#Also the fact he was limping until he recognized the player!!!

[maddymoreau]

Huggy Wuggy and I commission by @liambeesketch

[rocorambles]

Promise

Pairing: Kageyama x Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff, SFW 

Summary: Volleyball is what brought the two of you together, but is it also going to be what tears the two of you apart?

It's the last week of summer break before he becomes a third year and you'd think as a high schooler he would be playing around and relaxing, enjoying his last few days of freedom, but Kageyama isn't a normal high schooler which is how he finds himself at Karasuno trying to sneak into the boy's volleyball gym. Yamaguchi wasn't free today which meant the only person who had the gym keys was unavailable to let him in, but his stubborn self couldn't just drop it without at least trying. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to pry open the door, he plops down in front of the gym and grumbles, already preparing to at least go for a run instead as he gets up to leave, but the familiar sound of a hand hitting a ball catches his attention as he passes the girl's volleyball gym on his way out and he can't help himself from taking a peek through the windows.  

He's stunned by the sight of you leaping into the air, scattering drops of sweat everywhere as you serve a ball over the net and he admires your perfect form and technique. He hasn't paid much attention to the girl's volleyball team, but even as dense as he is, he's heard the whispers in the halls of how strong they've become, how both the Karasuno boy's and girl's teams are considered top tier teams and from watching you, he can tell the rumors have at least some truth behind them. He can feel his body and hands twitch in anticipation, the way they always do when he's excited by something (that something usually being great volleyball playing) and maybe that's why he's standing in the doorway of the gym and nervously asking if he can share the gym with you to practice. 

Unlike Kageyama, you know exactly who he is and you shyly but kindly oblige him, excited to see him practice and play in person. Who doesn't know the star setter of the Karasuno boy's volleyball team who was also invited to be part of the All-Japan Youth Training camp? He's literally one of the best setters in the country and as a serious player yourself, you'd have to be living under a rock not to recognize him. The two of you continue practicing, the sound of balls being hit and landing on the ground echoing off the walls, and maybe both of you pause a little too long between practice routines while you subtly try to watch the other from the corner of your eyes, but it's an effective session for both of you and you both grin at each other from across the gym as you both slump down to the ground and catch your breaths. And both of you will argue about whether or not Kageyama taking you to Coach Ukai's store to eat meat buns after you locked up the gym was your first date, but you'll both agree that's how your friendship began. 

The two of you begin walking home together after both your practices end and at first it's mostly one-sided conversations with you rattling on and on while Kageyama listens, but over time the two of you begin to banter back and forth. You go to each other's volleyball games and even though you both know you should be rooting for the entire team, neither one of you can stop staring at the other in awe as you both play your hardest. Pretty soon Kageyama begins scanning the crowd for you when the team wins a point and you beam at him when you get a service ace. And when both your teams make it to nationals, you loiter in front of Coach Ukai's store once again, excitedly babbling on and on as the rush of victory thrums throughout your bodies, not stopping until Ukai shoos you away when he closes shop. That night as the two of you walk home together, Kageyama's hand gently brushes against yours and it feels like second nature to you to intertwine your fingers with his and both of you can't help but think it feels so right to walk hand in hand under the starry night sky. 

Neither of your teams are surprised that the two of you are dating. They just make fun of the two of you, teasing you both for taking so long to get the memo and both of you sheepishly smile at each other. But there's hardly time to seriously date with Nationals and college entrance exams around the corner and the two of you dive head first into practicing and studying, sneaking in texts and calls here and there, grabbing lunch together, and walking to and from school. Luckily for Kageyama, you're a much better student than he is and although they aren't fun, study and tutoring sessions become the new way the two of you can spend a little more time together (even if you do want to strangle your boyfriend for his stupidity sometimes). 

But nationals pass, the college entrance exams pass, and now there's loud banging on your front door. You've barely unlocked the door when it swings open and Kageyama holds his college acceptance letter and sports scholarship offer in triumph. You hadn't brought in your mail yet today, but Kageyama had gathered it up for you and you both nervously look on as you open a similarly sized package with the same college logo on it and you tear up when you see your own acceptance letter and sports scholarship offer. You both share a watery smile before happy tears of relief fall from both of your eyes and you cling tightly to each other, silently excited about being able to spend the next four years at the same university, playing the sport you both love. 

The two of you spend the summer break after you graduate from high school going on real dates and enjoying the free time like a normal couple would. Every second of it is perfect and you're almost positive that you've been to every popular date spot in Miyagi after just the first month off. But you both also want to spend some quality time with your families before you head off to college and the two of you part ways for a bit as you both go on summer vacations with your relatives. Kageyama excitedly waits on his bed the day you’re supposed to return, waiting for you to text him that you're back home, but hours pass and you still haven't messaged him despite your earlier text telling him you were almost back and he begins to worry. He scrambles to pick up his phone when your name pops up on the screen, but he's surprised when it's your mom's voice he hears and he almost drops the device when he finally makes out what she's saying in between sobs. 

His shirt is on inside out, he almost ran out with his pants on backwards, and he snarled in frustration when his trembling fingers couldn't lace up his sneakers, opting to wear sliders instead as he rushed towards the hospital. He's a mess of frazzled nerves as he practically screams your name at the front desk and clumsily stumbles as he follows the directions to your room. He thinks he might just faint from relief when he sees you turn towards him as he reaches your room and he gingerly cradles your upper body, careful to steer clear of your bandaged lower body. He's so overwhelmed by the fact that you're alive that at first he doesn't register what you're saying or that you're crying, but when he finally pulls away a bit to talk to you, his heart drops once more at your words. 

"Tobio…my leg...it hurts so much."

All he can offer are loving words about how much he loves you, how glad he is that you're alive, how he'd be by your side throughout your entire recovery and he puts up a strong reassuring facade, but as soon as he steps out of your room, out of your view, he tenses up as he talks to your parents, trying to understand how badly you've been injured in the car crash. Your parents are grief stricken and your mom continuously cries about how it should have been her who got injured instead while your dad tells Kageyama everything while comforting his wife. You had been driving back home from your family trip when a drunk driver had come out of nowhere and crashed into your car, slamming into the side rear of the car where you had been sitting, effectively crushing your entire leg. The diagnosis is a broken femur, but it's still unknown how severe or long lasting the effects will be. There's uncomfortable silence after those words are uttered and the elephant in the room is left unsaid. No one knows if you'd ever be able to play volleyball ever again. 

The rest of the summer is spent by Kageyama taking you to physical therapy every day and anxiously watching you and waiting for you to finish each session. He carefully listens to the moves your therapist tells you to do at home and he dedicates himself to making sure you go through with all your physical homework no matter how painful they are or exhausted you are. It hurts him to see how much pain you're in, but he knows how much more painful it'll be if you can't ever step foot on a court again. At first your recovery seems promising. He smiles as you start walking again and he swears your steps look less and less wobbly with each passing day, but even after weeks, he slightly frowns at the way your limp never seems to go away. 

Both of you keep on pressing on with your rehabilitation, straining to do everything you can to get you back in playing shape as your college begins to send information on when sports practices begin, but it's the week before practices begin that your therapist sits both of you down and officially nails the coffin of your volleyball career shut. And that night when the university officially rescinds your scholarship, you cry for hours, you cry so hard that you begin to cough and hiccup, you cry until there are no more tears left to shed and you're left to just dry heave in Kageyama's arms while he resolutely holds you and never lets go of you. Only when you cry yourself to sleep in his embrace does he let out his own heart wrenching sobs out, his tears mixing with the wet mess you've made of his shirt as he grieves with you. 

It’s hard to pick up the pieces after that, but Kageyama and you have always been determined and you both walk with your heads held high on the first day of college and you give him a toothy smile as you drop him off at practice before walking off to grab a coffee from the campus cafe. Only when Kageyama enters the gym and you turn around, your face hidden away from him, does your smile drop as you slightly limp towards your destination. Kageyama repeatedly assures you that you don’t need to come watch his games and he’s careful to never really talk much about volleyball around you despite how large a part of his life it is, scared of and unwilling to even remotely hurt you with the reminder of how your own athletic career was stolen from you. But you insist on cheering him on in person, wanting more than anything to be a supportive girlfriend in all parts of Kageyama’s life even if your heart feels like it’s being torn to shreds every minute you watch your boyfriend smile and sweat as he plays and you’re reminded of just how much you too loved the sport. And yet you persist, mustering up excitement when he’s not on the bench and loudly screaming his name when he’s allowed on the court. But as freshman year continues on and his skills are acknowledged and he’s brought into play more and spends less time on the bench, it becomes harder and harder for you to watch and when he officially becomes one of the regular starters during your sophomore year, you stop attending his games, making excuses left and right about being too busy with schoolwork and extracurriculars, hiding the growing jealousy you feel from watching him live the life you’ve always dreamed of, that you’d earned, only to have it unfairly taken from you.  

