first time, at the lavish townhouse of the circus’ proprietor. It’s perfectly in keeping with what Emma knows of the man; Jefferson - as he insists on being called, damn the proprieties - is generous by nature, despite (or perhaps because of) his eccentricities. Where anyone else would balk at the collected mass of the Circus’ players and crew showing up on their doorstep and traipsing through their halls, Jefferson welcomes them with open arms, seeming to delight in the chaos they might bring with them. 

At the Circus, they might be clad in black and white and every shade in between, but Jefferson’s halls are a riot of color tonight - and not just due to his bold decorating preferences. The circus members have truly let loose for the occasion, in a wide array of colors and patterns - green stripes and purple layered on blue and polka-dotted waistcoats, all melding together into a unique symphony of hues never seen before or since. Emma herself wears a red gown that makes her feel like a princess, with long sleeves and a scooped neckline and beading along the bust. Technically, the dress has looked far different when she started with it - a dark navy blue and rather more demure than this end result, though the cloth itself was of good quality - but she’s always had a deft hand with fabrics. It comes in handy in her small train car room, where she really only has room for a single trunk unless she gets magically creative with her storage space.

The party is, by all appearances, a roaring success. Dinner features the widest variety of options imaginable, featuring dishes seemingly from every corner of the globe. There are fountains of chocolate and tiny little bites of meat and vegetables and the most delicate pastries Emma has ever eaten in her life. After dinner, there’s music and dancing and gaming tables in the parlor. The hired band keeps playing a series of merry dance numbers, reels and jigs and the occasional waltz. It’s joyful, happiness permeating every inch of Jefferson’s brightly colored mansion that makes the whole place shine in a way that has nothing to do with any candles or oil lamps.

Personally, Emma is happier along the edges of rooms, observing everything else that goes on around her. It’s not that she’s somehow opposed to the festivities; far from it, at fact. She easily allows herself to be talked into taking turns on the dance floor with David and Ruby even a delighted Jefferson when they ask her with a smile and, in Ruby’s case, a rather insistent and intoxicated tug towards the dance floor. She knows the steps; she knows the rules. But it is hard, sometimes, after a childhood spent largely alone, to throw herself willingly into the heart of it all. It’s intimidating, in a way. At the heart of things, it’s less overwhelming to observe, a wallflower by choice.

From her own vantage point, however, it’s impossible not to notice another soul doing the same thing - sticking to the walls and to the shadows, absorbing everything while engaging with none of it. The person in question is a man - strikingly handsome, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones that make him look a little dangerous. He’s the kind of man who should have no problem finding a dance partner, if he so desired, but he waits along the edges, the same as her. What’s even more curious is that Emma has no idea who he is. Emma isn’t fool enough to claim that she’s intimate friends with each and every person in the Circus - there’s far too many for that - but she does recognize them by sight, at least. It’s an inevitable result of living and working with people in such a tight-knit environment as the Circus. This man isn’t one of them. Curiously, she still has the feeling that he’s familiar, somehow. She can’t quite put a finger on why; it’s like a whisper in her ear, that she knows him in a way she doesn’t yet understand. 

(She sees him looking, too, when he thinks she hasn’t noticed. Maybe he feels this curious deja vu as well.)

At one point, she notices Mulan speaking briefly with the mystery man - nothing more than a few words, but enough to catch her attention.

“Who is that?” Emma asks the next time Mulan passes her by, dressed in regalia that looks more like armor than a dress. It suits her, in a way something more traditional wouldn’t have. “That man in the corner?”

“By that particularly ugly bronze bust?” Emma nods. “That’s Jefferson’s personal secretary. Killian Jones. I’m surprised you haven’t met him before - he follows Jefferson everywhere, records everything. Jefferson won’t on his own.”

Maybe that’s where Emma recognizes him from; it would make sense that he’d have been at her audition, just another face in the crowd. That must account for this odd sense of familiarity.

Mulan waits patiently as Emma turns the information over in her head, as if waiting for her to ask another question. For the life of her, she can’t imagine what that might be.

“I didn’t know that,” she finally replies. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mulan nods. “Try and have a little fun tonight. It’s not like we’ll have another chance for this for a long while.”

“I promise I am. Even without the dancing.”

“Good.”

(There’s a little tickle at the back of her neck that says Mulan isn’t sharing the whole story, but Emma doesn’t pry further. The other woman plays her cards very close to her proverbial vest; she won’t reveal anything except exactly what she deems it necessary for Emma to know.)

As Mulan slides silently back into the crush, Emma steals another glance at the corner, but the man - Killian Jones - is gone.

Not that it matters to her. After all, they’ll likely never meet again.

(It is easy to ignore the little voice that whispers Oh, but you will.)

——— 

The circus opens on a warm June night under a new moon, and it feels like anything might happen. The tents are all set, the costumes sewn, the performers placed along each neatly lined path. All that’s missing is the audience. 

At the very center of the circus is an ornately crafted fire pit, with shoots of burnished metal curling towards the sky in imitation of the flame contained within. Over time, the heat of the fire will heat and scar the metal in its own unique way, creating an ever changing statue. Tonight, in recognition of the circus’ opening night, the bonfire will be lit for the first time at precisely midnight in a ceremony for all to see. 

Tucked into the grate beneath the fire pit, carefully warded against the flame with a series of runes, is a leather-bound book that no one but Killian knows about. The volume is the circus, in a way that he’s proud to have accomplished. Between the covers are pages and pages of plans for each and every tent, ride, and attraction, with magic carved into every line. This is the way that the circus is brought to life - the way it’s assembled and disassembled, the way it operates, the way it exists. At the back is a list of everyone employed by the circus, from Mrs. Lucas who runs the dining car of the train to the day-old twins of one of their vendors, a craftsman and his wife who sell intricate animals carved out of wood so delicately and with such life that they look as if they might begin to cavort across your palm. Each name is accompanied by a single drop of their blood - something so simple, but powerful. It binds them to the circus, protects them; it’s a safeguard, in case something should ever happen.

(Killian hates to think that there might be collateral damage in all this, but it seems inevitable. Mr. Gold and Madame Mills aren’t the types to worry about the chaos they create, as long as they get what they want. This will protect the circus and all the many lives that depend upon it.)

Most significantly, Killian creates a tricky little bit of magic to link the volume under the bonfire, right in the heart of the circus, to another in his own possession. It’s still unclear, in so many ways, exactly what this so-called competition will entail, let alone how long it will last. It seems inevitable that in order for the competition to move forward, additions and changes will need to be made, ways to demonstrate each of their respective powers. A second volume, directly mirroring the first, will allow him to add attractions as the opportunity arises. 

Killian feels somehow in-between as he wanders the grounds of the circus - not one of the performers, but not quite a normal visitor ever. He’s done more to bring this to life than anyone present knows, but it doesn’t feel like a part of him in a way he might have expected. He strolls the paths, cloaked in spells that turn everyone’s attention away from his person so he can place the tome without questioning. That’s fitting, he thinks; he’s not part of the circus in any visual way, now or previously, yet he’s made more of a mark than they’ll ever know. He’s shaped this entire spectacle from the shadows, and his work is only beginning. 

It feels like something settles into place as Killian slides the book into its nook. It’s like the whole circus was just waiting for that final piece, as if a breath has been released and this can all finally begin. Something cements in that moment; some piece of ancient magic more powerful than any rune. All that’s left to do is activate that magic with the lighting of the bonfire.

(There are already firecrackers in place to set off with each tick of the clock leading to midnight, but Killian can sense the traces of someone else’s magic lingering on each charge. It seems Miss Swan has left her mark on the fire in her own way, one that will make this a night to remember for all involved. Their work has long since begun, but they both usher in a new phase with their own mark.)

Killian stays to watch the lighting of the bonfire, still cloaked in the shadows even amongst the crowds of life around him. At a few minutes to midnight, they all assemble around the pit - every performer, every visitor, every vendor. Each and every soul. It’s easy to pick out the audience from the circus members; true to their vision, those who are part of the circus are clad in black and white and silver, alternately blending into the night and reflecting like the brightest stars. They stand stark against everyone else and the usual medley of colors, like elegant wraiths. 

Killian spots, too, Jefferson across the way, and the Frost sisters, and Madame Blue and Mr. Booth, all here to mark the occasion. They’ve participated in the dress code as well, Killian is amused to see - Jefferson in a white suit decked with tiny black stars, and the ladies in varying shades of white and silver and grey. Mr. Booth’s black suit may just be his usual wear, but the silver necktie adds a certain celebratory vibe. Killian’s lips twitch in a smile to see their little group, looking with varying levels of satisfaction (or outright bouncing glee, in Jefferson’s case) on the experience they dreamed and brought to life. It’s not necessary, really, that Killian disguise himself anymore; as Jefferson’s personal secretary, it would seem natural for him to be here to witness this. Killian has ulterior motives for maintaining the cloak, however - namely, watching his opponent, the lovely Miss Swan. 

He’s a little enthralled by her, he’ll admit. Miss Emma Swan is… not what he expected in a competitor. If pressed, Killian will admit that he expected his opposing counterpart to be someone rather like himself - some young man around his age, similarly focused, similarly discreet. Miss Swan - besides being, most obviously, a young woman instead of a young man - wields her magic with an open confidence that he hadn’t expected, at least if her audition and the few times they’ve crossed paths since on circus business are any indication. Then again, it’s not like there’s as much need to hide her magic as Killian always believed; to the public, magic isn’t real after all, and she’s just a circus illusionist. 

(She’s a born performer, is what she is, and Killian looks forward to surreptitiously attending one of her shows tonight to relive the particular thrill of watching Miss Swan in action.)

(As much as Killian tells himself they’re different, there’s something in her eyes that says that’s not quite true - the look of someone who’s been left alone for too long. Maybe they are cut from the same cloth, after all. Not that it matters in situations such as these.)

Ten seconds before midnight, the firecrackers begin setting off in bright bursts of color and pattern, causing an audible gasp of awe from the assembled audience. There are swirls of blue, shoots of red, bursts of gold, all perfectly timed to the second hand of his watch. It’s the purest expression of magic made real, and even though Killian knows to watch for the way Miss Swan’s fingers twist at her side to release each round, it still leaves him in a little bit of awe and wonder. It’s displays like these that first enthralled him to the idea of magic, all those years ago when he was still just a boy; it’s nice to reclaim that even just for a moment. 

At the crescendo, a previously unnoticed archer - a trick-shot they’d hired, who can hit the smallest targets from the greatest distance - releases a single flaming arrow. It lands dead center in the bonfire pit, just above where Killian alone knows the volume containing the circus rests, and ignites it in a chasing line of flame. It roars to beautiful life, illuminating the beautiful joy and wonder on each and every face. 

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

There’s something otherworldly about it, you think as you take in the sights. There’s a stark elegance and mysticism about the venue and all its players that feels unnatural, in the best way - as if you’ve stumbled out of the real world and into a fairy court, where the very air is laced with magic and anything might happen. 

Each tent is somehow better than the last, and you wander without real purpose between each, trusting fate and your heart to lead the way. Even the winding paths, paved in silvery grey pebbles, hold their own surprises, twisting and curving past all manner of performers on pedestals in the night air. There are contortionists in silver and jugglers with patterned balls and clubs, fire swallowers and concession vendors who smile at you and living statues who move so gradually as to be barely discernible to the naked eye.

It is more than an attraction, you realize as the first rays of light peak over the horizon, illuminating the intricate metalwork of the front gate clock; it’s an experience, a wonder, something that sinks into your very soul and changes you in ways you’re not yet equipped to describe.

The circus lingers in your mind and heart, and you will never be the same again.

[theowlhouseheadcanons]

I´ve finished The Owl House recently and I´m just amazed by the show in all its aspects, especially the plot and the designs. Even though the very known Disney´s touch is there, it is placed so smoothly along with the story that makes the show really refreshing to watch. 

But as any cartoon trope, I bet my right hand there will be this prom episode where all the characters will get a new, formal outfit that will make the fandom go YEAH

… But this episode is not here yet, and probably will take some time to be, and since hiatus is taking so long… I took the creative liberty to illustrate some of my expectations. 

