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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

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fellamarsh · 6 months

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WIP Reintro: Taker of the Third Path

The spiral spins away in the same movement that it turns back.

Directed by the voice on the wind he calls god, traveling hedgewitch Linmiru settles in an abandoned inn at an old crossroads to watch for the next person to follow the overgrown "third path". Ton's prophecy is deceptively simple: the fate of the world rests on Lin meeting the taker. But as the months drag on with this mysterious individual nowhere in sight, Lin begins to form a connection with one of the inn's guests that leaves him questioning his devotion to destiny... And when the taker finally does arrive, Linmiru must face the realization that nothing at the old crossroads has been as it seems.

Details

Genre: Original world adult fantasy, M/M romance + erotica, prophecy/quest narrative

Expected wordcount: 80-100k

Themes and motifs: grief, guilt and forgiveness, healing and redemption, circles and spirals, fate vs choice, names, ghosts, home, family, threads that connect vs threads that bind, journeys and return, stories, time loops, power

Major Characters

Linmiru Oddatma (he/him, human, 30ish) priest, hedgewitch, teacher, innkeeper, trick magic enthusiast, our MC

Gent (he/him, human, 30ish), frequent guest at the Siffsarta, apparent wanderer, refuses to give his real name, hates Lin on sight, dubious love interest, no magical ability

Rukne (he/him, faerie, tween) resident of E'Dedga, Lin's student, Hinno's best friend, at risk for "wild magic", grumpy

Hinno (he/him, faerie, tween) resident of E'Dedga, Lin's student, Rukne's best friend, normal magical development, sunshine

Olma (she/her, human, 70ish) wizard, merchant, frequent guest at the Siffsarta, weed grandma

Sahiln (she/her, faerie, 40s?) resident of E'Dedga, occupation is "keeper of the past", Rukne's heart mother, magic user

Bacsi (they/them, elf, 30s and 40s) priest of Ton, Lin's old teacher

Content warnings: "Off-screen" child and sexual abuse; self harm; attempted suicide; natural disasters; forced relocation; imperialist violence

Synopsis (below the cut):

Linmiru Oddatma has spent the last ten years wandering. In accordance with the agreement they made the day he cast off his childhood name, Lin trusts that Ton, the Windblown, god of things caught in the wind, will lead him to the people who most need his help. He fully intends to dedicate his life to this work. When he pictures his future, it is a spiral widening, taking him ever further from where he’s been before.

He never imagines that Ton will entrust him with a prophecy so powerful and profound that it will change the world.

Now Lin finds himself an innkeeper in the remote Kagognair Fastness, his wandering arrested by lonely days spent watching and waiting for the one who will next travel the overgrown third path outside his door. He does not know what will happen when they meet—but he does know that failing to do so carries deadly consequences.

Thankfully, he has a few distractions to help him pass his long days besides doing divinations to better understand Ton’s instructions. The faerie village of E'Dedga, situated in the adjacent valley, is more than eager to allow him to teach its cadre of magically gifted children. Lin is especially grateful to find Rukne, a boy increasingly alienated from his peers by his start-and-go magical development, among his students. The young faerie is exactly the type of person Lin longs to help the most. Rukne, more than anyone he's ever met, reminds him of the person he lost so long ago.

Naturally, Linmiru has visitors to the inn to entertain as well. His favorite is Olma, an aging wizard who spends her stays cracking jokes, smoking pipeweed, and regaling Lin with often raunchy stories from her youth.

But not all of Linmiru’s guests are quite so delightful. In fact, his most regular visitor is anything but.

Linmiru confirmed the day he first met Gent that he is not the taker of the third path—just as he confirmed his wish that the man never come back. Quiet, impenetrable, and with a name that is not a name at all, Gent returns to the Siffsarta with disturbing frequency, much to Lin's dismay. Whenever he's not holed up in his room or glaring at him in hateful silence, Gent insults Lin’s religion and interrogates his reasons for running the inn. Lin can handle a bit of rudeness, but Gent’s presence sets him on edge. He seems to want something from Lin; what it is, he has no idea.

But the worst thing about Gent isn’t the fact that he might be dangerous. It’s that, despite all reason, Linmiru is attracted to him.

As the wheel of the seasons turns, Lin learns more about Gent, about the faeries, and about the Fastness—a place of deep magic with a long and ancient history. In contrast, he understands less and less about the coming prophecy. Ton's answers to his questions are vague, cryptic, or completely absent. Lin's frustration with his situation, with himself, and with his god only grows. He begins to feel—and Ton confirms—that there is something he's not quite seeing.

He doesn’t think Ton means Gent’s attraction to him, unnoticed by Lin until the instant before he first kissed him. Nor does he think Ton means the realization, deep into the nights he spends with Gent, that he is starting not to care about the prophecy. If he could get to the heart of what has brought Gent here, of what happened in his past, and help this man who is somehow more gentle with him than anyone has ever been, he wouldn't mind if the world as he knew it came to an end. Maybe then the dreams of his past that increasingly plague him would end, too.

As winter bears down—as Lin finds Rukne ostracized by the people of his village—as he learns the terrible meaning behind Gent's real name—as the past and the future run together, compressing into the present, Lin finds himself, at a critical moment, unable to move. The truth behind Ton’s prophecy is nothing like he ever expected.

If he doesn't want everything to end when he finally confronts the taker of the third path, Linmiru will have to be like a spiral, and turn away in the same movement that he turns back.

#taker of the third path #writeblr #wip #nano 2023 #nanowrimo #gay fantasy romance #queer fantasy #intro post #lin and gent #graphic design is my passion...

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darsynia · 1 year

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Diminished Seventh (ch1)

(Stephen Strange/OC, 'mistrust to lovers,' Animate Objects series)

gif by @sersi | art found here: duttaayon14008

Summary: Stephen Strange is 94.6% certain that 'Amy' is a spy intent on causing harm to the sanctum and their mission. That his most troublesome relic has imprinted on her is a complication he did not need, but it confirms that she isn't as she seems. He resolves to 'teach her the Mystic Arts,' and in the process reveal her deception, but finds himself attracted and charmed by the woman. If only he could get the truth from her, he might be able to turn her into an ally.

Succeeding might just wreck him, though.

Length: 3,411

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I am quite new, and a wee bit shy about tags and asks, but please feel free to send them anyway! Tags: @starryeyes2000, @raith-way, @arrthurpendragon, @sobeautifullyobsessed

A 'diminished seventh' chord creates tension that begs to be resolved.

Chapter One

Stephen’s invited-but-unwelcome visitor walked out of the sanctum into the pouring rain within a minute of handing over her locket. Her expression showed distress and determination, and he was reminded of a wounded prey animal gnawing off its own leg to escape a trap.

That was what he was supposed to picture, he decided. Which likely meant she’d wanted to leave her locket behind. Already, the sanctum’s umbrellic troublemaker was steadily shifting larger and larger, as though trying to reach the dangling chain. Stephen gestured, and Cloak lifted him high above the Tsasilli, sailing them over to the stairs and up to a display case bearing an empty silver tray.

He meant to set the locket down and place a magic-isolating protection spell on it, but a discussion with Wong about recklessly using magic on volatile objects gave him pause. Stephen cast the protection spell on himself instead. He picked up the locket between finger and thumb, the pressure releasing its internal catch and swinging half of the oval open. Inside were two photographs, one of a little girl and a teenage boy making faces at each other. The other was a young man whose features told him he was an older version of the youth. The man bore Amy’s dark hair and crooked smile as he stood on a beach, waves crashing onto the sand behind him.

“Convenient,” Stephen said, pushing it closed with his thumb. Seconds later, he’d encased it in a crystalline enclosure that prevented all interactions, whether out or in. “Now, what am I going to do with you?” he asked the Cloak, which had been hovering a safe distance away. It wilted a little, turning to face the front of its collar toward the stairs. “That parasol is a bad influence,” he muttered.

By rights, he ought to encase it in the same spell, in stasis until Amy’s return. Thinking of her with her first name only made him uncomfortable, a kind of artificial familiarity, but she hadn’t left him a last name. He imagined he was meant to think ‘Amy’ was a nickname, given in conjunction with the locket to trick him into holding it, poking around inside it, possibly taking out the photographs to look for more identifying information on the back.

“Hah,” he said aloud. He’d thwarted that plan.

“You know what they say about those who must laugh at their own jokes,” Wong remarked, as he mounted the stairs. In his hand was the Tsasilli of Semiramis, demurely hiding in its natural state.

“Careful with that. It isn’t satisfied with growing out of display cases anymore.”

Stephen had told Wong about finding the Tsasilli in various places around the sanctum, usually locations it could have drifted to by manipulating gravity and/or its own size. It was impossible to display the thing anymore, because it would grow spikes or change its shape in ways that would destroy or break through any container. For over a week now, they’d just noted its position every few hours and hoped for the best.

Now he had the task of explaining that the recalcitrant relic had made its way near enough to imprint on the woman Stephen was sure had been sent to spy on them.

Relics were arcane, mystical. Clearly sentient, their way of relating to the transitory mortals they chose to associate with varied by item, but most of those bonds were precious and secretive. There were too many variables to be certain how to proceed, but the nature of the relic was always the most important factor.

The Tsasilli was among the most difficult ever to be encountered.

As expected, Wong had a lot to say about Stephen’s choice to invite Amy inside.

Stephen enjoyed wearing the garb of the Sorcerer Supreme. He liked having the freedom to step through a portal from New York to Kamar Taj and greet the Adepts there, dispense wisdom, and come back without needing to change anything. He also liked his regular clothing. It was more comfortable, more casual, and there were times when he needed to blend in more than he needed to command attention. Today was supposed to be a ‘blending in’ day-- but as he emerged from his shower (it was a two-towel morning), Stephen started donning his mystic apparel. Doing otherwise could give the day’s scheduled visitor the impression that she’d gotten under his skin with her jibes. He was in no way ashamed of who he was, and what mantle he bore.

Wong’s knowing stare in the kitchen made Stephen snag his coffee cup with magic instead of fingers. He poured the coffee itself by hand. Good coffee lost something in the teleportation transfer, he’d found.

“Are you sure you’re prepared for your tasks this morning?” Wong asked conversationally.

“Of course?”

“You have not yet taken on the task of individually guiding a student. I just wanted to ensure you had considered how best to go about it.”

Stephen set down his half-drunk coffee mug with dignity. “If you’re worried I’ll take the Ancient One’s tack and send this woman careening through multiple dimensions to scare her, don’t worry. I plan to start low and slow.” He smiled just thinking about it. “Talented actress or not, there’s no way she’ll be able to hide her contempt for that teaching style. It’ll drive her crazy to be treated like someone with zero idea what I’m talking about.”

Annoyingly, Wong didn’t take that as encouragement, nor did he seem amused. “So you’re going to tempt her ire? Did you not mention repeatedly that you found her insults hurtful?”

“Might want to get your memory checked, friend,” Stephen scoffed, draining the last of his coffee. “I said ‘annoying and repetitive.’ And off the mark.”

“If you say so.”

A clock somewhere on the second floor chimed for eight, and their door buzzer sounded.

“Do you wish me to observe?” Wong asked as Stephen made his way out of the kitchen. He waved the other sorcerer off, which earned him a low chuckle.

“Now he laughs,” Stephen muttered to himself.

The Cloak was still lurking elsewhere when he got to the door. Stephen opened it, having formed his expression into the forbidding guise of a harsh taskmaster, but when he saw Amy standing on the doorstep, he blinked in surprise.

She looked like she’d just stepped out of a vintage magazine. Her high-waisted black pants had plenty of fabric drape to hide the shape of her legs, but they were tightly fitted to her hips, showing off the cinch of her waist. The black and white houndstooth pattern of her blouse was leashed by the wide black straps which framed her chest, making the high collar and jaunty fabric bow under her chin seem almost mocking. Everything about what she was wearing should have seemed demure and conservative. In practice, it challenged him to object while enhancing her curves in a way that was very pleasing.

“Was there something?” Amy asked.

To his horror, Stephen realized he hadn’t yet looked at her face. She had on bright red lipstick and probably false eyelashes, but otherwise didn’t seem heavily made up. “I was trying to guess which role you’d taken your costume from. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?” he guessed.

“Not a costume, I just enjoy the style,” Amy said easily. She turned to look behind her, along the street, as if implying he was waiting for something or someone else. Her hair was in a ponytail with a flip at the end, and Stephen had to admit she hadn’t left anything out of the look. Unbidden, the question of whether she wore vintage undergarments came to mind, and he cleared his throat.

“Come in, then.” He stepped back and gestured for her to precede him, adding belatedly, “I have a lot to teach you.”

Amy stopped right beside him in the doorway and looked up at him, a hint of pink at her cheeks.

“Go on,” Stephen said, willing his body not to show his own embarrassment. Even he had to admit his tone had been… suggestive. Apparently this woman’s tactics had shifted from derision to something more insidious, today. After a handful of seconds that seemed to drag, she nodded and went inside.