Junior year comes and goes and Kageyama isn’t as dense as he once used to be. He knows you’re lying about why you don’t come to watch his games anymore, but he never confronts you about it. Volleyball is his one true passion and he knows it was the same for you and he can’t imagine how painful it must be to even just see a volleyball court now, so he just nods at your excuses and lovingly kisses you before he rushes off to warm up for his games. Both of you had chosen to come to this university because of how highly regarded their volleyball teams are, so it’s no surprise that being a starter on the team makes you an instant VIP on campus and with your boyfriend’s skills and looks, it was only a matter of time before his name spread like wildfire around campus. You try to keep a low profile, not wanting people to begin bothering you and interrogating you about what dating Kageyama is like, but his fans are drawn to you like a dog to a bone and they sink their teeth in you when they find you, unwilling to let go until they chew off everything they can bite. 

It’s easier to laugh and scoff at the jealous girls who scream in your face, loudly and rudely wondering out loud what Kageyama sees in a nobody like you. But it’s the fans who rave on and on about what an amazing setter your boyfriend is, how skilled and talented he is, how lucky you are to be dating a top-tier athlete, who unknowingly hurt you more. Their words claw at your insides because they’re true. He is an amazing athlete and you know he’s going to go so much further in his athletic career. He’s everything you can never be and jealousy begins to twist into hate, bitterness, and resentment. You don’t even know where to direct these negative feelings festering inside of you and they continue growing as you desperately try to squash them down, but it’s no use and you can feel your self-loathing becoming worse every day. And with every new person who praises Kageyama to you, the feelings extend beyond yourself, spreading towards volleyball and Kageyama until just seeing random college students passing around a volleyball or even just seeing your boyfriend’s face makes bile rise in your throat and a scowl form on your face. 

Your relationship is hanging by a fraying thread, but the two of you become too busy to discuss the growing tension between the two of you as junior year wraps up. Kageyama throws himself even more into volleyball as recruiters for professional teams begin to scout him. You’re busy with your summer internship and keeping up your grades to stay in the running for the companies you want to apply to during your senior year. But the calm before the storm can only last so long and when Kageyama tells you he’s been given an offer to join the Schweiden Adlers after he graduates, you explode. Kageyama’s known for some time that you’ve been bottling something up inside of you and that something’s been bothering you for a while now, but he’s not prepared for the venomous hate-filled rant you throw at him. 

“Volleyball this and volleyball that. I don’t give a fuck, Tobio. I don’t care that you’re going to play for some stupid professional team. I don’t care about volleyball. I don’t care about you. Actually, let’s just break up so that I don’t have to listen to you talk about your stupid sport ever again. This relationship is over. Go have fun being a star athlete or whatever.” 

You take sick satisfaction in the way he flinches at your words and stares at you in shock, a twisted damaged part of you finding solace in the fact that he’s finally hurting and suffering like you have for years. But when you see your own pain reflected in his eyes, you quickly turn to walk away from him for forever, only to be stopped by a firm, but gentle hold on your wrist and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to turn around and run into his chest, to not sink into his familiar and comforting presence. You struggle to pull your arm from his hold, but maybe it’s the part in you that still loves him and yearns for him that makes your motions weaker than you intended and he determinedly holds on to you, pleading for you to talk to him, to help him understand where all this is suddenly coming from. And when you hear his voice crack and you hear the quiet sniffles he tries to hide, all the fight in you dies as you quickly whip around and throw yourself at his toned figure, uncaring of how your hands will ruin his shirt as you tightly clutch the front of it, bunching up fabric between your clenched fists and you sob as all your pent up feelings over the years finally make themselves known. Kageyama quietly listens, his own silent tears cascading down his face as he clenches his teeth and holds you tighter to him, upset at you for holding all of this in, upset at himself for not talking to you when he knew you weren’t fine all this time. There’s a pause after you finally finish unloading years worth of burdens, but you’re stunned by Kageyama’s next question. 

“Do you only love me because I’m good at volleyball?” 

You splutter indignantly and you jab a finger in his chest as you turn your head up to glare at him and give him a piece of your mind for even assuming something as stupid as that, but you pause at the humorous glint in his eyes and the smile twitching on his lips. Still scowling, you bite back the entire rant that had been about to exit your mouth as you give him a stern “no” and wait for him to continue. 

“Volleyball is the reason I like you and it’s how we found each other, but you’re so much more than that to me. I’m not going to let you break up with me over a stupid game.” 

You can feel your face begin to heat up at his words and in self-defense you mockingly bite back at him, trying to hide just how much those two sentences had affected you. “Did you just call it a stupid game?” 

But your plan backfires when he just nonchalantly shrugs at your teasing words. “Compared to you and our relationship, it is a stupid game.” You think your heart might beat out of your chest with the way it races and you try to hide your face in his chest once more, only to be stopped by Kageyama gently grabbing your chin and keeping your face tilted up to look at him.

“Volleyball will always be a big part of my life, but I’m going to continue showing you and proving to you that I’m more than just that. I’m going to make sure that when you see me, you only see Kageyama, the man you fell in love, the idiot who you have to tutor because he can barely pass his English classes, the “overgrown child” you make fun of for still always drinking milk. I’m going to make sure that you never associate me with those negative feelings ever again. And when those negative feelings bubble up, I want you to tell me and talk through them with me. I’ll always be here with you and for you every step of the way.”  

His words alone are enough to almost make you swoon, but it’s his eyes full of nothing but love that have you falling for him all over again and when he leans down to connect his lips with yours, you melt into the touch. And when your eyes meet once again as you press your foreheads against each other, arms wrapped around each other, a silent promise is made. A promise of devotion. A promise of commitment. A promise to never give up no matter how tough things become. And there’s no doubt in either of your minds that there are going to be many bumps along the way, but there’s also no doubt that together you’ll be able to navigate whatever other curve balls life throws at the two of you.  

[shireness-says]

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

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

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

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

                       Le Cirque des Rêves

                   Open sunset until sunrise

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

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

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

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

“You know me well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emma shakes her head no.

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

“I’m not special.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can make it go away?”

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

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does it really matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is a school.”

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

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

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

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

——— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can I do for you, then?”

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

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

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

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Sir.”

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

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The latter, I suppose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding. 

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

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

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

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

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

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

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

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

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

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

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

“Who’s this, now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what will you do?”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

——— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

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

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

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

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

[aokamitahafu]

100 Drabble Challenge - Whump (+ Gay!) Edition

Note- I’ve been wanting to write something for Ethan and my MC in Open Heart for a long while, but only recently found the energy to do so. I especially wanted to do it once I saw this whump drabble challenge (I’m a wh*re for hurt/comfort + angst of any kind), because of the very first prompt, “Don’t touch them.” I immediately correlated that to the softball scene in book 2, if you run into Landry.

So yeah, I adapted the scene to fit my MC! I hope you all like it, and feel free to send me other prompts from this list for my MC and Ethan. Nothing is too far, and it doesn’t have to be based on a scene in Open Heart like this one, it can be anything you want to see. 

Prompt 1: “Don’t touch them.”

Santiago’s first thought as he crashed into Landry was, ‘God, I fucking hate sports’.  

The team-spirit mentality making him as desperate to win as everyone else, even though he hadn’t played softball in years and the lack of practice led to this current, embarrassing, situation. Honestly, Santiago wasn’t even thinking about the consequences until he hit the home plate with the full force of his body, then all he felt was the start of an ache he will be suffering with for the next week.  

The plus side is that he took Landry down with him, even if a Mass Kenmore doctor is now hollering. “Hey! He attacked Dr. Olsen!” and is likely getting the crowd and the rest of their team riled up.  

The next thing Santiago knew, hands started grabbing at his arm and roughly pulled him up from the ground and his ex-friend. What Santiago wasn’t expecting, since he was previously facing the ground, was for it to be a scowling doctor from the rivaling team, despite the fact that the grip on his arm was tight enough to potentially leave bruises on his tan skin.  

The pressure triggered a yelp in shock and that was all it took for one Ethan Ramsey to hastily make his way over to the both of them. His eyes lacked the normal affection he would direct towards his rookie, instead, they were cold; the warm blue Santiago had come to recognize was no more and was replaced with a thundering storm.  

“Don’t touch him, you son of a bitch,” he snapped, pushing their rival in the process and positioning himself in front of Santiago, acting as a barrier to ensure he’s kept safe, meanwhile also acting as the catalyst which started the fighting amongst the teams, the players wrestling and tackling each other.  

