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gay-otlc · 3 years

Text

No Limits To Love

Summary: Despite being an Empath, Keefe doesn't know any of the answers. He's just as lost and confused as everyone else about love. What is it? he wonders. And is there a limit to how much I can feel?

Content warnings: Homophobia, polyamory discrimination (polyamphobia? idk), getting kicked out for being LGBTQ+, cursing, religion.

Words: 5350

Read on AO3:

As an Empath, Keefe knows that every person's emotions are so different, unique, but there are a few similarities that everyone shares. Everyone feels a little bit confused, a little bit lost. Even if the feeling isn't strong enough for them to notice, there's an underlying sense of it when he can press his skin against theirs and sense their emotions. And, regardless of how angry, how hateful, a person is feeling, there's always a deep, enormous, feeling of love within them.

No one really knows what love is; we're all lost, and confused, as searching for answers. We all have so many questions about it; What does it mean to love someone? How do you know when you love someone? Should we tell people we love them more often? Less often? Can you love someone too much? Can you never love anyone enough? How many people can you love at once?

And despite being an Empath, Keefe doesn't know any of the answers. He's just as lost and confused as everyone else about love. What is it? he wonders. And is there a limit to how much I can feel?

At first, Keefe has no idea what love is, nothing to even base a vague understanding off of.

His father says love is when you're proud of someone, and his mother says love is when someone is important to you, though neither of them seem particularly interested in helping a five year old Keefe solve all the mysteries of life. His father, telling Keefe to stop bothering him so he can work, doesn't seem particularly proud, and his mother, focusing more on whatever notebook she's scribbling in than on her son, doesn't seem like she considers Keefe particularly important to her.

"Why do you think loving someone means being proud of them?" Keefe asks. His father thinks this is stupid, he can tell, but it's important to Keefe. In his mind, this might be the most important thing in the world, discovering what love is. It's something new to learn, to explore, his favorite thing to do. He's learning so much about the world and how it works; how to read stories, how to draw people that look like people, how to write his name so that he can actually read it, and it seems like each new discovery brings on an entirely new set of new questions.

His father gives a long, over-exaggerated sigh. Keefe shrinks away. He's always not the best at understanding what his parents are thinking or what they want him to do, but he's learned by now that a sigh that sounds like that means his father is disappointed, and his father being disappointed is bad. "You can't love someone without a reason," he says finally, looking between Keefe and the door like answering will make Keefe go away faster. "People have to do things that make you love them, earn your love by making you proud. You can't love someone who disappoints you."

The underlying message is obvious, even to Keefe- if he doesn't make his father proud, if he disappoints his father instead, his father will not love him.

Oh.

He nods and quietly walks away to go ask his mother the same question, hoping his mother will be happier about it.

She isn't.

"Yeah, but what makes someone important to you?" he asks.

She flicks her eyes up at him before returning them to her notebook. When he tries to look at what she's writing, she tilts it away from him. "Someone is important to you if they help you with things you need to do, and you think your life would be very different without them." Keefe wonders what his parents' lives would be like if he didn't exist- probably much more boring, he concludes, but then again, they're shut up in their offices all the time anyway, they would probably do the same thing with only a few small differences.

He loves existing, all the new discoveries and experiences and fun, but him existing might not matter to his parents as much as it matters to him. He asks anyway; "Am I important to you?"

"You will be," she says quietly, finally looking at him.

Keefe goes back to his room to think about this new knowledge he's gained, about what love means. Who's right? Is there even a right answer? He dismisses the second question quickly- of course there is. Everything has an answer, and this can't be an exception. Maybe his father is right, and in order to be loved by his parents, he has to do things that make them proud, and never let them down; he has to do thinks much differently, then. Or maybe he has to help his mother. With what? Maybe he needs to get their attention more, make sure he's making a big impact on their lives.

Love sounds hard, and confusing. Everyone says it's a good thing, but he doesn't know. If love is a good thing, why does it make him so sad when he does the things his parents say will earn him love? Why do his parents say they love each other, and then scream at each other downstairs so loudly that nothing Keefe does can block out the noise?

Love isn't beautiful. It's ugly.

...

When Keefe meets Fitz Vacker, he has to rethink this decision.

Love may be ugly, but Fitz is absolutely beautiful. He has bronze skin and a strange accent and a loud laugh that makes Keefe feel like he's just bitten into an especially gooey slice of mallowmelt. Most of the time, he hears people talk about how beautiful the Vackers' teal eyes are, but he's particularly partial to Fitz's crooked slight smile, like he's a bit hesitant to be really happy, but something's broken through his walls and he's smiling anyway. When Keefe realizes he's the one who made Fitz happy enough to smile, it feels like it's worth more than a million compliments from anyone else.

This is stupid. Why is Keefe thinking so much about a boy's smile?

Well, it is a nice smile.

That aside, he's never really had a good friend before Fitz. He's had other children of prestigious nobles to spend time with, but none of them were ever really all that close to his own age, and Keefe had always preferred to daydream- or, if he was allowed, draw- rather than talk to them.

Having a friend is... nice.

It's nice, and something else. He's not sure what to call it, since it's all so new and unfamiliar. If he didn't know better, he might call it love, but this isn't love. This isn't anything like what his parents described, that ugly thing that makes him struggle for them not to hate him, that doesn't stop them from throwing things at one another. No, this is so much better, sweeter. It's not messy, or complicated, or difficult, it's just... him. And Fitz.

It doesn't need to be love. It doesn't even need a name. He likes Fitz, and he likes what they have together.

He starts spending more time at Everglen, with Fitz's family, and he notices something. They say "I love you" to one another. A lot. Della says it to her children before they leave for school, and Biana says she loves Alvar before she hangs up on an imparter call, and Fitz says I know you love me when Biana gets mad at him for stealing her ripplefluffs.

Keefe's first impression is that they toss the phrase around so often it's lost its meaning, but that might be wrong too. They seem to mean it every time. It's so confusing to Keefe- they say I love you even if no one did anything special to earn it, or even if one of the kids messed something up earlier that day. People in that family promise to love each other no matter what, a concept that doesn't make any sense, because what if someone doesn't do enough to deserve it? What then?

Fitz and his family celebrate something called Hanukkah. He says they light candles to remember miracles that happened when the Jewish people were in danger. And he invites Keefe to come light the candles with them.

"Are you sure?" Keefe asks. "I don't want to intrude on your holiday."

"No, don't be ridiculous. I'd be happy to have you there. It's a lot of fun, and you have to try latkes, and please, you have to help me beat Biana at dreidel, she's been unstoppable for the last five or so years-"

"I have no idea what most of the words you just said were... I don't understand any of your traditions, and I don't want to bother you guys by asking all these questions all the time." His parents are already annoyed by him, and he doesn't want to annoy anyone else.

Fitz reaches out and grabs Keefe's hand. Keefe gasps a little, cheeks heating up. Why is his stomach flipping around so much? They're just holding hands. It's not that big a deal. It's not that big a deal. "You aren't a bother," Fitz says, his voice soft but firm.

Keefe swallows hard, telling himself not to cry. "I-"

"I promise, I want you there. I wouldn't invite you if I didn't. And my parents want you there too. Honestly, the whole family loves you."

Love. There was that word again. The strange, confusing one. But it's not so strange and confusing when the Vacker's say it. It's not filled with expectations and disappointment; simply kindness, and happiness. It's not all that complicated. They simply care about each other.

And about him?

"The whole family?" he asks hesitantly, trying to ask whether that includes Fitz without actually asking whether that includes Fitz.

Fitz gets the message. "The whole family. That means me too."

And that's when he knows for sure that love isn't really ugly, because nothing between Fitz and him can really be ugly.

He goes to Everglen, and they light the candles. Keefe doesn't know the prayers, but they sound nice, and the candles feel warm and safe. Latkes taste delicious, and Biana beats them all at the dreidel game just like Fitz predicted. Keefe can't remember feeling this happy in, well, a very long time. Maybe ever. Fitz and Biana explain the story behind Hannukah in more detail, and Keefe finds himself especially interested in the description of the miracles.

It's a miracle he found Fitz, he thinks. A miracle he found love. And now, to him, love means kindness and warmth.

It's... nice.

...

Then he falls in love with Sophie, and that's... different, somehow.

He's had a crush on her for a long time; not immediately since he's known her, but since they rode on Silveny together for the first time. But if he tries, he thinks he can pinpoint the moment he knew he'd fallen in love.

They go to the Forbidden Cities- a city called Amsterdam. Not to run away from the Neverseen or go on a mission for the Black Swan, but simply to have fun. Fitz is busy with homework, but Keefe is happy to procrastinate, and Sophie's parents are trying to make her "have fun with her friends" more often in situations that don't involve almost dying. So here they are, Sophie rolling her eyes at Keefe's fifth "dam" joke, Keefe laughing as he looks at the elaborate canals.

"Come on, you idiot," she says, holding out her hand. Keefe takes it. "Do you want to go to the Van Gogh museum?"

"Who's Van Gogh?" Keefe asks.

Sophie starts walking, pulling Keefe along with her. "I always forget how little you guys know about human stuff. Makes it weird to have twelve years worth of human knowledge permanently in my head, none of which I can say without confusing you. Anyway, Van Gogh is an artist. I think you'd like him."

"Sure, sounds fun," he agrees.

A guy on a bicycle passes them. He calls something out in a language Keefe doesn't recognize. Turning to Sophie, he asks "What did he just say?"

Sophie's cheeks are red. "He said, what a cute couple."

"Oh," is all Keefe can say. Obviously it's crossed his mind, the thought that it might be a date, but... do they really look that couple-y from an outside perspective? He thinks about it. They're holding hands, her enthusiastically pulling him along, both of them smiling... yeah, it makes sense that they would be perceived as a couple. The idea makes butterflies fly through him, nervous and embarrassed and excited all at once.

He likes her, a lot. And he likes what they have together, this state of holding hands and teasing one another and having fun. It doesn't need a name. But it would be nice if it did. He would really like to say it for sure, they have something romantic going on. He wants her to be his girlfriend, him to be her boyfriend, and Fitz...

He wants them to date, that's all.

Keefe swallows. He likes what they have right now, and he knows he's about to create a new thing- something new, and unfamiliar, and terrifying. Admist the fear, though, he can't wait to explore it. "Is he right?" he asks.

Sophie bites her lip. It's the cutest thing. "Do you want him to be?"

"I do, yes," Keefe says.

"Then I do too." Sophie smiles at him, and he smiles back.

It was as simple as that.

They continue on to the museum. As Sophie predicted, Keefe does like the paintings there, but he tells Sophie he thinks he could do better. Later, she casually mentions that Van Gogh cut off his ear and laughs at the expression on Keefe's face. Once they leave the museum, Sophie finds some human money that Dex gave her and the two of them struggle for a while to convert it into whatever currency Amsterdam uses- it's still baffling to Keefe how the humans all use different types of money, though Sophie just shrugs when he points it out. Finally, they figure it out and Sophie buys them a boat tour.

By the time they're ready to go back, it's dark out, and they're going to be in so much trouble if they get caught, and dam, that was a lot of fun. Keefe throws an arm around Sophie's shoulder, absentmindedly playing with the ends of her hair, as they leap back. Every time the floor creaks a little too loudly, they freeze and look at each other with wide eyes before carefully continuing.

After too many close calls, they make it to Sophie's room. "That was terrifying," Sophie gasps, collapsing on her bed. "My parents would have murdered me. And you. They definitely would have murdered you."

"Yeah, undoubtedly," says Keefe. He sits down on the bed next to her, face splitting into a grin. "We didn't get caught, though."

Sophie smiles back, and Keefe finds himself unable to draw his gaze away from her lips. "No, we didn't." Her smile grows wider, and suddenly, Keefe isn't staring at her lips anymore, he's staring at her eyes. They're sparkling, wide and enthusiastic, and a bit mysterious, like Keefe could stare into them forever and never learn everything. He wants to try. "I had so much fun."

"So did I," Keefe replies. And it's true- he had so much fun looking at art and learning that the artist cut his ear off, going through the city's canals and listening to Sophie ramble about everything she'd learned about the city. It was exciting, interesting. But then again, isn't every day like that, with Sophie? It doesn't matter whether they're illegally traveling to Amsterdam or working on Elvin History homework together- every conversation, every moment with Sophie is just as interesting, just as exciting, because he and Sophie are together.

He loves her. The thought crosses his mind, and he wonders why it hasn't before. It's so obvious, so undeniably true, that he knows he loves her as soon as he takes the time to think about it.

The only question in his mind is that love feels so much different with Fitz and with Sophie, but he knows he loves them both. Loving Fitz feels warm and sweet and kind, and loving Sophie feels like an adventure, a new world he wants to know everything about, terrifying and thrilling and exhilarating.

...

Maybe love is an adventure, or maybe it's kindness, or maybe it's ugly after all, but whatever it is, there's so much of it. He feels this strange, indescribable love for Sophie every time she blushes at his flirtatious comments, every time she trips and gives a slight chuckle at her clumsiness, every time she absentmindedly hums a human song under her breath as they do homework together. And he feels it for Fitz too, when his eyes light up any time he talks about baking, the little grin he does when he wins at base quest, when he tries to flirt with Keefe or Sophie and ends up an adorable, stuttering disaster.

He still doesn't understand why love feels so different when he's with Sophie and when he's with Fitz, but he's in love with them all the same. Both of them. He loves them both, beyond understanding, beyond words.

Other people wouldn't understand either. That's okay, neither does he. But he doesn't have to know why he feels this way to know that he does, because he feels it so much, so strongly.

They feel it too- for him, and for each other. Sophie tells them once, back when they were going through their "love triangle" phase, that she was sorry she couldn't just pick one. Keefe asked her why she had to pick one. After all, he loved both Sophie and Fitz, and he didn't ever want to choose, because he didn't have anyone he loved more. He just loved them both. Fitz had agreed. He asked how this would work, the three of them all loving each other.

That's the great thing about us, Keefe had said. We don't have rules. We can just fall in love, hope our love will endure even if we mess it up the first time, and make it up as we go along. We're in love, and that's all that matters.

And he very distinctly does not feel love right now, wearing an ugly suit instead of the long red dress Biana bought with him. His father looks proud of him, or at least not disappointed, but he's learned that love is so much more than that by now, and his father may never truly love him. But that's another mess that he doesn't want to get into now; first, he simply has to survive the night.

Then, the argument that will inevitably come after.

But first, the dance. He's already fought with his father for hours about whether or not he had to get a matchmaking list, but he eventually lost. Like Cassius said, he'd already disappointed the family enough; by being a screwup, a rebel, a wayward, an artist. Does he really want to push things even farther, drag their reputation even farther down, by being a bad match? He gave in after that, still fully intending to barely learn the names of the girls on his list.

He just wants this night to be over already.

But no, another girl is coming over, and he has to at least feign interest as he mumbles pleasantries. He does this again and again. Some part of him, a small part that still foolishly believes his father might love him if he makes him proud, wants to feel something for these girls, but... he can't. They aren't Sophie. They aren't Fitz. He isn't interested.

The most interesting thing that happens the entire dance is Stina coming over and asking if he knows whether Marella might be interested in her. The answer is yes, but that's the only two minute conversation he can even begin to care about during a three hour dance, and oh, he is so bored. His only break from dancing and talking to girls is when he gets to eat. Keefe finds himself staring at some of the pastries in the corner and thinking of the time Fitz tried to teach him to bake. He was horrible at it, but Fitz thought it was funny, and they had a lot of fun together... he sighs and goes back to dancing with another nameless girl who isn't Sophie or Fitz.

