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#But the last time I read a book on a whim by a straight white man
running-with-kn1ves · 7 months
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Can we have more of Edira? I am completely in love with your writing!
A/N: This one is out to you Edira freaks and geeks 🎤! Apologies its not much proof read. Thank you to those always sending positive vibes <3 you don't go unnoticed 😽😽
TW: Suggestive content, implied past/future sexual relations, boobs+ butts, use of sugar mommy/daddy, borderline nsft
Summary: Just a night alone with your lovely (totally not gaslighting or manipulating) corporate fiancée.
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“Sugar mommy?” 
“Yeah its a… term of-- endearment. I guess?” 
“People around the office don’t usually use terms of endearment for me.” Edira squinted her eyes, scrutinizing your explanation. 
“Sugar mommy…” She contemplated again.  “isn’t that usually what you call some old creep preying on young girls?”
You slightly cringed hearing the term come out of her mouth again. 
“Well-- that’s usually sugar daddy; sugar mommy on the other hand..  Is usually looked at more positively. Like… a MILF.” 
“A MILF?” Edira scoffs. “Is that what I am? I’m not even a mother.” She sighed, pushing her greying blonde hair back with her fingers, looking back down at the paperwork on her vanity. “Or am I just old…” 
“Aw now don’t say that. You’re.. Like fine wine. Aging better with time.” Hearing the poorly constructed compliment leave your mouth nearly made you want to gag. Especially because you never thought twice about giving Edira such kind words; not when she still played you like her personal emotional dildo. 
“Besides, what does it matter anyway? It’s not like you cared about what they thought about you beforehand. Why now?” 
Edira massaged her temples, back turned to you as her head hung low. She had been getting increasingly more exhausted now that she had to focus on performance evaluations. You would’ve been worried for your job if it weren’t for the fact that you were sleeping with your boss, being strung along with her whims. You were safe for as long as Edira kept her interest in you. 
“You’re right,” She suddenly started, getting up out of her chair. “Its too exhausting to worry about what those lowlives think; I don’t know when I started caring.” 
Her crinkled white button up pulled upward slightly as she lifted her arms to tie back her hair. The last two undone buttons revealed the dark of her mesh, black thong as she stood in front of you. Her eyes closed as she wrapped a hairtie around the thick, straight tresses.
She took off her tight pencil skirt long ago, finding it far more comfortable to do paper work in the barest of minimums. She’d probably go fully nude if it weren’t for your scolding modesty, and the fact that the housekeeper had yet to go home. 
You scurried farther back onto the bed, repositioning your book on your lap as you looked away. But even as your head was buried in your book, you couldn’t help but peak your eyes upward; Not even out of sheer lust, but curiousity. You could never look away when it came to her-- and she knew it. You hated how she knew what her every move did, how it effected her surroundings and most of all-- you. You pressed your legs together, holding the book on your thighs as you attempted to get back to reading. 
It was like your subconscious willed you to look, to look at the way she dipped on each foot as she tried to position the tight black piece of elastic in a comfortable manner through her hair, how her swelled chest pushed against the white button up that you told her was too tight. But she liked it, liked how it made it easier for her to win over investors, how easily it won over you. Even through her padless bra and dress shirt, you could see the faint outlines of two round buds--
Nope, that was too much. You were getting ahead of yourself; how could you be so shameless? Especially with the woman who you cursed for all your problems and woes. However that was a double edged sword-- she was also to thank for your promotion, for the raise in your salary (as if that even mattered with her around), and your upgrade in housing. But what did that really matter, when your pride was missing?
The older woman sighed, breathily with a hint of a moan at the end. 
“I’m too tired to work on the rest of this... Why don’t you join me in the shower? I’m surprised you haven’t gotten in yet…” Edira commented, sliding onto the bed with her knees to get closer to you. 
“You wanted company, remember?” You rebuttled back, reminding her how you didn’t choose voluntarily to be by her side right now. 
“Ah, right.” 
She positioned her hands on your knees, leaning over to see the words on your book. She didn’t ask about it, instead reading upside down as she spoke. “So, all the more reason for you to join me. This looks boring anyway. Is this one of the books that I got you?” She asked, though you knew she wasn’t really looking for an answer. 
You felt slightly offended, though not surprised that she was criticizing your enjoyment. 
“It’s not. And.. I think I’ll just get in after you. Besides, Carla is still in the kitchen-- what happens if she comes looking for one of us?” 
Edira didn’t respond, instead walking out of the bedroom to stand in the doorway. 
“Carla,” She shouted, leaning on the side of the doorframe. “It’s already 10 hon, you can head home.” 
“Edira!” You whisper-screamed, looking her up and down as you saw Carla come down the hall. 
“Okay, Miss Edira.” The rounded woman put the broom back in the closet nearby yours and Edira’s bedroom, waving to you as Edira gave her a warm smile. The woman’s faint Bulgarian accent came out as she said her goodbye’s, the front door shutting behind her after she gathered her purse from the table. 
“What’s the matter with you!” You scolded. “I can’t believe you’d show up like-- that-- in front of Carla; do you really want to scare her off, I thought you liked her.” 
You grabbed your temples, shutting your book as the panic began to recede from your chest. 
“Oh please, don’t be so dramatic,” Edira waved her hand frivolously at you, shutting the door behind her. “ Carla’s seen me in much worse states, as have you--- wearing only half of my office clothes hasn’t been the worst of it.” 
“And I do like her,” Edira followed, pulling you up with one hand as you limply allowed her to tug. “She’s the only maid I can bare. Otherwise, I’d have you running up and around here cleaning up after me in a cute little maid outfit instead.”
“Housekeeper.” You corrected, giving her a frown as she lowered her hands down to your waist. 
Edira rolled her eyes childishly, pushing her pelvis up against the front of your hips, her bareness pressing against the warmth of your comfy sweatpants. You still wore your baby blue office blouse, not having the commitment to change the rest of your clothes since coming home. But its not like that mattered now, since Edira was so insistent on dragging you closer to the shower. 
She walked backwards, holding onto the drawstrings of your pants as she pulled you along. She held a gentle smirk, her undereyes slightly darkened from a lack of sleep. 
“Are you sure about this..?” You slowly slid your feet against the carpet, hesitantly following. “We both need our rest for tomorrow, and the shower isn’t always the safest opt--”
“Shh,” She hushed, grabbing your hips with a firmness as her nails slid gently under your shirt, running shivers up your spine; she knew you loved it when her nails ticklishly played against your back. “Just follow me, sweet thing.” 
She walked faster now, dragging you by the front of your pants into the master bathroom. Your socked feet nearly slid against the grouted tile floor, the rug cutting off abruptly. Edira shut the door behind you, her buttocks slightly sticking out in view as she turned away. 
You spun around, rubbing your face up and down as you tried to steady the anxiety that was clawing out of your heart. You always got anxious when she wanted to get intimate; she could be so demanding, so degrading if you did one wrong move-- but the praise, oh the praise made it so worth it when she pushed back your hair and said how good you were for her. 
Edira pulled you back around, watching you as she turned the lock, strands of hair falling out of her loose ponytail as they fell into her eyes. 
“Well, going to reject me now?” She asked, leaning dangerously close to your face. You had hardly moved away from the door once she pushed you in. 
“Well…” 
“Well, what?” Edira mocked, running a finger down your jaw. 
Her lips were so close to yours that you couldn’t pay attention to her eyes anymore, merely focusing on the breath that entered and left her mouth. 
“Say no, hm? I dare you to.” You heard the faint sound of her buttons coming undone, hands changing to reaching the tops of her buttons as she leaned in close. 
Her hand pushed to the back of your head, gently nursing you to kiss her as she pulled your sweatpants down just a tad. They fell with ease, her breasts softly squishing against your chest as you felt the heat of her body that was once kept warm by her clothes. 
“I know you can’t.”
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apprenticestanheight · 3 months
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THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY FOUR
Christmas Eve- Mike Schmidt x gn! reader
ALLLLLL RIGHT! Merry christmas eve to those who celebrate and happy sunday to everyone who doesn't! I do celebrate, however, and I also absolutely adore mike schmidt despite how minimally I've written for him, so I decided to compensate with a little bit of christmastime smut.
This fic, if it's not already obvious, is for audiences of 18+. Minors go away pls, I have a couple of fics in other genres for mike and do not want you here for this one.
Fic type - this is a little bit of fluff because it feels like most of my fics for this event have had angst undertones! I wanted to change it up a bit and mike deserves a bit of fluff so I went with that!
Warnings - body worship is very much implied, being coerced into sex is mentioned once
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December had never really been an easy month in Mikes life. Christmas always ached without his brother around, hurt all the more after his mothers death and hurt his wallet when Abby started getting old enough to remember the gifts she got, but then you came around when Mike was twenty five and you were twenty four and two years out from finishing your masters degree in journalism.
Ever since you'd come along, in the five years since that fateful day at a job where Mike had, amazingly, managed to last six months, things had felt distinctly easier for him.
They were easy enough that, when his father asked to have Abby over through Christmas Eve and some of Christmas Day, after he'd asked Abby if she wanted to, he'd told his father yes.
They were easy enough that smiles came easily to his face and he stopped worrying about cutting costs where he could in the lead up to Christmas shopping, though he still did cut costs somewhat so as to make sure you got a gift that was more than just a bottle of the cologne he used because you adored the way he smelled.
Decembers had become so easy that the tension in his shoulders that always arised within that month had not come since he was twenty six, you'd been living together for six months, and it was your first Christmas together.
However, at twenty-nine and thirty, you're experiencing your first Christmas as a couple without a child in your vicinity, and Christmas Eve takes on a surprisingly normal tone.
Mike goes to work because his boss needs him there and he could use the time and a half. You stay at home, tidy up the living room and then the kitchen and then the bedroom that you share.
You make a list of things that are needed around the house and then go to whatever Christmas markets are open in New Orleans, nipping into one of the open charity shops and grabbing a copy of Stephen Kings novel "Cujo" before you're heading to the animal shelter to help out for an hour.
Once home, you take a second to make sure the tree still looks decent before you head to your bedroom and slip out of the clothes that you'd chosen to wear--a white cable knit sweater and a pair of wide legged jeans with the solovairs that you'd bought on a whim three years prior and had adored ever since--and into clothes that you steal straight from the source. The top left and right drawers of Mikes dresser.
You steal a pair of his boxers and one of the baggier shirts that he owns, surprised to find it's a little baggy on you as well, and settle into bed for the remainder of the day, content to spend your Christmas Eve evening just relaxing with your book and whatever episode of whichever sitcom decides to grace your television screen.
Mike comes home at something like seven thirty, grinning when he sees the state you're in.
"Ordered Chinese," he says. "The restaurant was pretty full when I went but I was told it'd be free if it was delivered more than an hour after I ordered it, so we have a bit of time to waste. Is your book good?"
"Dog with rabies," you shrug. "It's--it's Cujo. Would've read something like A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens but if I'm honest, I am in fact so vain that I chose not to grab it from the charity shop I visited after running errands at the Christmas markets that were open today based on the fact that the cover was ugly."
Mike laughs. "The cover of Cujo aint much better, baby,"
"This is a first edition, thank you very much," you let a bit of sarcasm drip through your tone before you can help yourself, which is something Mike has always liked about you. He's found, in recent, that optimism is indeed nice but sarcasm where applicable will always take the cake. "If it's ever worth much, it could buy us lunch or maybe a week of groceries."
"So you don't like it, then?"
You shrug. Mike sits on the bed. "Dog with rabies," you murmur, setting the book to your right as Mikes hands find your hips. Yours find his shoulders and when you kiss, it's so full of love that it's almost unimaginable. Your kisses have always been that way, always good, never anything less than that. When you kiss Mike, you do it knowing he loves you deeply and that you love him much the same.
When he pulls away, he's looking at you with the same look he always gives you whenever all he wants is to feel you pressed against him, feel his lips against your own, his hands on your hips as he thrusts inside you and encourages you with enough praise to make you boil.
"We've got the house to ourselves," he murmurs against your lips. One of your hands goes to his hair. "I did spoil you with what I grabbed this year, sure, but I got a Christmas bonus. Plus, it's been so long since we've had the time, baby."
You pull him into another kiss and Mike laughs contentedly into it. He leans into you, hands slipping under the shirt you'd stolen from him.
"I love you," he murmurs, lips moving away from yours to press kisses across your jawline and down your neck. "I love your thighs, baby, and your arms, and your stomach, and your stretch marks."
You adjust your neck, turning it slightly to allow him better access. "I love your voice, I love your hands, I love the way that you look in one of my shirts. I love you so, so much, Y/N."
You let him break the kiss to pull the shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the room knowing he'll relocate it later.
You realize, really quickly, why Mike is being so sweet.
It's not to sweeten the deal or to try to coerce you into sex--Mike isn't that kind of person. He's made it clear time and time again that either both of you want it or neither of you do--but because he knows how work has been for you.
Work has been terrible. You've been getting a couple of good stories--including one about a run down pizzeria with too many animatronics to count--and it's gotten really competitive with the holidays.
But your news station would be closed until the 31st, and you didn't need to worry about competing with your coworkers anymore. And Mike knew that, but still, he was being sweet because he knew you needed him to be. You needed praise and a bit of extra attention, so he would provide you with both.
You lay down on the bed and let Mike kiss you all over, taking his time with you like he would've early on in your relationship. When he takes off the boxers you'd stolen he laughs, kisses your hip and calls you a thief of amazingly ethereal proportions.
You let yourself get lost in how good his touches, his kisses and his sweet nothings feel, moan when he starts doing all the things that drive you insane and love him for moaning at the way that you scratch his back, breaking the skin but not drawing blood.
