#anyway ENJOY!! new cs: NEXT WEEK

[juliasmesmerized]

Me and You

pairings: Josh Washington x gn!reader, Mike Munroe x gn!reader requested type: two pining on an oblivious reader! summary: Mike and Josh shoot their shots on the reader while they just can't get it. vibes intended: Timeless - The Weeknd, Playboy Carti word count: 3334

REQUEST: Hii mootie ! I just saw your post so i may have an idea ? 💞 if you want ofc ! Mike and ahem my cutie pie josh fighting over reader? For her/their attention and the silly agrument went like hmm heated? 😭 not sure if u do smut so i'm sure if you're do or not- but it doesn't have to be one! Maybe yk both of them being obsessed w reader cs yk we r js their light to their darkness <33 [also if i made typos mb im really sleepy 😿💔] ALSO HAPPY NEW YEAR 🥳🎀 i hope ideas come to you ! You can ignore this take care🤍🤍 - @castielsloversblog

RESPONSE: hi pookie! happy new year!! it's so sweet of you for this and I super appreciate the ideas. I had some time off focusing on finals and I def wanted to explore other characters than just Josh. I write for everyone, yall I love them all. I got ideas as soon as I read this and asked a friend which request to do first, yours was her choice! Enjoy!

Michael's party was almost underway after a week of planning. Since it was a bunch of the group's first college frat party, Mike decided to plan Jess's, Matt's, Ash's and your first one. Sam's brows slightly furrowed; frat parties are never really chill and freshmen never attend for that reason.

Sam sat with her sketchbook. "Maybe we should have a small get together instead of a full party full of college upperclassmen." Her red coat was eye-catching for the infamous night of halloween eve.

Casa de Mike was decorated with black and orange ornaments. A full skull near the door with a sign that says 'how you doin'?'. There was red splattered around some areas with washable liquid, and LED lights placed around with the remote being Mike's phone.

Mike was setting up more decorations with Jess. "Don't worry about it, Sandiego. It'll be fine! If anything happens to the three freshmen we got them. Josh and I will be on watch." Jessica's hair was longer than usual, gold and sleek. Her purple dress didn't touch the ground, but her hair did.

Emily teased. "You sure you can handle that hair?" Emily wore a black headpiece reminiscing a swan; a corset endowed in pretty bows and a tutu skirt. Edgy black eye makeup and a soft red lip. Her hair didn't fit a bun, so she let it down.

"I better look the part! One night of long hair shouldn't be as bad as wearing heels all night." Jess spoke up as she placed a skull head on the snack counter.

Chris, looking as if he was going to save a young girl, who was immune from a virus, from dying on the operation table that could've saved the whole world. "Why is Jess even here, Mike? Wasn't it supposed to be a surprise?"

He left everything he was doing to stare at Chris. "She had to come over early to do the skull look. Ain't no way I'm doing this myself." He pointed on his face like 'duh!'. He had a skull face drawn on by the makeup artist herself and a full black outfit. A black button up and black slacks and dress shoes. With his height and build, you could see him as a one night fling.

"Riiiiight." Chris went back to checking his phone.

Jess kept going back and forth checking each of the rooms that will be available to the guests, that being the living room, walk-in kitchen, and two bathrooms. "Why is Chris here early anyway?"

"I'm punctual! Why can't we appreciate punctuality these days?" Chris crosses his arms, but lets out a chuckle.

Emily rolled her eyes jokingly. "An hour early isn't punctual, it screams 'I don't have anything else to do with my life.'"

Chris sat next to Sam. "You're not doing much over here either, Em." Sam chuckled from time to time by their conversation as she kept placing strokes onto the pages.

"I was asked by Mike to come early because I knew how to make a party. I got some decorations he could use."

"Mhm. And I am extremely jacked." Chris sarcastically chaffed.

Emily snorted. "Whatever you say, whoever you are!"

"It's from The Last Of Us!"

Emily shook her head as she rested her weight on the wall behind her "Nobody but you would know that."

Jess shouted for Mike who was across the hall. "I think everything's ready here, Mike!" She walks towards Sam; once Sam's pencil left the page, a hand swiped the sketchbook away.

Sam pouted at her younger friend's action. "Jess..!"

"Look here. She's drawing us!" Jess ushered the rest to the notebook. Everyone was dressed up and almost taking a selfie in Samantha's reimagining. Some important people are missing, but were considered by some circles.

Emily cooed as she saw herself holding a peace sign. "Awww, Sammy!" She took it off of Jess's hand to have Chris take a closer look.

His smile earnest, Chris beamed. "I look pretty cool."

Sam shyly looked away from the three complimenting her work. "I'm waiting to see the others to include them."

Jess gave Sam her sketchbook back. "Secret's safe with us!"

The doorbell rings. Sam, like clockwork, got up towards Mike. "Could I hide this somewhere safe? I didn't bring much of a bag."

"Yeah sure, follow me. Em, could you get the door?" Mike walks up the stairs with Sam behind him.

"Sure." She walked towards the door, twisting the knob just right. Her eyes befell the raggedy clothing and dull dark green skin.

An enthusiastic Matt radiated through the realistic zombie costume. "Hey Em! Didn't expect to see you at the door."

Emily stepped aside to let him in. "Woah Matt, how'd you nail the zombie look that well?"

Matthew's positive attitude changed the atmosphere that surrounded them. "I checked some tutorials online! Cool right?"

Emily smiled. "Piqued my interest for sure." She closed the door behind him. He took in the fresh changes done to Mike's place; an area he frequented before, but looked completely redone for this fun occasion.

Matt turned his head to see Jess sitting down. "Do they always go all out with these parties?"

"Frat parties? Yeah, it gets people going." Jess stood up, walking closer to Matt. They had a quick hug.

Sam and Mike came down the stairs and greeted Matt. Before he could continue surveying his surroundings further. The bell rang one more time. Mike went ahead to open the door as a good host.

You and Ashley arrived together. Josh in a separate car arrived around the same time, which had you three at the door.

Mike stepped aside for the rest to come in. "Welcome in!" He kept the door open as a few others began to gather parking outside his suite.

You had a pirate ensemble on, fitting the halloween theme. Ashley's face was highlighted by fawn features; the pretty white spots surrounded by light brown, a light wing on her eyes, the contouring on the nose with the white dots, and a special fawn headband. She wore a short brown dress with white gloves. Her brown boots perfectly cemented the deer getup.

Matt spoke up as he greeted Ashley. "Ash, you look amazing!"

"Thank you, Matt! So do you!" She responded, but all of that drowned as Mike came to greet you first.

He definitely glanced over to fully take you in; top to bottom. "Nice costume you got on. Very coastal."

Joshua walked up next to you. "Thanks Mike, so do you!" You had a smile creep up your lips due to the compliments you've gathered so far and the night barely began. It started with Ashley, then Josh, and now Mike.

Emily looked around. "Where are Han and Beth?"

Josh's demeanor never changed. "They asked to come in a separate car, Hannah's been practicing how to drive. Something about keeping their costumes a surprise from everyone."

Sam recalled all close interactions with the twins. Hannah purposefully kept her mouth zipped, even if she could never hide anything from Sam. Beth was more relaxed about everything, and can hide a few things. "Right, Han never even told me her costume."

"That's interesting. They'll also be the only high schoolers here, keep 'em safe." Josh looked around towards everyone, knowing they'll be a helping hand. They loved pranking each other, but when it came to safety; it was no joke.

A few nods and notes of agreement came from the entire group. The doorbell kept ringing until the place was filled with college students ready to start the weekend off with a bang.

Hannah and Beth entered in completely differing outfits. Hannah went for Emily from Corpse Bride and Beth decided to go Raven from the DC comics.

You greeted everyone and began to drown into the crowd and the ongoing party. There was dancing, conversation, the loners, people jumping into the swimming pool, and drinking; which you couldn't even tell if it was legal.

You decided to head outside for a breather and dip your feet into the water. Before you could fully slip away, Josh took your hand and moved you towards the hallway near the bathrooms.

His smile, gleaming as ever. He decided to have a square voice changer that could be attached to his shirt. The white shirt and jeans outfit was simple to the naked eye, but with the drawn on blood stain and fake knife, you could tell it was from a slasher film. The iconic line of his would go: What's the matter Sidney? You look like you've seen a ghost.

Instead, he goes on elsewhere. "You enjoying the party so far?"

"Yeah, it's definitely new, but nice. It feels you might drown into the crowd any second." You smiled at his attentive nature.

He nodded. "Right, you gotta just get your footing." Your eyes gaze at the square microphone at his collar and he realizes.

Josh takes it off and clicks a button. His voice was augmented as it came out of the machine. "You know, it works." Your eyes sparkled at the interaction.

You looked into his eyes and back at his hand holding the mic. "That's such attention to detail! Amazing!" The astonishment never truly left your face even when Jess called out to Josh.

Jess tapped on his shoulder and looked up to see him. "I need you for something."

"You good, Jess? What's up?" He looked genuinely concerned for a moment. She wasn't one to ask for Josh out of everybody.

She gave a slight smile at his care. "Just a few minutes of your time." He followed her as they walked off, and you were alone once again. You walked outside to see a cooler with a bunch of drinks. Walking up to it, looking into the different choices, you were stumped.

"I'd say it's too early for a drink." The familiar voice had you turn around to Mike. His hazel eyes stared into you with intensity. "We'll be here all night you know."

You cross your arms at him, amused at his conversation. "You're saying I shouldn't party hard and get wasted?"

He chuckled at how far you took it. "I'm just saying a pirate should be stealing hearts, not taking shots."

Going with his flow, you think of a good response. "Whose heart is on the market to be stolen? I don't see any, personally." You point towards the multitude of couples at his place.

He smiled. "You'd be surprised-" He was cut off by another friend.

Chris cries out from behind you and Michael. "MIKE! Mike! Mike!"

Mike turns around to respond. "Yeah, Chris?"

He points back into the crowd. "A girl puked and I don't know what to do? Come with me let's carry her somewhere. She's unconscious in one of the bathrooms."

Michael groans. "I gotta take care of that, see you."

"Of course, take your time. Enjoy." By this point, Mike gave his back to you. He raises his hand to salute and says back: "not going to enjoy it!"

You chuckle at his response, even if he groans and complains; as anyone would, he still would get the job done wholeheartedly. The party is ever-so slightly going harder. People are making out, sleeping on the floor, jumping to the beat, anything you could imagine was happening.

Going back inside, without a drink. The conversation with Mike took your mind off of it; probably for the best. The song playing was something you used to listen to at times, known to be a cult classic at clubs and parties. It was getting to the good part.

Fresh out the trench, four hundred packs Uh, yeah, I'm spinnin' in Paris

Josh creeped up from behind you. "You should try the dance floor." His smile, filling you with comfort and excitement, had you eager to try something new. There was some space at the designated area; the living room where the sofas were placed away from the wooden floor. He put out his palm for you to grab.

Dress for these hoes, they finna flock Just poured a four in a soda, it pop

You smiled at his gesture, and take his hand. "Why not? I love this song." Sam kept eyeing the two of you as you held his hand. Hannah and Beth could be seen whispering to each other. The eerie feeling chilled your spine, but you ignore it in pursuit of trying something new at this new experience.

Them drugs finna hit, I'm feelin' ill I'm wrestlin' all of my demons, I feel like The Rock

The lights flashed random strong colors at semi-long intervals, blue, red, green, purple, orange. The crowd interested in the song jumped to the beat and chanted the lyrics. You and Josh join them. The beat was about to drop. Everyone was colorfully assorted in costumes and embroidery to show off their favorite characters, mastery in creation and design, and just having fun with outfits.

Ever since I was a kid, I been legit If I was you, I would cut up my wrist

The song moves you and Josh follows you. In your element, you don't realize his hands echoing your hips. Eyes closed, feeling the moment and everything surrounding it slow down. Only you, Josh, and the music mattered.

XO tatted all over her body, yeah She just wanna roll and I don't mind it, yeah

Your costume flowed alongside you, the golden chains and belt moved with you, and Josh was taking all of you in. Regardless of how much of a bad dancer you could've been, it felt natural and the confidence showed. Mike glanced at you, already whisked away before he could've done anything.

Ever since I was a jit, I been legit You should let her go, she wanna be it

Josh looked at Mike, knowing the situation they were both in while mouthing the lyrics. Gritting his teeth, Michael put his weight against the wall, leg up, and arms crossed. Planning his next move, as Josh and you continued to the song.

You smiled to Josh as the song calmed down. "Thanks for calling me up here." You still had energy, but the climax of the song has ended.

Joshua effused; still trying to keep cool. "Of course, I knew you'd enjoy your time."

"Have you?" You raised an eyebrow towards his sincerity.

His blue eyes locked onto yours. "With you? Of course I would."

You chuckle to his seemingly disingenuous response. "You'd say that to everyone."

He bantered alongside you. "You wound me! I can have special moments with special people." His right was on his heart and his left hand was on his forehead, his eyes were closed, looking especially dramatic.

You rebutted, seeing him flirt with Sam and Jess quite often. "Yeah, when you don't flirt with every girl you know!" You and Josh both know flirting with Jess, recently single, was more of a joke. If she gets a guy, she wouldn't let Josh even have an inch of a chance to try.

Mike was getting more pissed as he saw you laughed with another guy, even if that was your mutual friend. The idea of you laughing with a friend was innocent enough, but he knew this guy has it in for you also. He hated it; despising the fact you couldn't be the one to focus on him as they were both pining for you.

There wasn't much you could do, he knew that. He knew you wouldn't get out of your comfort zone and do anything like that. You all were friends, and he understood. Josh also thought the same in regard, which pushes them both to pursue you more aggressively. As a board game would go, each of the guys took turns with trying to get you.

Using their wingmen as chess pieces to get you alone, they strike at different times. He couldn't have Jess call Josh out while you guys were dancing, and when he finally had the chance to, you both were done. Michael's train of thought has clashed as he saw Josh make a move. His finger brushed your cheek. His clenched his fist at the sight.

They both agreed not to make a serious move until you figure yourself out. Everyone knew about it at this point, the staggering looks, the whispers, Jess and Chris, everything was calculated. Until Joshua ruined the deal and Michael had to deal with that, alone. Joshua would have to rave the consequences as well, alone.

Without much thought, Mike was already holding Josh's hand away from your face. "Not going to cut it man."

Josh, looking puzzled, responded to Mike. "Yo, dude, what's going on?" You stepped aside from them, knowing that Mike was not happy and you wanted nothing to do with it.

Mike's facial expression was relaxed, but his stare didn't let up at all. "You know what's going on. You disregarded what we agreed on." Everyone who caught onto the situation surrounded them and almost pushed you back from the suspense and itching tension.

You squeeze through them regardless and hold your head high to see everything.

"You can't just claim the situation however you want. How long are we just gonna sit here and verbally shoot our shots? Some people fall after physical encounters."

He shook his head, more forcefully this time. His tone went deeper as he tried to hammer in his point of view. "That doesn't matter. We agreed on something, Josh. Don't fuck with me."

"You're too scared to shoot your shot, don't blame it on me. That was your doing, I took that grace period with you and now we can BOTH do what we want until she takes a stand."

A clenched fist flew into Josh's face. His right cheek, now bruised and red, turned away. "Fuck you, Mike." He held onto Mike's black collar and took his left hand to swing at him. The punch landed on Mike almost immediately.

The chants of "Fight" grew repetitive and loud. As the fight got more heated, more people covered your vision. After crawling out of the situation you were put in, you find Josh on top of Mike. Josh was landing punch after punch while Mike defended himself. You were beside yourself, this felt too much to bare and your eyes widened at the scene. You ran towards them.

They were both in the wrong, you know that. Neither of them should've had this escalate to this, but nothing could be done now but to stop them both from hurting each other further. Josh had a bloody nose, Mike got a black eye, the injuries on them both were never ending.

You screamed. "Stop this!"

Not that it did anything. Blinded and drowned by the current moment, Mike got the energy to push Josh off of him and began to get on the offense. Before his hit could land, Chris grabbed Josh away and Matt put his hands under Mike's arms and pulled him away.

Chris looked over towards both of his friends. His tone more sincere than it was the entire night; feeling stern. "She asked you guys to stop. Stop this."

Sam began damage control immediately. "Show's over everyone. Go home." Beth began helping her out in swaying people to drop the situation. De-escalating something this heated would never be easy or even fully fulfilled, but Samantha definitely had to try.

Hannah, Emily, and Jessica had nothing to do with helping the scene, instead Hannah was frozen in shock of Michael's newfound discreet confession. Emily and Jessica were silently eating up the whole ordeal; two guys fighting over someone? Yeouch! This sounded like a good Friday night to them!

Once everyone cleared up, Josh immediately headed on. Silently glad that Hannah and Beth had their own separate ride. No one could've even silently checked on him on the side, for he was already gone.

IM BACK BAYBEEEEEEEE! Thank you so much for reading this! I definitely enjoyed this request, please send some more! I have more to write later on, and I definitely have ideas for. I haven't forgotten them, but I got overworked with finals and I couldn't get really good ideas, there was one request I made three separate ideas for, but finally decided on one. •ᴗ•

[justkending]

Moral of the Story (Prologue)

Series Summary: From childhood friends, to highschool sweethearts, the two naive, young, and lovestruck teens decided the best way to keep a strong relationship during college would be to marry right out of highschool. No one batted an eye at the idea as everyone knew they were soulmates. However, college is a big step in a person’s life. You learn new things about yourself, you make new friends, find new hobbies… And maybe being newly weds and going to different colleges across the states wasn’t the best plan… After a falling out, and a tragic heartbreaking divorce, the two now hold grudges for how the other handled the whole thing in the past. Neither not really knowing both sides of the story. 10 years later, and they both get a call from the lawyers office that settled their divorce. Somehow the papers never went through and the divorce was never completed. So now, the exes, or should we say husband and wife, have to meet back up after all these years to settle their failed marriage once and for all. (This summary will be shorter in other chapters. I just needed to get the full concept out there;)

A/N (repeat): So the other day while I was doing my hair (quite the process), I was playing music and the song Moral of the Story by Ashe came on. Mind you, I’ve heard this song hundreds of times, but for some reason, this time I got a major story idea! Listening to the lyrics brought me to this new series. Of course, the lengthy summary above will give you an idea of what came to my brain, but I recommend you listen to the song still because it plays a big part in my thought process:) (Plus it’s a good song;) Enjoy and please do not hesitate to share your thoughts and comments with me! I love each and every single one<3

(I will release the first chapter at the beginning of next week! That way I can give myself some time to write more chapters before sharing it!)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Y/N (Modern AU)

Word Count: 1200+

Prologue:

"Melody, have the papers for the Bee's Knees company come in yet?"

"Uh, no. But I can call them again and see if they faxed it or sent over a physical copy though," Melody answered from her desk, already typing away to find the company.

"Perfect. We have a meeting with a recycling plant next week and I want to get everything set before we go in with them," Y/N nodded, coming out from her office with a file in her hands. She turned to her assistant at the front desk who was about 20 emails deep and already finding the issue. "Hey, you're not coming in tomorrow, right?"

"Um, no, no. I am. I rescheduled that date," she answered bashfully as if she had been caught in the act of something.

"Melody..." Y/N drug out, hand on her hip.

"What? I- He understood. He said he was fine moving it to Saturday," the young woman shrugged, never looking back at her boss that was clearly sending her a motherly stare.

"You're already over your 40 hours this week, and you've rescheduled with him, what? 3 times now?" Y/N moved to the front of the desk so the young brunette had to make eye contact with her.

"Yes," she answered hesitantly.

"Is it just nerves or something else?" Y/N smirked.

"I'm not nervous... It's just been a while since I've had time for a date."

"Two things about what you just said in the past minute. One, clearly this guy likes you because he's rescheduled with you this many times and hasn't called it off yet. So if you're nervous about it not going well on his end, I think you're safe," Y/N pointed a finger at her.

"But-," Melody started.

"Second," Y/N cut off with a raised eyebrow. "I'm giving you time to go on a date and you're still not taking it. Work is no longer an excuse."

Melody stopped avoiding eye contact and looked up at the Y/H/C hair woman leaning on her reception desk.

"You've been talking with my mom again, haven't you?" she sighed.

"I promised I'd take care of you. So yes, I have. And though her reasoning for you dating is because she wants grandbabies, I just want you to have fun and live your life. You're 22. Don't waste your young years being scared."

"Ugh, fine. I'll text him now and see if he's still available for tonight," she groaned.

"Perfect!" Y/N grinned in victory as she started to walk back to her office. "I expect the details in the morning," she winked before she walked in.

"Oh, Y/N!" Melody stopped her. "A message came for you while you were in that last meeting."

"Who from?" Y/N quirked an eyebrow, moving back to the desk.

"Uh, I don't really know. Didn't sound familiar, but here's the name and number they said to call back from," she answered, handing her a note.

Y/N took the small paper and looked it over. Her face dropped and her eyes widened.

"You ok? Is it someone you know?" the young assistant asked, noticing what looked like horror on her face.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, an old acquaintance of mine," Y/N tried to quickly brush off. "Um, I'm going to take this. Can you hold any calls and if anyone comes to talk, tell them to just email me?"

"Oh, ok. Yeah, I'll take care of it," Melody nodded.

"Thank you."

Rushing back to her office and quickly shutting her door, she raced to her phone. She read the business name again, not sure if she was dreaming or if it was a hallucination.

Nope. Hammer Attorney was written in Melody's perfect penmanship on the paper with a number that held an area code from New York. A place she never thought she would hear from again and from a town she hadn't visited in almost 10 years._________________

"Buck, did you tell Fury about getting those new water therapy machines?" Steve shouted from his room.

"We're at home, Steve. Why are we talking about work?" Bucky groaned as he slouched on the couch. A beer in hand and a documentary with I Survived stories playing in front of him.

Steve came in from around the corner looking down at his phone in hand before moving his eye line to his roommate.

"Because I just got a call from the night crew saying that the last one that was working, finally went out tonight while they were running it for some test," Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Ugh, you would think that a facility run by a billionaire who literally makes his money on high-tech machines, wouldn't have to ask for those kinds of things," Bucky groaned, grabbing his own phone and going through emails. "Let me check to see if the email went through. He wasn't in office when I went to tell him."

As he was sorting through the hundreds of emails sent back and forth just this week alone, he found the reply message.

"Yeah, management confirmed it. They should be in by Saturday it looks like. Guess Stark was still working out the kinks to a new one and was waiting to send one our way until the last one died to get more time on his newest model."

Steve nodded before walking to the kitchen and typing Bucky's response to the other crew members.

"The man is always finding new ways to upgrade them before he can even send them to us."

Just as Bucky was about to throw his phone to the side again though, it started ringing. Looking at the caller ID, he didn't recognize the unknown number. It was from in-state but in his hometown area of Brooklyn. He pinched his eyebrows together confused at the call, but answered it anyway, thinking it must be someone from home.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Mr. Barnes?" The other voice answered.

"Yes, this is him. Who's this?" he asked, sitting up a little and putting the beer on the end table.

"My name is Matthew Murdock. I work at Nelson and Murdock Law firm," he went on. Bucky shook his head not knowing what that was supposed to mean. "Well, you may actually know us previously as Hammer Attorney. We recently just took over their business after some fraud issues."

Bucky's heart stopped. He knew what that name meant.

"I hate to inform you, but we were going through some of their old files. Ones we were informed could be incomplete or done completely incorrectly due to little care in the actual cases, but more so in taking the money."

"Incomplete cases?" Bucky said softly. His brain was still trying to wrap around the conversation.

"Yes, unfortunately, it looks like a lot of cases having to deal with divorces that the past owners handled, were done strictly in order to launder money. They weren't actually certified, nor trained in handling divorce settlements."

Bucky froze. Eyes wide. Mouth agape.

He stuttered out a response when the man on the other line didn't continue.

"A-And talking about incomplete divorce settlements, you called because..." Bucky knew. He needed to hear it out loud because if he didn't, it wasn't true. It couldn't be.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Barnes, but it looks as though you and your wife, Y/N Y/L/N or sorry, Y/N Barnes, are actually not divorced."

(I will release the first chapter at the beginning of next week! That way I can give myself some time to write more chapters before sharing it!)

