#the two moments where his hands are in frame absolutely had to be included(dedicated to dru hehehe)

[skitskatdacat63]

2009 Brazilian Grand Prix - Mark Webber

[reidingmelodies]

The Luckiest

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Fluff Word Count: 2k Includes: Dad Spencer, Children, Pregnancy A/N:  I wrote this one for @anxiousblanketqueen’s birthday challenge: Happy Birthday, Jill! ♡ I hope you have an absolutely amazing day!! Main Masterlist

“What’s this, Daddy?” Spencer turned, eyes finding his daughter holding the scrapbook Penelope made for your anniversary a few months prior.  The book held your most cherished memories: from your first meeting to your first dates, to your marriage and the birth of your children.

“Auntie P made that for us, bug,” he explained, bending down to clear the pile of blocks on the floor to make way for her little feet.  She bounded towards him, the book dangling from her arms while she climbed next to him on the couch.

Big brown eyes similar to his own looked up at him, her little lip sticking out in a pout as she pushed the book towards him in a silent question.

She was only five, but she was fully aware that he was incapable of saying no to her; after all, she learned the puppy dog pout from its creator: his wife.

“Come here, love,” he situated his daughter on his lap, laying a gentle kiss on her hairline before opening the book to the first page.

“Is that Mommy?” her fingers moved to trace along the first photo, a still of you and Spencer at Derek and Penelope’s wedding seven years prior. Your eyes were focused off frame, gaze solely fixated on the couple’s first dance, but Spencer’s were glued to your every move.

It was your very first meeting, years of Penelope trying to set Spencer up with her high school best friend had failed up until that point.  Plans to go to bars were halted by last minute cases in different cities, parties in Penelope’s apartment were missed because you had a date lined up, lunch dates with Penelope where she hoped you would finally meet Spencer were ruined because he wouldn’t leave his desk.

Years and years of trying to get you two to meet, and all it took was her and Derek getting married.

If she knew it would have been that easy, she would have gotten hitched years ago.

As luck would have it, you and Spencer had somehow narrowly avoided each other during wedding planning as well.  It was as though the universe had something against you, as if all the signs were screaming that you weren’t meant to be.  But then, on the night the stars aligned for Derek and Penelope the same happened for you, your pre-planned seating arrangement leading you directly into Spencer’s arms and proving the universe wrong.

It was that night that two perfect strangers became stakeholders in one another’s lives, the night when two hearts found the piece that had been missing for too long.  Neither of you knew it then, but a few shared conversations and lingering glances over dinner were enough to change your lives.

“Yeah,” Spencer whispered, smiling at your daughter.  “That’s Mommy”.

And like their words summoned your presence, the front door opened and you walked in, your two year old son’s hand gripped around two of your fingers while your purse hung from your free arm.

“Mommy!” your daughter jumped from her position on Spencer’s lap to wrap her arms around your legs, your body bending to place a series of kisses against her head.

“Hi, Sweet Pea!  Did you have a good time with Daddy?”

“Mm-hmm!” you watched her pigtails bounce as she twirled, her hand moving to hold her brother’s as she walked him towards a tower in the center of the room.  “We played with blocks and read books and looked at a pretty picture of you!”

“Wow!  What picture was it?” but alas, your question fell short on your daughter’s ears, her attention long gone and instead focused on teaching her brother the right way to build a tower.

And honestly, as far as you were concerned that was perfectly okay.  Any moment they were getting along without tears or screams was a win in your book.

“We were looking at the album Penelope made us,” Spencer’s voice carried over the sound of your children’s giggles and you swiftly moved to sit next to him on the couch, thigh to thigh while your head rested against his shoulder.  “We made it through the first picture before you guys came home”.

You placed a gentle kiss against his shoulder where you laid, eyes scanning the photo in question. It was one of your favorite nights, but it paled in comparison to the picture on the next page.

“Remember that night?” you asked, pointing at the photo you had been eyeing.  It was a blurry mess to put it lightly, Spencer’s hand holding the disposable camera at an odd angle while you attacked his cheeks with kisses until a trail of lipstick was left in your wake.

You were young, in love, and inseparable- a blurry photo was a small price to pay for being with him.

“How could I forget,” Spencer chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he examined the picture, “I got off the jet at 11 PM and headed to your place for a midnight picnic.  We were only dating for three weeks and JJ thought it was weird to go to your place so late, but I didn’t care.  Did you think it was weird?”

You snuggled closer to him, the hitch at the end of his question cluing you into the fact that he was nervous you did.  “If you didn’t come over I most certainly would have went to your place- I hated being away from you, I still do now”.

You were rewarded with a kiss to your palm before Spencer continued to flip through the pages in a comfortable silence, your life together thus far being pieced together with every new picture.

From movie nights cuddled up on the floor of Derek and Penelope’s living room, to office holiday parties where you walked around with your pinkies intertwined, to stolen kisses at happy hour and café dates where you both sported espresso foam mustaches.

With the next flip of the page, you watched as your smiles grew wider in each photo with the addition of a ring on your left hand.  There were pictures of Spencer down on one knee at your favorite park thanks to Penelope’s hidden vantage point behind a set of trees a few feet away.

The sky was a cerulean blue, yellow and pink tulips in full bloom at your feet, but in that moment, with Spencer kneeling in front of you and the most beautiful declarations of love falling from his lips nothing was visible but him.  

Another flip of a page and yet another moment when nothing mattered but Spencer was on full display- your wedding day.  His arms were looped around your waist as you danced in front of your family and friends, your smiles the widest they’d ever been.  The night was filled with love filled glances and silent assertions of love fit for two in a room bursting with joy, each and every one caught on camera thanks to Penelope’s dedication to capturing one of her favorite love stories in action.

A series of selfies followed in the next few pages, each one a picture you had sent Penelope during your honeymoon as proof you weren’t always locked away in your hotel room. Spencer was sporting a sunglasses tan in each photo while you were sporting a smirk, each picture reminding you of the vacation that gave you one of your favorite gifts yet nine months later: your daughter.

You looked up from the album to glance in her direction, your lips curling into a smile as you watched her separate the blocks into color coded piles much to her younger brother’s amusement. With each passing day she reminded you more and more of Spencer, and it was by far one of your favorite journeys to witness.

Your focus shifted back to the book in Spencer’s hands, weekly progress photos of your stomach’s growth (which Spencer was determined to capture in all its glory) gracing the pages along with ultrasounds, memories from your baby shower, and pictures of Spencer’s hands constantly flitting over your lower belly. His head rested gently on your middle in each one, his face the picture of happiness as he whispered bedtime stories and facts about space, completely oblivious to everything but you and your daughter.

You watched as the baby you had spent months dreaming about came to life in pictures, her features the perfect mixture of you and Spencer from the moment she was placed in your hands. With each passing picture the bags under both of your eyes grew bigger, but your smiles grew wider.  Images of her firsts graced the pages: the first time she sat up, the first time she ate solid foods, the first time she said dada (and the tears in Spencer’s eyes when he heard it), her first steps, her first day of school.  

And then one made way for two, your son joining the midst of photos and bringing an endless amount of love and joy to your family.  Much like your daughter, he reminded you of Spencer: he was inquisitive- curious eyes always studying his surroundings, his hand always finding comfort in yours just like his father.  

Pictures of his firsts graced the pages much like your daughter’s, except this time the first time he sat up he was accompanied by a beaming sister, when he said mama for the first time it was you who was in tears, and when he took his first steps he walked straight into Spencer’s open arms.

The book was a picture-perfect testament to your love, one of your most prized possessions, but there was one thing missing.

“I love the life we built together,” Spencer whispered in your direction, his fingers tracing your side as he thought about how lucky he was. How lucky was he that he went from a man destined to live a solitary life to a man with a wonderful wife and two children made from love?

“I love it, too,” you murmured as your hand moved to reach for your purse, “but there’s one thing we’re missing”.

You watched as Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes scanning the empty pages at the end of the book.  “I know the pictures are a little out of date, we can order some more this weekend to fill the empty pages though”, he stated as his gaze found yours to see if that was the answer you were looking for.

“We definitely can,” you nodded, removing an item from your purse and unsticking the scrapbook pages to place it in the middle.  Once you were satisfied with its placement, you adjusted the top sheet before holding both of Spencer’s hands in yours, “but we can start with this”.

The previously blank page was now the home of your very first ultrasound photo for your third baby, a surprise you had confirmed earlier that morning at your doctor’s appointment.  You watched as Spencer’s eyebrows shot up, his face breaking into a smile while his eyes filled with tears.

“Really?” his voice was so soft, you were sure you would have missed it if you weren’t sitting directly next to him.

“Really, really,” you confirmed, your left hand moving to grasp his jaw as you pulled his face closer to yours.

“Are you excited?” you whispered, fully aware that the answer was yes but craving confirmation.

With your question, a tear escaped his lash line, trailing down his cheek and making its way to a beaming smile that rivaled the ones you had seen in the scrapbook.

He nodded, at a complete loss for words as he closed the gap between you and let his feelings out in a kiss. It was a kiss filled to the brim with love, happiness, and appreciativeness.  

And in that moment, there was only one coherent thought on his mind as he listened to his children’s giggles in the background and felt the weight of your love against his lips: How lucky was he that he went from a man destined to live a solitary life to a man with a wonderful wife and three children made from love?

The luckiest man alive, that was for sure.

***

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[chaninfused]

Speaking in Tongues: Part One | Yang Jeongin

◤“When he said nothing, you felt a familiar mute anger rise in your chest. He must think you were pathetic. Maybe a fool. But you were doing everything you could to survive this horrible place.”

Something terrible is unfolding in the slums of the crown city, and as the general hurries to put an end to it, he crosses paths with a rogue dancer who is willing to sacrifice everything for her freedom.

◤Disclaimers: From the world of Danse macabre (no need to read beforehand). Fantasy inspired by Arabian mythology. A blend of fluff and angst. Includes descriptions of violence and injury. Depictions of a human trade. Alludes to mature themes (not explicit) and recalls occurrences of sexual assault (not romanticized, obviously). This does not refer to a historical event of my knowledge, nor does it reference real life nations or people. Female reader insert. View the glossary here. Playlist.

◤Word count: 10.2K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤Dedicated to @blueprint-han​, happy birthday, dawn! Please enjoy this day to the fullest because you deserve it! Always remember that you are loved and appreciated by us all, and that you’re absolutely amazing! Happy reading! ♥

Part One: Little Heaven | Part Two | Part Three

“Ah, there you are!” Minho clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder when he spotted him amongst the crowd. “I was almost sure you weren’t going to make an appearance.”

Jeongin gave him an easy smile, hands clasped neatly at his back as his twin swords swayed with his steps. “I thought I’d give the prince my well wishes.”

It was young Prince Seungmin’s ninth birthday that night, and the nobility of Darilmalek had gathered for a celebratory dinner. However, the general’s words were only part of the truth. He walked into the party with urgent news to deliver to the king.

But before Jeongin could ask for a private word, Minho was already directing him toward a small gathering where the queen stood with a lady he vaguely recognized. “Dearest cousin, allow me to introduce you to Sayeda Dina, heir to the southern Nasri business.”

The woman stood tall, stiff in posture, the darkest waves of hair elegantly hidden under a veil of bright turquoise. A headpiece of thinly pressed gold coins framed her kohl-lined eyes, a grave contrast to her moon-like skin. Her gaze skittered to the ground when she bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, general.”

Jeongin threw a single disappointed look toward his cousin before acknowledging her. “Likewise.”

It was yet another attempt at finding him a bride. He was well aware. The king and queen weren’t exactly discrete with their motives.

The general noticed the disapproval woven in the king’s expression and dared to hold his gaze back. What were they expecting him to do? Kiss her hand and ask to meet her father?

An exasperated sigh fought to leave his lips.

Instead, he turned to fully face Minho, making sure to stand close enough for his words to meet the king’s ears alone. “A word, please.”

The king shook his head, a clear sign of disappointment, before taking hold of his wife’s hand and excusing himself. “A moment, hubbi.”

The queen looked at him then at the general, the smallest hint of amusement curving her tinted lips. “Of course.”

Only when they were away from the gathering, alone in the hallway after dismissing the guards, did Jeongin let out that sigh. He folded his arms, the silver blades of his shoulder pads glinting in the moonlight streaming from the windows. A long strand of black hair fell over his left eye when he glared at his cousin. “When will you stop trying to introduce me to the ladies of the court?”

Minho barked a laugh. “I know you didn’t bring me here to berate me about that.”

Instantly, his demeanor changed, and his eyes scanned the hallway for any eavesdroppers before saying, “We have a lead.”

“A lead?” Minho repeated, voice dropping into a hushed whisper. Over the span of two weeks, rumors of a thriving human trade based in the crown city reached the royal family. Jeongin and his men were working toward finding the culprits, if there were any and the rumors were true, and bringing them to face trial.

“Na’am. We managed to intercept an invite to the Junayna.”

The Little Garden. The Little Heaven. That was the name of the pleasure house hidden deep within the slums of the crown city. Entry was only granted to those carrying an invite, issued by the owner of the establishment.

It was a suspicious business, promising anonymity and secrecy for its clients. The sudden emergence of the Junayna perfectly coincided with the increasing reports of missing men and women. Jeongin knew that there was scarcely anything honest about such businesses.

“You’re sending men undercover?” Minho asked, to which Jeongin shook his head. “We don’t want to raise their suspicions. I’m going alone.”

A silence stretched between them as the king considered his words, to be broken by a cough as the general added, “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Minho’s gaze snapped to meet his. Though, he wasn’t surprised to find nothing but resolute decision in the calm sea of his eyes. Jeongin had grown to become a leader of his own, a general willing to go beyond the specifications of his duty to see a mission done. He was nothing like the easygoing, remiss cousin Minho knew ten years ago.

He also knew that he was being told this information out of nothing but mere protocol. Jeongin didn’t really require his advice on the matter.

“Alright,” the king gave him a solemn nod, his permission acquired. “May the Aliha grant you their luck.”

•ꕥ•

Jeongin didn’t need luck. He needed patience to tolerate this slum.

Al Qa’er was what the locals called it. A lawless neighborhood ruled by thieves, conmen, and drunkards. Nothing would save him here but the tip of his saif. Not a title and not any kind of dignity.

It wasn’t the buildings that seemed to lean into each other, or the ground that seemed to be caked in grime — what Jeongin hated about Al Qa’er was the knowledge of what lay behind those walls and hid in those alleys. There was an injustice that always seemed to return, no matter how many times the crown tried to annihilate it. The exploitive minds of Al Qa’er always found a way to oppress the less fortunate and the unsuspecting.

The general couldn’t tell if the searing rush of emotion that clouded his mind was disgust or anger. Or both.

Jeongin adjusted the black veil he wore and turned into an alley on his right. The route he memorized was courtesy of his assistant. A maze within the alleyways that would finally lead him to the Junayna.

From the edges of his vision, he spotted a couple of people following his path. They, too, wore veils to conceal their identities. They were dark pieces of garment, secured at the back of the head, with a single slit across to allow vision. The rich liked to decorate them with gems and golden embroidery portraying the mouths of various animals or intricate shapes. Jeongin had settled for plain black, embellished with three small pearls at each end of the slit.

It was a requisite for entering the pleasure house, in order to give the visitors the anonymity they sought.

The mere concept of the veils made the hairs at the back of Jeongin’s neck rise in repulsion. Though he supposed it worked for his particular situation. The Commander of the Darilmalekan army was too recognizable a face to saunter undetected into Al Qa’er’s horrific establishments.

The closer Jeongin was to his destination, the more masked figures he noticed. They all walked in silence, as though the veils demanded it. He wondered about them. Who were they? Did he know any of these people? Were they men and women he dined with? Invited to his home? Was it mere curiosity that brought them there or were they regulars?

Finally, Jeongin spotted a dimly lit entrance guarded by one man and realized he wasn’t ready to witness whatever obscenity the Junayna offered.

The muffled beat of the daff reached his ears. Too bad he never waited to be ready.

Jeongin watched as the guard let a couple pass through before pulling out the folded piece of parchment he secured in his belt. He studied the man’s face as he handed him his invitation. He, too, maintained an unnatural silence. His dark hair was pulled into a short braid at the base of his neck, and the bronze of his skin shimmered in the meager moonlight. A heavy sword was sheathed at his hip. No man walked the streets of Al Qa’er unarmed.

The man flipped the parchment over, and over again, frowning as though something was wrong. He grunted, wrinkling the invitation in his grip as he regarded the general. His words were accented by the unruly streets. “Who are you?”

Jeongin raised a brow, his words shooting through the air like lethal arrows despite the winds of nervousness that breezed over his heart, “Is this your promise of secrecy?”

“I’ve never seen-”

“What is all this commotion about?” a voice boomed from somewhere behind the guard, and soon, a stout man came into view. A heavy, bejeweled turban balanced on his head, grey strands of hair escaping the white silk. He wore a similarly white thawb, and a ridiculously yellow abaya over it, studded with zumurrud. He almost resembled a lemon. A khanjar was strapped to his belt, and the enormous precious gems on the rings suffocating his fingers told Jeongin that this man had never needed to wield a weapon in his life.

He was the target.

Jeongin let out an annoyed breath, gesturing to the guard while his other hand rested casually on the hilt of his saif. He’d had to ditch his twin swords for the occasion. “Your guard is denying the validity of my invitation.”

“Give me that,” the man snarled as he ripped the parchment out of the guard’s fist. He took a glance at it, then directed his gaze toward Jeongin. The latter tilted his head, the lie spilling like smooth honey on fresh bread, “A good friend of mine gave me this invite. I do not wish to disclose his identity.”

His age-worn mustache seemed to twitch with something akin to annoyance as he slammed the invite into the guard’s chest. An unsettling smile then stretched his plump lips as he beckoned Jeongin forward. “Right, of course. Pardon the insolence of my guard. Allow me to walk you in personally.”

Jeongin followed him without acknowledgment. A question danced at his lips, but he elected to stay silent. Better maintain the facade of a nonchalant nobleman than raise eyebrows with his curiosity.

They walked through a dimly lit tunnel, and the farther they went, the clearer the daff became. The catchy tune of the habban drifted through the air, complemented by steady clapping and harmonious singing. Jeongin realized they must’ve had a fully-fledged ensemble at the end of that tunnel.

The Junayna was nothing like Jeongin expected. When he stepped through the archway, the general was greeted by the flurry of colorful silks and the hypnotic beat of the daff and its sisters. He was standing in an enormous clearing that seemed to be carved out of the heart of a great building. The moon and the stars shone above, witnesses or maybe an audience to this underground party.

At the center of the court, a group of female dancers moved in a graceful whirlwind of silks, skin, and hair, perfectly illuminated by the lanterns hung above them. Around them, Jeongin noticed the veiled figures. They sat in groups or alone, relaxed on lavish cushions with glasses of khamr and plates of exotic fruit. The lights were scarce on them, but Jeongin still saw the hunger by which they ogled the dancers.

A sting of disgust made him grimace, and he was thankful for the veil that hid his expressions.

“Ah, front row!” the man exclaimed as he pointed Jeongin towards an empty majlis closest to the center. He wanted to decline, already spotting a place hidden in the shadows at a far corner before he silenced the thought urgently. People don’t come here to be modest.

“Enjoy your night.” the turban tipped haphazardly when the man bowed his head and sauntered away, hollering a comment at the dancers that created a rupture of laughter amongst the audience. Jeongin allowed himself to sit, forced himself to loosen up. If he were to learn anything from this visit, then he’d better try to blend in.

A serving boy soon rushed over to his majlis, placing down a bottle of khamr and a silver plate of grapes and pomegranate. Jeongin regarded him. He couldn’t have been much older than Seungmin. His clothes fell over his figure lousily. Oversized, or maybe he was too underfed.

When the boy offered to fill his cup, Jeongin let him. He wouldn’t drink, he never did, let alone on a job, but that would be enough to complete his facade. He murmured a short ‘shukran’ before the boy scampered away, the sleeves of his tunic billowing around his bony arms.

What now? Jeongin thought as he shifted in his position, eyes trailing over the round structure he was in. The circular wall was three stories tall. He noticed a veiled figure disappear through a staircase at the opposite side of the court, accompanied by a dash of purple silks, then appear at the open hallway on the first floor. He didn’t bother to see what room the two walked into.

There were women among the audience. He noticed eyes deeply lined with kohl, veiled heads crowned with beautiful headpieces. He also noticed the men standing near them, purple vests open to flaunt toned torsos and sculpted arms.

Jeongin had begun to feel as though his veil was crawling with ants.

The dancing had stopped with a final shrill of the habban, and the dancers left the wide arena in perfect unison. They held their skirts firmly and pressed their arms to their sides as they passed through the thin space separating the ensemble from the audience’s seats. It was as though they were protecting themselves, Jeongin realized when he saw a man lean forward and grab a fistful of one of the girls’ silks. His veil bore the embroidered mouth of a lion.

The girl froze in place. The rest scurried past her, a stampede of blue and red, green and gold, a panicked jingle to their steps, and huddled in an empty space behind the ensemble.

All Jeongin could see from his place was the rigid hunch of her bare shoulders, ivory against the deep blood of her fustan. The glorious waves of her black hair were slightly tousled from dancing, but they reached the small of her back like the other dancers.

For a moment there, Jeongin thought she would storm off. He hoped she would. But then he saw the man in the obnoxious yellow abaya, a look he could only describe as the impending storm shadowing his awful face.

The girl dropped her shoulders and turned around to face the veiled man, letting him guide her to the majlis he shared with several other girls.

Jeongin looked away. This was vile. He knew little of the workings of harems and concubines, but this was entirely different.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to gather all the information he could before he fled this place in sheer horror.

The serving boy from earlier strode past him, an empty bottle in hand. Should he try to stop him? Wring out a few answers?

No, Jeongin thought, eyes searching the open court, too conspicuous. 

“In need of company?”

Jeongin’s eyes snapped towards the owner of the voice. The horrible man in yellow stood near his majlis. The same unsettling smile was drawn on his lips. Though it felt more like the sneer of a prowling predator, now that Jeongin had seen what the Junayna was like.

Every instinct of his screamed at him to decline, but the general’s mind bloomed at the chance. Perfect. 

He didn’t respond, letting his silence do the work for him.

“May I interest you in one of our girls?” he offered and didn’t wait for an answer when he turned to look at the group of resting dancers. He took a moment as if to contemplate before calling above the music, “Y/n!”

Almost immediately, a young woman stood, her embellished fustan flaring around her due to the sudden movement. She stared, dazed, as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. The man repeated, loud, his tone harsh command rather than kind invite, “Y/n!”

She started walking, her steps stiff and quick, abrupt jingles sounding from the sash on her hips. Jeongin noticed some eyes among the audience following her, then noticed the way she clutched her dress. Not protective or afraid, but harsh, displeased. Angry, he realized.

She came to stand before him, eyes fixed on the ground. Jeongin didn’t miss the way she stiffened when the man grabbed her arm and forced her forward. “Of course, there are younger girls, but I think you will find our Y/n quite delightful. She’s of Tajilmalekan roots.”

Jeongin forced his cool gaze to land on her. The deep blue of her fustan mimicked the night sky, cascading gracefully over her figure. It was designed to make a spectacle of its wearer with layers of silk that danced and flared with each little movement. A line of careful embroidery traced the dangerously plunging neckline to the belt of small, coin-like, pressed gold pieces tied around her hip. The accessory was meant to clink like a thousand little bells with each movement.

She was beautiful. Jeongin wasn’t going to lie to himself.

When he dragged his gaze back to the man in yellow, the latter clasped his hands behind his back and turned to leave. He barely caught what he said to the young woman on his way. “Behave.”

Moments of silence passed after he left. Jeongin released his gaze, letting it roam anywhere but her as he reached for the full cup on the table. She stood still, fists tight around her silks. Her sudden words could’ve easily been lost in the music surrounding them. “I don’t care what Hijris told you. I can offer you conversation but that is all I’m willing to give.”

What? Jeongin felt as though he was being suffocated by his veil when he realized what she was insinuating. She spoke with the lilting syllables of Tajilmalekan seafarers.

“Conversation would be great,” he responded when he regained his composure. He looked at the majalis around him and caught the gaze of one of those men in purple vests. He was staring right at him, pure murder in his handsome features.

Jeongin didn’t wait to see him divert his eyes, letting himself look at the girl again instead. “Why don’t you...sit?”

•ꕥ•

You wanted nothing more than to murder the mercenary scumbag who called himself Hijris.

You were a dancer, were you not? Your job was to dance. Why then were you sitting by the majlis of a veiled man, legs folded neatly under your body, mind racing through a thousand possibilities of what could happen next? Why?

“You’re from Tajilmalek,” the man said. He spoke like no one you’d met before. Clear, perfectly measured syllables that ended with sharp cases, free of any accent you recognized.

Your eyes stayed trained on the hard ground. “Na’am.”

He hummed, a low sound. Then asked, “Do you like it here?”

The question made your gaze snap up, finally taking in the man who sat like a king on his cushions. He was dressed in black from the carefully swathed fabric of his litham to the tips of his hitha’a. A single sword was sheathed at his hip. But perhaps what intrigued you the most was his underwhelming choice of veil. While the other men and women chose to embellish theirs with gems and complex embroidery, his was a starless night sky, save for a few small pearls.

He was watching you, knife-like eyes shrouded in fittingly dark kohl awaiting an answer. You looked away. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t hear the rustle of clothes when he stood up, not offering a hand but simply deciding, “I’ll walk you back to your group.”

That’s it? You didn’t know if you wanted to cry in relief or laugh at this strange man. Wordlessly, you stood up and fell in step behind him. You didn’t want to try and figure out his motives for doing that. You were simply grateful for his silent company. It kept the eyes following you in their place.

You parted ways by the ensemble. He made a clear line toward Hijris, who stood near a group of guards overlooking the arena, while you quickly joined the rest of the dancers resting on the ground.

Your friends didn’t say anything but looked at you with relief in their sorrow worn, kohl-lined eyes.

You brought your hands to your aching foot, massaging it to relieve the pain that resulted from hours of constant dancing on the rough ground. A shadow fell over you when you switched to the other foot and you didn’t bother to look up when you heard him demand, voice an ugly hiss, “What did he tell you?”

“He said he would never sleep with a woman in cheap silks and fake gold.”

Whether or not he believed your lie, you didn’t care. The satisfaction of a man who sold the bodies of others to fill his coffers was beyond your concerns.

He could go crack his skull against the walls of his pleasure house for all you cared.

•ꕥ•

Your nights were always long. The Junayna was bursting with music and dance and hell until the sun’s graceful rays chased the stars.

You watched the sunrise from the window of your cramped room while braiding your damp hair. The bothersome fustan you’d donned all night was discarded in a pile alongside the rest of your fasateen, awaiting to be collected by the laundry girls. You were comfortably changed into a wide cream thawb, lightly embroidered at the collar and the cuffs with red thread instead.

A faint knock sounded at your door, and you stepped to open it, glad to be greeted by a familiar face.

Bara’a gave you a small, sad smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you breathed, letting him into your room and closing the door. There was barely enough room for the two of you in the narrow space, but you managed.

You heard the soft clink of coins as he set something on the small dressing table he leaned against. “This is all I could get.”

Five Dinar. You counted the bronze before gathering it in your fist and kneeling beside the large chest on the floor.

You, Bara’a, and a third friend of yours had begun picking up money from Hijris’ earnings. One might call it theft, but you supposed you deserved more than the terrible excuse for a salary he gave you. Especially when that money was the product of the blood, tears, and anguish of people like you.

You opened the chest and dug between layers of colorful, cheap silks until your fingers found that familiar rough fabric. You pulled out the pouch. You’d fashioned it such that it looked like a folded roughspun thawb. Perfectly uninteresting.

You unfolded the layers of the dress to find that hidden pocket. After untying the thread that held it shut, you dropped the coins with the rest that the three of you had collected over the past eight months. The pouch would soon be too heavy, and you’ll have to make a new one.

Soon enough, you’ll be free to run away where no one could find you again.

You couldn’t wait to see the anger on Hijris’ face.

Behind you, Bara’a let out a quiet breath. “What happened down there?”

You didn’t have to ask to know what he was talking about, and you shrugged, burying the pouch under the mass of silks and closing the chest. “Nothing. He asked me two questions and sent me back...himself.”

“I saw,” he acknowledged with a murmur. You rested your back against the wall, letting your gaze settle on him with the lightness of a feather.

You first met Bara’a nearly two years ago. A veiled man who’d had more khamr than his system could handle had followed you as you made your way to your room. You were new and afraid, and you couldn’t fight him off when his filthy hands clamped on your bare arms.

That was when someone wrestled him off you, and amid your panicked fear, you barely registered the voice telling you to run away and hide.

You didn’t know why he’d done that, but you soon learned that it was the sense of unity that tied those of you in the Junayna. The knowledge that you were all fighting the same evil.

Whispers about the incident skittered between the girls like mice the following day. They said that weapons were drawn, and that Hijris whipped Bara’a until his back bled for his actions. Though, he never spoke of it to you.

You’d become friends ever since, looking after each other in silence when no one else did.

Bara’a was like you. He’d traveled to Darilmalek for a future he sought, only to find himself entangled in the webs of Al Qa’er. Looking at him, you hated that you knew why Hijris’ men targeted him.

In the shy light of dawn, he looked every bit a prince. The gentle brown waves of his hair reached past his ears, framing his face elegantly like one would a painting. The crooked tip of a thin scar peeked from under his chin, warm honey cutting through light stubble. His eyes were a blue you could only liken to the mesmerizing deep of the ocean, graying over when the sun shone at them directly.

He was beautiful. Perhaps that was why he was a favorite among the women who visited the Junayna.

Bara’a returned your gaze, eyes like troubled waters. They always were. “Do you think...”

“No. Not at all,” you shook your head instantly. There was no way you were catching someone’s eye. Not when you were so close to reclaiming your freedom.

He nodded as if telling himself, of course not. He then said, “Kadi is in her room.”

“Is she okay?” you asked with a start. Poor, sweet Kadi. You had no choice but to rush after the girls when that man grabbed her fustan. All you could do was watch with the rest, horror and desperation etched on your faces as she stepped into his majlis.

There was nothing any of you could do. You had no voice to deny the veiled visitors.

Bara’a shook his head. “I overheard her crying when I passed by.”

You didn’t spare a second to run out of your room and down the hallway when you heard that. Oh, Kadi. 

Her room was unlocked, and you stepped in, Bara’a following and shutting the door behind you. In the narrow space, you spotted Kadi, tangled in her blood red silks, huddled on the thin mattress of her bed. Her sobs were muffled, pained hiccups ricocheting off the walls.

“Oh, Kadi.” you dropped on the side of the bed and gathered her in your arms. The girl was much younger than you and Bara’a were. Barely turning sixteen when she was forced to join the Junayna a year ago.

Hijris had taken advantage of her innocence, her dewy charm. She was lucky enough to end up with the dancers, but even that label didn’t protect her from the desires of some monsters. Much like it almost did to you.

Kadi wept in your arms. She didn’t speak, didn’t say what happened to her, but you heard it in her anguish. You felt it in the echo of your own cries some years ago.

“I want t-to leave this place,” she croaked, her voice broken and raw. You hugged her close, murmuring as you fought back tears, “I know.”

A warm hand settled on your shoulder. Bara’a’s voice was weighed down by sorrow. It always was. “We will. Soon.”

•ꕥ•

Jeongin eyed the invitation on his desk. One of his soldiers was sent to collect and deliver it to him earlier that day.

The general had seen atrocities on his visit to the Junayna during the previous night. It was clear to any observer that it was a business that ran on exploiting vulnerable people. Many of them are kids, he reminded himself, remembering the girl in the red fustan and the serving boy.

Hijris was the name. He was the man responsible for that, unfortunately, thriving business.

Feigning interest, Jeongin had asked if there was any chance he could receive his own invitation. The man seemed to be guided by nothing but greed, for he quickly added a new drop-off location to his list and demanded a large sum of money.

Jeongin tossed a heavy pouch of silver in his open hands and turned around, leaving the grim establishment to be swallowed by the night behind him.

The general sighed, eyeing the drawer where he’d stashed the black veil.

He was going back tonight. But he was bringing one of his spies along.

•ꕥ•

“Ya bint!”

A panic rose in your heart and you quickly grabbed Kadi’s hand, diverting from the group.

It was time for your first break of the night. Normally, you’d look forward to resting your blistered feet. This time, however, you were dreading the moment you left the arena.

You’d promised Kadi that nothing would happen to her tonight. You swore it. So when you heard that shout and noticed that it came from the majlis of the man with a veil resembling a lion’s mouth, you had to turn away.