And then you're fumbling for a condom, kissing Mike deeply as you roll it onto his length, pulling him as close as he can be as he bottoms out in you and waits for you to adjust.
"You're amazing," he says when he starts thrusting. "You're so good to me, Y/N. I don't deserve you, yeah? I don't deserve someone who treats me this good."
"You do," you're shocked that you're able to speak, so blissed out from the way that he feels. "You deserve me, Mikey. Please don't think otherwise. Love you so much, Mike. Wanna make sure you know that while you treat me like I'm some kind of a god."
Mike laughs, quickens his pace just enough. "You might as well be," he says teasingly, pressing a quick peck to your lips.
You're coming around him within minutes of the continued praise and the way that he holds you, and your release triggers his. You both moan out, and while you lay still, staring at the ceiling, Mike throws the condom away.
You go and pee to avoid a UTI, start up a shower. You and Mike shower together, holding onto each other tightly and lovingly while you talk about how much driving you'll have to do tomorrow, make jokes at one anothers expenses and share kisses while you wait for the conditioner to set.
All in all, it's the perfect end to a perfect Christmas Eve.
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titoist · 2 years
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OK, i will indulge this whim.... stubs out cigar with scowl on face. i was thinking, at first, of apologizing for posting what is generally not seen often within the confines of my blog. but, then, as if struck by a moment of clarity, i realized this is my blog & i can - MADDENINGLY - do whatever i please. thank you sybil @vetulicolia
last show: better call saul, last saturday. i was watching season 6 with my friend ren - since we are both saulheads and rewatched the show together a few times. we still need to watch the newest episode....fingers crossed for this weekend!
last song: i have been listening to "white bread boyfriend" by lemon demon for the past 3 days straight. i'm not quite sure what has possessed me in this particular direction, to be quite honest. it is a good song but even now, as i am hearing it play in the background, i cannot bring myself to say i really love it to any meaningful degree. a brief moment of thoughtful silence. i think i just find something about it very supremely, conceptually pleasing.
currently watching: closes eyes as if deep within empyrean rumination. slowly opens one eye with a pained, wince expression. um - not anything really, i suppose. i am rewatching eizouken with friends, as sibila said, but that is sporadic. i don't...really watch shows anymore, as fate would have it - i mostly just put the same videos on in the background while playing video games and that provides me with sufficient external stimuli to keep going. flashes a crooked smile.
currently reading: clutching chest as if having a heart attack. i've been scouring random articles, documents and books for assorted info on bulgarian civil infrastructure during the interwar and WW2 period.. i'm not completely sure why myself...but apart from that, i've been rereading italo calvino's Invisible Cities. one of my favorite books. quite good. sniffs and turns head.
tagging; though you should make sure to use personal discretion in whether or not you will answer this call; @liziveth @imprisonedforcatgirlatrocities @mossrag @icetrancer uh fuck who else. snail get over here. @dinguscarrot and, also, anyone else who is viewing this and wants to participate. do whatever you would like. leans back.
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deanteale · 7 months
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A Woman in White
The following drabble was inspired by a random image I found while browsing Pinterest, of all things.
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Every morning the dawn light creeps over the tops of the trees in the forest boundary of my property. It shines straight into my kitchen and bathes the room in a warm glow. The fog outside is kept at bay by the limestone bricks and sandy mortar holding them together.
I live in a world unchanged by time. The season is perpetually mid-autumn to winter, without break. This really is the best time of year, so I do not think about it too hard. Why shouldn't the season stay the same when it is the best season to be in.
There is something that happens every morning not long after the first rays of dawn find their way into my kitchen. A woman in all white walks out of the forest and comes to stand in the fog, just in sight. The fog seems to enshroud her, and she seems unbothered by it. All day she stays by the edge of the forest, standing in silent vigil. Never once have I ventured out to make her acquaintance. To be honest she intimidates me. Or maybe the whole situation does.
I have so many questions for her. Why does she stand vigil on the edge of the forest. Why does she not come out at night. What is she waiting for. Is she here for me. Is she watching me. What are the owls that come to her periodically bringing her.
Mostly though, I want to know how it is that she is able to walk in the soft damp soil and not have it stain her floor length gown. These are the questions that plague me. Is there something that put together would make sense of all of this. Is it the thought that I hide from every time I shoo away a thought that is too scary for contemplation.
In the safety of my bed with the covers over my head, I whisper to myself the worst of my suspicions.
“Is she a ghost, or worse, is this the afterlife, and she is a spectre of death. Am I dead?” Perhaps I will never know, I am too cowardly to go and confront her. What if she is an angel, here to tell me that I am dead, and this is my forever after.
There is much evidence of this last possibility. My home is both rustically beautiful, and Victorian era stunning marbles and shining wooden features. My library would be the envy of any book lover, with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with tomes of all ages. Wooden ladders on wheels and rails stand in the corner of each wall, ready to be pulled across to the required position at the whim of the reader. There are countless reading nooks and window seats with plush cushions and sills large enough for a cup of coffee or tea.
Now that I really think about it, my home is a series of contradictions, how is it able to house all of this, will I ever unravel all the mysteries of this place I cannot remember ever not living in. When did I get here, how long have I been living here, and will I ever leave? I do not have any memory of ever being anywhere else. Perhaps they are right when they say that a cage is a cage no matter how gilded.
Oh, to be a bird out there, high in the sky, flying free and living life above the petty concerns of the ones who live their lives on the ground. They laugh in the face of gravity and at the same time use it for their own gain. The eagle who swoops down on the unsuspecting snake and then drops it from a great height comes to mind. But even these great creatures must be wary of the so-called greatest hunter in the world. The human. A creature so dangerous and tenacious that it will follow its prey on foot for longer than the prey is able to cope with, dropping with exhaustion long before the human is willing to give up. The humans of today hunt the great predators of the world with little fear, killing or caging them for their own bemusement. Thank the Gods none of that made its way into my house. I can imagine the horror I would feel if I stumbled upon a room of stuffed creature heads or bodies. Or even a menagerie of creatures in cages out in the grounds. These magnificent beasts should never have to be forced into the situations we have put them into. But alas, what is one human to do about the actions of another, when said human is too afraid to leave their own house?
I have my books, my maps, and atlases, enough to travel the globe a hundred times without ever leaving the safety of my home but will this ever be enough. Is there not more pure life in the moment of standing on the top of a building and tilting forward, the decision of whether to fall in your mind, than in simply reading about it? I suppose this is the human condition. Always searching for that one thing that will make us feel alive, in order not to feel the pain of being eternally numb to everything. We want what we do not have, a feeling of eternal unrest and searching. That maybe if only I had one more thing, I would be happy. Music to thrill the soul, poetry to fill the heart with passion, pets for companionship and love, prose to bring the world to you, and love to show you that you have nothing and no control.
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ozma914 · 1 year
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Hillary's Bra, and Other Halloween Scares
 Halloween is the scary holiday, timed perfectly to arrive just before the two scariest spots on the calendar: winter, and elections.
It's hardly surprising, then, that one popular Halloween mask is that of the politician. One year I dressed up as Hillary Clinton, stopped all the other trick-or-treaters, and collected 28% of their candy. The bra was kind of binding, though. The problem is, half the people don't recognize political figures, and the other half get too scared.
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"What costumes? We just finished some barbecue ribs."
 My main criteria for choosing a Halloween costume was always warmth. In northern Indiana, it's not unheard of for Halloween decorations to be under a layer of snow by the end of October. Any Hoosier parent will tell you the main challenge in designing a costume is incorporating a winter coat and snow boots. Dressing as an astronaut is very popular.
As for me, I stopped going out on Halloween when I got old enough to buy candy at the store, turn off the porch light, and sack out on the couch in a diabetic coma. Preferably while watching a really awful Godzilla movie.
The last time I dressed up for the holiday Emily and I went to a Zombie Walk, costumed as ... well, you know. On a whim I walked into a grocery store and asked if they had any bran. The clerk said, "Last year you were way scarier as Dick Cheney".
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"Brains--huh. Nothing there."
 We always tried to do costumes on the cheap because, well--I'm cheap. So we scrounged around the house, looking for something that could be worn over insulated long underwear. For instance, my adopted brother Martin once gave me a bag of hand-me-down clothes. We don't have the same fashion sense, what with me being a white small town boy and him a black guy from Fort Wayne, which is a big city by my standards.
Most of the clothes did class me up, a little. But I also found a uniquely loud puffy shirt, and a pair of oversized parachute pants that button all the way down the side. No, I never saw him wear them in public--I suspect he was messing with me.
That gave me two choices: Go to Halloween as a stereotypical 70s disco black guy, or a clown. I'll never be politically correct, but you can guess which one I did NOT go as.
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A rare photo of me outside in November.
 Another choice was something my mother bought for me years ago, back when she (correctly) assumed I needed to get more fit. It's this silver foil costume designed to hold in body heat, like a personal portable sauna. I used it once on the treadmill and lost twelve pounds in thirty minutes. I could have gone as a zombie without needing makeup, if I could walk in a straight line, which I couldn't. Still, a little silver makeup, an aluminum foil hat, and: tah-dah! I'm a space alien.
If I ever trick-or-treat again I'll choose that outfit. Any candy I eat will sweat out of me by the time I make it home. Besides, I'm bound to stay warm no matter how cold it gets outside. Since my one and only goal from October through March is to stay warm, I could celebrate Halloween for months to come, even as political campaigning leaves me cold.
And if that doesn't work, I still have Hillary's bra.
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 Remember: When you don't read our books, the Wicked Witch melts. You don't want to clean that up.
http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"
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specialagentartemis · 3 years
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At this point I don’t read books by straight cis white men unless 1) they come highly recommended by someone whose taste I trust or 2) it was a gift and I can’t not read it
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chemicalpink · 2 years
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Young Gods ❈ KNJ, JJK
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❈ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader x Jungkook
❈ Genre: smut, f2l kinda, but also s2l, fantasy!au, fluff if you squint, gods!au, wizard/witch!au
➛ Part of the Namkook Moonrise Masquerade hosted by @jamaisjoons
❈ Rating: 18+
❈ Wordcount: 4.2k
❈ Warnings: it is jungkook centric, it does have a somewhat heavy plot, double penetrative sex, magical sex, teasing, slightest corruption kink.
❈ Summary: Legend has it that if you were to walk all the way up to Hallasan, and if the land is welcoming enough, you should be able to see the most beautiful lake where it is rumoured to home the most powerful being the world has ever had the pleasure to meet, so when young warlock Jungkook starts having trouble with his magic, who could blame him for travelling all the way there in hopes of finding answers only to be met with the hottest man he’s ever seen. and really,  who could blame him for fostering the biggest crush on him without saying a word for ages? that is, until y/n, a long lost friend of Namjoon shows up. so really, who is he to blame if he lets the two greatest beings in existence use him for their pleasure?
❈A/N: SHE'S HERE. GOD THIS TOOK A WHILE. Please enjoy! ALSO, banner by @jamaisjoons, I do believe the only thing that keep me writing this was the banner lol. Do tell your thoughts on this bad baby, I was heading towards a larger fic but I didn't have time yet magical au is most definitely there for future fics.
The first time Jungkook realised just how powerful he was, he was fifteen years old, although his mother can recall him being around four and being able to master a potion that most common-born non-royal witches could only hope to get mediocre at once trained at their young twenties. Of course, his magic had soon become taboo around the village, having to hide himself behind years of his father’s training, his lineage a bit closer to royalty, not quite, but just enough for his son’s magic to pass as his own. If his customers notice how better his spell jars or potions get once Jungkook turns eighteen, they sure don’t comment on it. Not that they would be able to tell that the family was hiding a master of the magical arts that could rival the country’s most powerful witch in the blink of an eye. Those were just rumours going around, as far as the Jeon’s were concerned.
“Son, I believe it is about time you get some proper practice on your magic” his father mentioned bypassing one Sunday night as they both locked up the store. He turned to hi, somewhat confused.
“Look if this is about Seojun noona’s elixir being more powerful than it usually is I swear it was a rightful mixture, my trial was right beside her actual one and she entered the shop sooner and-”
His dad shakes a hand dismissively at him, rounding the counter into the small storage room, coming back in sight with a leather-bound book in between his hands, calloused fingers roaming the antique-looking pages “I am not quite sure how much truth an old man like your grandfather could hold, but it wouldn’t hurt to try” he turned the yellowing book towards him, fast and almost undescribable scribbles decorating the paper as he squinted down at it, his father handling the energy in it to make the content quite literally come to life, a storytelling spell all too familiar to him from his young age.
“Dad, you know I absolutely love bedtime stories, but I’d say I’m quite a bit too old now for-” before he can even think about finishing the sentence, a mountain comes into view, alive straight from the book’s pages, standing tall and proud dressed in green, almost touching the sky, a magical aura surrounding it, one that he could even feel just by looking at it “What’s that?”
“The old man used to tell me stories about an ancient being, the most powerful of them all, living on top of Hallasan” the pages turn by themselves, the image changing to a faceless man, standing almost as tall and proud as the mountain itself, performing all types of magic, some of them Jungkook himself hadn’t even heard of “Legend says he was outcasted by royalty in fear of revolution, wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for he is a child of Earth herself”
“I-I don’t think I’m following”
His father sighs loudly before his magic shuts the book closed, all magic gone on a whim “Jungkook, whatever this man was, if my father was right and he really did exist, you might be like him”
“But-but I was born of both you and mum” he couldn’t quite yet fathom the extension of his own magic, much less think about the probability of being more powerful than any other being that had walked the Earth in millennia. Even if the man was real, would he even be alive still? If he was as powerful as he was presumed to be, would he even take Jungkook under his wing? What if he wasn’t as lucky as the man from the book and word got out and his life was endangered?
