#The Nigh Circus AU

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (4/5)

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. ~13.4k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

A/N: It's back, at long last! Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan, and to @ohmightydevviepuu for all her help with the tarot stuff. And, of course, a HUGE thanks to my artist, @eirabach. She made me a gif for this chapter! A gif! How freaking cool is that! Lastly, thanks to the ladies of the IAS for their support as I poured blood, sweat, and tears into this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Stay tuned later tonight for me to post a short epilogue, and this one is done.

Tagging those previously interested: @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @wistfulcynic, @iverna, @stahlop, @cssns

Enjoy!

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Nick sees things - things other people don’t see. He always has. Sometimes they’re things that have already happened, and sometimes they’re things that haven’t happened yet, but they’re there. He knows them, the way he knows what he had for breakfast and what his sister’s face looks like. True, unchangeable things, no matter what anyone else does or doesn’t see. 

(People don’t always believe him, of course, but that’s alright; Nick doesn’t need to be believed. Whether or not people believe what he sees does not have any bearing on the truth of the matter.)

A long time ago, Nick had seen Henry at the Circus. He’d told Ava that much; by the time Henry had shown up that second time, the year they’d turned sixteen, they’d known to expect him, and known that his fate was tied inextricably to the Circus and to themselves. It’s one of the reasons Ava had asked Henry to stay - that absolute certainty that he belonged in the Circus, grounded in the things Nick had seen. 

It hadn’t been the right time. Nick didn’t say it, but he knew all the same. The future only ever comes in flashes - a crude ring, towering flames, a sense of cold and stillness, and Henry, somehow in the middle of all of it, still young but grown, a few short years in the future perhaps. It’s unmistakable. It’s fate, of a kind that is yet to occur. 

If there is one thing Nick knows, it is that not all futures yet to come should be spoken aloud. Henry Mills’ entwinement with the Circus, whatever it yet may be, is one of them. 

Still - as Henry and his sister mourn the early train from miles apart, Nick smiles to himself. 

This story, whatever it may become, is far from over. 

———

Knowing the nature of this competition doesn’t make things any easier, Emma discovers. In fact, it only makes things harder. 

Maybe, at a certain level, she always knew it had to end like this. Maybe she just didn’t want to face it - Regina’s pointed silence on the subject, the increasing weight of this endeavor as the years had rolled on, the way Regina and Gold both had tried so hard to establish a divide between her and Killian. Now, however, is the era of facing this hard truth.

Mulan is right; falling in love with Killian made this an even greater tragedy than it already would have been. Winning was always a distant concept, but now it is simply unthinkable - knowing that her winning would mean his death. 

It does not help knowing that he would say the same thing. 

The Circus weighs heavier on her each day. It’s been nearly twenty years since they welcomed their first visitors, and even longer since this whole endeavor started. On the surface, Emma may still look like a young woman, but she feels each of those years in her mind and her body and her soul as the days tick by. Knowledge of how this must end only makes her more aware of the burden.

Some days, she wonders if it would be easier to just… give in. Accept the inevitability of the extent of the magic she carries. It would spare Killian, for certain, physically if not emotionally. What stays her hand each time is all the other lives tied to their competition now. Dozens of lives and livelihoods rest on her shoulders now, a thing she doubts anyone considered at the beginning of this all. What would happen to everyone whose lives have been put on hold if she lets go? What other unimaginable fallouts might come to pass?

No answer is immediately evident. No matter how much Emma searches her books, she fears the outcome will be the same: that there’s no way to minimize this damage, no matter how much she tries. 

———

Henry is 18, and the world has lost much of its shine and glorious possibility. 

He’d been an imaginative boy, and an imaginative young man, but those kinds of thoughts seem impossibly far away now. More than anything, Henry wants to learn, to go to telegraph school or maybe even college, but that just feels like a foolish dream most days, when he trudges down to the shipyards for another day at work, barely making enough pay for a little bit of lunch and the rent for his boarding house’s landlady at the end of the week. It is grueling work, constructing cargo ships and ocean liners, and Henry won’t pretend he enjoys it, but they’d been hiring when the sisters had made it clear he’d need to find his own way in the world and he couldn’t afford to be picky. Besides, he’s good at this; Henry may not be as strong as so many of the men he works with, but he’s quick and wiry and precise, able to wiggle into tight spaces when needed. This is not the life Henry ever imagined for himself, but that’s living, he supposes - settling, making do, focusing more on the business of surviving than any lofty goals.

Still, in a box under his bed at the boarding house filled with the little treasures he’s collected over the years, lives a single white glove, still soft and pristine after all these years. On nights that Henry indulges himself in dreams, he pulls the glove out and remembers the circus, all the lights and the smells and the people, the kind vendors who’d slipped him popcorn and Emma the magician and especially Ava, who’d kissed his cheek under the autumn sunlight and made him feel like he could be somebody. 

We’ll see each other again - I promise, she’d said, and Henry had believed her. Even now, six years of heartache and disappointment and waiting later, there’s still a part of him that believes. It’s why he’s stayed here, within easy distance of the old fields where the Circus had unfolded, when he could find a better job with the railways. He can’t leave, not when they might still come back. After all - Ava had promised.

Henry will wait, and remember. But each day, it grows a little harder to dream.

———

There is a bonfire at the center of the Circus.

Bonfire, perhaps, is too mundane a word for the structure before you. The flame itself dances in unnatural ways, higher and then lower, swirling in patterns you’ve never seen fire take, tendrils periodically flashing with brilliant bursts of color before settling to a brilliant orange again. Surrounding the marvel is a cast iron cauldron, delicately constructed and appearing brilliantly strong for the contrast. Everything else spirals out from there - every path, every tent, every performance. Every bit of the Circus, with that fire throbbing at its center like a beating heart. 

You’d come years ago, too, when the Circus was still young, and the bonfire had flared at its center then too. Something is different now, however, you can’t help but feel. There’s something more… intense, about the flames, something more demanding and frantic and pressing. Where the fire had once lapped gently, like waves against a wrought iron shore, it burns furiously and desperately now, higher and higher. It speaks of something imminent, that might yet still be terrible or glorious. 

You step away, trailing back outwards along a silver-paved path. The bonfire seems now to mix wonder with fear, in a way you didn’t notice before. 

But then again - what else will a fire do, if not burn?

———

Belle - 

You told me, once, several years ago, to be careful - that change was coming, was in the air and in the cards. You also told me, in an entirely different conversation, that love was entirely too risky and wonderful to let pass by. 

Who would have thought that both those warnings would come together at the same time, and in the same person? I think, perhaps, you may have been bright enough to see the writing on the wall. I, for one, was not. 

Love is beautiful, Belle. She is beautiful, and brilliant, and so bloody good that it takes my breath away sometimes. Is this how you feel, with your Will? This overwhelming love that makes me willing to do anything, give up anything to make sure she’s happy? It is powerful, and terrifying, the way I wake up each morning willing to throw it all away if only she asks - maybe even before. Perhaps there’s an irony in the fact we’re meant to be competitors, diametrically opposed in every way - or, perhaps, the forces that set this all in motion never stopped to think that the very ways in which we were opposed made us more compatible than any other two people in the world. 

In truth, I’m writing to you today, Belle, because I think I know what needs to be done, and I don’t want you to worry. This is my choice - and I will always, always choose her. Things are changing, and I’m not entirely sure where that will leave me at the end of this. But as you once said - I’m choosing to believe that change is for the better. 

With all my love,

-Killian

———

Belle Scarlet, nee French, likes to start her day with a cup of tea and the paper and her correspondence. This morning brings a letter from Killian, and with it, more questions than answers. Her old friend’s words are simultaneously joyous and desperate in tone, leaving her puzzled more than anything else. 

Belle doesn’t read her cards very often, anymore. There’s no real need to. The years of telling visitors a never-ending string of futures had been some of the most joyous of her life, but she’s enjoying this quieter existence. Killian’s words, however… it’s enough to send Belle for her personal set in her desk drawer, to see if the universe will be any more forthcoming. 

The cards… the cards are a mess. Belle struggles to find any sense in what possibilities they present. She’d read for Killian, or she’d intended to, but what she sees in front of her speaks more to the Circus instead, like the two have become too intertwined to separate. Swords and their conflict flash throughout, the Lovers, the Devil and the Chariot and Judgement. The message is unclear, but there’s an undeniable urgency that speaks to her. At the center of it all is the Hanged Man. Belle knows this card, and its many meanings; knows how often it should be interpreted as events churning forward without one’s control. But it sits there, ominous in its depiction anyways, spurring Belle to action. She’s almost out the door, coat in hand, when she remembers something. Doubling back to the same drawer that keeps her cards, she retrieves the small, velvet pouch Mulan had pressed into her hand the day Belle left the Circus. 

If Belle isn’t mistaken, she’ll finally have cause to use it. 

It’s been years since she visited Killian in his apartment, but Belle still remembers the way, his address imprinted on her mind as the place this all began. It had always been an unassuming little set of rooms, never the kind of place you’d expect to find a powerful magician. Maybe that makes sense, in a way - the possibility of finding magic in the quietest, least likely places. 

When Killian opens the door, he looks exhausted, more than Belle has ever seen. She can’t be certain what has happened the past two years, her friend’s letters always rather vague on specifics, but she can see how it presses down on his shoulders. Behind him, the apartment is in disarray in a manner she’s not used to seeing, books abandoned still open on every spare surface. On his desk in the middle of it all sits a paper model of one of the Circus tents; if Belle isn’t mistaken, it’s one that belongs to Miss Swan, the illusionist. 

Oh, Killian.

“Tell me what’s happened,” she says gently. 

He gestures her in, though sitting space is at a premium, books and scraps of paper taking over every space. As Belle gently rearranges things to perch on the arm of an armchair, Killian himself collapses into the seat behind his desk. 

“It’s the competition,” he tells her. “I finally know how it ends.”

“And?”

He tilts his head in her direction, smiling sadly. “It’s a test of endurance,” he finally says after a heavy pause, “not of skill. The last one standing wins.”

Killian’s words set off a chill down to Belle’s bones as their truth sinks in. It is unsurprising, somehow, after years of mystery and deflection, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying. “And you love your competitor,” is all she can say in the end. 

“Aye. I do.” Killian’s hand fumbles for a glass of dark liquor on the sideboard, taking a long drink. “To lose, after all this time, seems unthinkable. But to win… that would be even worse.”

“A situation in which no one wins, really. Except, perhaps, your benefactors.”

“Exactly that.” He takes another drink before Belle rises to gently pry the crystal out of his hand. There’s a fire in his eyes as he looks up at her, a sort of determination, but the tragedy still lurks just behind his gaze. “I know what I need to do, Belle. I do. But there’s the Circus to consider, and even then… I don’t know that she’ll ever forgive me.”

“Does she love you, as you love her?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Then she’ll forgive you,” Belle says simply. “She’ll understand. But something is at hand, Killian, something with the Circus. Something immediate, that will not be ignored.”

“Something that will have to happen without me.” Killian’s gaze is distant as he looks out his window overlooking a very English street.

Belle pulls him into a hug as her mind churns. She’d had a suspicion when she came here that her intervention was necessary - it’s why she’d grabbed Mulan’s gift, after all - but it’s another thing to face the moment with certainty. Whatever is about to happen, she knows it will be the last she sees of her friend. 

(Surreptitiously, she slips the Hanged Man into his pocket. When she’d first seen the card, she’d thought it heralded doom, and perhaps it still does. The Hanged Man, though, represents so much more: sacrifice for a cause, and surrender to greater forces, and letting one phase end for the sake of a new beginning. A merciful death with eyes wide open. 

Some fates are unavoidable. And some endings are necessary to usher in something more.)

“Not necessarily,” she tells him, stepping back out of their tight embrace.

“Not necessarily? Belle, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but if I don’t even know what’s going on, there’s nothing I can do from here. Whatever’s about to happen - I can’t stop it. It’s not possible.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sighs fondly. You know, it’s funny - there’s no reason to make this moment more dramatic than it already inherently is, but after all of Killian’s own dramatics over the years… it feels fitting. Belle carefully draws the little bag out of her purse. Inside is a fine powder that Mulan had promised could transport someone back to the Circus if the time was right and the circumstances necessary. Unlike so much of the Circus, the powder is a shining gold, fine and soft when Belle tips the pouch’s contents into her hand. “You’ve forgotten one important thing,”

His face draws into a suspicious expression as he watches her hands move, seemingly cluing into the fact that she has plans of her own. “What’s that?”

Maybe the question is responding to her words; maybe it’s responding to her motions. Either way, her answer is the same. “There’s magic in this world, Killian. And that makes so many impossible things real.”

And with a sudden gust of breath, she sends the powder Mulan had gifted her to envelop Killian, surrounding him in a golden cloud. When the powder finally dissipates, Killian is gone, his glass on the desk the only sign he’d even been there. 

There’s a feeling in Belle’s heart that maybe, this is the last time she sees Killian, but whatever that feeling is, it isn’t quite dread. Acceptance, maybe, and inevitability.

Belle lets herself back out into the street and slips into the early-morning crowd. Whatever happens - she’s played her part. Things are the way they’re supposed to be. 

———

When the dust settles, Killian finds himself outdoors. A brief glance reveals him to be right in the center of the Circus, mere steps from the bonfire. Despite the rainy weather, the flames still dance and flicker, the center force of this whole enterprise churning ever forward. Somehow, he’s been transported thousands of miles, clear across the ocean from London to Maine. Others, he knows, would be shocked by such a sudden change; Killian has become far too weary for that. 

That same glance also reveals Mulan waiting as if she knew he was coming, her fingers tapping on the pommel of her sword the only indication of a less-than-perfect patience. It is even less surprising, somehow, than his abrupt transportation. 

“Ah good,” she says. “The former Miss French still shows impeccable timing.”

“So this is your doing?”