You weren’t going to let him have his way with the girl again.

You thought of taking the route between the majalis and then around the perimeter of the court, but then you spotted Hijris. He was making his way toward you like an angry bull.

No, no, no! You looked around you, trying to keep your composure. Kadi was sobbing silently by your side.

There must be another solution.

Then you saw him. Blank black veil, somewhere in the middle row, all alone.

Was it foolish of you to take your chances with a complete stranger? Definitely. But it was that or let Kadi go and face Hijris’ fury when the sun rose.

So, you acted as though you’d meant to go to him all along, dragging Kadi with you in hurried steps.

His gaze fell on the two of you like the tip of a saif on soft skin. If he was confused, he hid it perfectly. Or maybe the veil hid it for him.

You ushered Kadi toward one side of the divan, speaking under your breath before dropping yourself to the man’s other side, “Sit!”

•ꕥ•

To say Jeongin was confused would be a laughable understatement.

You’d plunked yourself on the cushions beside him and wrapped your arm around his, posing like the women in purple silks on the other majalis. The girl you dragged with you sat neatly on his other side. She kept a small distance, as if to avoid making contact, and picked up the plate of fruits to place on her lap.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice even and low.

“Please...” your muttered answer explained nothing, but Jeongin understood enough when he caught the sight of a veiled man walking his way. He was flanked by women in purple silks and donned a veil resembling a lion’s mouth in its embroidery.

Jeongin remembered him. He was the man who’d forced one of the dancers to join his majlis.

The young girl. 

He glanced to his left, finding that she’d hung her head low to let her hair fall like curtains on her face. He still saw the glisten of tears on her pale cheeks. It all made sense in a moment.

“Why would you run away like that?” the man’s tone should’ve been lighthearted, but Jeongin saw beyond that. He wanted to corner them, fluster them into doing what he wanted.

The general let a cool gaze settle on him. “Can I help you?”

“No. But sweet Kadi over here,” he leaned. The veil seemed to be swallowing his difficult breaths, “Why don’t you let me see that pretty face of yours?”

“So, you’re disturbing my company.”

“Not at all. I’d just wanted Kadi at my majlis.”

“So, you’re willing to share?” Jeongin wanted to find the nearest wall and bash his head against it. But he knew the effect of his suggestion. This man’s greed and ego wouldn’t let him depart with the women.

It was evident in the way he glared at Jeongin, a large hand fisted around the silver hilt of his small saif.

“I am not fond of the idea either,” he confessed. It was true. Jeongin didn’t like any of what was happening.

“Sadati, what is bothering you?” a voice rose from behind the veiled man. Jeongin saw the lemon abaya before he spotted the face.

Hijris spared one glance at his majlis, something akin to approval in his expression, then turned his attention to the man with the lion’s veil. “Nadia is coming down soon. I’ll let her find you.”

“The girls told me she was sick,” the man said, starting to follow Hijris back to his divan.

“Sick? Oh, no, no! She’ll be here in moments.”

Something told Jeongin that was a complete lie.

You let go of his arm before he could shrug you off. You’d been silent throughout the exchange, training your eyes on the ground as though you didn’t know how to speak.

The girl you brought with you was the same. Though her silence was nothing but the restraint of her sobs.

“She’s crying,” he said to no one in particular.

“She’s afraid,” you responded after a beat. When Jeongin turned his focus on you, he found your gaze searching his blank veil. You spoke with an anger that had been silenced long ago, but never lost its voice, “I will not let you lay a single finger on her.”

He pinned your wandering gaze down. If there was nothing he could do, he could at least offer this simple protection. “I will not lay a finger on either of you.”

He pulled a black handkerchief from his overcoat and held it out for you. “Give it to her.”

You stared at it. It was a modest piece of cloth. No emblem, no name. You picked it up carefully before standing up to crouch before the girl in a red fustan. When you lifted her chin, Jeongin saw the redness in her dark eyes. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. That would’ve made her a decade younger than Jeongin. A child, he thought with a frown. A child whose only defense from a strange man was another stranger.

He looked away. Any longer and he would’ve pulled out his saif and charged toward that Hijris. He couldn’t afford to blow their cover so soon.

He caught the shadow of the spy he brought with him somewhere at the top of the circular building. He was to look around, gather information, while Jeongin observed the Junayna from the perspective of a visitor, perhaps speak to a few of the supposed employees.

He noticed someone glaring at him among the audience. It was the same man from the previous night. Though, he was seated this time. A lady in a white veil was leaning into him, a cup of khamr in her jeweled hand.

The purple vest he wore stood bright against the honey glaze of his skin. He had the physique of a fighter, but he sat like nothing but an obedient servant.

The veiled woman brushed back his brown hair, probably whispering something in his ear, but he didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were fixed on Jeongin.

“He’s staring.”

You looked up, a flicker of recognition crossing your face when you saw who he was talking about. You’d reassumed your place next to him. “He’s...making sure we’re okay.”

“You’re friends?”

You hesitated. “Na’am.”

Jeongin considered that with a hum. He wondered about the men and women in purple. “Are these uniforms?”

“Yes. Purple is for...” you couldn’t say it, Jeongin heard it in the way your voice drifted into a troubled silence. But he didn’t need you to utter it. Purple was for the men and women who disappeared behind doors on the first floor, whispering sweet nothings to veiled visitors. “I understand.”

A solemn silence settled between the two of you. When he glanced to his left, he saw Kadi drop her gaze to her lap as though it burned. She was looking at him with a hint of wonder. As if she saw something behind that veil.

She busied herself with carving open a bright red pomegranate, unprompted. Jeongin was observing the buzzing ensemble when he heard her small voice. “Sayyidi, you...you speak like a prince.”

A flare of alarm shot up in his system at that, and he heard you whisper shout, “Kadi!”

“It is true that my tutor had taught princes,” he responded, hoping his voice didn’t waver. It was the truth. Though it would mean nothing to the two of you other than it being a testimony of his wealth.

The daff started with a clap, and the dancers flooded into the arena in a stream of color. Jeongin saw the look you exchanged with Kadi. Uneasy.

He looked at neither of you when he said, “You can stay.”

And neither of you said anything. But when the beat picked up, you didn’t move. Kadi resumed picking at the fruit, and you kept your attention on the show in front of you.

“I’m not going to have that.” Jeongin looked at the silver plate of fruit. The crimson pomegranate seeds were piled like crystals next to clusters of white and red grapes. Kadi snapped her head up, the faint shadow of dejection depressing her youthful features before realization sparked in her eyes. Bright.

Her gaze traveled back to the plate, contemplative, then she shook her head. “Hijris says we can’t eat at night.”

“Why?”

“Because it will hinder our dancing.”

He frowned. “You won’t be dancing tonight if you want to stay away from that man. You might as well eat.”

“She’s right,” you spoke beside him. A murmur. “He won’t like it.”

And who does he think he is? Jeongin scoffed inwardly. He found his horrible yellow abaya behind the ensemble, and as though he sensed his gaze, Hijris looked back at him.

Good. Let him watch. Jeongin leaned forward, plucking a single grape and holding it between his fingers before turning to face you. He hoped you would understand. “Asif.”

Your confused gaze traveled from his veiled face to Hijris in the distance, to Kadi’s curious stare, the young hope in her, and back to him. Understanding firmed your jaw.

You let him feed you the grape as Hijris watched.

“He can’t complain now.” Jeongin lifted a shoulder, reclining and looking back at the girl in red. “Go ahead.”

She was unsure, then carefully, she plucked a red berry from its stem and munched on it quietly. The music continued around them.

A presence only Jeongin felt stood behind them. His spy.

The general lifted his hand, a minuscule, insignificant movement. Though it was an order to his spy. Leave. You can return. 

And he was gone. A fragment of shadow. A silent breeze.

Jeongin was supposed to leave with him, but he didn’t. He stayed until the music dimmed and the dancing stopped. He stayed until the light swallowed the stars and the court emptied into a barren desert.

He stayed until he made sure you could leave undisturbed.

•ꕥ•

“Why did you go to him?”

Bara’a fell in step behind you as you were making your way back to your room from the baths.

You kept your eyes forward. “I don’t know.”

“You took a chance.”

“I had to.”

You reached your room. A sigh left your lips when you placed a palm on the door to push it open. “Nothing happened to us, Bara’a. You don’t have to worry.”

He followed you in, always welcome. “I know… I was watching.”

A laugh bubbled up your chest as you dumped the fustan in your arms in a corner. “You should stop glaring at people from across the court, by the way.” 

When you turned toward him, you found that a smile had graced his lips. Rare, calming, like a cold breeze against the face of a traveler who’d ventured across the sand for endless days. You poked his shoulder with a grin, “That lady was getting quite frustrated with you.” 

He laughed, a splash of water on a hot day. “Let her be.” 

But like it came, his laugh faded, and you found yourself facing troubled waters again. “You still need to be safe. Ashanya.”

For me. The way he spoke reminded you of home. He was from southwestern Tallilmalek, raised by the coast where people spoke with the salt of the sea on their tongues. The dialect of pearlers, fishermen, and seafarers. 

It was a culture almost identical to yours by the shores of Tajilmalek.

“Adri.” you gave him a small smile and turned to your dressing table. It had no mirror, but it provided adequate storing space. You pulled out a comb to tend to your damp hair.

“You always know, Y/n,” Bara’a shook his head, folding his arms and leaning against the table, “What happens when you don’t?”

“Then it’s ma’adri.”

He scrunched his brows, an amused look that said both ‘Seriously?’ and ‘What did I expect’ etched on his face. You could only shrug, a certain mischief sparkling in your eyes.

When you set your comb down, Bara’a pointed to your hair with his eyes. “May I?”

You hummed your permission, and he pushed himself off the edge of the narrow table to stand behind you. With gentle hands, he held the length of your hair and began braiding it. Hijris had insisted that it be long. Something about dancing and ridiculous beauty standards.

“You know, I would call that man strange, but,” he paused, having almost finished the braid, and pulled out the band he used to tie his own hair back. You didn’t see the way it fell around his face, perfect in its elegance despite everything. He secured the end of the braid. “there’s nothing strange about not taking advantage of others.”

“It’s strange in this place,” you remarked.

“Can we trust him?”

You’d turned around then and grabbed a small pouch thrown on the bed. Bara’a looked at you expectantly, waiting for an answer he could direct his concerns to.

You could only shrug. You didn’t know if you could trust the stranger in the plain veil. You thought you simply got lucky. Twice.

It didn’t matter anyway, you thought as you slung the pouch across your chest and left the room. You wouldn’t need to trust him again.

•ꕥ•

“He conceals it by calling it employment,” Hyunjae said as he slid a couple of papers across the meeting table. “I managed to pick up a few empty contracts last night.”

“But the contract ensures that they remain in debt,” Minho murmured, his eyes running over the text inked on the so-called contracts. Standing on his right, Jeongin nodded. “They are practically unable to pay the debt.”

Him, the king, and his lieutenants were gathered to discuss the findings of the previous night and decide on their next move. There was no more time to waste.

“We know this. But we’ll need to gather testimonies from the victims to represent in trial.” Minho set the papers down.

“We seize the establishment. That’s how we get both Hijris and anyone inside,” one of the lieutenants suggested.

“Right,” the general leaned in. “We must also prepare proper housing for them once we evacuate the building.”

“Of course,” the king nodded thoughtfully.

An hour later, the meeting room emptied. They’d finished discussing the details of the plan. Jeongin and his men were to take hold of the Junayna at midnight. When it was the most active.

It would be too full for a fight to breakout, and Hijris wouldn’t be able to hide the truth of his establishment when his men and women were in the middle of their work.

Only Jeongin and his spy remained in the meeting room. They had something to discuss.

Hyunjae rolled the contracts, securing them with a leather band when he said, “You made company yesterday.”

That was not what they had to discuss.

Jeongin gave him an unimpressed look. “They came to me on their own accord.”

“Always a charmer, sir.”

“They needed help, Hyunjae.”

The mentioned man looked at him questioningly. “From you? How did they know?”

Jeongin sighed. Hyunjae was a good friend of his, a fellow soldier. They worked together. Though, sometimes, the general felt as though the spy found enjoyment in asking too many questions. “They don’t know. I’m assuming one of them trusted me enough after my first visit.”

He arched a brow, facing the spy with a challenging grin, “Why? Is it so farfetched to believe that your general is a man with morals?”

“Not at all, sir,” Hyunjae gave a quick salute. “I’m rather impressed.”

“I’m sure you are. We need to return to the Junayna. I want to find a list of all the clients, as well as assess the buildings surrounding it.”

All lightheartedness left Hyunjae’s countenance. He gave him a firm nod. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

•ꕥ•

There was one problem with trusting others to do your work for you.

You snuck past a dozing guard into the dark hallway, your bare feet moving over the floor soundlessly.

They never did the job right.

You pressed your back to the wall, listening, waiting, until you decided it was safe enough to poke your head out the window.

The climb to Hijris’ office should’ve been terrifying and undoable, but you, Bara’a, and Kadi had done it every day of the past eight months. You knew the ridges between the brick like the back of your hand.

Before the guards could know any better and look into the hallway, you lifted yourself over the edge of the open window, welcoming the gentle morning breeze.

You felt weightless in your cotton thawb as your feet found the familiar dents and you held onto them, transferring your weight carefully. Your hands found grip above and you moved, one cautious foot after the other, one trained breath after the other.

This was your least favorite part of the task. Falling from this height would mean lying broken and bleeding to your death without anyone’s knowledge. This part of the building was secluded, surrounded by high, windowless walls. It was to ward off thieves and hide the room that was a short climb away from you.

You knew you’d arrived at your destination when you felt no more cracks to latch onto. The opening above you was wide enough for one person to squeeze through, a humble window for the office of the least humble man you knew.

You slammed a sweaty palm against the ledge, gripping it with all your might and pulling yourself up and into the office. You landed with a soft thud, back on solid floor again.

It was empty, as you came to learn of Hijris’ schedule long ago.

After all the guests left the Junayna, you rested. The house slept until the sun was the highest in the sky. During that time, Hijris left the establishment to rest at his own house, trusting a few guards to watch over the slumbering men and women, boys and girls of the Junayna.

He expected nothing of you. In his mind, you were all weak and helpless. You wouldn’t dare do anything during his absence.

He was incredibly foolish to think so of the three of you.

While the people slept, you snuck out, alternating days. One of you scaled the wall every morning to return with a few extra coins to add to your pouch. Never too much to catch Hijris’ unwanted attention.

The carpet under your feet felt soft. A luxury only one man in the Junayna could afford. A desk of dark wood stood regally in the middle of the room, a plate of sweet buqsumat resting near an empty finjan on its surface.

He didn’t even bother cleaning up before he left.

You wasted no time, sneaking toward the desk and easing open a drawer on the bottom right. Pouches of money were stacked together like fresh bread on display. The sight of them was like the waft of a welcoming bakery to your senses.

Hijris reserved ample coin for the daily purchase of food for the Junayna’s nightly visitors. The pouches were refilled every morning before he left his office. It wasn’t money you minded taking.

You worked with nimble fingers, untying one of the pouches and palming whatever you could in a passing moment. Not too much.

You shoved the coins into the small bag slung across your chest and stood up, grabbing one of the sugary biscuits off the desk on your way.

You were going to shove the treat into your mouth when your gaze landed on a figure swathed in black standing in the office.

You swore your heart stopped for a moment.

He stared at you, sharp, kohl-framed eyes curious through his blank veil. You couldn’t breathe, frozen, caught red-handed.

He tilted his head, his voice drifting through the air ever so quietly. A whisper of wind. “You’re stealing.”

What is he doing here? You wanted to disappear like those genies in your grandfather’s tales. Instead, you dared to blink. Once, twice. Let the air seep out of your nose slowly and back in again. “I’m not stealing. I’m simply taking back what’s mine.”

At that, his demeanor seemed to change. Something akin to the triumphant feeling of good revelation lining his words. “Why?”

So, he wants conversation, you clutched your pouch with your free hand. You’d give him conversation. Isn’t that what you offered two days ago?

“Because I need to.”

“Doesn’t he pay you?”

“Not enough. Never enough for sad folk like myself.”

When he said nothing, you felt a familiar mute anger rise in your chest. He must think you were pathetic. Maybe a fool. But you were doing everything you could to survive this horrible place.

He had to understand that. You didn’t know why, but he had to.

“There’s no hope for people like me and Kadi in this place. If I don’t do this, then we’ll be stuck here — I’ll be stuck here until we grow old and ugly. Or until some sorry sob looks at me and thinks to make a wife of me,” you whispered in frustration. “Then he’ll ask me to dance for him. Undressed, probably! And that will be my life. Forever. Until death sows its seeds.”

He didn’t look surprised when you blurted all that. “So, you steal.”

“So I steal.”

“And the buqsumat?” he pointed at the biscuit that made your fingers sticky with its sugary powder.

“I just like baghsam.” you shrugged and waited for him to say something. Anything.

After a beat that felt like three, he motioned with his head to the window, “Go. This conversation never happened.”

So you turned to leave, shoving the biscuit in your mouth and preparing to climb down. But before you dangled your legs over the ledge, you looked back at him, the question leaving your lips before you could think better. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to talk to Hijris.”

You nodded and found the familiar ridge outside the window, pulling yourself out. You didn’t want to be in that office any longer.

On your way down, you couldn’t shake off a thought that perturbed you.

How did you not hear him come into the office?

•ꕥ•

Hijris considered himself to be a man of wits. It was what helped him survive Al Qa’er and become one of its lords.

The Junayna was the crown jewel of his empire. The product of careful planning, scheming, and trickery. He’d managed to gather the finest and the most unfortunate men and women of the crown city and bend them to his will. He’d created a masterpiece of an establishment that rained money on him like a king.

Now, he felt as though his crown was being threatened.

It began with rumors, people speculating about a possible human trade happening in the city, then he appeared at the doorstep of his little heaven.

Blank veil, calculated words, but Hijris knew that he was no common man of the slums. He spoke with the precision of a royal and carried himself with the pride of a soldier.

Hijris found himself hosting the General of the Darilmalekan army.

He was two years late, but he was there nonetheless, and Hijris couldn’t afford to lose everything now.

So when the music reached a shrill stop and the dancers retreated to their place behind the ensemble, he turned to his guards. That plain veil was nowhere to be found. They had to leave.

“Bring Y/n to my office,” he ordered one then pointed at another two, “You search her room. Turn everything inside out and bring me anything you find.”

•ꕥ•

You followed the guard in silence. It was strange for Hijris to call you during the night, while you had work to do. You couldn’t help but worry, recalling the surprise encounter you had earlier that day.

Did he tell him? 

You knew you shouldn’t have trusted that man. You bit your inner cheek hard enough to draw blood. Foolish, Y/n.

The guard led you to the office you’d been in earlier. He knocked on the door and stepped in after receiving permission from inside.

Hijris was standing before his desk, his turban and abaya discarded to leave him in a lavish white thawb. Several of his men stood in the room, hands on their suyoof. You noticed an iron bar heating on a pile of bright charcoal in a clay stove.

Your heartbeat spiked. There could only be one purpose for that device. Punishment.

Hijris motioned for the guard to shut the door. His gaze settled on you, and your fustan suddenly felt too tight to breathe.

“You’re going to tell me everything the general told you.”

Your breath hitched, confusion furrowing your brows. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Y/n,” he spat, walking toward you until he was within your reach. No, until you were within his reach. “The man you sat with. Tell me everything you know.”

The man... you shook your head, panic widening your eyes. A general? What is he talking about? “I’m sorry, I d-don’t know-”

“Don’t lie to me!” his voice rose in a heartbeat, along with a gesture you flinched from involuntarily. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know! That you thought he was a regular man with peculiar motives!”

You speak like a prince, Kadi’s voice echoed in your memory, distant, lost in the music. You’d brushed it off then. It is true that my tutor had taught princes.

It can’t be. You sputtered, “I... h-he didn’t say-”

“You really don’t know,” Hijris let out a breath that was more angry than disappointed. “Did you really think that a man would visit the Junayna just to sit idly and do nothing?

“Some scholar you are!” he scoffed, turning around. You bristled at the mention of your supposed career. “You can’t even recognize a royal when you see one!”

A royal? You wanted to scream. How were you expected to know anything about this kingdom’s politics? And didn’t he call him a general?

You blanched. This meant that all the questions he asked, all the things he’d done were part of a bigger plan. But a small hope sang in your heart. This also meant that a higher authority knew about the Junayna—about you and Kadi—and was going to put an end to your misery. You will be rescued.

But before you could exhale in meager relief, Hijris spoke again, “It doesn’t matter.”

His tone was dangerous, the crackle of flame before the inferno. “Hold her down.”

Hands had grappled your arms and neck before you could react. When you tried to fight them off, you felt the tip of a dagger pressed against the thin silk covering your back. You couldn’t move.

You watched as Hijris leaned over his desk, reaching for a drawer and pulling a familiar pouch out.

It resembled a folded dress.

Your heart dropped into the depths of sudden ruin. Any sort of relief you felt was immediately gone, forgotten, as though it had never been.

“You recognize this bag, I see,” he sneered, unsheathing his khanjar and cutting a messy line through the fabric.

The coins clinked on the table merrily. All of Bara’a and Kadi’s hard work. All of your hard work.

“I assume you also don’t know about this money?” he rolled his eyes, mocking you.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. It felt like a hundred coins scratching against your insides. Your voice seemed to betray you, leaving you to fend for yourself alone, with the scraps of nothing you had left. “It’s mine.”

You’d insisted on storing all the money yourself. You wanted to make sure that you were the only one who would get into trouble if Hijris found out. It was your idea, after all, and you were willing to take the blame for it if that guaranteed your friends’ safety.

“Oh, but how can that be?” he ran his filthy fingers through the mismatched collection of coins. It wasn’t nearly enough, but you were halfway there. You only needed a couple more months.

“This is much more than your allowance gives, not to mention that,” he paused as though to catch his breath, “the produce allowance has been disappearing for a while. A few coins short every time.”

He laughed then, a sound that rung terrible in your ears. “You know, at first, I thought there was something wrong with my calculations. Perhaps I was missing a few coins here and there.” he turned to you, features a violent storm. “But then it kept happening.”

“You proved to be completely useless, Y/n. Again. I sent my men to search your room for some hint of the general. Maybe a note or a dagger. Something useful! But this is what they return with instead!” he waved the limp pouch in your face. “And I find out that there is a thief under my roof!”

You couldn’t tune out his angry words like you normally did whenever he had a fit. You heard everything. Your mind was an empty sheet imprinting every second, every sound, into your memory permanently. You had no voice. You were weak and afraid again, but this time, there was no one to help you.

He threw the empty pouch on the floor before gesturing towards one of his men. “Museeb.”

The man moved. He looked as though he was made of parchment, gaunt figure, sharp angles. You always saw him leave the office after Hijris finished chastising someone.

He grabbed the iron rod and you began to squirm. Dagger be damned.

“This is what happens when you steal from me, Y/n,” Hijris said, and that bare veil flashed in your mind. Amid the fuzz of your thoughts, the desperation of your fight, the sting at your back, and the garbled mess of your sobs, you barely caught his last words.

“Don’t scream.”

•ꕥ•

It was midnight, and Jeongin was leading his men through the miserable streets of Al Qa’er.

They moved like a knife cutting through water, the path clearing for them swiftly. The general could tell that the slum’s residents weren’t happy about their visit. He saw and heard the hostility in their frightened expressions and from their foul mouths.

They had divided into teams. One team would approach the Junayna from the back and surround it, another would secure the roofs and the buildings nearby, and the last would storm the establishment.

Jeongin was leading the last division.

Passing through the familiar alley without a veil covering his features felt strange, but it was a feeling he welcomed. He could finally step into that hellhole with his face out and his swords brandished, in his true form.

The usually guarded entrance was desolate, no lights or silent visitors in sight. It was quiet.

“Move!” Jeongin shouted a command at the soldiers from his mount and they rushed through the entrance, a stream of black and brown uniforms, armored shoulders glinting.

He dismounted his horse to join them, running through the sinister tunnel and stepping past the arches into the infamous Junayna.

It was like staring at the expanse of the sahra’a.

The court that should’ve been bustling with movement, alive with music and dance, was a barren land illuminated by the scarce light of the moon. It stared down at the soldiers, a blank face.

Jeongin swiveled toward his men. “Search the building!”

And they did, bursting through doors and shouting their findings amongst each other.

They abandoned the place, Jeongin thought, gaze trailing over the rough ground and rising to study the building encapsulating them. Dread wormed into his heart. Why? How did they know? 

Could he have underestimated Hijris?

Could he have overestimated the veil’s ability to hide his identity? His ability?

“Sir! General!” a shout caught his attention and he turned to the source of the sound. It came from a growing cluster of guards surrounding a place he quickly recognized as Hijris’ office. “We found someone!”

They let him pass through them with perfect ease, and Jeongin strode into the generously furnished office he’d been in earlier that day.

A soldier knelt on the ground. An iron rod lay atop strewn charcoal and shattered clay. A woman swathed in deep blue silk lay limp on the carpeted floor.

His dread exploded into a million fractures of blinding realization.

He had failed.

Part One: Little Heaven | Part Two | Part Three

If you have read this far then you are contractually obligated to tell me your thoughts! Well, not really, but do drop by sometime! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day! ♡

[titanicsimp]

Hello there! What would be some of the AOT boys' reactions to stumbling upon their crush (reader) playing the piano? Maybe something like Claire De Lune? It can be in the canonverse 🤗 thank you so much!

Also I just want to say that your writing is incredible, and you write all the characters SO spot on! Keep up the great work! 💕

Thank you so much for your kind words, I’m really glad I can do the characters justice!

I’m an absolute uncultured swine when it comes to music but I did some research so I hope this is what you wanted 🥰🥰

AOT men walking in on their crush playing the piano (includes; Eren, Armin, Jean, Connie, Levi, Erwin, Zeke, Reiner, Porco, Colt)

cw: none

a/n: This got kinda long so I put it under a cut!

Armin Arlert

Arabesque, No. 1 in E major by Claude Debussy

The soft notes of the piano fit well with the polished corridors of Mitras palace, and Armin couldn’t help but be drawn in by the sound. The music was gentle yet upbeat, a stark contrast with what had just been discussed in the dreadful meetings he had to attend.

A smile graces his face when he cracks the door of the music room further open, finding you at the seat of the piano. You look beautiful, your lips curved up slightly as your fingers dance over the keys. You look content, lost in your own happy tune, and Armin can’t help but be relieved that you have found a moment for yourself. He doesn’t want to interrupt, he just wants to stand and listen to you play, leaning against the doorway. He lets his head fall back against the frame and closes his eyes, letting you carry him away to a world of wonder through the music.

Eren Yeager

Metamorphosis: Three by Philip Glass

Eren had been surprised to be woken up by music. He shuffled over to the room where the sound seemed to originate from, only to find you. It almost seemed like you expected him, your gaze pointedly meeting his before you returned your attention to the piano. Eren did not have a lot of sense for music, but he could tell that your talent deserved much more than that run down thing.

“Bit somber, isn’t it?” He comments but you shake your head.

“Not necessarily, listen.”

He moves closer as you continue playing the song, and soon he finds out why you wanted him to listen. The somber tones get shifted to louder, more excited ones, giving the tune a more hopeful feel to it. He looks at you as you guide the music through its ups and lows, and a shiver runs over his spine every time he catches your eye. It’s like you see through him, he’s always felt that way, that’s why he took a liking to you to begin with. Though you aren’t telling him it explicitly, he understands what the song means for both of you.

Jean Kirstein

Liebestraume S541/R211: No. 3 Nocturne in E flat major by Franz Liszt & Jenö Jandó

Jean had just been wandering around, lost in thought, when he heard someone playing the piano. None of the scouts played piano as far as he knew, making him wonder if it was perhaps a Marleyan making use of the music room. He was pleasantly surprised to find out that you were the one playing. Your eyes closed, focusing intently on the tune of every key your fingers hit. Though he could watch you like this forever, he needs to come closer. “Wow.”

“How come you never told me you play piano?”

He smiles when you look up at him bashfully. “It had been so long, I wasn’t sure if I could anymore...”

“It sounds amazing, you have talent.” Jean tells you and comes to stand next to the piano.

You continue playing under his watchful eye, a smile playing at your lips. He enjoys the song, and jokingly starts ball dancing by himself, commenting that beautiful music should be danced to. You chuckle at him clumsily dancing with the air, your chest warming at the sight.

Connie Springer

Forever, forever by Keiko Matsui

Connie can’t help but feel slightly offended that you never told him, but as he watches you play from the open window, he can’t stay mad. He pulls himself up on the frame, startling you when he drops into the room. Throwing his hands up, he grins. “Sorry.”

You shake your head but smile, returning your attention to the piano. Slowly, you pick up the song again, and Connie makes sure to listen closely. The tune feels loving, and a blush graces his cheeks as he hopes that perhaps it’s him you are thinking of while playing.

“Can I sit with you?” He questions softly and you nod your head.

Seeing your face from so close as he sits on the bench with you makes his heart skip beats. It’s nice to see you so content, it’s the only way he wants you to be.

Levi Ackerman

Claire de Lune by Claude Debussy

Levi was determined to find out where you sneaked off to while you should be cleaning with them, glaring at the thought of how he should scold you for it. When he found you, the infall of sunlight playing so beautifully across your skin, sweet notes resonating throughout the room, he stopped in his tracks. Levi has a great appreciation for fine, sophisticated things, and you playing the piano with the sun setting behind you must be the epitome of it.

Your eyes widen when you realize he’s there, your hands stopping their movements. Levi scowls at you. “Keep playing.” He tells you commandingly.

Worried that you’ll be punished more severely if you don’t, you start again. You had thought he would be furious to find you slacking during cleaning duties, but as soon as you continued playing his face turned soft. He enjoyed it, taking a seat in a vacant chair and even leaning back slightly. As he listened to your song, he could imagine himself doing this more often, hearing you play and seeing you so delicately working the instrument, perhaps with some tea next time. It was alright that you snuck off this time, he supposed, hiding his smile behind his hand as he was glad he didn’t have to scold you.

Erwin Smith

Nocturnes: No. 1, Molto Moderato, in E flat major by Frédéric Chopin & John Field

It was rare to find a house with luxuries at this area, never mind one that has been abandoned and probably raided countless times. As you run your hand over the dusty piano lid, you wonder if it could possibly still work.

Erwin had just entered the room when you have propped the lid up and sit down on the piano bench. His eyes widen when you start playing a tune, one that for some reason sound familiar. You smile, playing more excitedly. “Seems like it has survived fairly well.” Some of the notes aren’t what they used to be, but it’s a miracle nonetheless.

The more the song carries on, he realizes where he’s heard it before. A friend of his father played the piano and he had played this song before. His admiration for you had already been great for the longest time, but this just increased it even more. Erwin had been no good at instruments himself, yet you played like it was your second nature. He makes a plan for himself to find a piano when the two of you return, wanting to hear more of your hidden talent.

Zeke Yeager

Gnossiennes |-||-||| (1890) by Erik Satie

People rarely came to this part of the wing, and since Zeke’s usual spot was closed off, he decided to go have a smoke on the balcony of the old music room. When he heard someone entering, he observed curiously, watching you sneak in. You pulled off the cover of off the grand piano, letting the sheet fall to the floor. He took drags from his cigarette, narrowed eyes watching your every move from a distance. It was always nice to see you, but what were you doing here?

You play some notes, testing yourself before you take a deep breath. Zeke’s cigarette drops from his lips as soon as you start playing. You carry the tune flawlessly and even he can tell its brimming with emotion. Where the hell had you been hiding this talent?

He listens patiently till you finish your song. He isn’t the best at judging emotions, but from the glances he catches of the side of your face, it seems that you are pouring your frustrations into it.

When you finish, he walks in, closing in on you from behind and putting his hands on your shoulders. You recognize who it is instantly as he leans forward, the scent of smoke carrying from his lips.

“It’s not fair to keep a talent like this hidden.” His hands rub at your shoulders and you feel pride swell in your chest. “Dedicate a song to me?” He asks playfully.

Reiner Braun

Nuvole Bianche by Ludovico Einaudi

Reiner feels ashamed that he didn’t know when he walks in on you playing the piano. He looks away in embarrassment when your eyes catch his. “Excuse me.” He says, already turning back to the door.

“Reiner!”

You stop playing. “This... it’s a new song I’ve learned. Can you stay and tell me if it sounds right?”

He turns back to you, your face showing that you are being earnest. Nodding his head, he strides over to you.

You tap the spot on the bench next to you with your hand and he sits down with a tiny smile.