Sooo, Ta-dã ! 

It took longer than I´ve expected it to, 

Here it goes the thoughts I´ve put in every piece! 

Willow: yes, I just couldn´t resist the urge to relate her outfit with the tree that is behind her name, and c´mon, you know the creators also have this association in mind. It just fits. The little details on her dress are the flowers from the willow tree, and I wanted to resemble the “wavy strips” shape of leaves in someplace - first I thought about making her dress in this shape, but I wasn´t finding a way to make it right. So I added this detail to her earing, since making the reference more subtle felt like a better reward to give the public once they notice the design´s purpose (hope it made sense)

Gus: our gold boi is an illusionist and a human enthusiast, and I wanted to make both of those traits show off. So, which iconic human being we have that also practiced the art of illusion? If you said Houdini, you´ve read my mind. I based Gus´ suit on the one Houdini used to wear a lot *according to google* and made the little bow tie as a reminder of his coven (not that we needed a remind for that but yeah); And what about the hat? I took the liberty to make it a headcanon that, in one of Owlbert trash raids to the human world, there was this sympathetic top hat laying around and, as Luz knew how much Gus liked human stuff (and wanted him to be more assertive about stuff´s finalities), she gave it to him. And I´m sure you can imagine his enthusiasm, and how forward he was looking to properly use the “artifact” as a human would (even if it´s all beat up!) Besides, the hat was made for a head way bigger than his, so it keeps falling into him and he has to stand funny in order to keep it in place

Luz: Luz is “light” in Spanish/Portuguese, her light spell has this yellowish color so there wasn´t much stress to pick the primal color (picking the right variations in the other hand…that was sort of stressing). For her dress model, I wanted something that expressed her buoyant personality, but still “serious” enough to attend a formal event. So, I made it like a sundress and added some layers of details, as the sleeves and the semi-transparent cloth over the dress´s hem. Also, I “tamed” her hair a bit so it wouldn´t just be the same she uses every day, with this one rebellious lock of hair at the back which refuses to stay put along with the others. 

 Luz appears to me as someone who would love to wear super extra outfits for cosplay purposes, but being conscious about her clumsy self, she would rather stick with something simple enough to move freely (and fast) if the situation requires it - especially because it would be her first prom out of the human world (maybe her first prom in life?) so it would be nice to avoid any unnecessary awkward scenarios - which we all know are totally going to happen. Thus, I thought about adding some glitter to it, but I saved the sparkles for someone else...

Amity: OH I HAD SO MUCH FUN DOING THIS ONE. Amity (spoiler alert) is a big fan of Azura´s books, just like Luz, and it is pretty clear she inspires herself a lot on the character - her dyed hair, the drawing of herself wearing Azura´s clothes on her diary´s cover - SO based on that sweet info it wouldn´t be a surprise if she coded Azura´s dress in her own. I made her dress a plain white (like Azura´s)  but, to resemble Amity social status (da gurl is rich) gave it an “elegant” cut, with the purple, shining and very-expensive looking silk falling upon it to give life to the outfit (and they also translates as the shoulder parts of Azura´s dress). Her earing stands for Azura´s chest star, and I played a “half-fancy” hairstyle to complement. (I don´t like to have favorites, but this one is definitely one)

King: the king of demons claims he´s a naturalist and has concrete displeasure to wear clothes. So little cute smokes were out. But as a king, and with his obnoxious personality, he would definitely want to dress as fancy as everyone else, with the little of “dressing” as possible, get it? I know that adding a bow tie to him isn´t the most creative of looks, but the filling is in the headcanon I (once again) took the liberty to make: King wanted to feel fancy, but he wouldn´t dress a suit, and he refused to go without anything. This led everyone on the house to search for something that King could wear, which resulted in Eda finding some old holiday ornaments boxed in a dark corner of the attic; Among those, there were many red bows of different sizes from where King picked the biggest one - which was meant for Hooty, since it was a door ornament - and a smaller one for the tail, as the final detail. He also gave Hooty one of the bows, a really small one, just to say he gave the owl something. 

Eda: I must confess, Eda outfit was the trigger of this whole thing lol. I was scrolling through Pinterest and BAM this look appeared and my mind instantly associated it with the Owl Lady. I just really wanted to draw her in this look because it is so her. She´s the elegant foxy aunt of the party who put candies in her bag and sneakily takes all the table decorations home (especially the shiny ones!). She received Principal´s authorization to attend the prom with no risks of being arrested, as a treat for her good choice of enrolling Luz there, which is the only reason she´s so proudly showing off who she is (I´m talking about the necklace, if you´re wondering). Plus, her hair up was so fun to make? I´m 100% ready to see it canon

oof, this was long.

I´m thrilled at the chance to share it with you guys, and I´m more than welcome to feedback!

[whattodowithace]

Bank Heist Part 1 (San)

Title: Bank Heist 

Pairing: San x Reader

Genre: Spice; Action

Word Count: 4.9K Words (Both Parts)

Writer: Kpopmadness (Ju)

A/N: Part 1 of 2 of Bank Heist. This is a long one shot I wrote awhile ago and it’s honestly one of my Favorite ateez works. I hope you enjoy it! 💕

“Welcome,” You greet warmly. The cool air twirling around you whenever the door opens, making goosebumps flutter across your skin. 

You plaster on your most winning smile as you say cheerfully, “Enjoy the Bank's two year anniversary party. Please, make yourself comfortable and help yourself to some drinks.” 

Wild Card Bank, or WCB, was one of the most popular and most richest banks in Chicago. It wasn’t your small town bank. Because WCB was a casino. Only the richest with money to burn came to play or bank with Wild Card. Tonight was the bank's second time holding an anniversary party for its success. The guests were adorned in jewels and luxury, a glass of champagne in hands and a set of poker chips. The guests receive a red carpet entry with photographers and reporters lurking at the doors waiting. Once they walk in, they are taken aback by the scene. 

You stand a little straighter as another row of guests enters the building. A smirk tugging at your lips. Too bad everyone in this room will be stripped of their money before the night is even out. A long black dress clings to the curves of your body. A slit that goes up to your thigh making the dress part teasingly as you walk. And a large red belt hugs your waist and keeps the strapless dress in place. You have worked at Wild Card for a year now. You had gained the bosses trust, an older man in his 60s, and he had promoted you to secretary of the bank. You look down at your checklist in hand, almost everyone was in attendance. Just a few more people needed to show. 

“Looking for something?” A flirtatious voice whispers in your ear. 

You gasp and jump back before feeling a blush creep across your face. A pair of dark eyes meets yours, a devilish smile crosses his lips. 

He’s taller than you and has a strong build. He wears a black tux with a white button down dress shirt and black tie. His hair is black but one thick strip of hair falls across his eyes in a shade of pale gray. The blush that was on your face vanishes and you feel a surge of frustration and anger surge threw you;

“San!” You hiss, looking around to make sure no one heard you. “What are you doing here?” 

Choi San stands a little straighter, not trying to hide the smirk on his face. “I have my reasons.” He says in a sly tone. Leaning down to you until his face was an inch from yours he adds on, “And I feel you're here for the same reasons...partner.” 

You glare at him before pushing him away from you and straightening your dress out again. The last thing you needed was having San draw attention to you both. 

“San, I’m busy. So don’t get in my way tonight, okay?” You say curtly as you try to sidestep him and go attend to something else. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, stopping you. The warmth of his hand seeps  through your dress to your skin. 

“I think there’s no point in denying we’re both here for the same thing tonight.” San says into your ear, keeping his voice low so passers by can’t hear. “Our past aside, it's just going to be a matter of who walks out of here with the prize first.” 

You stand there, motionless. Your lips sealed together, afraid you would let something slip. You see Sans eyes linger across your body before saying, “Nice dress by the way. You look very beautiful.” 

That did it. You tore Sans hand away from your waist and started walking quickly toward somewhere, anywhere away from him. Slowly, you came back to your senses and forced yourself to steady your shaking hands. 

You force yourself through the next hour greeting people and avoiding Sans gaze every time you see him across the room. He would occasionally lift his drink to you with a smirk on his face and wink at you. Finally, the time came for your boss to say his greetings and thanks to the guests. You stood beside him on the stage smiling and laughing on cue. But you felt uneasy when you noticed San was no longer in the crowd. Gritting your teeth you waited until your boss was done giving his speech and had walked off the stage to greet his guests before you also walked off the stage and headed for the back. 

You let yourself into your small office, leaving the lights off and feeling your way to the desk. You find the gym bag that had been hiding under your desk and rip it open. Quickly taking off your heels and dress you change into a pair of black cargo pants, black lace up boots and a black button down shirt. The same uniforms the guards were wearing. 

You take your hair down and let it spill over your shoulders before quickly tying it into a braid behind your back and slipping on a black baseball cap that covers your eyes. You slip an ID card around your neck then another ID card into your pocket. You had created it a week before this night. It was a copy of your boss's ID card he kept in his office. 

Throwing your dress into the gym bag you stuff it carefully behind your bookshelf in your office where you had cut a small hiding place into the wallpaper. There you had hidden a small black suitcase a few weeks ago, you take it out and stuff the gym bag inside the hole in its place. Then quickly slid the bookshelf back into its original place. 

Walking out of the office you make your way to the safe. A middle aged woman behind the desk taps on her keyboard and motions silently for you to walk through the metal detector. You set the suitcase down on a counter where another guard exams the contents. You take a deep breath and walk through. The metal detector remains silent. 

You have to conceal your smirk as the woman comes around the desk to scan your ID card. It reads off as a new member of your bosses rarely trusted officers to go inside the safe to check on the cameras and anything else. But you were counting on this security officer to not look closely at your face. 

She scanned the ID card, punched in a code on a control panel on the large steel door before it opened. The guard that examined your suitcase hands it back to you without a word, to them it was only filled with tools to check the cameras and to make sure the control panels worked.  

You walk down the hall as the door behind you shuts. That’s the first door to the safe. You have to get through the rows of security cameras first to get to the door. Plus the three armed guards standing at the door. 

You keep your head down so the camera can’t pick up your face before opening up a panel in the wall and act as if you're checking it. The guards watch you for a moment and then seem to lose interest. You watch out of the corner of your eye on one camera next to you. You slip another wire out carefully and pull it out from where it’s connected into the wall. It will make all the cameras go black. 

“Hey!” One of the armed guards barks, “What do you think you're doing?” 

You pull your hat down further over your eyes and smirk, starting a count backward in your head from 60. 

You reach down and act like you're going to take something from your suitcase. Waiting for the guard to come closer. The first two do. Quickly, you stand up and slam your elbow into the first guards face. He stumbles back, blood running down his nose and mouth. 

The second guard advances and pulls out his taser, you quickly grab his wrist free of the taser and spin his wrist behind his back and your body until you're behind him too. The man fires his taser and it hits the guard that you had hit in the face moments ago. He stumbles back in pain and falls to the ground, his body twisting and convulsing in pain before he goes limp. 

Before you can turn your attention to the guard you have pinned and the last one, a hard object hits the guard you have a hold of on the head. His body sags and his full weight comes on you before you let him fall. You spin around and a pair of dark eyes you recognize meet your eyes. 

“Hi sweetie,” San says, his eyes peeking out from his hat identical to yours. 

Your body reacts before you can think, you land a fist into Sans cheek, hard. He stumbles back against the wall, shocked but at the same time a smirk crosses his lips.

You go back to your case, bend down and take several small round screens from your suitcase and quickly walk to each individual camera and slip the screen on over the camera’s eyes. You're at 9 now. Quickly taking a small remote from your suitcase you push a blue button in the center of the remote, You had 3 seconds left before security would have called for backup. The camera will show the halls to be empty, with the same  three guards standing watch. Like nothing happened. 

“We should really work on your bedside manner, baby.” San remarks as he wipes off a streak of blood running down his chin. 

You whirl around, “I told you not to get in my way tonight!” You snap at him, shoving a finger into his chest. 

San chuckles and wipes the blood off on his pants before answering. “Just like old times. How have things been with you anyway?” 