“That would, perhaps, be an overstatement,” she admits, handing him an umbrella. “I simply provided her with a tool. I thought it might be of use.”

“And yet you knew to wait.”

“I do not have Belle’s gifts; I will not pretend to such things. But the magic is… fraying, shall we say. Spiraling out of control. I can recognize a crisis point when it is upon us.”

Killian waits for her to continue, but the next words never come. After far too long a silence, he waves a prompting hand. “And?”

“You were clever at the start of all this,” Mulan tells him. “Tying your portion of the Circus to the book, and to the bonfire - that was wise. The separation acts as a pressure release valve, taking much of the burden off yourself. Miss Swan…” She pauses. “Well. Miss Swan, despite all her talents, has not done the same.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but do you know the extent? If Emma were to drop dead right now - the entire Circus would collapse in on itself. It’s a stroke of luck that this breaking point has not come while we were in transit, or the resulting crash would likely prove fatal to many of those here.”

“So you are asking me to - to end it.”

“Not exactly.” Mulan smiles cryptically. “Have you had much cause to speak with Nicholas Zimmer?” Killian shakes his head. “Young Mr. Zimmer is blessed with a rare gift - to see those things that happened long ago, with the kind of clarity most cannot see the present. One of his favorite tales is that of Merlin. Are you familiar?”

It rings a faint bell, like something he’d read in a book once. “The sorcerer, aye? And the tree.”

“Precisely. Now, most stories say he transformed himself into a tree, but it was something more similar to binding his spirit. Somewhere out there is an ancient oak, with the soul of a powerful magician trapped inside. That is what I ask of you. The Circus is born of both yours and Emma’s talents - and no matter who takes themselves off the board, it will cause a catastrophic collapse. But if you bind yourself to the Circus…”

“You believe it will keep the operation going. A loophole, if you will.”

“Exactly. Enough time to more effectively separate Miss Swan from her own magical bonds, and leave this place fully self-sufficient. But only if you’re willing.”

If he’s willing. What kind of question is that? If it will save Emma, and protect what they’ve created… it’s no question at all. “Do it.”

Mulan smiles. “I thought you might say that.” She lifts her hands briefly, as if about to commence immediately, before dropping them again. When you know what to look for, the similarities between Mulan’s and Emma’s magic is unmistakable - the intricate motions like weaving a tapestry out of thin air. “Is there anyone you need to speak to, first?” she asks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. 

Killian thinks of Emma, and of his brother. Liam will understand, he thinks; something like this has been coming for most of their lives. Emma…

Perhaps it is best that Emma not know. He already knows she’d never agree. 

“No. There are not many people in my life, and I think they’ll understand. Do as you must.”

With a solemn nod, Mulan lifts her hands again, weaving intricate patterns. Behind Killian, the bonfire flares, growing taller and hotter and stronger. There’s a glow in the space between them, now, something that might be magic or might be the fire or might, even, be both. He can feel something pulling at his back, like strings knotted over and over to tie him to the bonfire. 

Killian almost closes his eyes, lets himself surrender to the binds, when he hears a sudden shout. Through the growing blaze, Killian can just see Emma, running at full speed, beautiful in a blue dress and determined in a way he’s never seen. Mulan diligently works through the disturbance, hands moving as fast as they can, but Emma’s faster, and the spell hasn’t quite set, and - 

He opens his arms on instinct, accepting Emma’s weight as she latches on to him, and lets them both fall. 

———

(Emma hadn’t really thought it through before she threw herself at Killian - she’d just seen Mulan’s hands moving over the Circus book and so many strings looping around Killian and the tome and the fire and she’d just - reacted. 

There’s a bare moment of burning as his arms close around her, like that first moment when a strange man had given her a stranger ring, before it fades to the kind of comforting warmth she’s only ever found with Killian. Then they’re falling, falling, falling - 

And then, blessed nothingness.)

(If this is the end - well, Emma will always wonder if they were able to save the Circus that so many call home. She hopes so. But if this is the end, she’s glad to have faced it with him.)

———

The fire folds in on itself, absorbing both competitors as it extinguishes, and suddenly Mulan is the only one left at the metal grate. This turn of events is not what she expected, precisely, but it does not surprise her either. 

Love makes one do foolish things. Mulan only wishes she had accepted that sooner. 

The Circus is still around her, all the lives within it paused with the cessation of the lifeblood fire. It pulls at Mulan, too, but she’s never much heeded such things if she does not want to. That’s the wonder of magic. 

For now, there’s nothing else to do but wait. She’d talked to Nicholas Zimmer beforehand, and Mulan knows there is still more that must be done. Young Mr. Zimmer hadn’t seen Miss Swan’s sacrifice, but he’d seen the fire extinguished and an iron ring and all of them, there at the edges. 

He’d told her about another piece, too - someone who hasn’t arrived yet. And if she isn’t mistaken, that will be the crucial linchpin. 

Mulan strolls leisurely towards the gate, prepared to wait as long as is necessary to see the end of this competition through. 

———

When the brightness of the fire dims - or perhaps that blinding light had been the work of the spell; he had been a bit distracted by other things rather than sorting out the difference - Killian finds himself in the Labyrinth. Alone.

It is not what he expected. 

The last thing he remembers is his arms around Emma, falling into nothing, but he wakes up to a familiar snowscape, all alone. Killian knows this maze like the back of his hand, however; has seen its chambers sprawled in paper across his desk, has watched each addition with joy and affection and wonder. There is nothing in this maze that can stop him from finding Emma - at least nothing that’s been conjured yet. 

Killian trails through all the familiar rooms they’ve built together these last several years: the playing cards and the paper animals and the room he knows is Emma’s favorite, with plush cushions scattered on every surface and something floral drifting through the air. 

The Circus has always been his - has been theirs - but this space more than any else. 

He finally finds Emma in the paper seascape. That’s fitting in its own way, he supposes -  to find her again in this room, where his love is written on every surface. There’s been an unnatural lightness even since he came back to himself in the snowy hall, something that means the ink never stains his shoes and he seems to pass straight through all the detritus of their surroundings, but Emma is warm and there when he cups her cheek. There’s something like heartbreak on her face, and something like exhaustion, but something like relief, too.

“Killian,” she breathes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t I?” It seems to him that he’s exactly where he ought to be. 

“No, you shouldn’t! You should be in London, and safe. I had a plan - ”

“Ah, but I had a plan too,” he interrupts. “In fact, you interrupted my particular plan.”

“To - to sacrifice yourself? Allow me to win? What sort of plan was that?”

Can she be so obtuse? Or is she simply selfless to the point of self-destruction? “One that would let you live.”

“And what use is that? You’ve got your brother, Belle -”

“But I wouldn’t have you.” It’s baffling, the way she discounts her own worth to him. “Don’t you understand, Emma? I told you I love you, and I meant it. What would my existence be if I survived at the cost of your own life? So yes, I was going to sacrifice myself, so that you could have the life that you deserve. I was trying to save you.”

“Maybe I didn’t want that,” she says. Emma meets his gaze steadily as she lifts her hands to gently grasp his lapels, like she’s imploring him to heed her words both in look and action. “I would have been alive, yes. But I wouldn’t want that, if it meant losing you. I love you, Killian,” she tells him - certain, sure and strong. “I know I never said it, but I do. I have for a long time. If you were willing to do this because you love me - is it so hard to imagine I’d do the same?”

He’d known, on some level, that she loves him - or hoped as much, at least. But hearing the words still sends what left of his soul soaring and his hands pulling her into an embrace, head dipping to share a kiss. They’ve had first kisses, and last kisses, and everything in between; happy kisses and sad kisses and so, so many scared kisses for all these years they’ve had to hide their love. This kiss now feels like something beautiful and new: a kiss tinged with the taste of freedom, that finally feels like their own. Maybe it’s absurd, under the circumstances, but Killian feels a lightness to his soul that makes him lift her on a whim until her face tilts down to meet his instead, spinning their entwined bodies in a slow circle. It’s silly - but it’s joyful, too, in a way they aren’t usually granted.

They’ve earned a little lightness after all this dark, he thinks. 

Killian brushes an escaped curl back behind Emma’s ear once they finally separate and he sets her back on her own two feet. “I love you, Emma Swan,” he says. “I don’t regret the choices I’ve made, not if it means we have this. Happy endings aren’t always what we think, love - but if I get to spend it with you, that’s plenty happy for me.”

Killian brings his mouth back to her own, savoring the way her smile tastes. 

For the first time, it feels like they have all the time in the world. 

———

“It still weighs on me,” Emma confesses, once they’ve finally drunk their fill of kisses. “The Circus, I mean. It pulls on me heavier than ever, and I have to spend so much concentration just to keep everything supported, and - ” She sighs heavily. “I’m so tired, Killian. When will we get to rest?”

“Soon, I think.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, pulls her closer into his arms. Mulan has a plan, if he’s not mistaken; there’s no other reason she would have been waiting for him tonight, already ready for his unexpected arrival. “Just hold on a little longer, love.”

They’ve been pawns in someone else’s game for so long; what’s a few hours more?

———

The Circus arrives at night. 

There is no warning, no whispers of what is coming, but Henry still keeps his eyes and ears open for news about the fields just outside of town, and he knows what those particular tents mean.

It has grown harder to imagine and to dream as the years have trudged on - eight of them, now, since Henry last saw the Circus when he was ten - but the news ignites a new fire in Henry that burns with the force of magic and memory. Once upon a time, when he was just a little, little boy, a not-quite princess in a black and white dress had promised him that the Circus would always be there for him; four years later, a different blonde had promised the same. But Henry has waited now, an entire two thirds of his life, and he’s done delaying those promises. This time, when the Circus leaves, Henry intends to go with it, one way or another.

The Circus arrives on a Thursday; these things never seem to happen on a day he has off work. The boys at the shipyard are already talking about the turn of events, discussing when to take sweethearts or siblings or families, and Henry - well, Henry shares the sentiment, in some ways. He can’t wait to visit, either. But Henry doesn’t have anyone to bring, the way they do; everyone he’d ever want to take is part of the Circus, leaving him the lone man out. 

It’s been raining all day, getting heavier and heavier as the day goes on. The Circus will close for inclement weather tonight, surely, but Henry takes the short trip out of town anyways. There’s something that draws him in to the site - this need to know, for certain, that this isn’t just another dream. That the Circus is here, and waiting, just for him.

(He takes a brief detour home, first, on the kind of instinct he’ll never be able to explain later. His little room doesn’t hold much, and he’s attached to very little of it, but the white glove still lives in a discarded cigar box underneath his bed. Henry doesn’t know what will happen next - if Ava’s offer still stands to run away with the Circus, if she and Nick will even recognize him after all the ways he’s changed - but he knows he wants this with him. 

It’s only later that he realizes just how lucky he was to have slipped the glove into his pocket.)

There’s a stillness about the place when he arrives, however, that belies even the expected closure sign. Henry’s been here before during inclement weather, but it never felt like this. The Circus has an energy about it that’s somehow… missing now. Like something’s wrong.

(Henry hopes he’s wrong about that, but in his heart, he knows he’s not.)

He’d assumed he’d have to break into the grounds again, though he hadn’t been sure how. When Henry arrives, however, there’s a woman already waiting at the front gates, huddled underneath an umbrella to block out the worst of the rain. There’s a sword at her side and she wears intricate Chinese armor in the same blacks and whites and silvers of the Circus, though Henry does not yet recognize her on sight. Beyond her, the Circus is silent and still, like she’s standing guard over everything within those gates. 

“Henry Mills, I presume?” Her voice holds a gravitas that belies its soft volume. Henry nods cautiously in return. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” It takes a moment before the first part of that sentence hits home. “Wait - how do you know my name?”

“The Zimmer twins speak highly of you,” the woman tells him before turning on her heel and starting down one of the paths at a brisk pace. “Now come along, keep up. We don’t have much time.”

“Not much time for what?”

She slows briefly, just long enough to cast a wry look in his direction. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“Well, you keep answering them.” 

“Touché, Mr. Mills.” There’s something about the woman’s mouth that almost looks like a smile before it’s gone again. It’s hard to say when she resumes her determined speed, talking as they go. “What do you know about the Circus?”

“I know the Circus is magic,” he says. No one ever told him as such so bluntly, but Henry had put it together over time. Certain things just can’t be explained, certain things in the same category as Nick’s second sight - and besides, he’d been young enough to believe it, back when he first realized. “I know things happen here that shouldn’t be possible, but are. It’s wonderful.”

“It is. It’s also complicated,” she tells him. “The Circus exists because of a competition, and because of its two players. They’ve built something beautiful. But do you know what happens in competitions?” Before Henry can answer, there’s an odd noise. Just over the woman’s shoulder, one of the smaller tents starts to cave in on itself. She nods like that’s enough of an answer - and when she speaks, Henry realizes that maybe, it is. “They end,” she tells him. “This way will be quicker; as I said, we haven’t much time.”

“So this… competition,” he prods. “It’s over? That’s why the Circus is falling apart?”

“Yes… And no,” his guide replies cryptically. It’s frustrating, asking so many questions and receiving so few answers. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, young Henry. There’s nothing enjoyable about this.” They walk on in silence for a moment, veering off down another path, before she speaks again. “One of our contestants, Mr. Jones, was prepared to take himself off the board, and I was prepared to help him do so in a way that would provide something like a permanent spine for the Circus. Miss Swan, however, interfered, resulting in some… unexpected circumstances.” With that, she draws back the flap to the tall acrobats’ tent. 

The group inside looks like an inclement weather party interrupted. Tables are still laden with food, candles flowing warmly. Every living thing within the tent, however, is frozen in unnatural stillness. Some people are clearly mid-conversation, or mid action, bites of food stilled halfway to mouths and hands stilled mid-gesture. A group of musicians appear to have been mid-song, instruments still raised in a playing position.