Moral of the Story Taglist:

@taylormobley @ximaginx @vicmc624

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx @death-unbecomes-you @heyiamthatbitch @lizzymacy555  @srrymydood @xa-dia @redhairedfeistynerd @morganclaire4 @connie326 @captain-asguard @mollygetssherlockcoffee @teenagedreams-bucky @shower-me-with-roses​ @pham-tastical 

My Lovelies forever:

@natura1phenomenon​ @lauravicente​ @kakakatey​ @traceyaudette​ @notyourtypicalrose​  @laneygthememequeen​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @sandlee44​ @thorne93​ @thefaithfulwriter​ @essie1876​ @greyeyedsmile14​ @capsiclehan​  @xostephanie​ @averyrogers83​ @awesomenursingstudent​ @gh0stgurl​ @cs-please​ @carls1022​ @jjlevin​ @rainbowkisses31​ @carls1022​ @anise-d-castle6​ @deannotmoose​ @their-bibliophile​ @kitkatd7​ @willowbleedsonpaper​ @mariaenchanted​ @snffbeebee​ @couldabeenamermaid​ @rebekahdawkins​ @alyispunk​

Bucky Barnes Tags:

@chloe-skywalker​ @charmedbysarge​ @jbarness​ @bellamy-barnes​ @katiaw2​ @aikeia​

[rintarous]

fuckboy!tendou

[ masterlist ] + LAST INSTALMENT FOR ME D: hope you all enjoyed them ! <3 ++ BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIRACLE BOY, SATORI!!!!! 

kageyama | kita | osamu | suna  

miracle boy tendou satori

the shameless fuckboy

this sexy ass mf 

bed monster is what people describe him 

rumor has it that he breaks beds on the daily 

people claim he’s a literal god at sex 

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

this all started when he ran out of hair wax and entered school with his hair down

hair down!tendou hits different

next thing he knew bitches were lining up to him giving him gifts or bluntly flirting with him

since then he kept his hair down at all times

but when he doesn’t feel like,,, attending people’s needs,, he puts it up like usual heh

and ofc my dude enjoyed every attention he got

he’s winking left to right at any passersby who look at his direction

making that person simp for him

tendou tingz ✨ 

anywho

he loves seeing his fling walk awkwardly after the cute lil activity they did the night before

but the downside to being his fling, after your quick heaven, he ghosts on you

💀💀💀

you might be wondering what do i mean by he’s the shameless fuckboy right?? well,,,,,

lets say he sees his ex fling out in the open, he’d shout shit like

“AYO BABYGIRL HOW HAVE YOU BEEN? BEEN A WHILE SINCE OUR LAST FUCK” 

embarrassing not only himself but the fling in general

but ppl think hes joking cs he lets out a loud ass laugh after saying that almost as if hes joking

which in his case.. he’s not 🤡

hes so shameless that he’d fuck with his flings in his dorm room that he shares with ushijima wakatoshi himself 

tendou has the top bunk so they fuck up there while ushjima has his earphones on full blast watching volleyball matches on his phone, completely ignoring the squeaking and shaking bed jesus christ

please send help to ushiwaka 2020

there are some days where tendou just feels,,, empty inside

despite having a line of fangirls wanting him

but he knows they just want him for his body and not who truly is

so when days like that ^^ happens, he just stays quiet and close off everyone around him

(also keeps his hair up lol)

anyway

during his emo days, you just somehow miraculously tripped over your own feet

in front of him

but thanks to tendou’s fast reflexes he caught your arm just in time before you kiss the cold hard floor

it took a big fat minute for you two to understand what was going on

tendou snaps out of his lil trance and helps you get back on your feet

“you okay there?” he would ask, his eyes filled with concern

by now you’ve realized what happened and you were now blushing to no ends

“uhh.. yeah thanks!” you blushed, rushing away from him and yet you almost trip over yourself AGAIN but this time you caught yourself 

tendou watches you walk away from him with a small smile

“she’s cute...” he thinks to himself before going back to his sulky mode 

the next day rolls in and he’s no longer in his emo mode so he’s back to being his fuckboy ass self

though the interaction with you is still lingering in the back of his head

so there he was,, minding his own business ya know the drill 

winking and flirting with anyone and anything 

yk fuckboy things

til you tapped his shoulder

he swirls around his chair to offer a smirk but a small gasp escaped from his mouth instead

its you !!! 

ok ngl this dude’s mood just went through the roof he’s so happy to see you again and the fact you reached out to him 

“i kinda feel bad for you know.. you witnessing me trip over my own feet and you kinda helped me and now i feel even more bad so can i buy you something from the cafe downstairs as a form of a thank you..?” you say, fiddling with your hands

which tendou noticed btw 

“so like a date?” tendou jokes 

was it getting hot in the classroom or was that just your face burning in embarrassment

“ah! n-no! of course not” you waved your hands around (see: midoriya)

tendou lets out a grin, “i’m kidding and sure. let’s just eat lunch together” he smiles 

lunch time rolls in and you and tendou walk inside the cafe the school had together

you were kinda skittish cs people were staring at you like some sort of prey

to which he tells you its because of him 

“it’s because of me haha sorry bout that” he giggles, ordering himself a latte and whatever you order

you knew about his reputation

that was mainly the reason why you ran away from him the day you tripped over your own feet but he caught you

but surprisingly he’s actually a really nice person !

he’s got that quirky personality with amazing humor that gets you laughing at anything he says

and he reads mangas too!!

though you only read my hero academia and bungo stray dogs,, you two still got along because of that

“who’s your favorite character in my hero?” he asks, his eyes sparkling

“definitely bakugo for sure” you say in awe, dreamily thinking about bakugo 

“i like the protagonist! deku is that bitch”  he shares, staring at you in the eyes

“what about in stray dogs?” this time it was your turn to ask

“hmm...” he thinks for a moment, “akutagawa” he answers

“holy shit same! but i like dazai too” 

in the end you two skipped classes and just stayed in the cafe til it was dark out either talking about mangas or just getting to know each other

this also means he walked you back to your dorm

“this is me.. hehe” you giggled, scratching the back of your head sheepishly as you two stop at the girls dormitory building

“see you around y/n-chan~ goodnight” tendou waves as he walks back to his dorm

after that tendou’s fuckboy habits have noticeably decreased

he barely talks or entertains his flings or girls who are after him in general

and his eyes and his overall demeanour would lighten up if he sees you or he talks to you

it was actually really sweet

“so no new chick on your radar these past few weeks?” you ask as you stared at him while eating your pasta

tendou sighs dreamily, “yep” he says popping the ‘p’ at the end

“that’s strange. aren’t you in your eye candy form right now?” you raised a brow, ruffling his already messy hair 

“i mean.. yeah i am in eye candy form” he winks making you giggle

his favorite sound

you resumed eating your pasta and tendou does the same til suddenly this bitch starts making beeping noises

“BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP” tendou beeps(?)

“what the fuck satori” you laughed out loud, almost choking on your food

“my chick radar detected a chick!” he exclaims, pointing his fingers around as if it’s pinpointing the target

then his finger stops at you

you turned around in case there was someone behind you til you realized it was only the two of you in the cafe

(you two skipped classes again)

“me?” you point to yourself in shock

“no i meant the ghost behind you. what’s up casper?” he says with the most deadpan expression, “of course it’s you!” 

“you’re really cute and i like being around you” he shyly confessed, ruffling his hair as force of habit when he’s nervous

you stared at him in shock, still not processing his confession

tendou takes a peek at your shocked expression on the corner of his eye, “its okay if you don’t feel the same i was just sayi-”

you shut him up by giving him a kiss on the cheek

“lucky for you, i like you too” you blushed

“you do?!” now it was his turn to be shocked

“no” you blep at him making him laugh

“didn’t think you’d take revenge on me you meanie” he pouts, tucking your hair behind your ear as you smile widely at your new boyfriend

[searchingwardrobes]

Self-Promo Sunday: All My Christmas Fics

I’ve never done this before, so I thought some people might appreciate a convenient list of all my Christmas fics. Plenty to keep you feeling warm and fuzzy the week before Christmas!

Hope, Dreams, and Playthings - Killian Jones will search any realm and face any foe to acquire the heart's desire of his two favorite girls. Even if it’s the high-pitched chaos of the American Girl Store or the terrifying bidding wars of EBay. A Christmas installment of my Shopping with the Captain series. Can be read alone. Rated G (2 chapters, about 6.5k words)

Underneath the Tree - Emma Swan has never had a real Christmas tree, so her best friend Killian Jones is determined to give her one. A real live Christmas tree from a quaint little lot like in all those Hallmark movies. Even if it's pouring down rain . . .  Rated M (one shot, about 4k words)

Christmas in Storybrooke - Henry Mills has a bad feeling about bringing his best friend EJ home for Christmas. Not because he wants to leave her all alone at Christmas when her flight home gets cancelled. He just doesn't want her to know the truth about his very odd town and even odder family. Basically a hallmark movie where Character A gets snowed in in Character B's quirky small hometown, but with magic. Not strictly CS, but still has plenty of Captain Swan. Rated M (MC with 11 chapters)

Deck the Halls, Bruise Your Hand - Charming has slayed a dragon, Hook has sailed the stormy seas. How hard can Christmas lights be?aka Emma's boys try to surprise her and things go awry, but she's beyond touched anyway. Rated G (one shot of a little over 2k words)

The Christmas Wish - Emma leaned forward, closed her eyes, and a wish bubbled up unbidden from the depths of her heart. "I wish I could just have a simple, domestic life. Is that even in the cards for me?" Breath left her on an exhale just as the wish floated through her mind, and the candle blew out. The "answer" to her wish had to be some kind of trick, however. After all, it wasn’t as if anything in the vision she received could ever in a million years be real. It was ridiculous. Captain Hook, the father of three driving a minivan? Impossible. ie a Captain Swan version of a Hallmark Christmas Movie. Rated G (MC with 4 chapters)

Bonus This one is set immediately after Christmas, so I thought people may enjoy this one next week and over New Year’s:

A Long December  - Emma Swan knocks on his door the morning after Christmas and continues to do so off and on well past the new year. Killian Jones knows, however, that he must tread lightly, so he never knocks on hers. Until one day in May . . . Although, technically, he doesn’t knock.

Tagging some who may be interested: @snowbellewells @teamhook @xhookswenchx @kmomof4 @let-it-raines @jrob64 @winterbythesea @cutieodonoghue @fairytalesandtimetravel @vvbooklady1256 @stahlop @tiganasummertree @thisonesatellite @thislassishooked @profdanglaisstuff @shireness-says @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @ultraluckycatnd @justanotherwannabeclassic @justbecauseyoubelievesomething @killiancygnus @pirateherokillian @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @ohmakemeahercules @bethacaciakay​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​

 Sorry if I forgot anyone! Merry Christmas!

[lemontwst]

08/14 - announcements from a vacation in quarantine.

hello my sweet, sinful children!!!

i’m so sorry i left you all to your lonesome for two days (three days? eh, time is relative anyway), but i wanted to enjoy the last few moments of my vacation away from social media!

between my job, moving to a new house and updating this blog every day in the meantime, my wick was almost completely burned out, so i hope you can forgive me for taking some time off to recharge the good ole batteries!

i haven’t been completely idle however!!! i’m proud to announce that i’ve finally wrapped up the last of my writing commissions, so i can fully dedicate myself to this blog once again! daily headcanons/scenario updates will begin again starting from today. i have quite the backlog of messages (and fanart!!!) to go through, but i promise i’ll start chipping away at all your questions and lovemail soon!

Nessun Dorma updates.

the poll for chapter one is now officially closed. the results were tied for the longest time, but alas, we’ve had a surge of dom!Epel votes this week, so it seems our precious apple boy will be the one doing the rawing this time around! (i’m sorry sub!Epel fans in the inbox, you guys got my vote but we could not prevail against the bottoms in the end!!!). istg y’all better let me have sub!Azul when the time comes www

rantings of a dom aside, i humbly thank everyone who participated in the voting! this game would literally be pointless without all of you.

about the next ND update, chapter 2 will release sometime next week! possibly on thursday/friday, if i manage to send everything to my beta readers in the next couple of days. you’ll get a little snippet of one of the smut scenes the day before the chapter goes public, so i hope you look forward to it!

on milestones and celebrations.

we’re almost at 1.5k followers. what the actual fuck, fam.

and of course we’re going to celebrate!!!! this might be thirsty thots boulevard but we are still classy, well-mannered harlots around here!!!!!

i’ve always wanted to learn how to code in CS, so would you guys be interested in playing a short, smutty interactive fiction game like this one, with one of our twisted husbands as the love interest? (original game post by the amazing author @/godsamael). i'll give you some more interactions and personality options for your self-insert, and you’ll be able to pick the reader’s gender between male, female and possibly non-binary if i can get the code to work! 

i’ll probably make a poll to decide which husband you’ll be able to f*ck, so let me know if this is a yay or a nay for you. if it’s a nay, i’ll come up with something else to entertain you.

upcoming writings.

time for the usual lies i mean uuh our wonderful and very regular schedule because Miel is an organized writer who never posts headcanons and scenarios on a whim. here it is, for everyone who asked.

acedeuce poly scenario with f!reader. (tomorrow??)

more cybertwst (idia & vil are up next)

dick headcanons for pomefiore

mindbreak scenarios with [redacted bc i ain’t spoiling this lmao]

and there you have it! if you sat patiently through this entire existential crisis, Ramiel gives you a smooch on the forehead and blesses your weekend with p0rny lucid dreams. 

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (2/5)

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. ~16.5k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One

A/N: I’m back! Thanks for your patience in waiting for the latest chapter of my @cssns​ piece. My apologies for the wait; these chapters are slow in coming due to my own overthinking and perfectionism, what I know where everything is going and this Will Be Finished. 

Special thanks to my betas, @snidgetsafan​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​, and to @eirabach for the absolutely gorgeous art she created for this chapter. Seriously, it’s like she climbs right inside my head to see what I’m picturing. Give her a BUNCH of love for all this. 

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​, @spartanguard​, @phiralovesloki​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @winterbythesea​​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Henry is six the first time he visits the Circus. 

It’s a special treat for an orphaned boy like him; the nuns who run the Storybrooke Children’s Home, just outside of Portland, Maine, aren’t much given to frivolous entertainments like this. But a generous monetary donation had been made to the home when the Circus had set up just over the next hill, and tickets for all the children along with it. The nuns may not be much for frivolity, but they’re not ones for waste, either, especially where gifts are concerned. The next night, Sister Astrid and Sister Theodora collect all the children who want to go, and bring them to what, to Henry, feels like a whole other world. 

Henry is a boy the adults already say lives in his imagination too much, and the magic of the Circus only enchants him further, calling to him in a way he doesn’t yet have the words to understand, let alone describe. There are trapeze artists who soar through the air, and jugglers, and lions and tigers and wolves so tame that they’ll take treats from his hands. Kindly confectioners slip him pieces of praline and boxes of popcorn to snack on through the night with a wink and a smile. It’s treatment such as he’s never experienced before, and it’s easy to wonder if he’s just wandered into some kind of dream.

(Even at six, Henry knows better than to disrupt such a lovely dream.)

It’s easy to get separated from the rest of the children in the dazzle of it all, and Henry finds himself wandering the curved paths alone as the clock strikes one, when the others in his group are preparing to return to the Home. Not that he knows it; he’s far too occupied by staring wide-eyed at the black and white tents where they soar to meet the stars and peeking beyond their entrance flaps.

That’s how the lady finds him - gawking with a craned neck at everything around him. 

“Have you lost your group, young man?” she asks with a gentle voice. Henry likes being called young man; it makes him feel important. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her earnestly. “They like to go faster than me. I can do it by myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” the lady laughs. She looks really pretty; her hair is yellow and curly and she wears a poofy white dress with black swirly bits and a black, long-sleeved jacket, the lack of color making it obvious she’s part of the Circus somehow. If this was one of the fairy tales Henry likes so much, she’d be the princess in hiding; here, at the Circus, that just might be true. “I was just planning to walk to the front gates. Would you care to escort me, young sir?”

Henry eagerly takes the hand the lady offers. “I’m Henry,” he tells her as they walk. “What’s your name?”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Emma.”

“That’s a princess name. Are you a princess?”

“No,” she laughs, “but thank you very much, Henry. I appreciate the compliment. Are you enjoying the circus?”

“Yeah!” As they walk, Henry eagerly tells the lady - Emma, his new friend - about all his favorite bits - the animals and the dancers and especially the magician. Emma has a funny little smile when he talks about that, but Henry doesn’t think to ask about it.

When the front gates are finally in sight, Henry tugs on Emma’s hand. “I like it here,” he whispers. “Do I have to go?”

Emma crouches down, her skirts pooling around her and threatening to envelop him too. “Yes, Henry, you have to leave for now.”

“But why? I want to stay here. I could stay with you!”

“Oh, Henry, I’d like that so much,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug. “You need to go for now, until you’re older, but the Circus will always be here for you, okay? You’ll come back.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Henry dreams of the circus that night, and for many nights after, though the visions his mind conjures up never quite match the mysticism of the real thing.

A week later, the Circus is gone.

(But here, in a small room in a cold, gloomy children’s home - a young boy remembers.)

———

Belle, unsurprisingly, proves to be a determined and reliable correspondent. She’s like his little window into the Circus, even when he can’t be there himself, as is so often the case - especially in those first few years. Five years pass of letters and far-too-rare visits, and yet Killian never feels left in the dark. That’s the magic of what Belle can accomplish with her words - let him feel as if he is present even when he can’t be. 

Her missives contain the important things he asked for, of course - reports of new tents and changes in operations and unusual things his opponent, Miss Swan, is doing. They’re useful words, words that help him plan his own next moves. More than that, though, her letters are filled with wonderful little mundane details that make him smile. Belle tells him about the latest book she’s read and how fast the Zimmer twins are growing up and particularly funny anecdotes she’s heard. There are complaints about the weather, and discussions of the interesting or ominous things she reads in the cards. Always, always, there are chronicles of all the many places she has seen as the Circus crisscrosses the world, recountings of wondrous sights and marvelous people. Belle had wanted to see the world, and she’s getting to, five times over. It’s everything she deserves, only wrapped in an unusual and often demanding package. 

“It’s not too much, is it?” Killian asks on one of the rare instances their paths cross - in Paris, this time, where Killian has come on an errand for Jefferson, sitting in a little cafe in the shadow of Notre Dame. “I never want to ask more of you than you can manage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Belle says, waving off his concerns like the steam from their coffee. “They’re merely letters, Killian. It’s no great bother - especially for something I’d be doing anyways. I’d be writing to you regardless, Killian - you’re my best friend in the world, and I’ll be terribly put out if you ever stop writing me back.”

And that’s that.

(Most days, Killian believes that Belle is a much better friend than he could ever possibly deserve. He makes a mental note to say something of the sort in his next letter back to her.)

(Of course, he forgets - but then again, he can’t imagine she doesn’t already know.)

———

As a child, growing up knowing she was destined for some magical contest, Emma had always been told that she’d understand what she needed to do once her competition actually started. As an adult, now smack in the middle of it all, she finds that is decidedly not the case. Emma does her best, but it still feels like she has no idea what in the world she’s supposed to be doing.

The Circus is meant to be a canvas for her abilities, hers and her opponent’s; that much is obvious. What exactly that means is… more up for debate. Emma tries to take on more of the Circus in little pieces, bit by bit, so that more of its operations run on magic than on man power. It’s more enjoyable to try and come up with new attractions, drawing upon her imagination to come up with something new. It’s not a particularly quick process - Emma spends a lot of time planning each idea, to make sure she doesn’t miss anything, and it means that she can only create maybe two new tents each year. It’s worth it, though, to wander through the finished product, and see the way her most fanciful ideas have come to life. 

(“You need to be doing more,” Regina always scolds her on those rare occasions she makes the effort to visit her student. “This isn’t playtime. You can’t just make the effort when you feel like it, silly girl. Don’t you want to win this?”

“Of course, Regina,” Emma always says, making whatever promises she needs to in order to appease the other woman - all the while knowing that she will continue to act in her own way.)

(For Emma, the best thing about the Circus may be the separation from the woman who took her in. Regina does not often make the effort to check in on how her student is doing - and Emma more than likes it that way.)

There are traces of her mysterious opponent’s work, too. Sometimes it’s in the form of dramatic new attractions, things that push the bounds of possibility and perception; sometimes, it’s with more mundane things, like a wine-sampling tent tucked along a path that Emma is certain never existed before. 

His or her greatest feat, however, is on the members of the Circus themselves. As the years pass by, Emma can’t help but notice that time doesn’t affect everyone who brings the Circus to life, with the exception of the Zimmer twins. It’s been more than half a decade, but Granny Lucas is still as hale and hearty as ever. Not a single face has gained extra creases, or a single head extra grey hairs. Something this unknown competitor did has stopped the clock for all of them within the iron fence, even as the grand timepiece above the front gates ticks on.

It’s an impressive piece of magic - one that must take a considerable amount of skill and effort. It’s the first time Emma wonders if maybe this is a contest of endurance, rather than skill.

Regina won’t tell her, however, and Emma puts the matter out of her mind while she turns her attention towards the night’s performances and the germ of an idea blooming in her head. Something fantastical. Something striking - and icy. 

There’s always room for imagination and for creation at the Circus, after all - and despite her opponent’s impressive efforts, that’s exactly what Emma is counting on to one day prevail in this competition. 

——— 

The Zimmer twins are special, Emma discovers, and not just in the way anyone who has loved a child claims them to be exceptional. In Ava and Nicholas’ case, it’s true. 

There had been something in the air the night the circus opened, the night after the twins were born - something crackling and pervasive and magical. Emma has suspected for years - since that very moment - that the energy was something created by her still-unknown opponent. It’d been like a wave, rippling through them all at once and creating unknown effects. She thinks this might be one of those - powers growing in two children who, by all indication, shouldn’t have received them.

It’s especially noticeable to Emma, who not only has the ability to sense the powers running through their veins, but spends a considerable amount of time with the six-year-old twins. Ava and Nicholas grow up like the beloved niece and nephew of everyone involved with the circus, as though everyone communally agreed to test the proverb it takes a village. While the circus is open to visitors, and the children’s parents responsible for their little cart of carved treasures, everyone else watches the little boy and girl in shifts when they’re not performing - and Emma quickly becomes a particular favorite. She’s never been sure why; maybe they sensed the magic in her own veins, even as babies, and latched onto it. Maybe they simply like the way she thoughtfully humors every flight of fancy. Whatever the case - Emma knows her life would be far less interesting without the two in it. 

Ava has magic that likes to shake out and twinkle at the edges of her soft hair, similar in a way to Emma’s own powers. Unusual things happen around her, if you’re paying attention; lost things are more easily found, snacks and sweets turn up in unlikely places, and on one impressive occasion, a pair of fluffy orange and white kittens crawled out from beneath her bunk. 

“I can fix that,” she tells Emma innocently one day as Emma moves to throw a vase of wilted flowers out. She hasn’t prodded Ava about her powers before - it doesn’t seem the time to bring to the forefront all the things she can likely do, not when she’s still a little girl, not when Emma’s own childhood was largely sacrificed because of her own powers - but it’s a hard opportunity to pass up. It’s worth demonstrating to Ava, anyways, that her powers are simply a part of her, and nothing to make a fuss about.

“Can you show me?” Emma asks. It’s impossible not to smile when the little girl nods eagerly and furrows her brow in concentration, staring fixedly at the wilted daisies. Slowly but surely, the browned tips disappear, the petals straightening from their shrivelled state and the flowers once again lifting upright to seek the sun.

“That’s very well done, Ava,” Emma makes sure to tell her. 

“I know,” Ava replies seriously with all the intensity of a child her age. “Can you do that too?”

“I can.” Emma doesn’t tell people about her magic, usually, but Ava seems like a necessary exception - to let the little girl know she’s not entirely alone in her special, unusual skills.

“I thought so,” the little girl nods sagely. “I could feel it.”

It doesn’t surprise Emma in the least. 

Nicholas knows things that he shouldn’t - knows things that no one should know. Somehow, the stars speak to him in a language only he can understand. Nick sees things to come and things that have already happened, and sometimes divulges them readily and at the most unlikely times. 

“Is the scary lady with the dark hair your mama?” he asks one day out of the blue, startling Emma before she collects herself.

“No. She was my teacher,” Emma explains. 

“Oh.” His question asked, Nick happily goes back to playing quietly with his wooden lion. He’s less prone to chatter than his sister, happy to keep to his own thoughts when Ava isn’t pulling him into some other adventure. Emma rather wonders if it’s not because he has all the things he sees in the stars to keep him company. 

“Is there a reason you asked?” she inquires as casually as she can. “Did you… was there something you saw?”

“She hurt you,” is all he’ll say. “Before you were here.”

Something from the past, then - not so immediately alarming, though a sign she’ll need to be vigilant about hiding certain portions of her memories that young, impressionable and trusting minds shouldn’t be seeing.

“It’s alright, Nickie,” she tells him. “She isn’t around to bother me very often.”

He nods decisively. “Good.”

As he turns his attention back to his wooden lion, bringing a tiger in as well, Emma reaches out for the magic constantly humming about her and draws it into herself, directing to play through her mind and cast something almost like her invisibility cloak around her more traumatic memories to keep Nicholas from seeing. 

“Is there anything else?” she prods, mostly to test and see if the charm is effective.

Sure enough, the little boy’s face twists into a frown. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I can’t see.”

“Ah, well,” Emma replies in a purposefully light tone. “Maybe some other time.”

(She is not entirely sure she means it.)

Truth be told, Ava and Nicholas and their wondrous gifts are a beautiful mystery. All Emma knows is that it’s her responsibility to protect them from more sinister influences, the way she wishes someone had done for her. They deserve that. She deserved that. And she’ll be damned if they’re turned into pawns the way she was. 

There are many good things to come out of the Circus - friendship and wonder and home - but Emma thinks the Zimmer twins, and the powers they should be able to wield for good without the interference of people like Regina - are one of the best. 

——— 

There are attractions at the Circus unlike anything you’ve seen before, that you think may only exist within these iron gates. The Circus is a place where the otherworldly and impossible come to life.