You scoff and start walking down the hallway before he calls after you, “Oh common! I haven’t seen you in over two years and you're not going to even give me a hello kiss?” 

You stop, a laugh escapes your lips that’s somewhere between genuine and just annoyed. You walk back towards him and let your face get an inch from his; 

“Let’s get something straight.” You say firmly, “I am not here to rekindle old flames. You are a thief. I was living a normal life. But somehow you talked me into joining your little gain. All because you and I went to the same school to become cops. But you dropped out. I ran with you for three years and then,” 

San opens his mouth to interrupt but you clamp a hand on his mouth, “And then,” you continue, “You left me. With not even so much as a goodbye.”  

San takes your wrist and gently takes it away from his mouth before placing his hands on your hips and asking in a mischievous tone, “Is that why your robbing a bank?” 

Your eyes narrow and you pull away from him before going to the Safes door and swiping your bosses identical ID card and entering a pin code on the door panel. 

“You know the code?” San whispers in your ear. 

The doors swish open in answer and you remain silent as you stomp into the safe. Neatly organized rows of cash line the safe. You smile to yourself, feeling the two years of hard work pay off. Before you can even touch the first wad of cash, you're pushed back against the wall. San lowers his face down until the bridge of his nose brushes yours. Goosebumps rise on the back of your neck. He rests his hands on either side of your face before continuing, “You never went back to a normal life after everything we went through together. You want to know why I think that is?”  

San lets his mouth flutter across yours as he says, “Because you miss it. And you’ve missed me.” 

There was a long silence that stretched between you two, and you felt yourself lean into him slightly before the sound of an alarm echoed down the halls. San pulled away from you and you realize one of the guards woke up enough to drag himself over to where the Emergency button was. 

San shuts the door to the safe and pulls a gun out from behind his back and fires a few rounds into the control panel. 

“That should keep them busy.” He says as he puts the gun back and picks up the backpack he had brought in. 

“When did you get a gun?” You ask. Surprised.

San only winks at you as he picks up the backpack and starts shoving money into the bag. As he shovels money in he says, “You know, you’ve lost your edge.” 

You pick up a handful of bills and put them in the bag before asking, “How so?” 

San stands up straight, “This is a casino, darling. Back in our day we would have robbed them blind.” 

You shove more money into the bag, sweat starts to run down your back. The clock is ticking. But you stop and meet Sans eyes, “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? I’ve been planning this for two years.” 

San stares blankly and then a smirk tugs at his lips. “You gave them the Winners Curse.” 

You can’t help but smile. The Winners Curse is a move San came up with. The dice, all the machines, the cards, everything in the casino, is riged. Every time someone wins a round of cards and gets more poker chips, it’s robbing the bank of money every round people play and win. The machines are set. All 500 plus guests will walk out with money tonight. 

You're the secretary. You handle everything. You're a false identity, a false name. You slipped your boss a drug in his drink as he was giving his thanks to the guests. By now he’s out cold somewhere and you’ll be long gone. 

As you finish putting money into the backpack, you hear loud voices echo through the halls of the Safe. Times up. 

“San, we need to go.” You say. 

San finishes putting the last of the money into the pack and zips it up. He slings it over his shoulder and waves his hand in front of him, “Lead the way.” 

Crawling through the air duct was not your biggest idea. But with police banging on the Safes door you didn’t see a choice. 

“Here,” San says bending down to his knees, “I’ll give you a boost.” 

You examine him suspiciously, “You have the money. I’m not leaving without it.” 

San rolls his eyes and throws the backpack off his shoulder and hands it to you. You smirk at him and put your boot on his knee and haul yourself up the small space. Once up you feel your breath hitch slightly at how dark and cramped it is. 

Forcing yourself to focus, you let your hand down and help San up. He just pulls his feet up and closes the air ducts door when the door to the safe flies open and a SWAT team rushes into the room. 

You both sit there a minute and watch as the SWAT team surveys the room before lowering their weapons. San nudges your leg and you take it as a signal to start moving. Getting onto your knees, you start crawling, San at your heels. 

You crawl for some time, hot air swooshes through the vent, making sweat run down your back and make your hair cling to your neck. The backpack strapped to your back isn’t helping you squeeze through the tight spaces. You try to stay calm but mentally visualizing the twists and turns of the air duct that you had spent a whole year memorizing. 

Suddenly you stop, but it’s a forced stop. You can’t move. You pull but the bag on your back seems to be stuck and won’t budge. 

“San.” You hiss behind you, “I can’t move.” 

“You can’t move?” San repeats behind you. “What do you mean?” 

“The stupid backpack is stuck. If I try to move it sounds like it’s tearing.” You whisper, feeling panic rise in your chest. 

“Okay, okay.” San whispers as he gives off a sigh. The air duct is pitch black and neither one of you is brave enough to turn on a light with a SWAT team still around the Bank. Suddenly, Sans hand is on your ankle and he pulls himself up beside you. 

“What are you doing?” You whisper, your voice having more of a high pitched panic than you would like. 

“Getting you unstuck.” He says blunty. He pulls himself up far enough to where you can feel his breath against your ear and run down your neck. You’re thankful it’s dark in the vent, it conceals your deep red blush creeping across your face. You can feel him running his fingers over the pack, trying to feel where it got stuck. 

“I can feel where it’s hung up,” San says after what feels like forever. “It’s caught on a sharp edge on the roof on the vent. A piece of metal must be stuck out and caught in the fabric.” 

“Great.” You mumble.  

Suddenly San slips himself underneath you and brings his lips up against your ear. You feel your body run hot but try to tell yourself he’s only trying to get you unstuck and is using both his hands to get the fabric loose. That thought doesn’t soothe you though. 

Finally, you feel the pack get unstuck and it sags against your damp back. But when it comes down San doesn’t take his hands off you. Instead he rests his hands on your hips and rests his head against the cool metal beneath him. 

Even though you can’t see his face you know he’s smirking, “You can’t resist being close to me, can you?” 

You try to make your voice sound even and firm as you retort, “Take your hands off me.” 

San wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you over until your back is on the ground and he’s on top of you. You let out a gasp as San brings his lips down to your ear before growling, “Make me.” 

He kisses his way up until his lips meet yours. A burst of butterflies explode in your chest and you feel your hands run through his soft hair. Realizing you missed the feeling of his touch. 

His lips are soft and gentle at first but soon he deepens the kiss and lets out a soft moan against your lips when you bite his bottom lip. His tongue slides across your bottom lip as his hand finds a spot where the back of your shirt has come up just a bit and his thumb traces a line on your lower back. 

Suddenly, a low sounding hiss grabs your attention. You pull your lips away from San and start to feel what seems like tongues of fire race across your skin. Tear Gas. 

A second later San recognizes it and wordlessly slides off you, helping you come back up to your knees. By now the gas is stronger. Your eyes burn and you want to hold your breath because taking one hurts too much. 

San pushes you forward and you force your brain to work. You're almost to an exit. The gas is stronger now and you hear San cough behind you and your muscles contract and tighten at the horrible feeling gripping you. 

Your eyes water and blurr and it takes everything you have to not swipe at your eyes. Finally, you see the exit you had planned to get out. Technically the air duct was your back up plan but you were glad you took time to memorize the air ducts systems. 

You push the door open without thinking if there’s cops there and slide out. The cool air feels heavenly on your face and tears slide down your burning cheeks. San slides out next to you and sits down on the pavement. You both catch your breath a moment. You hear the distant cry of a cop siren and pull yourself together. 

You stand up shakely, bracing yourself against the wall behind you. “San,” you say breathlessly, “We need to go.” 

He sits there swiping at his eyes and taking deep breaths. He doesn’t answer. You walk over and kneel next to him, his eyes are red and his face streaked with tears, making his skin look agitated. You cup his face in your hands and whisper, “I need you to stand up.” 

He stares at you for a moment, the cop siren drawing closer. Making your heart skip. Finally, San moves and gets on his feet. He sways slightly and you wrap an arm around his waist. You're in an alley, like you had planned it. One side is a dead end the other takes you out into the street. In the street is a yellow Taxi cab. 

“That’s our ride.” You tell San as he shifts his weight and stands up straighter. 

MASTERLIST

[another-snape-story]

Staff Meeting

Chapter IV

So you moved in your chambers, which were going to be your home for the whole next year, and probably for another one or two. You liked having some space, but this place offered you much more than you’d ever dream of.

Looking around and studying every single thing your glance caught, you stretched out your hands and spun around in the center of the spacious room with high arched celling – and a chimney – and large branched candlesticks on the walls – and… Wait what? Was this a window behind those curtains? You’ve never seen anything like this before. The smooth glass surface offered a fascinating view. It was not a typical view someone would expect (even the most picturesque one) – your window looked out into the depths of the lake! Although water stole the brightness of sunlight, it still could reach you, seeping through the deepness in wide soft rays, overflowing your chambers with greenish dim light.

All your doubts gradually faded away, filling your heart with delight, promising you a good time inside these walls!

The time flew by unnoticed in looking closely at the furnishing and examining other little things, which gave this place a special charm. You regretted having to leave so soon – there was still so much to observe. You reluctantly adjusted your hair, and in another few minutes you were ready to meet the rest of your colleagues.

“Obnoxiously punctual you are,” you heard familiar voice, once you opened the door and stepped in the corridor.

“Sounds like a compliment,” you smirked to the man in a black suit. For a brief moment you seemed to catch a glimpse of a smile in the corner of his mouth, but once you blinked to clear your vision, it vanished, leaving you wonder if your imagination was playing tricks on you.

You walked upstairs without saying a word to each other. It didn’t surprise you any longer. Although your destination turned out to be the golden griffin again, you realized you’d never find it from where you started along with Professor Snape. If the castle confused your ways all the time, then how many puzzles did it have in store? Will you ever be able to handle its jokes without someone’s help?

‘Sherbet Lemon’ pronounced with that same stern expression on your accompanier’s face brought you back to the day you first stood on this place, and you couldn’t help sniggering under your breath. Why you found it so cute and funny?

Headmaster’s office was exactly the same as you remembered it, with one only difference – this time there were more people here, and no Headmaster himself. You decided, staying close to the only man you knew (who at least talked to you… sometimes) would be the better choice, so you followed him through the crowd, shifting your gaze from one face to another.

“Oh, you must be our new Professor in Applied Herbology?” asked an aged woman in a black old-fashioned pointed hat.

“If you’re not expecting some other people for this position, so obviously I am,” you answered amiably yet with astonishing confidence, drawing attention of other staff members.

Soon you were enclosed in a tight circle of curious witches and wizards, who started attacking you with numerous questions, the majority of which you hardly wished to answer. You hated having unwanted noses in your business, so – barely giving out any information about yourself – you replied politely, mesmerizing your co-workers with your wit and acuity. Professor Snape was pushed aside and remained standing aloof, leaving you alone with the pack of your colleagues altogether. Traitor!

The agitated buzz subsided, once Headmaster Dumbledore appeared out of nowhere.

“Nice to see how excited all of you are to meet our new Professor! Now it’s time to introduce you officially!”

You couldn’t find words to describe how glad you were when the shaking-hands-ceremony was over at last, and all the attention was directed to the Headmaster. He gave some instructions concerning working routine and encouraged the staff for the upcoming year. It was nothing left but to hope it wasn’t that boring as it sounded.

You happened to take place beside the only person you seemed to know here (at least you’ve seen him more than just once) – you felt like something draw you to him. He wasn’t so annoyingly cheerful and sweet, which favorably distinguished him from the rest. Curious it was, but you could somehow relate to this brooding man.

A spark of interest flared within your eyes as Headmaster mentioned the Sorcerer’s Stone and Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The whole story with the boy who lived after his attack engrossed you – there was no article in periodical you haven’t read yet, and now you had a chance to see him. The year promised to be eventful, no doubt.

Discussion how to protect the Stone was long. It was mainly Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall speaking with Headmaster, and Professor Quirrell interrupted them from time to time. Hanging on to their every word, you tried to come up with something that might help. The matter was urgent indeed. Gringotts break-in showed the Stone needed extra protection.

“We can put as many protective spells as we wish, but don’t you think that keeping the Stone within school walls might endanger its students?” you joined in. “If they passed through Gringotts security system, can you say for sure they won’t get here?”