(Even as they stand there, watching the stillness, one of the chairs suspended from the roof of the tent for the acrobats to perform with drops, barely missing a clustered group as it shatters on the ground. The Circus may have been suspended too - but for how long?)

“In many ways, the Circus was built on the love Emma held for each and every person within its bounds; maybe not at first, but over time, it’s become inseparable from the very fabric, like the supports holding it all up,” she explains. “When Emma and Mr. Jones folded themselves into the Circus… I don’t know if it’s something one of them has done purposefully, or if the Circus or the magic has acted of its own accord, but this place protects its own. But that can’t last forever. That’s where you come in. What we’re about to ask you - it will make sure the Circus survives, but it cannot be done without your help.”

It is a lot to spring on a person, especially one that this woman doesn’t know, but Henry already knows his answer. “What do you need me to do?”

(What else would he say, when what’s at stake is a place like this and all the people it protects?)

“No hesitation? Just jumping in feet first without all the details? That’s an awful bold decision, Mr. Mills.”

“Would you do the same, for the Circus?”

It gives the woman pause for a minute before she dips her head and a kind of concession. “Touché.”

(“I thought you said this was a shortcut,” Henry mentions when they finally slip back out of the acrobats’ tent, veering sharply in a new direction. 

“It was a shortcut in explanation. If you assumed it would be a shortcut in distance - well, that was your assumption, not my words.”)

They finally halt in front of a tall tent with light faintly glowing beneath the fold of the fabric opening, just illuminating where the words Wishing Tree glimmer in the scant moonlight on a subtle sign. Under other circumstances, Henry might have marveled at the elegant branches stretching around the tent, illuminated in softly glowing candlelight; tonight, he’s more distracted by the two nearly-translucent figures standing at its base, a man and a woman. The woman he recognizes as the magician - Emma, the person who’d first made this place feel like home. The man is unknown to him, but certainly not to Emma; he leans into her space as if drawn to her by magnets. Maybe it’s just practical - this not-Emma seems barely able to stand upright, and the man’s arm around her waist seems more like a lifeline than a simple comfort - but Henry thinks it’s more than that. The man looks at Emma with worry, yes, but with awe too. Like he can’t believe he’s here with her, even in such a way. 

Henry may be young, but he can still recognize love when he sees it. 

“I take it that you remember Miss Swan?” his guide asks. “And beside her is Mr. Jones.”

“Mulan, why have you brought him here?” Emma asks. 

“You needed a solution, and I’ve found you one.”

“This is your solution?” Emma asks. Somehow, the emphasis sounds concerned rather than derogatory. “Are you sure?”

“He is willing.”

“He’s a child.”

“I’m eighteen,” Henry mumbles. “And I’m right here.”

“He tried to run away and join the Circus two years ago. Did you know that?” his guide asks Emma, still ignoring Henry. Mulan. He’ll have to remember that, if they ever allow him to speak. “He loves the Circus. It is enough.”

“Is that true, Henry? Do you love the Circus?” the man - Mr. Jones - asks. “What we’re about to ask you - it will require a deep love, not a passing whimsy. So forgive me for asking, but be honest with me - do you love the Circus? Enough to make significant sacrifices?”

“More than anything.” Maybe it sounds fanciful - maybe it sounds naive - but it’s the truth: maybe even the greatest truth that Henry knows. “I’m an orphan - a foundling. I don’t know if you remember that,” he says with a nod to Emma. “There are so many things I haven’t had in my life - opportunity and family and home. But the Circus…” He pauses before pressing a closed fist to his heart. “When I’m here, I feel something in here. Like contentment, maybe. I love this place because it’s wonderful, but I love it mostly because it feels like a home.”

“What we’re asking you is to bind yourself to the Circus, Henry,” Emma tells him. “You wouldn’t be able to leave, not for long periods of time. We can bind you in a way so that the Circus does not press on you the way it presses on us, but it will still be yours, in a permanent sort of way. This will not be something you can undo, not without breaking quite a bit of complicated magic and undertaking quite a bit of effort.”

“But it will save the Circus? And save both of you?” Henry doesn’t know much about love, he thinks - not yet, at least - but he knows already it’s worth preserving. 

Emma nods. “We believe so.”

“Then what do you need me to do?”

———

The bonfire is the living heart of the Circus, Mr. Jones had explained to Henry before sending him back out into the night. If we have any hope of saving it, and transferring the Circus into your hands, you’ll have to restart the flame. 

It had sounded so easy, phrased like that: a matter of some matches and some luck of the weather. But this is magic, and Henry is slowly realizing that with magic nothing is quite that straightforward. Emma and Mr. Jones have come up with a list of items he’ll need, like ingredients: bits and bobs he wouldn’t have thought meant anything (a certain vial from a tent full of glassware, an abandoned hat at the edge of a burned-out fire, a black velvet jacket draped across the back of a chair in a secluded train car), but are apparently crucial to making this work. 

Mulan drifts back into his vision as he collects the hat, a sudden and startling presence somehow more other-worldly than her ghostly compatriots. There’s a card laying in the dirt beside the upturned hat - a tarot card, like he’d seen so many years ago in a tent of this very circus. This card features a surprisingly placid man suspended by his feet and the inscription The Hanged Man. 

Mulan huffs a subtle laugh over Henry’s shoulder as he picks up the card. “It is fitting, is it not?” she asks. “We are all suspended here, waiting for whatever may yet still come to pass. It’s the brink of something more.” 

“You know tarot?”

“I know many things, Mr. Mills,” she says. “This just happens to be one of them.”

Henry takes the card with him as they leave. Somehow, it feels like a piece to this story yet to unfold, even if it is not one he was directed to collect. 

(On a whim, he slips Ava’s glove out of his pocket as well and adds it to the pile - his one tie to the Circus all these years. Maybe it’s foolish, but it feels right too.)

The leaves of the Wishing Tree have started to fall once Henry and Mulan return to the tent, Emma visibly exhausted in the middle of it all. Mr. Jones’ face is creased with concern, his hands fluttering to soothe and support, but there’s only so much that can be done when the Circus is trying to collapse in on itself. 

“You’ve found everything?” Mr. Jones asks. His tone is sharp, though Henry can’t much blame him; under the circumstances, responding that way seems almost reasonable. Henry nods, lifting his haul instead of tendering a proper response. Mr. Jones nods briskly in turn. “Good lad. Now, we’ll need to move to the fire cauldron - ”

“Henry,” Emma interrupts, her voice tired but firm. “Are you certain? I know we are asking so much of you, and I know you already said yes, but I want you to know it’s alright to say no. This isn’t something you should be pressured into, and no one will be upset if you decide you can’t.”

Henry doesn’t really understand all of where this is coming from - not really. He’s only interacted with Emma less than a handful of times since he was a boy, and only briefly at that. But even in that short time, it’s been easy to see how the Circus presses on her, especially now. It is kind of her to try to ensure the same thing won’t happen to him, not without communicating the risk. 

Still. There are things worth taking risks for, and making sacrifices for. In some ways, Henry thinks he made his choice long ago. 

“It’s okay.” Henry reaches out a hand towards Emma without thinking, like some kind of reassurance he isn’t quite sure how to give, only for his hand to pass right through her own. “I meant what I said before. The Circus feels like it could be a home for me, and I want to protect that. But also…” He pauses. “This feels like something I’m supposed to do. Like maybe, this is the reason I’ve always felt so drawn to the Circus. Maybe this is what everything has been leading to for as long as I’ve been alive. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” Emma’s hand isn’t quite solid when it comes to rest against his cheek, but there’s something there - the ghost of a touch, and all the comfort it still brings. “I’m proud of you.”

“Not to interrupt a touching scene,” Mulan interrupts, “but time is of the essence. If Henry intends to take the mantle of the Circus, we need to act now. Before it’s too late.”

———

It feels deceptively easy, in the end. Henry carefully wraps all the bits and bobs he’d collected up with a length of yarn Mulan seems to pull out of nowhere, tying them into a misshapen parcel that he places into the cauldron. At Mr. Jones’ direction, he extracts a nondescript volume from beneath the cauldron itself. Dozens of signatures line each page, the smallest dot of blood punctuating the end of each name. Meticulously, Henry adds his own name to the book. The twists and loops of his name look so insignificant on the page, but he knows it’s a momentous thing he’s just done. As Henry presses his own thumb to the paper, blood beading from the digit where he’d sliced the skin with a pocket knife, there’s a kind of energy that chases through his whole body. Magic - beautiful and mysterious and binding. 

Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but get it over with. Henry holds a candle from the Wishing Tree in one hand, just waiting for his cue to light it and re-ignite the fire. There’s magic in a wish, Emma had told him before sending him for the ingredients. I think we can use all the magic we can get. 

“There’s one more thing,” Mr. Jones - Killian tells Henry. He’s more stable than the flickering illusion of Emma, but he’s still ghostly, tents foggily visible through his middle. “To make this as stable as possible, we’ll need to bind you to the Circus.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing? I thought that’s why I signed the ledger.”

“In a way, yes,” Killian agrees. “But what we’re asking you to do - that’s a different kind of bond than the book. The rest of the individuals who signed don’t carry the Circus the way you’ll have to. Emma and I - when we were young, we were bound to this venue before it even existed. We think doing something similar now will make it more likely this transfer will be successful.”

“And it won’t…” Henry pauses. “I know that whatever bond you had with the Circus was slowly killing Emma.”

“The man and woman who sealed our bonds - they didn’t much care what happened to a pair of pawns,” Emma explains. “We aren’t in danger of making that same mistake.”

“Then do it.”

“Good lad,” Killian smiles. With a touch of his hand, a curl on the cauldron lengthens until it’s twisted into an iron ring, breaking off neatly into his palm. As he waits, Henry fiddles with the candle he still holds, digging his fingernails into the wax. The enormity of it all is starting to set in, ushering in nerves along with it. 

“That has always been my favorite tent, you know,” Killian tells Henry, nodding towards the candle. If he’s not mistaken, the older man is trying to deflect his anxieties about what’s about to happen; even knowing that, Henry gladly seizes on the distraction offered. As he talks, his fingers sketch complicated figures in the air, making the iron ring in his palm alternately glow silver and gold and every shade in between. Henry knows Emma’s magic now, can recognize it like an old friend, but this is something different. It’s marvelous in its own way, a way that isn’t even in comparison but just… is. 

“Is it one of yours?” Henry asks, trying to be polite even with his heart lodged in his throat. He’s entering into this willingly - wants it with every fiber of his being, wants it because it feels right in a way he can’t understand, let alone explain - but that doesn’t do anything to make him less nervous. 

Killian smiles absentmindedly, most of his attention still devoted to his strange symbols. “Emma’s, actually,” he comments. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It always feels like an old magic to me. Something more than either of the two of us.”

“Did you ever make a wish?”

Whatever emotion dances across Killian’s face is… complicated. Something wistful and joyful and sad and yearning, all at once. “I did.” His hands finally still in the air. The little loop of metal ceases its glow, the light fading away, but there’s still a sense of something surrounding it - an aura, perhaps, or pure, radiating power, something reminiscent of what he’d felt when he’d pressed his blood to the page. One tiny object with the power to change countless lives. Henry’s eyes can’t look away from the ring, even as Killian continues talking. “Do you know what I wished for?”

Henry shakes his head. Killian’s hand is not-quite-there as it lifts his own, ready to perform the binding. This time, the smile on his face is unmistakable as he leans to speak quietly into Henry’s ear. “I wished for her.”

And then it burns, the ring shrinking to fit Henry’s finger as it sears into his skin. There’s a part of Henry that wants to pull the damned thing off, but he knows this is necessary, knows it wouldn’t work anyways. Emma’s still smiling through her exhaustion like she’s proud of him, and Killian watches him, sure and steady, and Mulan is lighting the candle still in Henry’s hand - 

It is terrifying, and painful, but Henry realizes with an abrupt burst of clarity that maybe the best things are. 

The candle flickers in his hand, its flame growing stronger even as the burning pain on his finger starts to recede. Maybe he’s ready, or maybe he’s not, but the moment is here and what other choice do they have and unfurling his grasp is suddenly the most momentous thing he’ll ever do and - 

———

- and Emma’s heart feels lodged in her throat as she watches Killian and Henry, even as it takes all her concentration just to hold her being together in the visible plane. Henry’s so grown now, and so brave; he’s in obvious pain as the bond sets in, a hurt Emma knows all too well, but he grits his teeth and bears it. And then Mulan’s pressing the lit candle into his hand, and it’s all come to a head so fast, and he’s dropping the candle into the cauldron, and - 

———

- and the entire world is fire. The bonfire blazes higher than it ever has as the new bonds catch and hold, and something shifts within Killian, some pressure he’d never even noticed finally easing. The flames spiral upwards and outwards in countless shades of red and orange and yellow and blue and silver, twirling across the black and white grounds of the Circus. It’s reminiscent of opening night, in that way - but this time, there’s no one around to see it. 

That’s fitting, Killian decides. Just right for the new beginning that will be ushered in tonight. A new wish, and a new flame, for all of the things still to come. 

In a golden blaze, Killian lets himself be swept away. 

———

(She’d never been certain it would work, really. She’d hoped, of course; done everything she could to make it happen. But there’s a vast difference between hoping and certitude, and Emma had been nowhere near the latter. Everything that’s happened here tonight has been out of desperation more than anything, her last throwaway attempt to maybe leave something more than rubble behind for all the people who’ve come to call the Circus home. 

She certainly didn’t expect Killian, or Henry. She didn’t expect that maybe, just possibly, there was an imperfect solution that still feels like her own little bit of fate. 

When the bright burst of light put off by the campfire as the new bond takes effect settles, the rest of the world seems to only exist in fuzzy edges - less crisp and clean, like she’s no longer quite part of it all anymore. The entire soft world is the Circus, now, all black and white with just the flames within their iron cauldron for color - except - 

There, standing on the other side of the flames, is Killian. 