This tent contains one such wonder, advertised with simple but mysterious words. This marker swirls and glistens in the moonlight, coaxing you inside to discover its secrets.

Stepping through the tent flap, brisk air tickles at your face - the first sign of what’s to come. Twisting through the interior are all manner of transparent structures, arranged in neat beds. The Ice Garden - just as promised. Each creation appears impossibly delicate and fragile, and by all logic, should be impossible on a warm summer’s night. There are lilies and roses and daisies, sculpted topiaries, winding vines, flowers that remind you of an illustration you once saw of tropical flora. A raised bed of cacti and succulents sprawls along one wall. Opposite, an apple tree, laden with fruit, arches gracefully at the edge of a silver-stoned path. There are little crystalline plaques, too, for all the plants whose names you’d never begin to guess: Shooting Star. Gayfeather. Anemones. Candelabra Primrose.

Every inch, every label, every petal, is made of ice.

Even at the Circus, such a thing should be impossible, This tent may be slightly, inexplicably cooler, but it’s by no means chilled enough to maintain this icy wonder. Though you know you shouldn’t touch, you can’t help but graze your fingers along an icy petal, just to make sure it isn’t cleverly blown glass. It’s a joyous mystery when they come away cold and wet, the sculptures revealed as ice in truth.

There’s no explanation for the Ice Garden - how it can exist at this edge of the Circus, seemingly unburdened by the laws of nature.

The longer you spend in the sparkling, colorless chill, the more you come to realize that beauty doesn’t need an explanation anyways.

———

Killian - 

I know it’s not quite the update you were asking for, but I still feel compelled to share - something wonderful and charming and amusing, and so delightfully human. I couldn’t quite resist writing to tell you. 

I could be wrong - but I believe a little fanclub has sprung up to trail the Circus. You’ll think it silly, Killian, but I am starting to recognize faces here - not of Circus members (I am not nearly so unobservant, or so rude not to recognize them by name after all these years!) but of visitors. There are a handful I could swear are coming over and over again. I’ll have to ask, next time I notice.

(Not that I can begrudge them of such - I certainly would be doing the same, in their shoes! It’s just that the fortunes get rather repetitive. I should probably let them know that the stars of fate do not change nearly as quickly as they seem to believe…)

There’s a certain awe, or maybe more like peace, that they wear on their faces as they move about the grounds that’s unique from all the other looks I see - almost like they’re coming home. I certainly know something about that - I think so many of us do. It’s wonderful, really - the way these visitors love the Circus so much that they feel compelled to return time and time again, joyously retracing the same paths over and over. It’s clear they love this place the way we do. Isn’t that just what we wanted, anyways? To make something for others to love, to play a part in bringing it to life? 

(Yes, I obviously remember that you’re also doing this for your mysterious competition - but I don’t believe someone makes something so beautiful without a generous dose of love as well. Don’t try to deny it, Killian - you know I’m always right.)

I hope you are well; no other news from here. As always, I’ll let you know if anything changes. 

Best wishes,

Belle

——— 

In time, the Circus gains followers.

It was probably inevitable, in a way; as the Circus winds its way across the world, through large cities and small towns, it touches countless lives as it goes, some more impactfully than others. There are those who visit once, and remember it fondly; those who take the opportunity to visit whenever the Circus is in their area, and look forward to it; and those who hold the memories close to one day tell their disbelieving grandchildren.

And then - there are the Rêveurs.

The Rêveurs start almost like a book club - groups of people who meet to reminisce about their favorite attractions, all the sights and smells and tastes that make the whole experience unforgettable. In time, the groups morph; they begin to go to the Circus together, and then travel to visit other Rêveurs when the Circus comes to their area. Particularly eloquent members begin to write into their local newspapers and magazines, beautiful editorials that convey love and wonder and coax thousands of others through the twisted iron gates. It becomes an entire movement, based off of a shared love, of people coming together to experience the Circus over and over again.

It is easy to spot the Rêveurs, if you know what you are looking for. In one of the editorials, an adherent mentions his own preferred way to experience the Circus - to blend in as much as he can, in all black and white, while still setting himself apart from those who bring the experience to life by adding a single touch of red. The trend catches on quickly; wandering the grounds, it is easy to spot splashes of red in the crowd, handkerchiefs peeking from pockets and roses or carnations in lapels and gloves and ribbons in hair. 

Some Rêveurs make sure to visit new attractions each time they visit; some prefer to see the same over and over, lingering in the acrobat tent or on the carousel for hours. In a way, they prove that there is no right or wrong way to experience the Circus - there will always be new things to see, and old favorites to return to. 

The members of the Circus are aware of the Rêveurs, too. Indeed, there are benefits to being in the same audience with that little flash of red, as performers bring out their best, most dazzling tricks and attempt new daring feats. Watching carefully, one might see a vendor slip a cup of cocoa or an extra serving of toasted nuts to a man or woman with that bare hint of color. All visitors to the Circus are valued, but the Rêveurs are treasured, in a different way, that makes every person involved in the endeavor want to do just the slightest bit more to bring the experience to life in a new way. 

The performers and vendors and other members of the Circus are its engine, in many ways - but the Rêveurs just might be its heart. 

———

Killian - 

I just realized that it’s been a while since my last letter - two months, I believe! Everything is perfectly fine here, I assure you. In fact, I haven’t written because there’s been nothing particularly notable to report. I’ve been watching for new additions, just as I always do, but nothing has appeared. Ah, well. We must be in a quiet stretch on that front.

Meanwhile, the Circus trundles onward, as it so often does. This week, we’re in Morocco. I’ve never been - and oh Killian, it is wonderful. The air is hot and dry and tinged with all kinds of spices that I can’t quite identify. And the food! A little group of us went and wandered in one of the markets, trying things from the stands. I’ve never tasted anything like it. What boring lives so many people lead, happy to stay on their own little island and pretend they know everything. This is so much preferable. The weather is a wonderful respite, too, from the cold I know must be sweeping through now that December is well and truly here.

I do not know if we’ll be home for Christmas; I rather doubt it. I’ll miss our usual holiday feast, but I trust that you’ll have a lovely time with your brother instead. My regards to Liam, as always.

Yours &c.,

Belle

———

Killian is lucky, in a way. After all, he has Belle and Liam, who both know about this competition. They’re his support system, the people who keep him grounded to life outside of all this - especially Liam. Lord knows Mr. Gold has never sought to do that. He doubts Miss Swan has that. Maybe he’s wrong; for her sake, he hopes he is. How lonely it must be to keep that secret, otherwise. 

Liam’s apartment is like a sanctuary at the end of a long day, where his brother waits with dark spiced rum and a roaring fire. Sometimes they venture out for dinner; some nights they stay in, and have the landlady send up something to eat. Mostly, Killian enjoys the peace of being in company that never expects more of him than he’s sure he can give. All Liam expects is companionship, and maybe for Killian to come with a nice bottle of spirits every so often. Killian can more than handle that. 

(They do not mention that Liam does not seem to age, the same way all those attached to the Circus do not. If his brother has even noticed, he remains blessedly silent on the subject.)

“Do you wonder sometimes,” Liam asks one night, “what would have happened if you hadn’t been selected by Gold? If you had turned him down?”

Killian shrugs. They’re in the middle of their third drinks - just the time for philosophical questions like these. “Not really,” he admits. “What’s the use? It happened like it happened. You wouldn’t have as nice a place as this, that’s for damn sure.”

Liam snorts, and the atmosphere turns more jovial for a few minutes as both men indulge in a drunken laugh before things turn thoughtful again. “If you had to do it all over again… would you?”

“I would,” Killian agrees. “We were a couple of scrappy orphans, no prospects, nothing. I’ve never been given a reason to truly regret it.”

“Then I’m happy for you, brother.” Liam tops off their glasses and raises his drink in a toast. “To good decisions, then!”

“To good decisions,” Killian echoes. “Or at least ones we haven’t yet regretted.”

———

Some attractions are more conventional in name, their promises familiar and comforting in that way that the expected can be. But this is the Circus, and conventional simply doesn’t exist here in the same way. 

You enter another tent to discover a hall of mirrors. It is a common enough attraction, at its core, one you have seen in other carnivals and street fairs. But true to the promise of the Circus, this version of such a fun house classic is more than you’ve ever seen. There are tall, full length mirrors, as you’ve come to expect, but small mirrors too, clustered on tables in every nook between their larger counterparts to reflect the lantern light in every direction. The mirrors don’t just distort your own reflection either; in addition to mirrors that cause your reflection to look taller or shorter or wider, there are mirrors to make you look older or younger, mirrors which change your hair, mirrors which duplicate your visage over and over again until you appear to be surrounded by a crowd of your own self in the mirror. There are even mirrors which somehow make it appear that you are someplace else entirely - by the seaside, the water slowly soaking your shoes, or in a fragrant flower garden, or wandering amidst ancient ruins. It is a clever trick, and one you won’t pretend to understand. In your heart, you never want to, for fear of ruining the illusion.

The world feels bright and new under the moonlight as you exit back outside the tent, like the hall of mirrors has helped you find a new way of seeing.

(And maybe, you realize, that’s the entire point.)

———

Killian takes small comfort in the fact that Mr. Gold seems pleased with his efforts. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows that somehow he’s supposed to demonstrate his abilities and magical knowledge on the canvas that is the Circus, but that only tells him so much. Killian adds attractions when he can, crafting things like the Hall of Mirrors in careful dioramas before sewing the plans into his master book, but it’s so hard to know if he’s on the right track. 

Mr. Gold has never been particularly involved in Killian’s life, and that doesn’t change now that the competition has well and truly begun. As a child, Killian had been largely self-taught, relying on the books that his teacher provided and the man himself only dropping in periodically to test his knowledge and comprehension. This feels like much the same thing; once a year, Mr. Gold will appear in Killian’s office after one of the Circus dinners, or outside his flat door without warning. There may be a polite inquiry about what Killian is currently working on, especially if the visit occurs in his cramped and ruthlessly organized office; more often than not, there isn’t. Killian will make polite inquiries about his mentor’s health and business, all of which are carefully avoided. Mr. Gold will state that he is satisfied with the work of his student - exactly that, and nothing more. 

Killian never expects an expression of pride; after all, he’s never received anything of the sort in all the years he’s been under his teacher’s direction. Theirs has always been a distant relationship, if it can even be called that. 

“How will I know I’ve won?” Killian dares to ask on one of these visits. “What do I have to do?”

“You’ll know, dearie,” is all his teacher will say. “Trust me, it will be very obvious.”

It is not. 

But Killian works onward, carefully building and manipulating things. Who knows? Maybe, one day, he’ll understand. 

———

The relationship between the members of the Circus and the Rêveurs has always been unusual. If it weren’t for the fact that the two groups are inextricably linked, and indeed obviously treasure one another, the interaction almost might be called respectfully distant. There exists an unspoken, but obviously adhered to, separation between the two - that there are Circus folks and there are Rêveurs, and they do not socially interact. Though a vendor or performer might, surreptitiously and casually, mention an anticipated next stop to an awed visitor with that single splash of red, they will not be found together in the light of day, strolling in the public parks or sharing a coffee in one of the cafés. The Rêveurs, largely, prefer it that way; the mystical quality is somehow kept alive when the people of the Circus only seem to dwell within its gates.

Of course, Emma has never been one for formality, or fitting in with the rest of the crowd. 

If pressed, she’ll claim that Marco is an anomaly - a man who fits between both worlds, and therefore special. It’s her own kind of loophole in the intricate rituals of the Circus and the Rêveurs. 

(No one ever presses, though - to do that, they’d need to know that Emma writes to Marco in the first place.)

Marco, in truth, has been involved in the Circus since the very beginning - though he did not always know it. An Italian by birth, living in Germany and creating exquisitely crafted cuckoo clocks, Mr. Marco Gepetto had been the very man contracted by Mr. Booth, the architect, to build the massive timepiece at the front gates, back when this whole endeavor was still coming together. Marco hadn’t been aware of that, at the time; all he’d known was that an Englishman had offered him a frankly absurd amount of money and next to no direction, only to create something unusual and extraordinary for a circus venue he was helping produce. With his rambling imagination and careful craftsman’s hands, Marco had more than delivered, creating the masterpiece Emma has found comfort in watching many times. 

That clock had always haunted him, he’s tried to explain to her many times during their correspondence, his mind running wild wondering exactly where it had been installed. Mr. Booth had sent a note declaring the producers delighted by the result, and Marco had never heard a peep again. Emma cannot blame him for wondering, truly, after all the months he had invested in the clock and all the personal touches he had poured in. The truth, he confides, is that he believed - nay, believes it to be his greatest work, all the while unaware that so many others were similarly touched. It was only years later that Marco had realized the grand project he had unknowingly helped bring to life, when an acquaintance had insisted they visit the traveling circus setting up just outside of Munich. 

“It was wonderful,” he gushes to Emma as they walk down the streets of Naples several years later, the older man happily pointing out the location of all the haunts of his younger days. “It was more than I ever could have imagined - and so well situated! So perfectly blended with the rest of the design! I must tip my cap to Signore Booth for his work, and all his compatriots.”

Marco had fallen in love with the circus on that first night, as a venue for his masterpiece and as a creation all its own. It was impossible not to, he had claimed later in the first of many editorials and subsequent letters - it was like the Circus called to him, begging him to uncover all its secrets. It may be the work of several lifetimes; perhaps, that’s just the appeal. 

He didn’t particularly mean to spearhead the Rêveurs movement, he’d explained to Emma in one letter. It was simply that he’d fallen in love, with a place and an experience, and wanted to share that with everyone else. It was just that he was the first, the first to not just talk about the Circus but publish his thoughts, that had made him the unexpected figurehead of the group. He’d been the one to come up with the idea of that touch of red, too, though he never admits it unless pressed. 

Letters flood in, from across Europe and the globe, wanting to compare experiences and share in the joy of the Circus. Marco gladly responds; many, indeed, become friends. But none is quite like Emma, who he only first knows as a woman with unusual insight into the Circus when she first begins writing, just another person who reaches out after one of his editorials. He assumes she’s just another of his Rêveur correspondents at first, but her thoughts, so carefully measured but fond, strike a chord somewhere in Marco. A friendship blossoms over dozens of letters exchanged, comparing experiences and details noticed and treasured - until, finally, this summit, as Marco had visited an elderly aunt while the Circus docked along the Italian coast. 

He takes the revelation that Emma isn’t merely some visitor, but a core member of the Circus, with an unexpected lack of surprise. “I wondered if you were rather closer to the matter than you let on,” Marco explains, patting her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “I shall consider myself uniquely lucky to have earned your friendship.”

And he has. Marco possesses a sharp mind and an affection for the little details that Emma loves, and an easy-going manner it proves near-impossible not to be charmed by. He fills something like a fatherly role, for Emma - always encouraging and delighted to hear about the latest improvements to her show. She doesn’t tell him that all the magic she does is real - but somehow feels that he understands, anyways. Marco is special like that, and perceptive. Somehow, Emma doubts that he’d be much surprised if she revealed the whole mess of the competition.

Marco may be physically distant from the ever-changing Circus grounds, and may not fully know what’s going on - but he’s a pillar of support, all the same, like Emma has never known.

(She only hopes he isn’t one more thing that’s just too good to last.)

——— 

Killian - 

At long last - an update! I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to report to you. Not that I don’t enjoy our correspondence, of course - it’s always so wonderful to share with you a little slice of my life here and hear from you in return. I simply feel so much better when I have something concrete to report to you, as we agreed.

I’m stalling, though. The truth is… I’m not entirely sure how to put into words exactly what this latest tent contains. It defies description, I find. The little sign along the path reads ‘Wishing Tree’, but that doesn’t describe much, does it? That could be anything. The Wishing Tree, in truth, is… oh, where do I start? It is somehow both earthly and otherworldly. It is both wondrously fantastical and firmly rooted in the soil. It exists both on this plane and in the world of dreams and aspirations. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it is a contradiction, in the most spectacular way. Most simply put, if I stop beating around the bush, it is like a living, growing wishing well - but so much better than that, in its symbolism. There are no words to do it justice.

If you couldn’t tell already, Killian, I am insisting that you come and visit the Circus grounds next time it is convenient. There is no other way to fully grasp the delight of this latest addition. If I were not so terribly fond of you, I’d offer a hearty ‘Bravo!’ to your competitor - so count yourself lucky!

Yours,

-Belle

———

The Circus’ tents are filled with wonders - large and small, loud and quiet, and everything in between. What unites all the disparate attractions is a mystical quality - one that’s hard to put into words, but that makes every move and every moment greater and more magical than any similar display you may have seen before.

The particular tent in front of you is tall, but narrow, with a delicate wooden sign carefully placed to the side of the silvery-paved path leading beneath the entrance flap. Wishing Tree, it reads in a painted cursive script. An attraction you’ve never heard of.

Lifting the tent flap reveals just what was promised on the placard - a tall, elegant tree, all in the colors of the circus, with white bark and black leaves. The tree’s branches twist and curve around the tent, creating a structure almost reminiscent of a basket. Where it could be grotesque, the way branches stretch and dip around your body, but the effect is somehow comforting - like the tree protects all that it surrounds. It is otherworldly, in the truest sense of the word, an effect only heightened by the clusters of pearly white candles on each branch. By the entrance sits a small table, with a basket of candles and a crisp white card, embossed with a simple instruction:

Make a wish.

A wish is a sacred thing, and this is a place that respects that. After making your own wish, lighting your candle with one of the many already waiting on the tree’s branches, you place it in the highest nook you can reach where two branches join. There’s a profound symbolism to it all - one wish ignited by another, left to become part of a beautiful mass of light, illuminating this little corner of the world in soft and beautiful light. 

(That light will stay with you long after you slip back through the flap of the tent.)

———

At Belle’s urging, Killian makes the trip to see the Circus, and especially this new attraction, when they pass through Edinburgh. It is not precisely convenient - there are multiple trains involved from London, after all - but there’s no real telling when it will next be in the city, and he trusts Belle’s judgement that he must see this Wishing Tree for himself.

She’s right, of course. The Wishing Tree defies all conventional description. There’s a sense of possibility, and hope that just can’t be captured in a simple letter. Killian is sorely tempted to take a candle and light a wish of his own, but ultimately resists. The Wishing Tree isn’t just for some passing fancy - it is for the deepest dreams of one’s heart. As long as Killian is still unsure as to what his own dearest dream might be, it feels more appropriate to refrain from adding his own candle to the glowing branches. There will be time, later. 

His immediate business for the evening concluded, Killian takes the time just to wander the grounds. It’s something he hasn’t had the opportunity to do in far too long - there’s always been something to worry about, something to take care of when he comes to the Circus. This is a bit of a chance to try and experience things the way all their unknowing visitors do - to see the beauty, and the wonder, without analyzing anything further. Once he clears his mind, it’s easy to see the things the way that normal visitors do, the way something special sparkles in the very air.

There are still stops to make, of course; Belle would never forgive him if he didn’t pop into her tent. The fortune teller’s tent is made up to be an eye-catching oddity, but there’s still something welcoming about it that always soothes Killian - though maybe that’s just the knowledge of his dearest friend waiting just inside. Just inside the tent flap, dark curtains speckled with silver flecks like stars drape, giving way to a beaded fringe that softly clicks when touched. He’s been known to fiddle with those beads as he sits and talks with Belle, like a soothing sort of fidget. Beyond the beaded curtains sit three comfortable armchairs with a draped table at their center; Belle always does like the romance of reading for couples. There are no crystal balls, or posters about lines on palms; just Belle, the table and chairs, and her deck of tarot cards. Killian knows one of the curtains stretched behind her hides the entrance into her private quarters, where she’s been known to duck for a quick cup of tea, but no one else who didn’t know would see that. The whole effect is decidedly unusual, even mystical, but in a way that feels cozy. It’s like sitting in someone’s living room, sharing a bit of conversation - but the conversation concerns all manner of possible futures, and how they’ll come to pass.

Belle looks like herself, mostly, elegant in shades of white and grey and black and silver. She hasn’t leaned into any of the stereotypes or cliches - no scarf around her head or massive gold earrings or patchwork skirts. She looks like she could be any shop girl, or personal secretary, or even a beloved female relation in her neat dresses in playful patterns, accentuated with pretty bits of lace. There are more formal options in her closet too, he knows, provided by the Circus organizers for her use, but she likes this better; it makes her feel more like herself, and not entirely subsumed by the role she plays. 

“You came!” she crows with delight when he ducks his head past the beaded drapery. He hadn’t let her know he was coming, this time, happy to let it remain a pleasant surprise. Not that it matters much - Belle’s face would light up in delight in the same way, even if he had warned her to expect his visit.

“Of course I did, love,” he assures her with a grin. “You insisted, didn’t you? I seem to remember a very commanding letter, telling me I must come see this wishing tree for myself.”

“Yes, but there was always the chance you would get stubborn on me, or get called away on business for Jefferson, and I’d have to send another three to five letters until I finally guilted you here.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s true,” he admits. He does tend to get rather sidetracked much of the time, especially when there is work to be done and new, exciting ideas to explore.

“Instead, here you are! Only weeks after I wrote. A rare instance of agreeability - there’s hope for you yet,” she continues, only to plow forward before he even has a chance to defend himself. “But tell me - have you seen the Wishing Tree yet? Or did you come straight here first? I’m touched, of course, but really, you must —”

“I’m not nearly so foolish as to come here first, knowing you’d demand my own opinions on the tent just as soon as I arrived,” he teases fondly.

“Wise man. Tell me then - what did you think?”

“It’s everything you promised,” he tells her. “Utterly indescribable. I’m glad you insisted I come.”

The beam that graces Belle’s face at that simple agreement is a sight to behold.

“You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you?” she asks - cajoles, really, though Killian won’t take  any convincing. “It’s been so long.”

“Of course. We’ll have dinner tomorrow, and you can tell me everything you’ve seen since I last saw you.” It’s an easy promise to make, and one he’ll be even happier to keep.

Though Belle is an expected friendly face, one Killian had already built into his loose plans for tonight, the person he runs into as he wanders down the path away from her little tent is rather more unexpected.

“Mr. Jones,” Miss Elsa Frost smiles warmly - a member of the creative team of the circus, whose eye for details had been invaluable in creating this world so many have fallen in love with. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I,” Killian admits, executing a short and polite bow of greeting. “Especially not here, so far from London. May I escort you around the grounds, if I may be so bold?”

“You may,” Miss Frost says, slipping her delicate hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “I was just about to go see the magician - Miss Swan, was it? I’m told she should have a performance starting soon.”

“Then it will be my honor to accompany you.”

Though Killian has visited the Circus on several occasions in the past years, on business and to see Belle and to examine the creations of his competitor, he’s avoided this tent. It somehow feels like cheating, to watch Miss Swan like this with full awareness that she’s his competitor when she hasn’t been privy to the same knowledge. That’s not to say he hasn’t been tempted; across all the spiraling stone paths, her magic calls to his own like a siren’s song, drawing him in. Tonight, with a companion on his arm, he finally has the excuse to cave. As they approach her tent as others trickle in ahead of them, Killian makes sure to draw a spell around him to mask his own magic like a cloak, the same one he’d used that first day he’d seen her. Even if he feels guilt at the advantage, Killian isn’t quite sure he’s willing to tip his hand yet, no matter how often he’s been tempted. It’s not the time for such a revelation. 

(He doesn’t notice, beside him, the way Miss Frost’s forehead briefly creases as the spell settles around his body; it would not matter if he had, anyways, and the lady is more than happy to hold her tongue on the matter.)

The magician’s tent is small, intimate - a small clearing surrounded by a double ring of chairs. It’s a subtly ingenious way of heightening the drama and the enchantment of the performance: there is, quite literally, nowhere to hide, every angle visible to spectators as they space themselves around the center ring. A lesser magician would never be able to pull it off; it’s lucky, then that Miss Swan doesn’t have to rely on tricks.

Killian is the only one that notices that the tent flap has disappeared, two minutes past the hour. Everyone else is too busy whispering to each other, speculating about where the illusionist is and when the show will start. Unlike the rest of them, Killian waits patiently, knowing that the show has already begun.

No one misses the next trick, as a stream of flame chases around the tent above their heads. Gasps echo from the crowd, in excitement and wonder and no small dose of fear. A handful turn towards where the exit once was, only to discover that the way has been sealed and blocked by chairs during their inattention. Gasps turn to screams, panic quickly catching, until - 

A single figure stands from the audience, a woman with dramatic black skirts and what appears to be a men’s top hat. As she moves towards the center of the ring, she casually tosses the hat onto the seat she had occupied - and as if on cue, the streams of fire chase around the tent once more before plunging downwards, downwards into the hat, which somehow serves to contain the flames instead of catching on fire. As the rest of the audience comes back to their senses, turning their attention towards the slight blonde woman now at the center of the tent, she flicks a finger, sending the hat tumbling through the air to land in her hand, where she jauntily tips the black felt back onto her head and takes a dramatic bow.

And like that, the magician begins her show.