The man beside you turned his head in your direction, yet his detached thoughtful gaze wandered across the desk surface, approximately where your hands rested.

“We’ve been arguing about this with Severus since the first day the Stone was brought here,” Dumbledore laughed quietly, and you could swear there was something in his glance – a mixture of surprise and content – as he looked on both of you.

“Oh, I didn’t know that…” you felt like an idiot, shoving your nose somewhere you didn’t belong. “Forgive me intrusion.”

“No, no,” Headmaster cheered you up. “I highly appreciate your concern! Each opinion matters, and now I’ll have to think twice before making my final decision.”

“May I suggest then?”

“Of course,” he invitingly waved his hand.

“We could produce a complicated protection, which would obligatory require everyone involved to remove it, making it impossible for an outsider to break the spell.”

“She’s right,” Professor Snape approved after a long pause. “This might be the best option.”

A short man, who was sitting on the pale of books – Professor Flitwick, if you were not mistaken – agreed with a soft nod of his head. So also did Professor McGonagall.

“Anyone else willing to declare themselves?” Dumbledore successively gave a look to each Professor attending the gathering, and as there was none, he added:

“I have one more idea, but I still need to think it over. Anyway everything said tonight might come in handy. And now I guess we all deserve some rest.” With last words he raised up to his feet and left.

You had no desire to stay here any longer and headed for the exit.

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Tag: @diaryofafan17​

[kessielrg]

[DA+KH] Bashful

Summary: Inspired by @chibi-mushroom‘s Dragon Age AU for the Kingdom Hearts series, in which Anora (OC/KHUX Player stand-in) meets a mysterious Orlesian merchant named Brain and the duo immediately hit it off. [established Ephemer/OC][hinted Brain/OC][pre Act 1 of Dragon Age 2]

Rating: K+

Word Count: 2,015 words

If you like this story, please reblog!

-

Walking alone in Lowtown gave Anora goosebumps. No small wonder, really, what with her being a woman, and a mage, and being about the right size to simply snatch up without a second glance. She had learned by now to keep her coin in a small burlap sack, wrapped tightly around her wrist and close to her body at all times. If worse came to worse, she could use it as a makeshift weapon.

Every hawker shouting to draw attention to their pop up shops made her flinch. It was almost too loud. It was never this noisy in the Circle, and it had been even quieter at the rehabilitation retreat Ephemer had been admitted to for awhile. At least she could still be fairly invisible in Lowtown- assuming no one tried to kidnap her first. Anora did her best to avoid most of the noise. She eventually found herself at a modest stall that held some basic supplies on offer.

The young woman bit her lower lip as she looked over the potions and wares for sale. She didn't notice that the seller of these items was arranging a few more expensive items in the back. She didn't hear the sound of an odd mewling from something inside the stall, drawing the attention of the stall's proprietor. Anora still barely registered when he came to the front of the stall, looking her over without a hint of bias.

“Is there anything I can interest you with, madam?”

Despite being a gentle, warm voice, Anora nearly jumped three feet in the air. She looked up at the merchant with wide, terrified eyes. She was greeted with gentle ones staring right back at her. No shame, no judgment, just a genuine curiosity.

“Oh, no, no.” the young woman stammered, backing a little away from the stall. Her face was starting to grow hot. Why was she blushing? She wasn't that embarrassed. Was she? “I was just looking to sell some excess healing potions I had. Nothing special.”

“Is that all?” the merchant mused with a teasing grin. He fingered the tip of his fedora and tipped it to her. “Well, I could take a look at them for you. I pay pretty fair coin for a good commodity.”

Anora shrunk a little. She did say she was looking to get rid of her excess health potions. This merchant also seemed to be rather nice. When was the last time anyone was that nice to her? Even Ephemer had to hide how much he cared when he was with the other Templars. Despite herself, Anora carefully placed her burlap sack on the counter, ready for him to inspect her potions and poultices.

“Before we do business,” the merchant spoke up, offering his hand to her, “Let's introduce ourselves proper. My name is Brain.”

“Brain?” Anora repeated in surprise.

To this, the merchant gave a light chuckle. “I have many other names, but I wanted to know how that one would sound on your tongue. Ferelden, right? Kirkwall's seeing more of them by the day.”

Still unsure on why she was so bashful, Anora quickly nodded her head in agreement. Her own arm extended to accept Brain's hand shake.

“I am Anora.” she carefully said.

“The pleasure is mine, Anora.” Brain smiled; his hand gently clasped in hers, and it gave it three shakes before breaking them apart. “Now, let's see what you have in that little rucksack of yours.”

There was a polite little nod from the young woman before opening her sack of healing items. Brain let out a low whistle at the sheer quantity of them. The vials that held the potions gave off a warm, comforting glow as the vial itself revealed the bright red liquid inside. The poultices were made with just as much care; each placed inside a steel tin and wrapped with colored cloth- a date written in black ink indicating when she had made that particular poultice.

As Brain looked over everything, a cold chill ran up Anora's spine that made her look over her shoulder. It almost felt like someone was watching her. Sure, many of the Templars at Kirkwall knew she was a mage, and some were sent to watch her while Ephemer trained or was attending to his duties. But she never actually felt them watching her. Some would go out of their way just to escort her from place to place. Perhaps not kindly, but they definitely didn't hide what they were doing. None of them would try to hide from her if they were sent to watch either, come to think of it. Would they?

“These are neatly made.” Brain noted- succeeding in scaring the young woman for the second time that day. “Not perfect, of course. But pure elfroot? That stuff's in hot commodity around here. It'll be potent, if nothing else.” He then set the potion down to look her over. “Almost too potent for a tiny little waif like you. Are you trying to cure a dragon or something?”

A nervous laugh escaped Anora's lips. In a small voice she admitted, “I am the caretaker to one of the new Templar recruits.”

“Ah.” Brain nodded. “May I ask how?”

The young woman shrank a little as she shook her head. “Long story.” she told him- her voice even smaller than before. Brain observed her, slightly tipping his hat upward.

“Very well then,” he decided with a shrug, “I'll be the last person to judge a person's past.”

Anora offered a faint smile in thanks. For a moment, the merchant simply admired her before turning his attention back to her wares. There was quite a bit of silence between the two as Brain looked over everything. Possibly several moments in, Anora started to hear an odd mewling sound from inside the stand, but Brain had ignored it. The mewls grew louder until something suddenly leaped onto the shop counter.

A shriek almost escaped the young woman's lips when all she saw was something gray with black spots. Brain was immediately at attention, but in finding what had jumped up, he laughed at her. Anora took a moment to regain her breath before realizing that the creature was a snow leopard. But… much smaller; possibly not much smaller than a standard cat. It didn't seem like a kitten, though, and it certainly looked like the pictures of adult leopards in the zoology books back in the Circle. Her demeanor easily went from surprised horror to complete bewilderment.

“Are you afraid of animals?” Brain teasingly asked her, petting the snow leopard.

“I... had a sheltered childhood.” Anora informed him with a wary voice. “But I don't remember leopards being so… tiny, though.”

Brain gave her a little smirk, giving the little leopard a rather absent stroke along its back.

“Ragnar's a special case.” he told her with a bemused voice. “All the fun protective natures of a snow leopard, scaled down to nothing more than the size of a house cat. If you'll believe it, he was the largest of his litter.”

Anora cocked an eyebrow at him, turning her attention back to the small creature. At the time, the snow leopard, Ragnar, turned its attention to her as well. The pygmy leopard left its master to better scope out the newcomer. It sniffed at Anora with interest- something that she tried rather hard not to recoil at. When Ragnar started to rub his head against Anora, the young woman very carefully started to pet him. Ragnar seemed to enjoy this; a small purring noise could be heard from the creature.

“Huh.” the merchant wondered. He placed a hand at the back brim of his hat, tilting it upwards a bit. “He doesn't usually take to strangers that easily. Must really like you...”

“Is that bad?”

Brain looked up at her- a small twinkle shown in his eye as he said, “No. Not at all. It just means that you're destined for great things.”

Anora's eyes grew wide as she looked up at Brain. “Y-you're joking!” she stammered. It was a bit hard to tell, but there was a small blush placed on her cheeks from embarrassment. “You're just saying that!”

Brain let out a light chuckle, throwing up a hand in promise. “Swear on my life it's the truth.” he told her. “And on the official adoption certificate from the Black Emporium. Would you like to see it?”

“No thanks...”

“Suit yourself.” Brain teased with a shrug. “Now, where were we before getting so rudely interrupted...”

Brain continued to go through what Anora had brought with her. As he pulled out a piece of vellum, an inkwell, and a feathered pen to write out a receipt of sale, Ragnar gave a disinterested stretch before deciding to take a nap on the counter. Anora kept her attention more focused on the little snow leopard than to Brain- who was trying to tell her how much coin he was about to give her. He laughed when he caught her near grimace, and he didn't break her thoughts as he gently placed what he owed her into her sack.

“Well,” he finally announced as he tied off the sack for her, “I suppose we're done here. It was nice doing business with you, Anora.”

That finally got Anora out of her trance. Was it really time for them to depart so soon?

“How much longer are you going to be at Kirkwall?” she asked, almost a bit too quickly.

“I might be around for another week or two.” he said to her. “I've finally found good help with my main shop in Val Royeaux, so I'm not expected back immediately. If I give them a fair enough warning, I could linger behind for a bit longer.” Brain then tilted his head at her and gave her a sly smile. “Why?”

Anora immediately looked away. “I-I...” she started to stammer, “I was just curious. It gets rather boring waiting for E- my Templar to finish with his training or duties.”

“You can't wait by Templar Hall for him?”

“Another long story.” Anora bitterly informed him. Brain gave an understanding nod in agreement.

“Business in Lowtown is usually pretty slow.” he then informed her. “Perhaps I could put in a request to change locations to the Gallows for the rest of my stay. Those Templars are always buying potions and such- I might actually turn a profit for once.”

Anora's eyes widened in surprise. “You don't have to do that!” she said. But the merchant only laughed.

“Anora-bird, if the street walkers around here were half as pretty as you, I'd reconsider. But as it stands, I could use a change of location. Perhaps we'll meet up again soon. Who knows in a backwards town like this?”

Again feeling her face heat up in a humble bashfulness, Anora offered Brain a polite little nod. She once more wrapped her burlap sack tightly around her wrist -now a bit heavier from the coin he had given her- before starting to head back. The young woman barely looked up as she scurried to Lowtown's main entrance- and it was by accident that she bumped into someone on the way out. She looked up at who she had run into, and nearly staggered back in a horrified shock.

“Knight-Commander!” Anora gasped. “I-I didn't see you...”

The Knight-Commander did not answer her. Instead, he chose to glare at her with an unreadable expression. Anora let out a nervous laughter as she moved away from him, hurrying back to Templar Hall. With an arched eyebrow, Sephiroth watched her leave before turning his attention to Brain. The merchant, who had been observing Anora for a moment as she parted, had turned his attention to the poultices and potions she had given him. As he admired the slightly glowing mixtures in their bottles, he absently gave his pygmy snow leopard strokes along its back. At this, Sephiroth's eyebrows furrowed.

“Interesting.” he decided, in monotone, before also making his way back to Templar Hall. “Very interesting indeed.”

[dorminchu]

WIPs [James Bond, Pokémon Lost Silver]

Wahey! Here are two mostly brand new scenes below the cut, just to prove I'm not dead! Note: Please view the post on the main page for correct formatting.

INSULT TO INJURY CHAPTER I: A THOUSAND DETAILS [REVISED]

Graduation from Oxford was a quick, unemotional affair. Madeleine had no extended family to invite—no one else of import, besides her short-term friends. The matter of her attendance was something to be addressed and then forgotten about. It was a little tragic. She tried not to let this show on her face when she had to make her commencement speech.