Nothing feels quite real as they drift together, circling the metal edge. Killian’s hand is soft when it falls against her cheek, cupping gently. Only yesterday, this was unthinkable - the thing she’d have to give up for anything to possibly turn out the way it should.

“We did it, love,” he murmurs. His smile is one Emma doesn’t think she’s ever seen - something sad and joyful all at once. Peaceful, in a way they’ve never been allowed to be. 

“What happens now?” Emma asks, stepping closer into his embrace. 

“That’s the best thing of all.” His other hand slides up to cup her face with the first. “Anything we want.”

It isn’t - Emma knows it isn’t - but in this moment, standing amongst the dying sparks, his lips almost feel like a first kiss.

A new beginning. Who knew such a thing could still happen for them?)

———

An ocean away, a man older than names themselves sits up straighter in his plush armchair. Not many things disturb him in his discreet townhouse in a quiet corner of London, and that’s the way he likes it. He’s been satisfied, after all these years, to fade out of human notice, even as he still endures. Leave the hassles and worries of everyday life to those younger than him, who have seen far less. After so long, there is not much that can surprise the man known to some as Mr. Gold.

Now, though - there is something in the atmosphere. Some indefinable shift - like the world had briefly held its breath before once again exhaling. A shift in the magic that he’s played a distant hand in for some three decades. 

It is not the feeling of the competition having been won - he’s well acquainted with that particular shift in the universe, thank you - but it’s… something. Something unprecedented and new. Something that seems to have broken the very construct of this little game. A standstill, or a limbo, or a detente. 

The man smiles. Oh, Regina is going to be so very put out about this whole thing. 

A glass of brandy sits on the side table where it hadn’t been just moments before, just waiting for the man to raise it in toast. “Well done, Mr. Jones,” he murmurs, the smile still playing about his mouth. “Well done, indeed.”

A teacher should always hope for their students to break new ground, after all - and it seems that Killian Jones has done just that. 

———

A man comes to the circus, searching for something like so many before him.

(The difference is that this man knows that he’s searching, and exactly what he’s searching for.)

Liam Jones has grown used to the unusual demands of his brother’s particular commitment - the odd hours, the days or even weeks without contact, the unusual, last minute travel. But it’s been six weeks without so much as a letter or telegram, and Liam is worried. For everything else demanding Killian’s attention, he’s always been careful to stay in touch with his brother. 

Mr. Booth offers no insight, nor does Killian’s friend Belle - now a respectable married lady instead of the occultist and fortune teller she had been. His little brother’s mysterious teacher is nowhere to be found, not that Liam expected any different. By a stroke of luck, the Circus is in town, and Liam resolves to visit himself as a last resort. 

He’s had the opportunity to visit the circus many times over the years as a guest of his brother, but the well-trod grounds suddenly feel… different. Liam has never possessed any semblance of the powers his brother boasted, but it doesn’t take a magical insight to feel a new energy in the air when it’s this strong. The circus has always felt otherworldly, nearly unknowable, but there’s a curious sense of the familiar that’s never been here before. 

“Excuse me,” comes a polite, young voice at his side. Turning quickly, Liam sees a young woman, dressed in the black and white garb all the circus members wear. “Are you Mr. Jones’ brother?”

“Yes!” Liam latches on to the inquiry like a lifeline, like his one chance to find his brother. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s okay,” the girl promises. “He’s not here anymore. He’s in the circus now.”

And that doesn’t make sense, because they’re at the circus, but she says he’s not there - and what can in the circ

us mean, if he’s not here? Killian isn’t the type to run off and become an illusionist or an acrobat, for all of his powers. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

But the girl runs off, leaving Liam grasping at the night. 

“He’s here, but he’s not,” a different voice chimes in  - older, softer - causing Laim to whirl about again. A woman - petite, blonde, lovely, dressed all in blue - smiles gently at him. “Do you know about the competition your brother was involved in?”

“Who are you?” Liam demands instead of answering. It’s not courteous by any means, especially to a lady like herself, but he’s a little too desperate for the niceties.

“My name is Elsa Frost,” she introduces herself with a nod. “I’m one of the people who helped design this venue.”

“So you know my brother then? Where is he?”

“Ava wasn’t lying,” Miss Frost explains, patient in a way that doesn’t feel patronizing. “He’s a part of the circus. Your brother… I don’t know how much you know, but he was a player in someone else’s competition.”

“Yes, his teacher’s. Killian never knew the specifics, just that it would play out here, and one day, there’d be a winner.” Abruptly, Liam’s blood freezes in his veins. “Don’t tell me he’s…”

Miss Frost continues without answering, as if she didn’t even hear him. “There’s only one way for these competitions to end, at least the way I understand it. But that was never enough of an answer for your brother - especially after he met Emma. He fell in love, did you know that?”

Liam shakes his head in the negative. Truthfully, the more Miss Frost talks, the more he sees how much Killian kept hidden from him - likely to protect Liam in the same way Liam had protected him as a child.

“It’s true. I think it was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him. Emma is - was the illusionist, here at the circus,” Miss Frost confides. “She was also his competitor. And it was suddenly unthinkable that he would lose - but even more unthinkable that he would win.”

None of this assuages the sinking, horrible feeling in Liam’s stomach. “He didn’t —”

“He’s not dead,” she assures him, lifting that boulder off his chest. “But he’s not quite alive either. He and Emma… they were the very heart of this place. It all rested on their shoulders - all those lives, as well as their own. They were what kept it going. And they found a loophole.”

Comprehension dawns slowly. “He’s in the circus. You mean he’s - they’re —” Liam waves his hands about, as if to illustrate. Everywhere. Nowhere. The heartbeat that keeps it all moving. The reason all this ever existed and still exists now.

“He’s in the circus. They both are,” Miss Frost confirms.

“And you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know an awful lot about all this,” Liam points out. “How is that?”

“I’ve always seen a bit more than people realize,” she explains. “It’s how I became involved in designing the circus in the first place. It’s a blessing and a curse, being privy to the secret that magic exists. It was never within my power to interfere —” she almost sounds apologetic saying it, as if it was on her shoulders to stop what happened here — “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t see.”

Gazing around him, Liam can’t help but see all the lives tied so closely to the circus - dozens, scores, maybe a hundred. They’ve made lives here, in the past twelve years - and thanks to Killian, those lives can continue. 

“We were all just collateral damage,” he murmurs.

“Perhaps,” Miss Frost agrees. “But even knowing I was just a pawn in someone else’s game… I can’t bring myself to regret it, or trade one moment for the beauty that came out of it. And I think your brother would have felt the same. This entire circus is his love letter to his competition,” she waves, “and I can’t imagine he’d trade one piece if it meant he never met her.”

Around Liam, the circus sparkles with vibrant life as if to illustrate. Or maybe to agree; if Killian and the circus are one, now, that doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility.

“A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets,” Liam murmurs. And he knows - his little brother certainly did fight. 

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Liam replies, smiling down at his companion. “Just something I used to tell my brother.” He can feel his brother all around him, that energy he couldn’t name at first, and allows it to make him a little bold himself. “Would you like to show me the circus, Miss Frost, at least as you know it?”

A serene smile stretches across her features like a gift just for him. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Jones.”

(Somewhere on the wind, just at the edges of his hearing, a voice tickles Liam’s ear as they begin to walk.

Farewell, Brother.)

———

It’s been five years since Belle last saw Killian Jones, and she hasn’t been back to the Circus since. 

She makes her excuses, of course - the timing was never quite right when the Circus came to town, and she’s got a young son, and it’s good to have this distance, isn’t it? Healthy, to fully separate herself from the life she used to lead as she builds herself a new one. 

(They’re just excuses, though, she knows. The truth of the matter is that it’s hard to imagine the Circus without her friend, even if she has long accepted what has happened.)

It takes five years, but this time, when the Circus sets up its tents at the outskirts of London, Belle bundles up her toddler and coaxes her husband out the door and sets out to face her past. On her way out the door, she slips her old tarot deck, now incomplete, into a pocket. Perhaps it’s silly, but it feels right to bring them back to the place where this all started. 

In so many ways, the Circus is still the same. That peculiar atmosphere of magic and sheer possibility still persists, and the tents are much as she remembers them. It is easier than she thought it would be, to retread these paths; the memory of the man who made this place so much of what it is still lingers, but in a way that helps her remember, rather than in a way that causes her pain. Life goes on, even in the face of loss, even in a place like this. 

As Will steps away to procure popcorn and cider for them all, Belle catches a glimpse of a face she half-remembers - that of a young man with a mop of dark hair, dressed in a neat black suit with a silvery waistcoat. When the memory drifts to the front of her mind, it makes Belle smile. She’d always wondered what sort of journey that boy had ahead of him. 

“Henry, was it?” she asks, approaching him with her son at her skirts. “I don’t know if you remember me, but - ”

“The fortune teller, right?” Henry interrupts, delight dancing in his eyes. “Yes, of course I remember. Belle.”

“The only one to ever ask my name - well, at least until my husband,” she teases. “You are well, then? And… involved with the Circus, perhaps?” She still hasn’t forgotten that mysterious reading from some ten years before; something about young Henry had always stuck in her mind, even in the midst of hundreds and thousands of others seeking clarity.

“You could say that,” he laughs. Patting at his pockets for a moment, he pulls out a sleek business card and hands it to Belle. “I’m acting as the manager now.”

It suits him, Belle realizes; there’s a peace about this young man, now, that she hadn’t seen back when he was a boy. Henry knows his place in the world, and knows he’s right where he needs to be. She smiles warmly at him. “I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Henry looks down bashfully, shrugging in casual acceptance. “Thank you. I’m doing my best. After Miss Swan and Mr. Jones… left…” There’s a whole world of things he’s not saying with that word, things Belle only knows because of Mulan and because she played her own role.  “Someone needed to take responsibility for the Circus. Mulan has been a big help. Ava and Nick, too. This place - it’s just too remarkable to let die.”

“It sounds like you still love the Circus more than anything.”

Henry’s eyes practically glow when he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And with a sudden bolt of clarity, Belle knows why she’d tucked her old cards into her pocket on her way to the Circus.

“I’ve got something for you,” she tells him, hurriedly retrieving the deck. Belle draws a card at random, but smiles when she catches a glimpse of which she’d selected. It’s terribly fitting, though Henry may not realize it at first. “Here. For you,” she says, handing Henry the Ace of Wands. 

Henry turns the card carefully in his fingers. “After receiving the Fool last time, I can’t truly tell whether this is an improvement or a downgrade for me.”

“Neither. Tarot isn’t like that,” she explains. “Back then - what, a decade ago? - you were just a young man, beginning your journey, still with so much to learn. The Fool was fitting for that. Many who don’t understand the tarot place undue importance on the major arcana - on the ‘face cards,’ but each card in a deck means something. Each and every one. The Ace of Wands is the spark that makes things possible, the match that sets knowledge and understanding alight. Just because it isn’t flashy doesn’t mean it isn’t important. It’s a card that makes things happen, regardless of whether that is where your eye is drawn. It is revitalization and birthing light from the dark.” She pauses. “Do you understand?”

Henry nods, tucking the card carefully into his breast pocket. “A fitting card for a new beginning.”

“Precisely.” On impulse, Belle stretches a hand to lightly pat Henry’s cheek. He’s grown so tall since she last saw him, no longer that gangly boy. “Take care of yourself, Henry, and take care of the Circus. I can’t wait to see what you both become.”

It feels like closure of a kind she didn’t know she needed as Belle sets back off down the path with her son, weaving through the crowd to reunite with Will. 

“Mama, can we go ride the carousel?” her son asks at her side, hand still so small within her own grasp.

Belle smiles. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Killian.”

(Legacy, she’s realized, comes in many forms. Memory can be a living thing, if only you wish it to be.)

———

The Circus has changed over the years: new tents appear, old faces fade away, the grounds expand and spiral into new patterns. It never feels different, exactly, no matter how much may change. The Circus is like its own living organism; its layout may grow, and its features may change, but its soul remains the same. 

You remember the first time you’d seen the Wishing Tree. It’d been beautiful then, too - that special kind of otherworldly that only exists at the Circus. In the time since then, this tent has grown outwards to accommodate the living tree, but its branches still swoop low to envelop the space like a hug as you walk in. The branches are clustered with dozens and hundreds of candles, now. The whole thing casts a warm glow in the space that’s never quite still, yet another living, breathing thing. 

(There’s a hole at the top of the tent now, too - something new that wasn’t there before. It isn’t particularly big, but it’s enough to see the star-speckled sky beyond. Enough, too, to allow wishes to take flight, off into the wondrous unknown universe.)

It’s awe-inducing, witnessing all the candles left alight, each one representing the dearest wish of the individual who left it. It’s a beautiful reminder of all the things you can’t know about others: all those innermost hopes and dreams that may never be spoken, but exist all the same. You notice, suddenly, that there’s one candle at the center of the tree where the core branches stretch out that’s unlit. If you squint, you can just see that it’s been extinguished, somehow - the one column of wax on the tree without a flame to match. It is curious; dozens and hundreds of candles, placed on every surface, and only one has been put out. 

Maybe it’s an accident; maybe it’s a draft. Or maybe, just possibly, it’s a wish that’s been granted, left here for all to see that hope. 

You leave again after placing your own candle, heart lighter for it, as your own wish drifts into the night. 

———

Regina doesn’t quite win this particular contest, but she doesn’t particularly lose it either. The uncertainty of the matter follows her like an especially annoying gnat - something she wants nothing to do with, but is attached to her regardless. She doesn’t have much use for her 35% stake, though doubtless others would feel differently. Economics is another little pest in a life such as hers.

If anything, she supposes that Emma has won, and Gold’s wretched boy, and maybe even the Circus itself. It was only supposed to be the venue, and should have collapsed once the competition was over. But Emma, that stupid girl, did something the night she wove herself and that boy into the circus, something that has kept it puttering along for ten years, just the way it always has.