“We’ll start in the basement,” he said to unnerve her. He chose the steeper of the two staircases, conjuring a ball of light to make up for the ancient dim bulbs and feeling mighty pleased with himself. This woman had achieved her goal of invading his space, but she wouldn’t be able to navigate it without his help. Stephen reached the wide practice area and lit the torches before turning to see how intimidated she looked.

She didn’t. She was turning off her flashlight and tucking it away in her shoulder bag.

Stephen felt a twinge of admiration.

“You said you have much to teach me, but I had been expecting some kind of negotiation, truth be told,” Amy told him, clasping her hands in an unconscious form of parade rest. Only the tiny cant of her hip hinted at any sort of disrespect.

“That’s part of it. Mostly I need to know you understand the gravity of the situation--”

Her stance grew more insolent as she interrupted; “All this because of a trick umbrella?”

“No,” Stephen said, wanting to walk up to her, guessing she’d see that as an indication that his words weren’t powerful enough to command her attention. “Because of an ancient relic imbued with mystical power.”

“I almost bought a wizard costume for this, you know,” Amy said in a hushed tone that implied she was conveying a secret. “A friend of mine has the whole Gandalf wig and beard. He was busy last night so I couldn’t go get it, but I reserve the right, if you drag this out.”

“Enough!” Stephen said. Last night he’d decided he would conjure shields first. They were visually stunning, and if Amy’s expression showed even a hint of triumph, he would know she was glad he’d shown her something defensive first. With a speed borne of anger, he cast the golden spell at each fist, watching her face as they grew in intricate, glowing beauty.

Far from being mocking, Amy was stunned. Captivated.

“My god,” she whispered. “Is there anything more beautiful?”

Stephen held his ground, but he swallowed hard, straightening his stance to hide that.

“No, really, I--” Amy drifted forward as though compelled. “May I circle you? See what it looks like from all angles?” On seeing his brow furrow, she added, “I figured you’d never agree to deliberately turn your back on me.”

“That’s true,” he said without thinking. She nodded, the warm gold glow reflecting in her hazel-yellow eyes as she walked over.

“May I?” she breathed, reaching her hand toward his elbow.

“Why?” No other trainee had ever responded in this way. Then again, they usually had too much deference for the Sorcerer Supreme to dream of it.

“Resonance.” Amy reached the forefingers of her right hand toward his right arm, just past the wrist bindings he wore. She moved slowly enough that by the time she actually touched him, he’d already gone through several cycles of wondering what it would feel like.

Gentle. Encouraging. Curious. Perhaps a little ground-shaking, in that Stephen realized only belatedly that he’d been drawn in by her, enough to consent to contact even though he saw her as the tool of an enemy.

“I thought maybe I could feel the source of power,” she chuckled. “That it might vibrate there, and I could sense it.”

“I’m drawing it from another dimension,” he said, turning his head to look at her.

Amy leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with more than the reflection of his spell. “Is that what you call the battery pack you’re wearing?” It was a clever retort, but she was teasing. He could tell. Shit, his first instinct was to suggest she try to find the pack, to flirt with her, imply that he wore clothing with folds and gathers to hide all of his tricks.

His self-censure had taken too long, and she was already behind him. Stephen felt a light touch on his back that traveled across, and he was confused until Amy trailed her fingers to the same place on his left arm that she’d started on his right.

He turned his head and stared at her, not bothering to hide his reaction.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, lifting her hand and putting both of them behind her back. “I figured since you were so mistrustful, if you knew where I was that whole time-- I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes tightly, pulled in a long, slow breath, and then walked back to stand across from him as she let it out.

Stephen let the shields wisp away. There were multiple things he could say, but the words that left his lips were, “You can learn to do that. You should. If you are who you claim to be, you have an affinity that is going unrealized. Think of all the good you could do.” He’d pulled in another breath to continue, but she interrupted him, her tone full of withering disbelief.

“Oh, come on. If you’re who you claim to be, you shouldn’t have come to the door alone and unarmed. If you really believe I’m a threat, why wouldn’t I show up with the means to get my locket returned to me without humoring you like this?”

Stephen smiled grimly and slammed his hands palm-flat in front of himself, spreading them with glowing arcs of energy stretched between. This practice room had an abundance of objects specifically designed to be destroyed and rebuilt, and one of them was beside her. He flung the whip with practiced precision, striking the vase in the center and shattering it, his free hand coming up to cast a deflection spell to protect Amy from the flying shards.

“I am not unarmed.” He released his call on the energy he’d just wielded and stalked toward her, opening a connection to the mirror dimension. Amy’s eyes widened as he approached, but he stopped inches away, spreading his arms wide. As he did so, the walls bent away, revealing that they were standing on a strip of carpet as merely one side of a polyhedron.

“Is this real?” she whispered, her own hands held out as if wishing she could find the edge of reality to ground herself on.

“To an extent,” Stephen answered. “It’s the Mirror Dimension, a manipulable space. We can’t affect the world from in here, it’s often used to practice the Mystic Arts.”

“What happens if I fall?”

“You land somewhere after a frightening tumble, none the worse for wear, or--” He smiled, watching for her reaction. “I’ll catch you.”

“You do love your double meanings,” Amy laughed weakly. “Can I hit pause for a minute? Is this mirror thing every bit as connected to your… way of life as that laser energy? And you’re showing me this because there’s some… device pretending to be an umbrella, and it likes me?”

She looked down at her feet, noting how far the flat floor extended before it angled away, and then turned slowly, watching the way the various pieces of doubled decor seemed to defy gravity as it succumbed to the strangeness of the Mirror Dimension. Stephen stayed silent, feeling tendrils of doubt stretching out, ivy-like, seeking to combine with his unspoken attraction to her.

He didn’t want her to be a spy. He wanted this wonder of hers to be genuine.

Amy’s slow spin came back to center, her arms hugged around her torso as they had been the day before, when she was frightened, wet, and cold. “You’ve got the wrong girl, I think. I’m--” she laughed again, and it was as ugly a sound as could come from someone he saw as beautiful. “I’m not important enough for this. Could, I mean, I can tell you’re close with your cape thing, but is it possible they’re wrong?”

“I told you, it’s a Cloak.”

“What does it matter?” she asked, jaw clenched, eyes flashing a challenge.

“It matters because words have meanings, and truth has a purpose." Stephen was putting on his sling ring as he spoke, and it was that which broke the clever spell she was weaving. “ I would have thought you’d realize that, since you’re trying to deceive me! Yesterday I cast a portal with this and you didn’t even blink an eye. Drop the act!” He cast a portal back to the entryway of the sanctum beside him. To get out, she’d need to persuade him to let her walk into his portal-- or cast her own, if he left her there alone.

“You… what?” Amy was wild-eyed, her entire attention caught on the portal. “One of those? No way.”

“I am finished with your lies,” Stephen said implacably. “If you wish to leave this place, you can do so yourself, with the skills that brought you to the sanctum, the skills that triggered that relic to choose you.”

Amy took a horrified step back, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious. I, I--” Her wounded eyes traveled across his face, down across his chest to his feet and back up, as though searching for some commonality, something she could use to persuade. “What can I possibly say? My job is my whole life. Before this promotion I would work twelve hours and go home exhausted and disappointed, wishing I’d been able to push myself to do more. Before that I spent my days trying to lift broken people out of the tidal surge. I went from hurricane to hurricane and I was never able to save the one person I--” she broke off, one arm coming up to angrily swipe tears from her face.

Was this the last ditch effort by a trapped adversary to engender sympathy and release her from his trap? Stephen hardened himself as best he could against the way he felt, hearing her impassioned plea. Some of that must have shown on his face, because Amy’s temper flared.

“How dare you?” she asked, her voice low and angry. “I don’t owe you anything. Even if all of this is real, what have you ever done with it? Why was I called to console the people of this city after such utter devastation, when you could have used these crazy powers to protect them, or, or trapped one of those huge Chitauri things into your mirror dimension? I’m still here years later, rebuilding lives!”

As he listened, Stephen knew that refuting her would be useless. She wouldn’t believe him if he told her what he’d been told when asking the same question: that the Ancient One and the other Adepts had used all of their power to keep the beasts from straying past the sanctum and out to destroy more of the city. He tried to master the way her words were stirring up the same resentments he’d felt, all the lives he couldn’t save, the weeks and months of emergency care, being used as a bludgeon instead of a scalpel.

“Where were you? Huh? If this is all real--”

“I was in surgery!” he shouted, the dam finally breaking. “Where I belong-- belonged. Patching up the people who were hurt, trusting that the people who had the power would use it!”

She was looking at him like he was crazy, one foot positioned behind herself to back away again.

“You have to seek out this knowledge,” he said, lifting a hand and conjuring the same sort of demonstration that the Ancient One had, when he himself was disbelieving. “Everyone has a reason.”

Now Amy looked frightened, her arms crossed, the picture of an early 60’s starlet out of her depth. “Are you trying to say my reason is you?”

Stephen was speechless for a long second. He started toward her, meaning to force her to admit to her subterfuge or at the very least, stop trying to charm him. “No, I’m saying you’re--”

Amy backed away from him right away, her hands coming up, palms out, defensive. Suddenly she was falling, having backed right off of their oasis of flat space in a dimension of tilted truths.

The words ‘I’ll catch you,’ echoed in his head, in his voice, his promise, his duty.

Next Chapter...

#stephen strange #stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange x oc #doctor strange #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange x oc #doctor strange x original character #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfic #stephen strange imagine #ocfairygodmother #fyeahsuperverseocs

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opticalsworld · 6 months

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Opticals World: Mastering the Art of Optical Illusions in Business

Introduction

In a world dominated by digital screens and virtual realities, the allure of optical illusions has not lost its magic. Optical illusions have fascinated and perplexed humans for centuries, offering a glimpse into the fascinating intricacies of our visual perception. "Opticals World," a unique business name that seamlessly combines optics and the world of illusion, is a company that thrives on the intrigue and wonder of these visual marvels. In this article, we will delve into the world of optical illusions and explore how "Opticals World" has crafted a niche within this intriguing domain.

The Fascination of Optical Illusions

Optical illusions are captivating phenomena where our eyes and brains conspire to deceive us. They play with our perceptions, making us question the reality of what we see. The allure of optical illusions lies in their ability to challenge our assumptions about the world, making us think twice about what is truly there. From the classic Penrose Triangle to the mysterious Rubin's Vase, these illusions have entertained, puzzled, and even educated us about the complexities of human vision.

Optical Illusions in Art and Entertainment

While optical illusions have a profound connection to art and creativity, they have also carved a unique place in the world of business. "Opticals World" is a prime example of a company that has embraced the enchantment of optical illusions and transformed it into a thriving enterprise.

1. Optical Illusion Products:

"Opticals World" offers a range of products inspired by optical illusions. From decorative prints and posters to innovative home decor items, their products add a touch of magic to any environment. The illusions they create with their merchandise can captivate the imagination of customers and spark conversations in social gatherings.

2. Educational Tools:

The business has recognized the educational potential of optical illusions. They provide a selection of educational materials, including books and kits, aimed at teaching people about the science and art behind these captivating visual tricks. This not only enhances their product range but also contributes to raising awareness about the fascinating world of optical illusions.

3. Visual Marketing:

"Opticals World" employs optical illusions in their marketing campaigns. Their website and advertisements often feature attention-grabbing illusions, drawing visitors into the world of the surreal. This unique marketing strategy not only sets them apart from their competitors but also ensures a memorable and immersive experience for their customers.

Conclusion

"Opticals World" has ingeniously incorporated the world of optical illusions into its business model, embracing the timeless fascination these phenomena hold. Through their creative products, educational initiatives, and visual marketing, they have positioned themselves as pioneers in the art of deception and wonder. By merging science, art, and commerce, they have not only established a thriving business but have also contributed to the enduring fascination with optical illusions.

In an age of technological advancement, "Opticals World" reminds us of the enchantment that lies within the mysteries of human perception. With a business name that echoes their commitment to this captivating field, they continue to explore the limitless possibilities of optical illusions, enticing us to see the world in a new light.

#optical illusions

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savage-kult-of-gorthaur · 1 year

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"...A WORK OF BREATHTAKING, ELEMENTAL WONDER..." -- ALL ABOUT A CHILD & HIS RED BALLOON.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on film stills of the beloved fantasy film/short "The Red Balloon" (1956), written & directed by French documentarian filmmaker Albert Lamorisse (1922-1970).

"The simplicity and emotional clarity of Albert Lamorisse’s 1956 "The Red Balloon" have made it one of the most beloved films of all time. The narrative is deceptively airy and pared down: Pascal, a young Parisian boy, retrieves a balloon tied to a lamppost, only to discover that it seems to have a mind and personality of its own. At times the balloon follows him around like a loyal dog, at others like a teasing best friend; the two form an almost inseparable bond, one that only an uncaring world would dare untether.