“Jungkook just think about it, you might be a child of the Earth”
“What if I don’t want to be” he couldn’t quite face his father, feeling his own heartbreak as the older man deflated. Jungkook knew that perhaps his dad had entertained the idea of his only son being a creature out of a legendary book, could feel how proud it would make him, for Jungkook to be a hero, make history with the power he presumably held within, yet he couldn’t help but feel like a small child again, afraid at the uncertainty that the future could hold. “I- I’m good with just running the shop and helping you and mother out with stuff”
His father sighed before placing a gentle hand on his shoulders, a small act that made him feel even more like a child, one getting subtly scolded by his parents as they prepare him for his inevitable future. “Jungkook-ah, your mother and I- all we really want for you is to live your own life”
His ears perk up, gaze facing forward as he catches his mother standing with her arms crossed over her body, the softest motherly look on her face “And if that means for my baby to go find himself at some faraway place, then so be it” she comes to join his father by his side, both of them bracing each other as the thought of their child growing up simmers down on them. “We just want you to grow up to your full potential Kookie”
.-.-
It had taken quite some convincing for him to completely make up his mind, the negging looks from his father as he helped around the shop, the longing yet scolding gaze his mother held over dinner until he found himself preparing a small bag for the long trip– almost burning inside his mind the map contained in his grandfather’s grimoire from the many times he had read over what he once thought to be a legend out of a children’s storybook.
The trip itself wasn’t as difficult as it was troublesome, having to hike up the highest mountain in the land, the difficult part–if the Jeon’s memories were anything to go by– was having the Hallassan land spirit to like you enough to show itself, even a step further to have the legendary witch to show his home.
For quite some time Jungkook entertained the idea of the immense possibilities on how the wizard could look, every possible image popping up in his head some variation of a wrinkly old man hunched over himself, staff in hand and he couldn’t help but laugh soundly at it, picturing himself getting nagged at by such a figure, perhaps he would end up looking like one of those old scholars that came to his village from time to time. But how wrong was he.
It took him three days, two cold sleepless nights in the woods and running in circles for at least two hours in the nothingness that was the top of the mountain for the valley to show up right where he had started to venture– he could almost hear the forest spirits snickering at him. He really tried to be angry at it, almost went back down just out of spite, yet the clearing before him had him doing a double-take, the space was bright and clear, none of the trees from before on sight, the small dipping in the middle of it leading to a sort of entrance– this was what he came for.
Jungkook had been raised better than what he found himself doing– walking into a stranger’s house uninvited. Was it really uninvited if after knocking for a few minutes the door opened on its own?
He walks inside, small steps, unsure of himself, his past resolve crumbling down completely as he walks further in where he listens to a hushed voice coming from his left, a mop of silvery hair turned away from him, green warm clothes cradling the figure, Jungkook entertains the idea of an old man still, yet not so much hunched over himself if the deep hushed voice and the hair colour was anything to go by. “...Now where did I last see-”
"Hello-"
"Oh! great timing! the pay is where it always is" broad shoulders are still facing him as the man moved around, a couple of won bills on the counter where he had waved his hand dismissively, not even bothering to turn around, for a legendary creature perhaps leaving his home door open was a recurrent thing, what with the whole clearing hidden from the public eye and all.
"Oh I'm not-" he had tried to make himself knows as definitely not the person he was expecting yet the man kept mumbling to himself, apparently in deep thought at whatever it was
""—So then if we are able to move this around we should -" he had started moving around the room, still not facing Jungkook directly, just pointing to places around the spacious room as his free hand busied itself with picking books from the humongous shelf against the wall
"I'm- uh" his hands couldn’t be still, grasping at the bag over his shoulder, knuckles almost white as he clears his throat "I'm not-"
"Did you forget where-" the man turns around and Jungkook feels whatever little poise he had gained leave him in the spot, right in front of him is the most legendary creature in existence, recorded alive for millennia, a god in more ways than one, no old man in sight but the prettiest human he had laid eyes on, fierce sight set on him awkwardly hanging at the entrance as the man keeps blinking at him "uh"
He bows down almost instinctively, 90 degrees, hair falling onto his eyes as he does so "Mister sir- uh keeper of Hallasan"
"You aren't Soobin"
"Uh.. no I'm not"
The man doesn’t even flinch at the information of a stranger setting a foot inside his house, deep voice calm as ever as he asks "How did you even get in?"
"Uh the door was open" he points to the door in a futile attempt for it to not make it seem like he was the weirdo picking locks or something at a magical creature’s home
"No it wasn't" he moves to the door in the most graciously way he has ever seen someone do it, almost gliding across the floor, eyes never leave him except for the brief second where his hand tries the doorknob "huh it was. Weird"
It took the man less than a minute after his initial shock to turn to Jungkook and invite him in, a pair of teacups resting against the table as they seated parallel to each other, him crossing his legs in a nonchalant manner as Jungkook couldn’t stop fidgeting in his seat– he certainly never thought he could come this far.
“So what can I do for you, Jeon Jungkook?” if he absolutely preened at the way that his name sounded in the stranger’s mouth, that was certainly something only for him to know.
The words died right on his tongue. There were certainly a lot of things the beautiful man seating across from him could do, none of them necessarily involving what he had initially come for, yet as the words take meaning inside his mind, he seems to short circuit yet again “I uh- you know- you know my name?”
He smiles a big smile, eyes crinkling into crescents, dimples showing and a heat simmering inside Jungkook’s belly “I know a lot of things, Jungkook” he stares off into space “Social skills are rusty, but they come back after getting a good look at you” Jungkook’s eyes must widen at the implication of his words. Could he read minds? Could he take a look into souls? “Just general stuff about you, don’t worry about it”
The man could definitely read minds.
Blink if you’re hearing this. The man blinks and Jungkook feels like fleeing. Wait. Everyone blinks, stupid. Perhaps some other time.
He somehow finds his voice, remembering the lingering question, the sole reason for him to be there “Mister Hallasan keeper, sir”
“Namjoon is fine”
“Mister Namjoon-ssi”
“Namjoon hyung”
Jungkook is sure this time his brain shortcircuits for real, for this complete stranger. Namjoon he corrects himself, to give him permission to call him so affectionately after only a few minutes of knowing him. After technically breaking- not breaking into his home.
Smile if you’re reading my mind. Namjoon smiles, something doesn’t sit right with him, he could very well be reading his mind, or simply smiling out of politeness at the extended silence Jungkook had caused, again. I’m onto you Mister Hallasan Keeper. Namjoon just smiles more fondly at him.
Jungkook goes on explaining his situation, from his rapid magic learning to being unable to wield his magic, to his father even suggesting that he could have been born from the Earth herself, just like Namjoon did all those millennia ago. The blond man restricts himself to listen to Jungkook speak, gaining a serious pose when he drops the reason for his visit, asking him for help. Jungkook’s almost sure he will deny it as he goes on to explain how his last magical apprentice had been there almost sixty years ago, going on about how he is pretty much a loner, no reason more than a brief excuse of being an outcast for practice differences with the village where Jungkook comes from, giving it a few seconds of thought before he accepts to have Jungkook under his wing, going as far as to give him a spare bedroom to sleep in along with the longest set of rules he had ever heard of.
Months with Namjoon look something more or less like this: waking up at 6 am sharp– something Jungkook had never done in his life, the first few times he had woken up later than that, it was almost impossible to know where his teacher had gone to. Have a rundown on the day’s activities and breakfast until 7. Jungkook was in charge of gardening on the 30-minute window of Namjoon harvesting for the spells he was due to make for the day. An hour of light reading– he knew better than to comment on how a thousand pages book was most definitely not light reading, but he did it anyway. He would then shadow Namjoon on whatever mystical task he had to do for the day before finishing up with him running basic high-level training with Namjoon’s guidance in the clearing– Namjoon had said that the Hallasan spirit would keep him safe and sound if he were to screw up, although so far all the spirit and her friends in the forest had done was laugh at his mistakes.
Five months in it, the whole routine came as second nature, he couldn’t even picture a day without Namjoon on it, not that there was anyone else that could pick up on the energy shift within it, Jungkook had learnt a lot from his teacher, not only in the magic department but about him as a person, couldn’t hide the lingering eyes, the curious touches of skin, every bit of information about Namjoon expanding that fondness feeling inside his heart, Namjoon was a man of habit, a powerful one at that, yet all those millennia living couldn’t hide the fact that Jungkook could see right through him, a lonely soul, as powerful as none other, yet so inherently say. Not even the whole power in the universe could keep him away from his own greatest danger: himself.
If you can read minds, kiss me. The kiss never came so perhaps Namjoon could never even read minds in the first place.
Now here’s the thing, Jungkook might be a mess when it comes to magic, but not so much at hiding his feelings, at least the best he could, Namjoon was as intelligent as men come and he had yet to notice. Namjoon’s friend that just happens to show up on a particularly lazy day– his teacher had said his magic tends to run out from time to time and would rather rest it; perhaps not so much.
Jeon Jungkook is a weak man. A weak man for beautiful things, like Namjoon, or you. Who just happened to walk inside Namjoon’s home like you owned the place– could he count it as his home too yet?
He could feel his heart wanting to leap out of him as soon as you introduced yourself, and perhaps he was imagining the way your eyes grazed over his figure before going to tease Namjoon, not that he stopped having heart eyes for the man when you walked in, he had enough heart eyes for the both of you, even if he had to keep them to himself. You were easier to warm up to than Namjoon if it was anything to go by, smoothly falling into conversation after you three had sat down for tea, walking up to Namjoon’s massive library, picking out books from their shelves as you asked him about his upbringings.
“The Jeon family? Oh, dearest, your grandfather was as good as wizards come” his brain cuts short as soon as the words leave your mouth, just how exactly could you have known the old man? The old wizard was presumably thrown out of the royal house for being unfit for ruling over the land. You playfully push your elbow against Namjoon “And I say this while knowing Joonie”
The blond man groans at your teasing.
“You-you knew my grandpa?”
“Yeh, such a shame he decided to be a mortal” Your initial interest seems to diminish as you turn to face the books yet again, a particular red cover catching your attention.
“What”
Jungkook faintly hears Namjoon standing up from his chair to try and get in between his conversation with you, although all he hears seems to come as if the voices were kept under cotton inside his ears “Y/N you’re overwhelming the kid”
For such a calm and collected posture, he had maintained not only while learning with Namjoon but back at home too, hearing such a word coming out of him really tips the glass “I’m not a kid! Why is everyone always treating me like a child!” surely it did seem rather childish to have an outburst like that, yet his mind couldn’t help but reel in all those other times in his stay where Namjoon had dismissed him from helping, saying it was a rather complicated spell you should wait this one out Jungkook. Or something along the lines of when you get stronger. It did seem the type of things one would say to their petulant child.
“Jungkook waits” Namjoon groans as he retreats to his assigned room, you can’t help the softness inside you at the way that strong independent loner Namjoon reacts to his apprentice being pissed off, certainly a first.
“You pissed off the kid” your remark isn’t that much well digested as Namjoon throws a dagger-like glare your way, groaning as he throws his head back against the couch
“Why am I parenting again?”
You shrug your shoulders as you offer him a tight lip smile, you had heard a lot about Jungkook even before you had walked inside the wizard’s home, like a reader of a slow-burning love story, you knew that ‘parenting’ was most definitely not the dynamic in his relationship with the younger, not with the way Namjoon had described the little mannerisms of his apprentice, or the way that he described his figure as the strongest back I’ve ever seen with such a tiny waist when he sent you a letter asking you to visit him.
The thing with the dynamic you had with Namjoon had been one going on for hundreds of years, feeding off of the magic that only such powerful creatures like you and him could conjure, effective yet dependent as when either of you two was in dire need of a boost, you would have to pay him a visit to work your magic. Jungkook hadn’t appeared after his little outburst, probably hidden in his room, taking only a few minutes of Namjoon glancing expectantly at the place where the younger had disappeared before you dragged him towards his room in an all too practised manner.
The whole environment was always on the calm side whenever you two get to it, something along the lines of strictly business, yet an undeniable connection between the two. Namjoon had you against his door, a dimly lit lamp on his desk, strong hands holding you in place at your waist as he leaned down to connect both of your mouths, eyes fluttering shut as he did so. Your hands found themselves tangled in his blond tousled hair in no time as he deepened the kiss, moving the both of you towards the bed as magic started glowing dimly within you two, connecting and feeding off of the spark of the situation, magic so profound and delicate that only immortal beings could hope to master. Namjoon placed himself against his elbows as you straddled his hips, your figure teasingly humping his growing bulge inside his pants as his breath started to become ragged, his own magic reaching forward to yours, just the way his lips chased yours. Yet there was only so much ominous Namjoon could handle. His hands were quick to undress both of you in between hot caresses and messy kisses as both of your bodies seem to move on their own accord, the magic itself doing the most out of the tantric experience, moans slowly but surely filling up the room as Namjoon positioned the tip of his hard cock on your entrance, teasing your folds for a few seconds before you settled on top of him in a familiar manner, sinking down on him as he throws his head back, letting out a groan. You are almost sure Jungkook could hear you both, yet your mind so clouded you wouldn’t have given it a second thought with Namjoon’s cock filling you up so nicely as you moved up and down on his length, that is until out of the corner of your eye you catch the casted shadow outside the dimly lit room.
"Your puppy is outside," You say as you stop moving on him, not quite removing yourself from the situation, yet you feel the magic in the room flickering faintly as if going dormant.
"What" Namjoon’s eyes are surprised as he lets reality sink in, his magic safely sated from the small act
"The kid that has an obvious crush on both you and me?” you state matter of factly as Namjoon’s jaw goes slack “He's watching us from behind the door"
As if on cue, there’s a rustling behind the door, feet rapidly resounding against the floor "No I'm not!"