(She may have trapped herself in limbo when she made that sacrifice, but her little loophole managed to trap Regina and Gold as well. With their competition not technically completed, there’s an uncertainty about whether they’re able to start another - or whether they even want to. No matter the boredom, Regina could use a break from this mentorship nonsense. Maybe in another century she’ll be bored enough to agree to that.)

This particular afternoon, like so many, Regina takes her tea in the tea room of an expensive London hotel. She has another show tonight, another chance to take the money of so many unbelieving fools, but afternoons are hers, to watch and be watched. There’s a certain fascination to observing the blind crowds, eternally unaware of an entire world of magic existing right under their noses. They know something draws their eyes to the center single table where Regina takes her tea and scones - their subconscious pulling their attention where their conscious mind won’t take the leap - but they’ll never know why. Most assume it’s her striking looks, or impeccable and sumptuous clothing, but they’ll never guess it’s the echo of magic, of power calling to the minds and imaginations. It’s like a secret she holds over the entire world, and Regina has always reveled in that.

Today, however, is different. Today, a young man and woman approach her table arm in arm with a boldness most are too afraid to attempt. They make a picturesque couple, if an odd one; the man, tall and lanky with dark hair, could easily blend into a crowd with his generic suit and amiable smile, but his companion certainly could not say the same, perhaps best described as eccentric. Her dress and hat are close enough to the current fashion, but all in a riot of colors and patterns that blend more than truly match. She looks a bit familiar; belatedly, Regina realizes that she’s the girl-child from the circus. Anna or Ada or… something. It never much mattered; the twins were a particular pet project of Emma’s, though Regina had many times told her to focus her attention instead on the competition at hand. Not that it had done any good - on any level. 

“Madam Circe?” the girl - woman, now - asks politely. “You may not remember me, but my name is Ava Zimmer. This is Henry Mills. We’re here about the circus.”

“No relation, I’m sure,” Regina drawls, nodding in acquiescence towards a pair of chairs that may or may not have sat at the table before that very moment. No one will remember it, anyways.

“You would know better than I,” young Mills smiles. With a sweep of Ava’s hand at his side, Regina’s teacup replicates itself into three, enough porcelain for everyone to enjoy the brew Regina herself has kept refilled and at perfect temperature. 

(It suddenly makes a bit more sense why Emma had taken such an interest in the girl and her brother. If nothing else, Regina had taught her protegee to recognize power and potential.)

“Well. Aren’t you full of surprises,” is all she says as the duo seats themselves. “You’re here about the Circus, you said? I’m not sure I have any real right to speak on such a thing.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Mr. Mills responds. “Perhaps more than you think.”

“I take it you are aware of the circumstances of Emma Swan’s and Killian Jones’… disappearance?” Miss Zimmer asks. As if that’s the polite way to phrase such a thing. 

“As my acolyte - yes, I am. I should certainly hope so.”

“Then you are aware that Emma - when she left, she left her portion of the Circus to the Circus. It’s self-supporting, these days, instead of tied to any single person. Well, mostly.”

“I advise you get to the point, Miss Zimmer. I was not led to believe this was a social call.”

“You have a claim on the Circus,” Mr. Mills interjects. “Did you know that?”

“I wouldn’t use those terms, but I suppose I was instrumental in its creation. If such a thing constitutes a claim.”

“Per the magic that fuels it - it does,” Miss Zimmer tells her. She pulls out a heavy tome; it makes a weighty sound as it lands on the surface of the delicate table, but no one else notices. If she attunes her senses, Regina can sense something like a shield around their table that deflects attention. 

Ava Zimmer must be very talented, indeed. 

“Mr. Jones created this when the Circus was formed,” she explains, tabbing through the pages. “Each and every person is bound to this book. It seems to be part of what has stopped us from aging. This is the lifeblood of the Circus,” she proclaims solemnly, her hand splayed across the pages. 

“It’s a clever bit of spellwork, yes,” Regina agrees. “I, however, have my own methods.”

Mr. Mills bows his head briefly in her direction; Regina can’t tell whether the gesture is meant in genuine deference or something more sarcastic. “We wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. That does not change the fact, however, that your signature is still included on these pages.”

“And you would like to change that.”

“If you don’t mind.” Miss Zimmer slides a delicate blade across the table in Regina’s direction. “Your interest in our endeavor, I think, is over. We’d just like to make that official.” 

Regina carefully picks up the knife. It’s a beautiful instrument, the strains of gold and silver perfectly conducive to magic, though currently dormant. It would be so easy to channel her own powers, slice the delicate threads of enchantment that binds her signature to the book and herself to the endeavor, but - 

“Suppose I do you this favor. What do I get in return?”

Mills furrows his brow. “Is your release from the Circus not enough?”

“Release from something that hasn’t been a burden? I wouldn’t call that much of a return.”

“What do you want, then?”

There’s so many things she could say, and so few these children could provide. They are so young, and have seen so little, still so idealistically convinced of the goodness of the endeavor.

Still. There is one thing. 

“You were there that night, yes? When my acolyte… did this foolish thing?”

Mills nods, solemnly. 

“Then I want you to tell me.”

“That’s all?” Miss Zimmer is clearly incredulous of the proposal; good. That’ll serve her well, in the long run. 

“That’s all. Tell me the story, and I’ll gladly remove myself from your little fairground for good.”

The young man smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright,” he tells her. “But let me start from the beginning.

“Once, in an orphanage outside of Boston, a young boy fell in love with a magical circus…”

———

The circus is a marvel.

It’s been in operation for years, now - nearly three decades, if memory and the kindly concessions vendor are to be believed - but the aura of wonder, of magic remains. The circus is another world all its own, separated from the rest of the planet even as it exists in the center of it.

There are changes, of course; it’s impossible to expect that everything and everyone would stay static all this time. That would take a true feat of magic. Older visitors in particular remember when there was a tent with a magician, a beautiful young woman capable of the most extraordinary things. There’s a statue, now, outside where the tent used to be, of two lovers embracing, hands stroking faces in a display that almost feels too intimate to be captured in marble for everyone to see.

There’s a legend now, too, a rumor of a story to match that statue - of two lovers, pitted against one another in life, whose souls are now free to roam the circus grounds together. There’s whispers, too, that that’s what happened to the missing magician - that the statue is for her memory, and that of her young man. In a way, it would be fitting for her to live on as part of the circus itself. They say that the lovers’ reflections can sometimes be seen in the hall of mirrors, or the brush of a long skirt felt on the carousel, or a warm and masculine voice heard in the ice garden…

It’s hard to imagine anything so tragic happening at the circus; then again, it’s the one place on earth you can imagine something quite so magical and romantic occurring. At the end of the night, there’s no real answer. You’re not certain you need one.

(As you wind your way back towards the gates as the sun starts to rise, you don’t notice two pairs of not-quite eyes watching you, don’t see non-corporeal lips press a kiss to the back of a similarly ghostly hand. Perhaps that’s for the best; some moments aren’t intended for other living eyes.)

(The Circus will continue to live, with two magicians as its heartbeat.)

#captain swan #cs ff #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #magicians!CS #The Nigh Circus AU #happy endings aren't always what you think

[layziidakkii]

Any in-universe reasons the circus in the hare and harlequin au is less family-friendly? I ask because...you know.

Caine.

C&A is a virtual reality and advancement company known for its expertise in creating virtual landscapes and experiences that are nigh indistinguishable from real life.

Founded in the late 80’s by Caine and Aybel Mccormick, the brothers believed in the power of escapism and imagination and wanted to bring that into the mainstream, that meant curating experiences for all ages, for all demographics.

While the Amazing Digital Circus was originally meant for all ages - something Caine greatly pushed for - Aybel saw it necessary to allow the content filter for the Circus to be lifted with a special administrative function, just in case plans to shift the experience’s target audience would take effect, the changes would take little time.

That administrative function became permanently active when Aybel got trapped in the Circus, allowing for more mature attractions and events to take place…including more intimate relations amongst the users trapped along with him.

Not only intimacy, but violence was also allowed, allowing for Ragatha’s deadly battles and other dangerous adventures to take place. Which is imperative in allowing Aybel and Ragatha fight against the rogue Abstractions.

[because-i-simp]

Wanna RP with me? Here are some Side Blogs I run!

@wall-flower-arts (This is not an RP blog, But it is my Art blog! I will post my art here--- My Art, gift art, etc-- I will also takes requests, Art trades and collabs here AS WELL as accept Commissions here!!)

@akarii-memes

Not an RP blog. But it’s a meme source!

(--This post is getting a little long and will only get longer so to see all side blogs for RP look below the cut! Cuz there are a lot, and that list keeps growing!--)

RP BLOGS BELOW THE CUT

All muses are OC/AU/Multiverse/Duplicate/Cross over friendly as well as Open ship/Multiship

Enjoy!!

Hazbin Hotel Muse Blogs:

@inside-every-demon-is-a-rainbow (Charlie)--low--

@the-apple-is-nigh (Lucifer)

@cherri-boomer (Cherri Bomb) --Moderate--

@angel-dust-bitch (Angel Dust) --High--

@hotty-totty-princess-molly (Molly) --Moderate--

@alastorous-disaterous/ARCHIVED (Alastor) --Low--

@red-hart-radio (Alastor)--High--

@kiss-thiss-niss (Arackniss) --High--

@father-black-widow (Henroin) --High--/Moderate--

@venom-in-her-kisses (Carolynn) Angel/Arackniss/Molly's mother-- High--

@poker-puss (Husk) --Moderate--

@the-one-who-killed-the-radio (Vox) --High--

@big-daddy-moth (Valentino) --Moderate--

@dont-ever-call-me-baby-doll (Velvette)--CANON DIVERGENT-- --Moderate--

@r3sp3ctl3ss (Velvette) --CANON COMPLIANT--

@all-dicks-descended-from-me (ADAM)

@roxenne-the-vixen (Roxenne) (OC) --High--

@fuk-like-bunnies (Vio) (OC) --High--

@the--black--dog (Richard/Richie) (OC) --moderate--

@atari-3ch0 --OC--

---

Hazbin Hotel AU Blogs:

@angelic-aracknid (OC) --Moderate--

----

*Ship child I made for my OC Roxenne and Arackniss-- aka the child they lost in life

@stagredxhart --and AU portrayal of Alastor (now named Venison) who said yes to VOX and JOINED the Vees.

@v-halo (Angel!VOX) --Moderate/High--

"Off-Set/Parallel" (comfort place AU) Blogs:

@the-demon-in-your-radio (alternate Alastor)--Moderate--

@the-demon-in-your-telivision (alternate Vox) --Moderate--

@the-spider-between-your-sheets (alternate Angel Dust) --Moderate--

@the-spider-in-the-dark (alternate Arackniss) --Moderate--

@the-moth-in-your-bed (alternate Valentino) --High--

@star-struck-vixen (OC) (Single-Verse Roxenne) --Moderate--

Helluva Boss

---

@bang-bang-blitzo (Blitz) --Moderate--

@hot-bitch-hotline (Barbie Wire) --Moderate--

@looney-poo (Loona) --Moderate--

@moxxie-roxx-it (Moxxie) --low--

@give-me-a-thrust (Asmodeus "Ozzy") --Moderate--

@fizzy-pop-rocket (Fizzarollie) --low--

@itsy-bitsy-missy (OC)--High--

@stone-cold-stolas (Stolas) (canon divergent) --Moderate--

@star-fire-of-the-goetia (Octavia)--Moderate--

@sweetest-cotton-candy (Beelzebub) --Moderate--

---

The Amazing Digital Circus

@pom-ni-pom (Pomni)

@jaxx-rabbit (Jax)

Fruits Basket

@kinder-bunny (Momiji Sohma)

--Low/Moderate--

---

Ouran High School Host Club

@lady-or-host (Haruhi Fujioka)--

Low/Moderate--

NARUTO

@gaara-of-the-sand (Gaara)--Moderate/High--

@natural-born-genius (Neji Hyuuga) --Moderate--

@strong-girl-sakura (Sakura Haruno)--Moderate--

Poke'mon

@0gotta-write-em-all0 -- Poke'mon Multi-muse-- (Moderate)

#RP #muses

[tanoraqui]

For short writing promt ggot3 kid playing with jaegers

Ok so this is about 50% of what you asked for, and actually belongs to my bad timeline au that I’m giving serious thought to reviving for the 20th anniversary this fall. I know I’ve given thought to canon-timeline ot3lets, but this sprang to mind.

It wasn’t that anyone was worried about little Will (“William”, but Will for short, immediately and universally. “For Lars’ favorite role,” Lady Agatha told the other circus folk, teasingly nudging her husband in the ribs. “For your father,” Lars had murmured to her in the quiet of their wagon, when none of the jägers were supposed to be eavesdropping—but what sort of secret guards would they be, if they couldn’t guard in secret?)

It wasn’t that anyone was worried about how little Will would take to monsters. No Heterodyne had ever not taken to monsters, and young Master Will was certainly a Heterodyne—look at Lady Agatha’s eyes, and Lord Saturnus’s ears! Feel Lord Igneous’s energetic, if still gummy, bite! Hear Lord “Teakettle” Tinnitus’s piercing mad shrieks!

It was just… It was just a little fraught, these days. Lord Bill and Master Barry, well, they’d taken to monsters right off, natural as any child of Mechanicsburg, but then their mother had weaned them off of them until both Boys looked at monsters like the monsters, however loyally they looked back, were so much rotten milk. And Lady Agatha—Miz Agatha out here, only ever Miz—she cared, she did, she let them gladly into her heart and house (or, wagon). But she got splitting headaches instead of spark-mad fugues, and any time spent in Mechanicsburg seemed to only make them worse. And then instead of a conquering warlord or stolen prince or anything normal like that, she’d married a cheesemaker turned actor…

Not that anyone had a bad word to say against Lars. He did flinch from monsters sometimes, even when they were barely unexpectedly looking out of the shadows at all, and that was a little concerning. But he doted on Miz Agatha, and now on little Will as well. He made her smile through even the worst headaches. That was worth anything else, as far as the jägers were concerned.