He knows, that if an Empath were to gauge his emotions, they would feel the extreme feeling of love that's always inside everyone, he knows that logically, but feels so void of it right now. Everything is so boring, painfully dull, and there are so many people he doesn't care about, and he just wants to curl up and watch human movies with Sophie, or try to taste the batter as Fitz swats his hand away, or ramble to both of them about his latest painting.

He just wants them, both of them.

Finally- finally it's over, everyone's leaving, he thanks them for coming even though he wishes they hadn't, and then they're gone, and he can't change out of this ugly, uncomfortable suit fast enough, collapse on his bed and hail Sophie and Fitz.

Before he can, he hears a knock on the door. "Go away!" he calls, not in the mood to interact with his father. Especially not to discuss which of the girls he liked best. The door swings open anyway, and he groans.

Exactly as he predicted, Lord Cassius sits on a chair beside Keefe's bed and asks "So, did any of the girls there capture your fancy?"

He groans again. "No. You know they didn't."

"Of course they didn't," he mutters, sighing and rubbing at his temples. Keefe bites his tongue in an attempt not to yell I do have people that 'capture my fancy,' it's not my fault you can't accept that. "We can apply to get you a second list in a month, but I don't want you choosing anyone from a list that isn't your first or second."

"That works out. I don't want to choose from a list that isn't my first or second. I also don't want to choose from a list that is my first or second. I don't want to choose from a list." Keefe immediately regrets blurting that out, but it was nothing his father didn't know already anyway. The problem is that now he's confronting it, instead of saying he'll be the obedient son his father wants and marry someone he'll be miserable with.

"Well, you're going to have to."

"Why?" Keefe demands. "Why do I have to follow this fucked up system?" He sees his father frown at the language, but can't be bothered to care. "Why can someone else decide who I'm allowed to love- they don't know what I feel. Why do I have to marry someone from a list? Why can't I just marry the people I love?"

His father's gaze darkens. "People?"

Oh, shit. Keefe has screwed up. He has two options- correct himself, which his father probably won't believe, or dig a deeper hole for himself, jump off a cliff and hope he doesn't get hurt too badly. He chooses the latter. "Yeah, people. Sophie and Keefe."

"You can't be in love with both of them."

"Yeah, but I am."

"And not only are they both nearly as stupidly rebellious as you are, one of them is a boy. It's like you're trying to disgrace this family as much as possible."

"Well, it may shock you to learn, but I'm in love with these people because... because I love them. It has nothing to do with wanting to disappoint you and everything to do with wanting to date them."

His father stands up abruptly, towering over Keefe. "You have to choose."

"Great. I choose them both," he replies, standing up as well.

"You can't love more than one person!" yells Cassius.

Keefe clenches his hands into fists, feeling his throat close up. "Why not?" he chokes.

"You just- it's wrong. It's wrong for a boy to love a boy, and it's wrong to love two people! You're being greedy. Choose one, because you can't love them both."

"Fucking watch me!" Keefe screams. "You're an Empath- you understand how love feels to other people. I can sense so much love inside of people, every time I touch them, so much that it's overwhelming- especially if love is the prominent emotion they're feeling at the moment. There's more love than our brains can possibly comprehend. Love stretches to infinity, it is everywhere, it is everything, and we don't have a limit to our capacity for love, because there can be no limits to love, none at all. I love so much and so deeply that it can feel like I could drown in my love for them, both of them. My love is endless and overwhelming and beautiful, and I love them both with all the love in me. It's as simple as that."

...

"You can believe whatever you like about love," Lord Cassius says, giving him a cold look. "But if you are to live under my roof, you will have to love like a normal person."

He says it like it's an insult to not love like a normal person, like Keefe doesn't already know. Of course he doesn't love like people normally do, but why is that bad? Really, all forms of love are so unique, and there's no one normal way to love, anyway. But even though his way of loving is more different, that isn't bad. That isn't ugly. It's love, and it's everything, and it's beautiful.

Then, it registers that Keefe cannot love beautifully and live in his house at the same time. There's no way he'd be able to stop loving the way he does; that would be like asking for his heart to stop beating at all. There is so much of his love, and he cannot pretend he feels less.

So... his only other option is to leave.

"Can I pack, at least?" he says finally.

Lord Cassius looks surprised that he hasn't managed to threaten Keefe enough, properly scare him into being the straight, monogamous, obedient son he wants. For a brief second, his shock is written on his face, and then he regains his composure. "Very well, I suppose you can," he says. "You have ten minutes. I want you out."

Good. Keefe wants to be out as well.

He never wants to be back here again.

"I can't wait," he spits out. "You have zero minutes to get out of my room."

The clock is ticking, and Keefe doesn't have time to think, to even being processing the reality of what just happened, so he throws important things into bags as quickly as he can, trying to think only of the next second ahead of him, and the next, and the next, because if he keeps looking directly ahead, full understanding of what this means can't catch up to him, and he can't worry to much about the future. And then ten minutes pass, and he leaves.

He just... leaves.

When he leaps away from his house- his former house, he supposes- he has no idea where he'll reappear. Then he sees the world come into focus around him, immediately recognizing it as Everglen. Where some of his best memories are, of lighting candles with the Vackers and talking about makeup and boys with Biana and falling in love with Fitz, over and over, every time that obnoxiously cute fool opens his mouth. Fitz is here now; Sophie is too.

It wasn't a conscious decision, but he wanted to come here.

His feet take off running until he arrives at the door. He desperately slams his fist against the door over and over until Della comes to open it, a look of concern on her face. "Keefe? What... are you alright?"

"Sophie," Keefe gasps. "Fitz. Please."

Della nods. "They're upstairs in Fitz's room."

"Thank you," he says, before ignoring the aching in his legs and rushing up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and into Fitz's room.

Sophie notices him first, placing a hand of cards down on the bed and stumbling across the room over to Keefe. "What happened?" she asks, her beautiful eyes wide and scared. Fitz follows her, putting his arm around Keefe and leading him to sit down on the bed between the two of them.

"My dad kicked me out," he chokes out, voice breaking. Sophie immediately gives a little oh and wraps him in a hug. "I didn't know where else to go."

He feels Fitz put a hand on his back, suddenly shaking with sobs. Quietly, Fitz says "We're here."

Finally, Keefe pulls back from the hug. He furiously swipes at his eyes. "I don't know why he can't just understand that we're in love. That I can love two people, because I am capable of loving two people, because love is infinite and there will always be enough for each of you."

"I don't know why he doesn't understand either," Sophie says. "And it's fucking awful that he doesn't."

Fitz nods. "But the two of us understand. We know you love us both. Endlessly. And we love you too."

"Fuck yeah, we do," says Sophie.

Fitz's gaze softens. "I know it hurts right now. It feels like shit. And I'm not going to lie, it will keep hurting for a really long time. Maybe forever. But we're going to be here for you. We're here for you right now, and we'll be here for you when it randomly hits you all over again for the next few days or weeks or months, and we'll be here for you when the pain returns just when you thought it was gone forever, and we'll be here for you when you really do think you're okay again. Sophie and I are going to be here for you for the bad days and the okay days and the days where it feels like it'll never get better, and we'll be here for you for as long as it takes, and we're always going to be here for you."

Keefe is quiet for a long time. He thinks about how there is a deep chasm in him right now, an empty space. He wonders what it would feel like if another Empath felt it. Probably painful. But then he thinks about this hypothetical Empath feeling his emotions, and how much love they would feel. They would understand how much Keefe can love, how he can love them both. Because he loves them both so much. And he says as much; "I love you."

They wrap him into a hug again, and he realizes; he's been kicked out of the place he used to live, but he hasn't been kicked out of a home, because that was never his home. His home is this moment, this hug, these people. His home is the love he feels for them.

All those years ago, when he asked his parents what love was, they gave an answer. Love can be pride, and it can be a feeling that someone is important to your life. It can also be so much more. It can sometimes be ugly, yes, but it can so often be beautiful. Love can feel soft and sweet and warm, it can be kindness. Love can feel bold and thrilling and exciting, it can be an adventure. And love can be right now, on one of your worst days, when they promise to be with you through it all and offer you whatever comfort they can. Love is home, and love is everything. There are no limits to what love can be.

#shai types things #kotlc #keefe sencen #sokeefitz supremecy #reblog as a birthday present perhaps?#shai's writing

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stargazing-enby · 4 years

Text

In Need of Assistance

A collab with @april-thelightfury115! 😍 I had a lot of fun with this collab, and this was also a great way of combating writer’s block 💪🏼 we hope you enjoy!

Drarry | 2k words | General Audiences | Eighth Year, Getting Together, Spiders, Arachnophobia, Fluff, Truth or Dare | Read on AO3

“AHHHH!”

Harry and Ron exchanged a confused look as a yell from the bathroom interrupted their sleepy morning shuffles. Eighth year was in full swing, lessons began at the crack of dawn, and no-one was happy about it this morning. But that didn’t mean it was worth screaming about.

A second later, a half-shaven Malfoy stumbled out of the bathroom, hair flying in every direction as he panted. Wild eyes finding everyone’s confused attention on him, he paused, quickly smoothing a hand down his rucked shirt.

“Um…” he stumbled, visibly taking a breath. “Blaise, I’m in need of some assistance.”

The Italian sighed.

“Can’t you just… vanish it or something?”

“Vanish what?” Ron asked, suspiciously.

“Nothing that concerns you, Weasley,” Zabini muttered in a bored tone.

“Blaise, I mean it."

“Fiiiine, keep your hair on, I’m coming.” After hauling himself off his bed, Zabini strolled past the practically twitching Malfoy into the bathroom, re-emerging a few seconds later looking just as bored and refined as ever. Only his tightly curled fist—that Malfoy vehemently avoided with comically wide eyes—suggested anything was wrong. Before Harry could ask what the hell was going on, Zabini had opened a window, stuck his hand out, shaken it, and was closing it again.

“There. Done. Finish getting ready," he commanded. To Harry’s surprise, for once in his life, Malfoy did what he was told without comment, practically scurrying back into the bathroom.

What in the…?

“What was that about?” Harry asked. But of course, Zabini merely donned his robes, ignoring him entirely.

“What was in your hand?” Ron demanded. But still, the Italian simply grabbed his bag and breezed out of the dorm. Arrogant bastard.

Exchanging a final look of utter bewilderment with him as the sound of running water joined the periodic sighs and curses that always commentated the dorm’s morning routine, Ron shrugged, donning his robes and leaving Harry no choice but to do the same. Apparently, Malfoy screaming in the morning was just another oddity he was going to have to get used to now he was rooming with the Slytherins.

He held the handle tightly, edging the door open inch by inch, determined to make as little noise as possible as he entered the dorm way past curfew.

Old habits die hard, Harry thought to himself with a wry smile. A long Potions lesson had left him in dire need of some tea at Hagrid’s, and then the cool night air had been too nice to resist. Before he’d known it, he’d been staring at the stars for a few hours. Only the looming threat of McGonagall’s wrath in Transfiguration in the morning had forced him back into the castle.

Bypassing his bed for the bathroom, the snores of his dorm-mates sent a yawn shivering through him. Bed definitely sounded like a good idea…

“Are you going in there?”

Harry wheeled around, coming face to face with a silhouetted figure sat cross legged on the bed.

“Jeez, Malfoy! What are you doing, trying to kill me?!” he whispered, trying to slow his racing heart.

“If I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead, believe me,” Malfoy bit back. Harry just rolled his eyes, the pressure in his bladder reminding him of more important things.

“Whatever, Malfoy. Go to sleep before you terrify someone else.”

“Wait!” The sound of Malfoy’s feet hitting the floor reached his ears. “I—Um—Are you going into the bathroom?”

Harry frowned.

“No, you see, this is actually a secret door to an alternate universe where I own a bakery and I’m late opening it, so if you’ll excuse me."

“Oh fuck off, Potter," Malfoy spat.

"Gladly."

But as he pushed the door open, an honest to god squeak came from behind him. Incredulous, Harry turned back to the pointy git, studying him. One of his feet was mounted over the other, avoiding the cold stone of the bedroom, and he was shaking slightly. No—he was doubled over like he was in pain. Harry squinted.

“Malfoy, why are you awake?”

Malfoy tried, and failed, to seem nonchalant.

“N—No reason.”

Harry huffed.

“Look, I’m exhausted. If you don’t want me to know, go wake Zabini up and ask him again to deal with whatever—”

“I—I can’t. He has an Ancient Runes exam in the morning.”

“Well, then. Whatever’s in there isn’t worse than a Basilisk, is it?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Malfoy grimaced. When Harry glared at him, he muttered, “Okay, fine. It’s not. You’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Good enough,” Harry said. He opened the bathroom door, but looked back at Malfoy, who hadn’t moved and was looking at him intently. “Malfoy.”

“What?”

“You’re staring. It’s weird.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah. Don’t mind me.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry grumbled, but decided to ignore the Slytherin and go pee regardless. Malfoy was old enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.

Despite his efforts, Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring around as he did his business. There weren’t any ghosts around; no strange voices hissing behind the walls, no Boggarts crawling in the corners. The most exciting things he could spot were the annoying, constant dripping of their wonky tap, and a small spider chilling on the ceiling right above his head.

Unless…

Nah, that couldn’t be it. Could it? It did sort of make sense, what with Zabini carrying something in his fist that one morning and throwing it out the window… But the idea of Malfoy being scared—no, terrified—of spiders was... absurd. Hilarious. Interesting.

When he walked back into the bedroom, Malfoy was still exactly where he’d left him. Harry smirked to himself, leaving the bathroom door ajar and walking past him without a word. Waiting to see what Malfoy would do.

“Did you—” Malfoy murmured after a moment of silence, just as Harry sat on his bed. “Did you... see anything?”

“I did, actually,” Harry said casually as he untied his shoes. “There was this ginormous dump that someone had left there, floating endlessly in the deep waters of the toilet—”

“I’m serious!”

“Oh, and there was also a tiny spider somewhere around there.”

“It wasn’t—! It wasn’t tiny,” Malfoy grumbled, raising his nose in the air. “It was… moderately intimidating.”

Harry bit his lip so as to stifle a chuckle.

“Just go pee, Malfoy. It’s not going to kill you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It didn’t kill me.”

“You’re Harry bloody Potter, it doesn’t count.”

“Malfoy…”

“You know I have a point!”

Harry sighed. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“You… would?” Malfoy said, tone shifting to an almost pleading one. How long he must’ve been lying awake trying not to pee himself, only Merlin knew.

“If it’s going to shut you up…”

“Yes. Yes. Most certainly it will. Please—?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry got back to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, followed at a cautious distance by a visibly distressed Malfoy.

While he climbed the toilet, Harry murmured, “I always used to sleep with several of these over my head, you know. They mostly leave people alone. And even when they don’t, their bites don’t hurt that much.”

When he climbed back down, spider in hand, Malfoy was staring at him from the threshold in a mixture of awe and horror.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t, then,” Harry shrugged. “How come you’re so scared of them, anyway?”

“It’s called being sensible, Potter. Anyone smart or without a deathwish would want to keep their distance around them.”

“And by keeping the distance, I assume you mean screaming to the top of your lungs?”

“That was different! The fucker was right in front of my face when I leaned into the mirror.”