Namjoon sighs loudly "JK just come in, I know this might seem.." the door opens and you could swear Jungkook’s eyes are about to leave his skull at the image he’s present with "weird"
"incredibly hot," they say at the same time, rendering both of them speechless
"huh kid's horny" you start removing yourself from Namjoon’s cock as your magic starts tingling, now reaching out for the younger "i like it"
"Y/N please"
You gesture by raising your hands as if surrendering, yet you know just how the night had taken a turn, willing to satiate your magic’s needs “He doesn’t like your PG training, let me handle this”
Jungkook is still sporting his Bambi eyes as he feels himself pulled into the room, closing the door softly behind him as he can only stare at you as you make your way towards him, lips ghosting over his “So tell me Jungkookie” your hand trails down to bring him closer to your naked body, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to your ass “Just how much are you willing to render of yourself for me and Joon?”
“All of me”
Jeon Jungkook might as well had been an erotic wizard like yourself if by the way he manhandles you and surrenders you to Namjoon like a loyal apprentice would to his master was anything to go by. Namjoon’s stare alone has the young man pliant as he caresses tan skin under his fingers, achingly curious as the youngest takes turns to kiss the eldest and yourself, Namjoon’s fingers playing with his nipples, your own hands working his length to life after your magic had completely undressed him, feeling both your and Namjoon’s magic reaching for Jungkook’s in a way you didn’t know was possible. A few kisses and lingering touches in, minds clouded with lust, kissing noises and moans taking over the space, Jungkook takes no time in positioning you on top of him, back to his chest as his length stretches you deliciously, long fingers playing with your clit as his own legs separate your thighs as if offering you up to his master, Namjoon looking like a man starved as he positions himself against Jungkook’s cock, his tip meeting no resistance as he glides in and nestles next to Jungkook, stretching you like no other time you could fathom, groans and ragged breaths of the men under and above you working you to your own climax, babbled words coming out of the youngest’s lips along with a promise of becoming yet another young god under your spell.
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firstfullmoon · 4 years
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what are some quotes that are so visceral they feel like a gut punch to you?
“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.”
— Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns
“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”
— Ilya Kaminsky, “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”
“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”
— Phoebe Waller-Bridge, from Fleabag
“Les femmes de notre famille, nous sommes engluées dans la colère J’ai été en colère contre ma mère Tout comme tu es en colère contre moi Et tout comme ma mère fut en colère contre sa mère Il faut casser le fil.”
(The women in our family are all stuck in anger I have been angry at my mother As you are angry with me And as my mother was angry at her mother The thread must be broken.)
— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies
“I know what I want: an ugly, clean woman with large breasts, who tells me: what’s all this about making things up? I won’t have any dramas, come here immediately!—And she gives me a warm bath, dresses me in a white linen nightdress, braids my hair and puts me to bed, very cross, saying: well what do you want? you run wild, eating at odd times, you could get sick, stop making up tragedies, you think you’re such a big deal, drink this mug of hot broth. She lifts my head up with her hand, covers me with a big sheet, brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead, already white and fresh, and tells me before I fall asleep warmly: you’ll see how in no time your face is going to fill out, forget those harebrained ideas and be a good girl. Someone who takes me in like a humble dog, who opens the door for me, brushes me, feeds me, loves me severely like a dog, that’s all I want, like a dog, a child.”
“I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joana. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad. But it is the sadness of happiness, this appeasement and sufficiency that leave the face placid, faraway. And when my child touches me he doesn’t rob me of my thoughts as others do. But later, when I give him milk with these fragile, beautiful breasts, my child will grow from my force and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I will be the useless old mother. I won’t feel cheated. But defeated merely and I will say: I don’t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don’t know a thing. God will receive my humility and will say: I was able to give birth to the universe and I don’t know a thing.”
— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
“I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.”
“I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh.”
“But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.”
— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva
“And that was what I felt when reading your book: that solitude.” “Imagine the solitude of the person who wrote it.”
— Clarice Lispector, from an interview
“suppose the body did this to us, made us afraid of love—”
— Louise Glück, “Crater Lake”
“When I put my hands on your body, on your flesh, I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake, but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency, leaving a gleaming skeleton, gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight, the way your flesh occupies momentary space, the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth, to this present time, I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours, I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures, to reach up around my neck, to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”
— David Wojnarowicz, from The Half-Life
“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”
— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects
“and cain said, There’s an idea I can’t get out of my head, What’s that, said abraham, There must have been innocent people in sodom and in the other cities that were burned, If so, the lord would have kept the promise he made to make to save their lives, What about the children, said cain, surely the children were innocent, Oh my god, murmured abraham and his voice was like a groan, Yes, your god perhaps, but not theirs.”
— José Saramago, Cain
“I’d like to jet-ski / straight out of this life because right now I am / way attached to real things like for instance / people how they are all so tender how they / love to just go walk around and someof them are / wearing pink now and it hurts me and they / bathe their dogs”
— Heather Christle, “This Is Not The Body I Asked For”
“The idea of deserving love. And then watching love being given to people who did nothing to deserve it.”
— Anaïs Nin, from her journal
“And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.”
— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
“The veals are the children of cows, are calves. They are locked in boxes the size of themselves. A body-box, like a coffin, but alive, like a home. The children, the veal, they stand very still because tenderness depends of how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”
“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
“I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe / you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed / and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.”
— Kim Addonizio, “Party”
“The body has no thoughts. The body soaks up love like a paper towel
and is still dry.”
— Kim Addonizio, “Body And Soul”
“I don’t know how God can bear / seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, / the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts.”
— Kim Addonizio, “The Numbers”
“I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I thought of you, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes.”
— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Minnie Holland
“The unknowness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit
“I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.”
“As for myself, I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
“I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED GENOCIDE TO STOP I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE ACTION AND REACTION I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC OUT THE WINDOWS I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED NOBODY THIRST AND NOBODY NOBODY COLD I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED I WANTED JUSTICE UNDER MY NOSE”
— June Jordan, “Intifada Incantation: Poem 38 for b.b.L.”
“Maybe when I wake up in the middle of the night I should go downstairs dump the refrigerator contents on the floor and stand there in the middle of the spilled milk and the wasted butter spread beneath my dirty feet writing poems writing poems maybe I just need to love myself myself and anyway I’m working on it”
— June Jordan, “Free Flight”
“It’s not that I gave away my keys. / The problem is nobody wants to steal me or my / house.”
— June Jordan, “Onesided Dialog”
“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”
— John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos
“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”
— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name”
“You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. / Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”
— Shauna Barbosa, “GPS”
“It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way. (...) To make up for it. To make up for the fact that it’s me.”
— Suzanne Rivecca
“I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad.”
— Richard Siken, Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper
“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”
— Richard Siken, “Snow And Dirty Rain”
“Love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's / terrifying. No one / will ever want to sleep with you.”
— Richard Siken, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”
“The hardest thing still remains. It remains the hardest, to bear all the tenderness and only to gaze on.”
— Ilse Achinger, “Mirrorstory”
“i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.”
— José Olivarez, “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains”
“Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes the men - they come with keys, and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers.”
— Warsan Shire, “The House”
“I’ll take care of you. / It’s rotten work. / Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
— Euripides, Orestes, tr. Anne Carson
“We have this deep sadness between us and it spells so habitual I can’t tell it from love.”
— Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband
“There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is.”
— Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays
“I wish I could peel all my sadness in one long strip off my skin & toss it in a bucket. No one would have to carry it. It would just sit there & be punished. It would just sit there & think about everything it’s done.”
— Chen Chen, “Elegy For My Sadness”
“There is too much or not enough room in my stomach for everything we will do to each other.“
— Adriana Cloud, “Bento Body”
2K notes · View notes
pappydaddy · 3 years
Text
tolerate it (p.w.)
A/N: I got tolerate it done! I have been wanting to write this one since I started this collection and I am so happy to have finished it this is one of my favourite songs from Evermore! I also somehow had this take another course while I was writing this and I accidentally connected it to another fic I am writing for this collection (evermore) so I have altered evermore's description to fit it. I just felt this chemistry as I was writing these characters and it just kinda happened. I also thew in a little easter egg relating to ivy in there - I just couldn't help myself because the opportunity was right there.
I want to let it be known that this is not Percy slander, it is just how this fic ended up. Percy is very career driven and he also cares about how he looks and his image and that is shown in this fic.
Anywho, I know there are a lot of people out there waiting on requests and they are coming, just very slowly. I have not had much time to work on writing because of school, but I will get your requests out eventually! However, I hope you lovelies can enjoy this in the meantime💛!
Paring: Percy Weasley x Fem!Reader, a bit of Charlie Weasley x fem!Reader (too much chemistry to deny honestly)
Show/Movie: Harry Potter
Not Requested
Taglist: @sarcasticallywitty15​
No Voldemort AU, no corrupt Ministry (other than everyday corruption. NOT PERCY SLANDER, JUST CHARACTERIZATION (EXPLAINED ABOVE)
Warnings: Loneliness, breaking up, sadness, angst.
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*I COULD NOT GET A GIF - I AM SORRY BUT THERE are ABSOLUTELY NO PERCY GIFS AVAILABLE TO ME😭*
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The sound of silence swirled in the room with the dust that floated in the golden rays of sunlight. For something so present in her life these days, Y/N was still not used to the painful silence. She sat on the cushioned couch in Percy’s study, a book laid open on her lap, her hands folded, her back straight. She never used to sit like that, she always thought people who did look like they were always trying to hide something. But, then again, she never used to think she’d be sitting in the same room as her fiancé while feeling like she was millions of kilometres away from him. She lifted her eyes slowly, trailing over the beautifully crafted hardwood floor, over the red and gold rug (that matched the decor of the room), they danced along the dark wood of Percy’s desk. They finally stopped when they landed on his flaming red hair as it shined in the afternoon sunlight. Her head lifted as she studied him. Hunched over his papers, he scribbled furiously. “Percy, dear,” She cleared her throat when her voice came out more mousey than she expected. Percy hummed, not lifting his head from his work. “I was thinking we could go to town today, shop around for some more things for your brother’s visit?”
“Why? Charlie will be fine with everything we have in the guest room.” Percy grunted, dipping his quill in the ink-pot. Y/N pursed her lips, setting the book on the cushion beside her.
“Well, maybe we could get different soap for the ensuite? Maybe some relaxing candles, stuff so he can draw himself a bath,” She suggested, folding her hands back in her lap. “I’m sure he will be tired from coming all the way here from Romania. He’s not used to England time anymore.”
“Charlie doesn’t need all that, besides, it’s not like he’ll have time to relax. Once he’s here, we’ve got to get right to work,” He shook his head as he read over the new paper in his hands. “We’ve got lots of work to do,” He paused, his eyes finally looking at her, but only to flick over her seated form. “You would understand if you were still working.” He jabbed.
Y/N nodded, rolling her lips as she let the comment slide off her back, not thinking too much about his quip, just like she did with the others. “Well, we should still get him something nice, welcome him into our house.”
“I can’t go to town, Y/N, I have to get this done. You can go if you think it to be so important.”
“But I thought it would be nice to go together. It is a beautiful Saturday and those aren’t due for another week-“ She tried to explain, but the sound of Percy angrily throwing his quill against the table cut her off, startling her.
“I can’t just run off to town on a whim. Now if you can’t sit in here quietly then you can go read in another room or something, I don’t care what you do as long as I can get some peace and quiet.” He exploded, gesturing his hand aggressively towards the closed door to his study. She silently looked at the door.
“Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.” She whispered, grabbing the book and raising from the vision, remembering the lecture Percy had given her last time she didn’t put her book back before leaving a room. On her way to the door, she gently laid the book on one of the built-in bookshelves, not even looking at it. Instead, she kept her eyes forward, not wanting to look at Percy as he bowed his head back down to scribble on the paper. The door opened with a creak as Y/N slid out into the large and empty hall. Softly, she rested her weight on the door till it shut. Heaving out a sigh, she let her head fall back against the beautifully crafted white door, the identical one beside her jiggling when the other locked into it with a click.
Living with Percy was not what she thought it would be. When she was just a naive schoolgirl, they talked of having a decent house with a cozy feel, the rooms filled with laughter and the warmth of family, nights spent by the crackling fire with hushed voices and tender touches. The memories of the daydreams she had looked like a fairytale, conjured up from the mind of a foolish girl who thought happy endings were real. Now, she was alone in this grand house, the rooms and halls feeling cold with the only sound being the echoes of her footsteps. Heaving a sigh, she pushed herself off the door and made her way to get ready to go to town.
____
The melody of classical music filled the room as it was bathed in the orange and pink hues of the setting sun. Y/N sat in the armchair by the fire, watching the flames licking the stone, the black smoke swirling up into the chimney. Percy sat in the chair across from her, a book open in his hands, his head bowed low. Many nights in the Common Room were spent like these, Percy’s nose in a book as they sat by the warm fire. It looked almost the exact same as those nights to anyone else who had witnessed them, but Y/N could tell the difference. Now, the fire felt just as cold at the space between them, gone were the soft touches, the stroke of Percy’s thumb against Y/N’s hand, the feeling of his side pressed against her side, the comfortable silence. Y/N missed it all, but the thing she missed the most were the glances that left her smiling and blushing while a storm of butterflies raged in her stomach. Now, she just sat watching him read with his head low, noticing every little thing he does and doesn’t do.
“Percy,” Charlie’s gruff voice spoke, speaking over the cracks of the fire and breaking the verbal silence. Percy looked up from his book, his eyes not even glancing at Y/N in their path to look at Charlie entering the sitting room. Y/N softly turned her head to look at Charlie who took a seat on the empty couch. “I just thought of something that we should talk about in tomorrow's meeting.” He informed him.