(And old Klaus was dead, and his son couldn’t seem to get his footing against the new Storm King’s machinations—machinations which seemed benevolent, what with the wasp-curing and all. But you didn’t get to be a nigh-immortal soldier of the Heterodynes without developing a sixth, maybe seventh sense for when a fight was coming. Everything was going too well in Europa these days. Something was going to snap…)

So by (mostly) quiet scuffle victory and unspoken agreement, Oggie was the first…properly jäger-looking monster to hold the new young master. He also looked basically human, after all, if you ignored the horn and the teeth and the smell (the smell was sometimes visible). Besides, he had experience with babies that the rest of them simply did not!

“Who iz a gut little lad?” he cooed, and waved a finger in front of baby Will’s face. “It iz hyu! It iz certinkly—oh!” Oggie announced to the others, as proudly as though the boy was yet another great-grandchild, “He grabbed mine finger! He haz a verra strong grip.”

Maxim and Dimo made the appreciative noises one makes when one is not a parent, has no intention of becoming a parent, but nonetheless appreciates the wonder of brand-new babies. Oggie, experienced in getting such reactions from his brothers, saved his best grin for turning back down to the young master—

Who released his finger immediately and reached up with both hands toward the wide mouth of sharp teeth, with a soft, “Ah! Ah!” of wonder.

Oggie grinned even wider, and tried to crow without moving his mouth. “He likes mine teef! Yez, hyu is definitely the best little lad I heff seen dis day!”

#girl genius #ficlet #my fic #ask meme

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @flow-it-show-it based on this photoset.

Fili/Kili, Teen. Circus!AU (Like a Damn Fool-verse)

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)

Going Home, Going Home

---

It begins with a letter delivered in a snowstorm.

How the fuck did he find me? Fee wonders aloud—needlessly, for he already knows.  HE is Mr. Beaufort of Owen, Glann & Beaufort Attorneys-At-Law, and HE maintains a web of private eyes to keep tabs on Fee’s wide-flung whereabouts.  

At present, those happen to be a motor lodge just outside of Falls City, Nebraska. 

It’s a myth that circus folk favor warm environs for wintering over.  After five months spent baking in treeless fields and parking lots, what lunatic (besides Ringling, Barnum or Bailey) would drop anchor in Florida?  Pipe Creek, Indiana— positively.  Argentine, Michigan— absolutely.  York, South Carolina— yes, yes, a thousand times yes.   And for the Greenleaf & Arkenstein Circus, only Nebraska in November will do. 

Backed by a creek and a stand of cottonwood trees, Elroy’s Bide-A-While Motor Court has hosted the G&A every year since 1958, when Elroy Sr. cut the opening-day ribbon with a pair of hedge clippers.   Fifteen log cabins, each sleeping two (or six, if you pay Elroy Jr. to look the other way) and equipped with all the perks: hotplate, electric kettle, woodstove in January, A/C in July, WiFi… whenever.  Luxury matters little to circus folk.  After a long season on the move, it’s enough simply to stop moving. 

But that’s how they find you.  Fee knows that.  And even as he stares at the envelope – first the front, then the back – he’s being watched. 

Kee’s the one who answered the door, you see.  The man shivering in the snow outside wouldn’t let him sign for the letter—wouldn’t even let him see it, as a matter of fact, which made Kee even more sure that something was up.  What do they call it in spy novels?  Eyes only?  Once this mysterious missive was in the proper hands, Fee opened it as far across the room as he could get … and before he’d even read its contents, he stuffed the envelope into the fire. 

Kee loves all of the blind spots in his partner’s history:  the unanswerable questions, unsolvable puzzles, hints of lives past and plot twists awaiting their big reveal.  No matter how long or far they’ve traveled side by side, there are still so many things he doesn’t know.  

Including Fee’s real name. 

Fee himself almost didn’t recognize it.  Names die from disuse, or so he’d hoped; it comes as a nasty shock to see this one alive and well on the face of an envelope.  Thank god for wood-burning stoves; all he had to do is fling his name into the fire to kill it again— 

So what is it? Kee asks. 

Fee’s voice, normally so chipper, is somber now.  Trouble, most likely, he mutters. 

_____________ 

  Dear F&$%#@$—

(It doesn’t really say that, but that’s how Fee mentally pronounces it; he knew his dead self best.) 

I trust this letter finds you well… or at all.  You continue to be a slippery character, and whether this reaches is you is entirely dependent upon the resourcefulness of my nimble couriers.  I don’t pay people to mess around, as you remember. 

The purpose of this letter is twofold.  First, to request a face-to-face meeting, as you and I have Business with a capital B to discuss.  I’m sure you know what I mean. 

Second, I suggest we get some fun out of it.  The Friends of the Viceroy Holiday Gala is nigh.  Your parents will not be attending this year, as they have taken to holing up at the Mustique property for the winter.  Therefore, it is safe for you to come out of hiding. 

Enclosed please find two (2) boarding passes for a Kansas City-LaGuardia flight departing on the morning of December 23rd.  (Yes, your spouse is invited; even the Board of Trustees lacks the heavenly authority to put asunder what the Great State of Illinois hath joined.)  The Langham flat will be made ready to receive you.  The Gala begins at 7:30pm.  Tickets are, of course, Mum and Pop’s. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.  

Should your employer need a firm excuse for your fleeing the hinterlands of Kansas for the wilds of Manhattan, tell him that it’s of vital importance that you go back East to knock back a few Shirley Temples with an old family friend. 

Kindest regards, 

J. N. Beaufort, Esq.

Attorney-at-Law

What intel Fee extracts from all this could be scribbled on the back of the envelope he has just burnt. 

Baby.  Kee lays down the paperback spy novel he’s been using as cover and fixes his lover with sympathetic, questioning eyes.  Baby, come on.  You’re killing me.  Tell me what’s going on. 

Fee sighs and considers the facts.  Snow’s already filling the footprints of Beaufort’s courier, erasing their beeline from Elroy’s lodge to the cabin and back.  So long as the storm doesn’t take down the power lines, the plug-in kettle on the counter will serve nicely for two cups of cocoa.  The woodfire’s crackling; there’s two layers of quilt on the bed.  And there’s Kee.  Kee, sitting up against the headboard with his wool sock-clad feet crossed at the ankle, hair in a tangle and dark eyes pouring forth sunlight... 

God, you’re cute, Fee hears himself say aloud. 

Don’t change the subject, Kee counters.  What’s the story? 

It’s going to be an interesting, difficult, possibly even painful discussion.  To paraphrase Beaufort, they might as well get some fun out of it. 

Fee takes a deep breath, unzips his jeans, and with a classic fool’s flourish, lets them drop to his ankles.  

Baby, he says, your old man is loaded. 

_____________ 

  Dear Beaufort,

Nice hearing from you.  Not so nice hearing that I’m a wanted man.  But yours is not to question why, etc. etc. 

I’m glad to hear Senior and Seniora are well, but I confess, I’m even gladder to hear they’re in Mustique.  I trust your mission is not to fling me off the roof of the Viceroy at their request.  Just to be on the safe side, I want you to know that I refuse to go higher than the mezzanine. 

I also want to make clear that I will turn my ass right back around and fly back to K.C. if our business has anything to do with Senior’s will.  I don’t expect – and in fact, do not want – anything from my parents that requires me to do The Old Song And Dance.  I have my own song and dance now, as Arkenstein will tell you.  (No doubt you’ve already been in touch, you old menace.)

RE: the Shirley Temples.  Your spies ARE good, aren’t they?  Sober a year and a half now.  The reason why?  He’s who you sent the second boarding pass for.  Instead of dispatching the driver, pick us up at the airport yourself, and I’ll spring for lunch at Bohemian Hall.  We’ll have the bratwurst, you have the beer.  You are definitely going to need it. 

Cheers,

FEE (if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times— THAT IS MY NAME NOW. I beg you to wear it out.)

_____________

  I’m nervous.

It’s okay.  A first flight is always nerve-wracking.  You need your hand held, you just ask.

Fee doesn’t mention that he might need his own hand held.  It’s been a while since he’s taken a plane; even longer since he sat in first class, and truly another lifetime ago since he’s set foot on the island of Manhattan.  He’s split between defiance and feeling like a class-A fraud.

Is it normal to also be ravenous?  Kee’s asking.  Do they give you food?

Yes.  Eating is an excellent way to deal with anxiety.  I ordered us meals ahead of time; they’ll be good, but not nearly as good as what we’ll get when we—

Aaah!  The plane shudders, prompting Kee to seize his husband’s arm.  What the fuck?

We’re going to start moving soon.   Everyone’s on board now, so they’re going to get us lined up for takeoff.  Seatbelt on, baby.  Fee shows him how; the buckles are a big more complicated than those in a VW Bus.  Then: Keep talking to me— what else are you nervous about?

This guy Beaufort.  The city.  The party.  Everything.  What did Big Man have to say?

Not a whole heck of a lot, Fee drawls, adjusting his own seatbelt.  He knows I grew up back East, and I suppose he could tell it wasn’t heaven by the number of empty bottles in my truck.  Didn’t take much effort to deduce that I’d only go back there if shit’s hit a fan.   He lets his head loll to the side so that he can look at Kee.  You’ve taken it pretty calmly.

Only because I hardly understand it.  Kee warily surveys the other passengers in their deceptively-relaxed-yet-devilishly-expensive travel clothes.  It’s clear he feels as much out-of-place as Fee, if not more.  But I am curious, he resumes.  It’s like a spy novel.  You’re you, but you’re also someone else.  Like, working undercover.

No, I’m OUT from under the covers.  The place we’re headed to— THAT’S where I had to pretend to be someone I’m not.

You gonna have to do it again when we get there?

Not with you there to keep me honest—ah!  Now we’re really moving.  Fee’s hand, warm and work-roughened, comes down to rest atop Kee’s.  Look, Beaufort’s a pussycat.  The city’s a circus, just bigger and dirtier.  The party’s going to be a joke, but you and I will laugh together.  As for ‘everything’…  He weaves their fingers together and leans in close.  Everything is going to be fine, baby, he whispers.  And even if it isn’t, it’ll hurt me more than it hurts you.

_____________

  Fuck.  FUCK.  Luggage slides through numb fingers and lands with a thump! on the vestibule floor.  Kee whirls to stare at Fee.  This is yours? 

Fee ducks into the parlor.  No.  It’s my family’s.

He speaks these words offhandedly, but the apartment in the Langham is nothing to shrug at.  Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, parlor, living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen, view of Central Park.  Three thousand square feet of mahogany, chintz, and – according to Fee – bad blood.

Jesus, Beaufort, this place is practically a museum to the not-so-good old days.  Fee emerges from the parlor with a look halfway between hilarity and repulsion.  Same curtains, same throw pillows… same stale air.  I would have thought someone would redecorate… open a window… change the candy in the dishes…

The only thing that’s been changed is the locks.  Beaufort reverently eases the apartment door shut and wings the keys to Fee like an old-time ballplayer.  Your cousin Philip asked to stay here last year after his latest deal fell through.  He asked for a month to “get his bearings”, then sort of… stretched it. You’d think six months would be enough for a person’s bearings to be GOT.  Your father certainly believed so.

Well, when Pop puts his foot down…  Fee trails off.

Kee simply can’t keep his eyeballs in their sockets.  His only frame of reference for the word “apartment” is the cabbage-scented one bedroom/one bath he and his mother shared in Chicago.  But this… 

It’s bigger than the place I grew up in, he whispers to Fee.

I hate to tell you, Fee whispers back, but this is only the foyer.

There are four bedrooms for you to choose from. Beaufort's whispering, too, just for the fun of joining the game.  May I suggest the second-largest?  The master bedroom has not yet recovered from Cousin Philip.

After a quick tour (which renders Kee speechless all over again) and a fridge raid for beverages (non-alcoholic on Fee’s behalf), the three end up in the library.  Beaufort sinks into the depths of a leather easy chair and mock-solemnly pulls at his cufflinks, first left, then right.  Well now, he says.

Well now, replies Fee, sitting forward on the adjacent couch.  Let’s get down to it.

Beaufort’s bristling grey eyebrows draw together.  I’m retiring.  Not until next spring, mind you, but there is no time like the present to start divesting myself of responsibilities— one of them being you.

Ah.

And your money.

AH.  Fee rolls his eyes.  Money.  Hasn’t crossed my mind in years.

It shows.

Come on, old man.  I do occasionally polish my shoes.

With spit and shirt sleeve, no doubt.

Kee’s not fooled by this adversarial rat-a-tat, for Fee has explained that he and Beaufort are old pals.  Watching them spar is actually kind of fun.  He laces his hands behind his head and settles in for the show.

Here’s the lay of the land, Beaufort intoned.  As we know, both your parents and grandparents established trusts for you in infancy.  Your grandparents’ trust was earmarked for your college education.  They wanted you to choose your own course of study, free of influence; hence, they created a fund that your parents could not touch.  It passed to you when you turned twenty-one, and you used it to earn a diploma whose leather presentation case you now use to pick the seeds and stems out of your marijuana.  Am I wrong?

Fee and Kee are careful not to look at one another. 

In my day, we used a Pink Floyd album cover for that purpose, Beaufort informs the air.  But ‘you do you’, as the kids say.  Now: your parents.  They didn’t trust your judgment half as much as your grandparents did – and perhaps rightly – so they stipulated that the money not be disbursed to you until you turned thirty.  Initially, they wanted to dole it out as an annuity, but I convinced them that by then you’d be married to some nice Barnard girl with some idea of how a mutual fund works.  Now, what was her name?  Naomi or Noemie or—

Noelle!  God, I’d almost forgot.  Pink with embarrassment, Fee haphazardly rakes his fingers through his hair.  Good old Noelley…I wonder how she made out in life.