The ceremony went along as expected. Things were not as interesting when she could pretend her life was just as safe and boring as anyone else’s. As she was wrapping up an individual figure in the stands, no more remarkable than any other, caught her attention. It was an older man, perhaps in his early fifties, hidden partially behind sunglasses and a smart dress-hat. With a nauseating thrill she recognized his hat as well as his smile, the angles in his face a little more pronounced. To Madeleine it was like he was sneering. She did not let this discovery rattle her. If she hesitated it was on account of the crowd and her nerves and nothing else.

But when she was done, succeeded at the podium, she could only think: How long has he been standing there? Why didn’t I notice? They did not speak to one another, as it would surely draw unwanted attention. Not that it mattered. His presence was enough of an affront; why give him further opportunity to wound her pride by acknowledging him outright?

“I’m sorry,” she’d said to her roommate, “I’m really not feeling well. Just take me home.”

Even then, when she was perfectly alone, the memory of him took up residence where physical space would not permit. She tried to dredge up some residual emotions for the man who less so resembled a father and more an anonymous pen pal in recent years. Perhaps it was best for his pride if she continued to avoid him, rather than put him in a situation that would force him to admit his own daughter's indifference.

Her cotenants would be out for a while, glad to be around other normal people who didn’t skirt around crowded rooms, casing the doors and windows. Most of them, by now, thought Madeleine to be frigid, or else exceedingly studious. They’d given up a long time ago trying to invite her along on group dates—it was a losing proposition. She did not drink anything. She didn’t talk unless someone initiated and then she was perfectly reasonable. She would quietly, scrupulously vet what was offered. The other women were under the delusion that she was trying to compete with them, and the men were usually uncomfortable being scrutinised without a lick of pretence. Madeleine found it a little funny, but she was the only one.

So she didn’t mind being left behind. Most of the time. She looked around the room. It had served its purpose during her enrolment. Now it seemed intolerably small, like a holding cell. She had never thought about it this way before. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere else.

At times such as these, she almost wished she hadn’t decided to go straight-edge—then, maybe, they would keep some alcohol in the flat. She had no friends she could call on without inviting scrutiny. The only other comparable colleague was Arnaud, a fellow Sociology major in her year. She found him tolerable enough to engage in polite conversation, though she did not want to give him or anyone else the wrong idea.

Or, hell, why not? She could use a drink.

⁂

Three years to that day, they were still talking. Well, her colleagues at Oxford would have likely referred to them as friends-with-benefits with a healthy measure of condescension—but this was misleading. It would imply some level of emotional investment. For Madeleine, he was a means of insurance. Whenever he turned up dead or missing, she’d know it was time to move on. Now, Madeleine was not completely heartless. She had taken Arnaud’s advice and transferred over to the 8th arrondissement, with the understanding that they would be rooming together. And Arnaud was easy to get along with and she could afford him the same courtesy. She had someone to come home to and he knew enough about her work ethic from their college years, and her demeanour, to not ask where she had been. She knew enough surface-level information about him that she could still keep up appearances with his friends, as well as her own colleagues at the office—to be discarded, once he outlived his purpose. The clinic was within walking distance from the flat. Open to the general public, rather than more exclusive clientele, but that suited her fine. Each day bled into the next and the seasons changed in rote, predictable manner. She’d go to bed and wake up thinking: Maybe today will be it. They’ll come to collect me. But it had been three years. The lack of apparent danger soon directed her thoughts towards various methods of escape. Usually, Madeleine found solace in identifying the root of other peoples' troubles; a faulty marriage brought on by substance abuse, or more permanent debts that could not be repaid so easily. Most were less extreme and involved simple conversations that were, in Madeleine’s view, no more impactful than the change in weather. She kept no photographs. She had a work computer that stayed in the office. She stuck to using burner phones. She did not discuss her life before Oxford or the Sorbonne with anyone. The only décor was a pot of faux flowers from an elder client; for her falsified birthday, of course. There was even a little hand-written note. The longer the pot stayed on her desk, the more disingenuous Madeleine felt. She'd investigated it a few times when she was alone, looking for wires, but never could prove her suspicions. She got rid of it anyway, just to be safe. The client never brought this up again but Madeleine could souse the hurt in her eyes the next time they met.

LOST SILVER: HIDDEN

Part of the wall had a give to it like rotting flesh. It caught on his fingers, porous and thin. Momentarily freed from the push of the unown Gold threw his body into the weak spot.

It didn’t stick to his skin but tore as like wet paper. Clean break.

Falling forwards into an empty void. Crashing on all-fours. The unown were gone. Ground had no texture but simply existed beneath him, impossibly smooth and cold. There was no light from the tunnel behind him. All the sound fell away from his ears. He felt himself screaming just to hear something but could only feel the physical strain in his lungs and throat. Unown frequency reached him through tinny speakers—overridden by static. He put his hands to his ears. It did not stop. He could feel the blood pounding in his head. Suddenly the tiny screen lit up. His hands caught on plastic. He clutched it desperately, staring into the harsh, inexplicable light of the LCD screen. A voice broke through static:

“Where do you think you are?”

Gold froze. He—

—falling forward again. Jerked out of time and space as though by an ally’s Teleport—familiar loss of footing followed by an abrupt solidity beneath his knees. Shock giving way to nausea. The last time he’d teleported anywhere was at the behest of the old guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and his abra, back at Indigo Plateau. He doubled over. His chest felt tight. He began dry-heaving, desperate for air—the serrated, raw feeling in his throat and chest told him he’d been screaming.

Dry, dusty earth beneath his fingers was baked over. The fresh air he drew into his lungs tasted warm. It was dusk. A thin layer of perspiration on his face and his palms. His stomach settled gradually into queasiness. He didn’t remember teleporting or what he had been doing before his arrival. He couldn’t recall why he was here, either.

“Hey, kid. Finally awake?”

Gold blinked. He straightened himself out and tried not to look as shaken up as he felt. The man in a lab coat and glasses looked down at him impatiently.

“We’ve been waiting for the last hour.”

Gold had no idea how to respond. His legs were shaky. He held up a hand to wave off any attempts at sympathy. “Teleport,” he got out hoarsely.

The man scoffed. “I don’t need an apology. I’ve got all the notes on my desk about what to expect down there. Nothing a tough guy like you can’t handle. We’ll be inside whenever you’re ready.”

The aide was nicer. “Gold, right? Prof. Oak’s told me about you.” She looked around his age, maybe a couple years younger. Her hair was dyed an intense shade of blue and pulled into twin ponytails. She was dressed for the season—just a pair of bright yellow athletic shorts and sleeveless red shirt, white jacket. Her body was toned—Gold had the fleeting thought that she could have been his twin, but her accent struck him as native to Kanto. She had her own POKéGEAR, too; clipped neatly on her bag, rather than on her wrist.

“Oh, uh—has he?”

“Only good stuff, don’t worry.” She extended a hand. “You can call me Kris. That other guy is Mr. Ito.”

They shook. Her gloveless hand was warm and soft, which surprised him. Gold noticed her belt—two standard pokéballs, a moon ball and a lure ball respectively. “You’re a trainer, too?”

“I’m more of a researcher. Lately I’ve been working on the Unown Mode feature of the POKéDEX. We’ll have to set yours up first, before you go down there.” She reached out towards the ‘DEX at his hip, suddenly very businesslike. Gold hesitated. She smirked. “What? I’m not gonna screw it up, I’ve done this enough times by now.”

“I never said—”

Kris inclined her head without waiting for an excuse. With a sigh, Gold handed over the POKéDEX. Kris walked over to the nearby desk. She clicked on a lamp and studied the screen for a few seconds. She whistled. “Wow! They weren’t kidding. Two-hundred and fifty on—” Mr. Ito clicked his tongue and she scowled “—yeah, okay.” She toggled through the settings with an air of aggression that suggested this was not the first time she’d been reprimanded. Gold’s amusement was undercut by the hope she didn’t break any of the buttons. Then again, he knew from firsthand experience that it could take a lot of punishment. “You’re pretty handy with that.”

[script-a-world]

Pylon Bios (An Update, with New Pylons)

Hello, lovely followers of script-a-world!

Please allow us to introduce ourselves! We haven’t had any sort of about-the-bloggers page available before, and now that we’ve added more to the team, we’re seeking to remedy that!

First of all, we call ourselves Pylons. What the heck is a pylon? Well, outside of this blog, it’s an upright structure for holding up something, usually a cable or conduit. When this blog was started more than a year ago (whoa), the group chose the word Pylon to describe ourselves collectively, as a fun little nickname. Whee!

Without further ado, meet the Pylons (and Mods)! (in alphabetical order)

Brainstormed: Hey there, call me Brainstormed, and you can find me at @thunderin-brainstorm. Any pronouns will do. I'm a student, illustrator, and world traveler. My home is in America, but I'm rarely there for more than a month at a time, so feel free to ask where in the world I happen to be! Worldbuilding has been my hobby for quite a long time and I'd love to give you some tips and tricks that I've learned, or take your idea and turn it on its head to perhaps show you a new perspective. The many projects I've developed have been lifesavers for me, as they allowed me to harness my Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder and use it as a positive tool for creativity. Aside from drawing and daydreaming, I spend a lot of time biking, hunting for cool rocks and bones, binge reading any scholarly article that catches my eye, and memorising completely useless random facts that I spout at any given moment in lieu of remembering actual important information.

___

Constablewrites: My name is Brittany, and I'm a California girl living in the Midwest. I use she/her pronouns. I've always loved stories with rich and detailed worlds, whether in movies, books, games, or something else entirely. I'm the kind of writer who will spend hours researching to confirm a minor detail. Naturally, I not only write SFF, but my recent projects have all required worldbuilding on more than one axis (like multiple types of magic, or time travel on top of historical) because i am apparently something of a masochist. I'm a walking TV Tropes index and a whiz at digging up random useful knowledge, both of which come in handy as a Pylon. Other random facts: I'm a trained actress and singer, I used to work at Disneyland on the Jungle Cruise (among other attractions), and a laptop held together with duct tape is responsible for my day job in tech support. I blog about writing as @constablewrites and about random things that amuse me as @operahousebookworm.

____

Delta: Hi! I’m Delta and I can be found @dreaming-in-circles or @thedeclineofapollo (writeblr), and I love sci-fi. Like, a lot lol. I work in NEPA compliance for a civil engineering firm in the USA, and have a lot of experience with infrastructure, bureaucracies, biology, and space (for unrelated reasons). I spend a lot of time haunting the astrophysics wikipedia pages, and my current all-consuming project is a novel that is angling to be about 150,000 words (at current projections). Can’t wait to hear your questions!

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Ebonwing: Hi, I’m Ebonwing. I’m currently studying IT in university. I’m a writer and worldbuilder, and sometimes a worldbuilding writer or a writing worldbuilder. I gravitate towards fantasy, though I’m not going to say no to the occasional stint in scifi, and as I’m also a giant language nerd, I enjoy making conlangs for my creations. Other than that, I’m also an artist and indulge in any number of other crafting hobbies, and if I’m not doing any of those things, I can probably be found playing video games.

___

Feral: Hi! I'm Feral, and you can find me @theferalcollection (if you enjoy feminism, socialism, or over-analyzed fiction) or on my writing blog theferalcollection.wordpress.com. I'm a Southern girl who likes fancy dresses, mint juleps, big hats, and using being-underestimated to my advantage. I work in the interior design industry and am currently in school for industrial design. I have previously earned degrees in comparative literature and theatre & drama. I'm a big nerd who really likes school. I've been world-building since before I knew it was a thing and writing almost as long. I’ve written mostly fantasy but the past couple projects have been science fiction. I'm ridiculously in love with the idea of being an astrophysicist but don't feel like learning calculus, so I just read about science a lot. My hobbies include martial arts, drinking too much coffee, and tabletop games.

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Lockea: Hello! I’m Lockea. You can find me all over the internet as @lockea or LockeaStone. I’m a leaf on the wind who currently enjoys the SoCal sunshine in Los Angeles where I work as an engineer and data scientist. I love street fashion (especially Lolita) and making jewelry. I have two kitties, Theodore and Cecelia, and I volunteer at the local animal shelter as a cat handler and adoption counselor. I know way too much about cat behavior, honestly, and will yap your ear off if you let me.