“Just one second, Charlie,” Percy interrupted him before he could continue, his finger in the air as he turned his eyes to Y/N sitting across from him. She already knew what he was going to say before the words tumbled out of his mouth. “Y/N, would you excuse us, we have to discuss business and you have no need to be here while we do that.” He finally spoke to her for the first time since dinner. She nodded, standing from the chair and smoothing the back of her dress.
“She doesn’t need to go, the house is far too cold for her not to be near a fire and there isn’t one made anywhere else but my room.” Charlie insisted, catching Y/N’s forearm as she went to walk by the couch, heading for the grand archway leading to the dark hall.
“Nonsense, she can make one with her wand in the bedroom,” Percy waved him off. Y/N bit her bottom lip, looking back at Percy. “What are you looking at me for? You know how to start a fire, I know you’re two years younger than me, but they still taught you the same things as they taught me in Hogwarts.”
“I know how to do it, but I can’t. My wand broke when I slipped on ice in town a couple of days ago, I haven’t been able to run to Diagon Alley to get it fixed yet, remember?” She reminded him meekly, not wanting the same reprimanding she had received when she had told him the first time. Percy tutted, rolling his eyes as he remembered, gently closing the book still in his hands and setting it beside his leg, sticking into the gap between the cushion and the armrest of the chair.
“Ah, yes, I remember now. It’s laying on your dresser snapped practically in half. How many times do I have to tell you not to take your wand when it is icy out? How many wands do you need to break before you realize that,” He lectured as if she was a child. “Very well, wait outside the doorway and I’ll come to start a fire for you.” He heaved out a sigh, beckoning her away with a flick of his hand. Nodding, she went to walk away, but Charlie had not let go of her, instead, he tightened his hold, keeping her in place.
She looked down at him, her lips parted slightly in shock as he glared at his younger brother before looking up at her. “You can just go in my room while Percy and I talk then I will come get you and we can go and start a fire for you in your room.” Charlie informed her in such a way that told her she was not going to argue with him. Nodding silently, she pulled her arm free from his now loose grip and exited the room as it fell silent with tense air between the brothers, her heels clicking on the hardwood and the cracks of the fire being the only sound.
They must have waited until they couldn’t hear her heel clicks anymore before starting to talk since she didn’t hear a single sound coming from the room as she walked down the dark hall, the only light coming from the flicking flames of the candles lining the hallway. She sighed, pushing Charlie’s door open and slipping to the room. She didn’t even notice how cold she was until she stepped into the warm room, she relaxed into the warmth, closing the door behind her to trap the heat in. Making her way over to the armchair stationed in front of the roaring fire, she watched the flames just like she had done in the other room, thinking. All she did was sit in silence, try to live alongside Percy without messing up and making him lecture her. She didn’t understand it. She couldn’t understand how this Percy was the same Percy who stayed up late in the Common Room to talk to her about the scars of her past and soothed each and every one of them, laying soft blankets over the barbed wire of her heart so she could escape and finally love.
She jumped slightly when the door creaked open. Startled, she looked up to see Charlie walking into the room, closing the door behind him again. “Sorry to startle you, I didn’t know you were so deep in thought.” Charlie apologized, sitting in the other armchair across from her.
“It is okay, Charlie,” She told him, moving to stand but he held a hand out to signal her to stop. Obeying him immediately as if he was Percy, she settled back in her chair, sitting posed with her hands folded delicately in her lap, nervous as to why he seemed so stern, assuming she was going to have to listen to another lecture. “Are we not going to start a fire in the master bedroom?” She asked quietly when he didn’t answer, only dropping his hand back to his thigh with a slap, shaking his head.
“No, not yet. I want to talk to you first.” He told her.
“Oh-” She trailed off, her eyes casting down to the rug under their feet before back up at him, confused. “About what? If it is about getting Percy to mention something in the meeting for you, he doesn’t let me talk about work with him-”
“It’s not about Percy, not entirely,” He cut her off, leaning towards her with narrowed eyes as he studied her. She gulped, leaning away, unsure of what he was doing. “You’ve changed,” He mused, leaning back in the chair after concluding his study of her, his eyes still burning into her as she shifted. She knew she changed, it was not hard to tell that she has changed. “You used to stand up for yourself, make yourself known. You were never the doting housewife type of person, but yet here you are, being treated like a child by your fiancé. Why?”
She shrugged, dropping her eyes to the floor. “People change. Percy is so mature and wise, he must be right so that means I should listen to him, he knows best.” She whispered, not believing a word she said. Percy was mature and wise, much older than her, but she knew that he was not right about how he treated her.
“I don’t believe that, but it’s late and you should get some sleep,” He stood, prompting her to stand as well, hurriedly as if she would be scolded for not being prompt enough. “I excused myself from the meeting tomorrow and I am taking you to Diagon Alley. So you have to be up, we are spending the day there and eating supper there as well, which gives you a break from the house chores and Percy commenting on how dirty the plates are or how you set the table wrong, or your cooking. Might even swing by and visit Fred and George’s shop, must have lots to talk to you about, those two.” He told her as he walked to the door, her following behind him silently.
“What about Percy, is he still holding the meeting? He must be mad about you cancelling on him.” She asked nervously as he led her through the darkened halls, the candles having been extinguished, the only light coming from the winter moonlight streaming in through the grand windows.
“He got an urgent letter from the Ministry, he had to leave immediately for an emergency, probably be gone tonight and most of tomorrow.” Charlie told her, opening her bedroom that she shared with Percy.
“I hope everything is okay, it must be very important for him to be called away at a time like this.” She commented, shivering as she stepped into the room that seemed to be even colder than the frozen hall.
“Nothing to worry too much about, I am sure it is just a vermin issue and he has to try to contact someone to tend to it. I think he muttered something about Flesh-eating slugs actually,” He didn’t even look at her as he flicked his wand at the fireplace, igniting the wood that laid stacked in it. Something about how he spoke told her that he wasn’t telling the truth and Percy hadn’t been called away, instead, having stormed off to the office. He pocketed his wand, turning to look at her as she stood in the middle of the room, the glow of the fire lightning it. “I will leave you this to sleep on,” He paused, walking to the door while still looking at her. “The sanctuary is looking for a new magizoologist with an extensive knowledge in herbology.”
____
Y/N walked out of Ollivander’s with her new wand encased safely in the box which was in a bag dangling from the crook of her elbow. Charlie walked out behind her, letting the door fall shut after they said bye to Ollivander. “Okay, now that you’ve got your wand, let’s pop into the Twin’s shop.” Charlie suggested, pointing to the brightly pained shop with the giant, animated man. She looked up as she slipped her knotted coin bag back into her pocket, taking in the shop.
“Sure I haven’t seen the shop in a while. I just never have time to come here. Not with all the chores I have to do around the house.” She shrugged, stuffing her gloved hands into the pockets of her travelling cloak.
“What on earth does my brother have you doing that takes up all your time?” Charlie questioned as they started to slowly make their way down the crowded street, taking their time and enjoying the feeling of walking through the snowy alley. Y/N shrugged again, her eyes looking down at the snow-covered cobblestone, the white fluff packed into the cracks of the cobblestone.
“I mostly clean around the house, but I have to do it a certain way, if I do not, I end up having to listen to Percy’s comments about how much he tolerates.” She told him as they neared the front door of the joke shop, Charlie pulling the door open, letting her go in first as he scoffed at her comment, but he didn’t say anything. Y/N ignored Charlie, looking around the busy story, watching as fireworks whizzed around, ducking as one came right at her head.
“Let’s see what Fred and George think of how he’s treating you,” Charlie hummed, gently leading her farther into the shop so that he could close the door, cutting the cold winter wind off. “There’s one of them now.” He pointed to the tall ginger who was talking to a young customer, nabbing a product from the top of the tall shelf. Before she could protest, Charlie was walking around her and approaching the twin with long strides.
Scurrying after him, she caught up just in time for the twin to turn around, the child scampering off elsewhere to browse. “Ah, Charlie, my dear brother. To what do we owe the pleasure of you gracing our shop too,” The twin exclaimed, a feeling of joy and fun surrounding them as they spent more time in the store. “And Y/N, the future Mrs. Percy Weasley. Good to see you, Madam.” He bowed to her extravagantly, making Y/N looked around the shop with reddened cheeks, hoping nobody saw his little show.
“Hi, George,” Y/N greeted, recognizing the voice. Appearance-wise, she had a hard time telling them apart, but as soon as they talked, she was able to pinpoint just which twin was in front of her without fail. George nodded at the greeting, standing right as Fred wandered over to the group leisurely. “Fred.” Y/N greeted him first, his hands in his pockets, making his suit jacket flare out, being a picture of laid-back.
“Good morning, Y/N,” He nodded to her before nodding to his older brother. “Charlie. What can we do for you today?” He posed the same question his twin had, looking between the pair he never thought he would see grace his shop together. Charlie shrugged, looking at the shelf next to him, poking a box.
“Just popped in to take a peek and get your opinions on a topic we were just discussing,” Charlie told them, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, looking back to his tall brothers. “Percy.”
“And what about our dear brother?” Fred asked, rolling onto the balls of his feet then rocking back onto his heels. Y/N shook her head at Charlie, fairly annoyed with his mission. She knew everything he was saying, they were all thoughts she already held in her head, but how could she leave Percy after all the love that they held for one another. That love had to still be there, it couldn’t just disappear suddenly.
“Has Y/N changed in the past two years?” Charlie blurted out, confusing the two pranksters in front of him, making them share puzzled looks before looking at Charlie again.
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with Percy?” George wondered.
“Look, yes, I have changed, but Percy has to still love me,” She directed the comment to Charlie, leaving Fred and George to look at each other, questioning what was going on. “All that love couldn’t have just disappeared. We love each other and while life is not how I pictured it, I do not see why I have to do anything to change it. If Percy thinks life should be like that, then he must be right.” She expressed.
“Tell us, Y/N, what life had you pictured?” Charlie asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he instantly knew this would win the argument for him. Y/N shrugged, thinking, her eyes drifting around the store as she thought back to the visions she fell asleep to. The stories she thought would be a reality, but now know that they were just fairytales of a naive girl.
“I guess I always pictured Percy and I sitting on a couch in front of a warm fire, him reading a book out loud. We would share soft touches as we both relaxed after a long day at work. The house would be warm and lively, heated by our love for each other as we did daily activities together like cooking,” She paused, her eyes dancing along the ceiling as fireworks fizzled out overhead. She watched the once bright colours flicker and sputter before going out, leaving a trail of grey smoke swirling into the air. “He would do great things in the Ministry, building up the Wizarding World and I would be making strides in the Magizoologist field,” She sighed, looking back at the three men. “But I guess, somewhere along the way, now he’s building his career and I am just sitting at home, trying to make sure everything is perfect for him all the time.” She trailed off, hanging her head as she thought it through.
“Personally, I don’t see how your life now can compare to the life you pictured.” George spoke up.
“Of course it is incomparable, but life never goes as planned. What I wanted and what I am supposed to have are two very different things,” She agreed. “Besides, it’s not how the world works, I am just naive and childish, Percy tells me that all the time.” Fred shook his head, pointing between himself and his twin.
“No, no. We are childish, you were never naive and childish. You had dreams and an idea of how you wanted your life.” Fred told her, oddly wise and serious for him. George nodded along, silently agreeing. Huffing, Y/N’s tongue flicked out, swiping along her drying lips. Glancing at Charlie, she saw him looking at her, a look in his eye telling her to believe them. She found herself trusting his eyes, staying locked in his gaze until she came to her senses and darted her eyes back to the ceiling.
“It isn’t too late to have your dream life, Y/N,” Charlie spoke softly. Y/N could feel his eyes on her still, but she ignored it and continued to look at the ceiling where fireworks once were zooming around, darting towards the shelves, fizzing and sparking with beautiful colours. “You just have to talk to Percy if you always pictured him in your life. You can have the life you pictured, what you want and what you are supposed to have are not two different things.” He told her.” She listened to his words. She could do it. She could remove the painful dagger he had jabbed into her dreams and pull it out if she had to.
“I’ll talk to him.” She nodded, looking back over at Charlie who smiled at her, proud that she had finally listened. She found the corners of her lips turning up into a smile as she gazed into his eyes, feeling a weight lifting off her shoulders and chest. Just then, pops and fizzes were heard overhead, making her look up, seeing the bright colours swirling around the ceiling before each of them whizzed off elsewhere in the shop.
“Well, that means it is a new hour-” Fred started, looking up at the new fireworks speeding through the store, dodging one that almost hit him.
“Lunchtime.” George finished, also gazing at the fireworks.
“Well, we best be heading to lunch, we’ve got lots to discuss and do today,” Charlie nodded to his brothers who started a game of rock, paper, scissors to see who would take their lunch first. “I’ll see you at Y/N’s and Percy’s tomorrow night for the family dinner before I leave?” He asked them, earning nods and a frustrated grunt from Fred when George beat him in the first game.
“See you guys.” Y/N waved as they started a new round. Charlie and her turning around to make their way out of the shop, walking back out into the bitter cold. Y/N couldn’t help but let her destined conversation with Percy weigh on her mind.
____
Y/N collected the dirty plates as Percy talked to Bill about Ministry business, the others having migrated to the living room after Y/N had denied help, the only one who insisted passed her stubbornness and actually forced her to let him help was Charlie who took it upon himself to clean and put the dishes back. “Here, dear, let me take those into the kitchen for you.” Molly marched back into the dining room, hands out ready to grab the stack of dishes from Y/N.
“You do not need to help, Molly, you are our guest, I am more than capable.” She insisted politely, adding another plate to the stack. It was one of their fancier sets, not that any of their sets weren’t fancy, but these ones were the more expensive set that they used for family gatherings.