From this modest premise, however, grows a work of breathtaking, elemental wonder —one that, despite its seemingly effortless naturalism, also required a host of cinematic tricks. It’s easy to imagine a boy and his faithful balloon companion; it’s something else to visually realize such a relationship on-screen. Lamorisse began as a documentarian, which makes this flight of fancy, his greatest success, all the more surprising. Rather than using his camera to straight-forwardly survey an environment and its people, here he had to rely on the persuasions of cinematography, editing, and sound—and some very thin threads—to make his audience believe in magic, that his titular character was a plausible living being, emoting and reacting without the benefit of a voice or even a face. In a sense, The Red Balloon is one of the all-time greatest examples of pure cinema. And as it’s geared toward children, it elegantly serves both as an introduction to the basics of film grammar and, at least for its legions of young American fans through the years, as a peek at a different culture. Call it My First Art Movie."

-- CRITERION COLLECTION (essay by Michael Koresky), April 28, 2008

Source: www.criterion.com/current/posts/655-the-red-balloon.

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theresthesnitch · 2 years

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Master of Death, at last

(this one got a bit angsty. Another prompt from the murder mystery: funfair event. It's a reimagining of the final battle)

TW: Vague mention of suicide at the very end.

prompt: (AU) Apocalypse!AU / (object) Calendar / (word) Danger

"This is it, Tom." Harry gripped his wand, facing down his greatest enemy. "Just you and me. It's time to end this."

Voldemort squared off across from Harry. "There is no one left for you to hide behind, Harry Potter. What clever little strategy will you use to escape death this time?"

"No plans or tricks this time, Tom. Not for either of us."

Voldemort laughed, and the menacing sound carried around the empty hall. "You've been chasing me for forty years. All you know is deception and lies.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for forty years, Tom?” Harry held up his hand and began ticking off fingers as he listed: “The ring. The locket. The cup. The snake. The diary. The diadem, and the one you never knew you made. No more tricks, Tom.”

Voldemort’s face dropped from a teasing smile to a snarl as Harry kept talking. “I don’t know how you know about those, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll die here.” Voldemort held his arms wide, indicating the empty room. “There’s no one left to see your heroics, Harry Potter. You are still in danger.”

Harry gripped his wand, the moment growing closer. His feet were spread shoulder width apart, years of practice duels preparing him for this very moment. Every person who had ever trained him, every person who had ever believed he could do better or be better, every person who stood with him and fell for him–he could feel them all behind him now.

“It hasn’t been about that for a long time, Tom.” Harry raised his wand, the spell already on his lips. “It’s been about beating you. That will be enough.”

Voldemort raised his wand, and Harry heard the spell as he cast his own. Matching green lights crossed the room, but Harry dodged at the last moment.

Harry watched as Voldemort crumpled across the room under the weight of his spell. Harry stood there for a moment as his body grew cold. Harry’s eyes slid closed and his knees gave out, hitting the floor in mixed relief and despair. Harry imagined the cheers that might have gone up around him if he had won this battle years ago; he felt the arms that might have wrapped around him; he felt the gratitude that might have come.

There was no gratitude. There were no arms or cheers. There was no one here. No one except Harry.

Harry crossed the room, picking up the wand that had been carried by the evil man ever since he stole it off of Dumbledore’s body. The Elder Wand. It was Harry’s, finally.

He didn’t want it.

Harry apparated back to the Burrow–or, where the Burrow would have been, if it hadn’t fallen decades ago. Harry pushed the broken back door open, kicking bits of rubble through the kitchen that Molly used to keep spotless. Harry paused for a moment at the spot he had kissed Ginny, and walked around the table where he had shared family meals with the only family he had known, as brief as it had lasted.

Harry moved a bit of rock that uncovered a single page of a calendar. July 1997. His seventeenth birthday was written in its little box. It was the last he had ever celebrated, really.

Harry hunted Horcruxes for most of his life, and while he did, the people he loved died. All of them targeted in an effort to get to him. Once they were all dead, Voldemort went after other people–muggle, magical, and eventually, his own followers. Finally, there was no one left. No one except Harry and Voldemort.

Now, there was no one but Harry–the last man alive.

Harry walked out to the quidditch pitch where he had once spent his summers flying around. He barely remembered what it felt like. Maybe he could find a broom and fly again. Would they still work now?

Harry laid his cloak on the ground. It didn’t really matter if he was invisible if there was no one there to see him anyway. He laid the wand next to it. No one would be coming to take it from him. He had gotten two of the three Deathly Hallows, and that was as close as he would ever get.

Harry pulled out the Snitch–the one willed to him by Dumbledore so many years ago. It was worn smooth, now, from riding in his pocket for years. I open at the close. It was done, now. Harry had finally won. If nothing else, this must be the close.

Harry held the Snitch, waiting for it to open, but it didn’t. He raised it, pressing the ball to his lips, tears burning his eyes. “I’m all alone.”

The ball popped open, and inside was a small stone. It tumbled out into Harry’s hand. The stone warmed slightly as he held it. Harry realized what it was, and the tears began to pour down his cheeks. He turned it–once, twice, three times. When he looked up, the field was filled with smiling faces, all of them looking almost alive. Almost.

Harry clutched the stone tightly. The third Hallow. He had them all. He was the Master of Death.

Harry fell back laughing at the irony of it all. Master of Death, and the only thing left was to cast them aside and greed Death like an old friend. And look, his friends had come to bring him home.

#master of death at last #harry potter #voldemort #the angst on this one #sorry not sorry #snitchwrites

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grailfinders · 3 years

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Fate and Phantasms #167

Today on Fate and Phantasms we’re making the single horniest character in FGO (in every sense of the word), Heaven’s Hole, a.k.a. Kiara Sessyoin. One half enlightened saint, 99% insatiable demon, all NSFW. Kiara’s an Open-Hand Monk to give off that aura of purity she loves so much, but she’s also a Great Old One Warlock to finally answer the question, “Can you really be a warlock if your patron is yourself?” (The answer is yes)

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Next up: Cheer for your empress! Wooooo!

Race and Background

Kiara may be human, but she’s been infused with the spirit of an otherworldly horror. That’s a Kalashtar, baby! This gives her +2 Wisdom and +1 Charisma, as well as some other mentally themed goodies. Your Dual Mind gives you advantage on all wisdom saves, and your religious training gives you the Mental Discipline to resist psychic damage. You can Mind Link to creatures within 10 times your level in feet, speaking to them telepathically for up to an hour or until you end the effect or link with another creature. Finally, you’re Severed from Dreams, meaning you’re immune to spells involving your dreams. Sleep still works, Dream doesn’t. God I wish that was me, it would make youtube so much less annoying.

As a Devilish Bodhisattva, you’re kind of a Sage, giving you proficiency with the Arcana and History skills.

Ability Scores

First things first, you’ve got to be so hot you can make people masturbate to death. That’s non-negotiable. I’ll leave the exact mechanics of that to your imagination, but it’s probably based on Charisma. Aside from manipulating people, you’re also just as good at reading people, and that’s Wisdom. You fight in a habit and do it all without dying, so your Dexterity isn’t that bad either. Unfortunately this leaves your Intelligence a little lower than we’d like. You’re a hacker nun, but we needed other stuff more. Your Constitution isn’t that great, you’re so eager for pleasure you don’t last that long. Finally, dump Strength. You’ve got a demon god to do all the lifting for you, who needs muscles?

Class Levels

1. Monk 1: Starting off as a monk gives you Unarmored Defense, which is really useful for that “not dying” thing you like to do. You also get Martial Arts, letting you use your dexterity for your unarmed attacks. You can also attack as a bonus action after attacking with your action, and your unarmed attacks deal 1d4 damage, and they grow as you level up.

You get proficiency with Strength and Dexterity Saves, as well as Insight for your psychological training, and Religion for the whole nun/buddhist thing. You have a lot going on as a character, to be honest.

2. Monk 2: Second level monks get Ki Points they can spend to attack twice, dash, disengage, or dodge as a bonus action. You also get Unarmored Movement to speed things up a bit, and you get even faster as you level up.

3. Monk 3: Third level monks can summon a bit of demon pillar to Deflect Missiles, slowing down incoming ranged weapons and possibly even shooting them back as a reaction. (Obviously the demon thing isn’t all monks, but hush.) You also set down the Way of the Open Hand, learning the Open Hand Technique in the process. When you hit a creature with a flurry of blows attack (the two attacks as a bonus action thing), you can: force a dexterity save to knock the enemy prone; force a strength save to push it away; or remove its ability to react for the round. I’m not sure how you touching a person makes them fall to their knees or get distracted, get your mind out of the gutter.

4. Monk 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Dexterity so you can actually hit people with your fists. You can also Slow Fall to reduce falling damage, presumably by swinging around on a demon pillar like some kind of spider woman, and you get Quickened Healing, letting you spend a ki point as an action to heal thy burgers. Despite your looks, you’re pretty tanky with all that healing.

5. Monk 5: Your Extra Attack does exactly what it sounds like, attacking twice in a single action. You can turn any of your attacks into Stunning Strikes, forcing a constitution save against getting stunned for a round. Ironically this is just leading into the explosive climax, where you beat the hell out of them. Where did you think I was going with that?

6. Monk 6: Sixth level monks get a little magical thanks to their Ki-Empowered Strikes so now your unarmed attacks ignore nonmagical damage resistances. You also gain a Wholeness of Body to heal yourself as an action. Unlike quickened healing, this baby heals you for 3 times your monk level once per long rest.

7. Warlock 1: Making your hands a little magical is nice, but we want to make stuff a lot of magical, and for that we’ll need to make some questionable deals. That’s where the Great Old One comes in, giving you Pact Magic you can cast with your Charisma and an Awakened Mind. It’s more telepathy. Not a huge boon, but now you can talk to two people at once, neat!

As far as spells go, Chill Touch lets you make creepy hands (kind of your thing), and Eldritch Blast gives you some generic magic projectiles. Charm Person makes you a bit more charming, and Protection from Evil and Good will help cut through those pesky rulers more easily by just straight up ignoring their god.

8. Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations, to customize your soul pact a bit. Beguiling Influence makes you proficient with Deception and Persuasion to help cover up the whole demon pillar thing, and Thief of Five Fates lets you cast Bane with a spell slot once per long rest, further weakening your enemies.

You can also cast Arms of Hadar to launch more arms all around you for an AoE attack.

9. Warlock 3: Kiara’s definitely a weird one when it comes to her pact boon. Books have kind of fallen out of fashion by 2030, she doesn’t use weapons, and she really doesn’t care for a sidekick. That leaves her with the Pact of the Talisman to make her a little bit better than everyone else, letting the wearer add 1d4 to a failed ability check Proficiency times per long rest.

She can also cast second level spells now, like Enthrall! She’s the only person in the world according to herself, and now she is to you too! Just fail that wisdom save and you’ll have disadvantage on perception checks to notice anyone else!

10. Warlock 4: Use this ASI to bump up your Charisma for stronger warlock spells. You also get the On/Off cantrip from a super old UA to become a bit of a hacker, magically turning on or off an electronic device within range. You can also Detect Thoughts to be one hell of a therapist, being able to read the mind of a nearby creature as an action while the spell lasts. You can read surface thoughts over and over again, or you can probe deeper into the mind of a creature you’ve already read, forcing a wisdom save against the intrusion. Also, creatures are aware you’re reading their mind, and they can force a contested intelligence check to end the spell while they’re being read.

11. Warlock 5: Your first 3rd level spell is Hypnotic Pattern, to help dominate the minds of crowds all at once. You can also Mire the Mind to cast Slow once per long rest with a spell slot. Up to six creatures make a wisdom save, or they have their speed and AC reduced, take a penalty to dexterity saves, and can’t use reactions. On their turns, they can make either an action or bonus action, not both. It also can’t make more than one attack per turn. Finally, spellcasters affected by the spell have a 50% chance of taking 2 turns to cast a 1 action spell. Another wisdom save at the end of each turn can end the effect.

12. Warlock 6: All those hands and mind tricks coalesce into an Entropic Ward this level, letting you spend your reaction to impose disadvantage on an incoming attack. If it misses, you get advantage on your next attack against that creature. You can use this once per short rest.

You can also slip into your Heaven’s Hole persona by donning a Spirit Shroud, dealing more damage within a short area around you, preventing healing from enemies you hit with attacks, and slowing them down even further.

13. Monk 7: Bouncing back into monk gives you the Stillness of Mind to end effects messing with your thoughts as an action. The only person around here doing any charming today is you, thank you very much. You’d also be correct in saying the only person around here period is you, but I digress.

Your Evasion boosts your dexterity saves, so your failures are as good as other people’s successes, and your successes avoid damage entirely.

14. Monk 8: Use this ASI to bump up your Wisdom to become more observant, and get stronger techniques and a higher AC.

15. Monk 9: Ninth level monks get an Unarmored Movement Improvement, helping you run straight up walls and over water, as long as you end the turn on solid ground. Admittedly that’s not very in-character, but you’ve got tentacles growing outta ya, I’m sure you can justify it somehow.