Worldbuilding wise, I have a deep affection for science fiction and I’ve consulted professional science fiction writers on developing technology and worlds through the explanation of science and engineering. My engineering specialization is extra-terrestrial  robotics, so if it has to do with space, planetary science, or robotics -- I got you. I’m also a fan of politics and really like developing political and socio-economic systems in fantasy and sci-fi worlds.

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Miri: Miri here, with my main tumblr @asylos and my writing tumblr @mirintala. I am a Canadian Pharmacy Technician by day and a small time ePublisher and gamer of many types by night. Mostly wandering around the Internet helping to organize events in the FFVII tumblr fandom (modding at @ff7central and @ffviifandomcalendar), and stumbling around within the Borderlands of Pandora. I use she/her pronouns.

—-

Symphony: Hey, I’m Symphony! Use whatever pronouns you feel like, any work. I’m currently living in Michigan with my fiance, and in-between jobs but I want to go to nursing school ASAP.  My favorite genres in fiction are horror, sci-fi, and really anything that holds my interest. In my own worldbuilding I've always felt myself most interested in developing societies on the macro level (politics, diet, customs, stuff like that), and the more esoteric, strange parts of my world. I like to make a place feel lived in, with secrets that may never be found and people who seek them out.

——

Synth: I’m @chameleonsynthesis on Tumblr, but that’s a mouthful, so just call me Synth. Any pronouns work. Born and raised in Canada, but living in Norway as of autumn 2007. Looking back, I’ve been worldbuilding since at least the age of four (in my early thirties now, so yeah), with a predominantly science-fantasy bent. I’m of the artsy creative type, with way too many projects on the go at any given time, and enjoy long walks through Wikipedia and getting caught in TV Tropes. The best thing is when I stumble across some strange factoid that can justify aspects of my many weird alien species. Stupid Synth facts: I have dual Canadian and Norwegian citizenship. My legal name contains a letter that does not exist in the English alphabet. I can curl my tongue into a cloverleaf shape, and wiggle my ears. My day job is musical instrument repair. I play French horn in a concert band, trombone in a jazz band, and don’t practice my flute or piccolo near as much as I should. Outside of band rehearsals and my job, I volunteer at the local cat shelter, work out at a gym, and attend events at my city’s newly established makerspace.

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Tex: I'm Tex, and you can find me on tumblr @texasdreamer01. Most of my hobbies are centered around fandom and worldbuilding for it, though I also like cooking and reading up on fiction and non-fiction whenever I have the time. I'm currently studying biochemical engineering, with a slant in nanotechnology and its medical applications, so I need to know a bunch about the different types of sciences, as well as projecting for the development of future fields.

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Utuabzu: Hi, I’m Utuabzu, I previously was part of ScriptMyth (RIP) where I tended to take the lead on Mesopotamia and Egypt related asks. I’m most of the way through a Bachelor of Linguistics, e parlo italiano und ein bisschen Deutsch. I have a deep and enduring interest in the history of the ancient world, particularly the ancient Near East, and I’m also a bit of a nerd for politics, which is helpful when it comes to worldbuilding. My random 2am research binges have resulted in my knowing a lot of odd things. I enjoy travelling and experiencing other cultures, however as I am Australian this unfortunately requires flying, which I hate a great deal. I expect to one day be crushed beneath a pile of my books. It is a demise I am ok with.

_____

Wootzel: Hi, I’m Wootzel, or @wootzel-dragon! I use she/her pronouns. I’m a recent college grad trying to figure life out. My favorite thing about worldbuilding is making things as realistic or pseudo-realistic as possible, and finding a justification for everything. Sometimes, this is also my least favorite thing about myself, because it can make things very hard! But, it can also be really rewarding when I get things to work out in a way that I enjoy.

My other hobbies include reading lots of fanfic while neglecting physical books, starting ambitious sewing projects on a whim, and wondering where all my time goes on a daily basis. I have changed major a few times, and I am still unsure about what I want to do with my life, except that it’ll always have writing in it somewhere.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Resolution || Solo

For her birthday, Morgan Beck decided it was safe enough to visit Al’s Diner alone. It was eight, an auspicious time only because it after the elderly dinner rush but before students with free Friday’s would come stumbling in to eat away their benders. 

Morgan smudged the snow into her pea coat before walking in. It was a Goodwill find with cat hair from its last life stuck to the wool, but it was still designer, and Morgan prickled in her cheeks to be seen wearing it in town, lest it draw someone’s attention and send rogue ripples into the universe she wouldn’t be able to call back. She couldn’t stomach embracing full-on-frump; her mother had raised her right, except for all the lying, and she worked hard enough at being pretty not to cover it up. No, Morgan wanted to look nice. Just not...too nice. Not ‘hey universe, you almost forgot about me but here I am getting cocky and cozy’ nice. 

The bell over the door jingled as she came in, dulled and muffled with neglect. A tarnish-splotched mirror showed her reflection, warped with self-consciousness and perhaps too big a smile for the venue. Morgan only let herself look at it for a moment; doing anything else would only make her sad.

“Hi Nikha!”

Nikha grabbed a menu without looking up from her notepad. “Sit anywhere you like. Want your tea?”

Morgan hadn’t thought out her evening this far. This time of year, it took her an hour just to decide whether to leave her apartment. She stopped and considered the risks: it was a Thursday, just before the full moon. Thursdays were a little charged with expectation, this close to the weekend, but the waxing period was the time for pulling energy to oneself; going a little fancy would be like swimming out to sea in a crowd. Granted, it was a special Thursday for her, but...

“I didn’t think it was going to be a hard question,” Nikha said.

Morgan gave her brightest apology smile. It was old hat by now, easier than making explanations. “About that. Actually, I would like a hot cocoa, please. With whipped cream.”

“O-kay.” She eyed Morgan, who was holding her smile for good measure, like she might drop her face and shout boo! But the moment passed and Nikha backed towards the kitchen. “Coming right up.”

Morgan ordered a cheeseburger, fat and cooked medium, with hashbrowns instead of fries. 

Having a birthday so close to Christmas meant most Morgan’s parties were attended only by her parents and Mrs. Campell from her mom’s work. After the flood forced them into a new neighborhood, her mom made her a new offer. “I’ll make you anything you want for dinner, as long as it’s something out of the ordinary,” she said. This seemed like an unfair challenge for Morgan, who liked rules as long as they were fair, even the rules of dinner. She asked for burgers and hashbrowns, and stacked the crisp potatoes into her bun when her mother looked underwhelmed with her show of creativity. The next year, Morgan asked for waffles with all the toppings on at once. Another, she had chicken and vegetables doused in maple syrup, though this didn’t quite live up to her imagination. Around fourteen, when Morgan started wrangling oddball friends over for the occasion, she and her mother hatched multi courses together: green beans and bacon, eggplant parm, butter biscuits and chocolate gravy for dipping. If nothing else, it made her known around school for something besides dressing up too much, and this made Morgan sparkle with pride while it lasted. But for herself alone, nothing ever matched this: breakfast and dinner tucked together under a bun. 

“Any desert tonight?” Nikha asked. 

“Yes, please,” Morgan said. “What’s your favorite?”

Nikha rattled off the specials and made a half hearted defense for the chocolate sundae, although they were out of maraschino cherries. 

“What would you want someone to order you for your birthday?” Morgan asked. 

“Easy. That whole damn chocolate cake,” Nikha said, and gestured over her shoulder to a four tier cake iced in crooked swirls and topped with a plastic bow. It took Morgan back to the year she asked for an everything cake, with four cake flavors and three different fillings, all hidden behind ordinary chocolate. Her mom had urged her to do better, and not for the first time Morgan wanted to scream that if it wasn’t good enough for her, she should just decide for herself, and what was so wrong with wanting a cake that was still just a cake anyway? What was so wrong with wanting something nice and normal? 

Morgan’s mother hadn’t told her then. She’d made her the cake and given her an apology by way of a one-armed hug. But Morgan wished she could reach back into their sad, too-small kitchen and shake her. Ask her, was this your stupid way of trying to prepare me? Was this really worth all your energy and power when you could have been fixing our family?

Still, it had been a really nice cake.

“I like the way you think, Nikha,” Morgan said. “I’ll settle for just one slice.”

When the cake appeared on the table, Morgan urged her to have a bite, just one, as a birthday favor, and after enough urging Nikha agreed with a sheepish smile. They looked at each other, and it was almost like bonding.

Morgan paid her bill, tipped well, and watched Nikha’s retreat to the kitchen through the mirror panels. When the coast was clear she took out her candles: black for protection, white for summoning, and purple for remembrance.

She propped them around her in a circle and lit the wicks quickly. The purple one, she squished into the heavy center of her cake. She said her words of cleansing. Her words of blessing. She said the words of gratitude, though her teeth ached to speak them. And at last, she said what she had come to say.

“The bullshit stops here. Not one more year, not one more daughter, not one more fuck-up will I permit from your shadows. I call those responsible to me on my thirty-ninth year. Answer my call.” She reached for the fork, the one Nikha had used, and jabbed it into her dry, peeling cuticles. The blood came quick, and Morgan felt a rush as it connected with the residue of Nikha’s energy, and powered something bigger than she had ever laid her fingers on at her parents’ knee. “Answer my call, by the promises you made and the promises you broke, by the blood we share--” At the edge of Morgan’s attention, Nikha’s body collapsed on the kitchen floor. She’d be fine; it wasn’t like a little saliva and intention could kill a person, at least not that Morgan had been able to guess from her scant reading. But Morgan’s real focus remained on her birthday cake, which had begun to tremble on its plate. Moran raised the fork and flipped through the whole stack of disasters that had followed her here, the secrets that had screwed her over, the pain her family had carried for no good reason, one after the other, she imagined them skewered on the crooked prongs. She stabbed it through the cake flesh, done, and said through her teeth, “So may it be.” 

The cake went still. A drip of wax fell on the icing, and Morgan felt the crackle of energy flutter away. Had she done it? Did she just have to...wait? Or was this one more failure to add to the stack? Somehow, it seemed just about right to Morgan that she couldn’t tell one way or the other. She slumped in her book and picked the candle out, slid the waxy pieces of cake to the corner of her plate, and nibbled at what was left with a clean fork. “Happy thirty-nine, me,” she sighed. “Here’s to not losing everything this year. And to finishing the job.” Morgan swirled a piece into her mouth and let it melt on her tongue. The snow tumbled harder around White Crest and as the buttercream took the edge off Morgan’s disappointment, she found the old bounce in her step and left the diner smiling.

[sick-raven]

Ghosts of the Present - Chapter 7

Chapter 1 + warnings

AO3

Previous chapter

Chapter 7

Jonathan Crane was his own prisoner. Until now he didn’t even think about the League and what it wanted. He focused on the work given to him and the reward he will gather after everything is done. Now the hard reality hit him since Khulan turned to him with all those questions.

“You have two choices, think about it,” she told him. “Where do I find this Banshee?”

And so, he chose.

“I won’t tell you shit, she is mine.”

Khulan with ugly smile took out a long needle. “Wrong choice.”

Now he sat in the lab, pain running through his body, angry. The flying monkey worked on formulas, Khulan left and Miranda will die, because pain is not his friend. He promised himself he will take revenge, but two sets of ninja eyes were following his every movement.

You only gave them address and name, Miranda can get away.

Why do you care? She is a traitor.

Miranda will be fine. You’ve seen it. They sent the woman. Clayface always was a horrible actor.

Jonathan stood up. He can’t do anything else now than wait, so it wasn’t necessary to be lost in thoughts. Back to work. Jervis in the corner watched him over teacup and he looked at the brink of crying. He couldn’t sit still, bounced on the chair like a March hare. Finally, he stumbled towards Jonathan.

“I’m sorry, friend. Can I offer you peace tea?”

Jonathan looked at him through vial. “You can stop sticking your long nose into my business, Hatter. If you learnt to keep your mouth shut, I wouldn’t be hurt right now.”

“Apology came too late?”

Jonathan set down the chemical and leaned over the small man. “You’ve killed Alice, Jervis. And you’ve made Bandersnatch angry.”

Jervis yelped like bitten by venomous snake. He hid his deformed face under the hat. Then, slowly he looked over the edge. “I will fix it. I will.”