Despite how menacing he looks, not even Ethan can avoid a punch targeted directly onto his cheek, yet he still tries his best to shield Santiago from the others. He even lands a few punches himself, completely contradicting Carrick’s previous statement about him not following through with his threats, but then, Carrick doesn’t know the lengths Ethan would go through if it meant Santiago was out of harm’s way. His one excuse being the man he tries not to adore.

The umpire is shouting for them all to stop, but it’s not until Naveen exclaims, “Enough!” through his megaphone that people start to pay attention and stop fighting. His sigh and the little shake of his head making his disappointment in them clear.  

Trying to ease up on the tension, Santiago says, “At least we didn’t lose?”  

“Everyone lost here tonight. Get off the field. All of you,” the umpire retorted, later muttering under her breath as she walks away, “Embarrassing.”

Everyone exchanges awkward glances, the adrenaline from the fighting no longer present and is instead replaced with chagrined faces, almost as if they can’t believe how heated they got over a sport. Slowly, the two teams come apart and several of them limp off the field.  

Bryce wanders over to Santiago, rubbing his jaw and grinning like the cat that got the cream, “For what it’s worth, I think that totally counted as a win.”  

A short while later, Santiago is packing up to leave when he senses someone behind him, he immediately tenses up and turns, expecting another Mass Kenmore doctor to start a fight, though relaxes when he sees who it is. Ethan.

“So, Tiago?” Ethan questions, holding a cold, unopened bottle of beer to his swollen cheekbone. The sound of his nickname from the taller man’s lips sends shivers through his body. “Was that worth dragging me down here?”  

Santiago sighs. “Probably not. I thought playing against Mass Kenmore in a fair game would resolve some of my feelings about what happened with Stephanie’s case, and I just came out angrier than ever.”  

“May it serve as a lesson that sports are not an ideal replacement for therapy,” he stated, his steel blue eyes glittering in mischief.  

“Noted. I’ve wasted my only sports-related favor, haven’t I?” Santiago said as he zipped up his duffel bag.

Ethan huffs a laugh, a small smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “Correct.”

“Also,” Santiago mutters, swinging his bag onto the shoulder he didn’t use to ram Landry with, and stepped closer, “I regret that this happened...”

He raised his hand to where Ethan was clutching the beer bottle, lightly pushing it out of the way so he could examine where he was hit. The smaller man’s eyebrows scrunched up in dismay as he sees the start of a purple bruise with yellow splotches spreading across his cheek. Without thinking, he brushed it with the pads of his fingertips, a gentle caress, which if misunderstood, could lead to multiple repercussions for them both, but even Ethan couldn’t find it in himself to care for once.

Santiago cleared his throat, interrupting the wave of tension that had come over them. “Um, sorry,” he murmured, taking away his hand and turning his head to the side to avert Ethan’s gaze, a heat steadily overcoming his cheeks.  

Just as Ethan was about to break the awkward silence, Santiago continued on their conversation as if nothing had happened, “I got the feeling your head wasn’t really in it tonight.”

“It’s softball. My head was never going to be in it,” he retorted back.

Santiago brushes his hand against Ethan’s, while normally he would care about outside perspectives, tonight? He doesn’t. The man took a goddamn punch for him, of all people. He's never had anyone defend him like that before.  

With his heart racing in his chest, and from such a simple touch, Santiago shakes his head, showing he doesn’t believe him. “I know it’s more than that. Talk to me, Ethan.” The ‘you always have before’ goes unspoken, as they gaze deep into one another’s eyes. His reflecting Santiago’s yearning right back at him.  

Ethan’s voice is soft, almost inaudible over the crowd of doctors preparing to head home. “Not here.”

Raising an eyebrow, Santiago asks, “Then where?”

With a deep sigh, as if he can’t believe he’s about to say this, Ethan answers his question. “... I suppose you could come home with me.” Santiago’s eyes widen, although Ethan takes no notice as he carries on speaking. “I have a new recipe I’ve been looking for an excuse to try.”

If Santiago’s eyes could go any wider, they would pop right out of his skull. “You cook?”  

“I do. Often. I find it very meditative, actually. It always helps me get my thoughts in order.” Something very strange happens as Ethan is talking, the corners of his lips tug upwards and he looks a lot lighter, as if cooking means something to him. Santiago makes a promise to himself that he will find out exactly what it is that makes one Ethan Ramsey smile like that tonight.  

“Let’s go.” The smaller man mirrors Ethan’s smile right back at him, and away they go, with Ethan’s hand at the small of Santiago’s back.  

[jeni182]

Pieces

This is really long I’m so sorry I can’t help myself. Also you can find this and my other ficlets on AO3 at Jeni182

It had been a really long time since Neil had seen Andrew in pieces. 

Neil was laying on the couch of Andrew's apartment in Denver waiting for him to get home from practice. Palmetto was on break and Neil couldn't get out of South Carolina fast enough. To Andrew fast enough. 

Long distance relationships were shit. 

So when Andrew walked through the door quietly and calmly and gently set his bag on the ground next to the door, Neil didn't immediately recognize a problem. It wasn't until he noticed Andrew staring for an unnecessary amount of time down at his bag, his back turned to Neil that Neil saw it. The tense set of his shoulders, the way his hands were slowly trying to uncurl from fists. 

Neil stood up and softly said, "Hey."

Andrew turned then. It was an effort in self-control for Neil to keep his face carefully neutral. Andrew had a blooming black eye and his hands were bloody. It settled in the skin between finger and nail and under the nails themselves. Smeared over knuckles and fingers.

"I hope the other guy looks worse." Neil offered. 

Andrew didn't say anything. His eyes were empty in a way Neil hadn't seen in years and his mouth was slack with indifference. Neil knew better than to try to pry right away. Instead he beckoned Andrew to follow him. 

Andrew did, slowly trailing Neil in to the bathroom. Neil gestured for him to sit on the counter of the sink while he found a clean washcloth. When he had what he needed, he stood next to Andrew and turned on the warm water. 

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Neil slowly reached out for one of Andrews hands, looking up questioningly. Andrew put his hand in Neil's, limp and cold. Neil wet a washcloth and slowly started to clean Andrew's hand, checking closely for cuts and scrapes. Andrew watched him in silence, breathing steady breaths and closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the mirror before speaking. 

"They were saying things. About you. And us."

"Who?"

"Daniels and Gold." Two of Andrew's teammates, new this season. 

"What were they saying?" Neil continued cleaning Andrew's hands. He could see the cuts on his knuckles now. The scrapes and bruises that were slowly forming. 

"It doesn't matter."

"Your hands beg to differ."

Andrew huffed but didn't resist as Neil lowered the hand he was holding and reached out for the other one. Andrew let him take it. 

"The shit people with a death wish say. They assume the rumors of us being a thing can't possibly be true so they also assume they can say what they want. That you're probably really a fag. That you'd probably let me stick my dick in you, if I really wanted. That you'd let me beat the shit out of you while I did it, since I'm such a violent psychopath."

It was the last one that had Andrew clenching his hands into fists again. Neil knew why. The violent psychopath comment wouldn't have bothered Andrew. He truly didn't give a shit what people thought of him. But even the suggestion that Andrew would do to Neil what was done to him was enough to make Neil's stomach roil. He didn't know how Andrew hadn't killed them. Neil stopped what he was doing and looked up.

"Did you kill them?"

"Do you think they would've let me just waltz home if I had?"

Neil shrugged his shoulders. "I like to think you'd make a quick getaway. Maybe come back for me before fleeing the country. I don't know if you've heard but I'm great at running."

He ran his fingers softly over Andrew's clenched fist until he let go and unfurled, relaxing his fingers. 

"I mean. I would let you put your dick in me. So. At least there's that?"

Andrew didn't respond. No flicker in his eyes. No curl to his lips. Neil sighs. He knew better than to expect a laugh but he couldn't help trying.

"You know I don't care what they say. They're ignorant assholes. And shitty players. Honestly, I've been meaning to tell you how sorry I am for the unfortunate turn your team has taken."

Andrew looks up at Neil. "I care."

The fact that he was admitting as much made Neil's heart clench. "Did you complain to the coach? Or management?", Neil asked.

"No. I beat the shit out of them and left practice."

"Good."

Andrew doesn't reply, continuing to watch Neil's ministrations. Neil takes a moment to sneak a peek at Andrew's face. At his pieces that Neil so carefully learned the pattern to. His torn soul and his broken heart and his healing spirit. Healing maybe because of what they had built between them. Trust and safety and honesty. They didn't all come easy and they didn't even all come all of the time. But they were there. They belonged to each other but maybe more importantly, they belonged to themselves again. There was a time when they couldn't say that.