16. Monk 10: Tenth level monks have a Purity of Body that makes you immune to poisons and disease.

17. Monk 11: Your final level of monk grants you a Tranquility that makes you harder to hit, effectively giving you the effect of a Sanctuary spell starting and ending on your long rests, though the spell ends early if you directly attack or cast a spell at an enemy. While active, creatures trying to attack you directly have to make a wisdom save. If they fail, they have to choose a new target or waste their action. The DC is 8 + your wisdom modifier + your proficiency bonus.

18. Warlock 7: Seventh level monks get fourth level spells, like Evard’s Black Tentacles. A 20′ square becomes a mass of tentacles (or demon god pillars), forcing a dexterity save against taking bludgeoning damage and get restrained. They can use their action to try and escape the tentacles, otherwise they don’t get a save on their next turn to avoid damage.

You can also use your Gaze of Two Minds to see and hear though a willing humanoid, like, say, your enthralled servants. Great for espionage, or just being a creep in general.

19. Warlock 8: Use your last ASI to max out your Charisma for super strong spells and the most sex appeal you can squeeze into a single servant.

You can also cast Summon Aberration now to give Zepar a bit of breathing room outside of your body. Honestly the poor guy deserves a break.

20. Warlock 9: Ninth level warlocks get fifth level spells, and Dominate Person lets you completely take over a creature’s mind. They have a wisdom save to avoid it, and they can make another every time they take damage, but if you’re forcing them into a really one sided fight, like say, against an agent of the counter force, that’ll be a one hit kill, so you don’t have to worry too much.

You also get one last invocation, and the Grasp of Hadar turns your eldritch blasts into even more hands, so once per turn you can pull a creature hit by the blast 10 feet closer to you. Bet they thought they were real smug waiting on the other side of your tentacle pit, huh?

Pros:

With an AC of 16, tons of mobility, and a wisdom save between you and even getting hit in the first place, you can be tough to attack, giving you a weird sort of tankiness to avoid conflict altogether.

You’re also good at manipulating people, with charms, mind reading, and just good persuasion scores making it easy for you to turn the tide of a conversation in your favor. Also if you’re having trouble with an enemy you can just dominate them and tell them to jump off a cliff, really easy. You won’t even have to fight if you can just inspire a mob to do it for you.

While the biggest part of your defense does come with a caveat, you’re good at indirect combat, which will keep your sanctuary up longer. Sure, you can’t cast spells affecting a creature, but you can always cast a spell now, and have it affect a creature later, the old “I’m just moving my fist and walking forward, if you get hit it’s your own fault” technique. Putting Evard’s Tentacles down between you and enemies, summoning aberrations, and just using On/Off to cause industrial accidents are all ways to get around this restriction and leave you looking clean as a brand new pair of panties.

Cons:

Your dexterity isn’t great, especially for a monk. That’ll make it harder to effectively use your martial techniques later in the game, and it also hampers your AC.

Despite all your defenses and healing, you’re still only rocking a touch over 100 HP, meaning a light sneeze will put you into power word kill territory. Which is, admittedly, still affected by your Tranquility, so it might not be a bad way to trick people into wasting a 9th level spell...

You only get two spells per short rest, that just isn’t enough to manipulate everyone you want to, so you’ll have to learn to pick and choose what happens when.

#fgo #fate grand order #DND #D&D 5e #Kiara Sessyoin #Monk #Warlock

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the-fae-folk · 3 years

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What is a Fairy?

I suppose they probably need some explanation, especially nowadays. Fairies (Faeries, Fay, Fey, Fae, or even Fair Folk) could be considered a type of mythical being. Some have described them as spirits, others as ghosts of the deceased, some deified ancestors, prehistoric precursors to humans, personifications of nature, pagan deities, or even angels and demons in the way of Christian traditions. Often they encompass a metaphysical aspect, being depicted as spirits or beings who transcend the physical universe and world that we know. Or given features of the Supernatural, such as magic or extrasensory perception, which allow them to violate or go beyond the laws of nature. Even sometimes Preternatural, which something abnormal or strange and explainable but still within the boundaries of the natural laws of the universe (for example I could say someone is a preternaturally good cellist, and mean that they are impossibly good beyond expectations or even belief, but I’m not saying that they are actually magical...just that their apparent abilities and how they gained them are unknown and very strange to me.) But what is a fairy? Well you already know what some of them look like. Many people might immediately picture Tinkerbell from the animated Disney feature film, or even from the original Peter Pan novel by J. M. Barrie. And they would be correct, in part. Tinkerbell is a depiction of a Pixie, a specific type of fairy. But there are lots of fairy types, I don’t actually think there’s a complete list. (I should probably try to make one at some point, but no promises.) During some points in history the label of fairy was used to mean magical beings who had a mostly human shape. Gnomes, leprechauns, goblins, pixies, dwarfs, elfs, etc etc etc. And at other points it also included non humanoid magical creatures such as Unicorns, Dragons, Kelpie, Basilisk, and more (Sometimes these were referred to as Fairy Creatures). So where did they come from? Well the funny thing is that Fairies don’t actually come from only one area or set of myths. They are a strange combination of the folklore from all over Europe (and possibly beyond) and include ideas and stories from Celtic, Scandinavian, Nordic, Germanic, French, and English Folklore and Mythology. As these stories were passed around and intermingled and changed they brought about the collective creatures we know today as the Fae or Fairies. The Renaissance, Romantic Era, Victorian Era, Edwardian Era, and even the Celtic Revival Movement of the 19th and 20th centuries all had their influences on the stories and ideas connected with the Fairy folk, some significantly less helpful than others. Even the Fantasy Literature Genre, with Tolkien at its forefront, has added and changed much about people’s view on these creatures. So lets talk about some basic things you’ll want to know when dealing with Fairies. The first thing you might want to remember is that many people view the Tuatha Dé Danann (Supernatural gods, goddesses, heroes, and kings of Irish Mythology) as being the source for Faeries, or at least one of the strongest influences. Celtic Folklore and culture is easily one of the most visible bits of Faerie lore that you can find these days, but there’s a lot more that starts showing up when you begin to dig. Another thing to note is that the Renaissance, Romantic Era, Victorian Era, Edwardian Era, and the Celtic Revival Movement had a massive influence on how people saw fairies. They would mix folklore from different areas of Europe, attempted to prove the existence of fairies through scientific means, created artistic depictions of fairies, and much more. Often they sanitized and shrunk the fairies until they were mostly harmless or relegated to the outskirts of human life as a curiosity. Which brings me to the next point. In a lot of older folklore, from all over Europe, fairy beings are often depicted as being incredibly dangerous. Kidnapping humans or human babies, causing crops to wither, water to dry up, food to rot. They could lure people in with magic into a fairy ring of mushrooms and make them dance forever or make them forget their life. Sometimes they even played with time itself. A person could dance with the fairies only to find that they’ve been gone a hundred years when they try to go home. And many beliefs have depictions of some kind of Otherworld, a world apart from our own, or layered over it like an extra dimension we are unable to perceive or directly interact with. Sometimes its a land of the dead or a hidden underground kingdom, other times is a strange and fantastical country with its own laws and ways of doing things. As these stories meshed together we got what is known as Fairyland. The land which the fairies dwell in. Though some believe they simply live on Earth, hidden in the wild, or among us. Some reoccurring ideas are often connected with fairies, though not all have stayed the same as the original lore they were born from. The idea that Faeries, for whatever reason, are unable to or will not lie. This is a very important idea because the Folk are also simultaneously depicted as deceptive. Like particularly vicious lawyers they will play with words, never quite lying, but purposefully leading you astray or tricking you into a bad deal. They will often obey an oath, promise, or deal exactly to the letter, but ignore the intent behind it in order to twist it to their own benefit or amusement. Whether or not fairies are immortal depends entirely on where you draw your folklore from. Sometimes they are immortal; deathless, not mortal. Unable to die in spite of starvation, terrible wounds, age, or anything else. They are bound to life for all time. But some stories depict the stranger Fae Folk as being Eternal. Beyond time, always having existed and always existing, sometimes cycling, sometimes directionless and boundless and everything. Some tough concepts to get your head around, but nobody really agrees which one fairies are. In some folklore they’re even depicted as mortal, same as you and I, but a lot longer lived and harder to kill. A reoccurring motif in older Folklore is the need of humans to try and ward off fairies with charms and totems. When they were not depicted as outright malicious and dangerous, sometimes being thought to cause illness and death or bring about disastrous misfortune or steal a person’s name and voice, fairies were still mischievous and valiantly unhelpful. So people had all kinds of lucky charms to protect from them: like four leaf clovers, various plants, or actions like wearing your clothes inside out to confuse them. Iron is said in many beliefs to burn them, and certain herbs they view as sacred and will refrain from touching the bearer. A few more things. Christianity plays an important part in this discussion, though many people don’t like that. In many places myths and legends were wiped out by Christianity, either intentionally or simply by the very fact that it was trying to convert people in Europe and old pagan beliefs were seen as nonsensical. But still stories persisted despite this. Many old Myths and Folkloric beliefs were recorded for posterity by Christians, and some stories were altered and we are unable to see exactly how much (Beowulf). A lot of fairy stories remained too, only Christianity painted them as fallen angels or even demons of a kind, who could be kept away from Holy Ground, or were forced to kidnap humans to pay a tithe to Hell (or be taken themselves if they couldn’t pay). So folk beliefs, though generally discouraged by the church as superstition, remained quite strong all over Europe for a very long time. The last three things you need to know. One, there are many people who still believe in Fairies, though their beliefs often vary, sometimes wildly. Witches who claim to work with them. People who believe in them through their religions (usually pagans and other non christian groups). People who claim to have encountered or been abducted by them. And many others. While I personally do not believe in Fairies (though I like to keep an open mind, just in case), I do believe that the beliefs, cultures, and and rights of these people ought to be respected. Which leads me to other mythical beings that are similar to Fairies but hail from cultures and peoples outside of Europe. It might be tempting to label some of the spirits from various Native North American Tribes or from Chinese Folklore (or many others) as fairies. Don’t do that. If Fairies are real, you have to consider that there might be other mythical beings who fall under different categories and groups. And even if they are not real, it is extremely disrespectful to the people of those cultures to take their stories, myths, beliefs, and folklore and try to mesh it in with European Folklore. (this is exactly what the Victorian and Edwardian Era were guilty of.) And finally... Some people might tell you that they know everything there is to know about Fairies. Don’t believe them. Even I, who have spent years and years studying European Faerie Folklore, find new things about them every day. I have sources I’ve found and haven’t yet had the time to look into, areas of study I’ve had to neglect. There is so much about Fairies to explore that it’s quite literally impossible for any one person to know all of it. Personally I’m doubtful that a single person can even know an eighth of it all, you can hardly imagine how much there is. And while there is a great deal of it buried on the internet, there is even more offline. Books which are out of print or have never had their contents uploaded, cultural stories passed down in various European groups which are saved from oblivion only by the oratory tradition, and the remains of all kinds of long dead or vastly changed civilizations who believed in the Fairies and tried to work with or avoid or appease them. All the misinformation and personal gnoses out there also make it a lot harder to find accurate information about traditional folklore. And that’s not even counting the multitude of inventions and ideas spawned by fictional literature surrounding fairies. There is simply too much. But of course... Since when has something being impossible ever stopped a human from trying anyway? If you’re still interested, then who am I to discourage you? Go, jump right in. There’s so much to learn about the Faerie Folk.

#what is a faerie #faerie #fairy #fae #folklore #mythology #european folklore #brief explanation #(hah. I've never been brief in my life. I'm not going to start now)

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seventhstrife · 3 years

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SubScorp Week 2021 Day 3: AU Part 2

I hate that I have no self-control and have to make multiple posts for this lolololol

On AO3.

Part 1

When Hanzo woke, he knew immediately that he was not alone.

His eyes snapped open and he lurched upright, disoriented and tense.

His surroundings were unfamiliar, a fact that filled him with certain dread. His last memory was of trying to leave the bed of snow he'd been pushed into, how the dragon had only allowed him to stand so that it could nestle him into its side and curl up as if for a long rest. He remembered the deep, content cadence of its sigh as it settled with its huge head on Hanzo's lap.

As cold as it was, smothered in the dragon's hold, he'd been oddly...warm. And while Hanzo was no one's pet or prisoner, he was not so foolish as to disturb such a fearsome creature when its mood was in such a mercurial state, weakened and tired as it was. He'd resigned himself to being a dragon's pillow and had fallen asleep right there, hopeful that he could slip away in the small hours of the morning.

But waking up in an entirely new place had not been part of the plan. He barely took in the dark, polished stone of the room he was in or the thick furs that covered him across the lavish four-poster bed.

His surroundings were terrible for their strangeness, but what was worse was the man seated on the bed beside him, legs crossed, watching him. It was hard to see in the scant light that poured through the window as the sun just barely began to rise, but he thought he could just detect a small smile on those bearded lips.

"Good morning," the man greeted in a low, pleasant tone.

Hanzo went rigid. His hand snapped down to his side, but his weapons were gone—of course.