“Will you?” Jonathan said darkly.

“I will!”

“Very well,” Jonathan smiled. He took a vial out of his costume and set it on the table. The liquid in it was clear, thicker than water. “Drink this.”

Jervis’ eyes rose wide and teary. “Don’t be mad, you don’t want to poison your good friend in a hat!”

Two flying monkeys didn’t move a muscle to stop him or to try to save Hatter. No fear of losing one of their specialists. We are expendable for the League, realized Jonathan. Easily gained work force, not easily replaceable, but unnecessary in the grand scheme.

“My anger will draw nigh, you better shriek in despair, it is useless to fly,” grumbled Jonathan towering over him. He showed his teeth frowning. “Drink!” he ordered.

Shaking Jervis took the vial and poured it into his teacup. The crockery dinged as he drew it near his mouth. “Friend…”

“Do it.”

Whimpering he drank the liquid, tears flowing on his face. Bravely he blew his nose. “Will my friend attend my funeral?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Jervis,” Jonathan scoffed and put on his mask. “When did I ever hurt you?”

“You spilled my tea once.”

“I spilled the tea once! Will I ever hear the end of it?” Jonathan opened a valve on the chemical set. Before the ninjas could react, room got filled with the gas. Jervis looked around and laughed amazed.

“Clear head!”

“Get them.”

Jervis jumped on the table. “Gather round, gather round, good soldiers!” he giggled. “Bandersnatch has a task for you!” The assassins stopped working on drugs and turned to Mad Hatter in unison. Like drones they followed his words and surrounded the table. From one control to other. Jonathan argued they would have much more fulfilling and interesting lives under Jervis’ rule.

“Has any of you know what’s happening here?” asked Jonathan. “Speak up.”

Soldiers looked at him baffled. One of them finally blinked.

“The heir. We are looking for the Demon’s head’s heir.”

“He will take his place.”

“The great detective.”

More pieces of puzzle snapped together.

“You cannot just convince Batman to lead organization of assassins. How?” continued Jonathan.

“One of us.”

“He will take the place.”

“Drug the soldiers, drug the people.”

“Make him kill. Make him kill. Make him kill.” The chanting got faster and louder. It took Jonathan’s breath away. Sheer fanatism broke even his drug.

“Jervis.”

“Sleep!” ordered Hatter.

The army fell on ground with loud thuds. Jonathan forced the puzzles together. “Fuck.”

“What matters your tongue so dearly?” asked Jervis.

“I am not sure,” Jonathan mumbled. The Arkham was drugged, under its foundations the League was building and looking for something. They needed enough gas to fill the entire Narrows. “I think they plan to make new League base here and they want Batman to lead it.”

Jervis frowned. “How did you figure such devious plan, Bandersnatch?”

“Listen – the took their masters here. Ra’s al Ghul is in the city, we all know he has weird competition with the Bat. They want to drug all these soldiers and make him kill them somehow. Then… Then I don’t know.”

“And we will help to madden their minds and break the Bat,” realized Jervis.

“Yeah.”

“Oh no, no, no,” frowned Jervis. “I don’t like that at all. Bat is ours to break. If the friend is right, we must hurry up and plan.”

“No worries, Jervis, I already have a plan.”

***

Miranda promised herself she won’t get angry.

Then she saw the face that tormented her for years.

She got horribly angry.

“A lost girl found the way home. Here I thought you died long ago, but you aren’t even clever enough to fake your death.”

“Fuck you, you old ugly bitch!” Miranda snapped.

Khulan stood there with mouth agape. Nobody has ever dared what Miranda just did. It felt great to tell that witch what she thinks. If she dies, she will die smiling just for this occasion.

“I would cut your tongue out, if the Demon’s head didn’t promise you fair fight.”

“Fight under your rules will hardly be fair,” Miranda scoffed. “You love fucking people over.”

Khulan couldn’t keep her cool. Miranda insulted her in front of her soldiers like it was nothing.

“Useless girl like you has only strong tongue and nothing else. You might have survived our curse, but you will die in this battle. You’ve insulted me enough.”

Set of soldiers escorted them to a fighting field. Hundreds of assassins were gathered here ready to watch the fight. One of them took Miranda’s weapons away. She looked at where he is going to put them but lost him in the crowd. She will miss her bells.

“You will serve as an example. This is what happens to defector,” Khulan announced.

“Do you ever get tired of your voice?”

Khulan smiled and threw a sword on the ground. “I am sure you remember this training.”

“Are you mocking me?” hissed Miranda.

“Fight me.”

Yes, Miranda remembered. She’s failed this task dozen times before. It’s so easy. Just pick up the sword and cut your opponent. If you can do it, you’ve won.

Dozen times. Maybe hundred. Every time she did something good, learnt something new, master came and threw the sword on the ground. To kick her low when she was high. Every happiness was followed by hard fall. Success and punishment.

Like when she fell from the roof and broke her ribs.

Like when she killed all those targets and they called her Banshee.

Like now when she survived their curse and Khulan plans to kick her down again.

Like when she was happy with Jonathan and…

Are you going to fight or what? Kick her sorry ass, Miranda. You can do this!

Thank you, reason, finally some useful advice.

Miranda breathed slowly. Going head on never worked. Some other way, different strategy to get through this witch. The rules were simple – you can hit your opponent only with the sword and she cannot attack you unless you attempt to take the blade. Miranda felt it necessary to follow these rules. To make a point. And also because master kicked her ass before when she tried to break them by attacking her head first. Even now Khulan waited with hands folded behind her back confident in her skill. Show-off.

“Years hasn’t been kind to you, master,” Miranda smirked. Nothing was written in the rules about insulting your foe. Khulan watched her silently. “Are you sure you are not going senile? Are you up for this?”

Just patient stare. Miranda cussed on the inside. How is she always so focused? Fucking masters deserving their shitty title! Meanwhile Miranda was overwhelmed, tired, scared, angry and in pain. Her patience couldn’t go any lower.

Miranda went head on. Tried to grab the sword.

Master kicked her hand away.

“Fuck,” Miranda hissed.

“You didn’t learn a thing, girl,” smirked Khulan.

“I have a name, you bitch!”

“Oh yes. Mi-ran-da,” master spat every syllable. “Makes you feel like a person, does it? Your boyfriend told us all.”

“He is next on the list.”

“Ah, I should have brought him here to watch you die then.”

Miranda went for a sword with her feet. Kick it up and grab it.

Khulan was faster. She stepped on the blade and roundhoused Miranda to the side. Miranda screamed. Burning intensified. Khulan added a small kick to her ankle.

Miranda fell on her knee. Croc’s cut started bleeding again. Fuck this!

She didn’t stay down. She went for it again and again. And over and over she got dominated. Khulan’s counter attacks grew stronger and more ruthless. Miranda heard her ribs crack again. She bit her lip and was bleeding. Her head pounded.

No closer to the victory.

“Fuck you,” Miranda grumbled.

“Insults. That’s all you have left, girl. You are weak, pathetic. Shame of the League. You shouldn’t have survived, it was pure luck. You don’t have any skill worth talking about. You are just Banshee. A clumsy killer. Anyone could be that.”

“Shut up!”

“Angry? Strike me down then. Show me I am wrong!”

Miranda clenched her fist. How? She can’t win this. She cannot beat Khulan in her own game. How the fuck…

She remembered the old fat fuck that loved torturing bad girls so much. He always laughed when she came to him. “Master sent me.”

“Pick a whip.”

First few times he didn’t say a word. On the tenth time he laughed in her face.

“You are afraid of pain, Banshee.”

“No shit.”

“You always pick the smallest one. Life without pain goes nowhere, you are a coward, kid.”

That fat fuck had a point in his own sick, twisted way. She avoided getting hurt too much and never moved out of place. That’s why she was afraid of death or being truthful. It could have brought more pain.

But she was someone else now. Miranda Bradbury survived fight with ghosts! She would kick the fat fuck to the balls and send him flying off cliff. Khulan the witch has nothing on her!

Sword. Go for it. Grab at it.

Khulan counters.

Dodge. Grab again.

Master expects it. She counters again. Misses.

Miranda grabbed the sword by the blade. Sharp iron cut into her fingers.

Khulan gasped surprised.

Yes! Miranda got the sword! She fucking got it!

Then Khulan lost her stance, used her arms. She grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Miranda screamed as blade slipped from her hand. She fell on her knee, blood flowing out of stomps her fingers used to be. She shouted louder, holding her palm to stop the bleeding.

“Clever,” commented Khulan. “And useless. This fight is over, girl.”

Miranda hyperventilated. No! No, no, no! She can’t die, not like this, no! Fuck!

Khulan stood in front of her, sword ready to strike. Miranda looked at her, trembling. No, no, I don’t want to die. No!

“Miranda!”

Jonathan stood there at the end of the room.

“Just in time. Any final words, girl?”

Miranda took her shirt off as slowly as pain allowed her. She rolled it around her hand as a bandage. It soaked the blood in and drenched almost immediately. Khulan looked at her with happy spark in her eyes.

“Yes,” Miranda said with scarred voice. “There is someone who wants to see you again.”

She ripped her charm off.

Deep in underground of the Arkham asylum started hell.

Next chapter

[pocket-luv101]

Dramatic Blond || Part 2

Fandom: Servamp Ships: LawLicht (main), KuroMahi (side) Characters: Hyde, Licht, Kuro, Mahiru, Lily

Summary: Hyde enrolls in Juilliard to win back his ex. But then he meets Licht who helps him discover a new dream. He will become a famous actor and show his ex that he’s someone serious. (Legally Blonde AU)

Part 1 || (Part 2)  || Part 3 || Part 4

“I thought you were going to help me practise my improv, Angel Cakes. You’re paying more attention to Dr. Jekyll. He’s cute and all but I asked you to come over to help me with my improv class. You can pet him and read lines from a hat at the same time.” Hyde waved the upside-down hat in front of Licht. When he didn’t respond, he tapped the hat against his nose.

Licht swiped the hat from him and used it to lightly hit him as retaliation. Slips of papers flew into the air between them and Hyde waved them away. He picked one of the papers from blond hair and unfolded it. “Scenario: You are a demon who patrols the underworld. One day, you see an angel on the other side of the gate. What is the first thing you say to this angel?”

“I don’t remember writing that as a prompt.” Hyde took the paper from him and found that it said something different. He chuckled and said: “Of course, you would make something up with angels and demons, Lichtan. Can’t you take this seriously and read the lines like I asked you to?”

“You asked me to help you with improv and that’s what I’m doing. These prompts are from your textbook so you already thought of lines in response while you wrote them down. This is the best way to help you create a scene on the spot.” Licht told him. His reasoning made sense to Hyde so he nodded. “The angel tells you that he intends to break down the gate. How do you respond, Demon?”

“With a declaration of peace and love.” He cupped his hands around Licht’s. “Sweet angel, there’s no need to be so violent. Give us a chance before you decide we’re all evil demons. I will open the gate for you and show you the Demon Realm. We’ll go wherever your heart desires. Maybe you’ll discover that we’re not so different and decide to stay with us.”

“Demons took the love of my life. I cannot forgive them for their crimes against angels.” Licht said to change the direction of the improv skit. Even if he was merely practising his acting, he felt flustered by his light flirting. Hyde was attractive and he could easily picture him on a large stage. More than his looks, he was talented. His eyes appeared sincere and his smooth voice was almost able to trick him.

“Your angel left you for a demon? Then there’s only one thing we can do, Angel Cakes. Let’s date and make your ex jealous! So, what do you say?” He asked but Licht’s response was to hit him with a pillow. Hyde managed to catch the pillow and tossed it back to him. He chuckled and gathered the loose papers. “I guess I went too far. Let’s pick another scenario.”

“Give me a second to think of one you can’t turn into a cheesy rom-com. Do you have any suggestions, Jekyll? Squeak, squeak.” He spoke with the hedgehog as if it could understand him. Their interaction made him chuckle. He could almost believe that the two were having a conversation. He was certain that there wasn’t anyone else like Licht though.