You’ll most likely see her tonight.  She’ll tell you all about the three-page admission essay it took to get her youngest into nursery school.   Beaufort smirks.  That is, if she talks to you at all.  How many people can say their boyfriend dumped them to run off and join the circus?

I was suffocating, Beau. You know this. I would have choked to death if I didn’t get out.  I’ve never looked back.  Fee glances at Kee, who nods gravely.

Your mother and father hoped you would, at first.  I did make an honest effort to bring about a reconciliation.  Your response took the form of two very pointed and precise words.  Do you recall them?

Yes. Get stuffed, replies Fee.  Not you, of course.  Your clients.

Believe me, the feeling was mutual.  But despite how much they’d have liked to wring your neck, the trust was irrevocable.  You turned thirty bang on time, and the lump sum became yours even if you weren’t here to put hands on it.  Beaufort smiles gently at Fee.  It’s still yours, even after all this time.  And now I’m begging you to take it off my hands.

PLEASE tell me you’re going to write the total on a slip of paper and push it across the table at me.

If you want.

A scramble for pen and paper ensues.  They can’t find notepaper, so they settle for the back of an envelope; the only ballpoint pen in the desk has long run out of ink, but there’s half a child’s crayon, improbably labeled “Jazzbery Jam”.  Kee stays out of the way; the two players in this drama seem to have everything well enough under control.  There’s a gleefulness to their exchange now that belies the dead-serious subject at its center.  They can ignore it right up until the envelope slides across the smooth marble coffee table to be taken up and turned over.

And then – as the kids say – shit gets real. 

We’ll worry about the paperwork tomorrow.  Don’t even think about skipping town.  Beaufort melts back into his chair and smiles at Kee.  Ever managed a checkbook, kid?

_____________

  The Viceroy Holiday Fundraising Gala – held at the historic Broadway theatre which bears its name – is very much a black-tie affair, as any society gathering is duty-bound to be.  Everyone who is anyone within a relatively small and limited tribe puts in an impressive and extremely expensive appearance. 

Fee carries a mental snapshot of the Gala from years past.  Smug old silverhairs and their Ivy League sons in bespoke tuxedos; patrician wives in Valentino, their younger clones in Zac Posen and Grandmummy’s pearls.  All of them hobnobbing with flutes of champagne in hand, staring down their rivals and surveilling the hired help for signs of weakness...

It’s thanks to this indelible mental image that when Kee asks, Do we have to dress up? Fee sharply replies, Let’s not and say we did 

Are you sure we won’t get in trouble?

No.  But Beaufort will post our bail, if it comes to that.  God knows we’ve got enough to pay him back.

So it is that Dr. Phileas “Fee” Lonesome, Ph.D., Professor of Harlequinade and Pantomime Arts, and his husband Céilí “Kee” Archer, acclaimed flamenco bailaor of the Greenleaf & Arkenstein Circus, walk into the Viceroy Theatre wearing off-the-rack Nordstrom suits and find themselves instantly accosted by a tall, willowy woman carrying a silver iPad Pro.

You’re late, she hisses, stabbing the tablet screen furiously with her stylus.

Fee chuckles.  Fifteen minutes is considered fashionable, isn’t it?

Your pay for the evening will be docked accordingly. Did no one tell you to use the backstage entrance?  You cannot simply waltz in through the front—  Her voice dies as Fee extracts the tickets from his inside breast pocket. 

If it helps, he smiles, we could go out and come in again through the back door.

The woman takes the tickets, peers at them, blanches.  You’re—

Don’t say it.  Don’t say it.  I don’t use that name anymore.

But your parents—

Aren’t here.  Their representative has authorized us to attend in their place.  Fee squints up at her.  A sudden impulse to be an asshole overtakes him.  Wait, I know you.  I do!  Libby, isn’t it?  You played lacrosse at Peddie with my cousin Chloe and, ah… roomed with Noelle at Barnard, right?

Libby’s gaze could kick-start a new Ice Age.

Look, we’re not staying long, and we’re not looking to mingle, Fee presses on.  Is the nosebleed section open?  We’ll sit for a little while and then bounce.  I promise we won’t spitball anyone below.

I’m not so sure you won’t.  Libby presses her tablet against her bosom with folded arms and jerks her head toward a side staircase.

_____________

  In the darkness of the rear mezzanine, Fee and Kee sit in the center back row against the wall and watch an antfarm of florists, musicians, clipboard-jockeys and black-clad stagehands rushing to put the final touches on before the Gala-goers troop in to preview their seats.  Following dinner, there’s to be a star-studded concert, a screening of a brief documentary on the history of the Viceroy and its illustrious Friends, and ceremony with awards and citations scattered like Mardi Gras favors.

But all of this is last on Kee’s worried mind.  With the exception of his sparring match with Libby, Fee’s been silent ever since they left the apartment.  His hand, usually so quick to squeeze when Kee takes it, remains limp, and he only half turns his head when Kee asks, What do you want to do?

Go home.  Fee looks up at the gold-leafed ceiling.  Back to the Bide-A-While.  Wait out winter, as we usually do, then get back on the road in spring.

Quite frankly, Kee’s relieved to hear it.  Not having ever had money or three thousand square feet of anything except state fairground, there’s nothing for him to imagine or miss.  Still, he has to ask:  What about the money?

Sock it in a bank account and let it mold.  I don’t know.  Now Fee’s hand finally come to life in Kee’s; he turns it palm up so that he can tickle the underside of his partner’s wrist.  Unless you can think of any better use for it.

A long pause ensues, broken finally by a whisper:  The circus.

What, now?

The circus.  Kee’s eyes glisten in the stage-glow, even from this height.  You ran away from home to join the circus.  The circus is home now.  Run it.

RUN it?

Well… maybe not exactly.  Greenleaf and Arkenstein are the kings— they have all the know-how, all the history.  But you love the fucking G&A just as much as they do.  Kee nudges Fee’s foot with his own.  And the G&A could use some new… some new…  He trails off and waits, eyebrows cocked.

Canvas, says Fee.  The tents are starting to look like shit.

Yes…?

Equipment.  We’re held together with paperclips.

Yes.

Wheels.  Fee’s picking up speed.  Proper transport.  RVs for life on the road.

Yes… Kee is less crazy about this; he likes the VW.  It’s his baby.  Their baby.

Talent.  Fee kicks the seat in front of him.  Goddammit, I suppose we’d better talk to Greenleaf about Junior.  He’s a dumbass in most respects, but his work’s really come along…

Smiling in the dark, Kee makes himself comfortable and lets his man take the wheel.

Down in the orchestra pit, a lone French horn player is doing a run up and down the scale; the sound’s akin to celestial trumpets spreading across heaven—if heaven was a mural painted on plaster.  Fee would tell you differently, as would Kee, as would Greenleaf and Arkenstein, as would every single rope-wrangler and trapeze-hanger in the G&A.  Heaven is canvas and flags, and the pure blue sky that hangs over them.  Heaven is the blare of carnival barkers and the tweedling of the grand calliope.  Heaven is hope. 

And if one were to put a price on hope, that figure would be written on the back of an old envelope with a crayon called Jazzberry Jam.

#Gathering 12 Days 2021 #Fili/Kili #FiKi #Durincest #the Hobbit

[pistolslinger]

how would i describe the mun of pis tol slinger dot tumblr dot com? i've said this a million times and i will say it a million times more until i am 96 years old but nat you are one of the funniest person i have ever met in the rpc. whether you're posting something ooc on the dash or sending something 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓭 in the dms i just know!!! i just know that i'm going to be laughing until i get stitches! talking to you is effortless, i'm pretty sure we just skipped all the awkward first interactions that happen with most people and just dove head first into the circus and i wouldn't have it any other way. on top of that, you are also so kind and welcoming and so easily approachable and that's just the trifecta of a good rp'er imho. and not to mention your writing! every time i read your threads i'm just absolutely floored by how talented you are and how well you understand jesper. please never doubt your characterisation or the way you write him because it's an absolute joy to read everything and see what kind of ideas and aus you think up for him! you are just a bright light in the rpc, and i'm glad that our paths crossed and that we're friends 🥰

HOW WOULD U DESCRIBE ME TO UR GRAMMA?

NO BC IM TRULY GOING TO START EATING WASPS RN. juli!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i rly came into this rpc thinking i couldnt love jesper and kaz’s dynamic any more than i already did, but then U HAPPENED and now i am sobbing over them always!!!!!!  i’ve said it before a million times and i will continue hooting it NOW: ur ability to mix kaz’s sharp wit and abrasiveness with his sense of humour always has me 🥰 u don’t tone down how cutting he can be, and u always make it work in every single interaction. like, it cannot be easy writing with as many ppl as u do with a muse like kaz, who is nigh unapproachable, but u have genuinely managed to make him both easy to interact with, and FUN to build a dynamic with, and i love it SO much. and ur writing style itself is gorgeous, and u handle dialogue + improvising plots so well, i love seeing ur responses on the dash, ic / crack / anything. also, ooc, u are genuinely one of my favourite ppl i’ve met thru rp. ur so funny, so down to earth, SO DOWN TO CLOWN always. we joke about sharing a braincell, but i cant think of a better person to share a braincell with :( the only thing is, ma’am. u are way too humble for ur own good. everything u put out into the rpc, be it ur ic writing, ur graphics, ur personality n wonderful sense of humour, all of it is appreciated n loved by so many ppl!!!!!!! SO MANY!!!!!!! i wish u would give urself more credit for all the cool shit u do and how cool a person u are, bc u deserve praise for it ALWAYS. im super grateful our orbs met across the rpc...........betwixt the taco bell and COWBOY AU........ 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊 𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖊𝖉 💖

#I LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!!!! #THIS MADE ME WEEP LIL ORBS #builtmyth #ANSWERED ... ‘ ooc meme.

[ghostnebula]

thinkin bout the werewolf au, and the thing about real wolves is that they lick the insides of each others mouths as a greeting & if they're acclimated to humans (like in a wolf sanctuary) they will do their best to greet people the same way. it occurred to me that it could be super funny if one of the losers ran into the toziers in wolf form and realized they were friendly, but in a way that's weird for a wild animal. and from there they basically conspiracy theory their way into realizing(1/2)

that werewolves exist. only THEN do they realize, oh hey. the toziers sure have a lot of dog toys for people who don't own dogs or dogsit and realize that maybe the toziers are werewolves. I don't know if it's funnier for whichever kid ran into wolf!toziers to drag the ENTIRE losers club into investigating and richie's panicking internally the whole time or for them to thoughtfully drag everyone EXCEPT richie bc he's afraid of werewolves and he has no clue until they show up at his house. (2/2)

I really thought this ask was going somewhere else dhjdhhjf thanks for making me think about Richie literally licking Eddie’s mouth (wolf or human form honestly lol)

But ALSO!!!! I love this concept because I imagine Ben just walking through the Barrens and holy fuck there are wolves. And he’s like, bracing for death, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when you run into wolves while you’re alone in the fucking woods? But then one of them bounds up to him and starts sniffing at his hands while he’s standing stock-still, trying not to piss his pants. The wolf doesn’t attack, though, just wags its tail and starts licking his hands and nosing at them, trying to encourage him to pet it, so he does, ‘cause fuck it, y’know?

This wolf is like weirdly excited about getting some pats, and then a belly rub, and keeps trying to nudge the other two over, as they sit nearby and observe with nigh-parental disapproval on their faces -- something almost human about it, and that makes Ben laugh, because all parents are the same, apparently. (Meanwhile Maggie and Went are like... “Richie we are not supposed to interact with the humans. We know he is your friend. He is still not supposed to know about us. Develop some impulse control please”)

Ben’s crouching down giving this very good boy some ear scritches when the wolf starts trying to lick his mouth, which is kinda gross but also adorable, and Ben’s not positive, because he’s no wildlife expert, but he thinks he read somewhere that that’s like a greeting between pack members or something, and he’s almost flattered that this wolf likes him that much, but also... this wolf should not like him that much? It’s a wild animal??

Unless.... it isn't a normal wolf? After all, things are never normal in Derry. So he wonders if, just maybe, It could have something to do with this, if there isn't a perfectly normal explanation like "pets escaped from rich asshole" or "ran away from a circus." Some kind of weird Derry influence isn't entirely out of the question, right?

But that’s crazy. In fact, it’s so crazy that Ben goes to the library about it, as one does, and spends his whole afternoon researching wolf behaviour and habitats, and only ends up more confused. Until, of course, one of the books he’s reading contains some offhand comment about some culture or another’s legends about werewolves influencing blah blah blah and the lightbulb goes on and like... really... if interdimensional child-eating alien spider sewer clowns can exist, why not werewolves? Can't werewolves also exist as separate entities that have nothing to do with the aforementioned interdimensional child-eating alien spider sewer clown?

The first person he runs into after an absurd amount of research on werewolves is Stan, and he’s like bursting with all this info, so he interrupts his bird-watching to unload all his conspiracy theories on him. But Stan, bless him, is like, “Yeah I don’t see why werewolves wouldn’t exist. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve ever dealt with.”

They tell Bill, obviously, because Big Bill is their leader, technically, and they want to hear his thoughts on the matter. Bill 100% is on board with Ben’s werewolf theory, and excited to prove it, and maybe meet the wolves Ben ran into, and now they’re all like “who could it be???? a resident of Derry? some hermits in the woods? a werewolf family just passing through?? what a mystery!!”

Cue these three musketeers running back to Bill’s house to make phone calls to the other Losers, inviting them to meet at the clubhouse after dinner to share this important discovery, and when Bill starts dialing Richie’s number Stan goes, “What are you doing? Don’t do that,” and hangs up.