You go back to the beginning, turning your sheet music accordingly. His gaze goes from your face to your hands as you play. Your fingers move over the keys so lightly, and something about it just makes him want to hold your hand. He holds himself back, not wanting to mess up the beautiful song you are creating.

When you are done, you ask him what he thought. “It was beautiful.” He tells you, beautiful like everything else you do.

Porco Galliard

Prelude in G minor Op. 23/5 by Sergei Rachmaninoff

Porco expected to find some stuffy man playing the piano, which is the case at most of these ‘prestige’ events, but instead he found you. “What the fuck?”

You shoot him a glare, trying your hardest to stay focused on your play. “Don’t throw me off, asshole.”

He doesn’t want to throw you off, he’s just baffled. It’s astounding that the same person who throws him in the dirt during every training is the same as the polished one he sees in front of him right now. From the way you play, there’s no doubt that you must have been doing this for a long time. He vaguely remembers you telling him that you used to take piano lessons, but he had no idea that you now did it professionally. As he watches you play, your eyes cast down to the keys and fingers moving across the length of the board at a rapid pace, he has to admit there’s something charming about it. He grins to himself, the night will be far more entertaining and pleasant on the eye than he had expected.

Colt Grice

Rêverie by Claude Debussy

Colt at first thinks he must be dreaming. The music, your radiant face, it fits right in. He’s not though, instead he has just stumbled onto yet another trait that makes him love you more. You take tiny glances at him as you play and he can tell you are happy he’s here. His palms feel sweaty and his cheeks heat up as he realizes how perfect of a moment it would be if he confessed his feelings now. If he could, he would blurt it out, but he can’t. Instead he continues watching you, building the courage inside him bit by bit.

Noticing that you are cracking your neck quite often, Colt comes over to stand behind you. He’s gentle as he touches your shoulders, seeing if you don’t move away from him before he massages your sore muscles. Little sighs pass by your lips as you continue playing your song, letting your head fall back when it’s finished.

“Thank you, I’m not used to playing for longer times anymore.” You sigh, putting one hand over his.

He flushes at your touch. “You play beautifully, so thank you for letting me hear it..”

[unpopularwiththepopulace]

A retrospective on some of Broadway’s most important female costume designers across the last century

How much is our memory or perception of a production influenced by the manner in which we visually comprehend the characters for their physical appearance and attire? A lot.

How much attention in memory is often dedicated to celebrating the costume designers who create the visual forms we remember? Comparatively, not much.

Delving through the New York Public Library archives of late, I found I was able to zoom into pictures of productions like Sunday in the Park with George at a magnitude greater than before.

In doing so, I noticed myself marvelling at finer details on the costumes that simply aren’t visible from grainy 1985 proshots, or other lower resolution images.

And marvel I did.

At first, I began to set out to address the contributions made to the show by designer Patricia Zipprodt in collaboration with Ann Hould-Ward. Quickly I fell into a (rather substantial) tangent rabbit hole – concerning over a century’s worth of interconnected designers who are responsible for hundreds of some of the most memorable Broadway shows between them.

It is impossible to look at the work of just one or two of these women without also discussing the others that came before them or were inspired by them.

Journey with me then if you will on this retrospective endeavour to explore the work and legacy that some of these designers have created, and some of the contexts in which they did so.

A set of podcasts featuring Ann Hould-Ward, including Behind the Curtain (Ep. 229) and Broadway Nation (Eps. 17 and 18), invaluably introduce some of the information discussed here and, most crucially, provide a first-hand, verbal link back to this history. The latter show sets out the case for a “succession of dynamic women that goes back to the earliest days of the Broadway musical and continues right up to today”, all of whom “were mentored by one or more of the great [designers] before them, [all] became Tony award-winning [stars] in their own right, and [all] have passed on the [craft] to the next generation.”

A chronological, linear descendancy links these designers across multiple centuries, starting in 1880 with Aline Bernstein, then moving to Irene Sharaff, then to Patricia Zipprodt, then to the present day with Ann Hould-Ward. Other designers branch from or interact with this linear chronology in different ways, such as Florence Klotz and Ann Roth – who, like Patricia Zipprodt, were also mentored by Aline Bernstein – or Theoni V. Aldredge, who stands apart from this connected tree, but whose career closely parallels the chronology of its central portion. There were, of course, many other designers and women also working within this era that provided even further momentous contributions to the world of costume design, but in this piece, the focus will remain primarily on these seven figures.

As the main creditor of the designs for Sunday in the Park with George, let’s start with Patricia (Pat) Zipprodt.

Born in 1925, Pat studied at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York after winning a scholarship there in 1951. Through teaching herself “all of costume history by studying materials at the New York Public Library”, she passed her entrance exam to the United Scenic Artists Union in 1954. This itself was a feat only possible through Aline Bernstein’s pioneering steps in demanding and starting female acceptance into this same union for the first time just under 30 years previously.

Pat made her individual costume design debut a year after assisting Irene Sharaff on Happy Hunting in 1956 – Ethel Merman’s last new Broadway credit. Of the more than 50 shows she subsequently designed, some of Pat’s most significant musicals include: She Loves Me (1963) Fiddler on the Roof (1964) Cabaret (1966) Zorba (1968) 1776 (1969) Pippin (1972) Mack & Mabel (1974) Chicago (1975) Alice in Wonderland (1983) Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Sweet Charity (1986) Into the Woods (1987) - preliminary work

Other notable play credits included: The Little Foxes (1967) The Glass Menagerie (1983) Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1990)

Yes. One person designed all of those shows. Many of the most beloved pieces in modern musical theatre history. Somewhat baffling.

Her work notably earned her 11 Tony nominations, 3 wins, an induction into the Theatre Hall of Fame in 1992, and the Irene Sharaff award for lifetime achievement in costume design in 1997.

By 1983, Pat was one of the most well-respected designers of her era. When the offer for Sunday in the Park with George came in, she was less than enamoured by being confined to the ill-suited basements at Playwright’s Horizons all day, designing full costumes for a story not even yet in existence. From-the-ground-up workshops are common now, but at the time, Sunday was one of the first of its kind.

Rather than flatly declining, she asked Ann Hould-Ward, previously her assistant and intern who had now been designing for 2-3 years on her own, if she was interested in collaborating. She was. The two divided the designing between them, like Pat creating Bernadette’s opening pink and white dress, and Ann her final red and purple dress.

Which indeed leads to the question of the infamous creation worn in the opening number. No attemptedly comprehensive look at the costumes in Sunday would be complete without addressing it or its masterful mechanics.

To enable Bernadette to spring miraculously and seemingly effortlessly from her outer confines, Ann and Pat enlisted the help of a man with a “Theatre Magics” company in Ohio. Dubbed ‘The Iron Dress’, the gasp-inducing motion required a wire frame embedded into the material, entities called ‘moonwalker legs and feet’, and two garage door openers coming up through the stage to lever the two halves apart. The mechanism – highly impressive in its periods of functionality – wasn’t without its flaws. Ann recalls “there were nights during previews where [Bernadette] couldn’t get out of the dress”. Or worse, a night where “the dress closed up completely. And it wouldn’t open up again!”. As Bernadette finished her number, there was nothing else within her power she could do, so she simply “grabbed it under her arm and carried it off stage.”

What visuals. Evidently, the course of costume design is not always plain sailing.

This sentiment is exhibited in the fact design work is a physical materialisation of other creators’ visions, thus foregrounding the tricky need for collaboration and compromise. This is at once a skill, very much part of the job description, and not always pleasant – in navigating any divides between one’s own ideas and those of other people.

Sunday in the Park with George was no exception in requiring such a moment of compromise and revision. With the show already on Broadway in previews, Stephen Sondheim decreed the little girl Louise’s dress “needs to be white” – not the “turquoisey blue” undertone Pat and Ann had already created it with. White, to better spotlight the painting’s centre.

Requests for alterations are easier to comprehend when they are done with equanimity and have justification. Sondheim said he would pay for the new dress himself, and in Seurat’s original painting, the little girl is very brightly the focal centre point of the piece. On this occasion, all agreed that Sondheim was “absolutely right”. A new dress was made.

Other artistic differences aren’t always as amicable.

In Pat Zipprodt’s first show, Happy Hunting with Ethel Merman in 1956, some creatives and directors were getting in vociferous, progress-stopping arguments over a dress and a scene in which Ethel was to jump over a fence. Then magically, the dress went missing. Pat was working at the time as an assistant to the senior Irene Sharaff, and Pat herself was the one to find the dress the next morning. It was in the basement. Covered in black and wholly unwearable. Sharaff had spray painted the dress black in protest against the “bickering”. Indeed, Sharaff disappeared, not to be seen again until the show arrived on Broadway.

Those that worked with her soon found that Sharaff was one to be listened to and respected – as Hal Prince did during West Side Story. After the show opened in 1957, Hal replaced her 40 pairs of meticulously created and individually dyed, battered, and re-dyed jeans with off-the-rack copies. His reasoning was this: “How foolish to be wasting money when we can make a promotional arrangement with Levi Strauss to supply blue jeans free for program credit?” A year later, he looked at their show, and wondered “What’s happened?”

What had happened was that the production had lost its spark and noticeable portions of its beauty, vibrancy, and subtle individuality. Sharaff’s unique creations quickly returned, and Hal had learned his lesson. By the time Sharaff’s mentee, Pat, had “designed the most expensive rags for the company to wear” with this same idiosyncratic dyeing process for Fiddler on the Roof in 1964, Hal recognised the value of this particularity and the disproportionately large payoff even ostensibly simple garments can bring.

Irene Sharaff is remembered as one of the greatest designers ever. Born in 1910, she was mentored by Aline Bernstein, first assisting her on 1928’s original staging of Hedda Gabler.

Throughout her 56 year career, she designed more than 52 Broadway musicals. Some particularly memorable entities include: The Boys from Syracuse (1938) Lady in the Dark (1943) Candide (1956) Happy Hunting (1956) Sweet Charity (1966) The King and I (1951, 1956) West Side Story (1957, 1961) Funny Girl (1964, 1968)

For the last three productions, she would reprise her work on Broadway in the subsequent and indelibly enduring film adaptations of the same shows. 

Her work in the theatre earned her 6 Tony nominations and 1 win, though her work in Hollywood was perhaps even more well rewarded – earning 5 Academy Awards from a total of 15 nominations.

Some of Sharaff’s additional film credits included: Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) Ziegfeld Follies (1946) An American in Paris (1951) Call Me Madam (1953) A Star is Born (1954) – partial Guys and Dolls (1955) Cleopatra (1963) Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) Hello Dolly! (1969) Mommie Dearest (1981)

It’s a remarkable list. But it is too more than just a list.

Famously, Judy’s red scarlet ballgown in Meet Me in St. Louis was termed the “most sophisticated costume [she’d] yet worn on the screen.”

It has been written that Sharaff’s “last film was probably the only bad one on which she worked,” – the infamous pillar of camp culture, Mommie Dearest, in 1981 – “but its perpetrators knew that to recreate the Hollywood of Joan Crawford, it required an artist who understood the particular glamour of the Crawford era.” And at the time, there were very few – if any – who could fill that requirement better than Irene Sharaff. 

The 1963 production of Cleopatra is perhaps an even more infamous endeavour. Notoriously fraught with problems, the film was at that point the most expensive ever made. It nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox, in light of varying issues like long production delays, a revolving carousel of directors, the beginning of the infamous Burton/Taylor affair and resulting media storm, and bouts of Elizabeth’s ill-health that “nearly killed her”. In that turbulent environment, Sharaff is highlighted as one of the figures instrumental in the film’s eventual completion – “adjusting Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes when her weight fluctuated overnight” so the world finally received the visual spectacle they were all ardently anticipating.

But even beyond that, Sharaff’s work had impacts more significantly and extensively than the immediate products of the shows or films themselves. Within a few years of her “vibrant Thai silk costumes for ‘The King and I’ in 1951, …silk became Thailand’s best-known export.” Her designs changed the entire economic landscape of the country. 

It’s little wonder that in that era, Sharaff was known as “one of the most sought-after and highest-paid people in her profession.” With discussions and favourable comparisions alongside none other than Old Hollywood’s most beloved designer, Edith Head, Irene deserves her place in history to be recognised as one of the foremost significant pillars of the design world.

In this respected position, Irene Sharaff was able to pass on her knowledge by mentoring others too as well as Patricia Zipprodt, like Ann Roth and Florence Klotz, who have in turn gone on to further have their own highly commendable successes in the industry.

Florence “Flossie” Klotz, born in 1920, is the only Broadway costume designer to have won six Tony awards. She did so, all of them for musicals, and all of them directed by Hal Prince, in a marker of their long and meaningful collaboration.

Indeed, Flossie’s life partner was Ruth Mitchell – Hal’s long-time assistant, and herself legendary stage manager, associate director and producer of over 43 shows. Together, Flossie and Ruth were dubbed a “power couple of Broadway”.

Flossie’s shows with Hal included: Follies (1971) A Little Night Music (1973) Pacific Overtures (1976) Grind (1985) Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1993) Show Boat (1995)

And additional shows amongst her credits extend to: Side by Side by Sondheim (1977) On the Twentieth Century (1978) The Little Foxes (1981) A Doll’s Life (1982) Jerry’s Girls (1985)

Earlier in her career, she would first find her footing as an assistant designer on some of the Golden Age’s most pivotal shows like: The King and I (1951) Pal Joey (1952) Silk Stockings (1955) Carousel (1957) The Sound of Music (1959)

The original production of Follies marked the first time Florence was seriously recognised for her work. Before this point, she was not yet anywhere close to being considered as having broken into the ranks of Broadway’s “reigning designers” of that era. Follies changed matters, providing both an indication of the talent of her work to come, and creating history in being commended for producing some of the “best costumes to be seen on Broadway” in recent memory – as Clive Barnes wrote in The New York Times. Fuller discussion is merited given that the costumes of Follies are always one of the show’s central points of debate and have been crucial to the reception of the original production as well as every single revival that has followed in the 50 years since.

In this instance, Ted Chapin would record from his book ‘Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’ how “the costumes were so opulent, they put the show over-budget.” Moreover, that “talking about the show years later, [Florence] said the costumes could not be made today. ‘Not only would they cost upwards of $2 million, but we used fabrics from England that aren’t even made anymore.’” Broadway then does indeed no longer look like Broadway now.

This “surreal tableau” Flossie created, including “three-foot-high ostrich feather headdresses, Marie Antoinette wigs adorned with musical instruments and birdcages, and gowns embellished with translucent butterfly wings”, remains arguably one of the most impressive and jaw-dropping spectacles to have ever graced a Broadway stage even to this day.

As for Ann Roth, born in 1931, she is still to this day making her own history – recently becoming the joint eldest nominee at 89 for an Oscar (her 5th), for her work on 2020′s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Now as of April 26th, Ann has just made history even further by becoming the oldest woman to win a competitive Academy Award ever. She has an impressive array of Hollywood credits to her name in addition to a roster of Broadway design projects, which have earned her 12 Tony nominations.

Some of her work in the theatre includes: The Women (1973) The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1978) They're Playing Our Song (1979) Singin' in the Rain (1985) Present Laughter (1996) Hedda Gabler (2009) A Raisin in the Sun (2014) Shuffle Along (2016) The Prom (2018)

Making her way over to Hollywood in the ‘70s, she has left an indelible and lasting visual impact on the arts through films like: Klute (1971) The Goodbye Girl (1977) Hair (1979) 9 to 5 (1980) Silkwood (1983) Postcards from the Edge (1990) The Birdcage (1996) The Hours (2002) Mamma Mia! (2008) Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020)

It’s clear from this branching 'tree' to see how far the impact of just one woman passing on her time and knowledge to others who are starting out can spread.

This art of acting as a conduit for valuable insights was something Irene Sharaff had learned from her own mentor and predecessor, Aline Bernstein. Aline was viewed as “the first woman in the [US] to gain prominence in the male-dominated field of set and costume design,” and was too a strong proponent of passing on the unique knowledge she had acquired as a pioneer and forerunner in the field. 

Born in 1880, Bernstein is recognised as “one of the first theatrical designers in New York to make sets and costumes entirely from scratch and craft moving sets” while Broadway was still very much in its infancy of taking shape as the world we know today. This she did for more than one hundred shows over decades of her work in the theatre. These shows included the spectacular Grand Street Follies (1924-27), and original premier productions of plays like some of the following: Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1928) J.M Barrie’s Peter Pan (1928) Grand Hotel (1930) Phillip Barry’s Animal Kingdom (1932) Chekov’s The Seagull (1937) Both Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour (1934) and The Little Foxes (1939)

Beyond direct design work, Bernstein founded what was to become the Neighbourhood Playhouse (the notable New York acting school) and was influential in the “Little Theatre movement that sprung up across America in 1910”. These were the “forerunners of the non-profit theatres we see today” and she continued to work in this realm even after moving into commercial theatre.

Bernstein also established the Museum of Costume Art, which later became the Costume Institute of the Met Museum of Art, where she served as president from 1944 to her death in 1955. This is what the Met Gala raises money for every year. So for long as you have the world’s biggest celebrities parading up and down red carpets in high fashion pieces, you have Aline Bernstein to remember – as none of that would be happening without her.

During the last fifteen years of her life, Bernstein taught and served as a consultant in theatre programs at academic institutions including Yale, Harvard, and Vassar – keen to connect the community and facilitate an exchange of wisdom and information to new descendants and the next generation.

Many designers came somewhere out of this linear descendancy. One notable exception, with no American mentor, was Theoni V. Aldredge. Born in 1922 and trained in Greece, Theoni emigrated to the US, met her husband, Tom Aldredge – himself of Into the Woods and theatre notoriety – and went on to design more than 100 Broadway shows. For her work, she earned 3 Tony wins from 11 nominations from projects such as: Anyone Can Whistle (1964) A Chorus Line (1975) Annie (1977) Barnum (1980) 42nd Street (1980) Woman of the Year (1981) Dreamgirls (1981) La Cage aux Folles (1983) The Rink (1984)

One of the main features that typify Theoni’s design style and could be attributed to a certain unique and distinctive “European flair” is her strong use of vibrant colour. This is a sentiment instantly apparent in looking longitudinally at some of her work.

In Ann Hould-Ward’s words, Theoni speaks to the “great generosity” of this profession. Theoni went out of her way to call Ann apropos of nothing early in the morning at some unknown hotel just after Ann won her first Tony for Beauty and the Beast in 1994, purring “Dahhling, I told you so!” These were women that had their disagreements, yes, but ultimately shared their knowledge and congratulated each other for their successes.

Similar anecdotal goodwill can be found in Pat Zipprodt’s call to Ann on the night of the 1987 Tony’s – where Ann was nominated for Into the Woods – with Pat singing “Have wonderful night! You’re not gonna win! …[laugh] but I love you anyway!”

This well-wishing phone call is all the more poignant considering Pat was originally involved with doing the costumes for Into the Woods, in reprise of their previous collaboration on Sunday in the Park with George.

If, for example, Theoni instinctively is remembered for bright colour, one of the features that Pat is first remembered for is her dedicated approach to research for her designs. Indeed, the New York Public Library archives document how the remaining physical evidence of this research she conducted is “particularly thorough” in the section on Into the Woods. Before the show finally hit Broadway in 1987 with Ann Hould-Ward’s designs, records show Pat had done extensive investigation herself into materials, ideas and prospective creations all through 1986.

Both Ann and Pat worked on the show out of town in try-outs at the Old Globe theatre in San Diego. But when it came to negotiating Broadway contracts, the situation became “tricky” and later “untenable” with Pat and the producers. Ann was “allowed to step in and design” the show alone instead.

The lack of harboured resentment on Patricia’s behalf speaks to her character and the pair’s relationship, such that Ann still considered her “my dear and beloved friend” for over 25 years, and was “at [Pat’s] bed when she died”.

Though they parted ways ultimately for Into the Woods, you can very much feel a continuation between their work on Sunday in the Park with George a few years previously, especially considering how tactile the designs appear in both shows. This tactility is something the shows’ book writer and director, James Lapine, was specific about. Lapine would remark in his initial ideas and inspirations that he wanted a graphic quality to the costumes on this occasion, like “so many sketches of the fairy-tales do”.

Ann fed that sentiment through her final creations, with a wide variety of materials and textures being used across the whole show – like “ribbons with ribbons seamed through them”, “all sorts of applique”, “frothy organzas and rembriodered organzas”. A specific example documents how Joanna Gleason’s shawl as the Baker’s Wife was pieced together, cut apart, and put back together again before resembling its final form.

This highly involved principle demonstrates another manner of inventive design that uses a different method but maintains the aim of particularity as discussed previously with Patricia and Irene’s complex dyeing and re-dyeing process. Pushing the confines of what is possible with the materials at hand to create a variety of colours, shades, and textures ultimately produces visual entities that are complex to look at. Confusing the eye like this “holds attention longer”, Ann maintains, which makes viewers look more intricately at individual segments of the production, and enables the costume design to guide specific focus by not immediately ceding attention elsewhere.

Understanding the methods behind the resultant impacts of a show can be as, if not more, important and interesting than the final product of the show itself sometimes. A phone call Ann had last August with James Lapine reminds us this is a notion we may be treated more to in the imminent future, when he called to enquire as to the location of some design sketches for the book he is working on (Putting It Together: How Stephen Sondheim and I Created 'Sunday in the Park with George') to document more thoroughly the genesis of the pair’s landmark and beloved musical.

In continuation of the notion that origin stories contain their own intrinsic value beyond any final product, Ann first became Pat’s intern through a heart-warming and tenacious tale. Ann sent letters to three notable designers when finishing graduate school. Only Patricia Zipprodt replied, with a message to say she “didn’t have anything now but let me think about it and maybe in the future.” It got to the future, and Ann took the encouragement of her previous response to try and contact Pat again. Upon being told she was out of town with a show, Ann proceeded to chase Pat through various phone books and telephone wires across different states and theatres until she finally found her. She was bolstered by the specifics of their call and ran off the phone to write an imploring note – hinging on the premise of a shared connection to Montana. She took an arrow, stabbed it through a cowboy hat, put it in a box with the note that was written on raw hide, and mailed it to New York with bated breath and all of her hopes and wishes.

Pat was knife-edgingly close to missing the box, through a matter of circumstance and timing. Importantly, she didn’t. Ann got a response, and it boded well: “Alright alright alright! You can come to New York!”

Subsequently, Ann’s long career in the design world of the theatre has included notable credits such as: Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Into the Woods (1987, 1997) Falsettos (1992) Beauty and the Beast (1994, 1997) Little Me (1998) Company (2006) Road Show (2008) The People in the Picture (2011) Merrily We Roll Along (1985, 1990, 2012, segment in Six by Sondheim 2013) Passion (2013) The Visit (2015) The Color Purple (2015) The Prince of Egypt (2021)

From early days in the city sleeping on a piece of foam on a friend’s floor, to working collaboratively alongside Pat, to using what she’d learnt from her mentor in designing whole shows herself, and going on to win prestigious awards for her work – the cycle of the theatre and the importance of handing down wisdom from those who possess it is never more evident.

As Ann summarises it meaningfully, “the theatre is a continuing, changing, evolving, emotional ball”. It’s raw, it’s alive, it needs people, it needs stories, it needs documentation of history to remember all that came before.

In periods where there can physically be no new theatre, it’s made ever the more clear for the need not to forget what value there is in the tales to be told from the past.

Through this retrospective, we’ve seen the tour de force influence of a relatively small handful of women shaping a relatively large portion of the visual scape of some of Broadway’s brightest moments.

But it’s significant to consider how disproportionate this female impact was, in contrast with how massively male dominated the rest of the creative theatre industry has been across the last century.

Assessing variations in attitudes and approaches to relationships and families in these women in the context of their professional careers over this time period presents interesting observations. And indeed, manners in which things have changed over the past hundred years.

As Ann Hould-Ward speaks of her experiences, one of her reflections is how much this was a “very male dominated world”. And one that didn’t accommodate for women with families who also wanted careers. As an intern, she didn’t even feel she could tell Patricia Zipprodt about the existence of her own young child until after 6 months of working with her. With all of these male figures around them, it would be often questioned “How are you going to do the work? How are you going to manage [with a family]?”, and that it was “harder to convince people that you were going to be able to do out-of-towns, to be able to go places.” Simply put, the industry “didn't have many designers who were married with children.”

Patricia herself in the previous generation demonstrates this restricting ethos. “In 1993, Zipprodt married a man whose proposal she had refused some 43 years earlier.” She had just newly graduated college and “she declined [his proposal] and instead moved to New York.” Faced with the family or career conundrum, she chose the latter. By the 1950s, it then wasn’t seen as uncommon to have both, it was seen as impossible.

Her husband died just five years after the pair were married in 1998, as did Patricia herself the following year. One has to wonder if alternative decisions would’ve been made and lives lived differently if she’d experienced a different context for working women in her younger life.

But occupying any space in the theatre at all was only possible because of the efforts of and strides made by women in previous generations.

When Aline Bernstein first started designing for Broadway theatre in 1916, women couldn’t even vote. She became the first female member of the United Scenic Artists of America union in 1926, but only because she was sworn in under the false and male moniker of brother Bernstein. In fact, biographies often centralise on her involvement in a “passionate” extramarital love affair with novelist Thomas Wolfe – disproportionately so for all of her remarkable contributions to the theatrical, charitable and academic worlds, and instead having her life defined through her interactions with men.

As such, it is apparent how any significant interactions with men often had direct implications over a woman’s career, especially in this earlier half of the century. Only in their absence was there comparative capacity to flourish professionally.

Irene Sharaff had no notable relationships with men. She did however have a significant partnership with Chinese-American painter and writer Mai-mai Sze from “the mid-1930s until her death”. Though this was not (nor could not be) publicly recognised or documented at the time, later by close acquaintances the pair would be described as a “devoted couple”, “inseparable”, and as holding “love and admiration for one another [that] was apparent to everyone who knew them.” This manner of relationship for Irene in the context of her career can be theorised as having allowed her the capacity to “reach a level of professional success that would have been unthinkable for most straight women of [her] generation”.

Moving forwards in time, Irene and Mai-mai presently rest where their ashes are buried under “two halves of the same rock” at the entrance to the Music and Meditation Pavilion at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge, which was “built following a donation by Sharaff and Sze”. I postulate that this site would make for an interesting slice of history and a perhaps more thought-provoking deviation for tourists away from being shepherded up and down past King’s College on King’s Parade as more usually upon a visit to Cambridge.

In this more modern society at the other end of this linear tree of remarkable designers, options for women to be more open and in control of their personal and professional lives have increased somewhat.

Ann Hould-Ward later in her career would no longer “hide that [she] was a mother”, in fear of not being taken seriously. Rather, she “made a concerted effort to talk about [her] child”, saying “because at that point I had a modicum of success. And I thought it was supportive for other women that I could do this.”

If one aspect passed down between these women in history are details of the craft and knowledge accrued along the way, this statement by Ann represents an alternative facet and direction that teaching of the future can take. Namely, that by showing through example, newer generations will be able to comprehend the feasibility of occupying different options and spaces as professional women. Existing not just as designers, or wives, or mothers, or all, or one – but as people, who possess an immense talent and skill. And that it is now not just possible, but common, to be multifaceted and live the way you want to live while working.

This is not to say all of the restrictions and barriers faced by women in previous generations have been removed, but rather that as we build a larger wealth of history of women acting with autonomy and control to refer back to, things can only get easier to build upon for the future.

Who knows what Broadway and theatre in general will look like when it returns – both on the surface with respect to this facet of costume design, and also more deeply as to the inner machinations of how shows are put together and presented. The largely male environment and the need to tick corporate and commercial boxes will not have vanished. One can only hope that this long period of stasis will have foregrounded the need and, most importantly, provided the time to revaluate the ethos in which shows are often staged, and the ways in which minority groups – like women – are able to work and be successful within the theatre in all of the many shows to come. 

Notable sources:

Photographs – predominantly from the New York Public Library digital archives. IBDB – the Internet Broadway Database. Broadway Nation Podcast (Eps. #17 and #18), David Armstrong, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Behind the Curtain: Broadway’s Living Legends Podcast (Ep. #229), Robert W Schneider and Kevin David Thomas, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Sense of Occasion, Harold Prince, 2017. Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’, Ted Chapin, 2003. Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954–1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes, Stephen Sondheim, 2010. The Complete Book of 1970s Broadway Musicals, Dan Deitz, 2015. The Complete Book of 1980s Broadway Musicals, Dan Dietz, 2016. Inventory of the Patricia Zipprodt Papers and Designs at the New York Public Library, 2004 – https://www.nypl.org/sites/default/files/archivalcollections/pdf/thezippr.pdf Extravagant Crowd’s Carl Van Vecten’s Portraits of Women, Aline Bernstein – http://brbl-archive.library.yale.edu/exhibitions/cvvpw/gallery/bernstein.html Jewish Heroes & Heroines of America: 150 True Stories of American Jewish Heroism – Aline Bernstein, Seymour Brody, 1996 – https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/aline-bernstein Ann Hould-Ward Talks Original “Into the Woods” Costume Designs, 2016 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EPe77c6xzo&ab_channel=Playbill American Theatre Wing’s Working in the Theatre series, The Design Panel, 1993 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sp-aMQHf-U&t=2167s&ab_channel=AmericanTheatreWing Journal of the History of Ideas Blog, Mai-mai Sze and Irene Sharaff in Public and in Private, Erin McGuirl, 2016 – https://jhiblog.org/2016/05/16/mai-mai-sze-and-irene-sharaff-in-public-and-in-private/ Irene Sharaff’s obituary, The New York Times, Marvine Howe, 1993 – https://www.nytimes.com/1993/08/17/obituaries/irene-sharaff-designer-83-dies-costumes-won-tony-and-oscars.html Obituary: Irene Sharaff, The Independent, David Shipman, 2011 – https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-irene-sharaff-1463219.html Broadway Design Exchange – Florence Klotz – https://www.broadwaydesignexchange.com/collections/florence-klotz Obituary: Florence Klotz, The New York Times, 2006 – https://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/03/obituaries/03klotz.html

[emeralddaydream]

𝙸𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙾𝚏?

Kit x GN!Reader

Rating: General

Word Count: 2848

Warnings: None, just lots of fluff✨

Requested by Anon: Mayhaps prompt 84 (“No, Mom, don’t tell him/her I said that about him/her!”) with Kit Walker, but instead he's talking to Jude, Thomas, and Julia. Kit had been dating you for a while and he accidentally had let it slip that he loves you to his family (they all tease him about it constantly). You were planning on visiting later (so everyone could go to the park together or do some other adorable activity) and Kit just knows that someone is going to tell you, and he is trying desperately to avoid that

A/N: Okay, firstly, anon, thank you so much for your lovely message. I haven't been too kind to myself lately (workin' on it), so I really appreciate you being so understanding💜

I kind of went off the rails with this one, and it doesn't actually include the prompt sentence, and the prompt itself is a lil different, but same basic idea, I think... I really hope you like it!!

Also, Jude is healthy bc I refuse to make this angsty.

The title comes from 'I Think I Love You' by The Partridge Family, and on that note, I'm also dedicating this to one of my favorite humans. She's not really into AHS, but David Cassidy is her mans, so Sierra, this one's for you!! Thank you for always being a wonderful friend💜💕

“Jude, I need your help.”

In general, Kit Walker considers himself to be a pretty easy-going guy; usually, there isn't much that gets to him. But today’s different. There’s something that he’s simultaneously ecstatic about and dreading.

Today's the day you’ll be meeting his family for the first time.

“With?” Jude’s smirking amusedly where she sits across from him at the kitchen table sorting dish ware and arranging it carefully in the picnic basket in front of her. Kit glances at the clock on the wall and sighs; he's got just over an hour before he, Jude and the kids are supposed to meet you at the park, and he couldn’t be much more anxious about it if he tried... Not for nothing, though.

“I just wanna make sure today goes well.” He finishes wrapping the sandwich in his hand, placing it in the basket to join the plates.

“And you don’t think it will?” Jude raises an eyebrow; she may be a particularly perceptive woman, but it isn't very difficult to see that there's something Kit isn't saying.

His mind drifts for a moment to the other night, when he and Jude sat in the living room, chatting quietly after the kids had gone to sleep. She’d asked about you, and before Kit knew it, he was spilling his guts to her, finally speaking the words he’s been unable to say to you. It’d felt amazing to finally get them out... until he noticed Julia peaking around the door frame, brown eyes trained on he and Jude She scurried off, giggling quietly down the hall, and when he asked her about it the next day, it was clear to Kit that his daughter had heard the entire conversation. And it didn’t need to be said that she had told Thomas; the two of them have never kept anything from each other in their lives…

“I hope it does.” Kit replies after several moments of silence. He’s not at all concerned about whether or not you’ll get along with his family. There’s no doubt in his mind that Jude will be taken, and the kids are going to adore you. “I just need help makin’ sure they don’t say anything.” He glances toward the two small figures in the next room where they lie on the floor, markers in hand as they draw colorful pictures and fill out puzzles from the day-old newspaper Jude had provided to keep them occupied.