The spider, still in his fisted hand, crawled around in his palm, making him shiver slightly. He might not mind spiders, but the sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“You’re impossible,” Harry concluded with a shake of his head. “I’ll get rid of this one. You go… pee, or whatever. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He was about to follow a very grumpy Ron down the stairs to the Common Room when a hand grasped his wrist and pulled him back into their dorm.

“Good morning to you too,” Harry said, too sleepy to sneer back at Malfoy when he caught sight of his expression.

“You’re not going to tell him about last night, are you?” Malfoy pointed his chin toward the stairs as he talked. “Because if you do, I swear to Salazar, Potter, I will turn the rest of your school year into a living hell.”

“Sure, sure.” Harry yawned. “Look, I’ve had enough terrible years already. I’m not about to do anything that could disrupt the shaky peace of our dorm. Relax, okay?”

Malfoy leaned forward, giving him a glare that he was sure was meant to be intimidating. “You’d better.”

“Mate, why are you—oh.”

Harry watched with increasing horror as Ron’s expression changed into one of realisation, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he took note of the way Malfoy was leaning over him—the way he was pressed against the bedroom wall. Fuck, why the hell had Malfoy cornered him against the bedroom wall?!

“Er—I’ll—I’ll wait in the Great Hall, then. Leave you two to…” He gestured vaguely. “Yeah.”

“Ron, it’s not—!” Harry started, pushing Malfoy away from him and running for the door. But Ron was already out of sight. He leaned against the doorframe, cursing silently.

“What the fuck?” said Malfoy from behind him.

“Congratulations,” Harry muttered, slowly turning around. “Ron still doesn’t know you’re terrified of spiders. He simply thinks you were about to snog me senseless!”

“What?! Why in Merlin’s name would he think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you had me pressed against the bloody wall?!”

“I didn’t—!” Malfoy started, cheeks aflame, but gave up with a huff when Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “Look, let’s just—let’s just go get breakfast. And you”—he pointed an accusatory finger at Harry—“had better convince the Weasel that we were arguing over something completely heterosexual and absolutely not spider-related. Is that clear?”

“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry turned to leave, letting a small smile slip now that the Slytherin couldn’t see him. Gosh, Malfoy was so funny when he was flustered it was almost endearing. “Come on.”

“Mate, you can’t be serious.”

Harry felt Malfoy’s groan in his very soul as they walked out of the Potions ingredients cupboard.

“It’s the third time this month!” Ron hissed as they made their way back to their cauldron. “And we’re in the middle of class! You know I love you, Harry, but this is getting out of hand.”

“Zabini wasn’t around to help him,” Harry muttered. “You know, if you really did love me, you’d believe me when I tell you that—”

“Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley!” Slughorn chirped. “I take it you’re finished with your potion, since you’re having such a fun time in my class! You won’t mind if I give it a sip, will you?”

All eyes on him, Harry muttered an excuse and gave Ron a death glare.

“So, Harry,” a very tipsy Hannah said, wiggling her eyebrows, “what will it be? Truth or dare?”

Why did I agree to this again? Was the only answer his scattered thoughts supplied.

“Er—dare,” he blurted after a moment.

Hannah’s eyebrow wiggling increased exponentially.

“How about you give your boyfriend a snog, then?” A chorus of giggles exploded around them. “I think we’ve all been wondering what you two get up to in the cupboards.”

“He—Malfoy’s not—” Harry spluttered, but his words caught in his throat when he saw the state Draco was in: pink from throat to ears, mouth slightly parted. Eyes filled with dread, but keen on straying from Harry’s gaze down to his lips. He’d clearly had one drink too many.

A push on his back made him topple forward, and, as several people cheered, Harry crawled toward Draco, unable to remember or care why his sober self would think this was a terrible idea.

“Potter,” Draco breathed, a hand grasping Harry’s waist. Half-lidded eyes falling on his lips again. Harry’s breath hitched.

“We can—I mean, we don’t have to—”

“Potter.”

A pull at his hip; a fist clenched around his jumper. Urgent.

“Okay.”

Draco’s hands slid against his scalp and into his hair, making him shiver.

“Thanks,” Draco murmured against his lips. “For… you know. Your assistance.”

“You’re w—”

Draco’s lips parted and caught Harry’s lower one in a kiss. The last thing Harry noticed before the last of his coherent thoughts left him with a low moan was Ron’s half-frustrated, half-victorious cry of, “I knew it!”

#aprilwrites #otpshipper98 #drarry #drarry squad #drarry fanfic #harry potter #drarry fic #harry x draco #draco x harry #collab fic

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yetanotherbuffyblog · 3 years

Text

What does it mean to be Chosen (or not Chosen)?

Dawn’s cool.

There’s the plot that Buffy is training the potential Slayers to be more aware of the supernatural world, and get them acquainted with how killing monsters works and all. But the actually good storyline in this episode is that they find out that there’s a potential in Sunnydale, and Willow casts a spell to try to find out who it is. Through a magical misunderstanding they think that Dawn is the potential Slayer, and she has an existential crisis over it.

Dawn runs out of the house to avoid dealing with it all, and she runs into a classmate, Amanda, that had hoped to talk to Buffy about a vampire she trapped in a school classroom after hours. Since Buffy’s out, Dawn feels like a potential, she decides to help Amanda go kill this vampire. This… doesn’t quite go according to plan, especially when the First’s minions interrupt, revealing that Dawn isn’t the potential, Amanda is. Dawn lets Amanda take the lead in killing the vampire right when Buffy, Xander, and Spike show up to back them up, and she does it! She kills the vampire! Hooray!

Some notes:

-ALL of the potentials pick up that there is SOMETHING between Buffy and Spike going on, even if they don’t understand what the exact history is. But I appreciate that none of them are that dense, and seem to have concluded that Buffy and Spike used to date (which is maybe not the right word).

-Buffy shows the potentials around a crypt, and then there’s a vampire there, and after beating him down a bit, she and Spike lock them in there with him? And they do take him, but that sounds like a very douchey thing to do, after informing them over and over again how dangerous this is. I know she already beat down this guy, and they do need some experience, but it feels a little like throwing them in the deep end a bit early.

-Willow’s magic is unreliable, AGAIN. Figures.

-Andrew’s a pain. I don’t know why they keep him. It seems like he exists to be a punching bag of nerd jokes? Xander gets tired of it, saying he’ll attack him if he mentions Star Wars again, but when he goes off on how being a potential Slayer is like becoming a woman, Xander offers to pay him to talk about Star Wars again.

-Thing is, Slayer as a metaphor for femininity sounds vaguely like something Joss said in the commentary for the dreams episode. I mean kind of? I might be misremembering so don’t hold me too much to that.

-Also Buffy takes the potentials to the demon bar. I forgot that it was a thing that existed. And Clem was there! Hi Clem! Haven’t seen him in a while.

-Also apparently his real face is terrifying. We don’t see it, but the potentials do and they scream. TV Tropes claims this is a shoutout to Beetlejuice. I don’t know, I haven’t seen that movie.

-Not sure how I feel about Xander’s pep talk? I like the idea of it, that he gets what Dawn’s going through, and that despite the fact that they’re the ones without powers it doesn’t mean that they’re worthless, and they contribute to the team in their own way. But it’s also like, “Congrats on not being special!” I don’t know, it was weirdly phrased? That it’s about passing off the spotlight more than anything else. And that’s… not quite how I’d address that situation.

-I didn’t like the idea of Dawn being a potential anyway, so I’m glad it didn’t work out that way? She’s got enough going on, and with her being the human form of that interdimensional key thing I don’t know if that even works? Then again magic doesn’t really work on the same rules, I suppose.

-We actually see Buffy doing her job, which is pretty good! We see her talking to Amanda, who is very confused because she and this one guy like each other but are constantly mean to each other? And this is very clearly meant to draw a parallel to Buffy and Spike, which I don’t know if that’s appropriate but interesting.

-Amanda confirms that there are still rumors about Buffy being good at dealing with evil things.

-What is the principal doing right now? He’s not in this episode.

-Neither is Giles.

-Good that Dawn knows now that waving around a crossbow indoors can leads to accidents.

-In the school fight, Dawn is struggling to find a weapon, and really, you’d think these people would be packing weapons or pocket knives at all times given how often it would come in handy. Dawn ends up breaking a flagpole to make a stake.

#Dawn Summers #Buffy Summers #7x12 #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #Willow Rosenberg #Xander Harris #The First

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shireness-says · 4 years

Text

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

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

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

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

Le Cirque des Rêves

Open sunset until sunrise

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

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

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

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

“You know me well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emma shakes her head no.

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

“I’m not special.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can make it go away?”

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

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does it really matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is a school.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can I do for you, then?”

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

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

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

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Sir.”

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

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The latter, I suppose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

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

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

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

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

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

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

“Who’s this, now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what will you do?”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

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

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

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

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

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #my writing #magicians!cs #The Night Circus

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bbnibini · 3 years

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PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA – fifty-nine🔖

Reassurances did little for Satan to forgive his own blunders. You were at his side, attentive to the slightest changes of his expressions, intent on making him realise that he had not been at fault for what happened. The Purgatory Hall members did not comment on what they saw, and instead ushered everyone to their living room, asking for their preference of refreshments. Mammon seemed shaken by his brother’s outburst and was strangely quiet until Solomon sat next to him and enticed him to form a pact.

“An equivalent exchange for a moment of my time, don’t you think so?” The sorcerer smiled, any emotions or thoughts unreadable on his face. Mammon frowned, then looked at you as if he were betrayed; the sorcerer did not mention any catch on his agreements last night, attributing his generosity to drunkenness. You should have known better to believe him.

“Oh, you couldn’t take a joke, Avatar of Greed~ At least I tried~”

“Didn’t sound like a joke to me.”

You mouthed a sorry to Mammon, hearing him shout something about notebooks before your attention returned to Satan. Perhaps due to his outburst earlier, everyone’s eyes were focused on him, notes on their hand along with looks of expectation—no one was willing to speak first even if they wanted the study session to start. Lucifer’s warning was received in varying degrees: from indifference to outright opposition. You even heard Asmo say something about how unfair their firstborn was, expecting everyone to study together when he couldn’t even go. Then, you turned your attention to someone across from you.

“Simeon says he has an ice pack, Levi.” You tested. You weren’t sure if you were forgiven yet. He had defended you and seemed worried about you last night, but you would honestly do the same for him if you had ever switched roles. Just because you are fighting doesn’t mean that you stopped being friends. Thankfully, he did not ignore you this time, and instead let out a soft hm, as he stood up. No words, but there was acknowledgement at least.

Sigh.

Now…how do you deal with this situation?

The air was too thick and awkward. Satan was spent. Was it a good idea to continue today’s group study? But everyone didn’t seem to have any intentions of leaving either. You waited and waited, the sound of quill pens hitting paper almost deafening. They might as well just study alone!

“What the—how am I supposeta understand this? Yer handwriting’s chicken scratch!”

Well. At least Mammon and Solomon were having a more productive time. You squeezed Satan’s hand from under the table, catching him off guard. “Something the matter?” His eyebrows were knotted and he looked so solemn while reading paragraphs of human realm info dump.

“So, got any ideas on how to start?”

His tense expression relaxed. “You were worried.”

“Of course.”

“Not scared?”

You blinked at him. “Scared?”

He leaned his head to your side, unbothered by the public display of affection. For an unlabelled relationship, he never gave you the time to doubt his sincerity towards you. “You were the last person I ever…” He paused, making circular motions on your palm. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

You booped his nose and laughed, causing him to pout. “I would have avoided you if I were.”

Simeon and Luke’s arrival did wonders on the large study table. The food caused Beelzebub to perk up, and Belphie was happily admiring the pretty “galaxy drink” (fully awake) that Luke had concocted for the refreshments. Asmo was making knowing glances at yours and Satan’s side, causing you to straighten yourself up from your seat and making your not-yet-demon boyfriend laugh at your delayed reaction. Levi also came back, nursing his black eye with an ice bag, wincing at the pain. Mammon and Solomon were still arguing, making you turn over to them in curiosity.

“What do you mean ya have no notes? Smart people always have notes!”

“Smart people don’t need notes~”

“And smart people can write!”

“Something wrong?” You decided to look over to see what’s going on in their table while everyone was having a snack break.

“Oi, human! This guy’s a total hack!” He pointed at Solomon, who only smiled vaguely at you. “He ain’t no wise King! Can’t even write a darn proper sentence!”

You noticed Solomon’s bandaged hand… “You’re injured.”

“Oh, it’s nothing life threatening. It’ll heal right away.”

…then turned to Mammon who immediately shook his head and sputtered out a multitude of denials. “I-I didn’t do nothin’! His hand’s been broken since we got here!”

“It’s true.” He confirmed, looking over at you with a nod. “I had a tussle with a sorcerer last night.”

“At the mage party?”

“Mhm.”

“With the hot mages?”

“Mhm.”

“While you’re really drunk?”

He tilted his head and snorted a laugh. “I’m still seeing stars right now.”

You sometimes forget that this man was also human like you. After throwing up and drinking a recovery potion, Asmo had been fine—back to his affectionate and cheerful self. Solomon was different. Being a powerful mage didn’t equate to being invulnerable.

“Are you okay? Did I make things difficult for you?”

You saw his eyes widen, as if having someone worry about him was something rare or even impossible to happen. You haven’t seen this expression on his face before—was it timidity? It felt…fragile. He almost looked like a child.

“Difficult?” He parroted. “It’s just a broken hand. Inconvenient, yes. But this doesn’t concern you.”

Any semblance of that fragile child you have seen in him for a fraction of a second disappeared completely, replaced by his usual, whimsical expressions. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, of course. I appreciate your concern.” He looked over at the other table and said,

“But isn’t Satan starting his tutoring sessions over there already?”

…before going back to teaching Mammon about magic spells.

It almost felt like he was pushing you away, but you thought the idea too ridiculous and dismissed it. He had always been like that.

You sat back on your seat and listened to Satan’s crash course on seductive speechcraft. It was certainly a lot more concise and interesting than Lucifer’s complex reviewers—okay, interesting was an understatement. He hadn’t even started with his seductions yet and you were already seduced.

“Focus on the lesson, please.” He playfully bonked your head with Lucifer’s rolled up reviewers. “Or do you want to get detention?”

“But this is a study group.”

“Oh, I am not shy with inflicting punishments myself. Especially to wayward students.” Or so he says feigning annoyance, but when everyone else wasn’t looking, he had the audacity to kiss your cheek and say, “Feeling feverish? It is the rainy season.” You caught Levi rolling his eyes on your peripheral, probably thinking of something along the lines of stupid normies.

So much for stealth, Avatar of Wrath.

There were many more instances, like a squeeze on your hand below the table, or an endearingly cheesy poetry thinly masked as a love confession on Literature 63: Classics All Over Three Realms. There was a hilarious recount of Emison Beckstein’s novel, but instead of the usual characters, everyone else turned into various breeds of cats to keep the lecture interesting. Simeon ate up the whole DevilPoint presentation, clapping his hands and even crying a bit at how well-thought out it was. It was almost strange to see Luke being the more muted one in their angelic duo. Belphie was strangely active once it was time for Astronomy 18, answering Satan’s questions at lightning speed that it was almost impossible to butt in.

“You’ve read your reference books. I’m impressed.” Satan said smiling.

“I haven’t touched a book willingly for at least 600 years.” Belphie drawled out, unsmiling.