The tenseness in Andrew's shoulders had eased and warmth was slowly thawing the ice in his eyes. Neil finished cleaning Andrew's hand and shut off the water, setting the washcloth aside. He moves a little closer to Andrew.

"Yes or no?"

Andrews looks up at him. He does Neil the favor of actually considering it. Of taking a mental check to see where he was at in his head and in his body.

"Yes."

Neil stands between Andrew's legs and takes Andrew's hands in his. He kisses the knuckles of each one before leaning in to kiss Andrew on his jaw. The skin behind his ear. The place between his neck and shoulder. The hollow of his throat. Finally, his mouth. It's chaste and lingering and Neil pulls away just far enough to say "This is what matters. This is what will always matter."

Andrews considers a moment and nods. 

Neil reaches over to grab the hand towel off the rail on the wall and wraps Andrews wet hands in the warm folds, squeezing gently to dry them. 

"Let's get you some ice."

[theaurorfileshq]

C E D R I C   F O N T A I N E  /  A U R O R   C O R P O R A L

AGE:  Thirty-Two

BADGE NUMBER: J47H08

BLOODSTATUS: Pureblood / Halfblood (No-Maj mother).

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cisgender Male, He/Him

IDENTIFYING FEATURES: Scruffy beard. Reading glasses. A slight limp in his left leg. Scar on the left side of his face. Tattoo.

STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

(+): Healing magic, transfiguration, charms, flying, DADA, no-maj studies.

(-):  Study of ancient runes, divination, physical limitations.

BACKGROUND:

The circumstances of Cedric’s birth are a very well guarded secret in the Fontaine household due to his biological mother’s blood status: Ced is the result of a scandalous affair between Mr. Fontaine and a No-Maj. To the humiliation of Mrs. Fontaine, her husband insisted the baby be officially adopted by the family and raised as their son. Cedric himself wasn’t aware of his true parentage for quite some time.

It was obvious from the moment the child was brought into the Fontaine home that he would never truly receive the same care and privileges that any of his future half-sibling would. Mrs. Fontaine couldn’t stand the sight of the boy and made her distaste known whenever opportunity presented itself. Nothing Cedric did was ever good enough for her and she wasn’t shy about mentioning that to ‘her son’. Mr. Fontaine, while glad he had a son, wasn’t exactly the warmest of fathers either.

When Ceres came into the world Cedric was four years old. At that time he was too young to understand exactly what his sister’s birth meant for his future and was beyond thrilled to finally have a sibling. Since he was no longer an only child, and Ceres was considered the only official heir to the Fontaine bloodline (an openly recognized fact), Cedric was pushed aside from all family honors which would normally befall the first born in favor of his sister. He didn’t mind it then and sure as hell doesn’t mind it now.

Cedric found out about his true parentage, and blood status, a few weeks before leaving for Ilvermorny. Their parents were having a heated argument in a room adjacent to the one in which he and his sister were playing and the children heard some things which were not meant for their ears. At first it came as quite the shock to little Cedric, discovering that not only did he have another mother but she was also a No-Maj. It did help explain why his step-mother, that’s how he started calling Mrs. Fontaine, was being so cold and distant towards him: he was an irremovable stain on her pride and her family’s reputation, should word come out. Both children agreed to never speak of that incident ever again, not with anyone else present at least.

Ever since learning this life-changing secret Cedric became curious about his real mother. Who was she? Where was she from? Was she upset about having to give up her son? Did she miss him? A million questions were racing through the eleven-year-old’s mind. He began looking for clues about who the woman might have been or where he might find her. He also became increasingly interested in No-Maj culture, something he tried to keep hidden from his parents. Since it was all a part of him, he felt like he needed to understand how the No-Maj world worked as well.

In Ilvermorny, Cedric had to make a choice between Horned Serpent and Pukwudgie. Since he didn’t feel like much of a scholar Ced decided to join Pukwudgie. He tried his best to be sociable and make as many friends as possible while in school so he wouldn’t feel as lonely at the wizarding institution as he did at home (when his sister wasn’t around). He also tried his best to be an exemplary student, not for the sake of credit, competition or maybe some praise at home, but for himself. At Ilvermorny he also discovered just how much he actually liked Quidditch.

Flying is something Cedric is great at so he had no trouble hopping on a broom during his first year. He trained regularly so he’d get in good enough shape to be on his house team and, when the time came, he tried out for Chaser. He got the position and stayed on the team from fourth to seventh year. It was during that period that he decided he wanted to be a professional Quidditch player, maybe even Captain of the national team someday.

Shortly after his graduation from Ilvermorny, Cedric packed his bags and left the family home in Manhattan. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was headed but he knew staying in New York was no longer an option. Mrs. Fontaine had made it plenty clear over the years that he wasn’t wanted and Ced had grown beyond tired of her indirect insults and constant complains. It hurt to leave Ceres behind but he knew his sister would be alright and hopefully, she would forgive him for going away and missing her graduation.

A close friend from school mentioned the fact that they had inherited a home in Louisiana from a deceased aunt and that they were heading down there to check it out. They said Cedric was more than welcome to join them until he figured out what his next step was going to be. He accepted without hesitation. Two weeks after leaving the Fontaines, Cedric was living in Baton Rouge, helping his friend set up the house. During the year he spent with his former housemate, Cedric had his career change. His friend was trying out for the New Orleans Auror Academy and managed to convince Ced to join as well.

Thinking that there wasn’t any harm in trying (after all pretty much everyone in his family was in the business, Ceres would probably join out of school as well; he could get in on name alone) Cedric decided to go for it. His plan of becoming a professional Quidditch player was starting to sound less and less like an actual plan and more like a dream anyway, with each passing day. So, when he turned 18, he signed up for the Auror Academy in New Orleans.

Cedric also chose to become an Auror to prove that he was just as capable as the rest of the Fontaines to carry on the legacy. Although he did not truly feel like that was his calling, Cedric still gave training 200% of his effort. Soon enough he discovered he didn’t completely hate the job. It slowly grew on him until the point when, on graduation day, he was actually excited for having taken that step and was ready to go out and do his job. Perhaps he did have it in his blood after all, albeit partly.

He hoped he’d be kept on with the Central Squad after graduation, or at least wouldn’t be stationed anywhere too close to home. His wish did come true and he was offered a position in Lafayette, LA, where he stayed for four years. That’s where he also advanced in his career. Then he was moved to Houston, TX for a period of what was supposed to be three years. He only stayed there for one year. In Houston, he was noticed by the Chief of MACUSA’s Central Squad and offered a job with the Magical Congress. Initially, he was reluctant to accept it, knowing he might have to go to New York at some point, but his friend convinced him it doesn’t get any better than working for MACUSA and so he accepted the offer.

While stationed in Lafayette, Ced fell in love with one of his fellow Aurors. It took him a while but eventually, he asked her out. They dated for about a year before he worked up the courage to propose. Instead of a huge wedding party, the couple eloped a few days after the proposal and got married with just a few close friends as witnesses. Everything was going great in their marriage until Cedric was moved to MACUSA and his wife had to stay in Houston. During that period Cedric had to travel between home and work while the couple tried their best to keep the relationship alive. And for the most part, it seemed like love was enough to keep them afloat. 

On his last official case with MACUSA’s Central Squad, Ced was partnered once again with Winter; it was quite common for the two of them to go on cases together. They were involved in a stand-off with a group of wannabe dark wixes somewhere in Texas when one caught Winter off guard and, instead of hitting his opponent with a curse, Winter hit Cedric by mistake. Ced woke up in the hospital two weeks after the incident and couldn’t remember much from that night. For a while he believed he was hit by one of the dark wixes, not Winter, so he didn’t understand why his partner had decided to up and switch squads. Later he found out the truth and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Doctors weren’t very optimistic about Ced making a full recovery from his injuries: he’d taken quite the fall and was left with nerve damage in his left arm and leg from the fractures. Not enough to cause paralysis but enough to be a problem, even in the long run. He didn’t give up on getting better, despite what healers said. He went to physical therapy every day for two years and tried every available treatment, magical or otherwise. Eventually, he recovered, partially at least. His leg is much better, although the sensation of numbness hits from time to time and he’s got a slight limp. His arm will take more time: he can move it now but still can’t feel shit with it, except pins and needles, occasionally.

His personality changed after the accident, Ced became moody and withdrawn. He also started fighting with his wife more frequently and spending more time on friends’ couches than at home. Eventually, about six months after the accident, she asked him for a divorce. She wanted to focus on her own growing career and, since life wasn’t the same for either of them anymore, Ced decided to agree. He signed the papers and they went their different ways.  