“About?” Jude's smirk grows into a playful grin. She’s having fun with this; a little too much, in Kit’s opinion. He scowls and she laughs quietly.

“About... y’know?”

“About how you love them?” Jude’s voice carries into the next room a bit too loudly for Kit’s liking, and his eyes go wide. He places a finger to his lips, eyes darting to the children to make sure they’re still distracted; so far, so good.

“Yes.”

“Well, when are you going to tell her? You’re not getting any younger, y’know.” Kit's unable to stop the smile that breaks across his face.

“Soon. I just… need to find the right moment.”

“There’s no such thing as the right moment, Walker," she chortles, rolling a bundle of silverware into a napkin. “But…I’ll do my best.” Kit smiles gratefully, but she shakes her head continuing. “But they’re kids. Kids'll say whatever they want to.” Knowing she's right, Kit groans, running a hand through his hair before feeling around in the pocket of his jeans for his pack of cigarettes.

He's in for an interesting day.

——

The worn wood of the bench feels rough under your fingers as you tap against it anxiously. You take a quick peak to your right again, in search of the vehicle you’re waiting for. It’s a big day. In just- you glance down at your watch for the fifth time – two and a half minutes, your boyfriend is supposed to arrive with his family.

It terrifies you.

It’s not that you have any issues with kids. You love them. Becoming a parent has always been a part of the plan for you. However, you don’t have much experience with them and, this is the first time you’ve ever been with someone with children of their own. It’s... intimidating.

Kit, however, has been nothing but reassuring. A small smile crosses your face, thinking of the last thing he’d said to you when he'd called last night. Don’t worry, babe. They’re gonna love you.

God, you hope he’s right.

Kit’s told you so much about his kids over the last several months the two of you have been together, and you can tell by the warmth in his voice, by the way his eyes light up when he tells you something funny one of them did, that they are his world. As they should be. You wouldn’t want it any other way.

There's absolutely no doubt in your mind that you've fallen head over heels for this man... That’s what's so frightening; you don’t want to screw anything up. For anyone's sake.

You’re in the middle of reciting some of the things Kit had told you about the kids- ‘Julia’s really into football right now, a little chatterbox, and Thomas loves readin’, but he’s pretty shy’- when you hear tires making their way along the narrow dirt road. Turning your head again, your stomach flips when you see the familiar station wagon- much fuller with people than normal- pull into the small parking lot. You smile, raising your hand in a wave when Kit sees you, and swallow hard.

The driver’s door quickly opens, and Kit makes his way over, basket in hand. The passenger, Jude, stays behind to help the kids out of their seats.

“Hey, you.” Kit murmurs, a smile on his face as he leans down to press a tender kiss to your cheek.

“Hi.” With a shaky breath, you take your bottom lip between your teeth when he pulls back. With a sympathetic smile, Kit takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“They’re gonna love you,” he reminds, and you huff a laugh. Julia begins speaking excitedly as she hops out of the car; you can’t make out what she’s saying, but she sounds enthusiastic, so you’re taking that as a good sign.

“If you say so.” You grip his hand more tightly and he chuckles as the two of you make your way toward the sound of the animated voice.

Now or never.

“Y/N!” You jump at the sound, completely taken off guard- even more so when something barrels into you, wrapping around your waist. You look down to see the small girl- the one that you recognize from the many pictures Kit has shown you -beaming up at you. Kit laughs, scooping her up into his arms as Jude moves to stand in front of the three of you. Thomas hangs onto her hand, hiding behind her dress.

“Y/N, this is Jude, Thomas, and you’ve already met Julia.” He shakes his head, tickling his daughter’s ribs until she’s leaning into him, in a fit of giggles.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you all,” you say, hoping the smile on your face doesn’t come across as uneasy.

“We could say the same to you. This one,”- she gestures to Kit- “is talking about you constantly.” You smile widely at this, eyes moving to Kit to find his cheeks turning rosy.

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh!” Julia chimes in, Thomas slowly nodding his agreement.

“Oh, you.” You nudge Kit’s arm gently, and his eyes shift quickly back and forth between the children. Jude lets out a trill of laughter then, taking Julia’s hand in hers.

“Why don’t we find somewhere to sit? I’m sure we’re all getting hungry.” The kids agree enthusiastically, taking off in a sprint toward a nearby gazebo where several tables sit. “Hey, slow it down, you two!” Jude calls, following them.

You turn to Kit, who brings your hand to his lips, placing a kiss there; there’s something about his expression that you can’t quite place, but he seems happy, so you’re happy. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, letting your hands fall and dangle together as the two of you slowly make your way to the table where the children sit, awaiting their lunch. Julia laughs beckoning the two of you over, and there’s a shy little smile on Thomas’ face. Your nerves are slowly fading, and you let out a breathy sigh, smiling up at him.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

--

The meal is fantastic, and by the time you’re wiping your mouth on your napkin and placing it down on the empty plate in front of you, you can hardly remember why you were so panicky about this meeting in the first place. The food is delicious, Jude accepting your compliments on her potato salad graciously. The two of to you discuss your job, her asking about the intricacies of what you do. Not in a prying way, though; she seems genuinely interested.

It’s not long before the kids take to you, either. Julia already has, it seems, as she insists on sitting across from you while you eat. She tells lots of stories; everything from the science project she and Kit have been working on for school, to the time that Jude took her and Thomas to the zoo.; you find out that hippos are her favorite animal. “Isn’t it so cute when they wiggle their ears??” she asks.

Thomas takes a bit more coaxing, but not much; not when you decide to ask him what his favorite book is. His eyes light up and he brings up several, speaking excitedly about a chapter from the one he's currently in the middle of.

“Daddy, can we play now?” Julia asks, setting her fork down; she bounces around like she’s ready to jump out of her seat, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Sure,” Kit chuckles, placing his empty glass of iced tea on the table. I’m just gonna use the bathroom real quick, but go onnahead.” He stands, patting your shoulder. Shooting what he hopes is a discreet glance Jude's way, he moves toward the small bathroom stalls a few yards away.

Jude laughs, a soft smile on her face, watching as Julia moves to cling to your arm. “Alright, Thomas, it. looks like it’s you and me. What do you wanna do first?” She takes the small boy’s hand, and he leads them in the direction of the sandbox.

Julia glances around, and when she sees that everyone’s out of earshot, she leans into you, bringing a hand to her mouth to ask, “Y/N, can I tell you a secret?”

Her over-exaggerated whisper and enthusiasm make you giggle, and you nod. “Sure.”

She climbs into the seat beside you, leaning in closer to speak into your ear. “My daddy loves you.”

You’re quiet for several seconds, having absolutely no idea how to respond. You look down at her, eventually stuttering out, “O-oh… really? How do you know that?” You're half expecting a nonsensical answer, but when she opens her mouth, the young girl is serious.

“I heard him and Nana talking about it the a couple'a nights ago when I got out of bed for a drink of water.” She grins up at you. “…But I can just tell.”

“H-how can you tell?”

She shrugs. "He smiles when he talks about you." Her answer is so simple, so pure, and it holds so much meaning; you're sure there's a dopey grin growing on your face right now.

“Well, your dad’s pretty great. And I think you’re pretty great, Julia.” Her smile grows impossibly wider as she wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you into a tight hug. You hold her tiny frame and are on cloud nine when you spot Kit closing the door to the restroom behind him; when he sees the two of you still sitting there, he makes his way over.

Kit chuckles to himself, overcome with joy when he walks out of the bathroom to see you holding Julia in an embrace, smiles on both of your faces. He walks slowly toward you, silently praying that his daughter hasn’t said anything she shouldn’t have. So much for Jude’s help… Should'a known better. He glances at his friend, sitting on the edge of the sandbox with his son. Jude looks up, smirking, and he rolls his eyes at her.

Nevertheless, he’s decided. It has to be now.

“What’re you two doin’ over here?” He places a warm hand on your arm as he stands behind you, appraising his daughter. “Jules, I thought you wanted to play? You’ve been sayin’ how excited you were for the jungle gym all week.” Julia’s small legs swing back and forth as she watches her father, with a shrug.

“I wanted to talk to Y/N first.”

“Well, we can keep talking while we play, then,” you decide, standing quickly, but Kit grabs your hand, stilling you.

“Actually, I wanna talk to you about somethin’ real quick.” His voice is low in your ear, and he watches his daughter tensely.

“Oh, o-okay.” Your eyes move to Julia and you smile. “Why don’t you go down the slide a few times, and I’ll be over there in a minute?”

“Okay!” The little girl jumps from her spot, sprinting toward concrete of the playground.

“Be careful!” Kit shouts after her. With a chuckle, he takes his previous seat and pats the one beside him. You smile happily, leaning your head on his shoulder when you move next to him.

“They’re really great, Kit. All of them.”

Kit smiles proudly, watching as Jude helps Thomas make some sort of sculpture in the sand. “They are,” he agrees with a nod. “Jude likes you. The kids really like you.”

“I’m so glad.” You sigh in relief, turning to meet his gaze. “I was so worried they’d all hate me.”

“How could they?” he asks, leaning in to place a sweet peck to your lips. You smile against his mouth, your own tingling as he pulls back. You can’t help but glimpse toward playground to see if the kids have noticed. They’re still preoccupied, but Jude’s noticed; she sends you a wink and your cheeks grow warm. Seeing the exchange, Kit scowls playfully, waving a hand at her. She laughs, turning back to the sandy masterpiece Thomas is working diligently on.

“So,” Kit begins... Deep breath. “There’s somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you about.”

“Okay.” Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. “What’s up?” …Could it be?

“It’s something I’ve wanted to say for a while, actually. He’s looking at his hands as he says this, biting down on his bottom lip when his gaze finally meets yours. “I haven’t felt this way about anyone in… a long time. Not since...” He trails off, but you know he’s thinking of the kid’s mothers, so you nod in understanding. “Honestly it’s a little scary, but I think I- I mean, I know I-“ He cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath, shaking his head slowly. “Christ. I dunno why this is so hard, I just…” He sighs deeply.

“…Kit?”

“Yeah?”

“…I love you, too.”

“You… you love m- wait, what?” His eyes grow wide, and he groans after a moment, knowing exactly who the culprit is. “Julia told you?” You can't help but laugh quietly, nodding your confirmation. “I shoulda known. My little blabbermouth.” A wistful smile grows on his face, and the amount of adoration you feel for this man in this moment is staggering.

“So… it’s true, then?” you ask, taking one of his hands in both of yours.

He nods, smiling as he leans in to press his forehead to yours. “I love you, Y/N. I do.” His voice is hardly above a whisper, but it feels like a shout; a declaration. Your returning smile is bright, certainly one of the best Kit’s ever seen- one he’s sure he’ll remember for the rest of his life -and when you wrap your arms around his neck, his own widens further, the muscles in his face beginning to ache, but he couldn't care less.

“I love you, Kit Walker. So much.” You move in for a kiss of your own; it’s short, but full of more meaning than any you’ve ever had.

Pulling back, you pat his knee gently. You stand from your seat, offering a hand out to him. “C’mon. Earlier, I promised Julia I’d watch her on the monkey bars.” Kit laughs, taking your hand and slinging an arm around your waist once he’s standing. You make your way to where the girl is currently whizzing down the largest slide in the park, squealing with laughter. Glancing at the sandbox, you see Jude eyeing you, a knowing smirk on her face; you blush, but smile back.

Right here, right now, moving toward the laughter of Kit’s loving family, there isn’t a sliver of doubt in your mind that this is meant to be.

This is where you belong.

taglist: @therenlover, @tatestripedsweater, @kitwalker02, @ladyfogg, @mossybank, @undeadcortez, @sallyscigarettes, @xmaximoffic, @samsassinparvismagna, @liandav, @kitwalkerangel, @elaineygrace, @milly-louise @americxn (please feel free to fill out this form to be added/removed for future fics)

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (3/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 9K and change, but also stuff happens AN: I cannot tell you guys how much I appreciate you continuing to appreciate this story. It’s exceptionally nice, and I think you’re wonderful. Here’s a whole slew of feelings and tradition and magic. Like, lots of magic. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

This is a problem. 

Multiple problems, honestly. Like, at least seven different problems that Emma can think of off the top of her head, and obviously the most pressing is getting back to the right part of her timeline, but only marginally less distressing is the overall domesticity of her life at this point of her timeline. 

It’s more than the pillows. Of which there are just an absolutely ridiculous amount, actually. They hover in couch corners and fall to the floor with alarming regularity because, between the two of them, Hope and Lucy are something akin to forces of nature, hopped up on Christmas-type sugar and the cookies that people apparently just hand out on the street in Storybrooke. Someone’s always got some sort of baked good, freshly out of the oven — and while Emma’s discovered she’s particularly partial to Granny’s snickerdoodles, she can’t imagine any of this is very efficient. 

For Storybrooke’s economy, or whatever. 

There’s no bank. Emma looked. And asked. Several dwarfs, actually. All of whom immediately bowed and narrowed their eyes at her like she’d totally lost her mind, which seems pretty accurate at this point. Five days after waking up on that couch, with all of its pillows and questionable comfort, and only a handful of people actually know what’s going on. 

Not Hope. 

And no one actually told her to do that, but Emma figures it’s kind of like deciding to take her boots off in the house. Polite. Plus, a growing determination not to traumatize a ridiculously cute four-year-old, even when that four-year-old appears to be far more adept at stealing cookies than anything else. 

Crumbs line the counter in the morning, and there’s usually a bit of evidence directly outside Hope’s bedroom door, signs of a late-night theft that shouldn’t make Emma smile. She does anyway. Can’t seem to stop it, which might be problem number four. Three is definitely Killian’s consistent lack of jacket, which admittedly is a very surface problem, but the button-up shirts are all ridiculously patterned, and trying not to ask who initially took him shopping is like, problem, three sub-a. 

So, no one tells Hope that her mom isn’t her mom. Technically speaking, at least. They go through the motions, and Emma smiles when she’s supposed to, and she eats what is undoubtedly the world record for snickerdoodle consumption by a wayward princess, but trying to be herself, while also not being herself continues to be a rather daunting prospect. 

Particularly because whomever Regina believed would know more about Neverland vegetation and its ability to ruin everything is taking their sweet time responding or showing up in Storybrooke, and they’ve tried what feels like several thousand things to get Emma back, but magic beans were a no-go, and some very fancy wand didn’t do anything except infuriate Regina with it uselessness, and it’s still Christmas, so there are apparently a metric shit ton of traditions and expectations, and—

“Wait, what?” Emma asks, perched on the edge of her desk in the station because that’s at least something she’s used to. Less so to Killian’s presence at the only other desk, and she doesn’t remember the only other desk being quite so close to her’s, but it’s entirely possible that’s a trick of her not-quite coherent mind. 

Might be problem six. Maybe seven. Making it six gives it power, and acknowledges how much the state of his tongue continues to affect her cognitive abilities. Of which there were already very few, especially while she was exhausted in Neverland, and Emma’s not willing to risk anymore. 

“It’s something of a requirement,” Killian says, not for the first time. Princesses have a ridiculous number of requirements, Emma’s rather quickly learned. And he can’t seem to sit straight in any chair. Also ridiculous. 

“Does that not hurt your spine?”

Shrugging, he smirks at her and that’s been happening more often. Not that she’s keeping track, or anything. She’s just—aware, that’s totally the right word. Of him, and what he does with his face and his patterned shirts, and there’s been no bare arm again, but Emma’s still not really his wife, and she knows the hours he’s spent holed up in one of the copious rooms in their quasi-mansion have been dedicated to research. 

And getting his wife back. 

That’s fine. It’s fine. Definitely not a problem. Hasn’t even crossed her mind. 

Emma doesn’t want him to want her. Like, ever. 

And they’re waiting for her dad, anyway. To report back on some magical failing in Wonderland. Seriously, everything is so fine that it's almost a problem as well. It’s too fine. Everything is—

Great. 

“Are you concerned about the state of my spine, darling?”

Melting is not an option — so far as Emma is aware of, but it’s certainly very appealing in the moment. When that moment includes tilted lips and an angled neck seemingly designed to ensure Killian’s hair falls artfully across his forehead, as if the strands are there to frame his eyes and the hint of light in them. 

She takes a deep breath. 

The light brightens. Or she imagines. 

“A tree lighting, though,” Emma says, not-so-subtly changing the subject. Killian’s brows jump. Up his forehead and past those strands of hair she’s only passably obsessed with. “Isn’t that kind of...I don’t know, it’s not very fairy tale.” “Regina lights the candles with magic, if that helps.” “So why do I have to be there?” “The monarchy usually stands on a platform, waves lovingly to their subjects and—” “—God, how is there more?” Emma balks, but that only gets her a more powerful smirk and eyes that are far too blue to be fair, and they still haven’t painted the dining room. She’s not going to ask about that. 

She’s not. 

“This is something of the central hub for the rest of the United Realms,” Killian explains, “and with Regina and the Charmings here, it makes sense that people...flock.” “Like birds.” “Not the ones your mother can commune with, but I suppose the metaphor is appropriate.”

“Who decided to hold Regina’s queen election?” Eyeing her speculatively, Emma does her very best not to wither under Killian’s expression. She’s not altogether confident it works, but they’ve almost come to something like an understanding, and it’s very easy. This, them. No, not them. There’s no them and while Emma’s done her fair share of staring, there can’t be a them now because that will undoubtedly fuck with the timeline and probably everything else, just to keep inspiring problematic lists, and her increasing desire to kiss him until he also has to deal with wobbly knees is just something she’s going to have to deal with. 

“Maybe I won’t remember when I get back,” Emma reasons, but that one word comes out as wobbly as her knees have been and Killian purses his lips. “Ok, fine—tell me something totally random, then. A fun-fact, as it were.” “Random.” “Do you not know what that means?” He rolls his eyes. “I know at least three more languages than you do, so—” “—No you do not!”

Nodding, Killian smiles over the edge of his coffee mug, and neither one of them mention that his proclivity to drinking a gallon of coffee every morning could probably be this so-called fun fact. “English, obviously, and—” “—Ok, I can clearly speak English,” Emma argues. She nearly bites her tongue in half at the force of Killian’s answering look, part amusement and even more heat and that only circles her back around to the melting thing. 

“Aye, but I definitely know more curses than you do, so that’s got to count for something. Also that’s simply my base language, as it were.” She sneers. He chuckles. Into the mug, but it feels like the emotion behind it sinks under Emma’s skin and times up with her pulse, less erratic than it had been those first few nights, and she’s actually started sleeping consistently. “Then of course, I’m rather familiar with Latin.” “Dead, it doesn’t count.” “Impressive, though.” “Sounds like you’re fishing for compliments, Captain.” “Unnecessary, when I know you’ll be all wide-eyed and amazed in a moment,” Killian promises, swinging his legs to prop his feet on the edge of her desk. “There’s also Greek, and—” Waving her hands, Emma doesn’t explicitly try to swat at his legs, but he’s just so goddamn close, and still exuding heat, and she’s starting to have some assumptions about that as well. Of the possibly magic and decidedly—no she’s not doing that. They’re not that. Not like this, anyway. And Killian doesn’t immediately move, but that only lulls her into a false sense of security, the metal of his hook is cold enough that she yelps when it circles both her wrists.

“Fairy,” he finishes, and Emma refuses to believe he leans forward on purpose. 

“No.” “You keep objecting to my facts and you’ll give a man a complex, Swan.” “Why would you know Greek, you’re a—” “—Fairy tale character?” 

Emma presses her lips together. So as not to make an undignified noise. She’s already whimpered enough, and cried more than she thought possible and the hitch in his voice threatens to shatter several things. Moving her hands is impossible, which is probably for the best, but all of her would very much like to cup his cheek, if only to see if he’ll kiss the inside of her wrist, and she’s like ninety-two percent positive he would. “Pirate prince,” she corrects lightly, and does get her a smile. “Do you have an official title here?” “Captain.” “That’s it?” “Not impressive enough, huh?”

There’s no music on in the station, but they’re clearly dancing all the same — around each other, and the maelstrom of feelings Emma is doing a God awful job of ignoring, and at some point one of them is going to have to pull away from the other. In more ways than one. 

“I didn’t say that,” she shakes, “and don’t bother telling me it’s another argument, I don’t care. I’m just—curious, I guess.” “About me?”

Nodding is the least dangerous response when she’s so worried about tripping over her own feet in this metaphorical waltz, but it’s one of the more accurate things she’s said since she got here, and now she’s got an excuse. No repercussions, nothing exactly permanent about these conversations, or this information, and no one’s told her whether or not she’ll retain her memories once she gets back, but they also don’t know she’ll get back so—

Fuck it, honestly. 

“Yeah,” Emma replies, not bothering to gloat when Killian’s the one whose eyes go wide first. 

“Oh.” “Is that unexpected?” “Maybe at this point.”

Humming, she files that away, preening slightly under the not-quite-compliment. “Not an answer though. Habit of yours.” “Not really, you’re just very demanding in this incarnation.” “Product of my situation, I guess.” He laughs. It’s something that happens more often here than it did when Emma knew him — knows him, whatever tenses get confusing in time travel. Still, the sound consistently manages to catch her off guard. Free and easy, and the magic that rustles in the back of her brain might deserve its own list. 

Or another conversation with Regina. “The Royal Navy,” Killian says, an answer Emma nearly forgot she wanted. Her eyes widen. He looks triumphant. “See, told you.” “Like an Enchanted Forest GI bill, huh? See new lands, learn new languages.” “Something like that, aye.” “How’d you get to fairy?” “Did you meet the Lady Bell before—” “—I got yanked out of Neverland?” Emma quips, and it might be a defense mechanism. Making jokes, but she also hasn’t gone into detail about the plant-thing yet, and that might be because she doesn’t want to freak him out. 

Anymore than he already is. He spends at least an hour in that room every night. 

“Yeah, I did,” she adds,” after she kidnapped Regina and told us Greg and Tamara were dead, which...y’know—” “—Wasn’t the worst thing in the world?” “Does that make me a horrible person?” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Are you going to tell me you learned fairy language from an actual fairy?” “Not much else to do on a hellish island for several hundred years, and it’s a rather complicated tongue. Takes some practice.” “Oh, you’re doing that on purpose now.” The speed of his grin is like molasses. Emma assumes. She’s not sure she’s ever encountered molasses in real life. Even so, the whole thing is bordering on obscene and the opposite of the Christmas spirit and—“Alright,” she concedes, “learning fairy is actually pretty impressive.” “You flatter me, love.”

“What’s your favorite fairy curse word and do you think anyone would be totally scandalized if I used it during this super fancy, exceptionally royal tree lighting?” 

Absolutely, goddamn obscene. The tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth, and his eyes��get noticeably darker, Emma’s pulse picking up until she’s sure they can hear it on the other side of town, and there’s already barely any space between them, but that appears to be decreasing with every passing second. She’s got no idea who’s moving. She might be moving. 

God, she hopes she’s moving.

Losing control of her limbs may send her off some ledge. 

And she’s just about to throw caution to the seemingly ever-present wind that comes off the harbor, because the front of this patterned shirt looks particularly yankable, but the station door creaks, and a muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps and David clicks his teeth exactly once when he walks in. 

“Interrupting something, am I?” “No, no,” Emma stammers at the same time Killian mumbles “absolutely not,” and neither of those things sound all that honest. 

She’s never gone into cardiac arrest, but if this is what it feels like, it’s kind of disorienting. 

“You hear about the tree lighting, Emma?” David asks, and that’s obviously where her inability to tactfully alter the course of a conversation comes from. Killian rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, slumping back into his chair. 

Exhaling feels like an admission of guilt, but Emma can’t have anything to feel guilty about here, and she hopes Killian’s getting sleep. On the couch. He keeps sleeping on the couch. 

Of course he does. 

“Do I have to wear a gown or anything?” “It’s outside,” David says, “there are trees involved.”

Killian’s hook pokes at his chair arm. “Only one tree, as far as I knew.” “Why are you like this?” “You’re charmed by it, I know,” he chuckles, eyes flashing towards Emma. Coincidence, she’s sure. Her cheeks are very warm. 

She’s very warm. Passably magical, maybe. 

David sighs. “No, there are no gowns. It is in fact only one tree, and Em—you don’t have to say anything. Regina will thank people for coming, Snow will open up the meal and that’ll be that.” “Should I know what the meal is?” Emma asks, and her gaze doesn’t automatically drift towards Killian either. It just, sort of—meanders there, naturally. His tongue is still doing that thing. 

“I was going to get to that part eventually.” “There’s kind of a reception,” David explains, “with cookies.” “Shit, how many cookies can one United Realm eat?” “An exceptional amount,” Killian mutters, and Emma might guffaw. While realizing why her other version had been baking so much before. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” David adds, “just show up and smile, and you’ll get some cookies out of it.” “Will I not get cookies if I don’t smile?” Not able to stop whatever noise rumbles out of him, the force of Killian’s grin makes Emma glad she’s sitting down again. “I’ll swipe you some if you don’t.” “Very gallant.” “Happens from time to time.” Flirting in front of her father is wrong. That’s if this counts as flirting. As far as Emma knows, most of their banter has been a product of their mutually ridiculous lives, and whatever situation they’ve found themselves in at the moment, but this moment doesn’t hold any danger and it is so goddamn easy. 

She smiles. 

Killian beams. 

David sighs again. “Anyone want to hear about Wonderland now? Or how the White Rabbit can’t draw any portals? Or—” “—This is a really extensive list,” Emma grumbles, and Killian’s smile is going to get stuck on his face. Permanently. She’s very charmed by the crinkles around his eyes. 

“Tinker Bell is here.” Slamming his feet back onto the floor, Killian practically snaps to attention, and Emma’s body goes through another reaction she does not expect. What feels suspiciously like jealousy rattles down her spine, rooting her to the spot and drying out her mouth and David’s far too observant. 

He clicks his teeth again. “When?” Killian asks, already standing and offering Emma his hand. She takes it, not thinking about what that means — or how it affects the half-green tint clouding her vision, and her heart misses a beat. As soon as his fingers lace through hers. 

“Just now. Went to Regina’s, but I had to come here, so one of Snow’s birds told me.” “You can talk to the birds too?” Emma balks, stumbling while Killian all but yanks her towards the door. 

“No, no, they carry messages now.” “Ah of course.” “Did Tink say anything yet?” Killian demands, David already shaking his head and they’re picking up speed. All but jogging down Main Street and towards Regina’s office, and the nickname probably isn’t important. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be good. 

Even when the fairy in question snaps towards the office door as it swings open, practically lighting up when she notices Killian and Regina’s eyes go noticeably thin. Staring at Emma like she’s trying to read her mind. 

Her fingers are still tied up with Killian’s. “Hook,” Tinker Bell exclaims, and she doesn’t have any visible wings so she can’t fly out of her chair. She tries all the same, arms that bump Emma as they hug her not-quite husband and he mutters a greeting. It takes a moment for Tinker Bell’s gaze to find Emma, trying and failing to keep her expression even, and Killian might chuckle. 

She kicks his ankle. 

“Emma,” Tink breathes, “it’s good to see you again, you have to get the hell out of this timeline.”

“So, that’s it,” Tinker Bell finishes, shrugging like Emma’s not dangerously close to fully breaking down and Killian’s thumb keeps tapping the side of her palm. Because he’s still holding her hand. Cool, it’s cool. She’s not totally preoccupied with that. 

Regina’s totally staring, anyway. 

“Will-o-wisps,” Killian says, “I thought that was a rumor.” More shrugging. There’s too much shrugging for Emma. “I’ve never heard of it in practice,” Tinker Bell reasons, “but can you think of another plant in Neverland that could do such a thing? That rumor you’re talking about always mentioned how it would draw a traveler in, bewitch them with lights and—were there lights, Emma?”

She nods. Swallows, or tries at least. But her tongue is expanding again, and her heart might be shrinking, and the whole thing feels like a very cruel trick. 

“Pan would have known about all of that,” Tinker Bell continues, “and used it to his advantage. If he could get Emma to follow the light, then she wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” “But I didn’t actually move anywhere,” Emma argues. “There was no following the light.” Regina exhales. “Probably more metaphorical, giving into what the light offered.” “Which was?” “This, obviously. What we talked about, and what you thought you couldn’t ever have while you were stuck in Neverland, convinced of a whole slew of wholly negative things. So, there was no walking, but—” “—I wouldn’t have just run away!” 

Voice cracking is a sign of impending mental breakdown, Emma’s sure. As are Killian’s tightening fingers, although she’s starting to depend on those fingers just a bit because sitting hadn’t even crossed her mind before and now that might be the only reason she’s still standing.

That keeps happening. 

“Doesn’t sound like you had a choice,” Regina says, “if Pan wanted to tempt you, will-o-wisps seem like the perfect way to do it. See the light, get pulled into this future, he gets Henry, and everything he wants.” “But Henry is here. He’s—he’s a grown man, with a kid and—” “—None of that is set in stone,” Tinker Bell interrupts, magic roaring in Emma’s ears. Killian’s going to cut off the circulation to her hand. “With you out of the way, Pan’s got a straight shot at the heart of the truest believer, he can change what you would have eventually done. Make sure he gets the magic that’ll save Neverland. That’s why everything else is falling apart.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Magic,” David clarifies. “All of it acting strangely? Turns out that is because of you, kid.” Scoffing makes her lean forward awkwardly, but Killian doesn’t mention the strain it’s undoubtedly putting on his arm, and letting go of her hand is disappointing for about two seconds. Before it turns into his arm around waist. 

Regina’s expression turns calculating. 

“Again,” she says, “it’s what we talked about. Things falling apart because you got pulled off the board. Into this exceedingly tempting place.”

Widening her eyes at the unspoken judgement doesn’t do anything to alter Regina’s face, but Emma didn’t really expect it to and her eyes hurt. From not crying. She can’t possibly cry anymore. “I’ve never been to Wonderland, though. How could I fuck up its magic?” “You’ve been other places, love,” Killian murmurs, “and all of that has ripple effects. Savior saves one place, and other realms reap the benefits.” “Is Neverland in the United Realms?” “No.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” he echoes, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “What do we do now, Your Majesty?”

Taking a deep breath, Regina lets it out almost immediately — staring at limbs and their out-of-place placement for a moment, before glancing at Tinker Bell. Who shrugs, again. Emma’s going to scream. Before she cries. Maybe then all the emotions will balance out. “We figure out a way to get Emma back to the right place, so she can save Henry and defeat Pan, then we hope that things haven’t been altered so much in the past that this version of the future crumbles entirely.” “What was that about no pressure before?” Emma huffs, David laughing under his breath and the feel of something on her hair is absolutely not Killian’s lips. “And honesty, what options do we have left? As far as time travel goes.” “Eh, we're far from exhausted on possibilities,” Regina says. “Just need to get creative.” Tinker Bell’s gasp is very loud. “Have you tried—” “—No,” Killian cuts in, sharper than anything else he’s said. “That’s not going to work.” “But you haven’t tried.” “Because it’s not an option.” “Oh, that’s very negative.” He hums, and Emma waits for the rest of the conversation. Another verbal volley, but it doesn’t come and Tinker Bell looks very disappointed. She’s got another migraine. “How long do you think we have until this future just—disintegrates?” Emma asks. 

She counts to twenty-four before anyone replies. “Maybe a couple days,” Regina replies, “a week at most.” “So—Christmas, then?” “I bet he didn’t plan that on purpose, just one of those crazy happenstances.” “Yuh huh.” “Try and sound more convincing next time, that one sucked a bit.”

Hearing the so-called queen of these supposed United Realms utter the word sucked without a hint of irony is not what Emma expects to be the straw that breaks her back, but it is and her back hurts, and all of her aches, and saving people is her gig. She’s got to figure out a way to do that. No matter what. 

She can’t do that while standing here. With three matching looks of concern, and one of absolute and total fear boring into the side of her head, and Emma’s also very good at running.

That would suggest she’s got control over her limbs, though. Stumbling down the stairs, she makes it about three-quarters of the way down before the whole thing is too challenging and her lungs appear to be disappearing, or possibly melting, and something in her spine cracks when she falls forward. 

Hair brushes Emma’s knees, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs and the volume of her breathing and the hand that lands on hers doesn’t surprise her as much as it should. “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Killian instructs, only for Emma to flat out fail at that too. 

Becoming a very frustrating theme. “Why are you so worried about my oxygen intake?” “It concerns me that you’re not, actually.”