Meanwhile on the other table, you heard Mammon groan in frustration as he got the answer wrong for the nth time.

“Whaddya mean it goes like this and that? It doesn’t make a lick of sense!”

“Oh? But it’s so simple!” Solomon then began to explain the answer in words you can barely comprehend. You looked at the sorcerer, then at Belphegor and concluded: geniuses are scary.

Your eyes chose to settle back onto Satan, finding his intelligence not as inhuman (irony at its finest) nor as unattainable as the two abnormals. “I like your brain the best,” you didn’t realise you said that out loud, making Satan burst into laughter.

“I would prefer it if you would like me enough to pay attention. Or is my body part your only reason to like me?”

You threw a french fry at Asmo when he suddenly waggled his eyebrows. “Luke is listening, so get your head out of the gutter!” Your action prompted everyone else to do the same, throwing and shoving food into the former Jewel of Heaven’s mouth, a complete caricature of what he once was.

“Listen to what?” Luke blinked, looking up from his notes. Simeon gracefully evaded the smaller angel’s questioning with a random fact about stars. Beel didn’t really understand what was going on, but seeing as his brothers had chimed in, he shoved a few more French fries at the distraught Asmo’s mouth, an outcry letting out of his poor victim’s mouth (something about empty calories yet he swallowed every single piece anyway).

“Sataaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, they’re being so mean~!” He said Satan but embraced another(read:you), squeezing himself in between the two of you and smooshing both of your cheeks.

“You smell like booze, Asmo.”

“Oh, darling! Why must you hurt me so? :( ~”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, stroking his head in comfort. “You’re fine, Asmo. You’ll get past this. You always do.”

Satan’s smile was deathly cold. While he insisted that it was fine for Asmo to sit in between both of you, you knew better. He’s probably going to ask to be spoiled later. The thought alone was something to look forward to, and made the gruelling endeavour of studying for the sake of not getting into trouble with Lucifer a little less tedious. And the troublemaker who dragged everyone into the mess in the first place seemed to be trying his best as well, at least according to Solomon who remarked (rather impressed) about Mammon’s astounding mathematical abilities once the session for the day concluded.

Once Satan got the hang of pacing his lessons, everyone observed a drastic improvement on their mock test scores. Levi a.k.a on-the-verge-of-getting-the-rope-for-his-numerous-attempts-to-skive-athan (who you have long reconciled with after a teary marathon of Ghibli films with Beel and Belphie), almost received his second black eye when he unconsciously reached in for a kiss from his unamused younger brother. Satan was crushed into a hug by a grateful Beel anyway, whose sincere thank you, had been more well-received compared to Leviathan’s smooches (causing the third-born to sulk). The said incident had been implored to never be mentioned by both parties ever again.

Of course, due to your busy days working as the exchange student representative (as well as Satan’s duties as student council treasurer), your vague relationship remained a status quo. You’re definitely NOT “just friends”. No platonic friends would ever kiss each other as much as both of you do. It couldn’t be brushed off as something out of friendly affection either, as you recalled every affection you shared under the sheets as anything but friendly. You almost got in trouble for your public displays of affection a few times when Lucifer had time to attend the study sessions. Almost as if Satan wished to be caught—he was usually better with being discreet at the times when Lucifer wasn’t around. When you ask him this, you never get an answer though, so you attributed his silence as affirmations.

💌💌💌

“What are we sneaking around for?” You asked him, genuinely confused as he led you to Lucifer’s garden. He’s entering this place…willingly? Is this really Satan? He laughed when he mimicked your thoughts, much like J*seph Joestar’s running gag in Part 2—only, this was mother effing Satan; he was no ridiculously buff anime character but a respectable member of the illustrious Seven Princes of Hell™. He immediately denied your sensible (ha!) claims of him taking interest in your Chinese cartoons, and instead refocused your attention to a small patch of land he told you to enter.

“Lucifer doesn’t know about this spot.”

“In his own garden?”

His close-eyed smile had been lovely. “He’s been too busy to know. Anyway, I have something to show you.” He urged you to enter the small hole of trimmed grass hidden by Lord Diavolo’s statue—an enchantment, you’ve begun to know as he had undone numerous barriers protecting a space that appeared a lot bigger than the Alice in Wonderland-esque “door”.

“Your room?”

He moaned out in approval from afar, obscured by a stack of tomes on his table. It did seem like he was trying to retrieve something from his balcony. “I installed this portal just recently. Makes the trip to Purgatory Hall more convenient.” After the incident with the broken blackboard, you had been holding the studying sessions in Purgatory Hall instead. The atmosphere there had been too familiar to really consider on changing locations, and Simeon and the others did not seem to mind. “Actually, can you come here instead? It’s pretty dark in there.”

Dark? Well of course. Devildom is in eternal darkness. But you held your urge to banter.

You were surprised to see light in a small corner of Satan’s balcony—an artificial sun, albeit small, illuminating a familiar flower on a plastic pot.

“That’s…”

Satan smiled sheepishly as he urged you to scoot over to him. “Mhm. I did say I’ll give you another gift.”

“This…this is too much!” Growing a carnation? In such a harsh environment? “Isn’t it hard to…make it survive here?” Your question was answered by a quick peck on your lips. His beautiful emerald eyes narrowed at you, lips curving up into a smile that made your heart skip a beat. How much does he love you to do this?

“I didn’t do this to make you cry, kitten.” A nickname he only approved of if you were the one it addresses to. He wiped your tears with his fingers, kissing the corner of your eyes. “Look closely. Such a lovely little thing, trying their best to live their life in an unfamiliar environment. Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”

“UuuuuuUUuuuuuuU!!!!”

“Hey—! What did I just sa—!”

You tackled him to the ground, smothering him with your hugs and kisses. “I loveuuuu Sachaaaan—” You sniffled, soothed by the gentle strokes he made on your back. Despite his protests, he continued holding you anyway, offering loving words you knew he meant from the bottom of his heart.

“I love you too. More than anything in this world.” You wondered what number that kiss was in your ever growing kisses with him; how does he see you in those alluring green eyes of his? Was his heart also beating out of his chest?

“I don’t want to leave…” you couldn’t help but say, which he replied with a forehead kiss to signify his agreement as he sat you on his lap, back leaning on the wall.

“Then don’t.”

“Sataaaaaan.”

“It’s only a suggestion.” He laughs. “A tempting one, isn’t it?”

You finally stopped crying. Only an evidence of it was left on your tear-stained face. “What will happen to us?

…sorry, that question is unfair.”

“We’ll…”

“Think of something?” You finished his sentence for him, causing him to laugh quietly at your side. “Once Mammon passes his exams—oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do anything this time.”

“Huh.”

“Well, Solomon is going out of his way to help despite his injury. And…” He hesitated, yet spoke out his thoughts anyway. He didn’t want any secrets, and you felt the same. “...it seems like Lucifer did not approve of such arrangements.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Why so?”

“It’s just suppositions but, Solomon might be involved in whatever Lucifer is busy with.”

You suddenly felt very guilty. “Doesn’t that mean that I did something really bad?” Did you intrude upon his already busy life?

“Well, he was the one who accepted.” Satan, however, reassured you.

“Still…”

“I did say it was a supposition. I might be wrong.”

You hoped so. You couldn’t really know. In fact, you didn’t know much about the sorcerer at all.

“Speaking of suppositions…” ah. He’s pouting again. “You mentioned about a love letter. A secret admirer…”

“Someone I NEVER knew and never made himself known.” You emphasised, kissing the creases on his brows away. “Satan, I haven’t thought about him until you brought him up.”

“Which means his letter is still out there—in your room, rotting away in its leafy carcass.”

“Paper. It’s paper. Say it like how everyone does.”

He made a tch sound, making you promise to retrieve it and have it read once he’s finished with his tutoring.

What you didn’t expect was his impromptu proofreading when you handed it out to him. You never really managed to finish reading it—pages and pages of flowery words and lovelorn promises. Your heart skipped a beat with several of its passages, and were surprised by how…this enigma seemed to know you despite not knowing him at all.

“Clearly this is a stalker.”

And so, your romantic fantasies were thereby thwarted by your cynical demon, You saw him roll his eyes as he begrudgingly admitted the author’s skill with his word weaving, amazed by his vocabulary and prose. “Carnations too. Had he seen my gift and imitated me?”

“It must be a coincidence.”

That, he readily admitted to be the likely possibility. He hated how you made sense; gives him less reasons to ask to be comforted (read: spoiled) by you. “He could be dangerous.” And so, he turned to Freud and his idea of rationalisation. He wished it could have been projection—reaction formation if you wanted him to be more civilised; he can make compromises. Any excuse to inflict harm on the said man, really.

“If he was, then I never found myself to be in one. Much more when you’re there protecting me.”

“I do all the work for him, do I not?” You chuckled and kissed his still pouting lips.

“If you hate it so much, you can throw it away.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, considering the thought. “Or, I can one-up my competition and write a better letter. Letters. I can write one every day starting now.”

Your eyes widened, remembering the embarrassing bouquet he gave you. Oh. Oh. No! You weren’t having that again!

“No more grand displays, sir! I object!”

“No more? I haven’t even started yet.”

You shook your head repeatedly, complaining to him about the aftermath of his previous one. You couldn’t believe the utter audacity of his words.

“You call that a grand display? You have some low standards, kitten. I am inclined to change it.”

“No!”

He caged you in his arms this time, forcing you to meet his eyes. Darn it. Why was he so handsome?

“What would I do to make you say yes?”

Any embarrassment was thrown aside; replaced by evil, evil thoughts. You smirked.

“I want you to be my boyfriend. For real. No secret relationships. Full-blown, embarrassing declarations of love by the school grounds.”

“Deal.”

“Ha! I knew—Wait what?!”

He only answered with a smirk on his annoyingly attractive face, making you realise the answer for yourself.

Well fuck. You just got played. The letter? Good as gone. Burnt, burnt, burnt to ashes, too eager for its own end to await for the vermilion bonfire on the school grounds to claim it.

Instead, it had been you who was being threatened to be consumed. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be pressured into this. Everything had gone according to his plan—he really is a show-off! And you thought he was the “normal” one in their family!

Oh shit.

Exams were coming up after the festival.

You’re going to get looks while taking your exams, won’t you? You definitely will!

Try as you will to make it known to him that you were not pleased with your agreements, he only laughed at you, planting kisses on your face. When you asked him if he was treating you like how he treats catty (pun intended) felines, he did not answer; but all it took was a glance at his impish lips to know (internally) he said yes.

💌💌💌

You couldn’t concentrate. Not with knowing what will happen on the festival dance. Not with that big ass bonfire standing there, reminding you of your stupidity. Not with your almost-boyfriend reminding you of how excited he was to dance with you tonight! It was a miracle you were able to carry out your final duties as a festival organiser without letting so much as a stumble out from the many opportunities where you could have screwed everything up for everyone—at least your body had the decency to not do that. You wish you could say the same for Satan. Oh, you loved him so much but sometimes, he can be so…so infuriating. What was more infuriating was that he knows deep down, that you were looking forward for this too.

Was his grand gestures as grand (read: embarrassing) as you anticipated? Immensely grand. Immensely showy. Immensely devilish and so very him. You were blindfolded on your way, a smiling Asmo surprisingly cooperative and tight-lipped when you asked him questions about his contributions to his brother’s grand grand schemes.

You only heard a muted orchestra in the background as you neared your destination. Asmo didn’t let you go, and instead led you up a small flight of stairs—one, two, three…five steps. This must be the makeshift stage near the bonfire where Lord Diavolo would be sitting for the rest of the event. You could hear his voice now, a cheerful baritone that hinted of his own cooperation (and perhaps outright enthusiasm) when he greeted you, marvelling at the unique charms of human world school festivals where he took his most recent project’s inspiration from.

“You can open your eyes now, sweetie.” Asmo whispered on your ear as you felt a bright light on you, eyes squinting at its sheer intensity. A spotlight? But before you could ask anything, Satan’s voice boomed in the speakers. Your still squinting eyes, adjusting to the light searched for its source but only saw the fascinated crowd below you.

“You asked for grand gestures and I delivered,” You didn’t! Not unironically! But your protests were deafened by the noise around you. Clamours and cheers, your name mixed in the cacophony of sounds shouted by voices familiar and dear to you. You saw some of them in the crowd, but your favourite blond was not among them. You strained your ears and listened to his voice once more.

“A famous human playwright named Shakespeare once said that the robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. I didn’t give much thought to his words, thinking it meant something shallow or too humanly inclined for me to understand, but…” he called your name, a sweet and gentle tone permeating his love for you.

“But now, dearest? I feel like I do.”

His words were like a trigger, muting the voices from below—they formed groups around the bonfire, partner after partner, hand in hand, dancing to the beat of human realm music in harmonious cadence.

“My lovely thief, may I steal you away tonight? For the rest of your life?

Save the last dance for me, won’t you?”

Wait. Isn’t that—

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬʸᴵᴺᴳ... ᵐᵉʳʳʸ⁻ᵍᵒ⁻ʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ʲᵒᵉ ʰᶦˢᵃᶦˢʰᶦ: ʰᵒʷˡ'ˢ ᵐᵒᵛᶦⁿᵍ ᶜᵃˢᵗˡᵉ ᴼˢᵀ 1:05 ───|────── 2:53 |◁ II ▷|

“Howl’s Moving Castle?”

Anime music? In a school festival? This must be Levi’s doing!

“Are you going to stare at me, or are you going to dance?”

“Levi?” Speak of the demon!

“No, Sophie—of course it’s me! Geez. How did I get dragged into this….”

His black eye was still there, but it was healing. Blushing to the tip of his ears, he fumbled as he searched for your hands and clumsily held them as he led you down the stage.

“M-Moses!”

“Not a name I thought I would hear in Devildom, but I see your point.”

Your point exactly? Exactly as you might be thinking right now. The crowd parted to make way for you, until Levi settled you in an empty spot and shakily threaded your fingers. “J-just so you know, Satan forced me into this! I have an event to grind, y’know! You should be grateful!”

“I am. Thank you, bestie~”

You heard him scoff, yet he took the lead effortlessly anyway, matching the strides of the other dancers around you. “You only call me that to tease me.”

“You know it’s out of friendly affection.”

“Yet you dodged and got me this black eye—“

“What, you want us to get it together?” He snorted, his amber eyes narrowing as he caught you after you dipped. “You better make it up to me soon. I’ve listed so many of your felonies and they’re only increasing as we speak.”

“Oh?” You glanced at him sideways and prepared to spin. “What are friends for?”

Dancing with Levi had been lovely. It was easy to talk to him, especially after how you’ve already made up.

“Hey,” he called to you, sounding hesitant.

“Yeah?”

With bitten lips, the words he caught in his throat collected, and with a sigh to lessen its impact—its filter, he finally spoke. “Are you happy?”

That made you think and look back at your memories in Devildom. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows of course, and you would argue that there might even be hostility there at both parties especially your first encounters with them. But now?...

“I couldn’t be any happier!” You smiled at him. “I’m so glad I came here! I’m so glad I met all of you!”

“I’m glad.” Somehow, the way he smiled back at you felt faraway. “I’m going to lose a best friend when you’re gone.”

…until he voiced out his thoughts and you finally understood. He was so silly, wasn’t he?

As his turn came to an end, and with it, seeing Beel approaching, you kissed his cheek and answered,

“No one can ever take your place, Levi. You will always be my best friend too!”