Since it was clear he wasn’t going back on the field anytime soon, but his superiors weren’t too happy to retire him either since he still had valuable skills, Cedric was moved to a desk job with Central Squad Internal Affairs, something he finds incredibly dull. Plus, he hates having to investigate other Aurors. He did manage to make Corporal during his time with I.A. but he’s not exactly thrilled about it; that’s not how he wanted to advance.

One morning Ced’s boss was contacted by Chief Snow and asked to send one of his investigators to the Eastern Squad, undercover, to look into a possibly corrupt Auror. They couldn’t send someone from the ES ‘because it would be obvious why they were there. Cedric wasn’t expecting it, due to his injury, but he got picked for the job. Word about the actual extent of his injuries hadn’t gone out, nor was his transfer a very high profile move. So nobody really knew what exactly he was up those days. He got his Auror credentials back, temporarily at least, and sent to the ES to investigate. He was told to stick to easy cases if he had to take any so his injuries wouldn’t be a problem.

While he’s happy to be back doing the job he loves, it’s still bittersweet. It’s temporary and very limited and it makes Cedric wish, some days, that he hadn’t gotten picked for the job. He still tries to be useful while on the squad. He’s got a bit of an addiction to a range of pills and potions which keep him functional. He uses now more than ever ‘because he doesn’t want his disability to show while he’s on the Eastern Squad, it might blow his cover.

[heavtheange]

Spider!Jere is in the middle of a battle with a foe in the city when all of a sudden, he crashes next to his number one fan (and best friend outside his superhero identity), Michael Mell, who does not know of his secret. The villain sees this as an opportunity to take the civilian hostage and does so, and Spider!Jer does not take kindly to this...

So, by the way @furornocturna is submitting the prompts, I’m assuming that most of these stories are gonna be Protective!Jeremy for now. Doesn’t mean it’ll be forever, just means that it will be more common than others. Just giving y'all a heads up.

The Birth Of A DamselSpidey!Jere AU

It’s not easy being Spider-Man; Jeremy has come to terms with this a long time ago. However, that doesn’t mean Jeremy likes being tossed around like a yo-yo by his arch nemesis, The SQUIP, who had electricity and levitation powers. That was still not fun.

Jeremy (or as he is currently known as, Spider-Man) tried shooting his web plenty of times but kept on getting slammed into buildings and sidewalks. The SQUIP was set on making Spider-Man’s life a living hell. Why, Jeremy still wasn’t sure, however he concluded that he had a severe case of being a massive dickhead.

That seems about right.

Eventually, the SQUIP began to pull Jeremy back towards him, his body barely moving. Jeremy thought that SQUIP was going to monologue to him, like super villains usually did around this time when they think they have won. Seconds later, the superhero couldn’t have been any more wrong.

“Batter up!” The SQUIP threw Spider-Man with all of his might, making him practically fly for a long moment until his world literally came crashing down when he smashed through a window and slammed into a concrete wall. The hero slid down to the floor and was completely limp. Luckily his powers allowed him to heal really fast, but that still doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like all hell. Suddenly, Jeremy heard a voice.

“S…Spidey…?”

Jeremy could recognize that voice anywhere. It was the voice of his best friend, his Player One, Michael Mell. Michael had been his best friend for as long as he can remember. The duo did things like playing video games and smoking weed at the same time, as well as other weird activities that only the two of them would enjoy. They swore an oath that they would conquer the world one day, and Jeremy still kept that promise to heart.

Then Jeremy got bit, and Spider-Man cane along. The teen was sure that Michael had a hard-on for his Spidey persona ever sense he saw him swinging across the rooftops for the first time. He even made an online blog about it, acting like a freelance reporter from time to time. He’d do anything to get the story and to watch Spider-Man save their small New Jersey town. Of course Jeremy didn’t tell him that he was in fact Spider-Man, at least not yet, not wanting for Michael to get kidnapped, hurt, and/or killed.

Which is why Jeremy really didn’t want Michael here right now.

The boy struggled to speak, and his best friend spoke first “S…Mr. Spider-Man…sir…do you have any idea where my friend is? I haven’t seen him since the attack happened, and I’m worried…” Jeremy flushed behind his mask, he hated to admit it, Michael sounded so cute when he’s worried about him. He snapped back to reality after a second of bashful daydreaming. After a moment, Spider-Man finally found the strength to speak. “M…Michael…” The other teen looked confused, slightly scared even. “H…How do you know m- AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Jeremy’s eyes snapped open and he sat up to see the SQUIP statically floating away backwards while flipping him off with one hand and with the other gripping on to…oh…oh no he fucking didn’t.

“MICHAEL!!!”

Michael, his best friend since childhood, was being taken away by his arch nemesis. He looked scared out of his mind, gripping onto the SQUIP’s arm for the sole reason of not wanting to fall down and his glasses threatening to fall off his brown nose. The teenager, now hostage, looked like he was crying hysterically, shouting things that Jeremy could not understand from the far distance. He even reached a hand out towards him, a clear gesture for help, finally making Jeremy stand up and walk towards the window.

No matter what, he was going to save Michael Mell, and kill that fucking tic tac once and for all.

Spider-Man started swinging from building to building, trying to catch up to both the SQUIP and Michael. It was long and tedious, making Jeremy’s arms get tired after a long while. Finally they made it to the top of a skyscraper, the moon shining behind the even shinier SQUIP, and the hysterical hostage.

“So, Spidey, you made it. Took you long enough,” the villain smirked. “Help me…please help me…” Michael silently pleaded to Spider-Man, making his blood boil.

“Let. Him. Go.”

The SQUIP chuckled lowly. “Come on. What’s wrong with having a little guest watch me rip you to pieces?” He tightened his grip on the damsel, causing him to whimper. Jeremy was tempted to cry at the sight of him trembling in fear. “What do you even want from him?!” The psychopath simply shrugged. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to fuck with you.”

Spidey smirked under his mask. “Really? Cause I was about to do the same thing.” The SQUIP tilted his head in confusion and Spider-Man used the opportunity to trip him over with his webs and drag him toward him. The SQUIP tried to shock Michael out of anger, but Spider-Man took him out of the villain’s grip with his web and bring him behind a vent. Jeremy managed to dodge the SQUIP’s verifies static attacks and tie him up in his web while Michael cried in relief behind the vent.

Spider-Man was certain that the SQUIP would get out of those webs eventually, and will still be alive (much to his dismay), but the SQUIP’s defeat was not the main issue at the moment. He had to take Michael to safety.

The two of them swung from building to building, Michael clinging onto the hero as they did. It was at times like these that Jeremy wished he could tell his best friend his secret about being Spider-Man. He wanted for the two of them to swing from building to building together, to lay on a gigantic web and cuddle while they watched the night sky, to use his special webs in be-. Jeremy shook his head as he flushed again, only this time ten times harder. No matter how hard he wanted to tell Michael about his secret identity, he knew that he couldn’t do it. He knew that Michael would be in even more danger than he was with the SQUIP, he might even get killed or worse. Jeremy didn’t want his best friend to go through with being his Gwen Stacy.*

Eventually, the two made it to Michael’s room, and Spider-Man let the boy off of him. “You okay?” He asked, looking up and down to see if there were any injuries. Michael shook his head slowly, eyes still puffy from crying. “Y-Yea…I’m fine…T-Thank you…Thank you s-so much for saving me.”

Jeremy resisted the instinct to hug him right then and there. “It’s my pleasure as well as my duty…no need to thank me.”

A stray tear escaped Michael’s eye while Jeremy kept on speaking. “By the way…I saw your blog.” Michael flushed and tensed up at the statement. “Y-You…you d-did?” Spider-Man playfully nodded. “Yea…I did. You’re really talented.” Michael looked to the ground and rubbed the back of his neck while the hero continued. “You should definitely continue, but please try not to go into the face of danger head on just to get an article done next time, K?” Michael looked up and quickly nodded. “Okay, w-whatever you say!”

As a cute gesture goodbye, the super hero patted Michael’s head. “Stay safe, okay?” Spider-Man swung away, leaving Michael a blushing, sweating mess. Hey, it was better blushing in possible arousal than sobbing in fear, Jeremy reasoned.

Later that night, Jeremy went over to his best friend’s house with Mtn. Dew and Hawaiian pizza, Michael’s favorite. Throughout the night, Michael couldn’t stop talking about Spider-Man and how scared Michael was and how grateful he was for the rescue and how Spider-Man knew about his blog. Jeremy listened to all of it, extremely relieved to see Michael smile after the rough day he had.

Michael was safe, and he always will be under Jeremy’s watch.