Letting out a breath she definitely could have used, Emma’s head lolls. Towards his shoulder and the very solid nature of him, and he doesn’t try to roll her off. Just shifts his arm so it’s back around her waist and that does make it a bit easier to keep her lungs functioning. 

“Was it all of reality collapsing, or Regina using that particular word?”

Emma groans. “Mind reading’s kind of a violation of privacy.” “Invoking my pirate excuse.” “That’s not a thing.” “Eh,” he says, and she hears the smile. That’s...nice. “Having no regard for laws is something of a requirement for piracy.” “This is not working as well as you think it is.” “I respectfully disagree. We’re going to fix this, you know that, right?” “I can’t imagine how.” “Sheer stubbornness hardwired into your personality.” Laughing hurts her very tight and anxiety-riddled chest, but Emma can’t help herself and she’d been right about the smile. Magic flutters under her skin, a steady pulse that’s slightly different than her normal pulse because it’s also more consistent and Killian’s nose is close enough to brush her cheek. If he wanted. 

She wonders if he does. She’d like him to. 

But that’s another problem, and more danger than anything Neverland could offer, and—“Fuck Peter Pan, honestly,” Emma proclaims, Killian’s response warm on her skin because it also includes a sound drifting close to a guffaw and she supposes his mouth is as close as his nose. What with the general structure of faces, and all. 

He kisses her cheek. 

Quick — barely there, really. Over before it has a chance to register, but Emma’s certain she’s been catapulted into the stratosphere, and he blinks almost hyperactively at her. She’s right about the palm thing too. 

He turns into her hand as soon as it finds his cheek. 

“Apologies,” Killian mumbles, retreating back into formalities and behind walls Emma had been clinging to only a few days before. Now they’re just kind of annoying. “Force of habit.”

“Was it the fuck Peter Pan that got you?” “You’ve always been something of a wordsmith.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma smiles. “Can I—can I ask you a question?” “No need to preface it, darling.” That’s something like the eighth time that’s happened. In the last two days. Second in the last hour or so. Emma’s not counting that either. “Do you remember this?” “Currently?” “Don’t be an ass,” she snarks, but his hook is around her wrists before she can even try to lift her hands. “The will-o-wisp attack. I—well, it was my turn to watch and I was kind of wallowing because of everything that had happened, and—” Telling him she wanted to kiss him then and now and possibly for the rest of time is also very appealing. And terrifying. Emma bites her tongue. Coward. 

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t.” “Is that weird?” “Decidedly.” “So, then—wait, I’ve got another question.” He lifts his eyebrows. Smirks. Has the absolute cheek to lift his thumb and brush tears away from her skin, and Emma resolutely refuses to acknowledge the shiver that goes through her at that. “What was with your huh’s, then?” “Last night, you mean.” “I said Echo Caves and you totally froze. Is that—” “Quite a lot of things happen in Neverland,” Killian finishes, “and not all of them have happened for you yet.” “Menacing.” He hums again, takes a deep breath that clearly isn’t a sign he wants to kiss her again. When he does not actually kiss her again. Fine, fine, fine, super. “Not all of it,” he says, although the words sound suspiciously like a promise and neither one of them blink when a bird flies through the open window nearby. 

“Are those birds flying in sync?” “Stop talking, you’re going to get us in trouble.” “What was that about pirate code, or whatever?” Grinning up at him and his scowl, Emma can’t help but be a little proud that she’s managed to distract the great and passably royal Captain Killian Jones during the United Realm’s annual tree lighting. Which in retrospect, does seem kind of strange since Emma can’t imagine they actually have Christmas in the Enchanted Forest. 

That’s a conversation for a different time, though. 

For now she’s willing to keep playing distraction, and it’s very fun to flirt. With Killian, specifically. She’ll consider the repercussions of that later, too. 

“As far as I’m aware,” Killian whispers, trying to keep Hope from jumping into the nearest snowbank, “your mother has instructed them to appear at certain and integral points in the ceremony. For dramatic effect.” “Kind of gaudy, isn’t it?” “A requirement of royalty, so it would seem.”

The muscles in her cheeks are starting to ache. From overuse, and that’s—another problem. Being here a tease. That one strand of hair that always manages to fall towards Killian’s right eye is the worst. 

“How long have you been holding onto that particular opinion?” They haven't turned the tree on yet, so whatever light reflects in his eyes is more theoretical than anything. Regina must have practiced this speech at some point. No way this is all improvised, not with the dramatic pauses and introductions and— “Oh shit,” Emma mutters, the ends of Killian’s ears going red because Regina is introducing them and Hope is nothing more than four uncoordinated limbs and Henry snickers very loudly.

Ella elbows him in the side. 

Emma likes her daughter-in-law. She hasn’t allowed herself to think about that title, or the granddaughter it comes with, but she’s getting very good at putting thoughts in boxes and only partially acknowledging what they mean and Killian's hand finds her again. 

Magic rushes from the top of her head to the very bottom of her feet, standing a bit straighter in another pair of boots, and Killian’s whole body moves towards her. So as to make it easier when he openly gapes at her. 

That must happen a lot too, though. No one bats an eyelash. “If you’re all done,” Regina drawls, but Henry isn’t and Ella can’t contain her laugh either. Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. Even as her birds break formation. 

Emma nods. “All good.” “Gods, the whole lot of you are annoying. You know—” Waving one hand, candles burst into flame without a word, multi-colored lights appearing on every branch, and it takes Emma a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is holding an ornament. 

“What are they for?” she asks Killian, not bothering to lower her face over the cheers. People are cheering for the tree. “They’re wishes, Mama,” Hope cries. “From everyone!”

He nods when the four-year-old doesn’t explain anymore — already rushing towards Mary Margaret and her ornament. “That’s why people come from all over. Aside from the festive nature, and the talented birds, it’s an old superstition. Place an ornament where the candle was, and you’ll get your wish.” “What happens to the candle?” “Supposed to bring it home, and light that space with the feeling of the solstice.”

In any other situation, exhaling as forcefully as she does would be embarrassing. As it is, Emma figures she’s got a thousand excuses and the hand in hers gives no indication of letting go any time soon. So, seems like a wash. “Gods, that’s nice.” “Aye, it is.”

Hope puts an ornament on the tree. 

So does Henry. 

And Lucy. The list goes on and on, but all Emma can do is stand at the end of Granny’s counters and eat her weight in Snickerdoodles. 

She's the worst, frankly. 

Snow starts to fall just as Emma’s wavering between that happy medium of pleasantly buzzed and legitimately drunk, and she’s got to ask someone who doles out the liquor licenses in this realm because it appears Granny’s hand has grown a bit heavy over the years. 

Lucy scampers towards the far window as soon as she notices the storm, already talking a mile a minute and detailing plans with Hope and Neal — and this happy medium makes it impossible for Emma to be too frustrated by that, but she also hasn’t actually asked what happened to Neal or why he doesn’t appear in Storybrooke, so it seems it’s more difficult to rid herself of the self-imposed asshole moniker than she’d like. 

And the bell over the door rattles like it’s the goddamn town crier, another familiar face stepping through the frame. With red highlights in her hair. “Are we doing this, then?” Ruby asks, flanked by a woman Emma doesn’t recognize and another redhead who is obviously not Ariel and it’s strange to see Mulan out of armor. 

“Cap?” Ruby presses, when no one responds quickly enough, “this is happening, right?” Glancing at a wary Henry and back towards a clearly confused Emma, Killian grits his teeth. While she does her best to come to terms with nicknames, and another tradition and Hope tries very hard to climb up Emma’s side. 

So as to yell in her ear easier. 

“It’s snowing, Mama. We’ve got to play!” Emma blinks. “In the snow.” “It’s a...thing,” Killian explains. “Gets almost—” “—Bloodthirsty,” Mary Margaret says, which is not the most shocking thing that’s happened so far, but Emma’s buzz is starting to ebb slightly and someone’s knocking on the door. Another redhead, with her hair in braids and what looks like suspiciously like a crown on her head and David lets out a joyful noise when he notices the guy behind her. 

Mary Margaret tugs at the edge of Emma’s sleeve. She might be nearly drunk too, actually. If her slight wobble is any indication. “In the past,” she starts, “there’s been some notably magical snowstorms here. It was quite an event when Elsa first arrived, but then well—you helped save her, and her sister.” The redhead waves, as if she knows she’s being talked about and Emma can’t fathom how she makes that connection, but she’s getting better at puzzles. “And now,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s become something of a ritual.”

Ruby gags. “Oh Gods, don’t say it like that. Sounds ruthless.” “Isn’t it, though?” Henry challenges. “The gist is, that Elsa shows up after the tree lighting with her snow powers and we have a snowball fight.” She’s too drunk for this. Definitely well past buzzed at this point. “A snowball fight,” Emma repeats, half a dozen nodding heads replying with equally large smiles and the almost audible sense of anticipation hovering around them. 

Hope widens her eyes. It’s a very good trick. “She practices that,” Killian mutters, more mind reading that Emma doesn’t bother to point out because the redhead is shouting "come on, let’s go'' and that sounds like a command. And bloodthirsty is a very appropriate adjective. 

Teams are quickly formed, alliances announced and the guy Emma realizes is named Kristoff claims “honor must be defended” enough times that it appears to be a catchphrase. Laughter rings out around them, dancing on the magically-induced snowflakes and off the lights, and there aren’t as many candles on the tree anymore, but some flames continue to flicker, casting shadows across faces and snowballs. 

As they fly past Emma’s ears. 

“Your aim could use some work,” Killian says, breathing heavier as he ducks behind a snow drift they’re using as a blockade. Emma sneers. “Where’d the kid go?” “Ours?” She nods. Tries not to die. Only marginally succeeds. Killian doesn’t appear to notice. Force of habit is a very strong rationalization, it seems. “She’s allied herself with her much more impressive brother, who—” Lifting out of his crouch, Killian cups a hand to his mouth, like that will help the volume of his ensuing insult. “—Has clearly been practicing snowball creation in the Wish Realm and only knows how to win by cheating!” “I learned it from you,” Henry calls back. 

David’s laugh is loud enough to disrupt a whole flock of birds. Perched on the branches above his and Mary Margaret’s head. 

Goosebumps make a glorious return to Emma’s arm — and quite possibly her soul, which only seems like an exaggeration until she notices the spots of color on Killian’s cheeks and the bits of snow clinging to his hair. His eyes get bluer when she brushes the moisture away. Have to, if only to explain Emma’s fluttering magic and fledgling pulse and a snowball slams into her left shoulder blade. “Gotta hide better,” Anna calls, the blonde behind her, who is definitely Elsa, shaking with the force of her laughter. Everyone keeps laughing. Everyone is so happy. It’s—

A goddamn Christmas Utopia. 

“You did offer yourself up a bit,” Killian reasons, Emma gasping at the betrayal. Pulling on the front of her now-damp jacket, he tugs her back against his side and they’re very close. Too close. Possibly not close enough. 

“And what would you suggest o ye master strategist?” “Little wordy, don’t you think?”

“I retract my compliment, then.” “Ahaha,” he chuckles, “a compliment, was it? Well that’s totally different, then. Now, if you just stay here with—” The rest of the sentence gets caught up in his grunt and groan and Emma’s not particularly disappointed to see Hope’s return to this side of the snowball fight, but she’s also fairly certain there was a me looming on the tip of Killian’s very distracting tongue and she’d like to hear that. Selfishly. “Oh, switched allegiances again, have you, little love?” “Henry can’t enchant the snowballs,” Hope says, like that’s supposed to make sense and it almost does because Emma has magic, but she’s never tried to use it on snow. At least not yet.

“I don’t—” she starts, only to cut herself off. At the overall circumference of Hope’s eyes, and the color of Killian’s and there’s something to said for sheer force of will. “Gimme a snowball, baby.”

Excitement immediately colors her daughter’s face, smile wide enough that it’s probably a record and Killian doesn’t say anything. Watches without a single shift of his chest, which means Emma is staring at his chest, but he’s also obviously not breathing, and her lungs can’t stand up to much more of this. 

An admittedly lackluster snowball gets plopped in Emma’s upturned palm, and she blinks away the cold like this is old hat. Or something less lame sounding. Snow packs together like—well, magic, she supposes, a perfect sphere that isn’t quite iced over, but won’t fall apart when one of them throws it and obviously Hope’s got to throw it. 

“Ok,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Who did you want to take down?” Killian’s lips disappear. Behind his teeth. To stop himself from grinning like a maniac, or so Emma very quickly convinces herself. 

“Uncle Kris,” Hope announces, and this family’s apparently only grown in the last decade or so. Maybe Emma should be more concerned about her heart. And its ability to burst. 

“We can do that. Just—toss it up, and…”

She’s got no idea, really. Just generic hope, and a surplus of feeling, but Emma’s always been told that magic is emotion and she’s not sure she’s ever been more emotional, which is a scathing commentary of her life, but this is also her life and— Killian scoops Hope up, an impressive act of balance and dodging incoming snowballs, and Emma will use that emotion as a reasonable excuse for what she does next. Reaching forward, her fingers curl around the brace at the end of his arm, not able to actually touch skin because he’s wearing a leather jacket, and that’s only sort of messing with her mind. But the motivation is the same, and she’s got all those suspicions and thoughts and—

The most powerful magic in the world. 

“Throw it, love,” Killian directs, Hope’s arm pulling behind her like she’s a professional baseball player, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut. Warmth curls at the base of her spine, inching up her vertebrae until it takes root at the base of her skull, spreading out through her brain and the rest of her limbs and he definitely kisses her hair again. 

She’d been counting on that, just a bit. 

Muscles loosen under her skin, no sense of tension or that ever-present anxiety Emma’s always just assumed was part of her genetic makeup. Shouts echo around her, in addition to the snow, but she can’t quite hear any of it over the explosion of magic between her ears, and Hope’s cry of success will probably be branded on Emma for the rest of her life. 

She hopes so, at least. 

Opening her eyes to find Kristoff sputtering, and Anna as impressed as she is indignant, Emma only barely has a chance to catch her breath before there’s a kid flying into her arms. It’s harder to hold her when she doesn’t let go of Killian. And Killian doesn’t pull away. 

He watches both of them. Traces over Emma’s face, the same way she had in the hallway, and something happens. Something important. Passing between them, and cementing itself in her gut and her soul and his lips twitch. At her magic, probably. “Thank you,” Killian mouths, Emma nodding against Hope’s hair. She kisses it. Out of habit, or whatever.

Strands of hair are damp against Emma's temple by the time they traipse back to the house, Hope asleep on Killian’s shoulder. Enchanted snowflakes linger on the back of her jacket, hovering on her eyelashes for maximum effect and peak cute, which didn’t need any help if Emma’s being honest and she might be willing to err on the side of that particular feeling right now. So as to keep the feeling, all year long and maybe even indefinitely. 

Or whatever they said about Ebenezer Scrooge. 

After he learned to love Christmas. And other humans. 

Emma’s still not thinking too hard about that particular word, though. So, maybe complete honesty’s something of a stretch, but the kid is undeniably adorable and it’s admittedly difficult to think straight when Killian is—

Killian. In italicized and underlined lettering, meeting Emma snark for snark, and snowball for snowball, and she really wants to know his Monopoly cheating strategy, but that’s a problem for an entirely different list because that list has impossible words and improbable feelings and he’s staring at her.

Where she’s leaning against their front door. 

Using possessive and collective pronouns isn’t helping her cause. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. For the benefit of the sleeping kid, Emma figures. Not the state of her pulse, or the magic he could feel, and the cyclical nature of time is just toying with her at this point. 

She nods. “Better than, somehow.” “Oh, that’s a little negative, Swan.” “Kind of my schtick, isn’t it.” “Not always,” Killian says, another pair of words that shouldn’t sound like a promise and clearly do not care. Emma feels her smile. Like, possibly in the very core of her being. At least between her ribs, where the growing sense of belonging has decided to linger, this feeling of home and possibility and staying here is not a possibility. Tinker Bell will figure something out. 

Emma will — that’s how Savior’ing works, after all. 

“You know,” Killian adds, Hope humming into his neck and there’s quite a lot of neck. Emma might be staring at his neck. “At some point we concoct this very impressive buttered rum recipe, that’s notoriously good at warding off chills.” Digging her teeth into her lips does not do anything to disperse the butterflies in Emma’s stomach, but she’s also not all that interested in them leaving. “Concerned about my breathing and my overall body temperature?” God, she’s an idiot. 

Flirting isn't quite second nature, though — and Emma’s even less accustomed to flirting as a two-way street, but this feels as easy as it has and will and there’s those tense-based issues all over again. Killian grins. Slow, and measured and inching almost close to lecherous, sparking a handful of other other ideas that—

Immediately disappears when the four-year-old wakes up. 

Brushed teeth take precedence, as do picking out pajamas and Hope is in possession of more pajama sets than Emma knew could exist in one set of drawers. Then there’s a bedding routine, lifting comforters and crawling under sheets and Emma doesn’t know the story requested of her. 

She’s got no idea what happens after Prince Charles spun around with his sword. 

It’s got to be impressive, though. 

“Oh, Hope I—” she exhales, fear creeping back into the forefront of her mind. Until fingers find they’re way back into hers, and they’re just as warm as they always are and it takes Killian less than three minutes to promise a different story on another night. 

No tears are shed, so that’s got to be a victory and Hope’s eyes are already fluttering closed when Killian flicks off the light. Lingering in the hallway, Emma’s not sure what she’s supposed to do or where she’s supposed to go, but there’s a hook pressed into the small of her back and buttered rum turns out to have a ridiculous amount of cinnamon in it. “Shit,” Emma mutters into her glass, and Killian looks far too satisfied. “This is really good.” “Took some trial and error, but we got there eventually. Or get there for you, I suppose.” Sipping instead of responding is another cowardly move, one Emma won’t ever admit to and it doesn’t matter because he can read her mind. At least her face. Open book, and all that. 

“I’m sorry.” Killian blinks. “For what, exactly?” “God, throw a dart. Everything I—showing up in your life and making the right Emma disappear, maybe, and that’s got to be fucking with you, and—” “—You’re not the wrong Emma,” he interrupts, with enough force to pull her up short. Buttered rum drips on her chin. So, she’s a picture of romance and flirting potential. “Just a little early, that’s all.” “Not what you said when I got here.” “Aye, well that was the bastard version of me. He’s a—” “—Bastard?” “Absolutely,” Killian nods, “and maybe a little unsure of himself when it comes to you.”

It’s her turn to blink. More than once, only a little concerned the scene in front of her will change, but it doesn’t and it won’t and there’s got to be a limit on time travel. Emma’s reached her quota by now, she hopes. “Because I’m a mess now? I mean, this version of me. Not the wife one.” “You’re worried about Henry. And I understand that, did then as well. I just—you want to know why the Echo Caves gave me pause? Because if you got tugged right after that, then all you’re sure of is that I think I could move on from Milah, but nothing else has happened for you yet. No promises or—” Swallowing, he sets his glass down and there wasn’t much room between them, but there’s even less now and Emma’s got nowhere to put her hands. Except on his thigh. Where it bumps hers. “Leaving behind that bastard who wouldn’t give you the magic bean was always something of a challenge, but you made me want to. Made it easier to do just that. Because eventually you do trust me, and you believe in me, and—”

He exhales. Licks his lips. Emma can’t move. “The thought of losing that terrified me,” Killian finishes. 

They’ve stopped dancing. Are standing stock-still in the middle of the floor, while other people twirl around and wait for them to get their rhythm back. And Killian doesn’t blink, which is equally frustrating and overwhelming and a much more positive adjective that Emma can’t be bothered with because she’s too busy saying, “I...like you?” “Was that a question?” “Maybe,” she admits, “it’s not really my forte, and I told Neal a bunch of shit in the Echo Caves too, so—is...did my parents name their kid after him?” “Yuh huh.” “Don’t sound particularly pleased.” “We’ll get to that,” Killian says, “Rehash the liking stuff, please.” Maybe laughing at inappropriate times is actually his greatest talent. Emma’s head drops, bumping Killian’s shoulder, but then there’s an arm back around her waist and there’s so much of him, and that’s always been the problem. Opposite of a problem, really. 

“You just—” Emma mutters. “Came back, for us and me and I...that kind of terrifies me too, but you always make sure if I'm ok, and that’s—not a ton of people do that.” “Becomes something of a habit.” “I’m going to ask you a question.” “Still don’t need to preface it.” “Are you Prince Charles in the story?”

Surprise is a good look on him. All of them are, but Emma’s already crossed one emotional threshold and like wasn’t really the word she was thinking about before. “Aye,” Killian says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear. 

“Does that make me the princess?” “In almost every story I tell.”

The warmth moves to her cheeks, and the same skin Killian’s fingers graze, coming dangerously close to the edge of her mouth and barely parted lips. “So, uh,” Emma stammers, “not our first time travel adventure?” “Gets confusing when you haven’t done that other part yet.” “Time travel might be overrated, honestly. But we get back, right? That’s—I mean, you’re here.”

Nodding, his nose replaces his fingers and it’s oddly endearing. “If you remember this in the past, I refuse to be held accountable, alright?”

“Seems fair,” Emma laughs, and she thinks she hears him swallow before he responds. “You give up your magic, for me—which is something else I never entirely pay you back for, but then we get pulled into the portal, adventures ensue, including that very impressive spin move, and then your magic comes back.” “How?” “With that wand Regina used before, that’s why she thought it would work.” “You’re skipping over things,” she accuses, and flirting might not be the only two-way street. He’s getting easier to read. “Was that was it you? Helping with my magic?” Shrugging isn’t easy when they’re so tangled together, but Killian’s ears are as red as Ariel’s hair and Ruby’s highlights and—“The only reason I magic’ed that snowball was because I was holding onto you. Control’s not something I’ve got much of right now.” “You would have been able to figure it out.” “Not with a kid waiting, and all those people and—” Problems be damned. Lists be damned. Time itself, be goddamned. “Paying me back is a stupid thing to think.”

“Swan.” Shaking her head, Emma moves before she can reconsider how incredibly dumb this is and possibly even more dangerous, but he keeps staring at her and it’s so easy and normal, and if she were someone who breathed with any sort of regularity, that wold be an appropriate analogy. Killian shifts too, so that helps. 

And she definitely mumbles kiss me like some harlequin romance heroine, but he doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t object and the fingers that find her hair help ground her. To this plane of reality. Nice exists for about half a second, before it rather quickly evolves into need and desire and there are hands everywhere. Emma’s and Killian’s — tracing each other like this is the first time all over again, and her back arches once she clamors into his lap. 

Rocking down at the same time he rocks up draws out several sounds Emma’s never heard before, and would not mind hearing on loop. Fingers search out skin, pushing into the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and she can’t tilt her head enough. To get the right angle, or more of his tongue and his tongue’s already swiping at her lips. 

He groans again. When she opens her mouth, lets him trace as much as he’d like, and Emma would like even more, but she’s always been kind of greedy when it comes to him and really oxygen is vastly overrated. 

She can’t keep her eyes open. 

Can’t imagine how anything gets better than this, or them and there’s that pronoun again. 

Both of their shoulders heave when they finally have to pull apart, more black than blue in Killian’s eyes and— “We’re really good at that,” she mutters, working a laugh out of him. That he presses against her neck. And under her chin. Drags across her jaw, and up towards her temple, kissing whatever he can reach and everywhere he lands and it takes a power she did not know she possessed for Emma to keep herself from demanding he take his clothes off as well. 

She opts for the next best thing. “Thoughts on sleeping in your own bed?” 

The eyebrows, honestly. Flying up, and reacting quicker than he can respond and Killian kisses her. Soft and easy, and as normal as anything. “Vast,” he says, mostly into her mouth, “and it’s difficult to fall asleep without you, so it’d be nice to actually do that.” “Yeah, ok. That works.”

[timextoxhajima]

HOSTIS, Chapter III: Aemulatio, Rivalry

Previous Chapter (II: Antiquum Fabulum)

Member: Lee Hyunjae (tbz)

Genre (by chapter): drama, comedy

Category: Short Novel/Long Series

“if it’s anybody who knows what you’re thinking... it’s me.”

two weeks of pure torture. 

and even after that, there was no way of telling how long you were going to be stuck in the same building, same wing, same office area, with lucifer; with the other half of two areses. 

of all tracks and professions to choose, he just had to choose neurology. the ones who birthed you were one a cardiologist and the other a psychiatrist. 

so why the hell did i choose neurology? 

had i chosen any other track, i wouldn’t be stuck here, in the same room as him, needing to breathe the same air as him, listening to the same words, and treating him like my partner in kindergarten.

“hmm, let’s see what i have in my schedule today...” doctor choi gets off the leather seat and looks through his file. lucifer was standing near the corner of the office, eyes scanning the plaques and framed certificates on the wall while the pen in your pocket rolls around your fingerpads. 

“i’ll be making rounds today from ten to twelve, and two to four... and since you can get off at six, your last two hours in the evening could be well spent familiarising yourself with the research department,” the glasses on his nose slips a little and he pushes it back up before looking at you. “and doctor kim, of course.”

lucifer gives a kind chuckle, and the sound of it makes your skin crawl with displeasure. “do you have any tips for us to get on doctor kim’s good side?”

us? yeah, right.

“if it’s anybody who needs tips, it’s me,” doctor choi scratches his forehead and picks up his file. “anyway, there’s still about an hour left before i start doing my rounds. till then, you can go back to your office and settle in. second day of work usually calls for more admin cleaning.”

the consistent staring and typing on your keyboard starts you drag you away from the thought of lucifer being in his office right next to yours, and the soft, classical music that was orchestrating itself in the air momentarily takes you back to med school.

back then, the nights you spent burying your nose in textbooks, files and notes were both torturous and fulfilling, and with how efficient the music was in calming your nerves, you remember thinking about all the times you lost your temper at lucifer. 

maybe if you listened to classical music since the start, you wouldn’t have such a fiery hatred for him. 

but then again, classical music didn’t really do much for your patience the entire time you were away. otherwise, you wouldn’t have packed up and moved into your own apartment after you came back from med school in the united kingdom. 

neither of your parents were fond of the idea, but thanks to your father being a psychiatrist, he was able to convince your mother into letting you stay alone. honestly, you moving away was simply to reduce the friction you knew you would have with her. your father was just the one with a higher emotional quotient to read that off you without needing you to say it explicitly. 

the alarm in your phone goes off, telling you that it was five minutes to ten, and a little ‘swoosh’ emits from your computer. 

from: kim ryuk hoon 

to: y/n, lee hyunjae, choi young joon

subject: research department data collection

to the newcomers, 

the research department welcomes you with opened arms. we hope you have been settling in well and the staff here has been kind to you. 

before you embark on your journey to becoming a full-fledged in-practise doctor, the research department would like to invite you to take up a task most will find arduous. i imagine that it’s not for the both of you. 

doctor choi will verify and validate this email first. if this invitation acquires his approval, then i will see the both of you this friday before you clock out.

i’ve already checked doctor choi’s hospital round timings, and he does not have anything scheduled after 5 on friday. there’s absolutely no reason for him to decline/disapprove this invitation.

have a great day, and i look forward to doctor choi’s approval. 

regards,

doctor kim

a smile naturally spreads on your face, but a sharp knock peels it off your lips like masking tape. the door of your office swings open and lucifer sticks his head in with an innocent grin baring his teeth at you. 

“did you zone out from being the little bitch you are or are you waiting for another invitation to be a doctor?”

annoyance rushes through you like race cars, and you grab a pen from the pencil holder by your computer, hurling it so hard that it sent a loud ‘tong’ sound through the glass of your office. lucifer ducks a little and winces at the harsh ring, looking behind him and out into the rest of the office to see if anybody heard.

you slam the laptop screen shut and turn off the office computer, eyes never once leaving his awfully arrogant mischief. slipping a tiny notebook into your coat, you push the chair back under the desk and walk towards the door where he pulls away, giving you just enough space to shove your way past him. 

his ribs run against your shoulder, and the mere contact makes you want to step on him and ruin his unrealistically shiny, polished dress shoes. 

fortunately, he doesn’t say one word to you the entire time the both of you tailed doctor choi on his rounds. he introduced the two of you to some of his not-so-critical patients and says they may be transferred to be taken care by either of you. 

the interactions with some of them were so heartwarming, despite half of the patients looking at lucifer like they just saw an angel. 

but there was still that overwhelming admiration and respect for those who chose to dedicate their lives to saving others. it was just unfortunate that you hated one of those people. 

every second spent with lucifer in your sights felt eternally long, but the week flashed by and it was like life was reminding you that time waits for no man. 

doctor choi had no choice but to give into doctor kim’s invitation for lucifer and you to take up that data analysis assignment. by friday, it had been four days since you felt like you were thrown back to your life prior to med school. 

back then, you spent every conscious second studying with only one goal in mind: to out do lee hyunjae. 

despite the difference in setting and environment where there were no longer grades or teacher appraisals to feed your pride and ego over his, now you were starting to feel the destructive force of motivation pushing you to earn the commends of the senior doctors and colleagues around you. 

after that, your new goal would to get a promotion before lucifer does. but sticking to reality was one of the best traits a doctor could have, so you were careful not to get too ahead of yourself. 

“here are the document sheets,” doctor kim hands you each identical files, but yours was black and his was blue. “and some of the information you need will be emailed you by tonight. so spend the weekend studying the material and you can use whatever time you have next week and even after your welcome party to finish this.”

“it’s not urgent?” you raise a brow, looking at the top sheet in the folder. 

“it’s not, but we do value quality data and findings.”

“wait, are you saying that the documents are exactly the same but we could be submitting different sets of data?” lucifer queries, and confusion starts to seep through your neurons. 

“correct,” doctor kim runs his wrinkly fingers on his chin where a little stubble grew since the last time you saw him. “the data that the both of you submit might be different. in fact, it may look completely different but as equally as valuable.”

oh, this is going to be fun.

“the last section of the documents includes data pointers from the oncology sector. it’s not very long and it’s highly likely you’re not going to find anything from that department--”

“why?”

doctor kim hesitates for a moment upon your question, and lucifer looks at him, waiting for a response as well. 

“oh, well,” doctor kim clears his throat and waves the two of you in. a frown forms on your forehead, but lucifer leaning in urges you to follow. doctor kim’s bony hand cups his mouth from the side and looks around before whispering, “the oncology department head is crazy. she doesn’t like doctors who don’t belong there to even be on that floor.”

“ah,” lucifer sighs exasperatedly. “and which wing is the oncology department in? just so i can know where to avoid it.”

there we go, the selfishness hopped right out at ‘i’.

“if the neuro department’s in the north wing, and we are in the east wing, then...”

“it’s the other way round, doctor,” you quickly point out when he stops for a moment to remember where the oncology department was. “research department’s in the north.”

“oh!” he lifts a finger in the air, as if he didn’t hear you. the way his eyes lit up like a child brings a little smile to your lips, and his finger starts to wriggle when the neurons in his head click. “oncology is in the west, which makes it opposite the building that neuro is in-- yes, thank you for correcting me.”

call it childish, but that little display of gratitude seeps into you like a praise, and you could almost feel lucifer’s disgust when he realises you were busking in it. 

“yes, so avoid the west wing as far as possible. doctor choi will force me into retirement if doctor shin realises his mentees are strutting around in her department looking for answers to a worksheet...”

the desire to outdo lee hyunjae crawls back into your gut like the ghost crawling out from the television in ring. you didn’t even need to look at lucifer standing right next to you to know he was thinking and feeling the exact same thing. 

in this realm, zeus created two areses and decided putting them in the same hospital -- the same building, same room, -- was a good idea. 

“alright, i got it,” lucifer lifts the file as a sign of acknowledgement. 

“very well!” doctor kim beams brightly at the both of you, heels turning to return to his desk. “if there are any questions you have for me, don’t hesitate to drop me and email or come to look for me. of course, don’t let doctor choi know. he might just start filling up my retirement sheets for me.”

a gentle laugh runs through your throat and lucifer looks at doctor kim like that was his father. the both of you bow slightly before turning around, heading for the lift so that you could return to your office. 

ignoring lucifer standing right behind you was so easy, especially when you haven’t seen him for four years. but knowing that the both of you had the exact same goal in mind? 

that was difficult to swallow. 

you ran the thought through your head, the memory of spending nearly six full years fighting with the same person, both mentally and physically, sparking your eagerness to win. the only reason why you didn’t spend ten full years fighting with him was because you were no longer in the same institution. 

“i know what you’re thinking of,” a deep breath gets sucked into your lungs as he turns his head enough for you to see his cheek. “so just know that four years didn’t do much to curb whatever threat you see in me.”

lucifer scoffs and turns back to face the doors of the lift, the glazed over metal allowing you to lock eyes with him through the reflection.