The displays that follow exceed Killian’s feeble memory of her audition, those several years ago. There are little miraculous bits she’s still using - the chairs still levitate, and the hat replaces the jacket as it turns into a beautiful black raven to fly about their heads - but there are new bits, too, as items disappear and reappear and visitors discover all manner of unexpected items in purses and pockets. Somehow, it all flows together seamlessly, one display of ability and control into another. At the very end, the fire returns again, chasing around and around and around her body until she can’t be seen anymore —

And when the flames disperse, all on their own, there is no one to be seen at all. The tent flap appears once again, and they all file out, awed in a way they hadn’t expected. 

It’s beautiful, mysterious, magnificent - just like the woman herself. And Killian can’t remember why he ever stayed away. 

———

Wandering the grounds of the Circus, it is impossible not to notice the statues scattered along the path. Some are monochromatic, fully pristine white or glistening black; some are so vividly realistic, in black and white and flesh tones, as to seem almost lifelike. There are single figures and couples, male portrayals and female, all beautifully detailed and caught mid-action. There is something mystical about them, something you can’t quite put your finger on but know separates them from anything else you’ve ever seen - a feeling that saturates the very air within the iron fencing. 

Examining the statues reveals that the life-like state of the statues is no trick, no clever construction of hard stone and a steady chisel - no, these are merely people mimicking statues by standing so still and moving so slowly as to trick the eye. This isn’t some mere street performer, either, like you might see near the buildings tourists frequent en masse. No, this is something more special, more deliberate, more enchanting. It is almost like a dance, performed on a timeframe only the dancer can perceive. Watching closely, it is possible to see the movement - though it will take much patience. It is easier, in some ways, to pay careful attention to the stance of the living statue at the beginning of a set period, and then see how it has changed some minutes later.

It is said that if you wait long enough, the statues will bend enough to pluck an offering from your very hand. However, it takes a certain kind of person, with a certain kind of fascination, to even try. After all, why spend so long examining statues, when there are so many other wonders to see? 

(Just before you walk away, you could swear the living statue of a young man winks an eye, all in impeccable slow motion - just one more memory of the Circus to treasure in your mind for years to come.)

——— 

The Circus returns when Henry is ten.

Ten is a sensitive age; it’s an age where one is still young enough to be excited about simple, playful things, but believe oneself to be too old to show it. Perceived maturity is beginning to be tantamount at this age, as is the idea of being cool.

Henry, for all his efforts (and a good bit of maturity, in truth), is perceived as neither. 

“The circus is for babies,” Jack Hastings declares in the schoolyard when Henry makes the mistake of mentioning that he’d seen the tents. A keen observer might find humor in the fact that Jack’s proclamation was made as he and the boys played with a collection of small wooden soldiers; the boys, however, are not yet adult enough to see the irony. “I’m not going.”

“I don’t know,” Henry ventures cautiously. “I think I might like to go. It isn’t very often something like the circus comes to town.”

“That’s because you’re a baby,” Jack taunts. “Henry’s a baby! Henry’s a baby!”

“Am not!” Henry bites back hotly before anyone else takes up the chant. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then prove it.”

That’s how Henry finds himself examining the black iron bars that encircle the circus tents, searching for a way to slip in. It’s a dare - to sneak in, in daylight hours, and come back with something to prove it. Henry had agreed in the heat of the moment. Now, with school over, Henry’s got to do the deed, while all the other boys wait back in the schoolyard.

While Henry remembers the Circus practically crackling with its own special energy, things are quiet in the light of day. He supposes that makes sense; the Circus operates from sunset to sunrise, and it’s still an hour until dusk. Its performers need to rest and prepare and the like, like anyone else, and this is the time they get to do that.

After spending far more time than necessary carefully examining the outer fence, Henry finally finds a little out of the way stretch, framed by the back of two tents with no one in sight. The bars will be a tight squeeze, but he sucks in his stomach and holds his breath, and after a little bit of wiggling, manages to twist his way through. Quickly brushing himself off, Henry searches around for something he can bring back as proof for the other boys. The easiest thing to do would be to tear off a bit of fabric from one of the tents, but he struggles to bring himself to do it. The tents feel special, nearly sacred, somehow; it would be the worst kind of crime to ruin them in any way. Maybe, if he ventures a little further in, he can find something else —

“What are you doing?” a girl’s voice sounds, interrupting Henry’s thoughts. 

Whirling around, Henry is met by a blonde girl he could have sworn wasn’t there before, about his age, dressed in a black and silver striped dress. He didn’t know people his age were allowed to join the circus; it catches his attention nearly as much as the look on her face. Though her words are accusing, her face only shows curiosity. 

That does nothing to temper Henry’s shame, for better or worse. He didn’t exactly count on getting caught, after all. “There was a dare,” he blurts out. “To sneak into the circus.”

“Well, you managed that,” she observes. 

“Yes.” The silence sits heavy between them. Henry knows he ought to leave, but also feels like he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he finally cuts in - practically begs - once the quiet gets too much and he can’t take that curious stare anymore. “I can slip back out again, or pay the admission, or —”

That finally makes her smile - a bright, lovely thing that makes something stir within Henry that he’s never felt before. “It’s quite alright, Henry. You don’t need to leave. Nick saw you coming.”

He has many questions about that - how she knew his name, what in the world saw you coming means - but he reaches for the easiest first. “Who’s Nick?”

“My brother,” the girl beams. “Twin brother, really. I’m Ava.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” It’s obvious that there’s no real point in offering his name; Henry is curiously less concerned about her unnatural knowledge than he figures he really ought to be. 

“Likewise,” Ava replies with that same smile, offering her hand for Henry to awkwardly shake. 

(For the first time in his life, he’s left wondering if he should have kissed the back of her offered hand instead. Then again - that sounds gross.)

“Come with me,” she commands with a little nod of her head. Even knowing he ought to slip back through the fence, Henry can’t help but follow, pulled along in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. “You picked a good day to come - Nick says the Circus will be closed tonight for inclement weather,” she adds with a hand waved towards the quickly gathering clouds.

“Yes, they just called it,” adds a different voice - another boy, this one also their age and with a remarkable resemblance to Ava. The biggest difference, really, is the boy’s light brown hair, a contrast to her cheery blonde. It’s obvious this is the twin brother she mentioned - Nick, who somehow knows things.

“He was there, just like you said, Nickie,” she laughs. “I don’t know why anyone bothers to doubt you.”

“They don’t know better,” Nick shrugs.

“Nick has a gift,” Ava explains. “He sees things that others don’t - and they always come true.”

“Oh.” Henry isn’t really sure what to say to that, honestly. He doesn’t disbelieve it, really - Ava did know things she shouldn’t have, without what they claim being true - but he’s a little too flabbergasted at it all to say anything more comprehensible. Besides, if such a thing were to be true - well, it makes sense that it’d happen at the Circus. Where else is magical enough to shelter people with such talents?

Ava breezes right past it though. That must be characteristic of her, if the way her brother stifles a smile is any indication. “There’s always a party in the acrobats’ tent whenever the weather is too bad to open. It’s the biggest, you know.”

“You can come too, if you want,” Nick adds.

Despite the tempting offer, Henry frowns. “I’m not part of the Circus, though. Won’t anyone mind?”

“Circus people are welcoming,” Nick shrugs. “They won’t mind.”

“Besides, everyone thinks we need friends our own age,” Ava chimes in. 

As the sun starts to creep below the horizon, Henry lets the twins lead him across the circus grounds. He wants to go, really - besides, there’s no reason not to. There’s no one waiting who will care if he doesn’t show up for dinner, or even for bedtime. 

(Nick probably already knows that as well; perhaps that’s why neither of them ask whether he needs to be home.)

The inclement weather party is a different kind of marvel than the otherworldly splendor of the open circus that Henry remembers. It seems like everyone is crowded into the tent as raindrops start to patter down upon the canvas, yet somehow the space never seems claustrophobic. Half the collected mass is in their black and white and silver circus clothes, while the other half wears street clothes in all manner of colors and styles. Laughter colors the air, as small groups congregate only to disperse and remingle again. It feels like a family, like a great big reunion, even though Henry is sure they’re not all related. 

(Then again, maybe family doesn’t have to be linked by blood and genealogical trees; maybe family is something that can be crafted with those you choose and care for.)

Ava tugs on his arm before he can get too lost in his thoughts and marvelling at the spectacle of the tent. “You should meet Emma,” she says. At her side, Nick nods in genial agreement. “You’ll like her. She’s the magician.”

She doesn’t quite bodily haul him across the tent space, but it’s close. Henry would complain, but it isn’t hurting; he can tell she’s just eager to share her and Nick’s world in a way she hasn’t with outsiders before. At least, Henry hopes she hasn’t shared all this with outsiders before; Henry’s never really had the chance to be special. It’d be a nice change. 

Eventually, she halts in front of a cluster of women - three brunettes and a blonde. All smile fondly as Ava approaches with Henry in tow. “Emma, I want you to meet someone!” Ava bursts out as they pull to a stop.

“I can see that,” the blonde chuckles as her companions move away. Henry’s distracted for a moment by the movement of the other three ladies, but forces his attention back to meet the magician’s eyes.

And it’s her - the nice lady from the last time he was here. Henry’s face flushes red as he remembers his youthful question - Are you a princess?. She still looks like a princess, four years later, only in a burgundy dress with her hair in a simple bun instead of her sumptuous black and white dress from the last time they met. He can see the moment recognition sweeps across Emma’s face, and knows she remembers too. 

“Henry, was it?” Emma smiles down at him. Somehow, he manages a nod of confirmation. “It’s lovely to see you again, Henry.”

Ava’s face drops a little in disappointment, and a hint of confusion. Seems this is one thing her brother’s visions didn’t reveal - or at least one thing he didn’t share with her. “You know each other already?”

“Only a little,” Henry hastens to explain. It somehow feels very important that Ava know he didn’t deceive her in this way. 

“Henry and I briefly crossed paths the last time the Circus was here - what, four years ago?” Henry nods again. Emma and Ava and Nick and the rest of the Circus may have been to so many places since them that they don’t remember exactly how long it’s been, but Henry could probably tell them down to the day if he just had a couple of minutes to think. “He was kind enough to let me escort him back to the front gates. I must say, I didn’t expect to see him here tonight, though… is there anything I ought to know?”

“No!” Ava assures quickly. It’s not remotely convincing; Henry barely manages to smother a smile as she continues her blatant evasion. “We should go get a little something to eat. Come on, Henry, let’s go!”

To be fair, the spread that Ava leads him to - Nick pulling up the rear, laughing - is very impressive. There are all manner of little finger foods to carry with him, savory and sweet, and an older lady the twins call Granny who presides over the whole thing and makes Henry take another sandwich. All of the circus members - and it feels like Henry’s introduced to every single one - seem to treat the twins like a niece and nephew, or maybe even children. There’s an affection in the air amongst everyone that’s almost palpable, and like nothing he’s ever encountered before. It’s hard not to feel a little jealous of his new friends; it’s everything he’s ever wished for himself. 

Eventually, he’s dragged across the grounds to what they’ll only call the cloud room after a stop by Emma again for a set of umbrellas that seem to actively repel water. 

“It’s my favorite spot,” Nick explains as they shake off their umbrellas just inside the tent flap in a dim antechamber. Henry had barely caught a glimpse of the signage before he’d been bustled inside; Atmospheric Wonders had been less than illuminating a descriptor. “Ava’s is the carousel.”

“I like the animals,” she shrugs. “They’re interesting.”

“Yeah, well, so is this,” her brother quips back. “Henry, look.”

And when Henry does - it’s more than his imagination ever expected.

Somehow, there are dozens of fluffy clouds floating within the confines of the tent, the top of the peaked canvas not even visible for all the clouds in the way. They come in all sizes, all winding around a central, silvery structure with a platform at the top and a slide spiraling back down to the ground. Somehow along the stretch from the ground to the indiscernible peak, the stripes shift into a night sky gently dappled with stars. It’s mystical, and marvelous, and unlike anything he’s ever imagined. 

Henry has barely processed what he’s seeing before Nick takes a flying leap onto a cloud hovering at chest height. Miraculously, it somehow holds his weight, bobbing gently in the air under the change of balance but showing no signs of capsizing.

“It’s really very sturdy,” he calls from his perch, grinning with glee. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Carefully, Henry steps onto a different cloud hovering about his knees; that’s less distance to fall if there’s any problem. Under his feet, the cloud isn’t exactly firm, or stable - it’s more like if you try to step onto a mattress - but he can also feel that he’s not at risk of crashing down. Somehow, it’s just as safe as Nick promised. 

(How did he miss this before? Now that Henry’s here, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.)

Ava clambers up onto a cloud somewhere between him and Nick, abandoning grace to pull herself to standing. “It’s a newer tent,” she explains, brushing her skirt free of imaginary cloud dust and casually reading Henry’s mind. Maybe her brother isn’t the only one with special powers of sight. “It only went up a couple months ago, right, Nick?”

“January,” he confirms. “Just after the new year’s party.”

“Not a lot of people know about it yet - but it’s one of our favorites now. Nick and I like to come on the nights we’re not busy with other things.”

Across from them both, Nick obviously grows impatient with all the chatter, leaping to another, higher cloud. “Race you to the top!” he yells back, quickly becoming obscured from sight as he scrambles higher and higher.

Ava stretches her hand across the divide to help him forward. “You’re going to love it,” she beams.

Henry takes her hand, gladly, and lets a smile crease his face even as hers stretches impossibly wider. 

He does love it, just as she promised. The view from the top is spectacular, like something out of a fairy tale, an impression only magnified by small tufts of cloud still hovering around, inviting them to lounge. It would be a good place just to sit and think, Henry thinks, if you lived with the Circus and had that chance. 

Time passes both quickly and slowly at the top of the tower as the three of them sit and talk for what must be hours. Henry feels as if he’s known the twins forever, not just a night - like he fits with them, somehow, in a way he never has with his schoolmates or the other children at the Home, and can’t explain.

(It’s the same feeling he remembers from the first time he visited the Circus, four years before. Of belonging. Of home.)

All too soon, things much end, however. As the conversation encounters a rare lull, Henry sighs heavily, knowing he must draw this to a close. 

“I have to go,” he tells his companions - now friends, he thinks - with the kind of regret that’s practically palpable. 

Ava nods sadly; Henry scrambles to his feet to help her do the same. It’s what a gentleman would do. “We know. But this was lovely.”

“And you’ll be back,” Nick says decisively. “I know it.”

It’s not worth arguing with the boy with a gift. 

Getting down from their perch takes a little more boldness. Technically, there is a slide they could all take advantage of, but Nick won’t let that stand. 

“You’ve got to jump, Henry,” he cajoles. “It’s so much more fun. You feel like you’re flying!”

“More like falling,” Henry mutters. Even if he knows that Nick wouldn’t try to hurt him, like some of the boys at school might, looking down from this height makes his stomach turn. 

Suddenly, a soft hand slips into his own. Ava, who slipped up beside him while he was distracted by the height. “We’ll do it together,” she promises, and somehow - Henry finds himself nodding.

Nick lets out a wild whoop and throws himself off the platform, gleefully tumbling down and down. Ava squeezes his hand tight, just the once, and then she’s running too, bringing Henry with her as they leap. It feels like he’s left his stomach up at the top, but it’s a little freeing too. At the bottom, a particularly soft cloud cushions their fall, surrounding them like a hug. Henry even finds himself laughing along with Ava and Nick as they pick themselves back up. 

Ava walks him back to the main gates under the marvelous umbrella, Nick letting them go on their own after offering Henry a jolly wave goodbye. The door in the iron bars opens without even a squeak, letting the both of them slip through. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Henry confides, the words spilling out of him almost without permission. “I don’t want to go back to the real world out there.”

“You’ll be back,” Ava promises. “We’ll see each other again - I promise.”

He wants to believe her - he does. But it’s a mean world out there, and he’s long since learned that nothing is guaranteed, and —

Ava presses up on her toes to drop a quick kiss on Henry’s lips - his first. It’s just a little peck, really, but it makes them both blush and sends something hopeful in his soul soaring above all the other negativity. 

“To seal it. The promise,” she explains.

No explanation was needed, really - not to the perfect ending to this dream of a night.

(He does not return to the Circus this time, the Sisters punishing him with extra chores when he sneaks back into the Home long after bed checks. Though he would like nothing more than to return back to the Circus and his new friends, he somehow can’t regret it. Every moment was worth it.

Later, he finds a single glove, white with shiny black buttons, tucked into his pocket - proof for his dare. He never shows it off to the other boys; the little scrap of fabric is too personal, and too precious. Instead, he tucks it into the old cigar box he keeps all his treasures in, amongst the perfectly round stones and colored bits of glass and a brightly colored birds’ feather. Let them think he never managed it. They’ll forget soon enough anyways. 

We’ll see each other again, Ava had promised - and Henry intends to wait.)

——— 

There’s a new attraction at the Circus again, Killian - the most wonderful carousel. There’s the usual carved horses, of course, all wonderfully detailed, but there’s all manner of other creatures too - giraffes and elephants and a particularly clever ostrich. There’s even some mythical creatures too. I’m particularly fond of the gryphon, though I suspect you might prefer the dragon. There’s even a bench seat with a kraken twining around it! It’s truly charming; the kids love it, obviously, but it’s wonderful to see the delight of grown men and women too. I believe I saw a young couple squabbling over the cow yesterday; the lady won, of course. Wise man. 

If you hadn’t guessed already, the carousel is very obviously a creation of your winsome competitor. The ride travels through an enclosed portion at the back, ostensibly to parade the figures and their riders past a scrolling display of landscapes; however, having ridden the thing myself (I couldn’t resist, Killian! And obviously chose the gryphon, though I was tempted by a polar bear), it’s obvious that this tunnel somehow bends reality, stretches the track much further than it should ever go. Magic is obviously at play, here, though I believe the visitors are too enthralled (and, as usual, too oblivious) to realize. 

There’s something else a little unusual about the carousel: Mr. Booth’s part in bringing it to life. He was here in Brussels to oversee installation, or I might not have believed it. You know as well as I that usually, new installments just… pop up, without explanation. His craftsmanship is evident in the construction, too, if you know to look - the smooth curves and the intricate carvings and the way the peak of the striped roof stretches up towards the sky. It’s lovely, really, and undeniably a joint effort between Mr. Booth and Miss Swan. 

Does that mean he’s aware of her abilities? I can’t say for certain, but I have trouble imagining otherwise. It could be interesting to see if you could enlist him in a similar effort - though of course, that’s entirely up to you. I’m merely reporting your opponent’s most recent move on the chessboard, so to speak.

(Do come see the carousel, though; I promise you won’t regret it.)

Affectionately yours,

Belle

———

Killian folds Belle’s latest letter carefully, considering her words as he meticulously files the pages away, just as he always does. The new carousel sounds beautiful, of course; Miss Swan’s creations always are. The fact that she enlisted August Booth to create it captures his attention the same way it had Belle’s. That’s something he never considered - drawing upon others’ skills to create something that is not entirely mechanical, but not fully dependent on magic either. He should have thought of it sooner - after all, the Circus as a whole operates in a similar way, weaving enchantments in amongst all the physical manpower needed to bring the whole thing to life. It sets Killian’s mind running in other directions, other ideas that could be brought to life in the same way. And if Booth is aware of the things Miss Swan can do… perhaps he can serve as an intermediary, of sorts, in a way that could bring this competition to a new level.

But Killian is a patient man, a planner through and through. It’s his greatest advantage in his employment and in this game. So before he lets his imagination run away with him, drafting things that can never come to fruition, he calls upon Booth at his office to test the waters of what is possible. 

“I didn’t expect to see you, Jones,” the other man says, smiling genially as he comes out from around the back of his heavy wooden desk to offer a handshake of greeting. 

“It was a bit of an unplanned visit,” Killian admits as he seats himself in the offered chair. 

“Well that’s quite alright. What can I do for you? Is this about the Circus, or are you finally looking to build something more comfortable than that little flat of yours?”

“It’s about the Circus.” Killian lets his gaze glance around the room before he speaks further, considering his next words. Though the furniture in the office at Booth’s architecture firm is heavy, with dark wood and intricate carvings and tall bookshelves lining two walls, the whole thing manages to avoid a feeling of claustrophobia due to a stretch of tall windows along one wall. A panel of stained glass is installed in the middle, with beautiful swirling patterns in all kinds of colors. The whole effect is a little whimsical, while somehow still ordered and elegant. In that moment, Killian can see exactly why August Booth was chosen as a partner to produce the Circus. 

Drawing his attention back to Booth, Killian finds the man patiently waiting for him to start speaking, prompting him to gather his thoughts. “I understand you had a hand in creating a new attraction - a carousel.”

“Ah yes,” August smiles. His tone is fond, almost like a parent speaking of a favorite child. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Though, of course, I can’t take full credit - or even most of the credit, really.”

“So you’re aware of others’... unusual contributions, shall we say.”

Booth makes an amused, guttural noise from the back of his throat. “I may be a skilled designer, but not nearly enough to create space that’s not there. And I’m not nearly oblivious or egotistical enough to believe I can. Besides, Miss Swan was involved from the beginning. The carousel was her idea.”

That’s one question answered. “So how much did Miss Swan tell you about her… abilities, I suppose? And her influence on the Circus?”

“A rudimentary explanation, I believe - just as much as I needed to agree to assist her. All her illusions are real, true magic, and she’s engaged in a competition to be played out at the Circus.” Realization suddenly lights his eyes. “I suppose that makes you the competitor, then? She didn’t seem to know who they were.”

“Aye, I am. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that fact between us. This particular game doesn’t precisely encourage familiarity between contestants.”

August waves him off. “Of course. Now, are you here just to talk about the carousel - or do you have something else in mind?”

“You read my mind,” Killian says, letting a smile spread across his face. “I have an unusual idea, one that I think you can be of assistance with.”

———

Emma should have known that her opponent would hear of the carousel, and of her partnership with Mr. Booth. What she hadn’t expected was for Mr. Booth to send her a letter, detailing an idea her competitor had brought to him.

One they want her involvement in as well.

It’s a simple idea, on the surface - a maze of rooms. Its brilliance is in how it allows the two of them to interact and compete directly as they build off of each others’ ideas. Once the maze is brought to life, once visitors enter the tent, they reach a hallway lined with doors, each leading into other rooms with other doors, and so on. Some will be hidden; some will be obvious. It is entirely up to Emma and whoever she is competing against to build out each room, testing the limits of imagination and reality and magic. 

It’s like a puzzle on a massive scale - each piece fitting into others which in turn fit into others. It’s fascinating to see the things her opponent comes up with over time - creations that play with structure, with scale, like golden bird cages and a room where everything appears so large as to dwarf the viewer. She treasures exploring each one, finding all the hidden doors and discerning the way everything fits together. 

Emma has a niggling feeling that this is not exactly how their competition is supposed to play out - but as she opens another door, she can’t bring herself to care. 

——— 

Maybe it’s ridiculous - but Killian feels like he comes to know the lovely Miss Swan a little better through the room maze and each addition she crafts from her imagination.

She focuses on creating an atmosphere, he finds - the little things that make each space feel like an environment, rather than a room. There are lush green jungles and arid desertscapes and the illusion of a lovely rose garden. He wonders if she feels trapped; all the illusions of open spaces make him think she might. 

He can tell she truly loves the circus in all the little details she weaves in, too. It must take her incredible effort, but it’s worth it to see how leaves glisten with dew and the barest scent of earth or flowers tickles his nose and heat or chill dances along his skin. There’s pride to be found in the work she creates - all the things that take each room of the maze from the illusion of a space into something tangible and believable as its own natural world.

She’s smart, too: the hatches and doors out of her rooms are cleverly hidden, and often require searching for a key first. Killian thinks she might be trying to stump him, for all the time he spends searching for the way out in some rooms. Would she laugh if she could see him? Is he reacting in exactly the way she anticipated, or even intended?

(Would he even mind?)

He’s not such a fool as to fall a little in love with his opponent in the rooms that she builds, but he does delight in receiving these little insights to her personality. It reminds him that Miss Swan is more than his opponent - she’s a person, and one he’d love to know under other circumstances.

Only time will tell whether that makes things easier or harder.

———

To no one’s particular surprise, Regina does not approve of the maze.

“This is a waste of your time,” she proclaims to Emma on one of her rare (and never welcomed) visits. “You’re supposed to be competing, not… collaborating.” She spits out the word like it’s a profanity; who knows, it likely is in her mind. Emma wouldn’t be entirely surprised. 

“Isn’t this just a different way of competing?” Emma asks. Truthfully, she doesn’t see the fuss. “I’d think it would be easier to compare, when we have to share the same structure. Well, even more than we usually do.”

“This is not how things are supposed to work,” Regina snaps. “I didn’t train you to be so stupid about this, Emma. You know better - this is… frivolous!”

“I like it,” Emma says, letting her voice display a quiet defiance. “I think it’s wonderful.”

That’s why she’d led Regina to the maze in the first place, instead of simply taking tea in her compartment as usual - a little childish thought that maybe her mentor would see all the careful crafting she had put into each chamber. That maybe she would appreciate this unusual way in which Emma was stretching her abilities beyond what she thought was possible, challenged by the necessity of working around someone else’s ideas in the most literal, compressed way. That maybe she would be proud.

Pride, at least for others, is not something that’s in Regina’s vocabulary, however - something that Emma has never been more aware of than in this moment, standing amongst the hedges of a shifting maze within a maze. It’s an ever-changing creation, one that Emma had been particularly proud of.