“Nonsense dear, you can’t take all of these dishes without your wand. I’ll clear the table and you can go search for it.” Molly waved her hand at the young woman, forcefully grabbing the stacks of plates from her hands.
“Did you lose your brand new wand already?” Percy asked her, cutting off his conversation once his mother was in the kitchen. Y/N looked to him, shrinking back under his judgemental gaze, folding into herself as if she was a child being scolded.
“I had it in the bedroom while I was getting ready, I left it on the bed to go into the bathroom, but it was gone when I got back,” She explained, but he just huffed, rolling his eyes at her, muttering under his breath, clearly embarrassed she had been so foolish in front of his family. “I honestly think it got wrapped up in the sheets, I am sure I will find it when it is time to go to bed.” She spoke up.
“I am very sorry for her immaturity, Bill,” Percy apologized. “Y/N, could you go wait in the kitchen while I finish up with Bill then I’ll call you back in.” He told her. Nodding, she bowed her head, walking through the doorway leading to the kitchen. Molly and Charlie looked at her, but she simply waited outside of the doorway, trying not to listen to Percy and Bill talking.
“What are you doing,” She jumped when Charlie appeared beside her, his present startling her. “Sorry,” He apologized, drying his hands on one of the dishtowels as the dishes continued to watch themselves in the sink, Molly leaving the room to get more dishes from the table. “But what are you doing?”
“Waiting for Percy to be done, he wants to talk about me losing my wand,” She told him. Charlie groaned, tossing the towel to the counter messily, giving her a look. “I know, I know,” She muttered, knowing what he was thinking. “I need to talk to him, but I am not talking to him right before a huge family dinner nor am I talking to him while you’re here.” She told him, turning around as he walked farther into the kitchen, starting to put the dishes away as they placed themselves into the rack after drying themselves.
“That means you’re going to talk to him tomorrow after I leave, right?” He asked, not noticing Fred and George walking into the kitchen in search of more food, the pair stopping to listen to the conversation.
“Yes, at some point tomorrow I will talk to him. For now, I can survive this treatment for another night, besides, I want to put the conversation off because what if it’s the end of Percy and I? Am I really ready for that possibility? What if there is still love buried under this mess?” She worried, watching as he moved through the kitchen to place the dishes back, having already figured out the layout in the short time he was there. She was amazed at how quick he was to adapt to change.
“I guess then that is the difference between the life you picture and the life you are meant to have, there are things that just do not work out because they are holding you back from your dream. If this conversation is the end of you and Percy then it is the end.” Charlie shrugged, stopping what he was doing as the dishes started to lag behind. She hummed nervously, twisting her fingers as she shifted.
“Y/N, could you come in here for a moment?” Percy called to her. With one last look shared between her and Charlie, she turned, nearly bumping into George in the process, not realizing he was in the room. He smiled down at her, moving out of her way as Fred wandered up to Charlie, patting him on his back.
“You and I aren’t that different, are we Charlie-boy? Both trying to break up engagements.” He spoke, but something told Y/N she was not meant to hear that.
“I’m not trying to break up with engagement, Fred, that’s ridiculous-” She couldn’t hear what else Charlie was saying as she walked into the dining room again, spotting Percy sitting in the same spot, his hands folded on the clean table in front of him, Molly walking into the kitchen, smiling as she passed her, clearly unaware she was going to be lectured by her son.
“Really, Percy, I know where my wand is, I just didn’t have enough time to actually look for it in the sheets.” She told him, taking a seat at the table, a few spots down the head he sat at, his cold eyes on her. She gulped, shifting in her seat as she folded her hands in her lap, angling her body to look at him better.
“You couldn’t have told me you lost your wand? I could have found it and spared us being embarrassed in front of my family,” He questioned, exasperated. “You know, I know I saw this a lot, but I really do tolerate so much from you. Please, for the love of Merlin, next time think about how we appear to others before you tell people that you lost your brand new wand. I mean, how clumsy are you? First, you break one and now you lost one.” He shook his head, standing up, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor.
“I really am sorry, Molly was asking and I couldn’t lie to her,” She insisted, standing up herself. “Where are you going, is this the end of the conversation, I don’t even get to defend myself?” She asked as he walked towards the archway leading to the hall. He paused, looking over his shoulder at her.
“I have to go do damage control so that we are not the laughing stock of the family. Why don’t you go and work on the dishes with Charlie?” He suggested in a way that told her to just listen to him. Not wanting to put him into a worse mood than he already was, she obeyed, making her way back into the kitchen where Charlie worked at putting the dishes away again, the twins had left, obviously taking the hallway back to the sitting room.
“Hey, I know this might not be the time, but I just realized that I might not be able to return for Christmas again this year so I wanted to take this opportunity to say Happy Christmas to you.” Charlie said when he heard her walking in, looking over his shoulder as he placed a glass back into its spot.
“Happy Christmas, Charlie.” She returned the festive greeting solemnly, making Charlie give her a concerned look before deciding not to ask any questions, clearly seeing that she was too wrapped up in her head to listen to him pester her. Instead, he went back to putting the dishes back, glancing at her every few minutes.
____
The house had returned to its normal silence once again, leaving Y/N sitting alone in the sitting room, waiting for Percy to get home from the Ministry. She twisted her fingers together, staring at the flames in the fireplace, heating the room. Looking up as she heard the door to their house opening, she stood, rushing through the sitting room to look out into the hall, seeing Percy shrugging off his cloak and setting his briefcase down. “Percy,” She spoke softly, gaining his attention. He hummed, looking up at her as he untied his shoes. “Could you come in here a moment, I have to talk to you about something.” She asked him rather nervously.
“Of course, just a moment while I change my shoes, I don’t want to track snow into the house,” He told her, grabbing another pair of shoes to slip on. She nodded, ducking back into the sitting room and making her way back over to the sofa, taking her spot back. The thought of this conversation being the end of her relationship with him weighed in her mind, but after spending the day all by herself for the first time in a week, she realized how it already felt that it was over between them for the longest time. She wasn’t able to think too much about it anymore as Percy walked into the room, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them, trying to warm himself up. “What do you need to talk about?” He asked her, standing in front of the fireplace, holding his hands out to it.
“I want my dream life,” She blurted out, not giving herself a chance to chicken out. Gulping, she watched as he glanced over his shoulder at her in confusion. “I want to go back to work and I want to know if you still love me.” She continued, throwing the plan she had rehearsed for this conversation out the window.
“Of course I still love you-”
“Really? Because it seems to me that I am just a burden that you tolerate and I should not just be tolerated, I should be celebrated and shown love, but all you do is make comments and roll your eyes as if I am a child,” She ranted, the words just pouring out, easing the pressure she didn’t know she had weighing down on her chest. “I want to be loved and appreciated, not banished to doorways and shooed out of rooms. I want to be able to live, I want to be relevant in someone else's life, I want to make a name for myself, not just making it into the footnotes of your success story,” She paused, looking lifting her eyes from the floor, looking at him to see him fully turned towards her, his mouth hanging open as he blinked at her. “And I so desperately want to know that there is still love between us because you were who I imagined in my perfect life. Please,” She choked on unshed tears, feeling the tell-tale lump in her throat, blocking the words from leaving her mouth. “Please tell me that this is all in my head and that there is a flame still burning in the depths of this darkness.” She pleaded, a few tears slipping down her cold cheeks.
She was silent, the only noise coming from her were the sniffles as she tried to not let out the sobs and cries she was holding back. He stayed silent as well, his eyes stuck to the floor under his feet, not wanting to meet her eyes. A sob slipped past her lips as she realized what the silence meant, but part of her didn’t want to believe it. “If you don’t tell me it is possible for us to love each other still, then I will have no problem taking this dagger you jabbed through my heart out, leaving the idea of us bleeding out on this coffee table if that meant I could have my dream life,” She was fully prepared now to leave him, to dump the weight of him off her shoulders. “Believe me, Percy Weasley, I can do it if you do not tell me that I somehow got this all wrong,” She gave him another opportunity to speak up, to fight for her, but he remained silent, still not lifting his eyes to meet her. Just then, she knew that she could not deny it anymore and her heart shattered with the force compared to the killing curse, breaking into millions of little, tiny pieces as she realized that there was no more love and he was just tolerating her to save face. “Well, I guess this belongs to you again,” She whispered, pulling the engagement ring off her finger, gently laying it on the clean coffee table, standing up. “I already had my things ready in case this happened so this is goodbye, Percy.” She kept her eyes on him, hoping that he would lift his eyes from the floor finally and tell her to stay, that he did love her still, but he didn’t. He remained just as silent and cold as the house they were in. He gave her no other choice but to walk out of the room and walk out of this life, now free from the dagger in her heart and the weight of him crushing down on her, free from him only tolerating her.
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silverhandy · 3 years
Text
I saw the devil (in me)
The Devil was the first ending I got and it broke my heart, but the way I see it it broke Takemura too. Here’s what came after. 
read on ao3
With Saburo Arasaka, he could get down on his knees, feel his forehead touch the ice-cold marble, and beg for forgiveness. For failing him. For not being fast, strong, vigilant enough. Eventually, the other man would nod, an unreadable expression on what used to be Yorinobu Arasaka’s face, and gesture for him to stand up. And so he did, eyes still fixed on the ground, not daring to look up. Then Arasaka would speak, informing Takemura of his immediate transfer. There would be no forgiveness this time, not really.
With V, he couldn’t even look her in the eye.
During their last conversation, she asked him if he was truly satisfied with the outcome. The lie came to him smoothly, rolling off his tongue like the sweetest wine, so sweet that it was nauseating. She looked at him with empty, washed-out eyes, the tiniest spark of emotion just barely visible on her dry, pale skin. Was it anger? Sadness? Resignation? Maybe all three? He couldn't quite tell. V used to be an open book in his eyes, a woman not afraid of facing the emotions she was feeling head-on, but that was no more. Takemura couldn't shake the impression that the V he knew was gone for good and he had no one to blame but himself.
What happened that night was not justice the way he saw it. Death for death, a punishment befitting the crime, that was an equal exchange, a fair one, surely enough to atone, but Hanako-sama made a different decision, one that he found appalling, though he would never openly admit it. It was one thing to take the life of a murderer, but entirely different to erase him while his body lived on to serve another.  
It took him long enough to grasp why V wouldn’t take the offer, but the longer he spent at Saburo’s side, the more he understood. There was something terrifying about it and he knew that the older men must’ve seen the emotion in his eyes, that he was able to look straight into the deepest corners of his soul, even if Takemura never allowed his doubts to show on his face. Maybe that was the reason he was sent away, maybe Saburo doubted his loyalty. It felt like a punishment, a final testament to his failure, a grand, yet tragic finale to his quest for justice.
And so he threw himself into his new duties in Takamatsu, a port city so densely populated with companies even the grandeur of Arasaka seemed bland in comparison. Assignment after assignment, he was eventually stationed as the company’s chief security officer, but compared to being at Saburo’s side or even his last few weeks in Night City, it felt like an office job in comparison. It was an office job.
He wanted to reach out to V so many times, invite her to Kagawa and finally show her all the good food and the life he got back, but every time he pulled out his comms to write a message or call, he found himself questioning if that’s really the life he wanted her to see. Eventually, months went by and Takemura found himself counting the weeks and the days, the same way V undoubtedly did. Or maybe she didn’t, trying to enjoy the last moments of her life without the constant reminder of the fact that she was running out of time. He liked thinking that he was doing it for her, taking that burden from V’s arms and carrying it on his own, but it brought him little comfort. After all, it was just a lie he kept telling himself, with little grounding in reality.
As winter approached, Takemura found himself sleeping less and less, Tired of tossing and turning, he’d go to the very top of the skyscraper his apartment was in and stare at the outline of the city, so full of colorful lights that it almost made up for the darkness and thick clouds that covered the sky. And then he’d looked down at the street below him, and from where he was standing it looked like a black sea, the water still, just waiting to engulf him, to swallow him whole.
At times like this, Takemura would snap his eyelids shut and take a few steps back, not allowing his mind to wander in that direction any longer, refusing to let it close in on him like this. And yet, he soon found himself coming up to that rooftop every time he left work, so he started leaving it less and less, spending the nights in his office reviewing proposals for new security protocols, going through armory statements, anything to stop himself from thinking too much.
When he got the news, it was one of these nights where he found himself out of his office, back at the barely occupied apartment. Takemura was standing on the rooftop, leaning on the barrier and taking a drag from a cigarette, a bad habit he picked up a few months back, his body shaking slightly from the cold. He left his coat at the apartment, figuring he wouldn’t need it, that the sharpness of the first days of winter would snap him out of those endless deliberations of what could have been but never was.  
His comms buzzed slightly and he pulled up the message, knowing what it said before he even read the letters. He’s been expecting it for a few weeks now.
Viktor Vector
[1:32] >She passed away this morning.
That was it. To his surprise, he didn’t feel relief, the tension that has been building in his chest for the last few months simply refused to let go. Quite the opposite - he felt it spilling over and for a second Takemura forgot how to breathe, the cold air biting his lungs, freezing them to stone.
Maybe that is why he found himself on an elevator to the top floor of Araaka Tower, a short wakizashi sword behind his belt. Security questioned neither that nor the time of his appearance, they just let him through. He could swear he saw curiosity in their eyes, well hidden behind their usual stern expressions, but he ignored it, focusing on the path ahead through the minimalist, impersonal interior of the building.
They won’t have to wonder for much longer. Eventually, someone will notice he hasn’t come back, they’ll check his office first, call him, worried whispers exchanged quietly between coworkers. Maybe they’ll be smart enough to check the elevator footage, see him pull out a key and turn it, granting himself access to the rooftop the old fashioned way. Someone will eventually follow in his footsteps, maybe Fukuzawa, his direct subordinate, and find him up there, body covered by a thin layer of snow that didn’t have the chance to melt, his body rapidly dropping in temperature, blood sharply contrasting with the white snow.