You might have imagined it, but it looked like Levi was about to cry when you left.

💌💌💌

“Congrats.” Greeted Beel as he linked your arms together.

“…Satan bribed you, didn’t he?”

Beel pondered for a bit as he spun you, catching your back with his palm and threading your fingers once you repositioned. “He cooks really well. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! You’re right though. You should ask him to make as much meals as you want to take advantage of the situation.” Now, Beelzebub might be the demon amongst both of you (at least biologically speaking), but you were far, far more devilish and equally vengeful. “Do you want recommendations? I know some exquisite human realm cuisine you could ask him to make for you!”

The way Beel’s mouth watered as he asked you to make good of your promise after the festival affirmed that you have successfully turned the tides against your almost-boyfriend. Wordlessly, he guided you to your next partner, a rather sleepy looking Belphegor who was trying his best to keep himself awake.

“Just a little more, Belphie!” You encouraged him, taking the lead for him instead.

“Sleep…”

You laughed and shook your head as you tried your best to keep him awake.

You got to hand it to Levi for choosing good anime music. To an unsuspecting normie, it sounded like it belonged to a ballroom. In fact, it was wayyyy too effective as Belphie complained about it sounding too much like a lullaby. “Ah…congrats by the way.”

“Thanks..

Belphie, your face is too close—“ Ah, he’s almost going to pass out! You snapped a finger in front of him and he repositioned.

“…aren’t you going to say something to me?”

You blinked your eyes and tilted your head. “No?” And you saw Belphie frown as you answered. Almost melancholy. He shook his head.

“Nevermind. What’s important is you’re here, and you’re happy.”

Try as you should to understand what he meant, you could not. Not even once he led you to Barbatos, your next partner.

“Congratulations.” He offered his heartfelt felicitations, and you couldn’t help but blush in embarrassment.

“Why did Lord Diavolo agree to such a…grand (you hated that word now) scheme?”

Barbatos hummed, filled with his usual grace and composure. “Milord is generous and wise. And you,” He halted his words for a short while to hold you by the waist. “You are more than a student to this school. You’re family to those brothers, so family you shall be treated.”

That answer was very him, you supposed--showing not a hint of his emotions or inner thoughts. His dedication to his work was impressive.

“Shall we?” He offered his gloved hand to you as his turn ended. And when you accepted, you were treated to a small, yet rare smile from him. Simeon awaited you on your next turn, a serene smile on his lips as well that you felt obliged to return (albeit more awkwardly).

“Congratulations!”

Bright. Bright! Too powerful!

“You have provided me such excellent material for TSL’s next volume. Thank you, kindly~!” Were you just imagining it, or was he teasing you right now? The way he led you was flawless, feeling his grace down to his fingertips.

“Are you really going to use Satan’s cheesy grand gestures in your next volume?” You blinked your eyes, suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re friends with a very successful author. The fact that you’re not starstruck right now was almost unimaginable.

“The Lord of Masks and his unexpectedly romantic side is very very tempting to explore.” He reasoned, holding you by the shoulder. “The current arc needs a bit more light-hearted scenes, methinks.”

Thankfully, you were able to talk him out of doing it before he surrendered you to Mammon.

“Grats…” He was frowning when he intertwined your hands with his, an exasperated sigh as he begrudgingly took the lead. “Your boyfriend’s scary, y’know? I almost didn’t make it out alive!”

“Make what of?” You asked, curious. “Did something happen, Mammon?”

“!!!”

When he didn’t talk, you repeated your question.

“Gah! Don’t look at me with those, googly human eyes of yours!”

“What. Did. He. Do?”

When he didn’t answer you again, you threatened to step on his foot (empty threats, but it was worth a try) so he finally relented (emphasis on the finally). “I might have…tried…to steal the flower on the pot. I’msorryIcan’thelpit!”

He was shocked to hear you laugh instead of being angry with him. Smiling, you shook your head.

“It wasn’t stolen if you’re caught, right?”

Mammon’s confused look was rather adorable.

“…hey, human?”

“Hey, Mammon.” You parroted.

He chuckled and spun you around. “You’re weird.”

He only laughed at you once more when you agreed.

💌💌💌

“Darling~!! It’s our turn now!”

You giggled and accepted his hand. “Hello, Asmo! It’s nice to see you again!”

His playful way of leading you washed the fatigue off of you. It was exhausting to switch partners every one or two spins and dips. And you were happy that Asmo noticed. “Sooooo, how are you enjoying your day?”

“Unsurprised, but still embarrassed. Probably a little hurt you kept this from me.”

Asmo feigned concern, catching your larky tone. “I’m soooo sorry, darling! But Satan insisted! And, you’re happy he did this deep down, aren’t you? Don’t try lying to me now! Love and lust are connected, however blurred~”

“Tch.”

“Fufu~ See, see! I was right!♡” Sometimes, you hated how right he was. And pretty. What’s worse is that he knows it.

“You’re terrifyingly perceptive.” Asmo hummed in agreement as he supported your back to dip.

“Of course!~ I’m amazing, aren’t I? Praise me more!”

“You’re amazing, Asmo~”

“Oh, darling, I love you!!!”

You laughed as you accepted his hug, a fish out of water compared to the synchronised movements around you.

“I love you too, Asmo.”

The artificial sunset reminded you of the real ones in the human world. The large bonfire at the centre of the school grounds continued to flicker as the music played, and Mephisto's voice echoed in the speakers, cueing everyone to switch partners. Satan was dancing with a succubus, being an excellent escort, and you couldn't help the bubble of pride in your chest as he reassured his nervous partner who stepped on his foot a few several times. Isn’t my boyfriend amazing? You couldn’t help but think, a voice from inside you asking several questions back: Why weren't you jealous? Because you didn't have any reason to be. You felt safe. Secure in his company. You knew he would never hurt you, not on purpose. You trusted him. You loved him.

"He's good at dancing, isn't he?"

Your eyes focused back at your own partner, laughing at his awkward way of holding your hand.

"I don't have a deadly disease, Solomon." You joked, threading your fingers together and feeling the heat of his hand. He pulled away instinctively, eyes looking elsewhere. Oh darn. You keep on forgetting he's injured.

"Did I hurt you?"

His silence was jarring, but not as jarring as the look of shock in his eyes.

“Does it hurt that much?” Your racked your brain over that healing spell you learned in class. It was Latin something. Or was it Gaelic? Oh shit. You were bad at rune magic—

“Never. Not at all.” Ah, he’s back. You couldn’t help but think, focusing on the bags under his eyes, his usual yet somewhat tired smile. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

You thought you imagined it at first: a surprising, fragile side to him. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was something else. But he was back, and he was squeezing your hand and it hurt. You felt that weird vulnerability again when he apologised to you, before promptly disappearing when he teased you about your sweaty palms, never to return.

“You’re not going to heal it?” You asked, pertaining to his broken hand. “Not before finals?” He has more than enough magical capacity to do so. As if reading your thoughts, he flippantly replied.

“Mammon’s reactions are amusing.”

“I knew you had an ulterior motive!”

Your eyes couldn’t help but wander back to Satan—smiling and having fun. You were relieved to see him enjoying himself, but he was so far away all the same. You could see however, your next partner. Amongst the crowd was the ever elegant Lucifer, leading a demoness who seemed to be enjoying his company.

“…thank you.”

But before you could reply back to him, the sorcerer had already given you to your next partner (Lucifer), making an exaggerated curtsy as he left.

“We finally meet. Shall we?” Lucifer offered his gloved hand and you accepted with a smile. Satan was closer now, almost a turn away, and you caught yourself stealing glances at him as much as he was. You saw him mouth, Lucifer’s glaring at you with a laugh, and you fearfully turned back to the firstborn, and confirmed that yes. He was glaring, and yes. You have missed a spin.

“I was against Satan’s ridiculous gambades. In fact, I find that my negligence caused a lot of discomforts.”

Gulp.

“If this is about Solomon—I,”

His eyes widened at your Freudian slip, holding you in a cuddle dip. You felt him sigh from the nape of your neck, the hoarseness in his voice, you attributed to fatigue. “So you knew.”

You didn’t want to face him. This was supposed to be a light-hearted dance, so why does it feel like you’re being grilled?

“You should have consulted me first, then again…you do not know the underlying reasons of my anger, do you?”

By the time you had to switch back to your original position, you felt yourself creasing your brows. “I don’t. Won’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer, satisfying your curiosity with thoughtful silence.

“…I’m sorry for keeping things from you.”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what he meant. “Things?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Speaking of…”

A spin. A turn, and he continued. “Come to Barbatos’ Estate after this. You can bring Satan or any other of my brothers whom you trust. Of course, you can also go alone.”

That was…really strange. It certainly snapped you out of that fairytale-like feeling you’re having.

“…hello, gorgeous.”

…Only for it to come back at full strength once your weary heart finally found its match.

“If I become the centre of gossip after this, you have to take responsibility.” You pouted as you accepted his hand, threading your fingers together as you moved to the music.

“I only listened to your suggestions.” His close-eyed smile widened as you missed his foot. You hissed at him and it only earned you a sneaky kiss at the back of your hand as you made a turn.

“So, my dearest; on a scale of flawless to perfect, how do I fare as a boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes. “Your first day on the job and you’re already up there, aren’t you?”

“The highs of a love realised.” He bantered. “A luxury a few can afford.”

You missed his foot again and frowned. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

When did the music stop playing? When did everyone disperse? The bonfire illuminated only he and you, casting shadows on vermilion. His forehead touched yours, looking down to meet your eyes. There was a smile there, not his usual ones—almost warm. “After this and it’s almost over.”

“Oh…”

He kissed your forehead to silence the dark thoughts looming inside there, squeezing your hand to know he wasn’t going away. Not ever.

“My heart will always be with you.” He called your name. “You are just a teleport away anyway. And we can call each other every day.”

“But what if I want to kiss you?”

He kissed you just then, feather soft before pulling away. “Would you like to make a deposit? For a rainy day, of course.”

You blushed, stunned at the sudden gesture. “I’ll use it all in one go,”

A kiss again, this time longer than the other. You stopped moving already and it took you a while to notice. You were too drunk on the moment to notice anything else, in fact.

“Wouldn’t that be a problem? I’m almost tempted to keep you here.”

“Don’t say that…” you bit your lip. “And I’m almost tempted to stay.”

You hated the thought of being away from him. Most especially now that…you had something. A label. An officiation of sorts—validating your feelings for each other.

“Won’t you trust me?”

He said to you, four simple words that you couldn’t help but simmer over as your happy yet fleeting days with him are almost coming to an end.

Lucifer

Have you made your decision?

And then there’s that—a thought you had set aside in favour of not letting your wonderful day to be spoiled. However you wish to evade responsibility however, you could not. You asked Satan’s words back at you again:

Do you trust him?

💌[ Tell Satan. ]

💌[ Go alone. ]

💌masterlist

[ MEMORIA 10: ~To Deceive, To Protect~ unlocked. ]

💌 Read now

💌Read now (first draft version/private blog)

[ A new option has opened in Mammon’s Route: ~Smile at him~ ]

💌Read now

#psisly #hamartia series #interactive fiction #cyoa #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me fic #obey me fanfic #obey me mammon #obey me x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me satan #obey me satan x reader #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x reader #secret admirer #love letter

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thescatterbrainedwriter · 3 years

Text

Just Some Coffee

After finally getting her dad to open up about her mom, Jessie notes Emily seems to like his company and suggests he take her out for coffee or something to talk

Word count: 2,993

Warnings: none, just some fluff

Flash Fanfic

**Note: at this point in time, none of team Flash know what Estrata’s real name is. Estrata = Emily. Also, Emily is my personal character. I just like to stick her in places 😅 Enjoy!! 🥔 🎨

———

Harry didn’t want to do it. He was already on good terms with team Flash, he even became friends with Cecile. How much more socializing was he supposed to do anyway? This never would have happened on Earth 2, he had his lab he could hide in whenever he wanted. He was actually starting to miss the days where people left him alone because they were afraid of him. ’She seems to genuinely enjoy your company,’ Jessies voice repeated in his head. ’I think she might actually like you.’ Henry growled in irritation as the sentences played on loop. He didn’t want to admit it but, since she would often sit quietly in the corner of whatever lab he worked in, he didn’t mind her company either. At least she knew how to be quiet and her occasional inputs were actually pretty helpful. He growled to himself again, standing in the middle of Cisco’s lab having no where else to really wander to once Jessie left for Earth 3, trying to get back into the mindset of working on the Thinker problem but couldn’t quite do so. He couldn’t tell if it was from the mishap with the thinking cap he built or the suggestion Jessie made beginning to worm its way into ‘good idea’ territory. With a huff he decided to do something about it and nearly stormed out of the lab in frustration.

Making his way into the cortex he found everyone enjoying some down time doing mundane tasks on the computer or looking over data sheets. Emily was sitting at one of the desks with her usual holoscreen up reading something. He couldn’t tell what it was but it didn’t matter, he had a question and only she could answer it. So he strode over and stood awkwardly stiff just outside of her peripheral. Emily glanced up having felt his approach and smiled. “Oh, hey Harry,” she greeted before looking back to her screen. “Hey, hi,” he said rather forced. She continued looking at her screen for a moment, Harry still standing there, before she looked back at him with a curious face having not felt or heard him leave. “Can I.... help you?” She asked, Cisco and Ralph observing in curiosity and amusement.

“No, well, yes,” Harry stuttered. “I suppose, suppose it depends on your answer. Anyway...” Emily cocked an eyebrow turning her full attention to him sitting up straighter from her slouched position over the desk and now everyone else was beginning to quietly observe what was going on. Harry paused suddenly unsure if he should go through with his question or just bail to return to Cisco’s lab to sulk as usual. “Would you... want to go for some coffee?” he asked sounding somewhat constipated. Now it was Emily’s turn to freeze at the unexpected question. Cisco got a really amused smile on his face also not expecting this and eagerly anticipated the conclusion as did Iris, who had been sitting at a computer, and Ralph.

“What?” Emily asked with a confused chuckle.

“Coffee,” Harry repeated. “Did you want to get coffee?” She blinked still processing the question making him more uncomfortable than he already was. “Jessie.... suggested it....” he added. “For socializing purposes. I guess.”

“Yeah, ok,” she agrees with a smile. Harry continued standing stiffly for a moment not quite knowing what to do now. “Good. Great. Ok,” he said before turning and beginning to leave.

“Hey wait! Harry!” Emily called making him stop and turn around again. “You never told me when,” she said still smiling.

“When what?” Harry asked oblivious.

“When you wanted to get coffee,” she replied with a little sigh. “You wanna go now? Later? Tomorrow?”

“Now is fine. Does it work for you?” He asks.

She grins again, a little wider, reaching a hand toward the holoscreen still open on the desk and makes a fist closing it. “Yeah, that works,” she agrees standing. With out much of a nod he turns around again and briskly walks toward the exit, Emily trying to keep up, while everyone watches them leave with amused smiles. Her drones Medi and GP float behind talking amongst themselves.

“Are they going on a date or something?” Medi asks. “Looks like it?” GP confirms. “Should we follow to watch?” Medi asks uncharacteristically mischievously. “Definitely!” GP agrees enthusiastically.

“You will not,” Emily scolds turning around just before leaving and pointing at them.

“Can’t stop us,” GP taunts.