“i know. i already knew the moment he said that the data sets might be different.”

then he looks away and up at the display panel inside the lift with the floor number on it. 

“if it’s anybody who knows what you’re thinking...” he turns around and lightly taps your chest with the file he was holding, the gesture making you want to take it and whack him across the face. 

“it’s me. the other half to our two areses.”

your arm finds his shoulder to push him back away from you, and you wipe your palm on your coat with exaggeration. 

“so rest assured, y/n. you’re not the only one who’s not going down without a fight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter IV: Vetiti Fructus In

[dumbladores]

You - Teaser

Summary:  Your brother and a girl with whom you’ve become friends with by sharing a home, are your flatmates. But since there was a room left, another person had joined in, and not just anyone, but the very Antoine Griezmann himself, who has decided to go back to university and check out the life he had missed while having a career. I intend to develop your relationship rather slowly (but not too slowly, don't be scared). I intend to have at least one little teasing per chapter, how many chapters there will be, I don't know, depends on your demand and how it develops on its own :)

I'll be posting one chapter at least every two weeks. Make sure you check out my Patreon, where you'll have access to more much sooner. I’m dedicating this to @xratedffbarbiex, who inspired that sudden urge to write, so please make sure to check out her Antoine-series as well.

English isn't my first language, so please have mercy with me.

Besides, I'm always happy about propositions or inspiration, so don't hesitate to contact me.

Cheers, guys, to the great community, we've got here!

Warnings: not yet

Part: 1/ ? Part 2 follows next week on my Patreon

Word count: 1756

One

Your brother and a girl with whom you’ve become friends with by sharing a home, were your flatmates. But since there was a room left, another person had joined in, and not just anyone, but the very Antoine Griezmann himself. Footballplayer since he was little, he had to give up his career due to an injury on his left knee. Since he had no family to look after, he had decided to go back to university, doing a little catching up on the life he had missed, as he had been a professional since a very young age.

You had been away when he was to have the “flat interview”, so you didn’t have any saying in the decision, it was anyway a two against one vote, since the others were absolutely enthusiastic about him. Of what you gathered from their statements, it was merely because it was, well, him. But they said he was nice, too. You rolled your eyes at that sentence. It was obvious the two had been taken by either his charm or his indeed very inviting physical features. Nevertheless the three of you made a pact to make every effort you could to make his life in (name of town) as normal as it could be and to trying to include him in as many common student activities there were. 

You often had friends over. Cynthia and you already knew a bunch of people since it was your third semester, and (name of your brother) also quickly took part in that circle of friends. 

It had been weeks since he moved in and yet it seemed he didn’t settle in easily. In videos you had seen of him, he seemed so playfully and easy to get along. But here he behaved rather shyly. He kept mostly to himself during the daytime, locking himself in his room. You only saw him once in a while in the kitchen and in the living room, where he watched football or basketball on a big flat screen he had bought to share with his flatmates, which made a big impression to the other two, but not so much on you. You weren’t to be bought so simply, especially not by someone who wasn’t paying much attention to other stuff you cared more about - for example looking someone in the eyes.

Of course, you had made a big deal out of that fact. You kept saying to Cynthia, what a prick you thought he was and how cocky he behaved. She just rolled her eyes and sayd you should give him some time.

In fact, your pride was a little tiny part of it. You couldn’t bare the thought he didn’t notice you, didn’t show interest in you. But you never in a thousand years would admit it. So you eagerly researched. You researched everthing about him. Where he was brought up, in which clubs he had played, you even watched interviews with him. He was Frances’ darling. Grizou, as they called him. A symbol, an idol for the country, who didn’t even trust in him when he had started his career. No club had wanted him, so he had to move to Spain when he was 14 years old. You couldn’t believe it. It sounded like he had a whole life behind him, now being only 29, he had experienced more than any other normal person at this age, And yet he hadn’t, as he was willing to go back to university to learn, what he had missed when he was out in this cruel world, that loves you at one moment and rejects you at the other. You watched some interviews with him. In most, in fact, he didn’t look the interviewer in the eyes. Most of them were filmed after a match, so you supposed, you couldn’t demand much of a player that just had run for one and a half hours. You certainly wouldn’t be able anymore to utter anything. In fact, you most certainly would be dead. But no, in other situations it was just the same. Also what he was saying didn’t have any profoundness or depth. Angrily you let go, coming to the conclusion there was nothing interesting in this guy, and particulary nothing interesting for you.

Weeks passed. He had invited your brother to play FIFA on his XBOX in his room, but never talked to you or Cynthia more than necessary. You hadn’t exchanged 10 sentences by the end of one month, and after a while you gave it up. He had a few pals from his classes that came over once in a while, and he even came home very late twice, so you guessed he took part in student social life by his own, being to partys and stuff, probably having made other interesting acquintances. You hadn’t made any effort to get him to notice you in any way, but you just stopped caring.

That’s why you missed that he indeed looked at you one or two times in the kitchen. That he started to look at you when you talked to Cynthia or your brother or other friends you had invited over. In fact, there were many movie nights you hosted since you had this big flat TV and other students couldn’t even afford a proper fridge. Antoine started to laugh at your jokes or when you were doing something silly to amuse the people. He, indeed, started watching you intensely. More intensely than the others.

You only came to notice his stare in exactly that moment you were telling a story a group of people in the kitchen at a movie night. You were preparing popcorn in the microwave and you just made a joke about how you had thought as a kid that popcorn didn’t have anything to do with actual corn and that you had made the discovery only recently, and it had been as if you had entered a whole new dimension in the matrix. You noticed his stare, Antoine was casually leaning at the kitchen counter, one hand in his sweatpants, the other on the beer bottle. Your  face instantly turned red, at least that was what you felt - your cheeks caught fire and there was nothing you could do about it. You tried to finish your point and rushed down the story, leaving the rest of the group a little confused by that abrupt ending.

While the others moved to the living room with the popcorn, you poured yourself a large glass of wine and took a deep sip. You had almost made a fool of yourself, just because this handsome and cocky footballplayer had watched you. You had to be more careful with your thoughts. Didn’t you use to say you had standarts? But did your guts have standarts? You knew, your mind wanted someone smart and classy and interesting. So why did your stomach drop like several floors down at the sight of his stare?

“So we’re here drinking on our own, are we?”

You shrinked at the smooth voice behind you and quickly turned, just to see that it belonged to the guy you were thinking of a second ago. As if he knew he had caught you thinking of him, you blushed again.

“Just making sure the wine’s okay”, you managed to answer and, in a manner you thought to be both ironic and casual, you took another sip from your glass.

“Hmm, may I?”, Griezmann said and reached out for your glass. He took a sip, pointed his lips in an hilarious way and swallowed. “Oh, not bad. Not bad at all. I presume it is dated by the time of Louis XIV himself, for it makes the sun shine on your face.”

You snorted with laughter. “Is this a quote from Shakespeare or something or did you just come up with that yourself?”

With a smirk on his perfect face, he handed you back your glass. “Which possibility would make you think higher of me? Probably the quote, as you’re constantly reading. And what’s your subject again? Philosophy?”

“It is”, you admitted. “But I embrace far more an original new thought, because it’s proof of creativity and independance of thought.”

“Really? I thought you dind’t like new things?”

You blinked. “How come you think that lowly of me?”, you asked and took another nervous sip out of your glass, while you intended it to look casually. He couldn’t be implying your aversion against the new TV or even himself? He couldn’t be that observing, could he? Or was it you that were so blind?

He grinned and watched you thoroughly. “I’m sorry. Maybe I drew the wrong conclusion.”

Now you were angry. Stupid boy, thought he could mock you, while in fact he was the ridicule.

“Maybe I’m just taking my time to judge”, you snapped. “And allowing myself to exclude new things from my life, if I regard them as being intrusive and un...conductive.” Without looking at him you walked past him into the living room, where the movie was already on. You squeezed yourself on the sofa next to Cynthia and tried to look at Orson Welles in “The third man”.

So it hadn’t just been you thinking low of Griezmann. It was him thinking low of you. And if he was thinking low of you, and you thinking low of him, that in fact made you a lot lower than him. A correct philosophical conclusion. 100 percent on that test, you congratulated yourself. But logic wasn’t helpful in that moment.

You looked at the entrance to the kitchen, where Griezmann stood leaning against the door frame, his eyes on the screen.

[certifiedskywalker]

Dating Vanya Hargreeves Would Include....

As a fan of Ellen Page, this is totally, 100%, me indulging myself an absolute joy to present to you all. I hope I did our Vanya justice!

Vanya was not without inspiration or fuel when it came to writing.

A plethora of sibling quips, fatherly scoldings, and years of familial trauma did come with their own twisted perks in that respect.

However, Vanya finds herself attending writing classes and really anything that plays a role in the literary world.

She goes to political rallies and marches (Women’s marches specifically, this girl know where she stands) to hear passion fueled speeches

She ventures out to an innumerable amount of bookstores to listen to readings and to peruse the shelves.

One fateful evening, Vanya finds herself in a cafe that’s hosting a poetry slam.

She orders herself a tea and quickly finds a comfy looking, secluded seat a good distance from the stage.

Soon, Vanya is immersed in raw emotion and humorous anecdotes disguised in extended metaphors and varying rhyme schemes.

Most of the poets have gone up already and the setting sun has given way into night.

Despite the creeping tendrils of sleep that pull at Vanya’s eyelids, she lingers.

That’s when you take the stage.

It’s clear that either it’s your first time reading your poetry

Whether you only ascend to stand under the lights on a dare or sudden burst of courage.

Your hands curl into fists as you introduce yourself and Vanya can hear the nerves in your voice.

She pities you at first, for she knows the universal friend that was Anxiety. She was intimate with that prickling sense of fear that accompanied it.

But the moment you begin to recite your work, read the words you poured your heart into, everything melts away.

Vanya becomes totally and wholly entranced by you.

When you’ve finished and descend the steps of the stage, Vanya shoots up from her seat.

Even with her tiny frame, she manages to push her way through the crowd to where you stand, grabbing your things.

Suddenly she is rendered speechless.

Vanya has never done this before, gone up to someone with prospects of something more in mind.

She’s just about to turn around and flee

When you turn around you are met with the prettiest girl you ever had the blessing to lay your eyes upon.

“Um, hi,” she says, waving at you with sweater-pawed hands. “You were really good up there. Your poem was lovely.”

You blush and smile at her. “Thank you. I’m glad you liked it. I’m Y/N L/N.”

“Yeah, I know. You said that on stage.”

You laugh nervously, smiling at the oddly warm yet awkward situation you had found yourself in.

“Oh, sorry, I’m Vanya.”

She extends her hand to you and you shake it.

“Nice to meet you, Vanya. Do you write?”

Her brown eyes are glued on you and you wonder if you’ve ever dedicated a poem to someone’s eyes alone.

You might just have to.

“I do,” she replies, “but uh, not poetry.”

You nod and Vanya feels herself slipping.

Whatever bravery your poetry had stirred up inside her was fading.

She needed to hold on to it for just a little bit longer.

“I actually am working on a book,” Vanya spills and you smile at her.

“Wow, that’s awesome. I would love to hear more about it,” you press.

You’re setting her up to ask you out, shamelessly.

Vanya smiles when she realizes this.

You smile too.

“Would you like to go out sometime? We can exchange sad literature then.”

You laugh and agree before giving Vanya your number.

She gives you hers and asks if you know a place you two can met.

“Actually, this cafe has a really good breakfast-brunch menu if you’re into that sort of stuff.”

“That sounds perfect,” Vanya breaths, still amazed that you agreed to go on a date.

You both settle on a time and Vanya bids you a goodbye.

She watches you slip out into the night as quickly as you left the stage.

The next day, when Vanya stumbles out of her bed and stares into her closet blankly.

She’s spent so much time in there (She’s AT LEAST bi/pansexual, you can pry this from my cold dead hands) but she suddenly is without any idea for what to wear on this first date with you.

Soon she settles on a sweater, jeans, and a rather sloppy ponytail.

She tries to fix her hair a few times, studying her appearance in her mirror until she’s content with it.

Vanya is never one to fuss with the way she looks, settling for her own comfort rather than appealing to others.

But something about you makes her want to try a little harder, put more effort in.

She likes the new feeling.

When she arrives back at the cafe, Vanya picks a spot closer to the door.

Everytime the little bells rings, notifying workers and patrons alike to a new arrival, Vanya’s eyes jerk up to see if it’s you walking inside.

After the first few people, Vanya resigns to nervously picking at her nails.

The calming atmosphere and dark blue walls of the establishment does nothing to soothe her, not even the rich aroma of fresh coffee leaves her slightly shaking.

She has never been on a date like this before.

Vanya is suddenly not even certain if she’s ever been on a real date before.

However she had been nervous like this before, so Vanya quickly implemented the calming techniques used in her therapy sessions.

But then she started to think about therapy….

...and about her mental state….

…..her family, her crazy, superpowered family…..

….she would have so much to tell you….

The prospect of telling you, even if it was later in the future, made Vanya want to cry.

Then the bell above the door rings

And she looks up to see you, already smiling at her.

The fear melts away the instant your eyes met and Vanya, for the first time in her life, feels extraordinary.

All because of your smile.

The two of you order some morning drinks and Vanya picks out a bagel for herself.

“I hear the blueberry one is delicious,” you whisper in her ear as she studies the patisserie.

“You’ve heard or you know first hand?” Vanya asks, her voice light and teasing with her newfound confidence.

“I can easily say I’ve tried each bagel here once,” you admit, heat rising to your cheeks.

Vanya only smiles at you and place her order for a blueberry bagel.

When you sit down she asks how you managed to work your way through the extensive bagel selection.

“I come here a lot. Whether it’s to write or to just get away.”

“I can relate to the getting away bit,” Vanya reveals, “my family rarely gave allowance for any free time.”

Vanya bites her tongue, unable to fathom why she had already hinted at her family’s less than average lifestyle.

With burning cheeks, Vanya lifts her gaze to yours and feels at ease once more.

There was something about you that assuage any fear.

Vanya wondered if it was because you had been so raw and vulnerable with the poem you shared the night prior.

Maybe you could understand her and her own vulnerability. At least, that’s what Vanya hoped in silence.

“Strict parents?”

It’s an innocent question, pulling her from her winding thoughts, but Vanya frowns anyway.

“You could say that, yeah.”

It’s clear to you that you nearly overstepped and quickly you redirect the conversation to writing.

“So you’re working on a book?”

“Y-Yeah, it’s an autobiography.”

“Really?” You ask, somewhat shocked.

“Turns out all that lack of free time gives you a lot of interactions to write about.”

“I guess there is a silver lining,” you sigh, but reach over the table to give her hand a slight squeeze. “I hope your book will help you make peace with your family.”

Vanya nodded, but her smile was bittersweet.

Although, Vanya couldn’t deny how your words felt like a step in the right direction.

“Peace for the Hargreeves is like equal rights for women,” she scoffs, “almost there but forever out of reach.”

You almost laugh, but the name of the family catches your attention.

Then you realize Vanya never gave you her last name.

“The Hargreeves? Like the super kids?”

Vanya’s face falls in that moment as she nods.

“Yeah, I’m the seventh kid. The ordinary one no one talks to or about.”

You squeeze her hand again and Vanya lifts her brown eyes to meet your intense gaze.

“Well I’m talking to you and I want to know all about you.”

You can read the disbelief on her face and your heart aches when you notice her glassy eyes.

Vanya is a sensitive soul, by no fault of her own, and never before had someone told her something so sweet.

So she tells you about herself as your kindness coaxed her honesty.

She tells you about how, most of the time, she fears she won’t amount to much.

You tell her that there are times you feel that way too.

The two of you end up talking for hours.

Morning turns to midday and Vanya checks her watch.

“Oh, I gotta go. I have to meet with my publisher.”

“Okay,” you say, wriggling out of your seat. “Talking deadlines?”

“Yeah,” Vanya grumbles, “because writing isn’t stressful enough, ya know?”

“Oh, I know,” you banter, “but maybe another date can help alleviate that stress?”

Vanya turns to meet your gaze as you walk out of the cafe behind her.

There’s a bright smile on her pink lips and crinkles at the sides of her eyes.

“Yeah, I think it would.”

You set up another date, but for a fancier restaurant in the city.

“From what I’ve heard,” Vanya says, mimicking the way you recommended the blueberry bagel, “it’s amazing.”

You grin because Vanya is really coming out of her shell.

“I’ll just have to take your word for it,”  you bite back.

Vanya beams and, unable to hold back, you grab her hand again, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Good luck in your meeting,” you say before pulling her into a hug.

It’s awkward at first, because Vanya isn’t used to such blatant affection.

But soon enough, she melts into your warmth and wraps her arms around your waist.

When you part, you hold her gaze and see a strong sparkle within her eyes.

It is then you realize, and Vanya too, that this was going to go somewhere.

Sadly, when you met up with Vanya outside the restaurant for your next date, it was dark inside.

“What happened?”

“Apparently it wasn’t as amazing as I thought it was,” Vanya sighed.

She was frowning and you could feel the disappointment emanating off of her body.

Her shoulders slouched, making her already diminutive form even smaller.

On an impulse you grab her hand and trace your thumb over her skin in a touching manner.

“Hey, it’s okay. We can find another place.” Vanya nearly melts. All she needs is you, your voice, telling her that it will be okay.

“Yeah, you’re righ-”

A roll of rumbling thunder sounded, cutting Vanya off.

“Great,” she mumbles as the first few droplets of rain began to splatter against the pavement.

You quickly scan the street, looking at any signs for an open diner.

Vanya’s hand doesn’t leave yours as you lead her down the street to further your search.

“What about there?” You ask, pointing to a crumby looking place with an ‘open’ sign blinking.

“Better than the rain,” Vanya said and led you across the street.

The two of you smoosh together under the cramped fabric awning above the diner’s entrance and access the damage done by the rain.

“My hair is a mess,” you fuss, using your hands to gauge just how ‘a mess’ it was.

Vanya only smiles and helps your fix it.

Her hands tremble at the sensation of your soft hair as she rearranges the strands.

It wasn’t the traditionally sense of intimacy, but it was enough to make Vanya weak.

“Thank you,” you said when Vanya pulled her hand back. You met her brown eyes and saw the slight trepidation in them. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Vanya says softly, “this is all just so new.”

Instead of speaking, taking the risk of saying something to set her on edge, you intertwine your fingers with hers and lead her inside the diner.

The lighting is yellow, making the already grey skies outside look all the more sickly through the somewhat grimy windows of the restaurant.

It wasn’t ideal, but for Vanya, anywhere with you was better than alone somewhere else.

“So, Vanya Hargreeves,” you begin, resting your head on your hands as you lean over the table, tantalizing close to the woman across from you.

“So, Y/N L/N,” Vanya mirrors your positioning and her blush becomes more apparent to you.

“Tell me everything.”

Vanya tells you about her day and you tell her about yours, both of your lamenting about the monotony of it all.

You share a new concept for a new poem and Vanya listens like a small child being told a fairytale.

She loves how passionate you become when talking about writing and she hopes that she can do literary justice for you when she writes her book.

You’re both mid conversation when your respective orders of overtly greasy diner food arrives to the table.

The overweight waiter, donning a white paper that tells you both to enjoy your meals in a tone that would read more accurately from a mob boss.

“I think even the salads here are probably just as greasy,” you joke when you see how Vanya eyes the burger she ordered.

She lets out a laugh, something she hasn’t had the pleasure to do in a long time.

The sound is music to your ears, setting a new rhythm for a new poem.

Most of the proceeding dates follow the same flow.

You meet Vanya at a new eating establishment like the new hipster cafe on fourth or the taco joint that opened near the park.

There you learned Vanya isn’t the best with spicy food, for even the mild salsa hurt her tongue.

“Don’t laugh at me! I feel like I’m on fire!”

“I’m not laughing! You just look cute with your cheeks all red!”

After about five dates, Vanya took a step she didn’t ever think she would have to take.

You were walking her home after checking out a new ice cream parlor, with fancy vegan recipes to boot, and Vanya turned to you.

“Hey this is my place,” she said, stopping in front of one of New York’s looming apartment complexes.

“Oh, okay,” you say, your voice heavy with a tinge of sadness. Vanya detects it, feels that same sadness too.

She doesn’t want the night to end.

“You can come up,” she says too quickly, “if you, uh if you want.” You smile when she tries to correct the speed of her voice in the hopes of not sounding too eager.

Vanya smiles too.

She does that a lot around you.

It’s a nice change from her normal frown.

“I would love to.”

Vanya leads you up the stairs that creak with each step and to the door of her apartment.

“It might be a bit of a mess so,” Vanya sighs, “sorry in advance.”

“It’s alright, you should see….”

As you’re speaking, Vanya opens the door to reveal a perfectly pristine, and quite cute, little apartment.

“Vanya, are you kidding me. This place is spotless,” you wonder aloud, standing in the middle of the apartment, arms spread to take it all in.

Vanya has never been more pleased by a sight.

“I haven’t really been home to clean,” Vanya admits, rubbing at the back of her neck. “Meetings, the orchestra, and...well...you.”

“Me? Keeping you from cleaning? How dare I,” you tease, reaching for Vanya.

She walks over to you and grabs your hands in hers.

The touch would have taken years to warm up to had it been anybody else

But with you, Vanya has never felt more safe or understood.

“Do you have any old movies?” You ask with a sly smile and Vanya nods.

“I’ll show you the collection and then I’ll get the popcorn.”

“Perfect.”

And the evening in is perfect indeed.

The two of you curl up on Vanya’s comfy couch, pecking at popcorn and watching horribly old films on a projector.

“You know, I haven’t used the projector in a long time,” Vanya muses quietly.

“Well, we’ll just have to correct that, won’t we?”

And you do.

Every Friday you and Vanya meet at her place to snack and watch movies.

It’s on one of these Friday’s when, after a long work week, you fall asleep on Vanya’s shoulder.

Your hair tickles the exposed skin of her neck and Vanya can not fight the urge any longer.

She leans in and presses the softest of kisses to your forehead.

“Goodnight, darling,” she whispers and lets herself fall asleep beside you.

When you wake up in the morning, Vanya is clinging to you and her chest is pressed against your own.

You smile, realizing that you could definitely get used to waking up like this.

Vanya can too, when she lifts her head to meet your eyes as your fingers comb through her long hair.

It’s the first time you see her with her down.

“You’re beautiful,” you both say at the same time.

A laughing fit ensues for the two of you, both still dopey from sleep.

“But really,” you press, lifting a hand to trail your knuckles lightly against the skin of her cheek.

“Thank you,” Vanya whispers, “you are too.”

You don’t kiss then.

You wish that you had.

Vanya wishes that you had too.

But you didn’t.

When you do though, it’s perfect.

At that point, you and Vanya have been together for close to a month.

You haven’t pushed the point of kissing, as you knew Vanya was stressed with everything with her book and music.

On one of those Friday evenings, Vanya calls you up to her apartment.

When you walk inside, you don’t see her anywhere.

You crept into her bedroom and find her, books scattered around her as she sits on the floor with tears in her eyes.

“Vanya, what’s wrong?”

When you get closer, you realize the book are old journals and littered in Vanya’s small handwriting.

“I was going through material,” she whimpers, “for the book...and...it’s so sad Y/N. I’m so sad.”

As soon as the last syllable leaves her lips, you’re sitting at her side, holding her as close as you can.

“Shh, hey, you got to be sad sometimes,” you whisper, “it’s life. But now you can be happy, put this behind you because it’s the past. Vanya, you will be okay.”

Every few minutes to repeat that.

“You will be okay, Vanya.”

You will be okay, you will be amazing. You already are.”

After a while, she stops crying and you wonder if she’s fallen asleep for her breathing is so even.

But then she lifts her head from your shoulder and looks into your eyes.

“You make me okay,” she whispered, “no one has ever done that before.”

You wipe at the lingering tears on her skin and offer her a half smile.

“Well, I’m honored,” you say, coaxing a faint chuckle from Vanya.

Her eyes hold yours, the gaze between you growing electric until, finally letting herself feel everything you have to offer her, Vanya leans in.

The kiss isn’t the best technically, at some points your teeth knocked but it didn’t deter either of you.

You could taste the salt of her tears on her lips and, as if to remove them from her flesh, you deepen the kiss.

You pulled her close, hands cupping her jaw as Vanya’s hands trailed loving paths against the skin of your arms.

When the two of you part, you’re breathless.

“I feel like that was more than okay,” you tease through shallow breaths.

Vanya nods, leaning in to peck your lips once more. “More than okay.”

The kissing gets better as the relationship continues to grow.

More dates and WAY more practice.

You write poems about Vanya, some of which you share with but some are just too poignant you hold them for yourself.

You help her proofread portions of her book.

Vanya dedicates the epilogue of her book to you, detailing how you changed how she perceives herself for the better.

The Friday movie nights continue on, although not many movies are watched to full completion.

Wandering hands and needy touches often divert attention away from the film shown on the projector.

When Vanya’s book is published, it’s you that suggests she send a copy to her father.

“It might help give you closure.”

You support her in improving her mental health through therapy and her pills.

When she goes to a local bookstore for her first live reading, you sneak a copy of the book and read it for yourself.

You go to Vanya with tears in your eyes, wishing she had told you about everything earlier.

She agrees and tells you the details she cut from the book.

There’s a lot of healthy crying and kissing and wishing you had met sooner.

“You know I love you, right?” You ask, eyes meeting hers through misty tears. “I love you, Vanya.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

When you sleep over at her place, you ALWAYS cuddle and somehow, Vanya ALWAYS ends up on top of you.

“You’re like a tiny heater.”

Teasing and puns because, when she’s happy, Vanya’s sense of humor is impeccable.

Late night evenings where Vanya plays the violin for you and you both sip at wine.

“You’re so good, too good,” you say dreamily, smiling up at Vanya.

Cooking together and trying new recipes when you’re saving money to travel.

“I think we should go to England...”

“But Germany! Pretzels! Beer!”

“Wow, you need to watch the travel channel or something.”

You write her a love poem for your first year anniversary.

You read it to her over a meal of your shared favorite take out place.

Vanya cries

You cry

Vanya got you tickets to your favorite band.

“I thought it would be a fun date. I know how much you love them.”

“Do you know how much I love you?!”

Your relationship isn’t without it’s bumps.

Sometimes Vanya just wants to be alone and you sometimes have trouble reading that.

She might snap at you now and again, but it’s mostly because she’s scared.

She’s scared that one day everything about her, surrounding her, her past, will be too much for you.

Sometimes you get moody due to writers block or stress.

You always talk about it, in either conflict.

You always come back together in the end.

There’s a basis of mutual communication and compromise that all of Vanya’s relationships (especially with her family) lacked.

‘You’re it for me’ you write on a slip of paper one day.

“A new poem?” Vanya asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

You’re in the cafe where you met for your usual breakfast date.

“Sort of,” you say with smile.

You don’t tell her about what you wrote or how the title at the top of the page was ‘wedding vows’.

You don’t tell her yet,

But that day will come.

[duckapus]

My Danny Phantom Reboot (as was owed for the Phight)

Okay, so first off I should mention that this is going to be less “what if someone made a reboot of Danny Phantom now” and more “what if Danny Phantom was done right to start with.” This means there’ll be more emphasis on storytelling and characters, none of H*rtm*n’s usual shenanigans, but the storyline as it was is going to be more-or-less intact, depending on what I think I can salvage.

So, let’s talk powers.

Danny is going to have all the powers he did in the show, given gradually and with clear foreshadowing. His ghost sense is currently just a bit too conspicuous, so I’ll be changing it from a wisp of cold breath to a chill up his spine, though for the sake of the audience there will be a visual and audio indicator of it, much like Spider-Man’s spider sense. Starting out, he just has that and the three basic ghost powers, though they won’t work properly for a while, and I’ll make it clear that this is because his half-ghost status prevented him from gaining the instinctual knowledge to control them outright. While there are some abilities that he gains during times of stress (like ectoblasts and the ghostly wail) he’ll have to actually practice in order for them to work with any level of consistency.

Like I mentioned, there will be some foreshadowing, specifically when it comes to his ice powers. There’s going to be multiple points where someone mentions that he has cold hands, with many of those people being ghosts to imply that it isn’t a ghost thing. There’ll be more emphasis on Ghost Cores and Core Types. Danny isn’t going to be as affected by warmer or colder temperatures as other people, usually being the last one to need to put on a jacket. He’s going to be somewhat weak to fire-based attacks. And there’s going to be a multi-episode buildup to his powers freezing him.

I’m also going all-in on the space motif. His bedroom is covered in star stickers and NASA posters. He tends to look up at the stars whenever he needs time to think. He isn’t afraid of heights at all because up is good, up is safe, up is home, and flight is the only power he never has trouble with as a result.

And now, for Danny’s parents. First off, for this, they do not want to destroy ghosts. They want to study them, understand them, and keep people safe from the ones that cause trouble. They know full well how little they actually know and how small their sample size is- that’s why they’re working on equipment to actually explore the Ghost Zone in the first place! Yes they’ll screw up, and jump to conclusions, and be a bit too enthusiastic. Yes, they’re working off of some pretty big assumptions, because that’s all they’ve got. But at the end of the day, they’re the first to admit they’re not perfect. And as far as priorities are concerned, they’re parents first, scientists second, and hunters third(if even that).

Jazz and Tucker are already good as-is, as are most of the ghosts, so let’s move on to Sam and the “A-listers.”

So starting off, because I’m not Fartman, I will not be vilifying the popular kids just because they’re popular. For Qwan, we’ve already got the fanon of him being a sweet cinnamon roll who’d be a great friend to everybody if he were just able to say no, specifically to Dash. And with Star I’ll be going with a strong-willed girl who’s fully willing to call the others out when they’re bullshit goes to far, though she’s admittedly got a looser definition of “too far” than she should.

And now the big three. So my interpretation of Sam, Dash and Paulina is that a big chunk of their issues come from them not quite growing out of their jackass middle schooler phase(you all know what I mean). That’s not all of it, or even most of it, but it’s a big enough part that them acknowledging it will be a huge step in the right direction.

In Sam’s case, a lot of it also stems from her need to control as much of her life as she can, which developed in response to how little control her parents let her have. This ranges from harmless (her love of gardening and “ultra-recyclo-vegetarianism”) to really not okay (her tendency to manipulate or strong-arm people into doing what she wants) with her harsh judgement of people and trust issues landing somewhere in the upper middle. All of this to say that she’s a lot more like her parents (and Paulina, to a lesser extent) than she realizes.

With Paulina, while she does still have a lot of problems, being a crazy, obsessive fangirl isn’t one of them. She knows full well that her feelings for Phantom are just a celebrity crush and they aren’t about to get together any time soon (the boy’s dead as far as she knows, for god’s sake!). She’s also very observant, not to the point of finding out the truth about Danny but enough to realize quite a few other important details…

With Dash, all I’m really going to be changing is that his Football Star status absolutely does not give him free reign to do whatever he wants, because I respect Mr. Lancer more than that.

Admittedly I haven’t quite figured out their other classmates yet. And Valerie’s arc is already good as-is, though I won’t be including her getting shunned by the “A-listers” because this version of Star ain’t gonna let that fly. I’m also including Wes, because his antics are glorious and I think I can do some cool stuff with him.

Now, along with giving the characters better characterization in general, I’ll also be giving them their own time in the limelight to show what Danny’s situation looks like from an outsider’s perspective. Valerie in particular ends up as something of a secondary protagonist.

And now we come to Vlad. Oh, Vlad.

Okay, so in this version, Vlad inviting the Fentons to the reunion was a genuine attempt to reconnect. Unfortunately ghostly obsessions are powerful things, and he sort of relapsed into hating Jack and wanting Maddie for himself. Things more-or-less continue as normal, though with his desire to take on Danny as an apprentice coming off as him actually, genuinely wanting to teach Danny how being a halfa works, which makes it a little comically awkward when he tries to turn their battles into a teaching moment. He still becomes the mayor, though this time around it’s because he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and he got voted in legitimately.

Unfortunately it all sort of goes downhill after a while. Due to his current mentality of “tired old uncle just wants to get over his issues and help out” clashing with his obsession with Jack and Maddie, he’s sort of cracking, and the fact that Danny adds an extra layer to both isn’t really a good thing.

And then we get the clones. In this version, they all last a lot longer, and sort of act as Vlad’s minions for a while. The Frankenstein’s Monster-esque one sort of acts as a big brother to the others. He’s also very smart, even if he can’t really say much, and as time goes on he starts to realize that something is very wrong with Vlad. It all comes to a head when Dani is created, because Vlad realizes that even with a human half she still isn’t stable and something inside him just snaps. At this moment, there’s now two Vlads in there; Masters, who’s honestly just tired of all the fighting and pushing people away, and Plasmius, who’s essentially season three Vlad in all of his megalomaniacle obsession-fueled glory. Frankendanny’s destabilization is a big moment in this, as are the other clones holding back Vlad as they’re melting so Danny and Dani can escape at the end of the episode.