(Sorry if it may seem a little sloppy. I’m still working on the codes of Tumblr, so if you see strange codes next to some of the text, just note that it is my noobness and I apologize for that)

(Also, thank you so much for @furornocturna for giving me wonderful prompts to work with! The world needs more Protective!Jeremy, dammit!)

(*Heh, get it, cause Gwen died in Amazing Spider-Man 2? Heh heh…I’m still dead inside after watching that scene.)

[lowat-golden-tower]

Out on a Limb

It’s the chapter you’ve all been waiting for. The resolution to the climax and the finale to a fic I never imagined would get so huge. What started out as a silly oneshot idea became a beast all its own, and though it’s been a hassle to wrangle at times, I don’t regret letting it grow to its full potential- wild and crazy as it might be.

It’s kind’ve a tree pun get it cause... nevermind.

The support and love for this fic has been astonishing and appreciated. I never thought so many people would be into it, or into the King’s shenanigans, so count me (and him) happily surprised! As one of Mark’s oldest egos, he really deserves more love, and hopefully I’ve sparked a little something in the community by writing this. Let’s never forget our nutty monarch.

I have to give a final thank you to @angstphilosophy for putting up with me and all the horrible things I did to his favorite ego, and of course @alcordraws for all the inspiration and support. If you aren’t following them yet, go.

So here it is, everybody. Hope you enjoy it, and I’ll see YOU, in the next fanfic. Buh-bye~

AO3 Mirror

Chapter 13: a brand new court

"Is it truly such a loss?"

"Shame on you, Darky. He's been with us since the beginning."

"The Host thinks a certain... something, would be lacking without his presence. When he finds a name for it..."

"Sass awrful."

"He was kinda dumb anyways."

"And he was holding all those poor babies hostage!"

"Wouldn't even consider sellin'em, tha monster."

"Too much, too much, it's too much..."

"I can't believe it's gone! All that work, wasted!"

"Everyone, calm down, this isn't helping."

"The doctor is correct. His chance of survival is extremely low as is."

"Approximately 20.6754%."

"Thank you, Oxnard."

"Should have permitted my assistance... could have helped...."

"I wish there was something I could have done sooner. I could have stopped him."

"Jim, don't. You know that's not possible...."

"...if you're all done going off on your own tangents, I have a suggestion."

The rains had dried up. The clouds retreated. The world was warmed by the sun's rays and gradually, the mess of the back lot was cleaned up. The Googs insisted on lopping off what remained of the walnut tree's shattered trunk, leaving only a short stump as a marker it had ever existed at all. Bim stopped by, shortly after, decorating the stump with some lovely ribbon and a small, handmade plaque. He felt it was the least he could do for the fallen.

Days drifted by. The squirrels, displaced from the home they'd created, milled about the many crawl spaces of Egos, Inc. They could often be spied briefly in any of the numerous rooms, including those belonging to the egos. They never remained in sight for too long.

Except, however, in the clinic. Dr. Iplier had placed all of the babies in a makeshift nest in a secluded, quiet corner and thus many of the squirrels were drawn to the space. He did his best to keep an eye on them and keep them warm, but even with the odd conditions, the squirrels did a decent job of caring for their litters. Host had actually offered to let the babies nest in his library, where it was warmer, quieter and darker. Yet Dr. Iplier had declined.

He felt it was best if the babies stayed near the one non-squirrel they trusted. The person who had risked his life for them on more than one occasion.

Dr. Iplier was still trying to figure out how King of the Squirrels had survived. Between his healing injury, the partial electrocution and being buried beneath the rubble of an entire tree, King should have at least perished. Perhaps not disappeared, but been dead for some time before reviving with help from Mark's community. He was such a small ego with an equally small fanbase, it didn't make sense for him to be strong enough to withstand such abuse.

Yet he remained stable throughout the passing days. Never waking up, but never slipping into a more permanent slumber. He was resting; healing slowly even with assistance from the doctor.

"It's kind've a miracle, you know." Dr. Iplier quietly explained after King had finally opened his eyes. "And I don't really believe in those, but I don't know what else to call this kind of intervention. Mark's community... there was an odd spike in interest, recently. In you. I'm not sure what caused it, but... I have zero doubts the popularity spike resulted in your survival. Something made them remember you, King. And it also made them love you, all over again. I think you're giving Silver a real run for his money on the luck side of things."

Once awake, King still had many days of recovery left. He'd broken bones, dislocated limbs, shattered joints and been punctured more times than a pincushion. The shapes and sizes of wood shrapnel Dr. Iplier had removed from his body were astounding. He'd lost much of the blood he'd regained, and simply moving proved near torturous. Dr. Iplier kept him on heavy medications for a long time.

Gradually, though, he improved. He became more lucid as the drugs were decreased, and he found he could move and even sit up in bed. He started to interact with the squirrels which had been lingering around and was thrilled to discover all of the babies were okay.

"Thrilled" wasn't the same word he'd use to describe his reaction to actually being visited by some of the other egos, but it was close.

Wilford stopped by once, gifting him with peanut butter cups he'd gotten from a fan. Claimed King would just have to drop by for another interview, as the ego who survived being struck by lightning.

Host delivered a book he'd gotten about anthropomorphic squirrels and other rodents questing in a fantasy land. He emphasized it was King's to keep, and even stuck around to read the first few chapters to the ailing monarch.

Mark Bop drifted by with Bing in tow to drop off a CD player and another mix he'd made up. He didn't say much, clearly nervous, but Bing happily exclaimed how "rad" and "gucci" King was for surviving the lightning storm "like a boss." King still wasn't sure how to take it, but it sounded like a compliment.

A small portrait of a squirrel mysteriously appeared at King's bedside one morning, blessedly clear of any creepy red men.

Oliver stopped by often just to chat with King and see how he was doing, and occasionally he brought along the Jims or Bim as well. They always had treats or snacks to indulge him with until Dr. Iplier caught them and chased them out long after visiting hours were over.

It was... strange. King wasn't accustomed to receiving so much attention from anyone besides his subjects. Between the love he could feel swelling within Mark's community and the attentions of his fellow egos, it was almost as if he were healing something else alongside the physical. Something deep inside of him which had been broken and lacking for a very long time.

When King could finally be "discharged," he was approached by Bim in the clinic. He still had a bit of a limp and couldn't exert himself for long periods of time, but he wasn't at risk of collapsing or tearing open any stitches. Curiously, Bim actually looked excited, immediately piqueing King's curiosity.

"King! I'm so happy to see you on your feet again. You had us all really worried for a while there- well, most of us. The important ones." He grinned, gesturing some with his hands as he spoke. "Now, I know you were just released by everyone's favorite medical professional, but I was hoping you could come with me for a bit! Just a bit, I promise, I won't keep you long. You can bring all of your squirrels along, too! And the babies!" A hint of a delighted squeal tinged Bim's tone, drawing out a soft smile from the King. Bim had been utterly smitten with the babies since he discovered them in the clinic.

King was still so tired, but Bim's enthusiasm really couldn't be denied. "...alright, I'll come. But just for a little while. I don't know how long I can be up and about right now." He needed to figure out where he was going to hole up next. He didn't recall any other trees occupying the back lot, and the babies needed somewhere safe to be raised. The clinic just wouldn't do.

Bim clapped his hands together excitedly, beaming. "Great! Fantastic! Grab the babies and we'll be right on our way. Not a second longer than you can stand, I promise!"

King sort of doubted Bim, but he didn't comment on the hastily thrown about promises. Instead, he went to grab the box, cradling it much as he had his own crown that fateful day. The squirrels would have tailed him regardless, but with their babies in tow they followed him a little more adamantly. Several were hitching rides on his shoulders. He didn't mind one bit, and neither did Bim, if his amused smile was anything to go by.

While they walked, Bim navigating the halls of Egos, Inc., King allowed his mind to wonder about what Bim wished to show him so badly. He had no idea where they were going to supplement his imagination, so it ended up running a little wild. At least he knew it wouldn't be anything bad. Bim didn't have the heart for that.

They arrived to a set of doors King didn't recognize at all. They weren't labeled, and the wood was darker in color than the other doors in the building. In fact, the entire frame looked brand new, along with much of the surrounding wall. He blinked owlishly at the sight before turning to Bim with a questioning expression. Even the squirrels were sniffing curiously at the doors, but Bim merely maintained his smile as he set a hand on one of the door handles.

"This was a... well, a group effort. I- we, really hope you like it, King. You deserve it. After... everything." Bim turned the handle and swung open the door, gesturing for King to step through.