He risked exposing himself, but allowing capture was worse.

He summoned his flames, of a mind to send the man across the room with a ball of fire before he could so much as twitch—but the moment his light banished the shadows from the man's face, Hanzo stilled.

...It was his eyes. Pale white, nearly translucent, but in the flickering pulse of Hanzo's flames, they shined with a breathtaking iridescence that shifted with countless colors.

Pale-skinned and broad-shouldered, muscular arms bared by his dark robes, thick black hair pushed back from his face and beard trimmed short—he truly was a stranger to Hanzo in every sense of the word.

But, that scar. Those eyes. Hanzo knew those eyes.

The man's smile grew slightly, as if he knew exactly what Hanzo was thinking, and he threaded his fingers together, planted his elbows on his spread knees and perched his chin atop his hands, as if to better study Hanzo.

"Do you recognize me, pyromancer?"

Hanzo pursed his lips, wary. But even when he glared harder, tried to see some sort of flaw or deception, his eyes continued to scream a single truth.

But he did not have to admit it.

"I—I am clearly unwell," Hanzo said instead.

Without taking his eyes off of the man, he backed up until he was at the edge of the bed and quickly stood, head darting around as he tried to get his bearings, find the door. He looked back to the stranger and curled his fingers into a fist, flames threatening on the horizon.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"As impressive as your fire magic is," the man answered, "You would have succumbed to the cold. I thought it best to bring you to my home."

His home? Just judging from the simple, yet refined furnishings and ornate, carved walls, Hanzo assumed he was in some sort of palace.

His brow furrowed. This was making less and less sense. Some traveling lord had stumbled upon Hanzo and had simply—taken him in? In what appeared to be his own chambers?

No nobleman was that kind or giving. Hanzo knew.

Hanzo's skin itched with the desire to flee. Unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar company—he did not have any wish to linger here, at the mercy of this strange man and his stranger (familiar) eyes.

"Whatever you intended by bringing me here, it does not matter." Hanzo's face hardened. "You will not keep me here."

"No," the man agreed softly, making Hanzo pause. He was still smiling. "I imagine you do not succumb to anyone's will but your own."

The words caused a flicker of uncertainty to pass through him, though he did not allow it to show on his face. Why was nothing about this man proceeding as he expected? If Hanzo woke up, kidnapped to some strange, impossible palace in a snow-plagued, forsaken mountain, he should be caged. His captor should be talking to him through the bars of a prison, in his personal dungeon, not casually and comfortably sitting on his bed while Hanzo threatened to burn him.

...Somehow, some way, this is a trick. It must be.

It felt safer not to speak, so Hanzo did not. His eyes darted to the door, waiting across the room and, unfortunately, behind the man.

"Your weapons are there," the man said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm behind Hanzo, and indeed, when he warily glanced over his shoulder, he saw the overlooked table tucked into the corner of the room, where his blades had been laid neatly and carefully across a length of soft cloth. "Forgive me for taking the liberty, but I thought it best to divest you of them so you could rest more comfortably."

Hanzo glared at the man for a long moment. He only slept comfortably when he was armed these days.

Still, Hanzo accepted the invitation to take his things and he did so in quick, efficient movements, keeping the stranger in his line of sight at all times—not that it mattered, as the man did not so much as a twitch from the moment he'd awoken. His eyes tracked Hanzo without a blink and it was perhaps that which kept Hanzo on his guard. His utter stillness, the watching—Hanzo was rested, armed, and could think of a dozen ways to incapacitate this man in a few seconds, yet he felt overwhelmingly like an unwitting creature, soft and vulnerable, ignorant of the hunter in his midst, readying for the pounce.

Hanzo glanced at the door, had no more than thought of taking his first step towards the exit when the man spoke once more.

"Of course, you may leave whenever you wish," he said genially. "But you did not answer my question, pyromancer."

Hanzo's lips thinned. Uncertainty and unease blossomed in his chest.

"...no, I did not. I will not."

The stranger's head tilted and an expression of open amusement alighted on his face.

"Is it so terrible to accept?"

"It is impossible," Hanzo stressed, eyes narrowing. But, despite himself, his determination to fight faltered. He could not deny a certain curiosity, for all that he did not believe in magic such as this.

The man shrugged, affable as ever. It made Hanzo glare at him even more fiercely. It was irksome, how agreeable he was being...

Finally, the man moved, gave his back to Hanzo as he swung his legs off the bed and rose. Hanzo tensed when the man faced him and approached.

"That is far enough," Hanzo said in warning, raising two burning fists when the man was just outside of arm's reach.

"I have sheltered you and returned your weapons," the man pointed out. "Can you not accept I mean you no harm?"

"That remains to be seen," Hanzo replied, stiff.

Still, the man only seemed amused. He placed a palm on his breast, directly over his heart, and bowed, deeply.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Kuai Liang."

A strange name for a strange man. It was oddly fitting.

Kuai Liang rose and those pale eyes of his fixed on Hanzo with the same intensity that had yet to lessen since Hanzo had first met them.

"May I know your name, pyromancer?"

Hanzo almost refused him, simply on principle. But...Kuai Liang had sheltered him in his home, had given him back his weapons, and he had shown no sign of wishing harm upon him.

It went against every instinct within him, but slowly, warily, Hanzo lowered his arms as the flames in his hands gutted, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.

"...Hanzo. Hanzo Hisashi."

Kuai Liang's eyes brightened with pleasure.

"Hanzo Hisashi," he repeated. The way he seemed to savor it—Hanzo could feel his hackles rising once more. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Kuai Liang stepped to the side, gestured with an open palm to the door. "Allow me to escort you," he said. "I'm afraid you will be easily lost without a guide."

Hearing that this building was that great a size did nothing to ease Hanzo's unease, but he supposed he had no choice.

"Very well."

Kuai Liang smiled.

Hanzo had hoped for a quick, silent walk, and to be able to put this entire strange encounter from his mind forever. Instead, when they'd only just left Kuai Liang's chambers, his stomach gave a loud, insistent cry.

Hanzo kept his gaze firmly on the ground, mortified as Kaui Liang turned to him in a sharp, surprised movement.

After a slight pause, Kuai Liang offered, "I have food if you wish—"

"No." Hanzo took a deep breath, tried to will back the rise of heat he could feel on his face. It was more important to leave this place. He could hunt for something once he was gone. "I am fine."

And, of course, his body chose that moment to betray him once more with another growl, sudden and painful enough he could not check the urge to hold his aching stomach. He could not remember the last time he had a decent, filling meal...

"I'm afraid I must insist," Kuai Liang said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I would be a poor host if I did not see you fed and prepped for your long journey down the mountain.”

Hanzo attempted to protest, but it was a losing battle and he was forced to follow after Kuai Liang, lest he truly be lost in his vast palace.

It was harder to remember the urgent need to be gone from this place when the smell of cooked meat grew stronger the further they went, and then impossible when Kuai Liang opened the door to a small cooking room, where a large flank of meat was still roasting over an open fire against the far wall.

The smell was heavenly and Hanzo was briefly hypnotized by the sight of hot, sizzling fat dripping from the meat, how it fell into the fire with a soft hiss and caused new bursts of the incredible aroma to permeate the room.

Perhaps...there was no harm in eating—so that he would not collapse on his hike, of course. It was only sensible to accept a meal when it was offered freely.

He tried not to seem too eager when he sat at the small wooden table Kuai Liang beckoned him to, but when Kuai Liang carved a generous portion of meat onto a large platter and served it to him, his smile twitched, threatening to grow wider at whatever expression Hanzo had.

It was slightly embarrassing, being caught so obviously, but Hanzo did not care the moment the meat first touched his tongue. Hot, tender venison, succulent and delicious. If he were a weaker man, he might weep.

For a while, there was only silence as he ate. It was not until he'd partially satiated his aching stomach that he realized Kuai Liang had not served himself.

He glanced up, unnerved to find Kuai Liang watching him, chin propped in one hand, a slight smile still lingering on his lips.

He appeared so...satisfied, by the sight of Hanzo eating. It made Hanzo freeze.

He glared.

"...Stop watching me," Hanzo demanded.

Kuai Liang's smile widened, but he acquiesced, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He tilted his head back against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, looked for all the world as if he were simply meditating.

The way he kept instantly accomodating Hanzo—it was very annoying.

Hanzo resumed eating but did not stop glaring at Kuai Liang, trying—in vain—to puzzle him out. If Kuai Liang was aware of his staring, he did not seem bothered by it in the least.

This vast palace, Kuai Liang's own status, seemingly that of a man of wealth and power—he did not make sense. In Hanzo's travels, he had never heard of such a person having domain over this corner of the land, and yet here he was.

Who are you, truly?

His curiosity could not be denied, no matter how much he tried to quell it.

"Where are the people?" Hanzo finally asked.

It was perhaps not his most pressing question, but it was the one that was safer to ask. Down the labyrinthine halls to this modest cook's area, Hanzo had not seen nor heard so much as a whisper of another soul. Even here, in what was clearly a servant's domain, there was no one else to be found. Yet, a palace so large would need a large staff to maintain it.

Kuai Liang's eyes opened. "There are none."

Hanzo frowned, chews slowing, but Kuai Liang did not take back his words, just watched Hanzo back.

"...You live here by yourself?"

Kuai Liang inclined his head.

"How is that possible?"

Finally, Kuai Liang glanced away from him. His eyes dropped and his entire demeanor was suddenly—dampened, somehow. A subtle sort of sadness crept over Kuai Liang and it made Hanzo forget all about the sharp hunger pains that had burrowed into the pit of his stomach.

"Like you, I am the last of my kind."

...Oh. It was no secret that Hanzo's people were long gone—hunted to the brink of extinction for nothing more than sport. Mercenaries and outlaws, lowlifes and lords alike had participated in the massacre, eager to boast their fighting skills and claim the prestige of slaying an exotic, powerful pyromancer. If any of Hanzo's people still walked the lands, Hanzo had not met them. He hoped he never would. They were safer—he was safer, alone.

A life of constant movement, never settling anywhere, never staying in one town long enough for anyone to learn his name—it was a life he'd resigned himself to, one he thought, perhaps, suited him, even, but there were times when he felt the aching bite of loneliness. Of a muted, mourning despair that he would pass from this world without a single soul to notice his absence.

It was not a life he would wish on anyone.

"I...I am sorry," Hanzo finally said. At least he traveled, could outrun his feelings when they threatened to unmake him completely. To walk the same empty halls, day after day, ceaselessly reminded of a time they were full of life—he shied from even imagining it.

Kuai Liang blinked and a rueful smile replaced the understated, melancholic expression. Somehow, the smile made Hanzo's chest ache more.

"It was a long time ago," Kuai Liang dismissed.

Hanzo was not placated. He looked straight into Kuai Liang's eyes.

"But it is still difficult," he observed quietly, and Kuai Liang's smile, absurdly, stretched just a little bigger.

"You see right through me."

He stood, took Hanzo's demolished plate and returned to the roasting spit.

"No man is a fortress, and I am afraid I am no exception to this rule."

His voice was soft and steady as he refilled Hanzo's plate with another generous portion, but even when he set the dish before him, Hanzo could not move his eyes from Kuai Liang, aware of how something more lingered in the air, the same something that had remained unspoken since he'd awoken.

Kuai Liang did not return to his seat. He stood, looking down at Hanzo, and the impression that his next words would be important grew.

"I rarely leave my home. I hunt what I need and want for little else. But I have grown weary of solitude. And, if you'll forgive my forwardness," and here Kuai Liang broke eye contact, straightened, and crossed his arms behind his back. He took a moment, and Hanzo found himself all but holding his breath.

"I came down from the mountain in search of a mate." Kuai Liang's pale eyes met his, and the earlier look of determination intensified. "And I have found one. You."

A ringing silence stretched.

Hanzo's mouth opened, closed. Opened again. But there were no words. He could not think of a single thing he could say to such a proclamation.

His face felt hot.

Kuai Liang's head tilted. "Have I broken you?" he asked, amused.

His tone finally snapped Hanzo out of his shocked stupor and he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor.

"I—You—NO."

"We are well-suited for one another," Kuai Liang argued.

"You know nothing about me and—" Abruptly, Hanzo realized how completely absurd this conversation was. "Absolutely not."

"I know that you are brave, honorable, and compassionate." When Hanzo opened his mouth to protest, Kuai Liang stepped closer, just past the bounds of propriety, but Hanzo could not muster the will to burn him. "It would have been easier to leave me to die, but you intervened on my behalf, and even tended to my wounds. What more proof do I need of your worthiness?"

Hanzo stared at Kuai Liang, stricken. He had been ignoring the obvious, glaring fact that had been shouting at him since he'd first met Kuai Liang's eyes, but now that truth refused to be ignored.

His brow furrowed and he stared into Kuai Liang's eyes, wished he could doubt his own, but could not.

"You...you really are the dragon from before..." It was impossible, ridiculous—but the evidence was too plain to ignore.