“Oh yeah? Steadfast Protocol,” she ordered. Medi and GP groan in disappointment as the protocol initiates preventing them from leaving S.T.A.R. Labs property. Emily smiles triumphantly turning back round to follow Harry to Jitters. She vaguely heard the drones trying to beg Tinker, her third drone who had moseyed over and was not under the protocol, to follow them on their date and Tinker refusing as he wasn’t interested in their stalking activities.

——

Unacceptable. Simply unacceptable, Harry thought to himself as they walked. How is she so amicable? We’ve been talking about nothing in particular and it’s been.... nice? Not in the least bit annoying? They opted to walk to Jitters and in their awkwardness, had begun making small talk about nothing really in particular. It only took a few minutes to arrive and Harry opened the door for Emily then chose a two seat table toward the back of the shop sitting awkwardly in silence. Emily was somewhat amused by his odd behavior, she had never seen him act like this before, and just studied him sitting in the seat directly across from him. Shortly after they seated themselves, a barista came over to take their order. “Hi,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to Jitters. What can I get you?” Harry’s head turned so fast to her out of surprise Emily thought he may have snapped his neck. “Just a regular coffee, black,” he said.

“And I think I’ll have a hot French Vanilla, small, just cream please,” Emily added with a smile. The girl nods before heading off to fulfill the requests. More silence with Harry staring everywhere but in front of him amusing Emily some more. “So....” she says trying to garner his attention, “what do you wanna talk about now?” Harry finally looks her in the eye looking like he suddenly became constipated and couldn’t talk. “I think you should pick the topic,” he deflected. “I invited you out after all.”

Emily got a mischievous idea and shook her head. “No, it’s ok. You pick.”

“No, I really think you should,” Harry insisted. “I don’t have anything interesting to talk about.”

“Well, what topics do you have to talk about?”

“Well.... mostly science stuff.... technical things.... You know, not interesting things.” Harry attempted deflecting. Just then the barista came back to deliver their drinks. “Oh, thank you!” Emily said with a bright smile. “No problem!” the barista smiled back. “Let us know if you need anything else alright?” Harry nodded and she walked off back behind the counter to help other customers.

“Oh, I don’t mind listening to those things,” Emily said getting back on topic. “Friend of mine would go on and on about the things he made and going into detail about his mechanical and engineering feats. Even discussed coding and programming.”

“Really?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Mhmm,” she confirmed nodding her head looking into her coffee. “You know my drones right?”

“Yeah?”

“He helped me make them,” she smiled. “I came up with the concept, he helped me fabricate the parts and program them and told me how to fix them if I ever needed to. Now I can do their maintenance and any upgrades blindfolded.” She leaned her head against her hand while leaning over her side of the table. Harry blinked in impressed disbelief. “I was also the one who programmed their personalities in,” Emily added running her finger around the rim of her cup.

“That.... doesn’t surprise me,” Harry commented.

“What’s that supposed to mean??”

“Just that, well, they seem like different parts of your core personality,” he explained casually before sipping his coffee. Emily squinted suspiciously at him. “Explain.”

“Well, Tinker is your creative, GP your inquisitive, and Medi your protective.” Emily looked at him thoughtfully and was surprised he picked up anything like that about anyone, least of all her. “That, and they’re a touch annoying,” he concluded.

“Yeah, they are huh?” Emily agreed staring off into space reminiscing about their usual hi-jinx. Harry raised his eyebrows curiously. “You’re... not going to protest that?”

“Nah,” she dismissed casually. “I’m fully aware I can be really very annoying. I just have a hard time turning it off sometimes,” she said sitting up and finally drinking some of her coffee. “Well at least you can acknowledge it,” he said amused.

“Of course! I did make it a mission of mine back home after all,” she grinned. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle and sipped his coffee again. “So, why don’t you choose a topic to change to,” Emily proposed. He shook is head in response. “No, I told you. I don’t have anything interesting to talk about. Jessie and even Cisco could tell you that I’m... well... long-winded.” Her face soften and she smiled thoughtfully. “Hmm, ok, theeeeeen.... tell me about quarks?” He looked at her puzzled. “You..... want to know about.... quarks? Really?”

“Well, maybe not but. You know about quarks, and I don’t really know about quarks, so talking about quarks would probably be a good place to start,” Emily half rambled before sipping her coffee and trying to look innocent. Harry just looked suspiciously at her trying to figure out if she was serious or not. “What?” She asked noticing his staring. “I may be primarily geared toward entertainment but I still like learning about this stuff too.” He just sighed in amusement. “Ok, alright. Fine. I’ll talk about quarks,” he relented lighting up Emily’s face in anticipation. He felt weird noting it had been a while since he felt something similar; back when Jessie was a kid he would sometimes talk about scientific principles to her even when she couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was pretty sure he explained atoms to her when he fed her that mush trying to pass as baby food. Whenever Jessie asked about something science related he was always happy to over explain. “So, a quark is a type of elementary particle and a fundamental constituent of matter,” he began. “Quarks combine to form composite particles called hadrons, you probably know them better as protons and neutrons.” Emily settled in and sipped on her coffee quite invested in his epic monologue.

——

He had no idea how long he had been lecturing but eventually Harry became aware of how much time had passed. Their coffees had long since gotten cold or finished, the light outside was not as brilliant, and the place had gotten noticeably more quiet. Emily was still very much invested in what he was saying and would occasionally glance at passing customers, so when he wound down his topic she became a bit unhappy. “Eh, so nanotechnology can have more practical applications in medicine and general sciences than, well, making Barry’s suit more portable,” he concluded. Finally giving Emily more than a fleeting thought, he realized she was still waiting for him to say something else. “Ah, it’s getting late. I didn’t realize I rambled so long, sorry.” She smiled a little straightening her posture with a deep sigh.”oh no, no need to apologize. I really enjoyed listening to you.”

“Really?” Harry asked not really believing her. “Mhmm,” she nodded in confirmation. “You light up when you loose yourself in your knowledge and go head first into explaining you passion projects.” Harry just stared not sure how to respond. She stood grabbing her long empty cup and stretching. “You should smile more you know. You have a nice smile.” He stiffened at the unexpected compliment making Emily smile in amusement before she headed toward a near by trash can. “Should probably get back now, don’t you think?”

“Hem, yeah. Yeah we.... should,” Harry agreed standing quickly and grabbed his cup to toss out. Smiling awkwardly he ushers her out and back to the lab.

——

It was relatively late when they got back, sun was getting really low but twilight was still holding onto the sky in defiance of the night. They continued to make small talk, pauses between topics becoming longer and longer as they began running out of things to say, but Emily noticed a bit of difference in is speech patterns. He seemed to be deliberating on what to say next for longer periods than usual. Before she could ask about it, they rounded the corner into the cortex where Cisco and Caitlyn were still around. “Oh hey guys,” Caitlyn greeted with a smile.

“Soo,” Cisco stared turning around in his chair. Emily lifted an eyebrow in preparation for whatever he was about to say. She could tell by his tone it was going to be something tease-y too. “How was your coffee date?”

“It.... wasn’t a date...” Harry tried denying.

“It was... kind of a date,” Caitlyn agreed. Harry looked at Emily for help but she just nodded making the ‘little’ hand gesture. “It was very nice,” Emily continued looking around Harry to Cisco.

“It wasn’t a date!” Harry denied again a bit more frustratedly. “We just went for coffee! We socialized!”

“Coffee can be a date,” Cisco challenged.

“Well, doesn’t always have to be a date date,” Emily countered trying to defend Harry at least a little bit. “Coffee dates can be among friends and colleagues too just to talk or something.” Harry pointed at her turning to face Cisco as if to say ‘yeah see?’. “Besides, we talked about quarks, quantum mechanics, astrophysics.... he even went into detail about what the pipeline does.”

“Ok yeah, definitely not a date,” Cisco relented.

“That’s what— been trying to tell you!”

“Alright, we’re sorry Harry,” Caitlyn apologized. “Just teasing you a bit. That’s all.”

“Well, regardless, I had fun,” Emily semi-teased smiling up at Harry. He just looked down at her unamused and unable to think of a rebuttal. He just huffed and turned to leave. Turning her attention back to Cisco and Caitlyn, Emily just smiled cheekily. “You guys gonna head out?”

“Yeah, we were waiting for you guys to come back so you could tell us all about your experience,” Cisco said standing to stretch. “But it sounds like nothing happened really.”

“Well, he was pretty awkward, didn’t really have much to say other than going on and on about sciences,” Emily explained. “But, I didn’t mind.”

“You.... actually like that stuff?” Cisco asked. “You never really seemed like the science type. Not like us anyway.”

“Yeah, funny thing. Some of the things I can do require a basic knowledge of science. Haven’t had much opportunity to learn the more complicated stuff so it was nice to have someone talk enthusiastically about it.”

“Well I’m sure you made him very happy listening to him,” Caitlyn concluded picking up her things preparing to leave. “Have a good night, Estrata.”

“You too Caitlyn,” Emily returned.

“Sooo, Estrata,” Cisco started sauntering over to her. Emily sighed smiling a little at him wondering what he would go on about now. “Did you actually have a good time?” Emily just looked at him sighing again. “C’mon, you can tell me the truth. Was it really horrible?”

“Cisco...” Emily said placing a hand on his shoulder. “It was fun, honestly, I had a good time.”

“Hmmm, yeah. Ok,” he dismissed not fully believing her. “See you tomorrow. You and Harry behave now,” he teased pointing at her as he left. Emily just left him with a highly unamused look. “Goodniiiiight Cisco.” He just smiled smugly as he left leaving Emily in the cortex. Flicking her hand in a downward gesture, like one would do flipping off a light, the lights went out as she left the room herself. Wandering the halls making sure everything was set for the night, she found herself drifting off into thought and nearly collided with Harry. “Oh! I’m sorry!” She squeaked taking a quick step back. “Lost in my own head, didn’t see you.”

“What are you doing?” He asked kind of sternly.

“I’m.... uh.... locking up for the night? I was just about to go downstairs to check everything before heading to bed.”

“Ok,” he replied flatly. Emily stood there staring at him wondering if he would say something else, and he seemed to do the same before making a move to turn away. “Hey wait, I have a question,” she piped up. “What?” He asked turning around again. “I, uhm, noticed you seem to pause, a lot more often than you used to. Which was basically never.”

“....And?”

“You didn’t.... use dark matter with your thinking cap.... did you?” Emily asked nervously causing Harry to pause. “Because that would probably be a bad idea. Especially after you told Cisco you wo—“

“I didn’t,” Harry interjected. Emily paused studying his face. “Ok,” she said dropping the conversation. “Ok, I’m gonna go, do a once over downstairs and theeennnn.... go to bed.”

“Ok,” Harry said nodding.

“If you need anything you, know where to find me,” Emily stated turning away to head down the hall. “Yup,” Harry replied flatly again turning to go his separate way. “Oh, by the way!” Emily turned around walking backwards down the hall now. “Thanks for coffee!” She smiled wide turning around again disappearing around a corner. Harry stood for a moment watching her go before cracking a smirk. Dangerously charming, he thought continuing on his way. Not the worst thing I suppose.

————————••••••••————————

~Fin~

#flash fiction #the flash #harry wells #harrison wells #barry allen #fan fiction #my ocs #funny #cisco ramon #oc x canon

5 notes · View notes

inyoursheets · 3 years

Note

2, 3, 7, and 8 for the reader ask! 😘

2. What's your seventh favourite fanfic?

this requires math i cannot do and also picking favorites? i could never

3. Have you ever assumed you wouldn't like a fic and then read it and been very wrong?

i was kinda apprehensive but still somewhat open-minded (esp as someone who’s had the pleasure of receiving a lot of nice comments from self-proclaimed brio purists re: my own threesome fic), when i read the dean/beth/rio fic Working On Things by odenkirk and it’s SO so so good it’s genuinely up there in the top 20 fave fics i think (if i AM picking favorites) for me. so while i didn’t assume i would hate it, i was still like......i cant imagine id enjoy a fic where dean has a good time. just how much i loved it in the end still felt like a surprise. ugh it’s so good, im so excited for whatever else they write

7. Is there a trope you cannot understand why anyone would like?

no, i think im pretty open-minded when it comes to tropes. there’s tropes im not interested in but i can usually sorta understand what the appeal is for others or if i dont, i dont really judge that? i just conclude ok it’s not for me and move on. but i like a loooot of tropes so this happens rarely

8. Do you assume you can tell the age of the author (and/or other biographical details) when you're reading a fic?

i dont assume i can, but there are times some biographical details seem to soak through the writing a little. but it’s usually not enough for me to go like: oh this is a xyz person. more like. oh this person appears to know how that works, or appears to not know how that works, if that makes sense? with small details? especially with things that are pretty much a given to know if you embody xyz thing, but might make wrong assumptions about if you dont actually know what it’s like to have that/do that/be that? like, things you might not even consider youd need to research bc you dont think about it bc you dont ever have to think about that.

this sounds kinda vague and i tried to give an example but then i started confusing myself so never mind. ok different example -- sometimes i think i discover an author is thin bc of how they write about fatness/dieting/size. tho it’s possible to also be fatphobic when fat (very possible actually, bc ofc we internalize that shit) -- which is what i meant before, that way of writing is not enough to confirm they are thin but i go like: oh this is a person with specific ideas about fatness and dieting, things that reveal an anti-fat bias. biases shine through writing, including fic.

tho sometimes when it’s the other way around -- an author reveals a piece of biographical information in an author’s note and then i’ll see more of that as i read on? like, confirmation? but that doesn’t happen that often either/maybe i would’ve discovered that without that author’s note. or maybe not. who knows

basically when i read fic im busy reading fic and not contemplating the author’s life, but there are sometimes things that stand out where im just like. uh. that’s not how it actually works irl. for small things. but they’re impossible not to notice. sometimes they’re really small things and sort of harmless tho they still stick out like a sore thumb for people who know what it’s actually like. and that can maybe sometimes be a little alienating for those readers? maybe not all the time. but just. yeah. you notice things.

and im sure i make such mistakes as well when i write. things i dont even consider would matter, which might stand out to someone who knows much better than i do what it’s like to actually do xyz thing or be xyz person. they’re things i easily overlook. i try to be mindful of what may be such things but there’s plenty i forget to consider, or forget to consider properly. which is why i think sensitivity readers are so cool and so important!

anyway! im done talking. thank you! fanfiction consumption inquiries

#ive actually never asked someone as a sensitivity reader for fic #but it's definitely something i would want to do if i ever get around to writing an original story #i hope this made sense but honestly i cant tell rn #ok i need to stop doing that #i know i tend to make more sense than i tend to think but i just!!!! feel like im not?#anyway im working on it #also im so lazy when it comes to researching for fic #i could be a lot more thorough about it all #i kind of only do it when i suspect im missing something bc i lack the lived experience im trying to write about?#bc then i think it's irresponsible not to do so #tho like i said im sure there are times i dont notice i should have #which #bad #working on that too #but im not one to research the smallest of details bc im laaaaaazy #and it's fic! im not gonna research how street names work in detroit! im making up my own system!#tho maybe researching those things could be fun and inspiring too #but....effort #ok i think what we've learned today is that im lazy #ask #ask games #bourbon-ontherocks #fic

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honeypressed · 4 years

Text

fools

Genre: fluff, minor angst??

Pairings: jaehyun (nct) x female reader

Word count: 6k

Warnings: N/A

Notes: this is for @solilogyu bc i need to make her realise that she eventually needs to accept her Feelings for a certain valentines boy + i also realise its way past valentines but hey what can u do + i have no fucking idea about bowling. i had to wikihow. please dont hurt me i hope you can enjoy this and cait i hope you scream <3

“I don’t think she likes me.”