It’s easier simply to wind their way to the closest exit than to attempt to convince Regina any further; Emma has long since learned her mentor is an immovable force. If Regina hasn’t been swayed by the creativity and brilliance of seeing the maze in person, no words will do it. So they’ll exit the maze and slip back into the backstage rooms, where Regina can berate her about her work ethic and how it seems like Emma doesn’t even want this while still failing to offer any concrete details or advice, until Emma can make her escape to perform another show, displaying her abilities to a kinder audience. That’s how these things always seem to go, and now that her foolishly hopeful little bubble has been broken, there’s no reason they won’t go that way again. 

Then again, there’s alway room for surprises and changes from the norm; Emma should know that, after so many years here at the Circus. As they exit into the chilled night air, Emma - and more importantly, Regina - clearly didn’t expect to run into Mulan as the sword swallower wandered back towards her own lodgings.

Most days, Emma almost forgets this other source of magic buzzing around the circus. It’s like white noise, almost; something Emma is subconsciously aware of, and can focus on when she chooses, but fades into the background most of the time. They’re friendly, but not quite friends - happy to spend time with one another, but rarely seeking each other out. Mulan is closer with Ruby, or with Belle. It’s easy, in that way, for Emma to forget the higher force that binds the two of them together - Regina herself, who has been a teacher to both of them. 

It is visibly obvious the moment they catch sight of one another: both straighten to their most rigid posture, Regina’s face shifting into something even more haughty than her usual mien, and Mulan shifting to something cool and dangerous. The air between them practically crackles with restrained magical energy, sending the hair on Emma’s arms to stand on end. Emma sends a silent thanks to whomever may be listening that this meeting occurred firmly in public; while the confrontation is primed to be bad as it is, she wouldn’t relish being forced between them in a private setting. Or a dark alley.

For all of the danger sparking the air, it is almost anticlimactic when each party finally finds their words. “Regina,” Mulan says, coolly polite and with the barest incline of her head. Regina only jerks her chin in a broken nod in response. 

And then they’re moving their separate ways, the whole thing over. Maybe it’s better that way; it would be a pity if the Circus was razed to the ground, after they’ve all put so much effort into the venue. There’s a story there, though, one Emma doesn’t know but can’t help but wonder about. She’ll have to ask Mulan, later; she knows very well that asking Regina will bear no fruit. 

(She never does, of course, just another intention lost to time and her mentor’s berating. Not that it would have done any good, anyways. Mulan keeps her secrets locked as tight as the most impressive safe.)

———

Emma knows Belle, of course - they’ve both been with the Circus for more than a decade, and Emma isn’t entirely self absorbed. They’re even friendly, in that way two people who work together but aren’t particularly close can be. But never once in all that time can Emma remember actively seeking the other woman out - for her skills or anything else. 

Belle’s particular skill unsettles Emma, she supposes. It feels a little hypocritical - Emma has magic, after all, she shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable about fortune-telling. There’s something about the talent to see glimpses of the future, however, that has never sat quite right in her mind - that has always made her ever so slightly uncomfortable. It’s not Belle’s fault; Emma knows as well as anyone that sometimes, these kinds of gifts choose their recipient instead of the other way around. 

There’s something in the air, though, something Emma can’t quite identify. There’s a niggling feeling of anticipation, like a reverse deja vu, where Emma knows something is coming, but doesn’t know what or how or when. She’s never been particularly good with that kind of uncertainty, searching for control wherever possible. It’s that search for control that brings her to Belle, seeking answers anywhere she can find them. Unusual times call for unusual measures, or some other such cliché. 

Emma goes at night, while the Circus is open, in between her own performances - just like any other querrant. It’s a simple thing to blend into the crowd - after all, no one is expecting  the illusionist to wander among them, especially in a dark coat and skirts turned crimson red with the touch of a finger. It takes no magic at all to slip down the silvery paths and duck into a tent labeled Fortune Teller: Feats of Fate and Prophecy. 

Belle snaps into character as soon as Emma brushes past the beaded curtain welcoming visitors into her space, only to relax again as she recognizes Emma’s face. “What a lovely surprise,” she comments with a pleased smile. “Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, Emma?”

“I was hoping for a reading,” Emma explains as casually as possible - as if this is no great favor. Still, it shoots the brunette’s eyebrows up towards her hairline in surprise. 

“I must say, I didn’t expect that,” she comments. “I don’t believe you’ve asked such a thing of me before.”

“I haven’t felt the desire before.”

“Ah. You must face some kind of crossroads, then.” 

“Truthfully, I am not even sure enough to say that much,” Emma admits. Summoning a few coins into her hand, she pushes them across the table - payment for services rendered, as is typically custom in Belle’s little nook. “I hoped you might be able to shed more light on the matter than I can currently discern.”

Belle pushes the coins back. “Keep your money. Consider this a gift for a friend. Now, shall we?” As soon as Emma nods, Belle begins shuffling the cards - a quick, hypnotic motion, as each card flies past again and again. Once she’s satisfied with the shuffle, she carefully fans the cards across her table, face down. “Pick a card to represent yourself, if you please.”

Emma contemplates her options; truthfully, the tarot has never called to her, and this moment is no different. After some short examination, she selects one barely visible towards the left-hand side.

Belle chuckles a little as she turns the card over - and Emma can see exactly why, as soon as she sees the card. The Magician. 

“Now, this card often represents a plethora of abilities or options you may not be fully aware of, especially in the face of impending change or disaster,” Belle explains. “And that may still be the case. However, under the circumstances, I suspect this card is supposed to be taken rather more literally in this particular reading, Madame Magician.”

Belle shuffles again, before cutting the deck into three portions and directing Emma to select one. Replacing the selected stack back at the top at the pile, she quickly doles the cards back out, in practiced patterns and an unexpected elegance. There are flashes of cups and swords on the cards between them, interspersed with picture cards of women and wheels and a couple reaching for one another.

(Emma does not think she has the time for whatever a card like The Lovers may symbolize.)

“I see what you mean,” Belle says after a long moment. “There are significant changes here - in circumstance, in thinking, and in feelings. Whatever knot you have been working at in your mind will begin to unravel - one change that will spur many more. Now these changes - they seem imminent.”

“How imminent?”

Belle cocks her head, examining again. “There’s rarely an evident timeline that I can see,” she admits, “but I would wager in the coming weeks or months.”

Emma nods. It’s not really an answer - but it feels like validation, somehow. Like someone else can sense that something is on the horizon. 

“Now, I asked about a crossroads, before we started,” Belle continues. “The changes that are coming - they will not be your crossroads. This will not be the moment you have to make that decision. But each change will compound upon each other until it leads you to that crossroads - a choice you’ll make that will change everything, again. It will not be for some time yet, but those seeds are being sown now.”

Emma nods slowly, taking it all in. There is an odd comfort in Belle’s words, even as Emma tells herself not to put too much stock in it. “Thank you,” she finally says. “Is there anything else you can see?”

Belle shakes her head ruefully. “Not that I can see now, no. But I’ll keep looking. Sometimes, these things make themselves clearer given a few hours to think on them.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Emma ponders the words as she emerges back into the night. A momentous change to come seems inevitable - both from her instincts and Belle’s own readings. All that’s left to do is brace herself and face that change with an open mind and courage.

The weeks and months to come may change everything - and Emma intends to be ready for it. 

———

We’ll be back in England next month - just in time for the rains, I’m sure. As if they ever stop. I anticipate many inclement weather parties in my future, and I don’t even need the cards to tell me that. 

Speaking of which - be on the lookout for something, Killian. Change is in the cards and in the air. Something is on the horizon, and I think it’s best you be ready for whatever that might be.

We’ll have tea one afternoon next time I’m in town, and you can buy me an absurd amount of books. I have several recommendations to give you from the last batch. I expect you’ll feign interest and the time to read, just as always, but I don’t particularly care. You’ll do it because I’m your friend, and you love me.

Yours &c., 

Belle

———

That same feeling of anticipation, of something in the air, only intensifies when the Circus returns to London for a short stretch. It’s been growing ever since Emma spoke with Belle, becoming more urgent as time goes by. A breaking point must come soon - though what that will herald, Emma doesn’t pretend to know. There’s no use continuing to worry over something that will only reveal itself at the right time.

Emma throws herself into rediscovery instead, wandering all those places she used to know. It’s hard to call London home, even though she grew up here - that designation has only ever belonged to her cramped and cozy little train compartment - but the city is familiar in a way that’s comforting. She spent the first 24 years of her life here, after all; even trapped under Regina’s thumb, she was able to discover little corners of the city all her own, park benches and cafe tables and backstage theater rooms. 

(She doesn’t intend to visit her benefactor during this stop, if she can at all help it; bringing Regina into things always invites trouble that Emma would rather avoid.)

It’s raining on their first day in town, of course, like her own meteorological welcome. Emma smiles a bit at the thought of the clouds and raindrops and wind whispering a hello - though truthfully, she’s seen odder things. She’s orchestrated odder things. The soft patter of raindrops on her umbrella is almost soothing as she walks down the cobbled streets to a favorite remembered cafe. Emma loves the Circus with every fiber of her being, both as her creation and as her home; still, sometimes it’s nice to escape for an afternoon and enjoy the anonymity of people watching or reading a nice book. Some days, she wants that distance; to be just another face in the crowd.

The afternoon passes quietly and uneventfully with her tea and scone and a silly novel. It’s easy to blend into this little corner of London, tucked into the corner of a quiet street off the main road. Emma has always liked this place, and tries to visit whenever she’s in the city; it’s something about the way that light dapples through the wide windows at the front, always perpetually just the slightest bit grimy, like dirt had accumulated just as soon as some poor soul had taken the efforts to clean them off. The used bookstore just across the street is a wonderful bonus too, where Emma sometimes finds unexpected treasures. Here, she can be just anyone else - no expectations, no grand fate. Just a woman at a weathered table. 

All too soon, the clock on the wall chimes 4pm, prompting Emma to gather her things to leave. This time of year, even though spring approaches, the sun still sets early, heralding the opening of the circus’ wide gates. Emma is lucky enough to set her own performance hours during the night, generally aiming to do three or four shows in an evening; however, it’s still important that she’s fully ready for the evening by the time the first visitors trickle into the grounds, regardless of the fact that she won’t make her own dramatic entrance for at least another half hour. 

As she bustles out the door, she mentally runs through her checklist for the night of tricks she might like to perform. That’s the freeing thing about performing with real magic; not having to depend on mechanics means that she can improvise, that every single show can be different as she feeds off the audience and her current whims. 

She’s so busy running through her possibilities for the night that she doesn’t notice she’s grabbed the wrong umbrella - not at first, at least. It’s just one amongst a cluster of black fabric in the umbrella stand, each nearly identical to each other. Emma’s put a special charm on hers that repels the rain; that slight buzz of magic is the only thing that differentiates hers from all the others. She picks it out by the feel alone, absentmindedly, before exiting into the deluge.

Something is off, though - something she realizes the further she walks from the cafe and comes back to full awareness. The charm on the umbrella is wonderfully effective, as always, but there’s something… wrong about the magic. Emma’s own magic has a particular warm feel to it, one that largely fades into the background of her mind until she barely notices it. This, though… the buzz continues, like a pricking or a tickle under her skin. Foreign.

Not hers.

Realization draws her up short. This umbrella - clearly imbued with powerful magic - magic like her opponent would possess - in the cafe at the same time - 

A polite clearing of the throat causes Emma to whip around, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face: Jefferson’s assistant, the handsome one, who she remembers lurking at the edges of ballrooms and the back of theatres and in the densest of crowds. Jones - something with a K. Or a C? Kelvin? Carson? No —

“Excuse me, Miss Swan,” Killian Jones smiles warmly, “but I believe you have my umbrella.”

[jinmindeulle]

the art of love | cs

pairing: choi san x reader ft. mentions of park seonghwa 

word count: 5.1k

genre: artist!reader, florist!san, exes to lovers au | angst, fluff

warnings: minor swearing

find ateez’s masterlist here!

enjoy ♥

How many deep breaths did I have to take to put myself together every time I started driving back to my hometown?

I think I stopped counting five years ago. It didn’t matter how many times I had done that, it had always driven me crazy.

But this time, it was worse.

“Please, text me when you’re on your way. Let’s meet at Jjinsong’s Café before going home. Be safe, love you!”

Yet, I couldn’t be mad. I missed my family too much to be upset over that. It’s been seven years, y/n, get over it!

I replied to my sister with a short message full of heart emojis and I put my phone inside my pocket. I started the car and glanced at my (ex?) apartment floor. Hope to see you empty when I get back.

Last time I visited my family’s home in Namhae, it was all tears and sad eyes. Making my way back to Seoul was one of the hardest things for me. However, every time I went back to the capital city, the driver’s seat was always taken by the same man, who at least tried to make my trip bearable by holding one of my hands when he could. But that day, I was the one driving, all alone.

I couldn’t break the news to my mother over the phone. She had gotten attached to him over the years. But she didn’t knew the whole truth, and honestly, going back to Namhae was way cheaper than calling my mom to tell her that I had rejected my boyfriend’s marriage proposal without second thoughts, and that my life was just a mess in general.

And I also needed to see her, my dad, my sister and my nephews. They were going to help healing my open scars. At least try to.

I picked a random playlist and kept it on repeat the whole trip. Fortunately, being a Thursday, the traffic was not that bad, especially at such an early hour. I really didn’t want to stay under that roof any longer. I felt miserable there. Why did I have to put it off that much?

“Why did you have to put it off that much?”

“I wonder exactly the same”

My sister looked at me with a raised eyebrow while she quietly sipped her coffee.

It had always amazed me how calm and collected Eunjung acted and reflected in situations like mine. She would never get upset unless it was the end of the world, and that hardly ever happened.

“I knew something was wrong since the last time you came home with him”

“But it was not that bad back then”

“You sure?”

“Well…”

He had been promoted a week before and his father had announced that he was soon going to retire, leaving him his position as CEO of one of the greatest companies in South Korea. It had easily gone to his head, and I wasn’t able to stand staying in the same room every time he brought that up.

“Maybe you’re right” I sighed, quietly stirring my own coffee. “I honestly don’t know, Jung. I didn’t like to think about it because it meant doing something about it. And I think I was way too comfortable living like that to try and change it.”

“And he made you do it”

“Pretty much, yes. I couldn’t get married to him. I don’t think I loved him enough to sacrifice what I wanted in life just for him”

“I’m glad you did that, y/n. It means you’re still chasing your dreams”

“I mean, yeah. I have always been. Not actively, but I kept dreaming about having my very own gallery, and everyone in Seoul wanting to have my art pieces on their living room’s walls.”

“Why not everyone in the country? Or in the world?”

“My dreams are more of the realistic type, Jung” I chuckled, munching my last chocolate cookie.

“How are you going to tell mom?”

“With your help?” I smiled innocently, trying to display the best puppy face I could master.

“And how do you want me to do that? ‘Hi mom, y/n here broke up with Seonghwa right after he proposed to her because it was not the life she wanted! Please don’t be that happy, it will break her poor heart!’”

“Eunjung! Please!” I begged “She won’t leave me alone and…”

“She will” my oldest and only sister interrupted me, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “There’s been a rumour going around…”

“Wait, what’s going on?”

Eunjung sipped from her blue coffee mug and looked at me with the same innocent eyes I had displayed some seconds ago. Then, she quietly put the mug down and got closer to me over the wooden table, encouraging me to do the same. Once we were close enough to avoid being heard by the rest of the customers, she whispered in my ear.

“Rumour has it that Choi San is getting divorced”

I resoundingly sat back down, looking at my sister with a mix of weird emotions in my eyes. I hadn’t heard his name in ages. Not because I happened to not hear it, but just because I had deliberately asked my family not to bring his name up when I was around.

“Eunjung…”

“His wife cheated on him”

“Please, stop” I murmured, tightly closing my eyes, trying to get rid of the million memories that my brain decided to bring back after so many years of suppressing them. “You know how I feel about him”

“You’re telling me that after more than seven years you’re still upset about him and what you went through? You were like twenty years old, c’mon! You’re a woman now, y/n!”

“I was twenty two, and yes, I’m over it. But I don’t want to know, hear or talk about him. He’s dead to me. He’s been dead to me since the day I moved to Seoul, and will be until the end of my days”

“I didn’t know it was that deep”

“You were too busy taking care of your babies, Jung. And I’m not complaining here, I just know that you never got the full story, but it’s OK. It’s in the past now”

“You sure?”

“Stop making me question my life!” I cried, throwing a used paper napkin right at her face.

“What do you want me to say?”

My mom had always been understanding. She would calmly nod and hug me, telling me that everything was going to be okay, and letting me soak her blouse with my teenage tears. However, there were situations in which you could never guess what her reaction would be. And that was one of those times.

“Honey, I think we all knew that you were going to end things with that guy” my dad intercepted “but we weren’t aware of the fact that it was that bad”

“In all honestly, I wasn’t either” I murmured “it was just my routine. I had been waking up next to him for nearly five years. I had a job that let me live comfortably and not worry about anything else than buying expensive clothes every now and then because I was supposed to be accompanying Seonghwa in every fucking company’s party” I allowed me to cry for the first time, letting the pain and desperation out “I was living like a damn princess. But I never wanted that. I had never wanted that!” I sobbed. A pair of gentle arms held me tight, and I instantly knew that it was my mom. I hugged her back, holding onto her like she was the only oxygen mask available in a crashing plane.

“I know dear, I know. And I’m proud of you. You did what you wanted to do, because you should always do that. And it’s OK. It will never be a bad thing to follow your heart, y/n”

I nodded, drying the flowing tears with the back of my sleeve. “Thank you mom, dad. I love you”

“We love you too, darling” my dad affectionately kissed my cheek, chuckling when I showed him a weak smile. “Why don’t you take a shower while I finish preparing lunch? I bet your nephews want to see you as much as you do”

“Yeah, will do” I nodded, grabbing my large pastel purple suitcase. “I need to recharge before seeing those little demons”

The whole Thursday and the day before had been an emotional rollercoaster, so I expected to get the sleep I deserved. But sometimes things don’t go as planned. Just like my life, really.

The first night that I slept in my old room was just a blessing. No alarm clocks were rushing me out of bed, no angry faces were shaking me out of sleep, and no boring tasks were waiting for me in my office’s desk.  

“Aunt, wake up!”

I opened one of my eyes when the curtain was drawn and sunlight hit my face. I was about to bury my head in one of my pillows when the oldest of my nephews, Jiwon, took it away from me and slapped me with it.

“Mommy’s taking us to the park so we can have a picnic as breakfast!”

“And told us to wake you up so you can go with us!”

“Please, auntie! Wake up!”

I wanted to scream. I swear to God I loved those kids, but sometimes they made me think twice about having my own in the future. Yeah, well, it won’t happen anyways. You’re single now, and you’ll probably be forever.

“C’mon auntie! Or mommy will be upset!” Jihwan cried.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Go tell your mom that I’ll be downstairs in like 10 minutes”

“Okey dokey!”

Getting ready in the mornings was not my favourite thing to do. I liked to pick whatever was clean in my closet and wear it like it was a Prada dress. Nonetheless, it was never like that for me. I had to be well dressed. I had to wear the actual Prada dress. I just couldn’t choose.

But that day, I could.

After taking a shower, I took my old, worn out pair of jeans out of my suitcase and put them on.

“It’s been so long since I wore these jeans” I whispered, caressing the fabric.

Next, I chose a simple, colourful shirt that I myself had intervened years ago, and tucked it in. The most comfortable pair of sneakers finished my look.

“You look like you’re twenty again”

“Oh Lord Jesus, knock next time!” I shouted, startled by my sister’s voice.

“You’re back to being you. I like that” she smiled at me from the door frame. “But hurry up! These kids are driving me crazy down there”

Taking a look around that familiar yet so long forgotten park, made me feel emotional once again. That was the reason why I always tried to avoid it every time I decided to return to Namhae. My hometown brought back too many memories, memories that I had decided to erase seven years ago.

But I was tired of it. And at that moment, my future was uncertain — what I had always feared the most. Bringing back painful memories was nothing for me at that point.

“Fluffy is crazy!”

“Give it to me, Hwanie” I took the red dog leash from my youngest nephew’s hand, trying to prevent the huge dog from running around the park chasing the ducks, and probably throwing to the ground the old ladies that were feeding them. “When did this dog get this big?”

“We are feeding him puppy food that makes him stronger, auntie!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t d… Fluffly!” the dog was able to release himself from the leash while I was giving wise advice, and started running towards the ducks, leaving us four way too far away to stop him before a massacre happened.

“Oh no!”

I reacted as fast as I could, although I knew I was way too late. My legs were not that fast, and even if they were, how was I supposed to have enough strength to pull him away from innocent ducks and old ladies?

Just when he was about to throw himself over the lake, a man in a black hoodie that covered most of his form took him from his collar and kept him under control. I kept running towards them, busy thinking about what that crazy dog would do to the stranger if he made a false step.

But I was stunned — and out of breath — when I found out that the beast was happily wagging his tail to the man, while he petted him. “Are you still misbehaving, Fluffy? Didn’t I teach you to stay calm near the ducks?”

“Uhm… hi?” I breathed out, trying to call attention to the man who still had his back to me. “The dog…”

“Are you still struggling to ta…”

My eyes watered in a matter of seconds. The man that I was successfully avoiding for years was standing right in front of me, looking the way I remembered him, like seven years had done nothing to him.

But he looked tired. Like he was going through hell and was needing a break from it all. His eyes had all the time shown his feelings, and back then, I was the only one able to read him like an open book. I knew in an instant that he was feeling like crap, but there was something else.

And maybe he was not the man that I used to know. Well, not maybe. He wasn’t the Choi San I had been in love with. The Choi San that I had cherished like no one else, who I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with and grow old together.

And I was not the same either.

“I…”

“It’s been so long” he sighed, looking me in the eye. I felt intimidated. I had forgotten how powerful his glances were, no matter the situation. He had always managed to do that to me, and I wasn’t ready to go through it once again. I had been invested in studying his glances way too many times in the past, and I was never able to reach a reasonable conclusion. So I just settled for leaving that matter alone.

“Yeah…” I exhaled, playing with the read leash in my hands.

“I didn’t know you were visiting your family”

“You know when I come here?”

“Of course I do. Everybody knows. It’s a small town, y/n”

I closed my eyes tightly upon hearing my name leave his lips. I felt like crying all over again, and I wasn’t willing to let him see me like that anymore. He had had enough of it. We both had.

“Should have guessed it” I nodded, looking down and avoiding his gaze. “Can you give me Fluffy back?”  

“Oh yeah, sorry” he petted the dog for the last time while I secured the leash back on his collar “He’s been misbehaving a lot lately”

“You know him?”

“I helped Eunjung a couple of times with him. She told me it’s been hard to keep him quiet when they take him out to the park so I offered to help. I need to take a break from life sometimes, and he’s great company”

“He seems to like you a lot” I smiled weakly, looking down at the happy dog who was still wagging his tail while looking at San with what seemed like adoration.

“I think so, yeah” he giggled softly, petting him once again. “He’s nice, but he needs some rules before it goes out of hand”

“I’ll make sure to tame him, then”

“You’re staying?” I mustered all of my courage, and looked up to meet his eyes. His voice tone had changed tremendously, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. This was a new Choi San for me after all.

“For some weeks, yeah. I still don’t know how many, to be honest”

“You’re on a little vacation with your boyfriend?”

“I…” I was about to reply, but then it just hit me. I was talking to Choi San, the man that had marked my whole existence with burning, hurtful words. He had given me everything and taken it away from me as fast as he could. So no, I was not giving him explanations. “Yeah. Well, goodbye, San.”

And I left as fast as I got there.

After my encounter with San, I kept thinking about him and everything that happened in those years together. Not only the tragic ending, but also the beautiful things. And that made me realize that I could at least get part of it back.

Although Eunjung saw everything, she didn’t bring it up. She knew that I was struggling — and I’m pretty sure she heard me that night.

So while a soft breeze accompanied me as I was watching the night skies in the petit balcony of my room, I decided to make my way towards the basement to find the boxes full of the stuff I had left there and never used ever again. Many oleos were dry and unusable, but some others seemed to be just fine. I took one of the empty canvases and my easel as well as my collection of paintbrushes, and went back to my balcony.

“How had I missed you” I whispered, looking at my empty canvas. Tears gathered in my eyes, and a sad smile appeared on my lips as they rolled down my cheeks. “I really missed this”

But although I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything more than a soft stroke which was supposed to be the very same night sky above me.

My hand didn’t respond. It was painful.

So I let it all out. My desperate cries were most probably heard around the neighbourhood, but that was my last concern. The only thing that was supposed to make me happy turned out to be a total failure.

I had no purpose. I had ruined my career as a painter years ago. Why would I paint a night sky that would be seen by no one but me? That would be recognized by no one but me?

San was right.

He had been right all along.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you ran into San yesterday?”

Mornings at home were usually not that noisy, but that day it had to be. My mom had organized a tea party with her girlfriends, and I was supposed to help her out as the only one who was free around the house. My dad was out of town for the weekend because of work, and my sister decided to go out with her sons, probably trying to get away from our mom’s demands.