His hedgehog hopped off his lap and scurried into an opened closet. Licht stood and followed the small animal. He guessed that it wanted to explore its new home and it was drawn to dark places. He pulled a cardboard box out of the closet so he could find Jekyll. As he set the box aside, he noticed a colourful scrapbook inside. He didn’t think Hyde would own something so childish.

Hyde noticed him staring at the scrapbook and he took it out of the box. He sat next to Licht and opened it on his lap. “I made this when I was a kid. My baby brother must’ve put it in here when we were packing. Lily is pretty sentimental. It’s a scrapbook of my dreams. My drawings haven’t improved since I made this so it would be impossible for me to get into Juilliard on my art skills.”

“Your drawings aren’t the best but these dreams are interesting. Is this a farm of hedgehogs?” Licht found Dr. Jekyll and petted him fondly.

“A petting zoo, actually. I planned to only have hedgehogs in my zoo. They’re the cutest animal in the world so you don’t need anything else.” He told him but he was a little embarrassed of his six year old self. Licht didn’t laugh at his silly dream though. He pointed to the next picture and Hyde told him, “That’s me building a fortress on the moon. I also want to find a talking whale and befriend him.”

They continued to go through the scrapbook together. He flipped to the next page where there was a stage drawn in crayon. “I forgot about this one. I wanted to star in a production of Hamlet with my friend, Ophelia. We planned to rewrite the play and have Ophelia actually team up with Hamlet. They would pull an elaborate prank on the Uncle. The ghost dad helps them too.”

“You read a Shakespearean tragedy like Hamlet when you were a kid? I can barely understand those plays at this age.” Licht didn’t know if he should be impressed or question how a child discovered the play. “You know a lot of quotes from Shakespeare’s plays. Did you practice them with Ophelia like what we’re doing right now?”

“She joined the drama club in high school and I would help practice her lines. Ayato didn’t like me hanging out with her though. I tried to tell him that Ophelia and I were just friends but he was pretty possessive. Ophelia and I eventually stopped talking and we drifted apart.” He shrugged but Hyde now regretted losing that friendship.

“Isn’t that a big, red flag?” Licht understood that it was difficult for the person in the relationship to see those flags in the moment. His mother dated demons because she thought they were fallen angels. She was a hopeless romantic and believed she could fix them. They broke her heart more often than not. It taught him that demons won’t change until they want to improve themselves.

Hyde closed the book. “My new dream is for Ayato to see me on that stage and regret dumping me.”

“Why is your new dream still centered around your ex when you have this scrapbook of better goals?” Licht leafed through the pages. He thought that it was a shame he gave up on himself long ago. He didn’t know if he could say anything to dissuade him. “Greedy isn’t the worst thing to be, as long as you’re honest and work hard to get what you truly want.”

Hyde’s phone buzzed and he checked the email. “They just posted the audition dates and requirements. It looks like we have to cancel our study session next week. I have to pick a monologue and memorize the short scene they sent me. This is going to take up my weekend and I probably won’t get a big part.”

“Only if you act half heartedly. Print out that script and I’ll read through it with you.”

Mahiru hummed softly as he polished a trumpet. He considered himself lucky to have a music shop close to Juilliard but it kept him very busy. At least he managed to find free time that day. He was expecting a visit from Hyde and Licht since they agreed to have lunch together. He loved both cooking and music. Mahiru offered to cook for them and they were out buying groceries.

The door chime rang, signalling that someone had entered his store and he looked up. It wasn’t Hyde or Licht though. Mahiru didn’t recognize the man. Due to his blue hair, he assumed he was also attending Juilliard. He put on a professional smile and greeted the man. “Welcome. Is there anything you’re looking for? I would be happy to help you.”

“Are you Mahiru?” The question made him pause but he nodded. Mahiru didn’t know how the man knew his name before he gave it. Then, he said: “Hyde told me about you. I wanted to talk to you about him.”

“You must be Ayato.” His brown eyes narrowed. Hyde had only told him about one other man in his life that went to Juilliard. He had to admit that he looked different than he imagined. The man was handsome but much older than Hyde. He appeared to be only a few years older than Mahiru. When he started to speak, Mahiru raised his hand.

“Let me stop you right now. Hyde told me about you, Ayato. It was wrong for you to string him along and I won’t let you do that again. Hyde is my friend. Whatever you want from me, my answer is no. So, please leave my store right now.” Mahiru gestured to the door but then he noticed Hyde’s car in the store window.

Mahiru tried to think of what to do as Hyde parked his car. He was worried that Hyde would cause a scene once he sees his ex-boyfriend again. Before he could, Hyde spotted them as well and waved happily to them. He walked inside and yelled: “Hi, Nii-san! You came earlier than I thought he would.”

“Nii-san?” Mahiru repeated in shock. He looked between the two and Kuro nodded. He couldn’t find a family resemblance between them. Yet, it was clear that the two were siblings by the way they interacted with each other. Hyde poked Kuro and then hugged him briefly. After he talked with Kuro, he faced Mahiru to introduce his brother.  

“It looks like you already met my brother, Kuro. Is it okay if he joins us for lunch? I accidentally agreed to hang out with him today without realizing it’s the same day we were supposed to have lunch. Kuro doesn’t drive down to New York often.” Hyde explained. Mahiru felt guilty for his earlier assumption and readily nodded. “It looks like Licht needs help with the bags. You two talk while I help him.”

“Just put the bags on the counter. I’ll start cooking in a minute.” Mahiru waited for Licht and Hyde to leave until he apologized to Kuro. “I am so sorry I mistook you for Ayato. Hyde didn’t tell me he had a brother but it was still wrong of me to make assumptions. I was planning to cook ramen. Is there anything special you want in your bowl? It’ll be my way of apologizing.”

“Don’t worry. I know the family resemblance is hard to see.” He was glad to see that Kuro was understanding. “I’m happy that Hyde has a friend who would defend him. Honestly, I was concerned about him enrolling in Juilliard. It would be troublesome if he started dating Ayato again. He’s an adult but I still worry about him. Actually, I wanted to ask about him and Licht.”

“They’re close friends despite their differences.” It was clear to Mahiru that he cared for his family. He smiled up at Kuro and placed the trumpet in a case. “But they do need supervision or else they’ll find something to fight over. Go join them upstairs while I flip the open sign. You and your brother must have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’m pretty sure Hyde has a lot more to tell me than the reverse. I don’t get the chance to meet interesting people often. Well, today might be an exception.” He said before he walked away. Mahiru could feel himself blushing as he watched Kuro leave. He didn’t know if he was flirting with him but his subtle smile was rather charming.

Hyde stayed behind while his brother walked up the stairs. He looked between the two and a knowing smile spread across his face. After Mahiru locked the shop door and flipped the open sign, he approached him. In a teasing voice, Hyde said: “What do you think of my brother? He seems to like you. It’s rare that he’s taken with someone so quickly. You should have another lunch with just him.”

“Kuro seems like a good guy but I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship.” He told him. “Anyways, I’m busy with my music shop. I don’t know if I have a lot to offer him in a relationship.”

“Don’t say that, Mahiru.” Hyde clapped his hand on his back. While he and Licht were neighbours, he doubted they would’ve become so close without Mahiru’s advice. He thought he could repay the favour. “We’ve known each other for a few months now but I rarely see you go out. Close the shop on a Sunday and go on a date with Kuro.”

“I doubt he’ll ask me out.” Mahiru shook his head.

“Let me show you a trick! It’s called the ‘bend and snap’. When you want to catch a guy’s attention, pretend to drop something. You bend down, wait a few seconds and then stand up like so. It shows off your ass and he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. Now, follow me.” He dropped a pen on the ground. Hyde bent down but then he heard a loud clatter behind him.  

He looked back and saw that Licht was struggling with a drum set. He must’ve accidentally walked into the instrument. Hyde went to help him and straightened the drums. He laughed and asked him, “Are you okay, Lichtan? You’re not the clumsy type who walks into things.”

“It was nothing!” He insisted with a blush. He hoped Hyde wouldn’t be able to see how flustered he was. Licht didn’t know how Hyde would react if he told him that he distracted him and made him walk into the drum set. He couldn’t meet his red eyes so he turned to Mahiru. He changed the subject and said, “I came down to ask if you want any help cutting the vegetables.”

“That would be great.” Mahiru smiled at his friend. “I’ll have lunch ready in twenty minutes.”

“I’ve never been to a musical before. It was more fun than I thought it would be but it’s a little too flashy for my tastes.” Licht told him as they walked out of a small, local theater. The sunlight made him wince after sitting in the dark for an hour. A shadow fell over him when Hyde held a textbook over his head. He grinned down at him and lightly tapped the book against his hair.

“Lighting and other technical things are the unsung heroes of a production. They enhance the actor’s performance. I guess you wouldn’t feel the same since you want to be a concert pianist. You’re the type who prefers working alone too.” Hyde said and replaced his textbook in his bag. “I picked the musical so what do you want to do next?”

“I need to stretch my legs after sitting for so long. Let’s walk through the plaza and look around.” Licht suggested but he was already walking forward. They fell into step next to each other and discussed the musical. He was rarely about to pull himself away from his piano but going to the theater was a fun change of pace. Hyde’s company made it better than he would admit.

Licht left his class and his attention was drawn to a crowd across the courtyard. He was curious about what had their attention. “What’s so interesting about this wall?”

“Our professor must’ve just put up the audition result.” He took his hand and pulled him towards the crowd. Hyde thought that it was best to wait for the crowd to thin before he checked the list. He did his best at the audition but he doubted he got a large part. “Will you come watch me even if I’m just an extra on stage?”

“Did you see what part you got already?” Licht stood on his toes in a vain attempt to see past everyone to the audition result sheet. The text was too small for him to see at a distant. In the corner of his eyes, he noticed Hyde shake his head. “Then why would you say you’re an extra? You’re hopeless, Shit Rat. I’m interested in seeing that play though. What is it?”

“Romeo and Juliet. I like that play but I was hoping that they would put on one of his lesser known plays. Maybe a comedy like…” Hyde trailed off. Licht noticed his gaze appear far away and he turned around to see what caught his attention. A man approached them but he didn’t recognize who he was. He saw how Hyde stiffened. “Oh, Ayato. I don’t see you around campus often.”

“I switched programs a week ago.” Ayato told him. Licht found himself stepping in front of Hyde slightly. He didn’t know why he felt protective of him.

“You switched majors in the middle of the semester?” Licht didn’t hide how doubtful he was.

“His parents are influential people in the music industry and they’re almost as wealthy as my family. Almost.” Hyde whispered into his ear. Licht rolled his eyes at Ayato and it was clear that he was far from impressed by the man. “I didn’t see you at the audition. What part did you try out for?”

“My fiancé and I auditioned to be Romeo and Juliet.” He answered. The short answer echoed in Hyde’s mind and he felt himself froze. Fiancé? They dated for nearly seven years yet Ayato proposed to someone else shortly after their break up. A few months ago, the news would’ve devastated him. Hyde neither felt sad nor upset now.

“Shit Rat, who’s Tybalt?” Licht interrupted them. He faced them and tapped his knuckles on the piece of paper. “You’re playing him and not an extra. I don’t remember much from high school English class but I think he’s important.”

“I got the part?” Hyde knew Licht wasn’t the type to lie but he was still in disbelief. He skimmed his finger over the names until he found his own. Next to his name was ‘Tybalt’ in black and white. He read it a few times and a smile slowly spread across his face. Suddenly, Hyde hugged Licht. He spun in a circle and his feet was lifted off the ground. “I got the part!”

“I know, Shit Rat. I was the one who pointed it out to you. Put me down before all this spinning makes me puke. I will throw up on you.” He warned. He felt dizzy when he placed him on his feet again. Licht wasn’t angry after he saw Hyde’s large grin. He had never seen him so happy or proud. That smile had a charm that made his heart skip.

“I wouldn’t have been able to get the part without you, Lichtan. Thank you. I’ll take you out for dinner as a treat.” He took Licht’s hand and started to pull him away. He faced Ayato and said, “You’re playing Mercutio. I can’t wait for our big scene together.”

Hyde grinned at Ayato before he walked away with Licht.