It takes a while for anyone to respond to Jaehyun’s somewhat depressing statement, because half of them are engaged in shouting at each other while playing PUBG, and the other half are trying to do their homework. It is Yuta who responds first, bless him.

“Who? Who are we talking about exactly?”

Jaehyun takes back his words, that bastard. “You know who I’m talking about!” Jaehyun groans, rubbing his palms over his face and slumping back in his chair, homework long forgotten in front of him.

Yuta flicks a bit of eraser shavings at him, just to annoy him a little bit more. “And you can just ask her out to find out if she actually likes you or not, idiot,” Yuta says as-a-matter-of-factly, like Jaehyun’s dignity doesn’t rest on the fact that he cannot ask her out just like that.

“I can’t do that!” Jaehyun cries, frustrated and he swears he’s going to tear his hair out first before it falls out anyway because he’s just bleached it for the fifth time in three months.

“Yeah,” Donghyuck pipes up from where he’s sprawled on the floor with Jaemin laying half on top of him, “hyung can’t ask her out because being rejected will damage his frat boy ego. Can’t let anyone know that our dear fuckboy – oops, hyung, was rejected, right?” There’s a mischievous grin on his face because he knows he won’t get into trouble.

“Dong-hyuck!” Jaehyun says, but there’s not one bite in his voice and he grabs his pen just to fiddle with it, spinning it repeatedly.

“Stop that, you’re going to flick it into someone’s face,” Taeyong says sternly, then softens when Jaehyun stops it and starts to bounce his leg instead. “Listen, Jaehyun-ah. If she matters so much to you, it doesn’t matter what other people think of you, or what she thinks of you. She will always be someone precious to you, one way or another.”

“Just take a chance, hyung,” Donghyuck adds, right after he’d sworn at the top of his voice loudly because Jaemin had team-killed him. “You’re gonna regret it so much more if you never asked her out.”

“She doesn’t like me,” Jaehyun repeats, and he knows that’s the truth. There may have been rumours that she liked him, and from the way her friends giggled and looked at him when they walked past, it had given him enough hope that maybe, perhaps, she liked him back just as he did… and yet.

Yet, she never gave him any hope. In the only class that they shared together, she never talked to him unless they were made to have a discussion or were grouped up for projects. And when she did talk to him, it was always polite, no trace of blush on her cheeks, just her calm, steady voice making this economics nonsense make sense to him.

It was not possible. She could not like him back.

That would be too much to hope for, and Jaehyun might be reckless but he isn’t a fool. And somehow, in some ways, he is also a fool – to fall for her steady voice and bright eyes and soft hair and softer smile and –

He is a fool.

As much of a frat boy that Jaehyun looks like, all his friends know he’s secretly a romantic, notwithstanding Valentine’s birthday at all. Which is why, against all of his hope and logic, he decides he should write her a letter. Anonymously, of course, which all his friends protest hotly against.

“How will she know if you write it anonymously?” Johnny asks incredulously, and they’re bickering in whispers even though the common room is full of people chattering loudly.

“I just want to gauge her reaction!” Jaehyun hisses, and his eyes dart around the world, flitting from one person to the next and hoping neither she nor any of her ten thousand friends are in the room. Why does she have so many friends? That always have to be around her in a gaggle? Jaehyun is tired of flushing to the tips of his ears when he walks past, and they start giggling. (it’s just unnerving, he insists; johnny tells anyone with half an ear to spare that he’s shy.)

“And I gauge that you are an idiot,” Johnny concludes, calmly and then says in a much louder voice, “The Valentine’s Box is just there, Jaehyun! Why don’t you post your letter?”

Jaehyun has half a mind to tackle Johnny to the ground; the other half is contemplating how hard it could be to sink into the carpet and never rise again. Johnny’s words had attracted some curious glances, and then they settled to watch him, interested.

“Wow, thanks,” Jaehyun deadpans, but he walks up to the box and drops his letter in before he books it to the door with Johnny in tow.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Jaehyun starts to bemoan, “the worst thing. I’m so bad at this, I’ll just never move on from her and then I’ll live out the rest of my life being alone –“

“Oh, hello.”

Jaehyun comes to a screeching halt, just inches away from – her. She’s put her hair down today and – it’s silver. When did she bleach and dye her hair? He can already feel his ears start to become hot, and he wills himself to calm down.

“Hi,” Jaehyun says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable.

She laughs a little, just the tiniest little thing that Jaehyun wants to hear again and again. “How was the econs test? I didn’t expect the 25 mark question to be so vague.”

Economics? What the fuck is that? Jaehyun can hardly say hi, let alone try to make his brain think about economics and free trade agreements and transfer pricing.

“Oh, yeah, yeah it was. So vague. I just – scribbled something down. I think I talked about the transnational corporations at one point? I’m not sure, I don’t think I’ll do well,” Jaehyun says, managing to not stumble over his words and feeling so awkward with his hands because he doesn’t know where to put them.

“I did too! I wasn’t sure if that was the correct choice, but I didn’t know what else to write… oh, did you post something into the box?” She asks suddenly, and Jaehyun’s heartbeat goes from slightly above average to notching at one hundred in two seconds.

“Um – yeah. Yes. I did. Just – yeah. I did.”

She doesn’t seem to take notice of his flustered state, but Johnny is making stupid expressions at him behind her and Jaehyun swears to the highest powers out there that he’s going to bury Johnny and his six-foot ass into the ground later.

“Hmm, I think I should as well. If the school’s popular guy sent a lucky girl something then perhaps, we should all join in, right?”

Jaehyun’s words dry in his throat. “What… popular?”

She snorts and pats his arm – a little condescendingly, Jaehyun would say. “Yes, popular, you frat boy. Now I think we have to move, we’re blocking people.” For a moment, her hand lingers on his arm and the warmth bleeds through his shirt and it’s like all his nerve endings suddenly concentrate in that part of his body only. And then – she smiles.

It’s like nothing Jaehyun’s ever seen before. Her eyes crinkle up sweetly, and her cheeks bunch up and someone accidentally switches on more lights in the room and they bathe her in white light, and it reflects against the silver of her hair. She cannot be from this world, and Jaehyun is hallucinating.

Pretty, Jaehyun’s mind helpfully supplies. So, so pretty.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” She says, and then her hand leaves his arm and the lights are dimmed again and all he’s left with is the glint of her silver hair making its way through the common room to a corner where all her friends have clustered.

“Wow,” Johnny says, wolfish smile, and Jaehyun punches him in the arm for good measure. He can’t pretend like he’s not flustered, but he’s also happy because that was the only time they had ever interacted outside classes, and if half an hour later, he can still feel warm where she touched him… that’s only for him to know.

“19 years old!” Sicheng says cheekily, sidling up to Jaehyun on the morning of Valentine’s day as Jaehyun is sorting through the books in his locker. “How does it feel to be old?” Sicheng’s acting like he isn’t the same age, turning nineteen in October, but Jaehyun overlooks it because one, Sicheng is cute and two, everyone loves Sicheng. It’s just the rules.

“You mean, how does it feel to be pining over someone for 6 months?” Johnny sings, and slowly, the hallway starts filling up with students, all chattering in low tones about their day, or if they had bought roses or sent a letter. It only makes Jaehyun remember he’s sent her a letter.

Jaehyun glares at him. “It’s my birthday. You have to be nice to me, that’s the law.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, then hands him a small, wrapped box. “Whatever. Happy birthday, Jaehyun-ah. You’ll get the dozen of roses I bought for you later,” He adds, winking cheesily, and Jaehyun pretends to balk.

“What, one for every year we’ve known each other?” Jaehyun asks dryly.

“Oh, here’s mine too!” Sicheng says, and rummages around in his bag before producing a soft, wrapped parcel with a note attached to it.

“Thank you,” Jaehyun says, and reaches over to hug Sicheng. Johnny makes an outraged sound, and starts going off on a spiel about how Jaehyun never appreciates anything and I spent so long picking out this present and I don’t even get a simple thank you! and it’s all really so entertaining but then a steady, familiar voice cuts through the dramatic of Johnny’s monologue.

“Am I interrupting something?” The voice asks, amused, and Jaehyun thinks both his brain and heart stops for a second.

“Oh, not at all,” Johnny says, quick to react.

“Nothing at all,” Sicheng adds, very helpfully. “In fact, Johnny-hyung and I were going to get coffee! Right?”

Johnny nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Now, if you will excuse us, we have some very important business to attend to.” He offers the crook of his arm very seriously to Sicheng, who accepts it and then they go off into the hallway and the turn to the vending machines so that Jaehyun is left – with her.

“I see you’ve already got Valentine’s gifts,” She says, smiling a little as she spots the two packaged in his hands.

“Ah, this – it’s just presents, from my friends,” Jaehyun explains hastily. “I… don’t think anyone got me Valentine’s gifts, anyway. Or if they do, they say that it’s a present. It’s kind of a shitty move, isn’t it?” He remarks, a little hollow because he can reject Valentine’s Day presents all right but to reject what someone he doesn’t know insists is a birthday gift… Jaehyun doesn’t want to be guilt-tripped into accepting something.

And all of a sudden, something changes in her expression. It’s like something he’s said that’s acted as a light switch, and her soft, open expression is suddenly schooled into something alarmingly like steel.

“I see. Well, I just wanted to tell you happy birthday. See you,” She says hastily, and then turns around where she came from. For two seconds, Jaehyun is sure he sees something in her hand that she then clutches to her chest, but then she’s walking away and – and Jaehyun is too shocked to do anything other than stare after her.

What did he say? What did he do? Did he have something in his teeth – or did he do his hair weirdly today?

Jaehyun spends the next ten minutes contemplating about whether he should just go and ask the student council to take his note out so it won’t be sent, and then the next ten minutes as he walks to class wondering why he ever chose to have a crush in the first place. It’s unnecessary, too much work, and not good for his heart.

Except his mind reminds him a couple beats later that she is clever, and kind and patient, and her eyes make the ugly florescent lamps look like a million stars and she can explain ridiculous concepts to him that actually make sense. She’s funny and laughs a bit too loudly and her friends look at him weird but all of that is her and god, Jaehyun is so whipped.

It’s fine, he convinces himself when class finally starts and he blinds the teacher with a charming smile so she won’t notice his homework is half-assed when he hands it in. He won’t be there when she receives the letter, and anyway, she won’t know it was him because it’s anonymous. It’ll be fine.

Everything is about to be a little less fine.

“Jung Jaehyun.”

It’s lunch time, and Jaehyun’s barely managed to step into the cafeteria before he’s accosted by one of her friends. He smiles at her and tries to remember her name – Hyerin? Hyolin? Fuck, this isn’t going well already.

“Hello,” He says nervously.

“We have to meet up for the discussion for the debate team now, remember? Have you written your opening speech?”

“Right,” Jaehyun says, the realisation dawning over him abruptly. “I’ve done it, don’t worry. Is it okay if I grab a sandwich and I’ll meet you in the common room? I’ve got the speech written on my phone.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. The rest of the team is waiting there as well.” She waves a hand at him – Jaehyun still does not remember her name – and she exits, leaving Jaehyun to blink after her and make his way to the section where cold lunch is available.

“Hi, hyung. Are you going somewhere with Hyunae?” It’s Mark, who’s eating lunch with the younger ones in their ridiculous circle of friends, and they’re all looking at him with wide, eager eyes. Jaehyun feels very much attacked, like he’s surrounded by a bunch of wolves.

“’Ve got debate team,” Jaehyun mumbles, blindly reaching for a sandwich and then picking a fruit for good measure.

“Well, the letters are being delivered now, hyung,” Renjun says, smiling so sweetly that Jaehyun thinks he can trust Renjun for one second until he remembers that Renjun’s on the student council.

Jaehyun narrows his eyes. “And?”

Renjun blinks at him. “What do you mean? I’m just telling you… information that could potentially be really useful to you in the next half an hour or so. Also, you’re about to drop your sandwich.”

Jaehyun squints at them one last time before he backs out the door of the cafeteria. The moment he leaves, he swears he hears a wave of guffaws coming from them, and the tips of his ears burn. One day the Dreamies will get themselves into trouble and he won’t save them, that’ll teach them. (of course he will. everyone’s got a soft spot for the dreamies, including him, and if helping them means he gets into trouble he will gladly do so. just – no one can know about this.)

The common room only has a few students mulling about, presumably because everyone else is eating lunch, and so Jaehyun makes his way over to the corner where his team is settled. They’re all eating lunch and there are papers spread out on the table in front of them, half eating and half discussing.

“You’re here,” Hyunae cheers as Jaehyun sits down. “We were waiting for your opening speech so that Minjun can correct his since he’s going after you.”

“Sorry – here, I’ll just forward it to you guys.” Jaehyun fiddles with his phone for a little before phones start pinging with the document he’s forwarded.

“Alright,” Minjun starts, but as soon as he starts to talk, the common room door opens and people start filing in, laughing and talking, and everyone sighs collectively. But it doesn’t even stop there – a few members of the student council come in right after that, each holding a package of letters and eyes darting around the room looking for their targets.

Jaehyun’s so distracted by the sudden influx of people and noise that he doesn’t notice her settling in a sofa next to his group.

“Hey, having fun, Hyunae?” She calls and laughs when Hyunae makes a face. Then she catches his eye, and she smiles at him, just a little, small one that is no less precious than the one he saw a couple days ago. He has to smile back and then tear his eyes away before the red in his ears transfer to his cheeks.

Just in time, a member of the student council – Myungsoo – comes to their group and starts handing out letters. “Is Minjun-ssi here… alright, here are yours. Oh – Daehyun, here are some for you…” He fiddles around and hands them around.

Jaehyun doesn’t really expect to receive any, and yet Myungsoo really has the audacity to hand over the rest of his stack to Jaehyun. “Here you go!” Myungsoo says cheerfully, “This is all yours, Jaehyun-ah.” Then he winks at Jaehyun and goes off with barely contained laughter as Jaehyun lobs some of his orange peel at Myungsoo.

Ignoring his teammates giggling and nudging him, he flicks through the letters slowly, seeing names on them. They’re all from his friends, including a collective one from the Dreamies that he immediately opens, only to see that all it says is Valentine��s in big letters and – it’s even spelled wrong. Still, he can’t help but grin, seeing their messy signatures scrawled at the bottom, and he puts it away to sort through the remaining pile of mess on his lap.

Johnny has sent one, a thick envelope that Jaehyun is sure is full of glitter; then the rest are all named, Taeyong and Yuta and Jungwoo and Sicheng, just to name a few, and then – there’s one with no name.

It’s a plain blank envelope, with his name written in neat, dark ink and the words are pressed so hard into the letter that they seem like engravings. Jaehyun frowns – the handwriting looks familiar, but he can’t seem to place it.

With his teammates equally as distracted by the letters, Jaehyun decides he can open this particular letter now. He unfolds the envelope, and he feels an unusual sense of peace, like two pieces of his life are about to slide into place in a few moments, and then he slides the piece of paper inside out. The words are inked so hard that the back of the letter feels like an engraving, and god, the writing is so, so familiar.

Even as Jaehyun reads over the letter – the contents simple, just, ‘I like you, but I know you don’t, so I just want to confess to you to get over my feelings. And happy birthday as well, Jaehyun-ah. Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope the lucky person who gets your letter receives it well.’ – he is completely distracted by where he’s seen this writing before.