Kuai Liang smiled. "I knew you were the one the moment we looked at one another." Another step closer, where their chests nearly touched, and Hanzo told himself he would push Kuai Liang away and run—in just a moment. "My ice, it can be unpleasant for a normal human. And in moments of passion, even harmful."

Kuai Liang raised his hand, slowly, tentatively, and though a part of Hanzo's mind, defensive and wary, screamed that he use his flames, now, he did not want to harm Kuai Liang.

The gentle, cool touch of Kuai Liang's fingers brushed across the stubble on his cheek, whisper-soft.

"But with your abilities, you could withstand me." Kuai Liang's eyes fell, hooded and dark with desire. His gaze seemed to pierce straight through. "Yes, you could withstand me well. You are very strong."

"We are complete opposites," Hanzo argued, because clearly he was the only one who had not taken leave of his senses.

"Opposites, yes," Kuai Liang agreed. "But also equals. Compliments. I would have it no other way."

"Well, I will not have you," Hanzo claimed hotly, and his eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.

Far from seeming dismayed by his refusal, Kuai Liang only watched Hanzo as if he were an intriguing puzzle.

"You find me unsuitable in some way?" he asked. "Or, perhaps, you bear the claim of another?"

"I—" It would have been better, to lie, but that was one skill Hanzo had never possessed. "That is not—"

Triumph surged to Kuai Liang's gaze. "If I must prove myself, you need only say so. I can offer you much."

Hanzo finally pushed away Kuai Liang's touch with a sweep of his arm and took a few steps back. He would not hear any more.

"I do not want anything from you. I do not belong here, with you, in—that way. Whatever you believe you see in me, you are mistaken."

"I see only that which you have shown me." Kuai Liang watched him steadily, so sure. "You could have a home here. You would no longer have to hide who you truly are, or be forced to run any longer. You could be free."

Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath, shook his head harshly in the next instant. "You—you can not promise that."

"I can," Kuai Liang simply said.

He pushed Hanzo's chair out of his way, closed the distance between them once more. Hanzo flinched away the first time Kuai Liang reached for him, but Kuai Liang only paused, waited patiently, before resuming the movement. And the look in his eyes, gentle yet firm, kept Hanzo still when he took Hanzo's hand.

Kuai Liang raised Hanzo's hand, placed his palm atop it so he cradled him in his grip like something precious. Hanzo could not recall ever being touched in such a way. He wanted to hate it, but he did not.

"A few days," Kuai Liang proposed, voice a low, beseeching murmur. "Stay with me here, for just a few days. Let me show you what it could be like to share a life together. If you still wish to leave after that, I will respect your wishes. I will take you down the mountain myself."

An automatic denial sprung to his lips, but one look at Kuai Liang's eyes—pleading, soft, and filled with lonely, naked longing—killed the words before he could draw breath.

Hanzo looked away, to the strong, slightly cool and affectionate clasp of Kuai's hands around his. The weariness he always battled in his long journey, heart-sick from constant flight and avoidance, bloomed to an almost unbearable degree, threatened to swallow him completely.

"...A few days?" Hanzo eventually asked, voice unsure and wary.

Kuai Liang squeezed his hand and hope brightened his gaze.

"That is all I ask."

If Hanzo had not been wavering before, that expression would have unmade him; never, had he been beneath the force of such great, bare hope. To say anything else would be cruel.

"...Very well." He darted a quick look at Kuai Liang, glanced away immediately at the sight of his warm, wide smile. "Do not make me regret this," Hanzo warned.

Kuai Liang raised his arm, only smirked when Hanzo's eyes went wide, and placed a gentle, unbearably lingering kiss on the back of his fingers.

"I would not dream of it, Hanzo Hisashi."

#subscorpweek #@summertrapped #@maagspies #@subscorp-week #my stuff #my fics #subscorp

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chrotethys · 3 years

Text

Daily Writing Challenge - Day 10 - "Feast/Sleepless"

The day started with promise as the sun rose. Warmth filtered over the mountains and heated the lake below. Several guards patrolled the bridge as the sound of hurried feet kicked against the cobblestone.

"Whoa, whoa, where's the fire this morning?!" One of the guards said as they stopped Kaden in his tracks. The young boy was panting heavily as he adjusted a small bag on his shoulder.

"I'm-... I'm in the process of finding my first familiar! And I have to do it during daylight hours, sir!" The boy looked absolutely winded as the guard adjusted his helm.

"Lad, you shouldn't go about on your own. Don't you have a friend or a guardian to accompany you?"

"N-No sir, but I know magic! I can defend myself!" Kaden made a point to assume a stance for combat. But to the guard, it looked loose and open with vulnerability.

"I'll tell you what - if you want to go across the bridge here and into the wilderness, you have to prove to me you can handle it." The guard raised an armored hand to gesture at a pallet of stone blocks. "Move one of those blocks to me, and I'll take your word and trust your meddle. Failure to do so though, I will forbid passage to the other side until you have someone to accompany you."

Kaden looked to where the guard had gestured and frowned. "That's not fair! And you know it! That stone block is likely twice my weight and glued down. This is a rigged test and you know it!"

"Make no mistake, lad. This is no trick or deception, but a testament to what you may face. Not all your enemies will be the same size as you. So it's better to understand reality rather than imagine yourself capable. Do I make myself clear?"

The young mage pouted and set his bags down. He went over to the block and studied it. He knew physically the strength wasn't his to muster, but maybe...

From the vantage point of the guard, the boy had begun to wedge a large piece of wood beneath the block as his comrade emerged beside him.

"What are you asking this poor child to do?" She asked giving her subordinate an unhappy look.

"He wants to leave Lakeshire on his own, I'm simply preparing him."

As they spoke, the block fell to the ground unceremoniously. Kaden then knelt down and tried to push and lift the block over. It was... comical in its own right.

Though to both of the guard's surprise, he did make progress. When Kaden had reached the endpoint, beads of sweat adorned his brow. His robes were disheveled and his hair unkempt from his painstaking efforts.

"Alright lad! Next time I may be able to humor you in some spirits!"

At that, the other guard elbowed him and scoffed. But Kaden quickly gathered his bags and darted by them both.

"Kids these days," the guard said and shook his head.

As the young mage scaled the hill, he regarded the paths that split to Duskwood and Elwynn Forest. He knew of the magic that lingered in Elwynn, but... he found himself staring in the direction of Duskwood. Stories of the Dark Riders and Karazhan had filled his mind. What if he could acquire something of power? The temptation had caused a wry grin to make its way onto his face. And quickly he moved behind the tree line. The guards in the tower didn't seem to take any notice of him as he slinked towards the brook that bordered Duskwood and Redridge.

The air of Duskwood was noticeably different. Its stark cool air was an unsettling contrast to where he had been moments before in Redridge. An ominous presence waded in the shadows in the deep forest ahead, but he substituted his own courage with reckless ambition. The terrain was not hard for him to sprint through as he felt the tightness in his lungs. Every now and then he would pause at a tree to catch his breath and mind the creatures of the night.

Several worgs had made a kill nearby and were fortunately distracted from the young boy's presence. And even the spiders seemed unwilling to leave the trees as they prepared for the night hunt. Within the hour, he would find himself on the outskirts of Darkshire. Yet... no magical familiar was in sight.

He was not yet discouraged as he began to climb the hill that led towards Deadwind Pass. And once more... Kaden eluded the detection of the Darkshire Night Watch. Or so... he had thought.

A voice called out to him, but his feet did not dare stop. He was running towards a mountainous ravine as his pursuer had fallen too far behind. Even if they had caught up to him, he was nearly there!

Looking around the pass, he saw several carrion birds flying overhead and opened his bag to pull out a small waterskin. He drank greedily from it and raised his head towards the path that had matched the description of Hell's final bend.

In a starved manner of ambition, he rose once more and made his way along the path. Albeit this time he traveled much slower - more cautious among the dangers that likely would have compromised the greatest of travelers. He crept low to the ground as he heard the shout of a nearby ogre.

"HEY!" The ogre's voice bellowed. Though what had followed was not a verbal response. Along the stone wall, he could just make out the shadow of the ogre and his opponent. A great horned beast approached him and lashed out, causing the smallest point of the ogre's shadow to fly off like a projectile. Kaden fought back his shock with a startled gasp as the head of the ogre rolled out in front of him. The eyes were wide with apparent surprise and its jaw clenched tightly.

In a fit of panic and the painstaking realization that he shouldn't have come here; Kaden weaved behind the decrepit remains of a tree. It had become a husk of a trunk that was large enough to hide his smaller form from the sight of the monster. He watched with unease and trepidation. He felt his fingers curling so tight that the white of his knuckles mirrored the coloration of his bones.

Upon the road in front of him, a massive hoof emerged first, followed by the shape of a strange-looking Tauren as he moved forward. This had been Kaden's first time seeing one, and from the texts that he read in class - They were a very spiritual and noble race that had strong warriors.

However this warrior... he did not fight with the pretense of mercy. It was as if he were bloodthirsty and that the death of his foes was all he sought. Kaden's throat grew tight after swallowing. He could feel his body shaking as if any breath he drew in would likely attract the evil that permeated from the Tauren in front of him.

Watching the large bovine as it knelt down, he noticed a large hand reach out for the Ogre's head. Three meaty fingers wrapped around it as he raised it to his face for inspection. Kaden didn't know what to expect, but he had hoped it was just a trophy for keeps or pure examination of his battle.

But the sickening crunch of the ogre's skull followed shortly after the fingers of the Tauren's hand clenched shut. Blood poured out between the Tauren's fingers and spilled onto the ground in an unholy display of carnage.

If he had not been afeared before, the child certainly felt the heat of urine in his loins. The humility he would have faced was a small price to pay for his own survival. And he didn't think waiting for the Tauren to go away was a plausible outcome. It stood like a damn sentry with its arm outstretched over his kill.

Where were the heroes that Kaden had read about? Was this a new threat to the Alliance? Did they know of this monster?! Kaden wondered if the right choice was to stay in hiding or if it was better for him to run and warn the unsuspecting inhabitants of Darkshire. All he had wanted was a familiar... and the thanks for his magic was the Death in the flesh. And he knew it would be foolish to try to attack this enemy with magic.

He didn't expect the shift of his foot in his hiding place, as a rock rolled out from his place of hiding. And the Tauren's head slowly turned in his direction.

Oh, gods! He had drawn its attention!

Reason and hope were cast aside as he made a desperate effort to retreat to safety. His robes catching on a branch as he tore the fabric behind him. He didn't care for the possessions that he lost and he most certainly didn't want to look behind him. The winding road he had traveled on stretched out like a leviathan. And it seemed endless when he sought salvation so fiercely.

Would he make it? Did he want to take the risk of seeing if the monster followed? The notions were dropped as the unease from the unknown enveloped him. He looked over his shoulder as he ran now and saw no sign of the Tauren following. And slowly, his sprint began to ease into a walk. His chest rising and falling with a rapid need for air. The shaking in his arms and legs grew even more unsteady. Even with the solid earth beneath him, he felt like he might collapse from fright.

Staring back at where the Tauren had been, he considered what he saw and start to felt a sense of composure after the ordeal. His eyes closed as relief flooded through him and the disgusting revelation that he had in fact pissed himself. He shook his head and placed his hands upon it in exasperation. But when he had turned... the maw of a completely different monster was closed behind him. As large white fangs emerged and the darkness that laid within, Kaden let out a blood-curdling scream.

Now what remained in his place... we're just two stalks of his small legs and blood...

In the weeks that followed, posters were strung up in Darkshire and Lakeshire for the disappearance of Kaden Stanford. Though.. the closure that could be gained would not bring peace to anyone's hearts or souls... And many sleepless nights would await the Stanford family, as the monster's feast had only just begun.

@daily-writing-challenge

#daily writing challenge #Day 10 #feast/sleepless #Dark/Trigger #horror #Tragedy #Death of a child :(#Chrotethys #Old god-chromatic influenced son of a butt #Nom nom #Why you go to deadwind pass at 11?#This isnt pokemon

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 32

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine

There comes a time in one's life when all is said, but still needs to be done, and in a heartbreaking majority of events, it also requires dressing up.

You watched Loki pull on the ephemeral, golden threads shifting through the air around his face. "You sure it's working?"

"I know how to cast an illusion, darling," he muttered, focused on the mirror. "It's really not that hard."

"I don't see any difference."

"You're not supposed to. It'll only work on strangers."

"So… We'll only know if it worked when someone screams?"

"I'm touched by how much trust you put in my skills," Loki sneered, with eyes focused on his jaw. You wondered what the face he was working on looked like. Given the intensity, it must’ve been a work of art.

Loki sealed the illusion and checked it from every angle. It felt so much better than the shabby mud that monk had plastered onto his face with little finesse. It might've worked against the less intellectual part of the population, but to anyone who had even the slightest knowledge of the high arts, it was no more than a laughable effort.

Loki smiled, imagining the clash that would follow if the monk and his excuse of a sorcerer met the Asgardian magic wielders. It would be a sight worth paying for. Loki would make sure to get a seat in the front row.