Dani still ends up traveling after that, though she’s not just ignored as she’ll be sending Danny postcards of places she’s been and there’ll be a few episodes dedicated to her adventures (with some hints to her instability getting worse.)

D-stabilized is where thing get really crazy. This is because while I’ve been distracting you with my Danny Phantom remake, there’s been a secret, second remake of Fairly Oddparents hidden in the background! I won’t go into too much detail, since that’s not what this is about, but It follows the same structure of apply overarching story, focus on characters, trim off what doesn’t work. Because of this, Timmy happens to be in the same city where Valerie finds Dani (I don’t think they were in Amity Park yet, but I’m not sure) and meets Dani before Valerie does. The episode plays out more-or-less the same (Val uses Dani as bait to catch Danny, gives Dani to Vlad, Danny appeals to her better nature, she finds out that Vlad is an evil half-ghost and that not all ghosts are evil thus shattering her world view) but with the addition of Timmy tracking her down to her weird holding cell/torture room place (seriously, what was up with that?) and then tagging along and somehow holding his own against Fright Knight with nothing but a blaster he managed to swipe from her (since not only does he have to deal with having human allies, but also the fact that magic doesn’t work that well on ghosts, which means no fairy help).

After that, there’s a few breather episodes to the end of the third season, mainly to do with Valerie processing everything she’s just learned.

And then Freakshow gets the reality gauntlet, because I’ve been holding that off until now. Danny gets his identity revealed on live television, the Guys in White are after him, and Freakshow is holding Amity Park hostage until Danny can find the three stones he scattered.

There’s just a few small changes I’ve made:

The stones got scattered across the planet, instead of just the country

There’s no easy way to track the stones unless one gets activated, unlike in the original where they had ecto-signatures

Wes and the “A-Listers” get dragged along for the ride

Because Freakshow isn’t a complete idiot and realizes that it will take a significant amount of time to find the stones, the team has until the end of summer.

Instead of everybody being in cages (since that won’t really work with this time frame) Amity Park is surrounded by an impenetrable dome, and both ghost portals are clogged up. Nobody gets in or out unless the ringmaster says so.

The second and third parts of Wishology and an adaptation of Nicktoons Unite are happening alongside all of this, so along with GIW and ghosts the team is going to be dealing with the Eliminators and The Syndicate.

Carl, Sheen and Libby have somehow tagged along.

We’ll be calling this arc the Road-trip from Hell, and it, along with the other two story arcs, will be taking up the entirety of the fourth season. The other two arcs will experience changes as well, such as Dani going with Timmy, Mark Chang and the Villains to find the Wind Wand due to being in Dimmsdale when it happens, Catman, Chip Skylark, Elmer and Sanjay getting captured along with the rest of Timmy’s friends, Valerie and Tootie getting recruited by Jimmy to fight the Syndicate since Timmy and Danny are busy and they’re honestly the only two options, and Anti-Cosmo being the Fairly Oddparents representative for the Syndicate since Crocker is also busy.

For the sake of storytelling, I should mention that GIW is a fanatical splinter group of MERF in this continuity, and have already been established as major antagonists. Also throughout the season Fairy World is basically going to be a warzone locked in a three-way battle between the Fairies, the Anti-Fairies and Syndicate, and the Eliminators, which all three groups see at one point or another.

The final battle is really going to be four going on simultaneously- Danny and Team Phantom(which by this point will also include the reformed agents O and K, because I like them) vs Ghost Freakshow, the robot army just outside of town, and Lydia; the Nicktoons vs the Syndicate’s doomsday device; Cosmo in his Godzilla form vs everything the Syndicate and the Eliminators can throw at him, and Timmy vs The Destructinator (which will actually be a full-on fight, with the outsmarting thing just being Timmy’s trump card). It’s going to be really cool with a bunch of well-timed jump-cuts and everything.

Then in the aftermath I’m going to basically spit in the face of the status quo. Danny still erases peoples memories of his reveal, but leaves out the new members of Team Phantom (because if he has to remember the road-trip from hell, so does everybody else), and it also doesn’t work on Valerie (or Tootie) since they were in Jimmy’s universe at the time, which is going to be Fun for Danny to deal with when she gets back. Timmy, Chester and AJ are also immune, due to AJ secretly making the three of them immune to memory wipes in general so Timmy wouldn’t have to forget his fairies or go through what happened in the first Wishology again. He would’ve done the same with Elmer and Sanjay, but he didn’t get the chance.

After all that, season five is a return to the norm, other than dealing with the new character dynamics, the Vlad situation, and all the Fairly Oddparents stuff leaking in. I haven’t really worked out all the specifics, since I sort of got caught up in the season four stuff.

Note: For obvious reasons, I cannot actually reboot Danny Phantom and/or Fairly Oddparents. Unless I come up with ideas later on down the line, or other people decide to add their own ideas, this is what you get.

(@phandomphightclub, I did it!)

[pumpkinmutual]

Sweet Dreams [Wooyoung] [4]

“So,” you begin casually as you poke at the ice-cubes in your glass with your straw, “are you going to tell me who you saw?”

Wooyoung shifts in his seat across from you and looks up. “No,” he responds and gives you a look. “And I’m not going to change my mind, so whatever plans you have of asking me later are not going to work.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

Wooyoung laughs. “With all the questions you’ve asked me over the last twenty-four hours, I highly doubt that.”

Something inside you recoils at how amused he sounds, and you fight hard not to let annoyance get the better of you as your attention drops down to the plate in front of you. Wooyoung had picked this café, either to distract you from asking questions or to get away from whoever he’d seen – and while the ambiance is nice, your appetite has abruptly vanished.

You’re not sure if he picks up on your drop in mood or if he himself is tired of sitting there, but it isn’t long before Wooyoung clears his throat and when you look up, he jerks his head towards the door. “Ready to leave?”

You nod, halting in your absentminded playing with your food and standing as Wooyoung does the same, dropping the appropriate amount of money and tip on the table before he follows you out the door.

Though you know you shouldn’t ask any more questions, curiosity wins the battle and the words spill from your lips as the two of you begin walking down the sidewalk. “Where did you get the money?”

“I keep telling you,” Wooyoung says, hands in his pockets, “I’m not as out of touch as you think I am. I’m prepared for my trips to this realm and that includes money.”

“But where did you get it?” Frustration colors your tone. “You make fun of me for asking so many questions, but you aren’t answering any of them.”

Wooyoung stares at you for a long moment before something flashes in his eyes as he grabs your upper arm, yanking you into a nearby alleyway. He takes enough care to make sure neither of you will be spotted so easily, but the look on his face is far from friendly when he focuses on you.

“Listen,” he hisses, “I don’t know if you got the idea that we’re somehow friends into your head, nor do I know how, but we are not. I am not here to be nice, I am not here to entertain you.” If he notices how you flinch at his tone, he ignores it. “I am here to do my job, and I can’t leave until it’s done. That is the only reason I’m still here. Got it?”

You nod, and Wooyoung frowns, brow furrowed.

“Say it,” he prompts. “I want to hear you say you understand me.”

“I understand,” you answer, hands curling into fists to hide the way they tremble, nails biting crescent moons into the soft skin of your palms.

“Good. Now let’s go.” Wooyoung turns, not waiting to see if you follow as he exits the alleyway. You linger a moment longer, waiting for the icy fear to dissolve from your veins and your heart to stop beating so fast.

Maybe part of you had taken his attitude up until now for granted, placing him somewhere in a safe-zone – but Wooyoung has a point. He isn’t human, and he’s here for one thing and one thing only.

You wonder how long he’s willing to wait before his patience runs out.

  “I’m going to bed.”

Wooyoung only nods, noting that it’s early to be going to sleep – but he says nothing, watching as you disappear down the hall, followed by the soft click of a door closing. The rest of the day had been spent somewhere between awkward silence and stilted conversation, his words from the alley hanging over the both of you like a persistent raincloud.

Wooyoung doesn’t regret what he said. He knows that trusting nature of humans, knows if he didn’t remind you of who he is – what he is – you would just make it harder for him to do his job. Harder for you to part with your heart, to give it to him? Or harder for him to take it at all –

No. Wooyoung shakes his head. He prides himself in his dedication to his job, in knowing that no matter what the circumstances are, he always ends up the winner with his coveted prize. He’s an incubus after all, and he has a reputation to uphold.

He leans back in his chair as he looks around the room, taking in the pictures around the room. They’re neatly framed and carefully placed, moments frozen in time. There are a handful of you and your parents, snapshots from various stages of life – and against better judgement, he finds himself getting up to take a better look at them.

There are several of you and your parents, from professional grade ones with semi-plastic smiles to ones taken by a stranger, those smiles more genuine. If you have siblings, you haven’t mentioned it and Wooyoung hasn’t asked.

There are more photos with your friends, with carefree smiles so wide he can almost hear the laughter from that day. Though there are several people in each photo, his attention always ends up settling on you, taking in your appearance, the way your eyes sparkle with laughter, happiness genuine. Wooyoung reaches up to touch one of the photos, pulling away at the last moment with a snort of disgust and the shake of his head.

He knows what he’s doing, and he hates it. He shouldn’t be looking at your photos, shouldn’t be focusing on how happy you look, how much you mean to those people, how much they mean to you – you’re a target, nothing more, nothing less.

You should mean absolutely nothing to him. You’re one in a thousand, neither the first and far from the last – you’re a silly little human girl who asks too many questions. You’re too trusting too – all it’d taken was some careful words and watching his tone to get you to trust him enough to let him come with you today. But why had he? There was no reason to follow you around, no reason to tell one of your friends that he was on a date with you – though it had been fun to see how flustered you’d gotten. But still utterly pointless – he knows the endgame, and so do you.

Perhaps that’s why he’d said what he had today – to remind you and himself that this camaraderie is false. He’s only here for one reason, and one reason only.

“Or maybe,” a voice speaks up, the soft, sly tone making him tense, “you’re just going soft.”

“I thought I told you to leave.”

“You know me, I don’t care much for doing what I’m told.” Wooyoung turns, staring at the newcomer as he examines his nails, expression neutral before he looks up, eyes narrowing. “Besides, you can’t threaten me.”

“Get out, San.” Wooyoung’s eyes never leave San’s face as the other incubus shifts and stretches, yawning.

“What if I don’t want to?” There’s a wicked gleam in San’s eyes, an edge of cruelty underneath the false-pleasant smile on his lips. “Are you going to make me leave?” He stands, approaching the row of pictures that Wooyoung had been looking at earlier. “Your target is a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

“San.”

“I could do it for you, you know.” San’s tone is thoughtful, his hand linked behind his back as he resumes walking. “She’s asleep right now, it’d be so easy for me to pluck that pretty heart from her chest—”

The photographs rattle in their frames as San’s back hits the wall, Wooyoung’s arm pressed against his throat. Despite the force that the incubus is using to pin him, all San does is laugh at the dark look that Wooyoung gives him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Don’t touch her,” Wooyoung hisses, “she isn’t your target.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I could help you out since you seem so hesitant to do it yourself.” Some of the amusement in San’s expression and eyes is gone as he continues, “Normally you wouldn’t hesitate to do it, even if it was by force. What’s changed, Wooyoung? What makes her any different than the ones before?”

“I don’t have to give you answers,” Wooyoung snarls, “when you shouldn’t even be here. Her heart is mine to steal, and that’s all you need to know.” He steps back, pulling his arm away from San’s neck. San rubs at the skin, unbothered as he straightens up.

“So do it,” he says, “before I decide to do it for you.”

Wooyoung watches the other incubus vanish in a curl of scarlet smoke before he turns, making a beeline down the hallway for your room. He’s careful in opening the door, stepping in silently and shutting it behind him before he approaches the bed.

Your breathing is even and soft as you sleep, peacefully unaware of him as he stares down at you. It’d be so easy to do it now, to end all of it by taking what he needs – but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do what he should, even though it’s his job. Even though he’s done it a thousand times, never hesitating.

This time, he hesitates.

And he lets you sleep.

@chasingatinydream

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 13

Author’s Note:  This is the first chapter written by my new co-author, @ritualistic-raven, AKA The Real Tyche.  Initially, this was a fanfiction she wrote from Tyche’s perspective, but as soon as I found out, I had to read it.  The idea of everything was just too good not to include!  Obviously, this chapter is dedicated, first and foremost to her: For being my biggest fan, my staunchest supporter, and with everything going on in our lives right now, making everything as easy as possible on us both.

She would like to dedicate this chapter to Dante, God Rest His Soul.

Please: Read, Review, Reblog.

“Where were you when it happened?”

I sighed deeply as I placed my mug on the table. “Antoine, why would you ask this?” As I said his name, his grip on my hand tightened reassuringly.

Sophia raised an eyebrow at his gesture. “You have been avoiding it. You haven’t even told me and I’m your sister. Between you and my old therapist, I know first-hand that talking helps. You know what I’m talking about.” She gently pet the purring puddle of fur on her lap, pausing only when it stretched, showcasing claws and fangs.

In my heart, I knew she was right. There was a complication though: my memory never had been reliable. “More holes than a sponge and nowhere as absorbent,” is how I had always described it. I could summarize ten years in three sentences. These survivors wanted a story, not the bullet points.

“I haven’t undergone repair yet. I know Noah can fix me. My memory. I’m just not sure I want that. Soph, you know how bad my life was back home. Antione, darling, I’ve briefed you on a few parts. Conor, Arantxa, you will likely find out soon. I don’t hide my past, but I also don’t simply offer it,” I sighed again, the last few words feeling tight in my throat. “What I mean is… I only remember pieces. I can share those, but a lot is missing. Most was either repetitive or I just don’t remember.”

All eyes were on me, even the bright green eyes of the fur-puddle.

“Tyche?” Antoine spoke softly, but his voice shook ever-so-slightly.

The hand that wasn’t on mine reached for my other wrist, the one I hadn’t realized was held in a fist next to my shoulder. He pulled back to show blood on his fingertips, only, it wasn’t his.

My sister stood up casually and announced our meeting was over for tonight. “Tyche will be okay. I’ve got this. If everyone could just leave, without touching her, I’ll get her cleaned up. It’s PTSD, and she just told us she hasn’t let the Miys treat her. Tyche will be okay. I’ve got her.”

Our friends placed their dinnerware on the counter and each said goodnight, concern in every word. After the doors to my quarters closed, Sophia sat beside me, where Antoine had been, and sat our now-shared cat on the table in front of me. “Can you see ‘now’ or are you seeing the past?” she asked quietly.

Being able to act in the present while my mind showed me only the past was an unfortunate skill of mine. No one could really explain how I could do this, but it was classed as a form of shellshock. With so many on the ship with moderate to severe levels of PTSD, the Miys had found my particular form of shellshock fascinating.

“Now,” I barely whispered. My right hand found the cat while my left was clenched tight. Blood dripped slowly toward my elbow.

“Good start,” Sophia said, still quiet, with a ridiculous level of calm that I knew was her own self-defense mechanism. “Your hand is bleeding. I’m guessing you flashed back to something really awful. I’m so sorry, Tyche.” She calmly uncurled my fingers to look at the cuts. My fingernails had dug into my palm pretty deeply, somehow without registering pain.

A voice came over the intercom that rang with panic and anger. “She’s bleeding! Why would you let her hurt herself, Soph?! How was bringing up the beginning of the End a good idea?!”

My chair fell back a few feet when I erupted from it. “Don’t you dare blame her for this!” I thrust my hand poignantly toward the camera module, emphasizing my last word. “Don’t you dare blame any of them, Simon!”

“Tyche, you need to calm down. Raising your—”

“Oh, fuck off. I have PTSD, as do all of us – except you, might I add? I am traumatized and I refused treatment.”

“That’s—”

An absolutely primal scream roared from my tiny frame because I could not stand Simon. He was truly terrible at handling any of my PTSD episodes, had been since the moment I first woke up on Ark.

“Tyche—”

I audibly growled before I spoke again. “What are you even watching me for? You swore you wouldn’t when you stepped down from the Council! What the hell do you want?”

He cleared his throat from his location elsewhere on the ship. “You have a meeting in two hours. Your quarter doors were set to Do Not Disturb and due to your illness history, there was concern for your safety. Apparently with good reason.”

“Simon,” my sister began as she set my chair upright, still unnaturally calm but clearly scolding him with that one word. “You know to check entry logs first. Then you would have seen I had an official appointment with our Assistant Director of Administration. Go back to work.”

“With all due respect, ma’am—”

“The concern is appreciated. She is my sister, though. I am one of the few people in any universe she trusts. Please, just – go away. Tyche would probably like privacy now.” She shifted her gaze to me.

I nodded almost imperceptibly. As I turned around to walk to my bed, the intercom clicked off. The Miys, with their not-very-good understanding of privacy, slipped words into my mind. “There is an infirmary approximately two-hundred and fifty yards from your quarters. Would you like to be escorted?”

The telepathic hive-mind alien ‘spoke’ in a tone of genuine concern. I don’t think it had witnessed a physical result from PTSD before.

“No, I have not. Your recollection is – fragmented, but very strong. How can the human psyche withstand such emotions of such strength?”

I brought the knuckles of my wounded hand to my forehead. “It can’t. The psyche breaks. Otherwise, post-traumatic stress disorder wouldn’t exist. If our psyche could handle it, our brains wouldn’t…” I waved my hand to signal I was trying to find a word. “Our brains wouldn’t glitch, or malfunction, or however you best understand the damage done to my brain by my traumatic experiences.”  Sophia opened the door and reminded me about the infirmary.  Apparently, our host had included her in the conversation.

“Right. Thanks. I’ve managed to keep my hand pretty since before the End. Let’s not break that streak now.”

The alien body in the infirmary was just as tall the all the others. Not really a surprise, given the months I had been on this ship, but I had hoped for some distinguishing feature from time to time. My sister, however, could tell them apart. How she did that remained a mystery to me.

I strolled over to the Miys body assigned here and carefully held out my wounded hand. With one pair of hands, it placed my arm on an exam bench adjusted to my shoulder height. It did know I was on my way, after all. This was also not my first visit. The Miys vessel moved a CD sized scanner over the wound, no doubt checking the severity of the injury.

“So, Tyche,” my sister said with a note of curiosity. “Who is this Antoine guy? You two seemed awfully chummy.”

I looked at her and blinked, trying to register what she asked. The Miys still had little understanding of dissociation, but Sophia understood perfectly and showed patience. She knew what post-panic numbness felt like.

“He’s, um… What do you mean? Chummy? In what sense?” My brain was catching up and my tone reflected playfully.

She placed a hand on her hip and tilted her head. “I saw Antione’s hand on yours. We both know you’re generally a prickly person,” she laughed. “You were practically cuddling with him, if someone knew what to look for.”

“Oh! That. He’s basically my assigned comfort-human. Ever since I told our hosts about touch-starvation, they’ve been trying to encourage me to bond with someone. Y’know. For my health.” A cold serum was injected into my palm. “Ah! You could have warned me!”

The serum was designed to heal our wounds almost instantly. It worked, mostly. As long as the injury wasn’t what human consider severe – the Miys considered everything severe – the serum could stimulate rapid cell growth. You could actually watch the injury heal within minutes. The only side-effect was a few days of the site tingling.

“Anyway,” I said as I watched the cuts on my palm heal, “Antoine was one of the ‘candidates’ to ‘facilitate’ catching me up on lost touch or whatever. He’s good at snuggling, will bring me meals when I’m not well, and fully respects that I am asexual. I ended up telling Them, well, It, since there’s only one mind… Ugh… I still feel awkward about the pronouns… Our Host that it really is best for me if I receive that touch from someone I can get to know. That sounds creepy, I know, but I digress. I guess Antoine is like an arranged boyfriend? He knows the deal. Aroace. He asked what it means and I explained. He said that actually makes things less awkward if we end up not getting along and have to end our ‘arrangement.’”

We both laughed as we left the infirmary. I told her it was much easier to get the cuisine I was accustomed to thanks to Antoine and some of the things he had told me about himself.

The pendant on her necklace chimed, signaling that my that my councilmember sister had another official meeting. Our three hours had come to an end.

“Same time next week?” She asked, casually brushing her fingertips over the pendant to silence it.

I looked down as I smirked. “I can take a sedative just to make sure things don’t turn out like this week. So yeah, same time next week.”

We parted ways and I couldn’t help but think of how badly I had reacted to a simple question. He didn’t mean anything by it. At some point, we all shared our stories with a crowd. Some days, the assemblies felt like Addicts Anonymous. The attending members were almost always awkward, fumbling through their histories on Earth.  Given that my position on the ship dealt with so many people, I knew that sharing my story would help them see me less as a bureaucrat. Seeing me as a person they can relate to would make my job easier when learning where to place them for jobs.

Looked like it was time for me to get the hard part over with, damn the emotions and full speed ahead.

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[lettheladylead]

I'm not sure if you take prompts but number 26 Scroldie

(this is actually a fic id been wanting to write for a while, and now you gave me some inspiration to do it! so thank you lol under a read more cuz of length)

When he first fell ill, they didn’t think it was anything out of the ordinary. An old man who doesn’t take the best care of his health and frequently goes on life-threatening treasure hunts; changing altitude five times a day and experiencing severe weather patterns without proper clothing? And who’d been on four different adventures in the past week?

Beakley was surprised he didn’t get sick more often. Certainly being 150 years old couldn’t be beneficial for his health, after all. So they put him on bed rest despite his whining, and Duckworth’s ghost checked his temperature while they slept during the night. The kids weren’t worried, Donald wasn’t worried. There was no reason to worry.

Until day three of his fever when his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he started chanting in an unrecognizable language.

Immediately they consulted a local physician, who was completely baffled. Donald thought Gyro might be able to help while Beakley contacted Ludwig Von Drake - neither had a clue, but would dedicate as much time as possible to searching for the answer.

At a certain point, Scrooge went completely still and quiet, and Beakley thought this nightmare could be over. But then his body tensed up and he started to seize, and Beakley knew she had to contact the second-to-last person she wanted to deal with.

(The last being Magica de Spell, the only person they knew who was magically fluent. It was hard to deny that there was some magic involved in this.)

Rather, she would have to find a way to get in touch with Goldie O’Gilt…whose Scrooge-esque experiences with time travel, dimension hopping, and magical artifacts made her a bit of an expert when it came to things like this. Unfortunately, she changed her phone number regularly and never stayed in one spot for long, so Beakley did the only thing she could think of:

She went on TV. As a representative of McDuck Enterprises, Bentina Beakley went on Roxanne Featherly’s program and gave a message to the world and anyone who was watching.

“Mr. McDuck has decided to take a relaxing vacation for the first time in his career. McDuck Enterprises’ activities will be temporarily handled by our Board of Directors. But rest assured - Mr. McDuck has plenty of gold to stay comfortable for a little while and catch his breath.”

It took only a day and a half until the doorbell rang and Beakley was greeted with an ever-unpleasant sight.

“Beakley.”

“O’Gilt.”

Goldie made her way into the house and looked up the stairs. “What’s going on?”

“We’re not sure. Fever, seizures, eyes darting around, mumbling in some language I don’t know.”

She huffed and headed up the stairs, adjusting the duffel bag on her back. “Got it.”

Bentina glared at the blonde as she turned at the top of the stairs, and started to follow. Obviously some items around the house would be stolen before the day was over, but the most important thing was that she cured him. They could replace gold candelabras and picture frames - they couldn’t replace Scrooge.

Goldie left the door open a crack behind her as she went in, and Beakley took the opportunity to spy. As soon as Goldie tossed her duffel bag onto Scrooge’s bed, Bentina felt a ghostly presence above her and looked up to see Duckworth being just as concerned.

(And perhaps a bit nosy. He always said he found Scrooge and Goldie’s relationship to be “a fascinating trainwreck.”)

She sat on the edge of his bed and sighed, putting a hand on his forehead. “Scrooge, what did you do?”

He mumbled something in that language Beakley had mentioned to her, and Goldie rolled her eyes. “Some language…it’s just backwards Hebrew. No wonder they needed me here if they couldn’t get that.”

Beakley squeezed the doorframe angrily, but didn’t budge. Duckworth would’ve scoffed if they weren’t trying to be quiet.

Goldie reached into her bag and pulled out a few items that looked like absolute nonsense to the housekeepers watching. There were a few large stones, some long leaves, a small mirror, and a golden hamsa with a brightly-colored amethyst in place of the pupil. The bag was still very full - Beakley realized she must’ve brought any magical healing artifact she owned.

She placed two identical leaves over his eyes and mumbled something, and Scrooge almost immediately started to shake. Beakley’s eyes widened and she almost barged into the room until Goldie grabbed one of Scrooge’s hands and forced the hamsa into his palm.

“Lie still, Sourdough, you’re going to be fine. Just lie still.”

The seizing stopped as soon as the gold touched his hand, and Beakley and Duckworth stared at each other briefly before looking back.

“You were playing around in the Dead Sea, weren’t you?” She chuckled to herself. “How else would you get possessed by a dybbuk? You’re lucky it didn’t go after one of the kids.”

Scrooge was breathing quietly - almost as if he hadn’t been shaking around just a minute before.

Goldie placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. After a few moments, she sat up slowly and grabbed the mirror, placing it face-down where her head had been. She started mumbling again and the whole house felt like it was shaking for a second and then just as suddenly…it stopped.

She picked up the mirror and, keeping it face down, smashed it onto one of the rocks. It shattered into a dozen pieces (which Beakley dreaded having to pick up later) and Goldie tossed the mirror handle onto the floor.

“Scrooge?” she asked quietly. “Are you asleep?”

He responded with a snort and a rotation of his head. Goldie just smiled. She watched him for a moment before remembering one last thing and turned on her phone’s flashlight. She forced open his eyes to take a good look at them before letting him be.

After another minute of enjoying the calming sounds of clock ticking and the air conditioning purring, Goldie stuffed everything except the hamsa (including the small mirror shards, surprisingly enough) back into her duffel bag and stood up. She side-eyed the door to the room - knowing full well that she had an audience - but couldn’t stop herself from leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on Scrooge’s forehead. She smiled down at his sleeping face before turning and walking out of the door.

Beakley and Duckworth moved out of the way as she headed to the stairs.

“Wha-? You’re leaving?” Beakley glared at her. “Don’t you want to see if he’s alright?”

Goldie rolled her eyes and grabbed the top of the railing. “He should wake up within an hour. Don’t give him any food with salt, and make sure he stays in bed at least one more day.”

Duckworth and Beakley shared a look again. “So it’s done? He’s cured?”

She was partway down the stairs before stopping to sigh and answer what she considered a series of dumb questions. “He wasn’t sick, he was possessed. And yes, he’s fine. Don’t let him take anymore trips to the Dead Sea if he’s not going to protect himself properly beforehand.”

Beakley blinked, a bit disturbed by this information (and how did O’Gilt know where he’d last been?), and peeked back into his room to see Scrooge turn in his sleep and start to snore like normal. He really looked like his regular old self again.

The thought of “regular old self” made Beakley slap a hand against her face. “Damn it!” She rushed over to the top of the stairs to see that Goldie had already left the mansion. A quick glance around the foyer showed nothing out of place. “I have trouble believing she left without taking something.”

Duckworth appeared next to her and looked around as well. “Your doubt is understandable, especially considering that she took a sword, an umbrella, and…a framed photograph of Mr. McDuck?”

“What?!”

“One from his Gold Rush days, I believe. Perhaps she took it for the memories.”

“That thieving little-” Beakley grumbled with her hands balled into fists. She inhaled deeply and then closed her eyes and breathed out her frustration. “Let’s just call it payment. If she’s right and he wakes up just fine, then he can deal with it instead.”

“Works for me. Now you should start calling around to let everyone know he’s alright.”

“You’re not going to help?”

“Hm?” Duckworth darted his eyes back and forth before starting to float up to the ceiling. “Oh, seems I can’t! Ghostly callings, and all that. Have fun!”

Beakley glared and ran a hand through her bangs. She had a lot of people to call.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17323205/chapters/40816523

[lilulo-12fanfiction]

Nothing Breaks Like A Heart 1

So here’s my first Avengers fic. I know I haven’t posted in a while and I have a few stories I need to work on.

Huuuuge thank you to @shreddedparchment for betaing this chapter and helping me clean it up. I’m definitely rusty.

This is not a reader insert but a Steve Rogers x OC story.

But feel free to send requests for reader inserts.

The sound of Nora’s heels echoed down the hallways of SHEILD as she headed to her destination. Ever since she was a little girl the sound of high heels was the sound of power to her. Pepper always seemed to have power in some way over her Uncle Tony. Not in a bad way. He just needed guidance occasionally as Pepper had put it. She appeared exude confidence as she strutted down the hallway with the familiar Stark swagger. She was the poster child for “fake it til you make it” never quite feelingas confident as she looked. This building, the history of the organization was beyond intimidating. Her Grandfather’s and her father’s legacies were looming over her.

As far as the world knew, her father had died in a plane crash. It had been her birthday tradition; her father dropped her off with her Uncle Tony and attended business. Every year, it made Nora’s heart ache that her father spent her birthday away from her. She often wondered if it was to mourn her mother who died in child birth. Tony, however, made every single birthday that Nora could remember absolutely special. He just had to work harder now that both of her parents died on that day. She was 10 when her father passed.

Nora, as soon as she was old enough to really pay attention to detail, always felt that her father’s death seemed off. They had no idea what had caused his private plane to crash. Both her father and Howard seemed to be working on something important before they died and both had died in strange accidents.

She felt the pain of her father’s death deeply still. He had his flaws, he often put work first, but he always made sure that she knew how much he loved her. Tony has feared she’d never get out from under the darkness that over took her once she was gone. She found solace in working with her Uncle. He taught her everything he knew.

“Nora!” Fury’s voice boomed with greeting shaking her from her thoughts. She smiled and hugged him. She was one of the few that brought out Nick Fury’s softer side.

“Good to see you Uncle Nick. Where is he?” She’d been calling him that since she was a kid. Before her father was gone he worked closely with Fury.

“Where he’s been almost every day- in the gym punching bags. I’ll take you down there now.” Nora nodded, a feeling of nerves and queasiness coming over her. What a first impression it would be if she puked on Captain America’s shoes. She trailed behind Fury slightly taking in the facility. It always impressed her no matter how many times she saw it.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him. His tall muscular frame was more impressive than photos revealed. She didn’t know him but she felt like she did. Her father worshipped him. She had never really known her grandfather. She was a baby when he and Maria died. But she had heard all of the stories from her father.

She followed Nick into the gym as she carefully studied Steve Rogers. She jumped when he hit the punching bag so hard it flew across the room. She must have let out a squeak because The Captain was giving her a sheepish look. He may have been a super soldier but he had the most innocent face she’d ever seen. He was equally taking her in. She was relatively short, but then again height didn’t run in the family. She had pale skin, high cheekbones and dark curly hair that was past her shoulders. Shiny loose ringlets framed her face. It was her eyes that captivated Steve. They were a pale green, something he’d never seen before. She was wearing a black suit jacket and matching dress shorts with a silk red cami finished off with her stilettos.

“Captain- I have someone here who would really like to get to know you.” Fury looked to Nora. She smiled nervously and approached the man her father had admired so much. She extended her hand.

“Nora Stark.” She watched as Steve’s eyes grew wide.

“Howard-“

“Howard’s granddaughter.” She finished for Steve.

“I didn’t know Tony had a daughter.” From what Steve had heard of the billionaire, responsible parent wasn’t included. Nora snickered.

“He doesn’t. Well not that he knows of anyway.” She saw a rare genuine smirk on Fury’s face.

“Tony’s my uncle and guardian for the past 12 years. My father was his brother. Your namesake actually. He was Grant Stark. Grant Roger Stark. Clearly Howard was a fan.” Nora felt a little flutter as she watched Steve’s face turn slightly pink.

“Nora is brilliant.” Fury turned and smiled at Nora. “Genius like her uncle and father. She has her masters in Computer Science and Cyber security. She helps Pepper Potts run Stark Industries, charms the press when Tony does something embarrassing.” His voice was filled with pride as if he was talking about his own child.

“I think I should be more excited to get to know you instead.” Steve was laughing but he was incredibly impressed.

“Oh please, I have a photographic memory. If it wasn’t for that I’d probably be working at Costco or something.” Nora tried to brush off the compliment.

“Well, I have to get back to work so I’ll leave the two of you to get to know each other.” Nick Fury excused himself leaving a flustered Nora behind.

“So why the interest in getting to know me?”