It isn’t until he sees her stand up to receive a couple of letters that it clicks.

It can’t be.

It cannot be.

No way – the same letters on this letter – and the letters he’s seen countless times before in Economics – the way they’re pressed so hard onto paper – but there isn’t a signature at the end of the letter? – and… and can it really be her?

Jaehyun’s heart is in his throat as he reads the letter again, this time going over the words, and she likes him too and god, he almost wants to stand up and go over there and ask if this letter is from her, but he’s frozen and suddenly she’s standing up and looking around her frantically and then she sees him, and their eyes lock onto each other and she gestures to go outside, clutching some letters to her chest.

Jaehyun doesn’t even think about it, just ups and leaves the common room behind her and then they’re in the relatively quiet hallway and it’s like this morning all over again.

“You – this is yours?” She asks, and there’s a degree of hesitation to her words, like she doesn’t believe it.

Jaehyun takes a look at the letter she holds out. “Yes. It’s me.” He doesn’t know what else he can say when his heart has already stopped beating and then she’s looking at him, eyes brighter than the fluorescent hallway lights and he thinks he forgets how to breathe as well.

“It’s not a prank, is it?” She says, and her voice is so small Jaehyun wants to shake her. “You’re not – writing this for fun, are you?”

“Did you write this for fun, then?” Jaehyun asks in return, and shows her the letter. His hand is shaking but that’s inconsequential.

“No!” She says, tearing her eyes away from the letter to land on his face, then his shoulder then somewhere behind him. “I didn’t – I didn’t. That was – what I felt. I just, I don’t understand why – I don’t… you don’t –“

And then all Jaehyun can do is to look into her eyes and then the first thing he says is, “Transfer pricing.”

She looks at him again at that, startled by the sudden mention of their classes. “What?”

“Transfer pricing. Just – at the beginning of the term, we were learning about transfer pricing and god, I didn’t understand one single words from our bullshit teacher but then we were in a group and you explained it so well to me and I just…” He trails off and pushes a hand through his hair, feeling the heat in his cheeks as he tries to put his feelings into words.

“You were so nice to me,” He finally says. “You were so patient and kind, even though you didn’t need to do any of that and you’re also really funny. And, I guess it helps that you’re pretty,” He finishes, and his face must be in flames, but he’s said it and it’s done.

But then – she’s blushing. His eyesight is not as bad as Kun’s or Sicheng’s or Lucas’, so he must be seeing it right. She’s blushing. There is red in her cheeks and she refuses to meet his eyes and god, she’s so fucking cute.

“I hate you, Jung Jaehyun,” She finally says, but she’s looking at him with red cheeks and a small smile and her silver hair spills messily onto the side of her shoulder and – Jaehyun thinks his crush is running deeper than he initially thought.

“Change your mind?” Jaehyun offers with a sudden rush of courage he doesn’t know came from where. “This weekend, I’ll take you bowling, at the alley by the beach. What do you think?”

“Is this a date, Jung?” She asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes,” Jaehyun admits, “and I’d be really, really happy if you said yes, because I like you too.”

And then, she smiles again. Bright and loud and it curls the corners of her mouth and Jaehyun wants to imprint this one moment into his mind for the rest of his life. “Well, you’re lucky, because I want to make you happy, Jaehyun,” She says, and then Jaehyun can feel the smile stretching his own lips, so wide but still not enough to convey the leap of his heart.

For now, this will have to be enough until the weekend.

Don’t crash, don’t crash, don’t run a red light, Jaehyun reminds himself as he drives through the streets, glancing at his phone every now and then to check he’s going the right way. He’s hands feel oddly cold even though it’s approaching spring and he jacks up the heating in his car a little more.

It’s Saturday, just after lunch, and there are no cars on the street. It’s a refreshing change from the usual jams of morning or evening when he drives to or from school, but it’s also refreshing because – he’s going to pick her up.

For a date.

Just the thought makes him nervous and excited in equal parts, and he nearly misses taking a right turn because of it. She had texted him to pick her up at two, but he’s already here and it’s just ten to, so he thinks he’s got some spare time to kill. Right at the same moment, his phone chimes with a notification so he parks his car by the side of the road and checks it.

[13:49] you’re coming at 2 right?

[13:49] I’m ready so you can pick me up anytime ^^

[13:50] oh

[13:50] if you’re ready I’m here

[13:50] but don’t rush!!

[13:51] take your time, I can wait for you ^~^

[13: 54] no no that’s fine

[13:54] I’m ready anyway

[13:55] and it’s almost 2

[13:55] I’ll be coming out~~

Jaehyun has five minutes to calm down and not make himself seem like a fool in front of her. Tall order, considering how jittery he’s already been when he’s around her – and they’re together a lot more often now. Since Valentine’s Day, they’d spent a fair few lunchtimes together and hung out once after classes at the convenience store.

Jaehyun had bought her an ice-cream bar, only for her to snort and then eat it.

“What?” Jaehyun had asked, bewildered.

“I’m kinda lactose intolerant,” She says, shrugging. Half of the ice cream bar is gone.

Jaehyun panics. “You’re what? Stop eating the ice cream then!”

“Too late,” She sings, throwing the wooden stick away and laughing. “I really don’t mind, I’ll just suffer. How can I not eat it when you’ve bought it for me?”

He had ended up buying her two samgak kimbaps to make up for it, and they’d sat on the bench in the nearby park to eat.

Jaehyun remembers every moment fondly, but then he sees her stepping out from her house, locking the door behind her and jogging up to his car with a small smile on her face. He fumbles to unlock the car and then she slips into the passenger seat and turns to him with a bright smile.

“Hello! This is for you.” She hands him a small bouquet of daisies and then reaches over, busies herself with putting her seatbelt on.

Jaehyun’s clutching the flowers and there’s heat coming into his cheeks and he has to pass an arm over his face because he’s blushing and he’s blushing hard because he likes her so much and she brought him flowers and – wow, he’s really in this deep, huh.

“Are you blushing? Have I made the infamous Jung Jaehyun blush?” She asks, teasing in her voice but her cheeks are red too and she looks pleased.

“Thank you,” Jaehyun eventually says, when his voice has returned. “These are really pretty, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” She says softly, and then right there, in the quiet between them in the car, in the late afternoon sun, Jaehyun thinks maybe he falls in love. It’s simple, like the dawn of the sun and the set of it, the formation of clouds and the fall of rain, the wilt of winter and then the bloom of spring; everything is simple and their course has been set.

The sun shines so bright on the tarmac that Jaehyun has to pull down the sun visor, but her laughter is brighter in his ears and when he looks over at her at the red lights, she is already looking at him, ruby lips and diamond eyes and Jaehyun doesn’t want this moment to end.

They pull into the parking lot just as it’s half past, and by the time he’s killed the engine and gotten all his stuff together, she has gotten out of the car and has opened the door for him. As he gets out, she bows very seriously and even curtsies a little.

He stares at her and she at him, challenging, but then they burst into laughter two seconds later, and it is only natural that he takes her hand, interlacing their fingers as they walk into the bowling alley.

When they get it, they pay and get their shoes, and then bicker about which bowling balls they get to have, and Jaehyun eventually relents, lets her have the bowling balls she prefers. He only does so because he knows he’s absolutely going to smash her score regardless of whatever bowling ball he has, and so armed with this confidence, he sits back and lets her make the first roll.

As it turns out, she’s pretty good. She knocks down six, and then another two, and she grins at him smugly.

“Gonna do better than me, Jung?”

“You bet I will,” He returns, and waits for the pins to be set in place before he takes his stance. The movements are safe, and familiar, and when he does let the ball roll, he knows it’ll be a strike before it even hits the pins.

There’s a gasp of surprise from behind him when all the pins topple over, and he only smirks a little to himself as he rolls the second ball, and that scores a spare too.

He goes back to the bench with a too-smug expression on his face, so he deserves the solid hand to his chest from her.

She pouts a little when she concentrates, Jaehyun notes idly, and then the tips of his ears start to burn when he realises what he’s doing.

Still, she doesn’t give up, just concentrates and then rolls a perfect middle, knocking down all the pins. She lets out a little victorious, “Yes!” and then makes a face at him before going in for her second throw. Jaehyun is distracted by the silver of her hair that he doesn’t see she makes a seven and that it’s his turn to throw.

“Stop spacing out,” She says, kicking at his feet as she sits down, “it doesn’t look good on you.”

“I look good in everything,” He protests, and then scores a nine.

“Boo! Stop hyping yourself up, frat boy.”

“I can’t hype myself up when I’m naturally talented,” Jaehyun argues, but then he’s distracted as he makes the roll and he messes it up slightly. Of course he would.

He may be good at bowling, but she is stupid competitive and also petty as hell, so her scores start to catch up with him as they play, and he has to actually play really, really well to stay in the lead. She overtakes him at one point in the seventh frame, and he only manages to pull ahead in the ninth frame, at which she glares at him hotly for.

It’s his last throw now, and he has to make it count.

With the burn of her gaze on the back of his neck, he goes in for the last throw – and all the pins are knocked down. Letting out a loud whoop of glee, he turns to face her, hands on his hips and grinning smugly as she rolls her eyes at him.

“You won by a five-point difference!” She says as they turn their shoes in. “That’s not a significant difference, that was luck –“

“I won fair and square,” Jaehyun says, and then ties the trailing lace of her other shoe because she couldn’t be bothered. “Stop being so petty, you can beat me next time.”

“Oh you bet I will, Jung,” She says, just the tiniest bit of sulking in her voice. It’s both endearing and adorable for him to look at her sulking over a five-point difference in their bowling scores, so instead he pulls her to the fast food restaurant next door.

“C’mon, let’s get some fries,” He says, taking her by the wrist and dragging her out slightly. “Stop being so grumpy, it doesn’t look good on you,” He adds, repeating what she told him a couple hours ago, and she snorts, then aims a soft punch at his arm.

“Where are we going after this?” She asks as they wait in line to buy the fries, and she’s moved her hand to hold his properly. She’s not looking at him and is studying the menu board very studiously, so he squeezes her hand a little in return.

“I thought we could go walk on the beach, since it’s right next to the building. And the sun’s almost setting so it’ll be pretty nice. What do you think?”

She sighs, rubs a thumb over his. “Stop being so good at everything, Jung. You’re going to make me actually like you.”

“That is the point though, isn’t it?” Jaehyun teases, then lets go of her hand to pull her into his side, slipping his arm around her waist. “Do you wanna get two packets of fries?”

Her cheeks are red but she doesn’t stutter over her words. “Ah – isn’t it cheaper to get one big one? We can share…” She trails off, like she’s just realised how romantic that could be; Jaehyun jumps on her silence and capitalises on it.

“Yes, yes you’re right. Let’s… hello, can I get one large fries, please? Yes, it’s just that… thank you.” He has to let go of her waist to fiddle with his wallet and take the change and receipt, but as soon as he stows his wallet away again, she slips her arm through his and leans in close.

“Next time I’m gonna beat your ass at bowling,” She says, side-eyeing him. “No mercy.”

“You keep trying, babe,” Jaehyun says, the pet name slipping out carelessly as he watches the screen carefully as so not to miss their order.

“Babe?” She asks a beat later, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Oh – sorry, it just slipped out. Do you like it – are you comfortable with it?”

“Stop being so cute for two seconds, Jung Jaehyun!” She hisses, but there is only adoration in her eyes, tenderness on her lips.

“I’ll stop being so cute if you stop being so pretty,” Jaehyun replies sweetly, and right then, under the shitty lights of some fast food restaurant, he can only see her, her silver hair and bright eyes and small smile, and he only looks away when their order number is called out.

They collect their fries and head out, going round the back of the building to where an expanse of sand stretches out before them before the waves come up to lap at the shore. The sun has just started to set, casting a soft orange glow around them so that the sand shines golden and the waves are coloured red and yellow.

Her arm is tucked in his and she holds the fries as they start to stroll slowly along the beach, fries bursting salty over their tongues and hot in the mild cold of the coming spring.

It’s peaceful, and the silence isn’t awkward; it’s calming after the rush of their bowling game, and Jaehyun doesn’t think it could have gone any better. He hadn’t ever expected anything to come out of this crush of his, and yet here he is, on the beach with his crush’s arm in his and her hair glowing its own moonlight.

“It’s so nice out here,” She says quietly, and a soft smile comes over her face. “I’d forgotten how nice it was to come out here. Thank you for bringing me here,” She adds, looking up at him, and he’s so distracted instantly, his focus going from everywhere around him to only her, pinpricks of his nerves all focused on her.

Which is why he yelps and drops some of the last fries in his hands when a seagull suddenly squawks loudly, obnoxiously somewhere overhead.

“Your face,” Is all she says before she starts laughing, snorting so hard she’s bent over and stumbling as they continue to walk along the beach. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe you got scared of a bird, Jaehyun! What else is going to scare you? And you wasted those fries, what a shame.”

“Shut up,” Jaehyun says, pouting a little.

“You big baby,” She says, smiling and poking his dimple lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from any big, bad seagulls that want to steal your fries.” Jaehyun takes a look at the box of fries, notes that there are only a few more left, and then he makes his decision.

He spins them so they’re face to face, her hand still on his cheek and now he winds an arm around her waist and the other cups the back of her neck gently, feels the softness of her hair as it spills through his fingertips like molten silver.

“Jaehyun?” She asks, quiet, and her hand moves to cup his jaw; the other is braced on his shoulder, the box of fries just barely held between her fingertips – he can feel it pressing against his arm.

“You know, I didn’t think I would ever get to take you out on a date,” Jaehyun starts, voice low and tone reverent. “I just thought – you were too good. I didn’t think I could actually try and get you to like me. Do you… think it worked?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then she’s looking at him, really looking at him, eyes bright and beautiful and she’s starting to smile, the curling of the edge of her lips into her cheeks.

“You, Jung Jaehyun… I hate you the most, really,” She says, but she’s breathless and there is pink in her cheeks and her hair is a mirror and her hand is still warm on his cheek and there is no bite to her words.

“Glad to know the feeling’s mutual,” Jaehyun says, and his eyes crinkle into a pretty smile and his dimples are so deep she thinks it holds all the love he has for his friends, his family, everyone. She looks up again and there’s warmth blazing in his eyes and her heart is a rapid succession of thumpthumpthump that she hopes he can’t hear.

“Would your feelings change any further if I kiss you?” Jaehyun whispers now, and it’s like the whole world stops for a moment, and everything that matters is only them.

“Why don’t you find out?” She murmurs, so close against him that her words feel like the sea breeze against his cheek, and then – he kisses her.

It’s the sea breeze and the setting sun and the rush of the waves and the grains of sands in their shoes; it is all and everything and now and forever; it is warm even though it is cold and it is home even though they’re the only ones on a bare beach.

“’Ve changed my mind,” She says when they separate, and he can still feel the press of her lips against his. Her eyes are still closed and their foreheads are pressed together. “I think I really like you, Jung Jaehyun.”

She opens her eyes again and Jaehyun only has to look into them one more time to have a bit more bravery.

“Then, be my girlfriend?”

“Yes, Jung.”

#drabbles #nct #nct fanfiction #jaehyun #jaehyun fanfiction #look at me writing 6.5k in 2 days #i rly overachieved huh #anyway tumblr doesnt have line breaks anymore i am FURIOUS #i hope u enjoy this at any rate cait!!!!!!!!!!

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