“Eunjung told you?” I sighed, mixing the cupcake mix faster than I was supposed to so that I could get out of there.

“Yep” she nodded.

“I don’t want to talk about him. You know he’s dead to me”

But even though I said it bluntly, I was feeling like that sentence had no meaning to me anymore.

“You’re being too rude, y/n”

“I’m being honest, mom.” I stopped my eager mixing and looked at her, supporting my weight against the kitchen counter, and crossed my arms over my chest. “I know you and everyone in this town love San. But I don’t, and I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Please”

“Fine” she sighed “Then lend me a hand with the stra— oh Dear God!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I was supposed to bake a strawberry cake but I totally forgot about buying the strawberries”

I rolled my eyes. Totally my mom’s behaviour. “I’ll go to the supermarket. Anything else?”

I shouldn’t have asked that.

Making my way down the aisles, I struggled to find everything that my mom asked me to buy.

“Where the hell are these fucking powders?” I murmured, slowly walking with my cart and carefully reading each package. “Well, not here”

I looked in front of me to check the signs over the aisles, but my eyes encountered something very different.

A painted night sky.

I knew that painting. I knew that night sky.

Those soft strokes and the shiny details on the moon were familiar. Too familiar.

Of course. They were mine.

And once I understood that I was not looking at an actual painting but the back of an intervened denim jacket, it all came crushing down once again.

But I didn’t have enough time to run away.

He turned around and saw me. I froze like I hadn’t just seen him the day before. My eyes became glossy once again. Keep it together, y/n!

“I thought that yesterday was a coincidence. But I don’t believe that anymore”

San was right in front of me now, a couple of meters away from me. He was carrying some instant noodles in his hands and a bottle of water.

“Let’s not do this, please” I shook my head, tightly gripping the cart���s handle.

“We need to talk, y/n”

“There’s nothing to talk about, San” I gasped, avoiding his eyes.

“If your eyes keep watering whenever you see me and my heart keeps pounding whenever I see you, then yes, there’s a lot of talking to do” he calmly stated, taking a step closer to me “I know you have been avoiding me, and I cannot blame you alone. I also had whenever I knew you were around. But this needs to stop” he sighed “I am aware of the fact that you’re in a relationship and I don’t int—“

“I’m not” I interrupted him, looking at him in the eye “I left him. That’s why I’m here”

“I’m… I’m so sorry to hear that” he said, and I could clearly see the sincerity in his eyes.

“It’s okay…” I whispered.

“Can we please meet so we can finally say whatever we have to say to each other before you leave?”

“San, I… I find it really hard to talk to you” I came clean, playing with the ends of my shirt “You hurt me a lot, and… and I really don’t want to keep digging in the same old scars. But maybe…” I took a deep breath “Maybe it will help to finally close them”

He nodded “I know, y/n. I need this. We need this”

“What about your wife?”

I just had to ask. He knew about me and Seonghwa, so it was only fair.

“It’s a long story, but in a nutshell, I’m divorcing her”

“I’m so—“

“Don’t bother” he shook his head, chuckling with a noticeable pain in his voice “I’m not sorry, so no one should be for me. Especially you.”

I don’t know why I was so nervous. It was just San. Choi San, that beautiful, talented and perfect man.

And that was the problem.

Choi San had always been a mystery. A simple mystery. Back then, he liked to show me that he needed to wear nothing more than a dazzling smile to make my day better. He used to take me out at night to stargaze because he thought that I could find inspiration up there.

“You need to paint these, baby” he had said “I know you’ll do an outstanding job”

And of course I painted them. Every single one of them.

“Could you pretty please paint this same sky on the back of my denim jacket?” he had asked.

“Why do you want me to do that, Sanshine?” I had chuckled, looking up from his chest so that I could see his stunning features illuminated by the stars.  

“Because today I feel like I could do anything I want with my life. I have you, so that’s enough” he had replied, sweetly kissing me afterwards.

I hadn’t been enough, though.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted when I felt his sweet perfume coming near me. I turned my head to my right, and I was able to distinguish his slender form from afar. He was still wearing that denim jacket and carried a large envelope in his hands.

“Hey there” he softly smiled.

“Hi San” I replied, trying to get rid of any sign of desperation in my voice.

“Do you want us to stay here or you prefer to go where used to… hang out?”

“I’m perfectly fine here” I sat back down on the bench, and he cautiously did the same, both of us in each end of it. The evening was warm and a nice breeze hit our faces. Although there were no stars yet, they were on their way.

And I honestly wasn’t ready to stargaze with San.

“Shall I start by saying that I am truly sorry?” after some minutes of silence, San broke the ice. “I never meant to hurt you like that. But I know that saying sorry now it’s meaningless. I just want you to let it all out, say the things that you wanted to yell at that 23 year old me but you never got to” the sorrow in his voice was evident, and I believed him. I felt how sorry he was for what he told me that night.

But it still haunted me. So I had to tell him.

“You ruined my dreams, San.” I whispered, already feeling hot tears go down my face. “You were my only fan back then. You encouraged me to keep going, practising, learning, and experimenting. But that night… you just threw that away. Why would you tell me that I was never going to be successful? Why would you yell right at my face that I was talentless?” I sobbed “That my paintings were nothing special and that I would never become a renowned artist if I kept painting night skies, when you were the one who encouraged me to do that in the first place?” And just as he wanted me, I let it all out. “You buried my dreams. You crushed them and you even made sure to throw them to the trash before leaving. I hated you for so long! I despised you! You were my best friend who suddenly became my worst enemy. But why? I just want to know that. I don’t care if you still think that my paintings were garbage. That’s my last concern” I sighed, violently drying the still falling tears “I just want to know why”

I looked at him, and it made me feel a little bit better to know that I was not the only one crying about it. Although he kept silent, his cheeks were soaked, and his eyes reddened and puffy. “You were talking about leaving Namhae” he whispered, looking down at the grass that surrounded us “and I couldn’t go with you, so I just needed you to stay. But after you moved to Seoul, I realized that I was being selfish and that I thought of my happiness over yours. I was going to be happy if you stayed with me, working at the flower shop and painting night skies as a hobby. But you would never have been if you did that” he cried, letting out a sorrowed and choppy breath. “And for the record, I never meant those words, y/n. I never believed that, and I know for a fact that I’m still your number one fan. You are the most talented person I know. You are amazing, and you more than anyone in this world deserve to be recognized out there. I’m so sorry for making you believe the opposite.”

I stayed silent, processing San’s explanation.

If we just had talked it out back then, maybe, just maybe…

“We were young and stupid” I finally replied. “I was trying to get out of Namhae to become an artist and I tried to take you with me. You were building your flower shop here and you tried to make me stay. It was never going to work out even if we tried” I reasoned, getting closer to him.

“But I shouldn’t have said that anyways” he shook his head “I prevented you from pursuing your dreams”

“I was stupid enough to believe that and stopped trying. I should have kept painting despite your words. I now see it” Slowly, San raised his head and looked at me in the eye. I weakly smiled at him, taking one of his hands for the first time in seven years. “I’m sorry too, San. I blamed you for my misery when I was the one who had to go after my dreams anyways”

“We both fucked up. But it’s on the past now, and we’re still young” he tightened his grip on my hand and shook the mysterious envelope with the other “I don’t know about you, but I just came from my attorney’s office. I’m officially divorced”

“I can’t believe our lives turned out this way” I quietly laughed, playing with San’s fingers. “If you had asked my 20 year old self, I probably would have said we were having our own house full of flowers and paintings by now, and why not add a couple of wedding rings. I was delusional”

“Not really, y/n. I expected that as well” his free hand softly caressed my cheek, travelling down to my jaw. He carefully grabbed my chin, making me look at him. I felt my eyes watering again, and San raised an eyebrow, showing me his confused gaze “Is there something wrong, baby?” he whispered.

I let out my tears, because I wasn’t trying to hide them from him anymore. “I’m just happy” I replied “I used to think that seeing you again was a mistake. That living in my luxurious Seoul apartment with a man that I no longer loved was what I needed to live the decent life that I was supposed to have. And now I know that it was just me trying to supress the urge that I had to come back to you. Because despite the horrible ending, you made me be who I am today. You loved me endlessly, San. And I hope you still do” I admitted, blushing like I was that 20 year old once again “Because I know I never stopped loving you, Sanshine. Even when I hated you the most”

He replied in the most beautiful way. A sweet, awaited, and loving kiss.

Although it wasn’t, it felt like the first time. No rushing, no hurting. Just love.

The love that I was waiting to get from someone that actually never loved me like San did.

The love that San was waiting to get from someone that actually never loved him like I did.

The love that we both deserved to get after so long.  

— jinmindeulle ♥ 

[falklore]

🦔🐧

Guess what I did last week? I bought socks with HEDGEHOGS ROASTING MARSHMALLOWS on them AND socks of PENGUINS SKIING. HOW AMAZING IS THAT!!!     

Anyway, well that's the last time I tell anyone anything about animal anons plans, otherwise they will be spoiled and ruined by my friends! Oh well, it's all in good fun (and also forced me to keep my commitment of posting tonight despite being depressed that Jurgen got sent home...#gbbospoilers)!

Well as many people have predicted correctly, I passed the Bar! Hallelujah! I was sworn in as an attorney this week so I am officially an esq! I also am scheduled to received my dolly booster shot next week and earlier this month I started a new (not 80 hours a week) job! So I have had a fabulous month and have many things to be thankful for including my epic sock purchase! Which is perfect timing for the holiday ahead! So I wanna know what you are thankful for this year? I know it's been a tough year for so many so it can be as small or as large as you can think!

I'm so excited to learn more about everyone's year and what you're thankful for! Remember to tag animal anon (if you so desire) because I love scrolling through all your amazing responses! And since it was requested of course I LOVE atwtmvtv and the short film! My favorite vault song is IBYTAM because I love LOVE LOVE CS (please everyone go watch his performance with Jhud from the CMAs, it is mind-blowing)!

And remember, animal anon thinks you are all beautiful talented gorgeous people who are all killing it at life! ❤

HELLOOOOO !!! You’ve never send me anything before so hi ❤️. First of all I’m so happy that you were sworn in and that you got a new job and new socks and you’re enjoying life so much at the moment!!!!!!!

I guess what I’m grateful for this year is that I got the courage to step out of my shell a little bit (there’s still soooo much work to be done but there’s progress). I started studying something else, I’m in the middle of quitting my retail job and starting a new better job that won’t have me overworked. I’m grateful for slowly overcoming my fear of change (still sooo much work to be done too asdfghjkl) and for my family and all of my amazing friends on here and irl.

I really hope the magic I’ve been feeling lately spreads all through next year for me, for you and for everyone else. If astrology is correct, great things are ahead of us 😜.

Thank you so much for sending me this. I’m waiting in anticipation for you to show up again ❤️

[seethestarlights]

🦔🐧

Guess what I did last week? I bought socks with HEDGEHOGS ROASTING MARSHMALLOWS on them AND socks of PENGUINS SKIING. HOW AMAZING IS THAT!!!     

Anyway, well that's the last time I tell anyone anything about animal anons plans, otherwise they will be spoiled and ruined by my friends! Oh well, it's all in good fun (and also forced me to keep my commitment of posting tonight despite being depressed that Jurgen got sent home...#gbbospoilers)!

Well as many people have predicted correctly, I passed the Bar! Hallelujah! I was sworn in as an attorney this week so I am officially an esq! I also am scheduled to received my dolly booster shot next week and earlier this month I started a new (not 80 hours a week) job! So I have had a fabulous month and have many things to be thankful for including my epic sock purchase! Which is perfect timing for the holiday ahead! So I wanna know what you are thankful for this year? I know it's been a tough year for so many so it can be as small or as large as you can think!

I'm so excited to learn more about everyone's year and what you're thankful for! Remember to tag animal anon (if you so desire) because I love scrolling through all your amazing responses! And since it was requested of course I LOVE atwtmvtv and the short film! My favorite vault song is IBYTAM because I love LOVE LOVE CS (please everyone go watch his performance with Jhud from the CMAs, it is mind-blowing)!

And remember, animal anon thinks you are all beautiful talented gorgeous people who are all killing it at life! ❤

hi animal anon! ashfkljk i can't believe you spolied gbbo for me!!! (i'm a few weeks behind). your socks sound amazing btw! so cute!! and congrats for passing the bar exam!!! that's a massive achievement, you must be so proud of yourself. it looks like life is going pretty fantastic for you atm!

for me, i'm definitely most thankful for my job. we had another long lockdown here in sydney, but i'm so thankful that i was able to still work (even working face-to-face!) because i know so many had lost their jobs or were stuck at home. i'm also thankful that (for the most part) i enjoy my job and that i love working with kids.

[wyntereyez]

Fluffy CS parents snippet

This is just a little scene that's been in my head for a while...

---------

Emma examined her face in the mirror critically. She looked fine, she knew - her hair was clean, barely a strand out of place, and she wasn't regretting the decision to not wear makeup after months of going without. Compared to the 'new baby, don't care' style she'd been rocking for the past seven weeks, she looked almost glamorous.

And most of the women along for her girls' night out were mothers - they wouldn't comment on the bags that had taken up permanent residence under her eyes, or her still recovering body.

Emma saw every imperfection, though...

No. She wouldn't let it bother her. She NEEDED this, needed to get out, have fun, remind herself that she was more than Hope's mother.

Emma turned away, breaking the mirror's hold on her. This was an evening meant letting loose, having adult conversations about something other than poopy diapers, and possibly getting her mother drunk again because that had been distracting.

She headed downstairs. Killian's voice drifted up, inaudible, higher pitched than normal, and Emma's lips ticked up in a smile as she walked as softly as possible to the main room to catch them by surprise.

A fluffy yellow blanket covered the floor, and Hope was lying on her back in the center, sucking intently on her chubby fist as she stared up at Killian. He was on his belly, braced on his elbows, head hanging over her as he kept up a steady stream of nonsense.

As much as she loved seeing him as a pirate, she found she liked seeing him as a dad even more. Like her, he'd given up on dressing up after one too many streaks of spit up had stained his shirts, and now he wore cheap shirts he could buy in bulk and dispose of. The one he wore now was an unbuttoned grey Henley, and Emma could see curls of dark hair peaking out. His forearms were bare as well. His beard and hair were thicker, and slightly disheveled. Emma found she enjoyed seeing her normally fastidious husband in such disarray.

Especially when he was giving their daughter the most ridiculous faces. Emma snorted a laugh. Killian rolled onto his side and gave her that soft, goofy smile that always tugged at Emma's heart because it was such an unguarded expression reserved only for her. "You're gorgeous, Love," he said.

Emma snorted. "It's amazing what shampoo AND conditioner can do. I even used a comb." She tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder coquettishly.

Killian switched to that smolder, as if being clean was the sexiest thing in the world. Then again, he already had a streak of spit down the front of his shirt, so maybe it really was.

Before he could respond, however, Hope started fussing. Killian immediately went back to his elbows so she could see him. "Little Love, I'm right here," he crooned. She reached for his beard.

Emma still had half an hour before she was meeting everyone, so she sat on the blanket. Killian tried rolling to the side again, but Hope whined. "Little Love!"

Emma sprawled next to Killian, putting her head beside his. A strand of hair caught in his beard, pulling free from the loose wave around her ear.

Oh, well... she'd be unrecognizable if her hair was perfect, anyway.

Hope gave them a wide, gummy smile, and reached for a fistful of Emma's hair. Ah, now she remembered why she usually pulled it back.

"She doesn't want me to go - maybe I shouldn't..."

Killian put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "We'll be fine, Love. You've been looking forward to getting out of the house all week. Go. Remember what it's like to have fun! The lass and I have a date with the Netflix, and she'll probably be asleep the whole time you're gone. Me, too, for that matter."

"Don't you dare, Killian... I'm going to need you to send me pictures of Hope every half hour. I'm not kidding."

Killian huffed a laugh. "As you wish, Swan."

Emma sighed and started pushing herself up. "And what about you? You need to go out sometime, too."

"I do go out," Killian said.

"When was the last time you went anywhere that wasn't work related, or didn't have Hope?"

Killian opened his mouth. Shut it. Scratched behind his ear. "Ah," he said.

"Right. Dad practically begged me to tell you to come outside and play with him," Emma said, amused. Her father had sounded so plaintive on the phone - Killian was one of the few people who didn't treat him like a prince, and David appreciated having a real friend. "If you don't do something with him soon, he's going to sign you up for the karaoke competition Granny is organizing," she threatened.

Killian tried to turn his head towards her, but Hope had a firm grip on his beard. "I have no idea what that is, but I'm sure it would be fun," he said distractedly, as he tried to extract himself from Hope's shockingly strong baby grip.

...and this was how, after a surprisingly fun evening in which Emma only thought about Hope most of the time instead of the entire time, Emma found herself signing Killian up for the karaoke competition, so he, too could remember what it felt like to have fun with other adults. But that's a story for another time.

------

You know what I hate about snippets? They don't have a conclusion. Well, mine don't.

But...yeah.

[let-it-raines]

Shamelessly sending in a prompt 🤷‍♀️ Was listening to the new song “One Night Standards” and could totally see it as Emma talking to Killian (obviously the universe doesn’t want him to only be one night because she keeps running into the man EVERYWHERE) thanks so much for taking these prompts and being such an amazing inspiration for cs ff writers. hope all is well with you and yours! I’d imagine quarantine makes for some amazing baby cuddles ❤️🥰

@capthamm you are such a sweetheart! Thank you for this very, very sweet message. I don’t think I’m an inspiration to any CS writers, but it does mean a lot that you would say that! Thank you! And baby snuggles are pretty much the main thing getting me through each day, so I’m very grateful for them on top of so many other things 💕

I hope all is well with you as well. I hadn’t heard the song until you sent this in, and I think I may have ended up going in a slightly different direction than it. lol. I hope you enjoy!

found on ao3 | here |

-/-

No.

Just no.

No, no, no, no.

Nope.

Nada.

A big fat no.

Absolutely not.

No way.

“Why do you look like you just ate a lemon?”

Emma turns on her stool to look at Mary Margaret next to her. Her hair is still perfectly coiffed, her makeup not having melted away, and it looks like she just got ready. Emma, however, can feel the sweat dripping down the back of her neck from all of the bodies in here and the summer air of New York seeping in, and she is probably as hot of a mess physically as she is emotionally. They’ve been here for an hour, maybe a little less, and in that time, Mary Margaret has been slowly sipping on one glass of wine while Emma downed two whiskey sours. Then again, Emma has always been more of a drinker than her, and her tolerance is higher.

None of that really matters, but if Emma ignores Mary Margaret for long enough, maybe the question will go away.

“Emma?”

Or not.

“I have no idea what my face looks like, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like I just ate a lemon.”

“Your lips are pursed and your nose is all scrunched up. That’s what you look like when you eat a lemon.”

“You spend too much time with me if you know what I look like then.”

Mary Margaret laughs next to her and takes another sip of the never-ending wine. “You have lived with me for six years. I pick up on things.”

Emma hums and taps her fingers against the bar top. Does she want another drink? Does she want to go dance? Does she want to go home?

Does she want to walk over to the guy who has been staring at her for the past ten minutes?

No, she reminds herself, no she does not.

That was a one-time thing, and she meant it when she said it as she was walking out his apartment door.

But then he walked into this bar fifteen minutes ago in the same pair of tight black jeans and a gray t-shirt, his hair very obviously carefully styled, and she got a small glance of his smile in the darkness of the bar.

Damn.

But no. She doesn’t do more than one-night. Not anymore, and he can look all she wants, she’s not going over there.

She’s not here for that anyways. It’s a Friday, she had a stressful week at work, and she just wanted to get a drink or two with her friends.

Ruby, however, has gone off, and they probably won’t be seeing her again until she sends them the information of the person she’s going home with.

“I will try not to look like I ate a lemon,” Emma promises with a smile. “Do you know where Ruby is?”

“She’s actually with Whale.”

“No,” Emma gasps, spinning around to scan the crowd. “Whale is here? And she’s with him? We’re letting her be with him? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I figured we’d let her have her fun for one night.”

Emma turns back around to gape at Mary Margaret. “Are you okay? Do you have a fever? Did David break up with you so you’ve lost your mind? What’s happening?”

She giggles and shrugs her shoulders. “I think David is going to propose. He – ”

“Another whiskey sour for you,” the bartender says, sliding a drink in front of her.“Oh, I didn’t order this.”

The guy nods his head toward the other end of the bar. “Jones sent it to you. I can tell him to fuck off if you want. There was something about it being a one-time thing, too, but I forgot.”

Jones.

Jones knows the bartender at her favorite bar. Great. That’s just great.

“Thanks,” Emma finally mumbles. “You don’t have to tell him to fuck off.”

“Damn. I was really hoping I got to do that.”

Emma laughs. Oh, she likes this new bartender. “Tell you what, you can tell him to fuck off. I’m not sending him a drink, though.”

He whistles. “You’re making my dreams come true tonight, lass.”

And then he’s walking away, and she’s left with an absolutely beaming Mary Margaret. “So,” Emma quickly says, “what makes you think he’s going to propose?”

She’s waved away. “Who sent you the drink?”

“No one.”

“It was obviously someone. Who was it?”

“You’ll be mad at me if I tell you.”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret sighs, “a one-night stand?”

“Ruby is going to go home with Victor and you’re judging me for having a one-night stand?”

“I’m not judging. I would never judge. I’m simply trying to say that there’s nothing wrong with finding a genuine connection. It’s a great thing.”

Emma takes a sip of her new drink. “So, David? Proposing? Let’s talk about that.”

-/-

She sleeps with the guy again.

She doesn’t know how it happened, not really. One minute she’s talking to Mary Margaret about the possibility of David proposing, and then the next, Jones is somehow sitting next to her talking to them both. He knows David, apparently, and Emma thinks that just her luck.

She doesn’t need to know anything about him.

The only things she needs to know is that she’s attracted to him and that he’s not a serial killer.

Both are true.

At least, she hopes.

Because she went home with him again, but really, it’s going to be the last time.

One night. That’s the limit.

Even if it was two in this case.

-/-

David proposes to Mary Margaret two weeks later.

Emma gets to witness it all from her spot behind a tree where she’s holding a camera and document everything. She completely and totally feels like she’s going to get arrested for being a creep, but she doesn’t.

Instead she gets to watch two of her best friends get engaged. It’s not something she’s interested in, but the two of them deserve something like that.

She’s happy. For them at least.

Good people should have good things.

-/-

There’s a party at their apartment immediately afterward.

And because the world is out to get her, Killian Jones is there.

She lives in a city with millions of people, and yet this guy keeps showing up.

How is that possible?

Emma knows too much about him now, too. She knows his full name and that he’s a cop. She knows his preferred drink and that he’s friends with the new bartender, Will, because they live together.

It’s too much already.

“Swan,” he greets, sliding into her space so she gets a whiff of familiar cologne.

Great. She knows the cologne he wears now, too.

“Jones.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well, it is my apartment.”

Killian clicks his tongue. “I know.”

Heat rushes to her face, but she wills it away. This is not a man who she will let herself be bothered by even if he is constantly doing his best to bother her.

“How is it that I’d never heard of you before, love? You and David are obviously close, and he’s always telling stories. Why is the great Emma Swan a mystery?”

Emma turns to look at him and those stupid blue eyes she was so mesmerized by the first night. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

And, really, the decisions she makes that night shouldn’t surprise her, not with the decisions she’s been making lately. Work has been stressful. She’s been looking for this guy for close to three months now, and she can’t find him. it would cover rent and bills and this new pair of boots she’s been looking at with money left over. Plus, she saw Neal last week. He was sitting in Granny’s with whoever he’s dating now, and she really did not need that when all she wanted was some onion rings.

So maybe it’s easier for her to keep falling back into bed with this guy she doesn’t know but knows well enough to know that he knows exactly how to push her to the edge with deft movements and careful words that send shivers down her spine.

And maybe, just maybe, if she doesn’t think about it too much, it won’t be a problem.

-/-

It’s a problem.

Emma’s been casually sleeping with Killian Jones for a month now.

It’s great. It really is. It’s fun and takes her mind off things, and God, it’s so damn good that sometimes she doesn’t believe it’s real. But it’s also too much because when she’s out celebrating finally finding her bounty, he’s there at the bar. He buys her drinks and dances with her, and she finds herself flirting with him more than someone who doesn’t care should.

He’s funny. There’s something about the way that he times his jokes and how they range between ridiculous and incredibly sexy, and Emma lets herself get lost in them so that she barely notices him mentioning that he has a brother or that he spent the formative of his life in England, which explains the accent that slips in and out. Mostly in, though, and she stupidly asks him questions about those years and about England and if everyone really does eat fish and chips all the time.

Killian asks her questions, too, ones about her job and her friends, and those she can answer. When it veers into talking about her family, she evades that by pressing up on her toes and sliding her lips over his, feeling the softness of his mouth mix with the rough scratch of his beard. This is easier, better, and really, they all have their pasts and their secrets. Neither of them needs to know when they don’t care if the other one is still in the apartment when they wake up the next morning.

-/-

Killian is making breakfast.