On the other hand, even he had to admit that the bracelet they came up with was a piece of work that he would never expect to find on Earth. Oh, he would've figured out how to get rid of it eventually, of course. There was no denying that. Loki might've figured it out earlier, if he… wasn't distracted.

He looked at the source of his distraction in the mirror. It was that moment you found something in one of the pockets of your jacket.

It was a phone.

"I knew we forgot about something."

"Is this…?"

"That guy's phone. I didn't manage to unlock it in the end. How about we drop it at the precinct on our way?"

Loki frowned. "Won't your officers be suspicious how we came into its possession?"

"Not if we magic it in. Anonymously."

"...that is not how it works."

In the end, it was precisely how it worked.

The phone, with a handy little note of explanation, just found itself at the right place, at the right time, without anyone at the precinct noticing.

You patted Loki's shoulder. "Nice job. I wish you could teach me a few tricks."

"It's not that easy. Your world barely has any magic, so it's difficult to make it comply with one's wishes," Loki said with a hint of sadness as you both turned and walked up the street in the direction of Peter's school.

The streets were full of people, busy on their errands. The sun was blinding against the fresh scope of snow. The sky was clear and crystal blue, with the sort of unachievable intensity that almost felt artificial.

"What is it like on other worlds?"

Loki sighed. Walking so close to you, he could feel the brush of his arm against yours. His hands remained in his pockets, though. The reason wasn't the cold, of course, since he could barely feel the bite of it. His hands, for reasons beyond understanding, kept getting sweaty no matter how many times he discreetly brushed them against the fabric.

"Spell casting is… essentially, wishing for something to happen, and convincing the world around you that it can become true. Magic is the means by which the world listens to those brave enough to wish. In your world, there's barely any magic. But there are others, where a mere thought shapes reality."

"Must be cool to see that."

"It's almost like lying, truth be told. Ancient scholars used to classify it as the same thing, although mostly due to mistakes in translation of the most ancient volumes. Thankfully, I'm skilled in both. It makes life easier."

"Wait...so THAT'S where the whole 'Loki the Prince of Lies' thing comes from? Not that you're a lying, deceptive piece of—"

"That's quite a touchy topic, you know. I might've… meddled in the lives of some very vengeful individuals, who out of pure, unjustified spite might've decided to curse me a little—... Wait, why are there children."

Loki stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the pavement.

In front of him, as far he could see, stretched a sea of colorful stalls surrounded by a writhing mass of people, dominated by younglings in all shapes, forms, and levels of noise.

You looked at him and back at the crowd. "It just kinda happens that this huge building right there is Peter's school. And this very school is organising the science fair for the kids attending it. Who, right now, are taking part in it. Here."

Loki's frown deepened as he comprehended the mess. Groups seemed to form around the stalls, children and adults alike. It would be difficult for a stranger to guess what was being presented on some of the tables, and indeed, Loki couldn't guess it either. Some seemed to flash chemical reactions aimed to showcase colorful effects, mostly to the entertainment of the youngest offspring roaming freely around. Other tables were filled with equipment that surely took a lot of time to build, and even more to explain. Loki was quick to be bored by those.

While swallowed by the crowds pressing on from every angle, you called Peter, pressing the phone to your ear close enough to hear him over the overwhelming noise.

There were attempts at bringing order to the gathering, and some spaces had been less prone to chaos than others. Those, usually, were centered around food.

"Ooh, I like that too," you said, putting the phone away at last.

Following Loki's gaze, your eyes fell on the delicious looking snacks. The smell drove you insane and seemed to do the trick on the trickster too. You watched as some kids walked by, chewing on the deliciousness. Then you looked at the queue. A very orderly, and very long queue.

"Hey, Loki."

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"To my great surprise, I think I might be. Magic truly is a blessing."

Peter found you not so long afterwards, when you were finishing the second round of magically-brought treats. Of course, you made sure an equivalent amount of cash appeared where it should. You didn't fall so low yet to outright steal from kids.

"Mr. Mischief!" screamed over the heads of strangers was what caught Loki's attention. And the impact of a teenage body jumping right at him was what squeezed the air out of his lungs.

"Hello, boy," Loki muttered. You gave him thumbs up.

"I love the way you smell," Peter pressed his face a little more into the god's chest.

Loki blinked. "Thank you, boy."

Peter finally unplastered himself from the god and took the both of you in with such genuine joy that you couldn't stop a smile from spreading on your face. He was dressed up in a spotless shirt he kept tugging on. You whiffed a smell of cologne definitely not suited for his age.

"Someone's nervous," you teased Peter. "I wonder what would've happened if we forgot your ring… "

"Please, tell me you didn't!"

"Of course we didn't." You pulled it out of your pocket. So many happy moments were connected to that ring, you almost missed it already. So much cake…

Peter immediately tucked it away in the pocket on his chest, glancing around himself. If, by any chance, that one special someone was anywhere near, he wanted to know.

He noticed you watching him. "I'm not nervous. I'm just cautious."

"Whatever you say, Peter. It's your call."

Despite his words, Peter couldn't stay in place. "Come on, guys. I gotta show you my project before we present them all!"

Going any further into the mass of people was the last thing Loki wanted to do. The day was bright and chilly and the place Peter was leading them to was unmistakably a sports hall where the more ambitious, and temperature-sensitive projects had been placed.

Loki, theoretically, of course, began wondering how he could disappear without anyone noticing. People got lost all the time and no one made a fuss about it. As much as he might not hate the kid, he wasn't interested much in high school projects of dubious chemical reactions, shown in stuffy, smelly interiors.

As if you could hear his thoughts, you turned your head to face him. "I hope it works out. He's been working his ass off for the past few weeks to impress MJ."

Before Loki answered, he noticed your outstretched hand. His heart skipped a beat, and jumped into his throat out of surprise. It was a pure coincidence, and a completely normal, random thing to feel, and there was absolutely nothing behind it…

Your hand was warm and felt right in his own.

Of course Loki didn't get distracted. He just so happened to miss the moment when you reached Peter's lab table, densely occupied by all manner of gadgets and parts, with the main construction hovering above the rest.

Peter didn't notice Loki's state. He was focused on all the things that still needed to be put in place or cleaned off the table before the presentation began.

"It's okay, I've got it all under control," Peter said, hiding a few screws in his pocket. "The teachers are probably going to start with the tables over there, so mine would be second to last, which gives me plenty of time to—"

Plans are good as long as all the parties involved are aware of them. In Peter's case, the teachers weren't.

Peter's face went pale when he noticed the commission arriving at the table to his right. His eyes were wide and frozen in utter terror.

And then he desperately tried to scramble everything together in record time.

You tried to help him, but you had absolutely no idea how. All you could do was watch him panic through the preparations at light speed. Loki squeezed your hand. "The boy will do fine."

The boy was not so sure.

He barely noticed when his classmates encircled the table, wishing him good luck and sharing advice that vanished from his head in seconds.

Despite that, Peter managed to clean his table as much as he could before the teachers neared, with notepads in their hands. They tactfully ignored loose parts laying behind him.

Loki caressed the back of your hand in a reassuring gesture. You both listened to Peter give the explanation of his project, with his voice wavering only a little. Peter started to go through all the steps he had prepared, pointing out all the important details as things you had no idea about changed on the table. The boy was pale, but did his best during the whole process, and as he moved to present the project, you almost believed he had everything under control.

He didn't.

In the moment of the biggest tension, when everyone was waiting for the results, they didn't come.

There was a second of pure, unfiltered panic on Peter's face. He froze, eyes plastered to the unquestionable lack of any result.

Your elbow jabbed Loki's ribs. The ribs were slowly getting used to it.

"Please, help him," you whispered with urgency.

"What am I supposed to do from here?" Loki frowned. He was tall and could see everything from over people's heads, but it didn't change the fact that there was a row of bodies tightly pressed together between him and the boy.

"I don't know, magic something up."

"Magic something—It doesn't work like that!"

"Then make it. Are you the Prince of Lies or not?"

Loki frowned, torn between looking at you and Peter at the same time. "Oh, blast it…"

The results, preferably big and flashy, were what the commission was waiting for. Loki gave them results.

Peter's eyes went wide when his project, that had been completely silent for the past few seconds, suddenly gave fruit to absolutely outstanding results. They were applauded, scored, and noted with grateful smiles as the commission moved to the next table.

And completely not what was supposed to happen.

Peter was still frozen in shock as he got encircled by his classmates, and showered in compliments and questions. The shock was still bright on his face as he was dragged further down the line of tables, to support the next unlucky friend.

Loki followed the boy with his eyes. It looked like no one had noticed that something was not adding up. Loki had a very general idea of what Peter's project was supposed to do, since the lack of time prevented the boy from showing them the final product of weeks of hard work. He wondered which of the girls around Peter was that MJ.

"I can't believe it worked," he muttered to himself, lost in thoughts just as Peter got lost in the crowd.

"Thank you. You did great."

Loki huffed, but couldn't stop the hint of a smile from ghosting over his lips. He supposed he'd have to answer a lot of questions once the boy was freed and jumped him again, but even that idea didn't feel so bad. It felt good to be appreciated and welcome in places and events that were important to someone. He was strangely glad someone wanted him to be a part of their life.

Loki's breath caught in his throat as your arm slipped around his waist. A nervous, careful presence hugged him for a second, melting any and all resolve he might've still possessed at that point.

"You're awesome. Wanna steal some more candy with me again?" your voice asked into his neck that suddenly ran with goosebumps. Accidentally, of course.

But there was nothing accidental about the way Loki leaned into the hug, welcoming it with a feather-light touch to your back.

"With you? Always, love."

A/N: Please tell me what do you think about this chapter or the series in general! It’s so sad to see the number of notes and comments decreasing with each new chapter :(

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine #loki laufeyson #loki marvel #i love loki #loki fanfic

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shireness-says · 4 years

Text

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

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

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

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

Le Cirque des Rêves

Open sunset until sunrise

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

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

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

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

“You know me well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emma shakes her head no.

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

“I’m not special.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can make it go away?”

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

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does it really matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is a school.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can I do for you, then?”

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

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

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

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Sir.”

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

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The latter, I suppose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

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

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

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

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

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

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

“Who’s this, now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what will you do?”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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elriell · 4 years

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Book Rec’s

Going to try and add a lot of less known books that are amazing and not enough people talk about, this would be too long if I talked about each one in depth, so I am going to leave my fav quotes as that tends to give me a feel for books and whether I will like them and I will link the GR page for more info! Happy reading:)

Fantasy Vibes

From Blood And Ash by Jennifer L Armentrout (CLICK THIS TOO)

“Death is like an old friend who pays a visit, sometimes when it’s least expected and other times when you’re waiting for her. It’s neither the first nor the last time she’ll pay a visit, but that doesn’t make any death less harsh or unforgiving.”

“Fear and bravery are often one and the same. It either makes you a warrior or a coward. The only difference is the person it resides inside.”

“You're an absolutely stunning, murderous little creature.”

Storm And Fury by Jennifer L Armentrout

“What are you going to do if it does get worse?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll get myself a seeing-eye gargoyle.”

(HONESTLY BADASS GARGOYLES. SO UNIQUE AND AWESOME)

Demons At Deadnight by A&E Kirk

“I launched into a graceful ninja-like front roll, then stood my ground to face the monstrous heathen, fearless in my determination to vanquish the deadly foe.

Nah, just kidding. I bolted, discretion being the better part of not getting dead.”

“We are killers,” Matthias said. Bad news.

“Not girls. We don’t kill girls.” Good news.

“She’s no girl.” Insulting news?

“What? Of course she’s a girl.”

“Want me to check?”

“Shut up, Blake,” the rest of them chorused.”

The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

“If I cannot be better than them, I will become so much worse.”

“If you hurt me, I wouldn't cry. I would hurt you back.”

“I am going to keep on defying you. I am going to shame you with my defiance. You remind me that I am a mere mortal and you are a prince of Faerie. Well, let me remind you that means you have much to lose and I have nothing. You may win in the end, you may ensorcell me and hurt me and humiliate me, but I will make sure you lose everything I can take from you on the way down. I promise you this is the least of what I can do.”

MM Romance

Him by Sabrina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

“Our mouths fit together so perfectly. Every time we kiss, I fall even more in love with him, and it has nothing to do with sex or lust. It's him. His closeness and his scent and the way he soothes me.”

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’d let you do it, though.” My hand freezes in his hair. “You would?” Wes nods. “I’d let you do anything to me, Canning.”

Misfits by Garrett Leigh (Poly romance, its just so perfect ala herongraystairs!)

“Learn something. Read a book. Explore someone. Anger is just a hole where your life could be.”

In The Absence Of Light by Adrienne Wilder

“The light is a funny thing, Grant. We think it shows us what we need to see, but in reality, it blinds us. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to see me.”

“Morgan may be autistic, but he is a normal man with a mental condition, not a mental condition who is a man.”