“Okay well meeting a man that was in ice for 70 years and lived should be reason enough.” Steve laughed at her bluntness and Nora continued. “The reason I came is that I HAD to meet you. Howard was your biggest fan, for lack of a better term. You marked his life. He never stopped looking for you. He thought that you could have survive the crash. Then after a while he just wanted to bring you home. You were his friend and he felt like he somehow failed you. Your bravery saved so many. My father admired you as much as his father did. Once Howard died he continued his search. You were like the family member I never met. You occupied a space in my life and now I can actually know you.”

She turned slightly and Steve could tell she was wiping a tear from her face. Talking about her father always made her emotional.

“Can we get out of this gym? It smells like feet and I’m not into it.”

The super soldier tipped his head back and a laugh erupted from deep down.

Nora always covered her emotions with jokes and sarcasm. She got that from Tony.

“If you give me a half an hour to shower and change we can get out of the building.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be waiting outside so Fury can’t try to put me to work.”

Steve watched Nora for a moment from the door. She had changed into a white V-Neck T-Shirt and her heels were replaced with black flip flops and she had an army green baseball cap to shield her face and was sitting on a bench outside of Sheild with her legs crossed reading a fashion magazine.

She smiled when she saw him walk out of the building. She had one of those smiles that could light the darkest of places. He was excited to talk to someone that shared a link to his past. He had felt so alone. He liked Natasha but it just wasn’t the same as genuine friends, not yet anyway. Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. was nice but they wanted something from him, a piece of him. To Nora, Steve must have been the only other connection besides Tony to her father and grandfather . She wanted to know Steve, she didn’t NEED Captain America.

“You changed?”

“Well I try to stay incognito as often as possible. Not easy when you were raised by Tony Stark. Plus I’m not enough of a masochist to try to walk the city in those shoes” she replied effortlessly.

Steve grinned at her. “So where to?” He questioned as she stood up and threw her magazine into the big teal leather bag that was over her shoulder.

“Well from what Nick told me you haven’t really gotten out much. So I thought we could do some walking around the city and I’d show you some of my favorite places in Manhattan. I know a lot of cool places that are amazing that don’t get a lot of tourist action so it’s easier to blend in. It’s nice to be able to do things without public scrutiny. I’m sure you’ll start having people recognize you if they haven’t already. Before you know it you’ll have your very own dedicated paparazzi.” She rolled her eyes and them laughed.

“I’d love to see your favorite places.” He looked at her with an intensity that took her breath away. She smiled when he offered her his arm. Linking her arm within his she lead him down the street to her favorite art gallery.

As they were walking and laughing Nora felt her phone vibrate on her pocket. She looked and saw that it was Tony. She sheepishly apologized to Steve and answered her phone.

“Hi Tone.” Stevd could hear the admiration for her Uncle in her voice.

“Hey kid- where are you?” He sounded tired. He and Pepper had been working non-stop for days.

“Out with a friend” She knew her Uncle held a bitterness towards the super soldier. Tony’s feelings were completely irrational but she knew it was involved with his complicated feelings towards Howard. “Finally came up for air?”

“Something like that. You know I really wish you’d let Happy or one of his guys drive you. What if someone came after you?” Nora rolled her eyes.

“Well its a good thing Rhodey taught me to defend myself. Don’t worry about me. One of the guys drove me and now I’m not alone. Please get some sleep and make sure you eat something.”

“Okay Nori. Be good. I’ll see you in the morning.” She smiled at his use of the nickname he gave her when she was a little girl.

“Sorry about that.” Nora quickly shoved her phone back in her pocket. “Tony and Pepper have been working on a pretty big project. He works way too hard sometimes. They both do.”

Steve waved off her apology. “No need to apologize. Shall we go to this gallery of yours?”

Nora nodded and they continued down the street. She linked her arm back in his with a grin as they headed back down the street.

A while later Nora had snuck them through the kitchen of her favorite restaurant. The Chef was a good friend of hers. While she loved all his cooking, the food on the menu was pretentious and overpriced. He was an artist but needed to pay his dues. He always whipped her up something of his own making. The wait staff knew they were friends and that ensured she’d have a small table all the way in the back of the restaurant and he could flex his creativity.

“You’re about to have the food experience of your life Rogers”

“We’re on a last name basis now?”

“Oh no- you’re not allowed to call me Stark. That’s my uncle and it’s weird. But seriously. Jason is the top up and coming Chef in Manhattan. His food is incredible.”

“Nora Stark!” Jason was walking out of the kitchen to greet her.

“Shhhhh Jay. I’m trying to fly under the radar.” Nora scolded him.

“Damn. Sorry! I haven’t seen you in a while I thought you might be in Cali again.”

Nora shook her head. “It’s nice to visit but you know New York has a hold on my heart. Anyway- Jay this is my friend Steve.”

As Steve gave him a wave, Jason’s eyes grew wide. “Oh shit. Nor are you on a date with Captain America?”

Nora shot Jason a glare. “Why are you so embarrassing? No this is not a date.” Nora’s face was cherry red.

Jason was giving her a knowing smirk. “Nice to meet you dude. Man, being a Stark gets you the hook up. I’ll send one of the girls out with some wine and some bread in a few.” Jason turned and headed back into the kitchen.

Steve was laughing out loud as Nora was burying her face in her hands. “He seemed nice.” Steve was still laughing when Nora finally picked her head up.

She quickly admired how the skin around his blue eyes crinkled when he laughed. She took a deep breath and let out a small laugh. “He’s a straight pain in the ass but he’s a really great friend.”

Steve had managed to avoid talking too much about his past. He didn’t want to talk about Peggy or Bucky. It was too much to talk about with someone he had just met. If Nora noticed he wasn’t sharing much insight she didn’t let on. Instead she told him the story of when Tony was kidnapped and how he built the armor to escape.

“God- I was so devastated when Pepper told me he was gone. I didn’t think I’d survive the loss of him. He and I have been a team since even before my father died. Everything I am is because of him. I refused to believe he was dead. I felt like I would know if he was gone. I know that probably sounds crazy. When my dad died. That day, even before it happened something felt wrong. I didn’t feel that with my uncle. And then he was back and it was like I could breath again. Things have been crazy ever since but I don’t think I would change any of it. I just wish he didn’t suffer as much as he did.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all. Some people have intuition like that. Some things just can’t be explained.” Steve could see the emotion on Nora’s face again. She was open and authentic. She was like breathing fresh air. Steve knew this woman would have a place in his life going forward.

It was late by the time they finished eating. Steve had started telling Nora stories of Howard

and she couldn’t get enough. She automatically could see the similarities between her Uncle and Grandfather. Maybe that was why they had such a difficult relationship.

After they had said their goodbyes to Jason and thanked him for dinner Nora pulled her cell back out once they got outside. “I’m going to call one of the drivers we have on call. I’ll have him drop you off before he takes me home. If I walked home this late my Uncle would have a stroke.”

“I’ll wait with you to make sure you’re picked up safely but I can walk.” Steve didn’t want her going out of her way. He would be perfectly fine walking back.

“That’s dumb. Let me drop you off.” Nora rolled her eyes. Before Steve could object again Nora cut him off. “You might as well just give in. I’ve been told I get my stubbornness from my Grandfather.”

“Alright fine.” Steve held his hands up in defeat. They stood in a comfortable silence while they waited for the town car to arrive. Nora couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have Steve’s arms around her and immediately scolded herself silently. Steve was gorgeous to look at, there was no denying it. Yet it was his demeanor that drew her to him. His silent strength made her feel safe. Maybe it was because she had been through so many crazy things between her father and her Uncle.

“Nora- thank you for insisting on meeting me and getting me out of this building. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.” Steve’s voice yanked Nora from her thoughts. She was happy Steve couldn’t see the heat rise to her cheeks again. She offered him a bright smile.

“I mean my motives were purely selfish overall but I had heard that you were having a hard time so I thought it was what my dad would have done. Don’t worry- I’ll be around so much you’ll get sick of me.” Steve reached out and squeezed her hand. Nora felt her heart soar to her throat. She stood for a moment enjoying the feeling of his skin on hers. The contrast between his rough skin on her own soft skin gave her goosebumps.

“Not possible.” He gave her what Nora would soon call his signature smile. Before either of them could say anything else a black town car pulled up to the curb.

“This is us.” Nora’s voice came out in a whisper as she gently pulled her hand from Steve’s. He quickly opened the door so she could get in and slide over. He soon followed and shut the door. Nora gave the driver Steve’s address and then sat back against the seat. Her hand was resting on the seat next to Steve’s. All she had to do was reach her pinky over just slightly so their hands would touch. She felt like a school girl idiot with an obnoxious crush. She wasn’t like this. She had just met him. Yet she was so painfully aware of how close he was to her. His large frame took up quite a bit of space in the back seat. Nora was still deep in thought when they pulled up to their destination.

“When can I see you again?” Steve broke the silence of the car ride. “It’s really nice to have someone to talk to. I really want to get to know you better.” Nora couldn’t help but smile at the hopeful look on Steve’s face.

“Give me your phone.” Nora put her hand out. Once Steve had dug it out of his pocket he placed it in her hand. She quickly added herself to his phone. “I sent a text to myself so I have your number. Call me when you want to get together.”

Steve wanted to lean in and kiss her goodnight. He reminded himself that this wasn’t a date. Nora wanted to connect with her past. She was a friend. He couldn’t help himself from kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you again. Truly. You have no idea how much I needed this. I’ll call you.”

Steve had gotten out of the car before Nora could even react. She had her hand on her cheek where she could still feel his lips. She looked up and saw Charlie, the driver, looking at her in the rear view mirror with a smile.

“I see you had a good night Ms. Stark” she could hear the teasing in his voice.

“Chuck- first of all I keep telling you to call me Nora. I don’t like the formality. Second of all let’s not tell my uncle who you dropped off.”

Charlie smiled at the nick name that Nora had given him. “Your secret is safe with me”

“Not so much a secret but-“ Nora’s train of thought was interrupted by her phone. She looked and saw Pepper’s face smiling at her. She didn’t even have a chance to squeak out a greeting.

“Nora where are you?” Pepper’s voice sounded slightly panicked.

“On my way back to the tower.”

“Okay listen, Phil is taking me to the air port. When you get home, go straight to your room and pack some things, grab your passport and head back outside and wait for Phil. He’s going to come pick you up. Do not stop and see Tony.”

“Pepper, what the hell is going on?”

“Something has happened. Phil will fill you in on the details. Tony is going to need your help but he won’t want you to. So you’re just going to be there.”

“Oh...okay. Have a safe flight Pepper.” Nora was confused and worried l.

“Be safe Nora.” Pepper hung up and Nora leaned back into the seat trying to figure out what possibly could have happened.

As Nora was fielding her call from Pepper, Nick Fury was looking for Steve.

“Fury- what can I do for you?” Steve raised his eyebrows.

“Cap- I have a mission for you.”

[stormquill]

mahpiohanzia | chapter two [Remus Lupin/Reader]

You are an Animagus-in-training nearing the end of your education. He is Generic Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher Replacement #7. Your final year at Hogwarts couldn’t possibly be any stranger than the previous six...but seven is one of the most powerful numbers in magic, after all.

[ AO3 Link ]

Author’s Notes: Co-written by Andrew. Follow the blog @ http://mahpiohanzia.tumblr.com

Notes: what do you guys think so far?? please let me know!

If you were asked to sum yourself up in a single word, that word would be ‘tired’.

The final couple years’ curriculum at Hogwarts was dedicated to preparing students for N.E.W.T.s at the end of their seventh year. Your workload for year six was overwhelming, and with graduation on the horizon, you had no reason to doubt year seven would be even worse.

Your stellar academic performance so far was wholly attributed to hard work and sheer force of will--doubly so, as you entered the tail-end of your education. Within the past year, to keep up with the quality of your coursework, you’d evolved into a hyper-focused, largely isolated monstrosity of a workaholic; you never considered yourself antisocial before, but there were only so many times you could turn down your roomates’ invitations to hang out before they stopped asking altogether.

Right now, you kept huddled against the window of your compartment, rain showering the glass as the constant rumble of the train rocked you to sleep. You were practically swaddled within your robes, having changed into your uniform early for the sole purpose of sleeping as much as you could on the way there.

Although you’d fallen asleep alone, by the time you reached Hogsmeade Station, you woke to the anxious chatter of fellow members from Slytherin house, who’d used your colours as territorial claim to the train compartment.

“Oh!” squeaked a small second-year girl sitting across from you. “They’re awake!”

A young man with broad shoulders and fantastic hair looked over at you, concerned. “Did you actually sleep through that whole thing? You weren’t just faking?”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night,” you lied, annoyed at having to explain yourself. You rubbed at your eyes beneath your glasses. “Why?”

When the rest of the compartment exchanged wary glances, you realized at once that something was very wrong.

-

“It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you.”

The enchanted ceiling showed a dark, muddied sky still recovering from the evening storm, as if the weather mirrored the dim atmosphere of the Great Hall. Beneath the light of a thousand flickering candles, the entire school sat in rapt attention during Dumbledore’s announcements, with many of the younger years breaking into nervous discussion at the mention of dementors. In light of recent events, you were told, security at Hogwarts had been escalated, with the infamous wraiths of Azkaban now guarding every entrance to the grounds.

When your housemates filled you in on the dementor-related mishap on the train, you were suddenly very glad to be a heavy sleeper.

Shifting gears, Dumbledore went on to introduce the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor: a rather plain, shabby-looking gentleman who looked as if he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Even more surprising, however, was the retirement of Professor Kettleburn, and the appointment of Hagrid to the position of Care of Magical Creatures.

Not everyone had taken Professor Kettleburn’s class, but everyone knew Hagrid.

After the last of the dessert disappeared and bedtime was finally called, you used the ensuing crowd as cover to approach the end of the staff table where Hagrid sat.

You caught his eye, and offered a handshake. “Congratulations, Professor Hagrid.”

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used ter that!” the large man bellowed, going red in the cheeks as his hands practically swallowed yours. “Appreciate it, though--really lookin’ forward ter it. Got some great lessons planned. Will I be seein’ yeh there, erm...sorry, didn’ catch yer name?”

You reintroduced yourself. “And no, unfortunately--I never got the O.W.L.”

“Ah, well...” He hesitated for a moment, glancing at the green and silver of your robes, before shaking his shaggy head and waving a hand dismissively. “Nonsense--yeh ever wan’ ter sit in on a lesson, yeh jus’ let me know. I’d be glad ter have yeh.”

“Planning extra lessons before receiving your timetable?” came the stern voice of a familiar witch. “Quite optimistic for a seventh-year.”

Hagrid straightened up like he was the one in trouble.

An older woman stepped out from behind him, wearing dark green robes and a strict expression, her grey hair pulled into a tight bun beneath her pointed hat. Although never an unfair teacher, she exuded a presence that always made you feel like she’d caught you in the act of doing something unsavoury--this would make you nervous, which would make her suspicious, which would toss you into an endless feedback loop of looking highly suspect over absolutely nothing.

“Professor McGonagall,” you greeted with false cheer. “Have a good summer?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her intense gaze did not falter. “Did you receive my note before the start of term?”

“I did, ma’am, yes. Your office, Friday evening.”

“Good. Now, enough dawdling--please make your way to the dormitories with the rest of your house.”

You obliged, taking the excuse to break eye contact with her as you retreated from the staff table.

You glanced a goodbye at Hagrid, who mouthed ‘Let me know’ and gave you a thumbs up as you left.

-

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Save for some minor changes, your timetable was the same as that of your previous year. The large amount of free periods once gave you the misconception of free time, back when you were naïve to the ways of the world, but after the near-daily ten-hour study sessions of your sixth year, you knew better than to fall for that illusion again.

Keeping time would be important this year, so you’d bought a watch over the summer--simple and black, with silver embellishments. The watch itself was charmed to zap you with a small electric shock at set times throughout the day. You enchanted it with your school schedule.

It wasn’t unusual for the first few weeks of term to be punctuated with various mishaps that spread around the school like wildfire. Draco Malfoy, the pompous third-year son of a powerful political figure, managed to get himself injured the first day of classes, and rumour had it he was milking it for all it was worth.

You never subscribed to pure-blood elitism or discrimination, nor did the majority of your house--more than half of the entire Hogwarts student body was half-blood or Muggleborn, after all, Slytherin population included. Yet, it was people like Malfoy who reminded you that the loudest, most obnoxious members of any group were the ones responsible for its reputation, and whenever you caught the pathetic thirteen-year-old boy strutting through the halls, retelling the increasingly outlandish tale of how he almost lost his arm to a rabid Hippogriff, you couldn’t help but feel deep embarrassment for your house.

There was little time to dwell, however.

Seventh-year N.E.W.T. courses featured advanced-level magic with smaller, mixed-house classes, meaning much stronger individual attention and higher workloads. Two days into term and the assigned readings were already threatening to consume your entire weekend, and the only reason you wanted Friday to be over was to get a headstart on Monday’s assignments.

Your last class of the week was your first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, and somehow, Professor Lupin looked even worse than he did at the start-of-term feast.

Now that you were only a few feet away from him, you learned he was a taller man, his tousled brown hair salted with touches of grey far beyond his years. He wore clothes a half-size too large for his frame; the fabric of his cardigan was pilling at the edges, and his robes had clearly been darned in several places. It was a good thing none of the classroom windows were open, you thought to yourself, as a stiff breeze would’ve been sure to knock him over.

“Good afternoon, class,” he began, his voice much stronger than his posture. “My name is R.J. Lupin, and I have the honour of being your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this term. You may call me ‘Professor.’ I assure you I have been called worse things.”

The class gave a small laugh.

“Now, in an attempt to establish myself as your favourite teacher right at the start of term, I will be administering a test for our very first class.” There was a collective sigh, but Lupin was already raising a hand to placate the room. “Not to worry, not to worry--this won’t be graded. It’s just a little something to gauge the level of your study progress. I’ve come to understand that your sixth-year N.E.W.T. lessons were rather...inconsistent.”

“That’s because Lockhart was a quack,” shouted a voice from the back row. Sounds of agreement and jeering filled the classroom.

“All the more reason for this test,” he said. “Your N.E.W.T.s are at the end of this year, and if I am to prepare you for them, I must learn exactly what you don’t know.” He took his wand from his inner pocket and gave it a wave. From a large stack on his desk, folded sheets of parchment distributed themselves around the class. “Again, this is not being marked--answer what you can, leave blank what you cannot. You have thirty minutes. Begin.”

You unfolded the parchment in front of you, dipped your quill into your inkwell, and set to work.

The exam began with simple questions that could be answered in a few words or less, about dark magical creatures, general defensive spell knowledge, and various incantations. As you progressed through the parchment, however, the questions grew more complicated; there were sections in which to illustrate differences between mirrored and non-mirrored wand movements, the most efficient methods of spell-chaining, and questions regarding counterspell theories you only vaguely remembered reading about. As instructed, you began skipping questions you didn’t know the answer to, until you reached the end and realized in a heart-sinking panic that nearly half of your test was blank.

All too quickly, Lupin called time, and with another wave of his wand, gathered the papers back to his desk. As your half-empty parchment slid away, you immediately glanced around the room to gauge overall impressions of the exam; thankfully, at least you weren’t the only one looking bewildered.

“Good, good--thank you, this will be very helpful.” Lupin arranged the completed exams back into a neat pile on his desk. “As I’ll need some time to get up to speed, I will not be assigning any homework this weekend--however, I would like to finish today’s class with a bit of a practical test. Everyone, put away your things and pair up, please, facing one another.”

As everyone packed up and got to their feet, Lupin moved the rows of desks up against the walls, clearing enough room on the floor for two lines of students. By process of elimination, you ended up pairing against a familiar, burly seventh-year with short hair and a strong jawline--the infamously tenacious Quidditch Captain of the Gryffindor team, Oliver Wood.

Wood pursed his lips and gave you a polite smile. You returned it.

“Now, get out your wands,” said Lupin. “I’d like to measure your proficiency with nonverbal spellwork. Should be very straightforward.”

You pulled out your wand from your inner robe pocket: a jet-black length of carved wood, the edges where your fingers rested worn to a dark grey. Nonverbal spells were a well-practiced skill learned at the beginning of your previous year--even if Lockhart didn’t teach them, every spell learned across classes during your sixth year was expected to be performed without speaking.

“Those on my right,” Lupin called out, raising a hand to indicate the row, “will cast a Stunning Spell on their opponent without speaking, on my mark. Those on my left will cast a Shield Charm in return, also without speaking. For those casting Shield Charms, please dissipate the Stun instead of deflecting it--I’d appreciate keeping my classroom intact, if possible.”

The students in your row would be performing first.

You made eye contact with Wood and nodded, making sure he was ready. He nodded back.

“Wands at the ready, very good. Three, two, one.”

With a sharp flick of your wrist, you cast a Stunning Spell in Wood’s direction. A burst of red light shot from the end of your wand. Wood shielded himself against it easily, dissipating your spell into a small wisp of red smoke. All your neighbors shared identical results.

“Excellent,” said Lupin. “Let’s switch, now, wands at the ready. Three, two, one.”

Mirroring the rest of the students in his row, Wood raised his wand at you, and cast the spell.

It wasn’t until the jet of red light sped towards you when you realized you’d forgotten the Shield Charm incantation completely.

Muscle memory alone drew your wand in front of you with the correct motion, but without the proper incantation to go with it, the Stun ricocheted off the end of your wand--and straight into your own face.

You were on your back in an instant, halfway across the classroom floor.

Gasps of shocked laughter accompanied the loud, painful ringing in your ears. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear Wood apologizing like mad.

The ceiling of the classroom spun and blurred into your vision. Your eyes were stinging, and you were trying to will them not to water up, if only to save what little dignity you had left--you weren’t actually crying, you were experiencing that awful, biting, welling reflex of getting hit hard in the face, but you knew there was no difference to the outside eye.

You tasted copper in the back of your throat long before you realized your nose was bleeding.

Suddenly, there were a pair of hands on you--someone was guiding you to your feet, hooking one of your arms around their shoulders to help you walk.

“Class dismissed,” Lupin said abruptly, leading you from the room.

-

The first week of term was typically the busiest for Madam Pomfrey, and today was no exception. By the sound of it, she had her hands full tending to several first-years who, on a dare from a rival house, ignored instructions during Herbology and were now paying a painful, swollen price for it.

You sat in silence in the Hospital Wing lobby, one hand still wrapped tightly around your wand, the other holding your sleeve against your nose to stifle the bleeding. Your face was burning--partly from the pain, partly from the sheer embarrassment of having a teacher waiting there with you in the neighboring seat.

More than anything, you wished Lupin would’ve just left you there to stew in peace, but the man seemed dead-set on doing the exact opposite. He’d helped you to the Hospital Wing, after all--there was no polite way of asking him to leave.

There was also no polite way of holding back the frustration bubbling inside you, either, so after several minutes of idle silence, you stopped trying.

“Protego ,” you snarled. The injury dulled your syllables, like you had a stuffy nose. “The incantation is Protego . That’s fourth-year stuff, for Merlin’s sake--how am I supposed to pass my N.E.W.T.s if I can’t remember Protego ?”

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, softly. “It’s my fault for doing a practical test without having a proper understanding of everyone’s abilities.”

“I know the spell,” you snapped. “I just--”

“--haven’t used it in a long time, I understand. But this could’ve been avoided if I simply had everyone recite the spells before we began casting them.”

“No, this could’ve been avoided if I just remembered the bloody spell. I was the only one in the class who forgot it, this is on me.”

“An oversight on both our parts, then.”

His tone sounded final, and you bit back the urge to argue. You weren’t sure why he was being so understanding about this whole thing, but you knew you’d be a fool to challenge it.

With one part of your robe sleeve thoroughly soaked with blood, you made a disgusted noise as you folded over a dry part of the fabric and pressed your leaking nose to it. “S’pose I won’t be gracing the cover of the Daily Prophet any time soon.”

Lupin leaned over in his chair and looked at you, reacquainting himself with your injury. “It’s not that bad,” he assured. “When I was your age, I fumbled a fairly standard Conjuring Spell during class. I learned two things that day: that enunciation is vital , even if it’s just in your head--and that birds like to go for the eyes.”

You gave a snort of laughter, then an immediate curse of pain as it reminded you that your nose was broken.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding more amused than sincere.

You shrugged it off. “Did that really happen?”

“Feel free to ask Professor McGonagall yourself. Definitely wasn’t one of my proudest exams.”

“Yeah, well.” You dangled the wand in your other hand in a hopeless sort of motion. “This isn’t one of my proudest days, either.”

“That’s quite the antique you have there,” he said, motioning towards your wand. “Ebony?”

“Oh. Yeah.” You looked it over. Did he just call your wand old ? “My grandfather left it to me. Phoenix feather cores are rather rare--I guess he reckoned I could squeeze another lifetime out of it.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

You shrugged, sliding the wand back into your inner robe pocket. “It’s alright, I guess. A little temperamental. It, uh.” You clicked your tongue and motioned to your face. “Doesn’t like unclear instructions.”

He leaned in for a whisper. “In its defence, I doubt many of us do.”

Remembering not to laugh, you instead smiled into your sleeve.

Without warning, Madam Pomfrey swept into the lobby, her stark-white robes billowing behind her as she towered over your seated form. She moved your arm from your nose, holding your chin and tilting your face from side to side as if she were examining a particularly interesting fruit. “And what have we here?”

“A rebounded Stunning Spell,” said Lupin.

“Broken nose and a black eye, easy fix.” She turned heel and made her way back into the main ward. “Don’t move.”

Now that you were being looked after, Lupin got to his feet and prepared to leave before Madam Pomfrey managed to shoo him away, grabbing his robe from the back of his chair and folding it over his forearm. Your conversation had made you feel so at ease that you’d forgotten to be embarrassed he was still there.

“Oh, that’s right.” He reached into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out your pair of broken glasses.

(No wonder everything was still blurry.)

Lupin tapped on your glasses with his wand, repairing them at once. Before you could say anything, he’d leaned over and slid them carefully back onto your face, minding your injury; his fingers brushed against your cheeks as your vision became clear, and his face was just close enough for you to learn his eyes were green.

“There we are,” he smiled. “Just like new.”

You mumbled a small ‘thanks’ as he straightened back up to full height.

“Right, then. See you Monday.”

You stared after him while he left, at least until the sudden, unexpected pain of Madam Pomfrey’s spell snapped both you and your nose back to reality.

-

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 was propped open in front of you during dinner that evening.

Though you were only two days into term, N.E.W.T. preparations were fully underway, starting with condensed reviews of nearly every spell, potion, and number chart you encountered throughout your first six years. Though Lupin hadn’t assigned any homework, you wanted to get a head start on reviewing your old Defence Against the Dark Arts notes to prevent any repeat incidents involving embarrassingly basic spells. You also had a one-on-one meeting with McGonagall later that evening.

In spite of having more than dinner on your plate that night, your attention constantly drifted towards the only empty seat at the staff table.

Lupin wasn’t there.

Somewhere between the fifth and tenth glances at the staff table, your book slipped out of your hand, and page 24 received a healthy serving of gravy.

You decided you were being ridiculous.

You would pay his office a visit and dispel the day’s awkwardness before your next lesson, if only to prevent making a complete ass of yourself two Defence Against the Dark Arts classes in a row.

After dinner, you made your way up to the second-floor corridor, mentally rehearsing bullet points of conversation on the way. You were going to apologize for causing a scene in his class earlier that afternoon. You would thank him for his help getting you to the Hospital Wing. You would promise to do better in his class. That was all. Simple and clearcut.

Yes, just to clear the air.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on his office door.

There was no answer.

“Professor?” you called. Maybe he’d already retired to his living quarters for the night--he certainly didn’t look well earlier in class.

However, as you knocked again, you noticed the doors to his office were locked--not just fastened shut, but magically sealed .

Behind you, a sharp voice spat out your last name.

The call gave you a start.

Be it due to your gross lack of awareness or his unspoken mastery of stealth, Snape had managed to make it all the way down the second-floor hallway without you noticing his approach.

Snape looked down his nose at you, his gaze cold and unblinking. “What are you doing here?”

Your first instinct was to lie, but your second instinct thought better of it. “I...caused a disruption in Professor Lupin’s class earlier today.”

“So I heard.”

You swallowed. Of course he would’ve heard. “Yeah, so...I came to apologize.”

“The most sincere apology,” he started, raising a brow, “would be to simply improve your behaviour in class going forward, would it not?”

“I just wanted to make sure we were on good terms.”

Wrong answer.

“Five points from Slytherin.” The corner of Snape’s nose curled, as if he suddenly smelled something foul. “We do not grovel for forgiveness in this house. You would do well to remember that.”

You bit your tongue. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, unless I’m mistaken, you have a meeting to attend.” He stepped aside without looking at you, making a path for you to pass by. “If you are late, I will know.”

As if on cue, your watch gave you a small bzzt on the wrist, marking your fifteen-minute warning.

You mumbled a final, “Yes, sir,” before passing him on your way back down the corridor.

-

Out of everything you would have to face this year, you thought you were looking forward the completion of your Animagus training.

Like everyone else, you first learned about Animagi in Transfiguration class during your third year. When asked about the process to become one, however, McGonagall was quick to inform you that it was an extremely rare skill not to be studied lightly; being an Animagus trained under Dumbledore himself, McGonagall wouldn’t consider taking in any candidate who proved themselves anything short of outstanding in her field.

This meant achieving top grades in both Transfiguration class and the mounds of prerequisite extracurricular homework she assigned you--term after term, year after year--just to convince her you were worthy of her time.

This meant keeping your head down and not giving Snape, as your head of house, any excuse to deny you permission to pursue the additional line of study.

This meant getting an Outstanding in both your Transfiguration and Potions O.W.L.s to qualify for private lessons with McGonagall throughout your sixth year.

Becoming an Animagus was, above all else, an extremely bizarre goal--a complex, demanding, high-risk process to endure for the acquisition of an esoteric skill with little to no practical use. One’s efforts were much better spent in something more valuable, practical, and marketable--but that was why you wanted to do it.

The journey was for you and you alone, just to prove you could make it.

At least, that’s what you thought.

McGonagall sat silent behind her desk, leaning forward as she kept her hands folded in front of her. She stared at you over the rim of her glasses, studying your pale expression, while your eyes remained fixated on the small crystal phial sitting on the desk between the two of you.

“Are you going to be sick?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet,” you croaked.

“I urge you to do it away from my desk, if you don’t mind.”

You gave a nervous laugh, though your eyes didn’t move from the phial.

“We can revisit this next month if you’re having doubts,” she suggested, a bristle of impatience in her voice.

“No doubts,” you replied. “Just nerves.”

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” Her intensity eased, just a little. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I’ve been studying for this for almost four years,” you said. “It always seemed so far away. ‘I can’t be an Animagus unless I get good marks on this assignment.’ ‘I can’t be an Animagus unless I get perfect O.W.L.s.’ ‘I can’t be an Animagus until I qualify for registration in year seven.’ But now .” You breathed another small laugh. “Now I’ve got the Mandrake leaf sitting right in front of me and I’m terrified .”

“As you should be.”

You tore your eyes from the phial and looked up at her, surprised.

“The successful completion of the final Animagus ritual is one of the most daunting feats in the field of Transfiguration,” she said, quite severely. “The slightest misstep will have disastrous results--permanent disfiguration at best, and at worst ...well. Let’s just say St. Mungo’s has a long-term residents ward for a reason. You’d be a fool not to be terrified.”

“Professor--”

“That being said,” she continued, raising a finger to quiet you. “The reason this process is so involved is because it is meant to teach you the virtues of knowledge and patience . You may not find day-to-day use in becoming an Animagus, but having studied the skill successfully these past few years has given you a framework of discipline that you will carry with you for the rest of your life. Now,” she motioned to the phial, “tell me why I called you here today.”

“...it’s a full moon, Professor. I have to put the leaf in my mouth tonight, and keep it there until the beginning of the next cycle.”

“Which is?”

“October 6th.”

“What will you do then?”

“Meet with Professor Snape that evening to create the Animagus potion under the light of the full moon.”

“And if the full moon isn’t completely visible on the night of October 6th?”

“Discard the leaf, come to you, and start over again.”

“And if Professor Snape is unavailable to help you the night of October 6th?”

“Discard the leaf, come to you, and start over again.”

“And if the leaf is swallowed or otherwise removed from your mouth at any time between now and the night of October 6th?”

“Discard the leaf, come to you, and start over again.”

“Good.” With a graceful nonchalance, McGonagall picked up the crystal phial containing the Mandrake leaf, and placed it into the palm of your hand. “You’re ready.”

Your heart already feeling lighter, you beamed.

“Thank you, Professor.”