Natural light and the blessed smell of fresh air hit King first. More than a few of the squirrels scampered eagerly over the threshold before he could coax his own feet to move. The warmth of summer ensconced him instantly, but it was subdued. Shade cast by the surrounding walls prevented the grassy inner courtyard from becoming too hot.

Egos, Inc. did not have a courtyard. King had lived in its nooks and crannies long enough to know that much. No, this entire space had been cleared out from the very heart of the building. Not just at the ground floor, either. The open air stretched up and up and up until the sky could be seen from above. The sun's gentle rays drifted in, reflecting off the glass windows and dappling the leaves of a massive, California black walnut.

The tree stood tall and strong at the very center of the courtyard. Its trunk was thicker than King's last two trees combined, with its roots running long and deep into the soil. Its boughs almost stretched across the entire expanse of the courtyard and reached more than halfway up the building.

It was a tree which should have taken decades, perhaps even centuries, to grow. A tree which never could have been transferred from one plot of land to another. Not without some physics-breaking abilities involved.

Hell, the entire courtyard must have been the result of just that. Reality had been bent here; molded and shaped to fit the egos' will. King gawked at the sight in absolute awe while his subjects scampered about with a newfound excitement and interest of their own. He was so enthralled by the surprise and his own shock that he failed to realize several more egos had been awaiting his arrival.

"Couldn't get Dark to get off his lazy bum and give us a helping hand, but with some help from Bim I was able to manage. Hosty helped some too. Couldn't have done it so nice and neat without him." Wilford drawled, gesturing to the other two reality benders present. Bim smiled a bit bashfully, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Host was smiling as well, hands clasped lightly together. "They just required a guiding hand. Host wanted to assist, if it meant keeping the King's squirrels out of his library...."

"Sul sul- ah, I mean..." Mark Bop awkwardly cleared his throat, wringing his hands. King wasn't certain if the ego was nervous about him, or the powerful egos in the courtyard. "We didn't really... help, but... Bing and I here, we just... garnar frash. Flarn." He scrubbed a bit at his face. "We wanted to apologize. For trying to force you out of your tree."

Bing didn't look too enthusiastic, but a swift elbow to the ribs from Mark Bop got him speaking up as well. He scratched at the back of his head in obvious irritation, attempting to come off as aloof. "I mean... fuck. Yeah. Sorry, I guess. That I flipped off your tree, and your squirrels. An' told'em to fuck off. That was... lame." He huffed and pouted for a moment, but it dissolved away when he exchanged a brief look with Mark Bop.

"That's why we're here too. I offered to help decorate the space but they told me no." Silver lamented, motioning between Ed Edgar and himself. "I've been meaning to tell you, but... I just couldn't work up the nerve. I'm sorry. I should've asked more questions, and not jumped to conclusions.... You had every right to dump me out of your tree."

"And I guess I... well... sorry. For offerin' ya a gosh darn business venture-" Ed made a pained sound as someone stepped on his booted foot, but it happened so quickly no one could be sure of the culprit. "I'm sorry! Okay? 'm sorry, got-damn."

Artiplier stepped forward. He looked as awkward and anxious as the others, but different somehow. Clearly, it wasn't pride or stubbornness heavying his tongue. Rather, guilt shone bright and sad in his brown eyes and his expression. He even toned down some on the accent when he spoke. "Desole. I'm... zorry, King. For everything." He despairingly shook his head. "I never should 'ave..."

"It's not your fault lightning struck my tree. Or that Yandere attacked me. I'm sorry I scared you off that day." King was quick to interject. He had no idea why Artiplier felt so responsible.

Said ego sighed, but worked up a pained smile. "Of course, of course. I... I left you zome paints and brushes, near ze trunk. In case you... wanted to make murals. On ze walls. Darkiplier gave his permission..."

"With a little arm twisting. Told'im he wouldn't be able to see it, anyway." Wilford spoke up with a mischievious wiggle of his mustache.

It was King's turn to smile at the kind gesture. "Thank you, Artiplier."

The artist scoffed softly. "Zink nothing of eet. I also promise never to paint zis tree."

"Uh... okay." King didn't understand why that was necessary, but if it prevented another freak out, he wouldn't complain.

All of the Googs weren't present, but Oliver was. "We installed some dim lighting around the courtyard as well. For nights when moonlight is unavailable. We attempted to make it as natural appearing as possible."

"And I'm forecasting nothing but sunny days to come." Weatherman Jim grinned from where he stood with Newscaster Jim. It was only then King realized they each held something in their hands, and Bim stepped forward once more.

"May I...?" He was extending his arms, gesturing to the box of baby squirrels.

King's first instinct was to tighten his grip and pull the box closer to himself. However, the items being offered were too tantalizing to resist. He needed his hands. Hesitantly, after much internal debate, he carefully passed over the box. He treated it like precious, fragile glass, and was relieved when Bim mimicked the caution.

The Jims stepped closer, raising their "offerings" with matching smiles. "Jim here's gonna try apologizing to you profusely, I couldn't convince him not to, so you better accept it Mr. King." News Jim was speaking up before his other self could, and Weather Jim shot him an irritated look.

"Jim..."

"You don't need to apologize either." King lifted a hand, quieting the egos who were primed to bicker. "You couldn't have stopped me. Even if you had the ability, if you were actually there... I would have ignored you. Just like I did the others. In fact, I should thank you. In the case Oxnard might not have gone to fetch the Host..." He trailed off, a shadow crossing his face at the very real possibility of his untimely demise.

Weather Jim still didn't look entirely convinced, but he smiled and pressed a familiar cape into King's hands nonetheless. "We may not know each other very well, but... I wanna change that. And I'm glad you're okay. You'll be safer, here. All of you."

King accepted the cape with a renewed awe and relish, rubbing his hands over the soft and fluffy material. "How..."

"Well, you know, when you've got reality benders on the roster...." News Jim grinned, and Bim's bashful smile told all. He waited for King to slip the cape back over his shoulders before offering him the crown again. "We shined it up real nice for you. It was kind of dirty, after... y'know. Now it's good as new."

"I... thank you...." King took the crown into his hands, admiring the sheen of the faux silver and costume jewlery. Almost reverently, he set it upon his head and grinned. It was barely a second before a squirrel was clambering on top of it, chittering away happily. He giggled. "I almost feel like my old self. Now if I just had some peanut butter-"

"Don't make me regret this."

The sound of a cool, raspy voice drew the egos attention to the still open doorway. Several sets of eyes widened at the sight of Darkiplier, clad in his finely pressed suit and clutching a large jar of peanut butter. He stalked towards King, who immediately tensed and inched away. His brief experience with the void may have been ages ago, but it stuck out in his mind like a fresher memory.

Several of the egos were stepping in, looking more than ready to get between two of Mark's oldest creations. Dark stopped and held up his hand, expression reserved. "Stop it. I'm not going to hurt him. I simply wanted to... view the finished product. And supply a peace offering." His darkened eyes flitted back to King, whose stomach still chilled beneath their gaze. He eyed the jar being extended towards him with an understandable wariness. Dark looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. "It's just peanut butter. Take it. And kindly keep your antics in here, where they can't cause the rest of us any trouble. This week's been enough of a headache...."

"You'd think he was the one struck by lightning." Wilford muttered, the only one confident enough to voice his thoughts. He smirked when Dark's shell cracked and his composure twitched to the side in a silent scream. "Go ahead, Kingy. If it is poisoned, we'll just turn his office into an arboretum."

Dark was scowling openly at Wilford and King used the opportunity to take the jar. Immediately, the grey aura dispelled from it, and Dark turned away from the assembly of egos. "Just keep your squirrels in here, and we won't have any problems." He left without another word, as quickly and silently as he'd come. None of the egos had any complaints about how brief the visit was.

However, they did take it as their own signal to head off, saying goodbye to King and some giving him well wishes. Others promised to come and visit very soon. Bim was the last, and he lingered, beaming at how King still looked up at the massive tree with a childish wonder. He cleared his throat to get the King's attention and gestured to the door. "Also, in case you thought the color on these doors might look familiar.... They're made from the walnut that was destroyed. We gathered up the broken wood and the Googles did a bit of planning, and we did a little magic and... I just thought it was appropriate. I hope you don't mind..."

King looked up at the door frame. Slowly, he dragged his hand down the freshly carved wood; polished smooth and clean by skilled hands. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to the walnut and closing his eyes while he breathed in. It still smelled like home.

Now he had a new home. A safe home, tucked away in the heart of Egos, Inc. and surrounded by friends he never thought he'd be lucky enough to have. The smile on his face was utterly serene. He'd never been so at peace. "No, it's... thank you. I'm glad it didn't go to waste. It was a good tree. It deserved better than the dump or a wood chipper or a fire...." He pulled away, giving the frame a few solid pats.