HOneStly JUST READ IT

The Foxhole Court by Nora Sakavic

“It’s not the world that’s cruel. It’s the people in it.”

“I'm not a math problem." "But I'll still solve you."

“Is your learning curve a horizontal line?”

“Who said 'please' that made you hate the word so much?" Andrew gazed at him in silence for a minute. "I did.”

“I didn't think I was a personal problem. You hate me, remember?" "Every inch of you," Andrew said. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you."

EVERY QOUTE IS ICONIC TBH

Vampires, Angels & Greek Mythology

Bloodlines by Michelle Read

“The greatest changes in history have come when people were able to shake off what others told them to do.”

“Takes a lot of tries before you hit perfection." He paused to reconsider that. "Well, except for my parents. They got it on the first try."

“No, thank you," said Adrian. "These hands don't sully themselves with fighting.”

“Everything's about my personal entertainment. The world is my stage. Keep it up- you're becoming a star performer in the show.”

Angels Blood by Nalini Singh

“Some things were worth the dance with danger.”

“You do realize this makes your wings even more unique." "Are you saying you shot me as a cosmetic procedure?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a dead woman.” “What can I say? I prefer to die well-informed.”

“You don't fear me," he said now. She wasn't stupid enough to lie. "I'm petrified. But I figure you didn't make me come all this way just so you could push me off the roof.”

Dark Lover by J.R Ward (warning OTT vamps if thats not your jazz either skip)

“Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge”

“Vengeance was one hell of a roommate.”

Half-Blood by Jennifer L Armentrout

“Two people see each other across a room or their skin brushes. Their souls recognize the person as their own. It doesn’t need time to figure it. The soul always knows… whether it’s right or wrong.”

“It’s just words and words mean nothing. Only action does.”

“People do the damndest things when they’re in love.”

“There is a difference between love and need. Sometimes, what you feel is immediate and without rhyme or reason.”

Assasin-y Goodness

Grave Mercy by Robin LaFevers

“When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice.”

“I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face.”

“Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.”

“There is no shame in scars, Ismae.”

Daughter Of The Pirate King by Tricia Levenseller

“I am me because I choose to be me. I am what I want. Some people say you have to find yourself. Not I. I believe we create ourselves to be what we want.”

“Lass, you've the face of an angel but the tongue of a snake.”

“Everyone has something dark in their past. I suppose it's our job to overcome it. And if we can’t overcome it, then all we can do is make the most of it.”

“Waiting. Not waiting. One lover. A hundred lovers. There should be no judgement either way. A woman is not defined by what she does or doesn‘t do in the bedroom.”

“Even a man who’s spent his whole life at sea has reason to fear her when she’s angry. But not I. I sleep soundly. Listening to her music. The sea watches over me. She protects her own.”

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

“No mourners. No funerals. Among them, it passed for 'good luck.”

“It's not natural for women to fight." "It's not natural for someone to be as stupid as he is tall, and yet there you stand.”

“I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.

“The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true.”

“Kaz leaned back. "What's the easiest way to steal a man's wallet?" "Knife to the throat?" asked Inej. "Gun to the back?" said Jesper. "Poison in his cup?" suggested Nina. "You're all horrible," said Matthias.”

The Kiss of Deception by Mary E. Pearson

“It can take years to mold a dream. It takes only a fraction of a second for it to be shattered.”

“Taking another life, she had whispered, even a guilty one, should never be easy. If it were, we'd be little more than animals.”

“Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky,”

“We all have our different skills. You’re patient to a fault, which sometimes doesn’t work to your advantage. I, on the other hand, have the patience of a wet cat. Only on rare occasions does that come in handy.”

“Maybe there were a hundred different ways to fall in love.”

Circus Vibes

Caraval by Stephanie Garber

“Every person has the power to change their fate if they are brave enough to fight for what they desire more than anything.”

“She imagined loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness, frightening and consuming yet utterly beautiful when the stars came out.”

“Some things are worth pursuit regardless of the cost.”

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.”

“Secrets have power. And that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them. Writing them down is worse, because who can tell how many eyes might see them inscribed on paper, no matter how careful you might be with it. So it's really best to keep your secrets when you have them, for their own good, as well as yours.”

Six of Hearts by L.H Cosway

“Note to self: Never try to out-trick a trickster.”

“So why not live with the magic? Be a kid again and believe in the fantastical. Life is more fun with a little smoke and mirrors.”

“We all have thoughts that we would never, ever vocalise. And people who say they don’t are liars.”

“I once read that people who have imaginary friends never reach out to touch them. There’s some part of their brain that subconsciously knows it will break the spell. That’s what it feels like with Jay.”

Amour Amour by Krista & Becca Richie

“We all traverse in and out of people’s worlds, leaving footprints. Some larger, some smaller, but there is always a mark. We can’t sweep it away.”

“Life is a rollercoaster with no volunteers. We’re all forced to take a seat and ride it out.

“I’m average. I’ve been average most of my life, but there are moments where I feel extraordinary. Invincible. Able to conquer any fear and step outside any box. There is no illusion, no fantasy. I can climb a forty-foot pole. I can fly eighty-feet in the air. I can be taller than tall. It’s a dream that I’m living. Every day. With him.”

More M/M Romance

The Song Of Achilles by Madeline Miller

“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”

“And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”

“He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

“He is half of my soul, as the poets say.”

Axel’s Pup by Kim Dare (Shifter Romance & BDSM FYI if thats not your jazz)

"I want to screw you, and tie you up, and make you writhe from-you know all that. But I want so much more. I want the whole thing, not just a quick scene. I want twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I want you to be mine. I won't take anything less."

Aristotle And Dante Discover The Secrets Of The Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

“In your dream. You were looking for me.""I'm always looking for you,"

“He was funny and focused and fierce. I mean the guy could be fierce. And there wasn’t anything mean about him. I didn’t understand how you could live in a mean world and not have any of that meanness rub off on you.”

“He looked like an angel. And all I wanted to do was put my fist through his jaw. I couldn't stand my own cruelty.”

“One of the secrets of the universe was that our instincts were sometimes stronger than our minds. Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere.”

Shattered Glass by Dani Alexander

"Tell me something good about your life," I whispered, needing to hear that he wasn't as broken as I thought him to be.[...]"You." It was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.”

“Is he my competition?” I asked. “Everyone is your competition.” Peter lifted his hand to his eyes and began lowering it incrementally. “It goes normal human beings, crazies, republicans, my hand, imaginary characters, corpses and then, in a moment of lustful psychosis, you.” By the time he was done, his hand was below the table.

Romance

Kiss The Sky by Krista & Becca Richie

“You’re not a pit stop. You’re my finish line. There’s no one after you.”

“People hope to touch the sky. I dream of kissing it.”

“I love the way he’s staring at me. It makes me feel more than just beautiful. I feel like I’m his. Like no one else could possibly compare to me. He doesn’t even have to say the words. I see it in his eyes. I can practically read it in his mind.”

“I’ve wanted so many things in life,” he says softly, “but you’re the one that has meant the most to me.”

Translation: I love you.”

Wallbanger by Alice Clayton

“You know those moments when everything is exactly the way it was meant to be? When you find yourself and your entire universe aligning in perfect synchronization, and you know you couldn’t possibly be more content? I was inside that very moment, and fully conscious of it.”

“The right woman for you wouldn't want you to change anything about your life. She wouldn't rock your boat, she'd jump right in and sail it with you.”

“It breaks my heart the way young girls pick themselves over, never thinking they're good enough. You make sure you always remember, you're exactly the way you're supposed to be. Exactly. And anyone who says otherwise, well, poppycock.”

Ugly Love by Colleen Hoover

“Ugly love becomes you. Consumes you. Makes you hate it all. Makes you realize that all the beautiful parts aren't even worth it. Without the beautiful, you'll never risk feeling the ugly. So you give it all up. You give it all up. You never want love again, no matter what kind it is, because no type of love will ever be worth living through the ugly love again.”

“Some people they grow wiser as they grow older. Unfortunately, most people just grow older.”

“Sometimes the spirit of a man isn't strong enough to survive the ghosts of his past”

“My grandfather used to say the placement of a birthmark was the story of how a person lost the battle in their past life. I guess you got stabbed in the neck. Bet it was a quick death, though.”

On Dublin Street by Samantha Young

“Gentlemen are gentlemen in bed. They make sure you're having a good time." "I'll make sure you're having a good time, and that you're okay with everything. I just won't be well mannered about it.”

“In truth it’s difficult to describe a broken heart.”

“Sometimes words aren’t needed for you to know a change has come upon you.”

Romance Series

Paper Princess by Erin Watt

“My skill, if I have one, isn’t dancing. It’s my ability to believe that tomorrow can be a better day.”

“My life is mine. I live it. I control it.”

“but a clean knife still makes a painful wound.”

“Fate is for the weak--those people who don't have enough power or will to shape life into what they need it to be.”

Foreplay by Sophie Jordan

“I’m not going to lie to you and convince you that I’m someone good and shiny like your guy that’s going to be a doctor.”

“You can’t even see it. I’m the safest thing you’ll ever find”

“That's what I wanted. Something to enrich me, to make me feel better about the things in my life that I could never change."

Wait for You by J.Lynn. (AKA Jennifer L Armentrout)

“You are really…” “Amazing? Awesome?” He paused, brows raised. “Astonishing?” “I was going to go with bizarre.” “Well, hell, if I had feelings that might actually hurt.”

“As long as the sun’s shining, shit can’t be that bad.”

The Deal by Elle Kennedy

“Sometimes people sneak up on you and suddenly you don’t know how you ever lived without them.”

“I want to murder him in his sleep, A. No, I want to murder him when he’s awake so he can see the joy on my face when I do it.”

“And the most important lesson I learned is that I’m not a victim—I’m a survivor.”

Romance w/ Epic Plots

The Unbecoming Of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin

“This was the boy I loved. A little bit messy. A little bit ruined. A beautiful disaster. Just like me.”

“You could start a fire with the heat between you two.""You're mistaking bitter animosity for heartfelt affection.”

“You're supposed to say, 'All I want is your happiness. I'll do whatever it takes, even if it means being without you.'""Sorry," Noah said. "I'm just not that big of a person.”

“I’ll walk forever with stories inside me that the people I love the most can never hear.”

“We are far too screwed up for a goddamned love triangle.”

“You will love him to ruins.”

The Winners Curse by Marie Rutkoski

“He knew the law of such things: people in brightly lit places cannot see into the dark.”

“Isn’t that what stories do, make real things fake, and fake things real?”

“The Winner’s Curse is when you come out on top of the bid, but only by paying a steep price.”

“The god of lies must love you, you see things so clearly.”

Obsidian by Jennifer L Armentrout (are you getting the idea I love everything she writes? because I do!)

“I've always found that the most beautiful people, truly beautiful inside and out, are the ones who are quietly unaware of their effect."

“More books." His eyes went wide. "You have, like, them books you just said you haven't read." "Doesn't mean I won't get more books."

Angelfall by Susan Ee

“I never thought about it before, but I'm proud to be human. We're ever so flawed. We're frail, confused, violent, and we struggle with so many issues. But all in all, I'm proud to be a Daughter of Man.”

“Sometimes, as we're stumbling along in the dark, we hit something good.”

“I knew from the start that your loyalty would get you killed. I just never thought it would be your loyalty to me that would do it.”

Unique Reads

Dont Look Back by Jennifer L Armentrout

“I was stuck in a life I didn't remember, squeezed into the shell of this girl - this Samantha Joe Franco - and the more I learned about her, the more I was starting to hate her.”

“Things aren’t perfect. They are far, far from it,but they are getting there, and I wasn’t looking back. Not when there were so many good things in the future.”

Verity by Colleen Hoover

“I wasn’t heroic. I wasn’t simple. I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn’t up for solving.”

“A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed.”

“No one is likable from the inside out.”

“Find what you love and let it kill you.”

Painted Faces by L.H Cosway

“We all paint on a face to show the world," Nicholas replies philosophically. "For some of us, that's quite literal.”

“I love him because he makes me laugh when I don't feel like laughing. I love him because he challenges my view of what a man is. I love him because I know I shouldn't love him and that he'll break my heart. I love him because he's a complete and total anomaly. I love him because I want to kill the sadness inside him more than I want anything else in the world.”

“You saw me, changed my life, made it better, and I’m completely fucking in love with you.”

Sorcery of Thorns by Margret Rogerson

“It was always wise to be polite to books, whether or not they could hear you.”

“Knowledge always has the potential to be dangerous. It is a more powerful weapon than any sword or spell.”

“When terrible things have happened to you, sometimes the promise of something good can be just as frightening.”

“You belonged in the library, as much as any book.”

“You unmanageable, contrary creature. You have made me believe in something at last. It feels as wretched as I imagined.”

Obviously not every book is going to suit everyone, everyone has pet peeves, and things that they won’t enjoy but hopefully this gives you some variety and I personally loved them all at some point! Pls feel free to come to my ask/chats to discuss any of them that would make me so happy <3 this took 4 hours damn

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