“Why not?” Bill asks, because he is Bill and a himbo and he is not smart but he is very pretty, so that’s fine, and Stan smacks him (lovingly) on the back of the head and is like, “William. Richie is literally terrified of werewolves. Roping him into this would probably traumatize him, and I think you already did plenty of that with the clown fiasco. How did you even manage to forget Richie’s afraid of werewolves? You should know that better than anyone.”

And anyway they don’t tell Richie, to protect him, so the rest of the Losers’ Club has regular meetings to discuss Derry’s resident werewolves, who at some point are also spotted by Mike and Bev, and interacted with by Eddie (who thought he was going to get fucking eaten when this massive black wolf came bounding out of the woods to pounce on him and almost had a heart attack on the spot, but instead got lots of very slobbery kisses and a reason to brush his teeth 10 times when he got home). None of them consider that it might be Richie for at LEAST the first 3 months.

#Anonymous #ask #werewolf richie #reddie

[im-a-monster-fucking-princess]

21, 18 dramione please

Dystopia AU + Circus Au

Draco couldn’t help but feel sick as his father guided him through the maze of cages, boasting all the while about how the “creatures” within them were finally where they belonged. Draco couldn’t, wouldn’t look. He couldn’t bear to see the eyes of his classmates stare up at him as he passed them by. As he left them behind.

This was not supposed to happen.

Stupid fucking Potter was supposed to have saved them all from this horrific fate and instead he’d taken the opportunity his mother had given him and squandered it.

He’d gone and gotten himself killed.

And then she’d died for it.

Draco couldn’t help but think how lucky they were compared to the poor bastards who had been left behind. He hoped and prayed that his mother had some modicum of peace wherever she was now.

He also hoped and prayed she was cursing his father and planning the most heinous punishment imaginable for when he finally kicked the bucket, for how quickly he’d gotten over her death. For how quickly and quietly he’d once again began to prostrate himself at the Dark Lord’s feet.

He cast a quick glance at the man in front of him and his fingers twitched with need to simply Avada him right there. Of course - he hadn’t quite managed a wandless non-verbal killing curse yet and without his wand (which both his father and their glorious leader had decided he wouldn’t be needing anytime soon) - that was nigh on impossible for him to do.

He followed his father quickly and quietly until he was stopped by a hand darting out of one of the cages and gripping him tightly by the ankle. His eyes widened in horror as he looked down into the desperate eyes of Hermione Granger and when he tried to pull free of her grip he fell to the ground as she twisted her hand and held on tight.

“Malfoy,” she rasped, her eyes begging, pleading for him to help her. To help them. “Please Malf-”

“That’s enough of that.” Draco flinched as the cane of his fathers came down between them and Draco felt vomit rise up his oesophagus at the sickening crack he heard upon the impact. “Now Draco get up,” his father commanded, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him to his feet. “There’s quite a few more attractions to see before we return home. You’ll have plenty of time to sneer at the mudblood on opening night.”

Draco couldn’t say anything, lest he vomit all over the place. He simply held his tongue and let his father guide him onwards.

The next time he saw Granger wasn’t at the opening night. It was the night before when he broke into the complex and freed not only her but everyone else too.

#Dramione #asks #Draco x Hermione #drabble #fanfic mash up #Draco Malfoy #Hermione Granger #Voldemort wins #i'm sorry?!

[grifalinas]

Cirque du LazyTown

| Sportarobbie  Circus AU |

Summary: In the ring, he's Roberto the Great, and he runs the Cirque du LazyTown, one of the grandest shows in all the world.

In reality, he's Robbie Rotten, and his circus has been reduced to three clowns, seven kids, several animatronic puppets, and a pig.

The Cirque du LazyTown was once a grand affair, but over the years it's gone downhill. Robbie is struggling to keep the circus going, but with most of their performers gone, they're running out of acts to draw the crowds. Stephanie, one of the performers, makes a wish on a falling star, and the very next day finds Sportacus, a traveler capable of almost any feat they suggest. He agrees to help their circus- and with his help, maybe they won't have to lose the only home, and the only family, that most of them have ever known.

A/N: After a little over a year and a half, I finally find myself thinking about this story again. With almost no recollection of my worldbuilding or plans and a nigh-incomprehensible collection of notes to go on, it might take a few chapters to get things going again, but hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.

#cirque du lazytown #lazytown #lazytown fanfiction

[peaches-of-1]

Inktober Day 26: Under the Bed

Title: Beds, Bows, and My Baby Girl

A Jimin Single Dad AU in which Na Haeun is his 9 year old daughter. I had to edit this once more before posting it which is why it’s late today.

< Day 25 | All stories | Day 27 >

Jimin rolled over expecting hot morning breath to make sure he got a right start to the day, but there had been no morning breath for two years. Only his own which currently smelled of whiskey. Jimin brushed his silver hair back and looked at his phone for today’s schedule. Ah, dance practice with his dongsaengs.

All the hyungs were currently serving, so it was just the three of them in the studio and at practice nowadays. Jimin had no interest in rapping, so Jungkook mostly did it with Taehyung giving a brassy line or two if the song required it. It was sort of cute how Namjoon would send them notebooks filled with songs and stray lyrics every once in a while.

He was just working in America, mostly, so he had lots of free time to just sit down and write. Jimin missed his hyungs but not as much as Taehyung even though he rarely said it. They’d be done in about eight months, so it wasn’t forever.

Brush teeth. Put on shorts and a soft black sweater and then he filled up his backpack. After making sure he had everything he needed, Jimin looked at a picture of his daughter and smiled before leaving out.

There were camera men today. Right, they were supposed to be filming the dance practice today. The three boys did a run through before turning on the camera. Upbeat carnival music started to play, and Jimin giggled. He really liked the Circus Concept they were going for this time around.

Jungkook got to do some tricks first and then Taehyung pulled him out of a hat because he was Bangtan’s Bunny after all these years. Jimin got to be the ringmaster. There were two aerial performers that dropped down and background dancers who played out different aspects.

It was for their title track, “Come One, Come All.”

Only one more minute left of the song and they’d have fireworks going off in thirty seconds once they were on stage. When they were finally done, Jimin tossed his hat “into the audience” which was actually just towards the camera where a manager caught it.

Then they breathed hard. It wasn’t too hard, but it was just so fast paced. Small hands clapped and cheered.

“Dadddd, you were amazing!”

His angel’s voice made Jimin look towards the door. Haeun was there in the denim jacket her bought her last time they hung out. She spent more time with her mom since Jimin usually had work, but he had the week off before promotions began.

“Was I?” He picked her up and they did their father/daughter handshake.

She smiled, “Of course, Dad! You’re always amazing, but I wanted to say it out loud this time.”

He smiled, “How’s my dancing princess doing?”

“I’m doing good. My channel got three million subscribers the other day.”

“I know. Mommy sent me the picture.” He set her down. “Is it ok if I take a picture to let my fans know we get to hang out for the week?”

Haeun said it was ok and did a peace sign and a big smile.

Jungkook and V got high fives from her and said that she was getting prettier everyday. The maknae even had the gall to ask if she had a boyfriend yet.

“Or a girlfriend.” V butt in.

Her ponytail shook sideways, “I’m too young to date anyone, and I don’t feel like it. Boyfriends are for fun. I have enough fun dancing already.”

“I bet your dad made you say that.” Jungkook teased.

“Nope. You’re just being weird.” She giggled.

Jimin laughed as well, “That’s my girl!”

She still kissed her two uncles on their cheeks and sat in the corner while the boys went over their other stage dances. Being the natural mover she was, Haeun ended up joined her dad and learning the dance as well. Even the men had a better understanding of the dance moves once they had taught their tiny teammate for an hour.

Then it was time for lunch. The four of them went out to eat, but Taehyung was called over by Suga’s partner. Their husband had left something belonging to their twins in his cars, so V had to go give it to them. Jungkook decided to go with him.

Haeun was a curious little girl, so she asked so many things about what her dad had done while she was away. Mostly it was practice and meeting fans that he was grateful for even after all these years. Their fanbase seemed to be finally picking back up.

“Mommy says you slept with one of your fans and that’s why you lost so many. She was lying, right?”

Jimin clarified, “It was last year. Your mom and I stopped being together for 4 years, so I wanted to find another girlfriend. She’s a longtime fan, and we know each other well. This time, she asked me out and I said yes.”

His daughter looked up at him with brown tinted innocence shining in her eyes as she sipped on banana milk.

“When my other fans found out, they didn’t like it and started saying mean things about me and they started making up lies about me and the girl.”

“Why?”

He sighed and shrugged, “I don’t know, Haeunnie. Overall, she just wanted to see what a date with me was like. We’re still friends. Do you want to meet her one day?”

Haeun nodded, “Yes!”

“Then next time we have a concert and you’re there, I’ll introduce you two. She’s a really nice girl. You two have the same favorite color.”

“Really?”

Jimin nodded and was glad to see the smile on her face. Soon enough, he was tucking her into bed and then going over some lyrics before falling asleep on top of one of the notebooks.

Later that night, Jimin was making sure he had enough cereal left for his daughter in the morning since she was already bathed and was going to call him any minute to brush and braid her hair.

“Dad! Dad! DAAAAAADDDDDD!!!” That wasn’t the type of voice he was expecting.

He quickly sprinted up the stairs to her pink and silver room meant to last to her adulthood with a cooking utensil in hand and also noting where the bat was near the closet. With paternal protection pounding in his chest, the looked at his frightened daughter who had her Chimmy nightgown on. She was clutching tightly onto the black ears.

“What is it, Haeun-ie?”

She pointed to the bed in fright, “Monster!”

Jimin chuckled and relaxed his stance. “Aren’t you too old to believe monsters live under the bed? You’re almost ten, sweetie pie.”

“I know what I saw!” She had her father’s signature pout and her mother’s glowing eyes.

As a dad, Jimin couldn’t resist his darling daughter when she looked like that. He decided to at least take a look underneath with the flashlight from her bedside table. There was nothing except a red bowtie underneath her bed.

With a timid voice, Haeun asked, “Do you see anything?”

“Nope. Nothing but a red bow. Probably from one of your many costumes. I’ll get it for you, so we can figure out whic--.” Jimin reached back to pick it up and suddenly jerked forward.

He started to make choked noises of being taken. He fought back saying he couldn’t be taken because he had to take care of his princess. His daughter screamed and then he chuckled as he retrieved his arm safely.

“I’m joking.” he stood up and pat her head. “There’s nothing under your bed.” He laughed at his ace dad prank and put the bow on her dresser. Then he took her to the living room so that he could brush her hair.

“That wasn’t funny!”

Jimin was a good dad, so he said that she could sleep in his bed if she really was too scared to sleep in her own. What he didn’t know was that the bow didn’t belong to his daughter and that a scaly green hand reached from under the bed to the nigh stand to get back her belonging. She clipped it into her hair and closed the portal. Maybe next time the girl would want to be her friend.

#BTS #Bangtan #Park Jimin #fic #fanfic #fan fic #fan fiction #dad!AU #Father!AU #Single Father #Single Dad #monster under the bed

[faded-mind]

I was tagged by @prisonerofazkban & it was fun to do here it is:

🔸 Name: starts with a M

🔸 Nicknames: mimi, nanon, oximore, moleba if you ask @moregeous

🔸 Zodiac sign: Virgo

🔸 Height: 1,60m (so 5′3 I think?)

🔸 Ethnicity: european (white) as far as I know (maybe a bit of north african/middle eastern on my dad side - adoption so it’s hard to know - but yeah most likely over 90% white european!) for the specifics Brittany/Vendée on one side Franche Compté & Haute Marne on the other

🔸 Favourite fruit: mango & raspberries & strawberries

🔸 Favourite season: summer

🔸 Favourite book: soooo many but among others, Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, Au bonheur des dames by Zola, Crush by Richard Siken, Comfort and Joy by Jim Grimsley and too many others

🔸 Favourite flower: lily of the valley

🔸 Favourite scent: I have a lot of favorite scents, but some of my all time faves are the sea, the rain, the everlasting (Helichrysum stoechas), the lily of the valley etc

🔸 Favourite animal: cats, snakes, all the corvidae

🔸 Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: mostly tea, sometimes hot chocolate and coffee just tries to kill me haha (but i love it in sweets)

🔸 Cat or dogs persons: cats

🔸 Favourite fictional character: how much time do you have because I have way too many haha, Jason Todd, Lyra Sylvertongue, Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater, Penny Adiyodi, mage Garrett Hawke, Ororo Munroe, James Barnes, Peter Parker, Light Yagami, Cassie Ainsworth, Merrill, Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa and a lot of others...

🔸 Dream trip: Canada to California with @moregeous, going to Italy (and see @katiazamolodchikova), go see Taiwan (and some friends there)

🔸 Blog created: idek maybe around 2012?

🔸 Number of followers: around 1k

🔸 What do I post about: content I’m into, both fandom and society related lot of Art

🔸 Do I get asks on a regular basis: not that many and I can be awfully slow to answer I’m sorry

🔸 Aesthetic: American Horror Story: Coven, some punk rock romantic ex goth vibes, mist and rain and woods, nigh-times and neons and cities lights, weird colorful hippie wiccan art kid jedi in the summer, Welcome to Night Vale strange eeriness I have a tag for all that

🔸 Favourite band: I cannot pinpoint one I have to many I love - currently lot of dark wave, ambient, experimental but also neo metal and some pop...

🔸 Fictional character I’d date: idek I never asked myself that nor have i imagine really dating any? maybe Penny? or Luke Skywalker? or Ororo Munroe?

🔸 Hogwarts house: slytherin

Tagging if they feel like it: @moregeous, @janiedean, @glitteryunicorn, @katiazamolodchikova, @orube, @renahikari, @xroadsdemon, and any mutual feeling like doing it

#answers #about me