"It did... and so do you. I'm happy you like it, King. Please, feel free to come visit me any time as well. You can even bring some of your squirrels along, just- don't let them get to the wires." Bim passed the box of babies back to King before taking his leave. The doors clicked shut behind his retreating form, and King was left alone with his subjects at long last.

He turned back to the tree, still trying hard to wrap his brain around all that had happened. The babies and his subjects were safe. They would be happy here. He'd survived so much, and Mark's community was remembering him. The egos were remembering him. They liked him. They wanted to be... he had...

He had friends. Not just loyal subjects, but friends. A warm wetness trickled down his cheeks and he sniffled. Something soft and fluffy rubbed against his cheek, and he smiled gently at Tim perched on his shoulder. "I'll be okay. Just... bein' a big, bubble-blowin' baby here." He sniffled again. The babies in the box were beginning to chirp softly, calling to their parents in search of food and affection. He laughed, more breath than actual sound, and shook his head. "We have some work to do. Our new kingdom awaits, and a new generation with it."

King looked back up to the tree, its boughs swaying in a light breeze. His eyes shone big and wet with more tears he didn't bother wiping away. They were good tears. Adjusting the box in his arms, he headed for the sturdy trunk, watching his squirrels like a proud father.

"Hello, everybody! I am your King, and today we're going to explore our new kingdom!" He laughed brightly as he began to scale the branches. "First one to the top has fleas!"

[hogwartselementumrp]

Congratulations Tasha! I would like to say THANK YOU!! Skylar is one of my favarite pre-written characters, he is so interesting and has the amount of plots you can develop with him are endless! The connections you wrote are super interesting, and i kinda wanna claim them all (i won’t because i want you to be super involved and plot with everyone... but i want to...)

Please send in your account soon! And I hope you enjoy your time in elementum!

OOC Information

NAME/ALIAS: Tasha

PREFERRED PRONOUN: She/her

AGE: 19!

TIMEZONE: GMT-8 (I think?? I’ve never done that before, I always just say PST)

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I usually get on every day, but if not then I’ll get on the next day for sure. I do have two 12+ hour days a week though, so those days I’ll only be on late if at all.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP (NEW MEMBERS): I was just scrolling through the next gen rp tags, I think. Maybe the harry potter rp tag, one of the two.

Character Information

NAME OF THE CHARACTER: Skylar Sheehan

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS:

Honestly whenever I write these things they’re super casual so I hope that’s okay. Anyway, Skylar’s the biggest sweetheart in my eyes, but basically has what I like to call a stranger-phobia. As a kid, he always had these weird abilities, and felt like a complete outsider. After discovering he was a wizard, as it says in the bio, he was excited but when he got to Hogwarts and found out hardly anyone shared his abilities, even hated him for them, his self worth started spiraling. The fear of people only grew with every attack. So now, when he’s around muggles he’s surprisingly more comfortable than in the wizarding community.

He was always really close with his parents, especially after leaving Hogwarts. But now that he doesn’t have that safety net of living with them, he’s become more fearful again. I imagine now that he’s back, he’d try and avoid people recognizing him from their previous years, and would try to be hiding the fact that he’s a spirit elemental. He’s very loyal and sweet and would hardly say a bad thing about anyone, but it takes getting to know him to get down to that soft core. Once someone is close to him, he automatically thinks that they’re worth more than him. Even if someone has managed to be in his comfort level though, he tries to pretend that he’s alright. In his mind, he’s not worth the time that someone might spend worrying if he told them everything. So instead, he tells them nothing.

I also have this headcanon that he’s really into music, and though he isn’t in the orchestra or choir, he’s been asked several times by his roommates why his guitar never comes out from under his bed (unless they’re not around.)

ANY CHANGES YOU WISH TO MAKE?: If I could change his faceclaim to Devon Bostick, that would be great. And maybe his birthday so he’s still 17 instead of 18?

DESIRED SHIPS, IF ANY: Nothing specific. Chemistry, lol

TITLES: I don’t think he’d have any tbh :P

RELATIONSHIPS:

Muggle Cousin: Skylar has a cousin who knows he’s a wizard and about his magic. She just so happened to be at his place for a family dinner when an owl came flying in his living room window and dropped the letter on his lap, and read it before they even showed his parents. She’s the only family member outside of his late parents who know about him, and sends her letters once in a while to lie about how great school is. (Obviously not playable, I just wanted to write something about her.)

Friend: Honestly someone that can make Skylar stop feeling worried all the time when he’s around them. Someone that sees him for the ball of fluff that he is behind all the two-word conversations and avoided eye contact. They’d probably need to be willing to push him, but given he’s a bit of a pushover already, that shouldn’t be a problem.

Someone from the Past: This can be a pleasant or unpleasant relationship. When he attended Hogwarts in the past, he was picked on a lot and even if he tries to hide who he is now, I’m sure he’d still be recognizable. This could even just be someone that was in one of his classes that knows who he is, to be honest.

Any of the Potters: Though Harry probably didn’t tell any of his kids about Skylar’s elemental abilities, he feels like he’s not in as much danger from the Potter children than he does with everyone else. Something about their dad being the last person he had to depend on meant a lot, and though he doubts they know anything about Harry helping Skylar, they may be the people he could go to in case of a real emergency.

FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS: Before they passed away, Skylar depended a lot on his parents. They really were the only people he could talk to, even if they didn’t know what it was like having magic. Other than whatever tutor he had or Harry Potter, they were the only people he really hung out with much. Now that they’re gone, he can’t explain how much he misses them, and avoids the topic so he won’t break down in front of others.

PARA SAMPLE (I used this as a muse thing for when I played Lorcan Lovegood)

Stillness. That was all someone may see if they were to walk into the room… and light. Light everywhere, in the colours of the sheets on the beds, on the aged stone walls, all over the floor that was constantly being cleaned. It was everywhere, and it was the cause of why Lorcan had to squint when his eyelids fluttered open, stillness broken. It was a shame, he thought, it must have seemed so peaceful, until he woke up. But what had happened to land him in the hospital wing? He’d barely pondered it for a moment before he sat up, and remembered instantly as a pain shot through the back of his head.

“Ouch.” The brunet murmured under his breath, slowing down as he finished sitting up.

It was just a moment later when the nurse was rushing out of her windowed office and in to help him, pouring him some water and handing him a pill.

“Take it, Sweety. It’ll make you feel better.” But then she looked at him funny, watching him examine the pill.

“It’s a lovely colour.” He told her just before popping it into his mouth, drinking the water to swallow it with.

Ah, yes. Falling down stairs was a painful thing to endure. Probably not as painful as what some of the Quidditch players ended up in there for, but the headaches still weren’t the most fun of things to deal with. It wasn’t bothering Lysander much now, not now that the pill was starting through his digestive tract. Magic was lovely, he told himself as he stretched. It was a lovely morning… or was it afternoon? It was slightly warm for morning, so it must be a little later than when he normally woke up. Then again, the hospital wing was in the middle of the building, whereas his common room was in a tower. It was much colder up there. Louder too.

“Have you ever considered painting the ceiling?” He was still in that dreamy state from just waking up, his mind being even more in the clouds than it was most of the time. The most wondrous things came into his mind when he’d just woken up, or even while he was asleep. Usually he kept a notebook under his pillow, lest he forget later in the day.

“The ceiling, Dear?” This was when the nurse started fearing there was something more wrong than just a headache.

“It would be lovely, then patients would wake up and see the paintings and be able to experience the beauty of it right at the beginning of their day. I know it would definitely make me feel better.”

“We’ll consider it.” And that was enough to get Lorcan to stop talking.

“It would be quite astonishing though.” He said after a minute or so, looking at his bedside table curiously. There was a chocolate frog, and then the typical jar of flowers that the nurse left beside each patient. He was sure that they were there for the same reason that he would love to see art on the ceiling, but he supposed, to most people, flowers were a more more ‘normal’ form of adding beauty to a room. Sitting beside the bedside table was his bag, which he quickly reached into, grabbing his little white sketchbook and starting to doodle the shape the ceiling, just with little designs coating it: something he’d be able to spend hours working on, if he had more than just an average sketch pencil with him.

He drew silently for a good half hour, before he looked towards the doors because of voices on the other side. Voices calling the nurse’s name. As a Quidditch player on the Hufflepuff team and someone in the yellow and black scarf walked in, his eyes fell on the girl in the middle, limping. Oh, so he’d missed the game. He figured that would happen. At least he knew about what time it was. Ah, well. He supposed he’d have to ask Lysander about the game later… but now, he figured it was time to head out of the hospital wing.