Emma can’t say anything about it, not when they’re in his apartment and not when she was the one who fell asleep before she could go home. And she especially cannot complain when, well, he’s making French toast, eggs, and bacon, and it’s been forever since she’s had a breakfast that was more than a protein shake or a smoothie as she was walking out her front door.

He makes some damn good French toast.

And it’s raining outside, some kind of awful September storm, and really, Emma could go home. She could borrow an umbrella or a rain jacket and rush out into the rain to pay a ridiculous amount for an Uber since the subway seems incredibly unappealing right now, but as the food settles in her stomach, the coffee warmly makes its way down her throat, and Killian puts Netflix on the TV, suddenly getting soaked to get home doesn’t seem appealing.

Plus, the blanket on the couch is made of the softest material she’s ever felt, Killian’s fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of her neck, which is pretty much her weakness, and she’s far too invested in this show to leave.

She has to find out what happens, obviously.

And one rainy day where Will is at Belle’s place so they’re alone and where she gets Chinese takeout for lunch at 6 PM can’t be that bad.

It’s just one day.

An anomaly in their relationship.

(Or lack of relationship, really.)

A one-time thing.

She won’t spend the night again, and she certainly won’t spend the day.

-/-

Killian has an entire stack of t-shirts in a drawer in her apartment, and Emma has absolutely no idea how that happened.

Well, no, okay.

She does.

She wore one home one time, some old thing that he got at a concert, and then a few weeks ago her shirt ripped in what Killian swears was an accidental result of him being a little too enthusiastic so she wore home a t-shirt from the Police Academy. But the others, he left here. She has never worn them. She would remember.

These are definitely shirts that he left here.

Because he’s stayed here.

Multiple times.

On accident, of course. Because it was too late to go home or the weather was bad again or because her apartment is closer to the police station than his is.

And sometimes he’ll get caught up talking to Mary Margaret when he’s trying to leave, but more often than not, David is here and they end up talking or drinking together as they joke about coworkers and their Captain and plan out David’s bachelor party which is apparently going to be a joint thing with Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party.

That was information to her.

While Killian isn’t David’s best man or anything, he ends up planning most of it with Emma since David’s brother is currently in California. And Killian helping to plan means that he is working with Emma on it, and that means that they get lunch and go to different bars for research purposes and spend far too much time looking for AIRBNB’s in different cities even though they know that will never happen because no one’s schedule ever matches up quite right.

They both decide there will be absolutely no gummies in the form of genitals, but that’s only after spending an entire night laughing after researching it and seeing all of the ridiculous things that people do.

But this is just for the wedding and for their friends. It won’t always be this way. It’ll be over, and then, well, they probably will be too.

-/-

Emma doesn’t bring a date to the wedding.

Killian doesn’t either.

Somewhere deep down in a place she’s not eager to explore, her heart and her stomach calm when she discovers that he’s here alone and that the only person he dances with all night is her.

“You know, I’m not really one for slow dancing,” she sighs as he takes her hand in his. “I don’t know how to do anything other than sway.”

His fingers tighten around hers while his other hand settles on her hip, warm and familiar and just right. “It’s easy, Swan. All you have to do is pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“And that’s you?”

“Aye, love,” he smiles, lines forming around his eyes, “that’s me.”

They go home together that night.

Emma’s apartment is empty with David and Mary Margaret staying in a hotel before flying to Italy the next day, and Emma doesn’t even question when she and Killian share a cab back to her place. She doesn’t question when she kicks off her heels and he takes of his bowtie, leaving his shirt unbuttoned enough to show off dark patches of chest hair, so that they can stand in the kitchen eating cake they brought home while sharing a bottle of wine. Neither of them really got a chance to get more than a glass of champagne at the wedding, so while she’s pleasantly buzzed, she could easily sober up in an hour or two.

But in an hour or two, she’s sitting on her couch, her feet in Killian’s lap, and they’re talking about their exes. She doesn’t know how they got here. She doesn’t know what started the conversation, how it led to her hearing about how his first love died in an accident or her telling him an abridged version of all of the nasty, horrible ways Neal broke her.

She never needed to know about his exes.

She never needed to know about his past and all his scars.

He never needed to know about any of hers.

But now he does.

And now, somehow, she wants to know all of these things about him.

Now, somehow, she realizes that she already does know so much about him.

Emma knows the big things like what his family is like and stories from his childhood. She knows his romantic history and what he does for a living and why he decided to do that. She knows his goal to become a detective, and she knows that he’s constantly terrified of never being good enough.

She gets that. She feels the same way all the time.

Almost every day, really.

Though, if she really thinks about it, she’s never felt like she was never enough for Killian. Something about him makes it all feel comfortable in a way that she’s never felt before.

Emma has never been a woman who knows what true comfort with another person feels like, but maybe, just maybe, this is somehow it.

And maybe that’s because she knows the little things, too.

She knows how he likes his coffee in the same way that he knows how she likes hers. She knows how he eats his steak and how he doesn’t like onion rings, which she thinks is ridiculous. She knows that Killian always has on matching socks because he purposely only buys one type, and she knows that he gets his hair cut every four weeks without fail.

He always wears the socks when walking around at home, and she knows how his footsteps sound in different parts of her apartment as well as his.

Killian’s an early riser, almost always, and he’s ridiculously addicted to keeping up with his workout routine, which she absolutely hates. She takes care of herself, but she’s also someone who knows how to be lazy when the opportunity presents itself.

Killian Jones is very rarely lazy.

Except for sometimes at night when he watches videos on his phone or grabs one of the many books on his nightstand to read. He’s into mysteries and biographies of historical figures, and while Emma doesn’t think she’d ever be interested in any of his books, she listens when he talks and grumbles and complains about how something is going while she does research for work or quietly watches TV to not disturb him.

Disturbing him is a hard thing to do, but Emma does manage to do it. He says that she thrashes in bed and that her electric toothbrush is the loudest thing he’s ever heard, but that doesn’t keep him from getting her an extra one to keep at his place along with her preferred shampoo and conditioner.

She had to use his one time, and as much as she likes how Killian smells, she doesn’t want to smell like him. She had texted complaining about that, and the next time she was at his place, all of her things were there.

Emma didn’t even have to tell him what brands she uses,

The sound of his laugh is so familiar to her that she knows the different ones. There’s the one that’s small and frail, like he’s only laughing to be polite, and then another one where it’s fueled by disbelief and anger.

(She’s been on the receiving end of that a few times when they’ve argued.)

There’s the big laugh, that one that stems from his belly and makes his whole body shake with joy. It’s loud and kind of obnoxious, but Emma kind of loves it.

The one she loves most of all, however, is this gentle one that he shares with her when they’re in bed and the lights are turned off, all of the curtains closed, and blankets pulled up around them. He always looks so young then, like he’s twenty instead of thirty-two, and his smile is soft and kind and filled with a genuine joy that she keeps seeing more and more.

That laugh, this one that she only hears when her nose is brushing against his and his hand is drawing patterns on her bare back, is her favorite.

It’s the one she knows most of all.

It’s just for her, she tells herself, and well, she doesn’t intend on sharing.

Because she loves him.

The realization knocks her off her feet and sucker punches the air out of her lungs. She’s angry and pissed off at herself for letting it happen and so damn terrified of the feeling that she doesn’t know what to do with herself or her limbs or anything else. She doesn’t know what to do. She wants to grab her things and run, to cut off whatever this thing between them is, but the thought of that happening is a pain far worse than the realization that she loves someone again.

So Emma stays. She stays, and she keeps her life just the same. The thing is, it has changed so remarkably in the past eight months that she barely recognizes it. That’s not a bad thing, she realizes. It’s actually really, really good.

That realization doesn’t happen without several bottles of alcohol and Mary Margaret and Ruby having to calm her down and talk her up several different times when she starts to freak out. She needs all of that, needs that reassurance, and there are so many moments where she wonders when this is all going to end.

But then there’s that laugh, that one that’s just for her, and everything around her calms so that it’s just Emma and Killian and nothing and no one else.

Just her.

Just him.

Just them.

And somewhere down the line, years after that first night and the promises of it only being a one-time thing, Emma knows that she has never told a bigger lie in her life.

Because a one-time thing turned into absolutely everything.

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “I Come Close” (Part 2/3) (au)

Summary: They’re not really rivals, but not really friends. What they are, instead, is the best sex they’ve ever had. It’s easy and simple, even with the rules they have in place. So what happens when those rules start falling apart?

Rating: Explicit - This chapter contains blindfolding, sensory play, and restraints.

A/N: It took me until just now to discover I’d never added a summary to the last chapter. Y’all do know you can let me know when I fuck that shit up, yeah? Anyway, here’s part 2! Part 3 is finally finished and in edits so I figured I could get this whole thing posted before I go on vacation next week. 

Part 1

Find it on Ao3!

-x-

Part 2

Killian wants to blame all of this on the merger their company went through a year ago. And by "blame" he means "thank profusely," of course. That’s the only reason that Emma Swan came into his life. They were both senior project managers within their original companies and now they’re practically pitted against each other because of their own competitive streaks.

He remembers the way she came into his office on her first day, striding right up to his desk and planting her palms on either side of his name plate, fire in her eyes as her hair fell over her shoulders. 

“You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours,” she declared. It had been suggested they work together on some middle-ground projects, but they’ve both waved it off and split the files, preferring to work with their own teams. 

And then, something shifted. They were each working late one night and he could hear her swearing up a storm, so even as he shut down his own office for the night, he made a decision to go to hers.

“Everything all right, Swan?”

“Just fucking dandy,” she replied, scowling at the screen in front of her.

“I know it’s against our nature to help each other out, but is there anything I can do?”

She’d looked up at him, then, considering him from behind her glasses, her hair swept up into a ponytail. 

“Actually, there is something you can do,” she’d replied, an innocent smile forming across her lips.

A half hour later, she was leading him inside her apartment. Forty-five minutes later, her hands were holding his head in place as he did everything in his power to get her off. 

It started as just sex. They had rules, of course, including those regarding the location and frequency of their visits. And no kissing, Emma had announced as her hand closed around his erection that first time. They were rules they’d strictly held in check for the last six months that they’d been sleeping together. 

Right up until the moment Emma showed up at his apartment and kissed him before she left. 

Since that day two weeks ago, they’ve seen each other after work every other day, sometimes going to his place instead of just to hers now. They’ve not kissed again.

When he shows up on a Friday after they’ve both left work for the day, he’s treated to a new surprise: Emma answers the door in a satin robe, pulling him in by his tie and locking the door behind him. He barely has time to take off his shoes before she’s leading him to the kitchen table, slipping the plastic bag off his prosthetic hook as she goes. 

“I wanna talk to you about trying something new,” she tells him as she pours the wine. “We’ve been doing this long enough that I trust you like… a lot. You know as well as I do that we’re always expected to be the ones that call the shots at work. Well, tonight, I want to give you that control over me. Is that okay?”

“Much like when we first began this, love, I just ask that you let me know what I can do.”

“We’ll get to that. Dinner comes before you do,” she says, grinning as she doles out the containers. 

She makes sure the whole kitchen is cleaned before she leads him back to her bedroom. The lights are dim, and her nightstand has been cleared of the miscellany that usually clutters it. Those items have been replaced by a bundle of satin, a bottle of lubricant, and a few sensory items that he doesn’t really focus on, instead turning back to Emma. 

“You have something in mind?”

“Well,” she says, going for the satin first. “I want you to help me with these, and then the rest is up to you.”

The bundle is, in fact, two restrains and an eye mask. The restraints are soft, and she shows him how to loop them around her wrists. They don’t tie, which means she can escape from them if needed. He does, however, have to tie them to her bed frame, but he waits until she’s put the eye mask on her head and gotten comfortable against the pillows. She rests her arms overhead and he works from there to tie the straps to the bars closest to her. 

She tests them a few times, making sure they’re the right tension, before she lays back and tries to relax. Her eyes land back on him, watching with interest as he loosens his tie. When he notices he has an audience, he slows down, drawing out the act as he makes eye contact with her. 

He sets the tie on her dresser, moving next to the buttons on his shirt and making quick work of those. The shirt gets draped over a chair she has in the corner of her room, and he quickly shuffles off his socks at the same time. Her eyebrow pops up in question when he turns his attention to releasing the straps that hold his prosthetic in place. 

“You don’t have to,” she tells him, and he can tell by her voice that she’s just trying to make sure he’s comfortable.

“I want to,” he says quietly, leaving the whole contraption next to his tie. 

Down to just his trousers, he moves back to the bed and stands there considering where to start. He supposes the first order of business is to undress her. 

“Shall I strip you with or without the blindfold?”

“Without.”

“As you wish.”

He tugs carefully on the tie holding her robe closed, giving a pleased hum as it easily comes loose and he can push apart the two sides to reveal nothing but a simple thong. Already he can see the dampness on the crotch and he looks up at her as he smirks. 

“So wet already,” he comments. He moves closer to her side, kneeling on the bed for a moment to ease the blindfold down over her eyes. “You say ‘stop’ and I will do so immediately, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, her voice sounding breathy already. 

He moves away from the bed again, instead weighing his options on the sensory items she’s left out. There are three items on the table: one is a feather tickler, one is a small vibrator, and the last is a small wheel with dull spikes on it. 

He starts with the wheel, hoping to catch her off guard by not going for the tickler first. As quietly as he can, he moves to the bottom of the bed, hovering just close enough that he can reach without giving away his position. With a quick motion, he runs the wheel along the arch of one foot, biting back a chuckle when she twitches and brings her whole knee up.

“Seriously?” she exclaims, The surprise evident on her face even with her eyes covered. 

“You’ve given me the control, Swan. Just try to relax.” 

She grumbles out something that he very much wants to respond to but turns his attention back to setting the wheel back against her skin and rolling it up her shin. He draws patterns around her knee and zigzags his way up her thigh before moving back to the other leg. He can hear her exhalation of disappointment and almost tells her she’s in for a long night of sighs like that. 

Going along the outside of her thighs is fun, but it’s when the wheel dips to her inner thighs that he really enjoys. He gets to watch as she tugs at her restraints, her hands reaching as if wanting to pull him to where she wants. Just as quickly, her arms flop back to the pillows. 

The rest of her skin gets the same treatment - he runs the wheel across her abdomen, where she squirms away from the ticklish sensation. He rolls it between her breasts. He varies the pressure as he goes to different areas, watching the way she twists and moves in reaction. 

Before moving on to the next item, he instead chooses to remove her underwear. He uses his hand and teeth to drag each side of the thong down at the same time, enjoying the way she says his name like a curse as he does. 

He wants so badly to sink into her already, to bring them both to completion in any way he can, but he knows she wants more than just one of these toys used, so he opts to grab the tickler after he drops her panties on the floor. This time, he starts from the top and works his way down. From the space just below her wrists, all the way to the tips of her toes, he brushes the bundle of feathers across her skin. 

Deciding to add a new element to it, he climbs onto the bed and straddles her with one knee on either side of her torso. Other than kneeling on the robe that was trapped beneath her, he makes sure he’s not hurting her in any way.

“Still okay?” he asks, needing that verbal confirmation before he continues. 

“Yeah, good,” she responds, moving just enough that her skin brushes against the fabric of his trousers. He watches as goosebumps form across her skin and her nipples tighten up further. He bites his bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to kiss her right now, as she is, but holding back to honor her rules. 

He doesn’t say anything further, instead leaning up so he can draw the tickler across her wrists again. This time, however, he follows the line of the feathers with his tongue, using it to draw intricate patterns along the path. 

It’s the first time her control breaks and she moans. He does the same on her other arm before moving down her chest. He shifts to straddle lower on her body so he can access each new part he plays with. She tilts her head to give better access to her neck, then arches up into his touch when he gets to her breasts. 

For a moment, the tickler gets left to the side as he does a thorough job of licking and nipping at each breast. By now he knows exactly how hard to bite each nipple to get the perfect response, and today is no different as she cries out, bucking her hips up in hope of meeting some kind of friction. 

He shifts again so one of his knees presses against the juncture between her legs as he licks across her chest and down her abdomen, giving her a taste of what she wants as she rubs her center against his leg. Before she can get off, however, he moves again. 

Ignoring where she wants him most, he continues to trail down her legs, enjoying the noises she makes when he brushes the feathers across the backs of her knees as he nips gently at her kneecaps. Down he goes until he gets to her ankles, and then repeats the sequence again on the outside and inside of each leg. 

She’s panting by now, and even with the lights as low as they are he can see she’s glistening with her own moisture. The vibrator and lubricant, it seems, will have to wait until another time. He moves off the bed for a moment in order to carefully shuck his trousers and boxers, watching in interest as Emma cocks her head and wondering if she can tell what he’s doing or if she’s trying to hear where he is. 

When he notices how parched he is and how she’s repeatedly closing her mouth and swallowing, he decides it’s okay for one last little trick. As he stands at the foot of the bed, he wraps his hand around one of her ankles and moves her leg outward. He repeats the same motion with her other leg, leaving her spread open for him. 

“Don’t move,” he instructs before exiting the room as quietly as he can and heading for her kitchen. He knows by now where she keeps her cups, and he finds one with a lid and a straw that he’s seen her drinking out of during meetings. He fills it quickly and heads back to the room.

“Sit up a little and drink,” Killian tells her, guiding her to the straw and smiling gently when she greedily gulps. 

“How did you know?” she asks after she quenches her thirst. 

Instead of responding, he takes his own sips from the drink before stopping up the straw and pulling it from the cool water and leaving the cup on the nightstand. Starting between her breasts, he lets drops escape as he moves down her body and she gasps and arches. 

“You asshole,” she pants, but whatever she planned to say after that is long lost as the last final drops land just above her clit. The straw gets thrown to the side as he moves quickly, sucking up those drops before closing his mouth around her clit, his tongue flicking across it in swift movements. 

He’s coerced a lot of noises out of her in their time together. She has moaned his name in every cadence he could possibly imagine. This time, she shouts, and he knows that he’ll have hell to pay for this eventually. He only lets up long enough to fully move onto the bed between her legs, burying his face between her thighs and working with the singular goal of making her orgasm. 

She was already close, so he’s not surprised when he barely gets through tracing her clit with a “K” as he’s going through the alphabet and she traps him where he is, cursing his name and tugging tight at the restraints for the first time during this whole adventure. She bucks up into his mouth, riding out the pleasure as long as she can before she collapses back to the bed, her legs and arms all going limp at the same time. 

So lost is he by leaving little kisses along her pubic bone that he doesn’t notice she’s slipped off one of the restraints until her hand is buried in his hair and she’s tugging hard. Killian moans against her heated flesh, his hips stuttering against the mattress for a second. 

She releases him to push up the blindfold, where she meets his gaze with her heated one. “Get up here and fuck me.”

“As you wish,” Killian says again, hoping eventually she’ll get the reference and infer the meaning. But until that day, he does just as she commands. 

-x-

Part 3

[thejollyroger-writer]

Heart and Soul - Part 1 - A CS Concert Series Fic

SUMMARY: Private music teacher Killian Jones wakes one morning to the sound of his ten year old neighbor playing the bane of his existence: the recorder. In order to keep his sanity, he offers to teach Henry to play any other instrument -- though partially because it means he gets to spend more time with Henry's mother, Emma Swan. 

TW: mentions of alcoholism, abusive parents, backstory that goes a little deeper than necessary 

a/n: This fic was inspired by waking up one morning over the summer to hear my neighbor playing the trumpet -- though, thankfully, Sam is a much better musician than a beginner recorder-player. I complained about it on discord, and bam! this story appeared, a joint effort between myself and Meredith (@captainsjedi​) . Even though she was unable to help me finish it because of her busy work schedule, her ideas are riddled through the story, not to mention the incredible art she made for it. 

Thanks to @csconcertseries​ and @clockadile​, who gave me a reason to finish this story! 

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

There aren’t many unusual things Killian truly hates.

Sure, he hates things like seeing horrific stories on the news, bigots, and people on the road who don’t utilize their turn signals. But those all seemed fairly normal within the realm of things that are passionately disliked.

The one standout thing he despises, however, is the recorder. 

His animosity toward the instrument — if one can even call it an instrument — feels like a betrayal to his career at times. He spends his weekdays teaching both children and adults to play music, helping them discover hidden talents and find as much comfort and happiness within the notes as he does. The piano and the guitar are his most popular contenders among students. But he’s also had a bit of experience teaching violin and harmonica, along with one memorable incident with the drum set in his basement that resulted in several complaints from the neighbors. 

Recorders? He intentionally keeps a fair distance from those.

If he’s being honest, it’s probably hindered his career a bit over the past few years. Since he moved to Storybrooke and word got out across the small town that he was a music teacher, he’s had countless parents approach him whose children had brought home recorders from school, asking him to give them lessons to improve their playing and put the rest of the family out of their misery. 

Killian has always declined. He’ll offer to help by teaching the child another instrument instead, but recorders are out of the question. It’s simply not worth his time, not when there are so many better options available. 

Needless to say, he’s less than pleased when he’s woken up before seven one morning by the sound of “Hot Cross Buns” being played on the dreaded instrument. 

Something’s not right. He has to be hearing things, isn’t he? The house to the left of his is vacant, and the one to the right is the home of his neighbor and her son, the latter of whom should be resting as much as he can before the beginning of his school year. 

What reason would he have to be playing the recorder this early in the— bloody hell, he thinks to himself. Yesterday was the first school day for the year. He should have remembered considering the extensive adjustments he's had to make to his schedule from lessons over the summer. 

Killian doesn't know all that much about Henry Swan and his mother. They'd moved into the house next door last fall and the lad had introduced himself not long after. He knows that Henry is about nine or ten years old, is a student at Storybrooke Elementary School, and is a Star Wars fan, judging by the number of printed t-shirts he's seen him wearing when they come across each other arriving to and leaving their respective houses.

He knows just as much, if not even less, about Emma Swan. Only that she works as a sheriff's deputy for her older brother, and favors beanies and leather jackets during the fall and winter months. Killian assumes that she’s single considering she and Henry are the only two occupants of the house, and he’s never seen any visitors there aside from her family.

Which is a relief, because he's also infatuated with her. 

Perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch considering the few interactions they’ve shared. Killian is aware that he doesn’t exactly know her well enough for any type of infatuation to really exist. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s managed to make him feel like an awkward schoolboy who can’t maintain some sense of dignity around a girl. 

Their most recent interaction had taken place the Monday prior; he was getting ready for his morning run when Emma returned from what he assumed was the night shift at the sheriff’s station. She’d given him a brief smile and waved as she unlocked her front door. He was so surprised that he tripped and almost fell over his shoelace that he’d forgotten to tie thanks to the unexpected gesture.

(It was hard to tell whether she noticed. He’s hoping the answer is no.)

All of this to say, he likes the Swans. But he’s not sure just how long he’ll be able to tolerate what has to be Henry and his recorder, especially this early in the bloody morning.

Of all the songs in the world, what would bring him to choose “Hot Cross Buns” anyway?

 Killian gets his answer a few weeks later. Every afternoon since the end of the school year save one or two (plus a few choice mornings), he’s been treated to the sound of Henry attempting to play a number of different songs, each one a tad more annoying than the last. There’s been “Yankee Doodle,” “Skip to My Lou,” and, oddly enough, “Jingle Bells.”

Something has to be done before Henry tries to learn “Baby Shark.”

He knows he should act his age and learn to embrace his young neighbor’s new hobby. (Or buy a good pair of earplugs.) After all, Henry’s a child, and Killian is glad he’s chosen to dedicate part of his free time to learning music.

But he really needs to choose a different instrument.

It’s what leads him to knock on the Swan’s front door on a Saturday morning a month into the school year. Emma and Henry are both home judging by the yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway and the squeaky recorder notes coming from an open window on the second floor.

Emma answers the door. Her blonde hair is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s sipping coffee from a bright red mug and wearing running shorts and a faded t-shirt that he’s willing to bet are her pajamas. 

He’s never felt more attracted to her. But that’s not the reason he came by.

“Oh, hi, Killian,” she greets him, eyebrows shooting to her hairline. Her reaction makes him consider if he should have given some kind of notice before coming over. 

“Good morning, Swan. I’m sorry to bother you this early, but I heard the lad playing and assumed you were both up.”

“Yeah. He’s been at it for a while.” Emma bites her lower lip and glances back and forth from him to the staircase he can just make out behind her. “I’m really sorry if he’s been annoying you with the music recently. I’ve suggested he only play later in the afternoon, especially since I've been trying to have the windows open more often so we don't have to keep running the air conditioning, but he always makes some comment about liking to start his day off with music, and I hate to discourage him when he’s finally found a hobby he’s enjoying.” 

Hearing these words causes Killian to feel guilty for being irritated with Henry’s playing, but it also makes the reason he came by seem even more appropriate. “Think nothing of it. I’m quite happy to hear the lad has taken an interest in music. But if you don’t mind my input, lass, I think he could do well with a more versatile instrument that allows him to explore his capabilities even further.” It’s the nicest way he can think of to discourage her son from ever touching a recorder again.

Emma is quiet for a moment, brow furrowing as she contemplates his suggestion. “I don’t think I understand— oh!” A look of realization crosses her face. “That’s right. You’re a musician, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and he’s great!” The face of Henry Swan pops up behind his mother; he’s already almost as tall as she is. “Hi, Mr. Jones,” he says. Killian smiles at him before he turns back to Emma. “Remember, Mom? He played with some other parents at the last school fundraiser. You were there.”