He had to do it in one cut. Hesitating would mean failure, if he doesn’t cut deep enough, he might not be able to drive the blade into his abdomen again, and then all will be lost, a chance for an honorable death gone in a whim, yet another punishment for the chain of mistakes that lead him to where he was now. Nobody to assist him, there was no room for mistakes.
There never really was.
A soft ping of an elevator, accompanied by a robotic voice informed him that the elevator had stopped its course. The steel door opened and he stepped out into the night but didn’t rush it. Takemura was hoping that maybe he’d get to see the moon from here, a gloom reminder of all the reasons he found himself in this position, but the universe seemed to spare him the sight - as expected, the sky was densely covered with dark, gloomy clouds. Tiny snowflakes lazily falling over the city. He could barely feel tiny bites of cold as they landed on his face, instantly turning into tiny drops of water.
He stopped about halfway from the edge. Takemura unbuttoned his jacket before he took it off and neatly folded it before setting it on the ground. Then he kneeled, the thin material barely shielding him from the cold and the hardness of the ground beneath him.
Takemura unsheathed the blade and inspected it, gently running his thumb over the sharp metal. It will surely do the job, he took great care of his weapons, even if he wasn’t actively using them. Takemura never actually used this one in combat, too sentimental to let it turn blunt in some senseless act of violence. A gift from Saburo, nearly 30 years ago, It almost seemed poetic, in a sense.
Takemura took the blade into his right hand and let it rest on the left side of his stomach, already feeling the metal press onto his skin. After closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, feeling the cold air enter his lungs, and slowly exhaled. Just as he was ready to push the blade into his gut, he heard it. A soft sound that didn’t belong, certainly not on a skyscraper roof in the middle of winter. And yet he was sure it wasn’t a hallucination or a far cry of a distant memory and so he opened his eyes.
A cat was staring at him. It was sitting a few meters from him, right in the middle of a circle of light, as if basking in it. It meowed again, louder this time and Takemura froze.
He couldn't help it. The cold night disappeared, replaced by memory so vivid it felt surreal. Himself sitting on a different roof, in a different place, V right there beside him. They’ve been on that spot for hours at that point, tense silence melted into friendly chatter. He even got her that pizza, had a slice or two himself and it wasn’t as bad as all the things that posed as Japanese food over there. That’s when he saw it, a small, skinny thing, it’s greyish skin almost transparent in the yellow sunset.
When he snapped back to reality, he realized he was holding the wakizashi handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. He let go of it, as if burned and it fell to the ground, a loud clank of metal hitting stone echoing on the empty roof. Takemura looked up, searching for any sign of the creature's presence, but he found none. He was completely alone.
The man slowly got up to his feet, his legs a little stiff from kneeling in the cold. He leaned down to grab his jacket and the wakizashi and almost jumped when he heard a ping of another message, again coming from Viktor.
[3:56] We’ll be doing a little memorial service, for closure’s sake. Think she would've wanted you there.
[3:57] despite everything
Takemura stared at the letters, his hazed mind slowly putting together their meaning. The jacket he was holding tightly to his chest was soaked wet, so he just threw it over his shoulder and typed out a short reply. As he started walking towards the elevator, Takemura turned his head one more time and met a pair of yellowish eyes staring at him, as if making sure that he made it down in one piece.
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lostinfic · 3 years
Text
Art for Hearts’ Sake
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Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates
Rated E  |  4400 words
Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.
Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)
Ao3
Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell.  As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”
“Let’s go.”
Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.
Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.
Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.
“We did it, ma chère.”
“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”
“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”
“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.
The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.
Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.
Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.  
“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.
And thus had begun their weekly escapades.
Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.
Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.
Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.
“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”
“Dunno what you’re on about.”
But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.
“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”
She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.
“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.
“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”
“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”
She giggled and rolled her eyes.
“Well?” he insisted.
“Oh... Maybe?”
“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.
Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.
“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.
“Who?”
“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.
She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.
Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time.  Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.
He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.
He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.
To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.
“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.
Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.
“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.
They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.
They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.  
“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.
“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”
She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”
“Yes,” he said again.
“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.
“But first, I have a painting to steal.”
“What?”
He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.
Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.
“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”
“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.
Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.
On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.
*
They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.
“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.
The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.
Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?
She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.
“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.
She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.
By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.
*
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”
“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just am.” He winked.
She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.
“Told you,” he said.
Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.
“Good evening, Betty.”
“What— what are you doing here?”
“I have some unfinished business.”
He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.
“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.
In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.
“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.
“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.
He closed back the case and checked his watch.
“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”
Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.
“Where would we go?”
“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”
Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”
Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.
She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.
Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.
The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.
In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.
“Ready?” he asked her.
Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.
She took a deep breath. “Ready.”
He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.
“Where are we going?”
“Like I said, to my home, first.”
She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.
Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.
They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.
The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.
“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.
She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”
“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”
“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”
She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.
A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.
“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”
“Don’t worry, Marie.”
He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.
“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”
“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”
Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.
“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head.  “She… she passed away five years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I thought— well, I’m sorry.”
He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.
“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”
“Maybe. Are you?”
“Is that why you came with me?”
“No.”
He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.
He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.
“Another very good fake?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.
“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”
“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”
He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.
“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”
“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”
“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”
“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”
She snorted a laugh.
“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”
“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”
Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.
“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.
“How so?”
“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”
“You’re having me on.”
“I brought you here, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”
“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.
She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.
“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”
“Not a soul, I swear.”
Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.
Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.
He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.
An escape.
The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.
He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.
“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”
“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”
“Is it still sizzling now?”
“Yes.”
He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.
“Mine too,” she said.
She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.
Oh boy.
Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.
“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.
Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”
“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”
“Because you’re honest.”
“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”
“As you wish.”
In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.
He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.
She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.
She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.
This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.
She came embarrassingly fast.
He licked his fingers and grinned.
“Showoff,” she said again.
She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.
She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.
He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.
And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack.  She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.
He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.
She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.
“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.
“Are you hurt?”
“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”
“I’m fine.”
They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.
“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.
Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.
Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.
“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.
He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.
Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.
Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.
Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.
*
Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.
They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.
“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”
“Goodness no.”
“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”
“Vienna?”
“How is that for a second date?”
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vermithorr · 3 years
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lil snippet for @djsander and her library AU prompt 🥺 because i need another WIP
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There is nothing Robbe loves more than his library at six in the morning.
Still half-asleep in the bunk above him Jens scoffs, all muffled and sleep-tangled, “you’re crazy,” as Robbe finishes knotting his shoelaces and slings his backpack over one lean shoulder, and it’s okay that Jens thinks he’s a bit off his rocker because as well-meaning as Robbe’s roommate might be he could never appreciate the majesty of a dawn-bathed empty building stocked with shelves and shelves of books. Golden and dust-laced their spines as Robbe skips fond fingers over them, warm all through his chest, racing through his opening checklist each day so he can bundle up in an armchair with his chosen novel of the day before the first patron arrives. For him, there is no comparison to this most silent of sanctuaries: his library is peace embodied, a safe, easy escape for even those most arduous of troubles, and sometimes he thinks he’d take up residence in the stacks if the head librarian would let him.
It’s chilly this morning and Robbe folds himself as thoroughly as he can into his hoodie as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, flicking light switches as he goes, the building rising slow to brilliance, Lumos solem. Latin for “ray of light as bright as the sun”, but he didn’t learn it from a children’s book about a magical school. Not for the first time he thinks his library seems to take on a different personality for each season: from mid-September until several days after Halloween the building seems a little darker, a little more shadowy in its corners, tricky and maybe a little sinister if he didn’t know this place like his own home. Even still the subtle change is not one that brings any sense of foreboding: it’s simply as though the library is draping itself in a seasonal costume, taking on the traditional spooky theme of fall before it sheds that darkness for magnificent glow-light at the commencement of the winter holidays. Many patrons, student and professor alike, have remarked to Robbe that their favorite time to study on campus is near to Christmas, but for him the library is at its absolute peak the week of Halloween, when the wind is scratch-abrasive and the sky at night is crow-black and daunting against sheaves of drear rainclouds. Often in October even if he’s not working he stays late to read, study, work on whatever whim he’s currently got running through his head, and it’s on one of those nights that he first notices the pale boy with intrusive eyes and shock-white hair.
(Across the way in the music section, standing on Converse tiptoes to scramble for a book on the top shelf, and Robbe tries not to let his eyes linger on the peek of skin that shows under the hem of the boy’s jacket. When he grabs the book at last he half stumbles, half jumps down from the little stool he’d been using as a makeshift ladder, rights himself with a little hop and spins grinning to look straight into Robbe’s eyes)
After that night, Robbe notices him a lot more, because it just so happens that this strange, gorgeous boy works night shift at none other than Robbe’s library itself.
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clvmtines · 3 years
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welcome aboard, clementine martinez, student #2. we are excited to set sail with you !  has anyone told you that you look like alexa demie? according to our records, you hail from florida, usa, prefer she / her pronouns, are a cis woman, and are here to study creative writing. we also see you received a spot on the ss university because of your online lottery win — we won’t tell anyone. during your first few weeks here, other students said you were + charming, + free-spirited, but also - restive. it sounds like you spend most of your time at the billiards room. upon checking your luggage, we noticed you packed a casino chip carried around for luck from home. hopefully your roommates don’t steal it!
hi friends! i’m very excited to be here. i’m jay (est, she/her) n i used to play astrid nyland a few months ago if anyone remembers bt i had to leave for personal reasons. i’m so glad to be back now that i hve life sorted and some free time for summer break <3 read on for some details abt this new muse of mine, clementine. 
01. biography !
so ! clementine was born in florida. & yes, her real name is clementine. her mom thot it was the cutest name idea ever. clementine mostly goes by clem. she comes from the town [redacted] in florida bcoz i am too lazy to look up a specific town <3 but alas ! it was swampy and humid and she lived in a trailer park. 
her parents got knocked up at nineteen. clem was born nine months after a particularly wild 1999 fourth of july. her birthday is march 26th and she’s an aries. 
(TW: addiction, child injury) clem’s dad was a gambling addict and petty criminal—he wld steal credit cards n whatnot. he wld gamble away diaper money n it would cause constant fighting until her dad finally left. her mom took this very hard n began drinking a bit too often, leaving clem to to make cereal for dinner n fend for herself. once clem tried to make hot dogs on the stove and spilled boiling water on herself. got a p bad burn on her arm/shoulder and still has a big scar.
the soundtrack of her childhood was cicadas buzzing and stray dogs barking. the sizzle and pop of natty light cans. turning up her ipod to max volume to drown out the sounds of her mother fighting with her new boyfriend.
throughout her upbringing, clem’s dad was always in and out of the picture. he’d blow into town when he hit it big. he’d take her on these little “adventures” like staying in a motel 6 n renting movies at block buster n ordering good pizza nt the dominos shit she ate with her mom lol. ofc he was charging it all to someone’s stolen credit card. he’d always promise to, like, take clem away. n clem was a daddy’s girl so she believed him. the last time it happened was her h.s. graduation. her mom didn’t show ( "overslept” after a bender ) but her dad did and surprised her n said everything wld be different. bt then he bailed on their plans for the next day n when she called his cell, the number was disconnected. tht was the defining “i’m done” moment. clem promised to never be disappointed by her father again.
(TW: racism) her mother has mexican ancestry and clem’s always been called her twin. but clem was raised in a predominately white area and honestly ?? it was really hard without her even realizing it. she’s still unpacking a lot of things today abt her youth that jst weren’t okay bt she thought were normal. like microaggressions, stereotypes, being fetishized by boys in high school. gross shit.
as a kid, clem was rumored to be really poor bc she wore tattered clothes n got free lunch at school. once she invited a friend to her house & the next day they told everyone it’s in a trailer park. that reputation—the “trailer park girl”—was really hard to shake. and clem got almost desperate to shake it. she was endlessly trying to set her old self on fire and emerge from the ashes like a phoenix.
eventually clem became more “popular”. in school she was, like, a straight b student. very average although super creative and quick-thinking. she always had street smarts. problem solving skills. independence. more of, like, practical intelligence as opposed to book smarts because academia bores her tbh. she was like why am i reading these overrated boring books by dead white men or learning abt polynomials when i know nothing abt how to pay a mortage or do taxes. like...she saw the american education system as bullshit and put in modest effort because she didn’t believe it deserved her sweat and tears. 
however, she entered the online lottery for the seas program on a whim and got in. so she’s studying creative writing now.
02. personality !
first thing you shld know abt clem is that she’s a compulsive liar essentially—she tells various stories to make her life seem better than what it was. to one person, she’s an heiress to a real estate company and grew up wealthy. to the next she was raised by nomadic hippies. some of her lies are small fibs while others are grandiose tales. she rarely talks about her actual upbringing. she hates talking abt her family or the v real trauma of growing up in a household where both parents struggled w/ addiction; the uncertainty, the broken promises, the fact that she had to grow up so soon and deal w/ so much. it wasn’t fair, and if she thinks about it too much, she feels this anger. anger at the universe. anger at her circumstances. she doesn’t know where to put this anger. she doesn’t know how to shrink it. so she avoids it.
despite her rough upbringing, though, clem is actually really sweet and kind. she’s adventurous, fun-loving, free-spirited, and bold. 
bt ! she can also be closed-off, competitive and restive. 
she’s seemingly tight with everyone? like she’s jst that girl who can get along with anyone tbh. 
in her spare time you can catch her tanning by the pool, hanging at the bar, playing pool ( which she learned from her dad ), and socializing. she’ll never say no to hanging out with people. 
she learned a lot from her little “adventures” with her dad, who was very good at conning others and often involved her in his dumb little scams. clem is suuuper good at pulling the ‘im baby 🥺’ card to get what she wants.
she can be a little selfish, because she grew up looking out for herself. 
stubborn and dogmatic as hell !!!
she doesn’t do too many relationships but when she does fall, i imagine she falls hard and fast. she refuses to be made a fool of, tho. when she gets vulnerable she flashes back to being a kid, waiting all day for her dad to show up only to have him bail on her. again. she hates that feeling. so if she, like, senses a shift in someone’s energy she’ll b like, “i’ll break up with u before u can do it to me” and the person wasn’t even tryna dump her lmao.
has a lot of sex. too much ?? sex?? mayb. but she’s v sex positive.
her personal style is v late 90s. hair clips, big scrunchies, neon, fur trim, crop and tube tops, hoop earrings, chokers, patterns, platform shoes, biodegradable glitter cuz it’s good fr the earth *winks*. clothes from o-mighty.......actually jst google o mighty, pull up the images and That is clem. she dresses like a bratz doll. she’s dedicated to the aesthetic.