Killian remembers the night in question vividly. He and a handful of other parents who played music had been asked to perform a selection of songs at Storybrooke Elementary’s annual spring event. (Emma had worn a tight red dress and heels. He was playing the piano and had come close to butchering the opening of their first song when he’d noticed her.)

She remembers the event, too, if the blush on her cheeks is anything to go by. “Yeah, kid, I remember. I just...haven’t had enough caffeine yet this morning.” She takes a long sip from the mug she’s holding as if to prove a point. 

“Aye. Well.” Killian pauses, the shift in conversation having made him briefly forget the purpose for his visit. “I was just telling your mother, Henry, that I’m quite glad that you’re interested in playing music. I didn’t know how you felt about possibly trying other instruments as well? Guitar, piano, saxophone, triangle…” he trails off. 

He knows the bare minimum about saxophones and doesn’t think Henry would actually want to play the triangle. But he’ll offer to give him harmonica lessons so long as he never touches a recorder again.

Henry considers his suggestion. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Miss Greene just gave us the recorders to take home so we could practice.” (Killian knows of the Miss Greene he is referring to, and resists the urge to message Tink and suggest she not guide her fourth graders in that direction ever again.) “I guess it would be cool to play something else though.” He smiles up at Killian. “Do you think if I tried to play the piano that I could be as good as you someday?”

Killian’s heart swells with pride at the boy’s admiration. Truth be told, he’s been complimented for his talent on numerous occasions by all kinds of people from different walks of life. But something about hearing his abilities praised from a ten year old with excitement in his eyes means more to him than any recognition has in quite some time. 

“Perhaps,” he tells Henry. “If you utilize as much practice and dedication as you seem to be doing for that recorder, I’m sure you’ll be a seasoned pianist in no time.”

Killian is so thrilled by the smile that spreads across the lad’s face that he almost misses the wince that crosses his mother’s. 

Almost. 

“Henry…” she starts, her eyes turned down to the ground, and Killian’s eyes are drawn to her hands wringing in front of her. 

“What, mom? Mr. Jones wants to teach me how to play the piano, please let me learn how to play the piano!” 

The shadow of a smile crosses over her face, but it doesn’t stay. “It’s not—” she pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth, gently sucking on it for a moment before releasing it and finally raising her eyes to meet Killian’s. “We don’t have a piano, and, well… I don’t think we can afford to get one for him to practice on.” 

Henry’s expression, his shoulders, his excitement, physically fall. “But mom, don’t—” 

Killian doesn’t even let the boy pose his argument, because he already has the solution — hopefully a solution that works for all three of them. “That’s really not a problem, love,” he says, his smile growing when her bright green eyes start to sparkle with the hope he is giving her son. “As it happens, I just bought a new piano for the studio, so I have one that I’m hoping to get rid of. If you want it, it’s yours.” 

It’s not quite the truth: he has his baby grand in his living room, the one that he practices on himself; and he has the two uprights in his studio, one much newer than the other, and as much as he has wanted to replace the older one with an updated model, he hasn’t gotten around to it. Getting rid of one of them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, and it would certainly clear up some space in the basement, though it would keep some of his students from practicing while he’s in another lesson.

But with the smile that grows across Henry’s face, and Emma’s to match it, the little white lie seems like the worst of his problems. Because, gods above, he has it bad for this woman. 

Moving the old upright piano from his basement to the Swan’s living room the following Saturday proves much more difficult than lying to them about it. It’s an adventure that requires his brother, Emma’s brother, and Emma — and not, he doesn't fall to notice, the man who he assumes to be Henry’s father, who shows up with the boy right as they’re struggling to get through the front door. 

Killian hates him before he even opens his mouth to speak, seemingly the only one to notice his run-down dark green pick-up truck parked by the curb while he stands in Emma’s entryway, trying to keep the piano from tipping over. The only one to notice him, sitting in the driver’s seat and making no motion to get out, even as Henry jumps down from the passenger seat and begins collecting his soccer gear from the back seat. 

“This thing really doesn’t look like it would be this hard to move,” Emma’s brother — David — grunts, trying his hardest to help ease the piano up over Emma’s front step. 

“Oh, come on, Nolan,” they all hear from behind them, everyone else finally noticing. “You having a little trouble with that?” 

“You know, Cassidy,” David calls out, and Killian notices a vein in his forehead popping out as they try to lift it from the bottom and up the single step. “You could always get your ass over here and be helpful.” 

Emma laughs from the other side of the piano. “Yeah, right.” 

The guy in the truck laughs louder, turning his head in a way that makes Killian sure that he’s staring at Emma. His words make him even more sure: “I prefer the view from where I am, actually.” 

“Asshole,” David says, either a bit louder than he meant or exactly as loud as he meant; Killian has a feeling it’s the second. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Henry asks, dropping his soccer stuff on the porch behind Emma. At least the lad has manners, Killian tells himself, finally guiding the piano into the entryway. He gets them from his mother. 

“Just stay out of the way, bud,” David tells him between gritted teeth, the three of them pushing the piano the rest of the way through the door. 

“Are you the lucky lad who gets to play this piano?” Liam asks once they’ve all made it into the entryway, Killian tossing one last glare towards Henry’s father pulling away from the curb as he closes the front door. When he turns to Henry, he’s beaming. 

“Yep! Killian offered to teach me so he could stop hearing me practice the recorder every morning!” 

The bluntness of Henry’s statement pulls a laugh from all of them.

 Henry takes to the piano like a fish to water, which doesn't surprise Killian in the least. The lad is bright, Killian has learned that just from talking with him during their time as neighbors, but when he is able to play most of his scales and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by their second lesson, he knows he has stumbled upon true talent. 

And spending time with his mother certainly doesn't hurt, either. 

(The way her laughter carries through the open windows when Henry plays through a song brightens up his days in ways he didn't think was possible anymore, as well, but that's a secret he plans to keep to himself for a while.) 

But by the end of September, four o'clock on Tuesday comes by slowly, especially since his and Emma's schedules have apparently shifted so they're never coming or going at the same time, but when she answers his knock on her door, he immediately feels a calm wash over him. Sure, he feels his heart in his throat, and when she smiles at him and takes a step back to let him in the house, he can swear that he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. 

Shit, he's in deep. 

"Hello, love," he says, returning her smile as he steps through the doorway. 

"Hey, Killian," she says back, leaning back against the door to push it shut. "I, uh, thought I already said something to you, but Henry's not here right now." 

"Oh." He tries not to let his upset show on his face. This time that he spends with Henry Swan and his mother has become the highlight of his week, but since Henry isn't here, he assumes that means he should go home. 

But neither of them move. 

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it does every time he's found himself in this gorgeous woman's presence, and he counts the moments that pass through his heartbeats: one, two, three, four. 

"Where is the lad, if you don't mind me asking?" 

She shrugs, still physically blocking him from leaving. "He's with his dad." 

"On a Tuesday night?"

She looks down at the floor, holding out her hands out into her line of vision. "We’re going away next weekend with David and Mary Margaret, so it’s to make up for the time he’s missing. But believe me, he would much rather be here with you." 

“I’ve only ever heard him say good things about his father.” 

“Do you really think that he would tell a stranger about the bad things?” she snaps, and he reels back immediately, regretting ever bringing it up in the first place. Biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he tries to push memories of doing the same thing from his mind, tries not to think of all the times he wanted to tell someone other than his brother of the way he was being treated — and he, of course, remembers the embarrassment that came whenever someone tried to bring it up. 

Killian thinks back to the only time he’s met Henry’s father, after helping move the piano into their living room, and he begs once again that this man is nothing like Brennan Jones. 

“Of course,” he says finally, his voice soft with regret and the memory of his own father’s drunken escapades, and he swallows the memories down like bile. 

A beat passes between them, long enough to make Killian sure that he should simply excuse himself and go home, but it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

“Do you want to come in for lunch?” she blurts, her eyes quickly flitting away from his when he tries to find them. 

“Pardon?” He’s not thrown off by the question, really, as much as he is the sentiment. 

“I just — I feel bad that I forgot to tell you that Henry’s with Neal, and now you don’t have anything to do for the next hour, and I was already reheating some of Marg's soup and making sandwiches, so I can — you know what, just… forget it, forget that I asked—” 

“I would love to.”

The look on her face when she finally brings her eyes to meet him makes him sure that his acceptance is the last thing she expects. 

Her kitchen is much more welcoming than his, bright and colorful with the fitting smell of chicken soup wafting from it. "Grilled cheese alright?" she asks, moving past him towards the fridge after gesturing for him to take a seat at the table. 

"Is it ever not?" 

The twinkling laugh she lets out actually seems to brighten the kitchen even further, which he would not have thought possible. 

"I knew I liked you for a reason." 

If the words affect her nearly as much as they do him, she hides it well, moving daintily through the kitchen to gather the rest of the supplies for the sandwiches. He is thankful for the moment of silence that passes between them, noticing for the first time the soft music coming from a small speaker on top of the fridge — he half-recognizes the song, he thinks from Harry Potter? — as he regains his composure, settles the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

"What made you start playing music?" 

And just like that, the pounding comes back. It's an innocent question, one that he gets asked a lot, and one he usually brushes over with a mention of his mother and her affinity for the piano. But, in the welcoming warmth of Emma Swan’s kitchen, he finds himself wanting to tell her everything, wanting to tell the whole story for the first time in a very long time, all the broken bottles and broken promises and broken wrists, the happy songs and the sad songs and one too many damn funeral marches, the drunken spat with the drunken man that almost made him lose his hand, and the life of sobriety that he swore himself into, exchanging his hatred for one parent with his love for another. 

And then he hears the words coming from his mouth, a poisonous story uninvited into this space, into this wonderful woman's life, but it becomes the edited and abridged version as quickly as he can save it: "My father wasn't the nicest man, though he treated my mum the worst of all of us, and in order to find some semblance of peace in the world, she taught herself how to play the piano. And she taught me, too. Tried to teach Liam, but he was never very good at it. So it became a stress relief for me, and I just kept finding new instruments and learning how to play those to keep myself from spiraling, and when it came time for me to figure out my place in the world, music was the obvious answer." 

She hums from her place at the stove, slowly stirring the small pot of soup with a wooden spoon. The movement of her nodding head is small, almost enough that Killian wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching her so intently. Somehow, he can tell that she wants to say something, maybe has a story like his own that she’s trying to piece together into a semblance of something normal, and he doesn’t push her. 

“I get that,” she says finally, still not turning her attention away from the stove. He doesn’t mind; he’s not sure that he’s ready for that level of intimacy, for looking at each other while sharing their backstories — quite the jump from the casual neighborly hello’s and short conversations they have shared by this point. “That’s why I run, even though sometimes it makes me want to die. It was the only time I had alone when I was in—younger, and it’s still the only time I can do something and not be drowning in my own thoughts the whole time.” 

He wonders about her slip of the tongue, the eloquent way she caught herself —  and the way she straightened her back slightly as she corrected herself. 

But the last thing he wants is for her to question anything that he said, so he’s certainly not going to say anything, only watch her as she reaches into a cabinet to pull out two bowls, pouring some soup in each of them. 

“That’s how I am with the piano. When I sit down in front of it, it’s like my whole brain shuts down and there’s nothing except the music. My mum told me she was the same way when I got a bit older, and it explained why I would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and hear her downstairs on the old upright the church donated to us. And Liam says the same thing about being behind the wheel of anything.” 

When she finally turns towards him, a bowl of soup in each hand and a smile on her face, he knows that he has finally found someone to understand. 

And he could not be more ecstatic that it is Emma Swan.

-- Part Two will post as soon as I finish it! --

tags: @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ @wellhellotragic​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @teamhook​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @thisonesatellite​ @superchocovian​ @carpedzem​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ -- if you want to be tagged in part two, let me know; if you no longer want to be tagged in my works, just send me a message! 

[whereyoustand]

a letter i wrote this morning to my college counsellor this morning 💫

I'm not looking forward to going back into college but there isn't much I can do except move forward. I recently purchased some desk planners so I can plan out my day and my week rather than not do much and feel underachieved for the next few days. These planners remind me to track my drinking and eating habits and plan out some work tasks and some life tasks as well as small notes to myself which I usually put a positive affirmation quote.

I've been finding online lessons just as difficult for specific classes. I have internet difficulties, but I also feel like every time I sit in a lesson the work is to read and make notes, so I feel like I'm not taking anything in but instead just working rather than learning. I feel like because of this I'm worried I won't get into university which is my end goal for this year. All I need is three Cs, and I emailed my lecturers to tell them. My RS lecturer says I need to complete all my overdue essays which is what I'm doing (slowly but surely), my psychology lecturer says my predicted grade is a D, but she won't know what I'll get at the end of the year, and my criminology lecturer hasn't replied yet.

In my spare time I've been going to work which is stressful because we must keep to covid restrictions in such a tiny space. I also must deal with interacting with hundreds of people in one shift which makes me more anxious. I had a bad cough a month ago and kept having panic attacks at the idea of coughing in public. I try to stop myself from coughing which meant my throat would close and I'd panic more. I had to say goodbye to my manager who got a new job so now I've got a new one. It was sad and I got her a card but even though I knew she was leaving a month before hand; I was still upset. However, I have been able to acknowledge that nothing in life is permanent, even a manager at a fast food restaurant. I know that I will have to say goodbye to everything and so I feel like that has made me emotionally tone deaf because I am not good with dealing with emotions of another person, so I seem to come across and cold-hearted. I don't know how to process these emotions of loss, grief, and those negative feelings. I'll cry but I feel like there's no genuine sadness behind it because I know that's the way that life is. I know when I cry because I'm sad it's usually because I'm angry because I can't get it together. I also have never had any way of getting anger out apart from crying. My younger sister will get physical, and my oldest sister will curse the house down, my mum will throw things at walls or to the floor. I just sit there and cry. 

Anyways, I also got a Nintendo Switch for Christmas, so I've been playing animal crossing which is a good game. Well, the actual gameplay is awful, but the concept and the characters are amazing. I have tried to stop myself from playing all the time, but I enjoy it too much. I like the interaction with the characters in the game and I like to sit and chat to them. They also give very good advice, for example one of my characters Molly recently said, "You seem exhausted. I care about you a lot, so if it's true that you're having a hard time, know I'm here for you, quackidee". I got a little emotional about this statement because it's so raw despite coming from a character who is literally a duck. Also, one of my characters Sherb was leaving my island and said, "I also find it to be quite sad when someone says goodbye in a situation but then I saw on TV that there was something different. No, what TV folks do is... they smile... and they say, 'I'll see you later!'. So that's why... I'll see ya later!" I never realised that a game like this was going to make mem feel so much. I think I found comfort in this game and these characters because even though they are fictional and whatnot, they have some words of wisdom and very funny one liner that make me feel a lot less alone in a time that if full of loneliness. I also had to get a blood test to find out I'm vitamin D deficient and I must take four pills within an hour every morning. I hat swallowing pills, so I've started mixing up my pills with my food which is a tip I read online that seems to work really well. Despite trying to get my life together, I still feel like I'm getting nowhere in my life.

Sorry for the long rant, it's been a while.

[malicedragoness]

Came up with an h/c prompt! H/Cs for post-burn Kabal feeling down and lonely but is asked out on a date for the first time since the accident? What's going through his head and how does he handle the date? Post-burn Kabal needs so much love and care! Thank you! :) :) :)

I love post burns Kabal to death. He needs all the love. Every last drop. So here’s a cute little scenario. :D

Holy shit this whole post got away from me!

Word count: 2,297!

-You work at a comic book store and notice Kabal come in every week to pick up his subscriptions. When you first saw him, you were curious about him. The mask, hoodie, and gloves made him look like he was going to rob the place. And then guilt hit you when you noticed his burned neck while he was browsing. It explained his mask and wearing his hoodie zipped all the way up on a hot day.

-Every time he came to the register you tried small talk with him. “How are you today?” “Man, it’s hot/cold outside!” “Did you find everything ok?” “Need help with something?” “God I’m tired of hearing this damn song play.”

-He would just grunt or not say anything at all. It made you think he hated you, so you just carried on with your normal routine of ‘greeting the customer, telling them their total, and thank you/have a great day’ spiel. 

-Until one day, you were on a ladder hanging up displays on the wall. You were being stubborn and instead of taking the old Star Wars toys off a detachable hook to move it up higher, you decided to just grab it with all the toys on it and lift it up to the next spot up. You learned quickly that was not a good idea! But you were already committed to this dumbass course of action and stubbornly stuck to your guns of “I can fucking do this” and tried to lift it over your head.

-Your dumbass could not fucking do it.

-You foot slipped, tweaking your ankle, and you fell backwards. Star Wars toys going everywhere while you braced for impact. Only for Kabal to catch you bridal style and shield you from the toys flying everywhere.

-He asked if you were ok and you were stunned. That was first time he ever said anything to you! And his voice was didn’t sound like the one you made up in your head at all. You expected something more gravelly or raspy. Not the pleasant audible chocolate you heard.

-When you came to your senses and told him that you were ok, just a little shook from falling to your doom, he nods and is still holding you. Both of you just staring at each other. You looking at his mask, him looking at you through the mask. Until one of your coworkers comes to see what the commotion is about.

-That’s when you both snap out of the trance you were in and Kabal tried to set you down, only for you to cry out from trying to put weight on your ankle. Kabal picks you back up, surprised that you’re not protesting him touching you, and brings you to the chair behind the register and sits you down. Your coworker getting you an ice pack and stool for your ankle.

-Kabal sits with you for a minute, making sure you’re ok and you thank him over and over again. When you call him your knight in shining armor, he goes rigid and doesn’t say anything. He stutters out a few unintelligible words and says “I uh.. I gotta go.” And he leaves immediately.

-You feel sad as he speeds away and your coworker chimes in “Man. Has he got the hots for you!” You ask what would make them say that and they answer with “He mostly comes in when you’re here. And when you’re not he doesn’t browse, he just gets his stuff and goes. He also stutters when you talk to him. Seems like a shy guy.”

-”Shy guy, huh?” It made you think of the Mario character ‘Shy Guy’. Which really fits Kabal as he wears a mask and hoodie just like the character. That was your secret name for him now.

-The next time Kabal comes in, you greet him with a big smile and wave at him from behind the register. He stands completely still for a second before he nervously walks up to you and asks how your your ankle is. That’s when you take the opportunity to really get to know him. You noticed he always picks up certain comic books and you decide to ask him questions. “So what do you like most about the Flash?” “Who do you like more: Barry Allen or Wally West?”

-That’s what started the friendship between you two. Everytime Kabal came in you two would talk about the latest issues, as well as good story lines, who would win a death battle, and all kinds of nerdy things. Even your coworkers will join in the conversation and give their opinions. It got to the point where Kabal was so comfortable with everyone there, he would just pull up a chair and sit there for an hour or two and talk.

-You really liked Kabal and desperately wished that he would ask you out at some point. You didn’t care about the burns you were able to see. You enjoyed his humor, his wittiness, and his personality. All of your coworkers knew you had a crush on him now. Whenever Kabal left for the day, they encouraged you to be the one to ask him out first. They inferred that maybe he was a ‘Shy Guy’ and you would reject him because of his burns. 

-You didn’t know the whole staff planned to force you to ask him out the next time he came in. Kabal sat down at his usual spot, you behind the register unable to go anywhere else, all your coworkers seemingly elsewhere. Until one of them walks by “Hey Kabal, Y/N has something to ask you!” and then proceeded to walk the fuck away! That son of a bitch!

-You blushed profusely as Kabal looked at you. “What did you want to ask me, Y/N?” Your whole face was red and you looked down as you stuttered for a bit. “Well, I uh.. I… I really like talking with you. And I was hoping that, maybe, if you’re interested, and if not that’s fine. But if you are, would you like to maybe have coffee or tea sometime with me?”

-You looked up at Kabal and he stared hard at you! Not being able to see his facial expressions made you even more nervous so you went into a blabbering mess. “I mean it doesn’t have to be tea or coffee or anything like that. It was just the only thing I could think of. And don’t feel pressured to say yes if you don’t want to. I just really like talking to you and I would like to see you outside of this store. But if not, no pressure! Please don’t feel obligated to say yes if you don’t want to. Or even if you want to think about it first and then get back to me. Take you time. I’m babbling aren’t I? I always babble when I’m nervous. I’ll just shut up and-”

-”Y-yes. I would.” Your eyes widened and a big smile spread across your face. “Really?” You asked. Kabal nodded his head and you two agreed to get some coffee down the street on your lunch break the next day.

- - - -

(Since this got away from me, and the original ask was from Kabal’s POV. We are now switching over to him. Enjoy! :D )

-Kabal had been coming to this comic book store regularly ever since you tried to small talk and flash him those bright smiles. It was an instant attraction from the start, and he was too nervous to ever say anything back. And yet you kept trying anyway. He knew it was an unhealthy crush as he would never get anywhere with a sweet person like you. But it lit up his day to walk in and hear you greet him and talk about something as mundane as the weather.

-But the dynamics shifted when you fell from that ladder and he caught you in his strong arms. When you came to your senses and said that you were ok, he realized that you didn’t protest him holding you in his arms and he just stood there like dumbass staring at you.

-It just felt so nice to be able to hold you. And not once did you cower away from him. You didn’t even ask him to put you down! But he set you on a chair behind the register, and when you called him your knight in shining armor, he froze. He was glad his mask hid the furious blush on his face and he high tailed it out of there. 

-Whenever he came back, that’s when you became friends and he talked to you and your coworkers about all the nerdy things he enjoys. It was wonderful to have that human interaction again! He’s been so lonely and depressed he felt like he was drowning from it. And not one person asked about his burns or treated him differently because of it.

-His crush for you grew also. He never thought he would find someone that loved nerdy things, was smoking hot, and talked to him like another human being. But he still wouldn’t ask you out. You gotta have a boyfriend/girlfriend at home. You had to. No way were you single. And if you were, he didn’t think you would find him attractive. So being friends had to be ok.

-And when you asked him out for either coffee or tea, his whole body froze. Did he just hear right? Were you asking him out? Was this a joke? But when you started babbling and he heard “I really like talking to you” he realized you weren’t joking. And you, this perfect and incredibly hot nerd, wanted to go on a coffee date with him, his entire nervous system shut down!

-”Y-yes I would.” Shit! Did he really just say that? His mouth was moving before his brain caught up. He was going to take it back until you flashed that radiant smile at him, and suddenly you were making plans to go to the coffee shop a few stores down from here. He felt like a thousand butterflies were swarming around in his stomach.

-Kabal was so nervous that night, he didn’t get much sleep. He looked through his closet and wondered what to wear that looked nice, but didn’t show much skin. He called Erron, who thankfully happened to be in Earthrealm at the moment. Once Kabal said he has a date and he needs some help, Erron came over to help him out.

-Kabal blubbered on and paced around the room, nervously explaining to Erron that he has a coffee date with you. What should he wear? Does he wear a button down with a turtle neck underneath to hide his skin? Does he go buy a new hoodie? Should he show up in a tux? WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE DO?!

-Erron finally smackes him on the back of the head and makes Kabal realize it’s ‘just a cup of coffee.’ “They like the clown shit you’re into? Wear one of those damn hoodies with the funny lookin’ characters on it, some jeans, and your boots. And your least scary mask, boy.” Kabal does just that and leaves to go meet you.

-You and Kabal sit in a quiet corner away from everyone else. You offer for him to sit down and order your drinks for him so he doesn’t have to face to the barista. And he’s very thankful for that. He orders a frappe so he can drink something through a straw. Thus not having to take his mask off. He just needs to lift it up a bit and get the straw in his mouth.

-He’s too nervous to start a conversation and he’s thankful that you’re pulling most of the weight. Asking him random things “Did you grow up here?” “What’s your family like?” “Do you have pets?” 

-He’s answers them, still a nervous wreck. But all of that changes when you make a bold statement. “Superman is faster than the Flash.”

-WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? “Flash ran so fast he went back in time to save his mother and changed HISTORY! How the hell is Superman faster?”

-You both went back to talking about nerdy things and it helped Kabal relax and be more himself. The topics shifted to different topics so naturally after that. You talked about family, friends, pets, work, embarrassing moments, funny moments. It’s been a long time since he’s had a wholesome conversation with another person and feel like he himself was good enough. 

-The date seemed to end far too quickly as you had to go back to work. Kabal walked you back to the store and you both paused in front of the door, looking at eachother.

-”I had a great Kabal.” You smiled brightly at him.

“I did too.” He felt the butterflies in his stomach again. And he decided to take the plunge and ask you out. “Y/N, would uh… like to have dinner sometime?”

Somehow, your smile got bigger and your eyes lit up. “I would love that.”

His breath caught in his throat and he shook his head. Say something you moron! “I’ll call you to plan something.”

“I look forward to it. I had a great time Kabal.” You opened the door to the store, still smiling at him.

“I did too. I’ll call you later!”

“You better Shy Guy.” You walked in and waved goodbye at him.

He waved back feeling like an idiot in love. “Shy Guy huh?”

[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.