03. headcanons !
her item brought from home is a hot pink poker chip from a casino. her dad gave it to her. he said it reminded him of her because of the color; he got it during one of his winning streaks and said it was lucky. she has a complicated relationship w/ her dad n doesn’t even speak to him anymore, bt she will never go anywhere without it.
she’s a smol bean—only 5′4
an astrology girl and she reads palms ! she absolutely makes astrology tik toks that people only watch because she’s hot. her flirting technique is to ask you to read your palm.
she doesn’t typically drink to get drunk. but she does love a good sugary cocktail. to her, a drink is like an accessory. a blue fishbowl by the pool, a jack and coke as she stands around a bar. usually she'll nurse the same beverage for a while. if you see her wasted it usually means she’s going thru it emotionally lol. the one thing she does do is drugs tho 
pretty much listens to exclusively female artists.
a bit of an activist. environmentalism, feminism and the like, she’s v outspoken. vegan for ethical reasons (TW: drugs) bt still does cocaine. she wears shirts with ‘my pussy my choice’ bedazzled on the front.
loves to rollerblade ! back home she didn’t have a car so she’d bike or rollerblade. now she still has her blades and she’ll use them when the ship docks. 
03. wanted connections !
Friends, bffs, ride or dies, friends who are like siblings to her, maybe a friend with an unrequited crush on either side ??
an ex she dumped/cheated on/otherwise self sabotaged their relationship because she was afraid of vulnerability.
an ex friend who realized she lies a lot abt herself n felt betrayed. OH ! ESP if they opened up to her on many occasions abt intimate, personal stuff. imagine the betrayal they felt when they found that everything they thought they knew abt clem is a lie.
someone who she actually opens up to. a confidant. or, maybe, like, a stranger she drunkenly spilled her soul to and now she avoids them like the plague.
a rival. clem can be competitive.
her drug dealer 
someone she knows she shouldn’t hook up with and… does it anyways. like a friend’s ex or smthing. spicy <3
i welcome anything !
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writingdarkacademia · 2 years
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A Woman in White
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I came across this series of photo's in another blog and was incredibly inspired by them. This was the result of that inspiration.
Word Count: 954
Every morning the dawn light creeps over the tops of the trees in the forest boundary of my property. It shines straight into my kitchen and bathes the room in a warm glow. The fog outside is kept at bay by the limestone bricks and sandy mortar holding them together.
I live in a world unchanged by time. The season is perpetually mid-autumn to winter, without break. This really is the best time of year, so I do not think about it too hard. Why shouldn't the season stay the same when it is the best season to be in.
There is something that happens every morning not long after the first rays of dawn find their way into my kitchen. A woman in all white walks out of the forest and comes to stand in the fog, just in sight. The fog seems to enshroud her, and she seems unbothered by it. All day she stays by the edge of the forest, standing in silent vigil. Never once have I ventured out to make her acquaintance. To be honest she intimidates me. Or maybe the whole situation does.
I have so many questions for her. Why does she stand vigil on the edge of the forest. Why does she not come out at night. What is she waiting for. Is she here for me. Is she watching me. What are the owls that come to her periodically bringing her.
Mostly though, I want to know how it is that she is able to walk in the soft damp soil and not have it stain her floor length gown. These are the questions that plague me. Is there something that put together would make sense of all of this. Is it the thought that I hide from every time I shoo away a thought that is too scary for contemplation.
In the safety of my bed with the covers over my head, I whisper to myself the worst of my suspicions.
“Is she a ghost, or worse, is this the afterlife and she is a specter of death. Am I dead?” Perhaps I will never know, I am too cowardly to go and confront her. What if she is an angel, here to tell me that I am dead, and this is my forever after.
There is much evidence of this last possibility. My home is both rustically beautiful, and Victorian era stunning marbles and shining wooden features. My library would be the envy of any book-lover, with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with tomes of all ages. Wooden ladders on wheels and rails stand in the corner of each wall, ready to be pulled across to the required position at the whim of the reader. There are countless reading nooks and window seats with plush cushions and sills large enough for a cup of coffee or tea.
Now that I really think about it, my home is a series of contradictions, how is it able to house all of this, will I ever unravel all the mysteries of this place I cannot remember ever not living in. When did I get here, how long have I been living here, and will I ever leave? I do not have any memory of ever being anywhere else. Perhaps they are right when they say that a cage is a cage no matter how gilded.
Oh, to be a bird out there, high in the sky, flying free and living life above the petty concerns of the ones who live their lives on the ground. They laugh in the face of gravity and at the same time use it for their own gain. The eagle who swoops down on the unsuspecting snake and then drops it from a great height comes to mind. But even these great creatures must be wary of the so-called greatest hunter in the world. The human. A creature so dangerous and tenacious that it will follow its prey on foot for longer than the prey is able to cope with, dropping with exhaustion long before the human is willing to give up. The humans of today hunt the great predators of the world with little fear, killing or caging them for their own bemusement. Thank the Gods none of that made its way into my house. I can imagine the horror I would feel if I stumbled upon a room of stuffed creature heads or bodies. Or even a menagerie of creatures in cages out in the grounds. These magnificent beasts should never have to be forced into the situations we have put them into. But alas, what is one human to do about the actions of another, when said human is too afraid to leave their own house?
I have my books, my maps, and atlases, enough to travel the globe a hundred times without ever leaving the safety of my home but will this ever be enough. Is there not more pure life in the moment of standing on the top of a building and tilting forward, the decision of whether or not to fall in your mind, than in simply reading about it? I suppose this is the human condition. Always searching for that one thing that will make us feel alive, in order not to feel the pain of being eternally numb to everything. We want what we do not have, a feeling of eternal unrest and searching. That maybe if only I had one more thing, I would be happy. Music to thrill the soul, poetry to fill the heart with passion, pets for companionship and love, prose to bring the world to you, and love to show you that you have nothing and no control.
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shireness-says · 4 years
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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.
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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.
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Comparing Adaptations
‘Kay so I went on one of my whims again and did something stupid. Couple weeks or so ago, I wasn’t really in the mood to watch anime so I opened up Netflix and watched a Cdrama that I wanted to watch for a while now.
That Cdrama was ‘The Untamed’ which, prior to me watching it and doing said whim, I thought was just your typical historic Cdrama. Oh boy I was wrong. As I was watching it, I was thinking to myself, “This show’s really selling itself off as BL.” Which, I found out after finishing it was because it is BL. Hah...and that was just the start of it.
As I was doing my ‘Post-show research,’ I found out that it was based of a novel, called ‘Mo Dao Zu Shi’or as translated by the people on the internet as ‘Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation.’ Said novel had 2 more adaptations along with ‘The Untamed’ which were a manhua and a donghua. So me being me, I decided to watch the donghua adaptation and read both the og novel and manhua.
So how I went through this was...
The Untamed (2019)
The Donghua aka Anime I guess
The Manhua which I read while having class (such a responsible student aren’t I)
The original novel
All hail this person who has too much free time on her hands.
Anyways, as it says on the tin, I’ll be comparing the 4 adaptations/versions of the story and see what changes between them as well as the pros and cons. (Wow I sound so professional)
Some background of myself just to avoid confusion
I am not a mega hardcore Fujoshi. I don’t really enjoy reading smut, nor am I old enough to do so bear that in mind
I have 7 years worth of Chinese lessons under my belt which means I barely understand a thing and that I can get some of the jokes like how Wei Ying’s sword is called ‘Sui Bien’ and it’s funnier to hear in Chinese. In other words, compared to like actual Chinese people who live in China, I pretty much have the knowledge of a 10 year old.
The versions of the Manhua and Novel that I read were translated in English so somethings might have been lost in translation.
I have a bit of a goldfish brain so forgive me if I wrote something wrong or forgot the name of a certain character, most likely I will look it up to correct it but if I don’t...well sorry.
I am writing my opinions on each version as I finish them, so if they don’t link up to the original that’s the reasoning behind it.
All of these are my opinions and thoughts on the story. You are not entitled to follow them if you disagree. I personally believe that everyone has a voice of their own and they should use it. (Even though I don’t half of the time.)
Slight Spoiler Warning
I will be breaking down some of the scenes and characters for my comparisons so please keep that in mind.
The Untamed (2019)
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As this was my first exposure to the story, I didn’t know what to expect. I loved everything about it except for the fact that literally half of the show was spent in the past, building context for what was happening in the present.
The characters were lovable and all had distict personalities, especially Wei Ying and Lan Zhan which I guess makes sense since they’re the main characters (their actors are also cute and have good chemistry.) Speaking of characters, Yanli has a more forward role in the story here compared to the other versions. The way certain characters were introduced was different too. Since it’s live action, it’s also harder to show things like extreme blushing and such so it makes Lan Zhan look very stoic and way more unexpressive here than in the other versions.
The soundtrack is nice to listen to, especially with the 2 mains singing the theme song together it’s so cute and gives it another meaning in itself. Although, I do wonder how that poor bamboo flute Wei Ying made in like 2 mins plays decent sounding music. Chen Qing(is this the name of it?), the flute he uses after his trip to the Burial Grounds has the same sound quality as that bamboo flute which is just, “how???”
They took out most of the extreme BL!!! I feel like that is the biggest difference between this version and all the rest. I know they did that to appeal to more people but it does remove some of the context to things. That doesn’t mean the moments that were kept in weren’t cute though. It did make the pair look more plantonic than romantic.
As for the story itself, as a story on its own, it’s nice, as an adaptation that’s where the line gets blurry but it leans more towards the good side. They did indeed change some things, made them work better with the medium than if they didn’t.
An example I can place is the mask. Where the other versions used white make up with oddly placed red circles around the eyes, this one used a mask instead. I agree with the choice they made, seeing as they removed the fact that Mo Xuanyu was homosexual and so the make up wouldn’t make sense. It also looks nicer than what I imagined what could’ve happened with they kept with the make up. They do make a reference to this in the show when Jin Ling and Wei Ying have a conversation in Carp Tower. “You’ve seen my face right?” “How do I know? Your face is always caked in make up or covered by that mask.”
Another issue I had which I’ll touch on later was the first episode—I had no idea what was going on for those 40 minutes of screentime.
Donghua
As of writing this post, season 3 of this has yet to come out.
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My first reaction to this was “Man, the animation’s pretty, and they made Wei Ying look scarier.” Watching stuff at 12 in the morning isn’t the best thing but that’s what I do.
Anywho, this version made Wei Ying really attracted to going down the path of ‘evil’ compared to the other versions. I don’t really understand why they made this change...but they did so we have to deal with that. And his eyes glow red!! It makes him look scary and cool at the same time. I love it!!
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The transitions between certain events were a bit weird to say the least. For example, at the end of episode 2/3 Wei Ying gets forcibly dragged into the Cloud Recesses and the episode ends there. By the next episode, we’re 16/23/13 however many years in the past. This makes it really confusing for someone who hasn’t watched or read any other version of the story. It definitely made me confused and I already finished one.
While ‘The Untamed’ told us everything in one long flashback, the donghua broke it up into small chunks placed whenever information was needed. I don’t think that was a good idea, but then I also think it was a better decision than what they did for the Cdrama. As I watched this adaptation, I found myself confused from time to time because what happened in the prior episode didn’t always match what happened in the current episode like I mentioned earlier.
As for the artstyle, personally, I think some of the characters look similar minus the hair. However, I do like the little ways they made Lan Zhan express his feelings towards Wei Ying.
Speaking of which, when I first saw them together in this version in the forest near the Goddess Temple, I had to do a bit of a double take because of the height difference which wasn’t so evident in ‘The Untamed’. I soon found out that Lan Zhan was taller than Wei Ying before and after he gets reincarnated(?) Prior, it was just a small gap of 2cm which later turned to 6cm after possessing Mo Xuanyu.
I didn’t notice their height gaps while watching ‘The Untamed’ because Wei Ying’s actor, Xiao Zhan, is taller than Lan Zhan’s actor, Wang Yi Bo by about 2 inches which is like 5 cm? and so they had to do some weird thing with platforms to make Xiao Zhan look shorter in comparison.
Soundtrack wise, I personally think that ‘The Untamed’ was better in that sense. Where it had an amazing souding flute, this one had minor earrape in a nutshell.
This version made itself, in my eyes look more like a historical fighting anime as opposed to the BL vibes I was getting from ‘The Untamed’ and the other versions. They added a lot of action scenes and made the mystery more interesting for me. Along with this, the overall look and feel of this made it seem like it came from a completely different source material.
Manhua
Small FYI, as of writing this post the Manhua is at 147 Chapters.
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(I should’ve kept up the trend and got a screenshot from that scene in the Manhua but I didn’t so here we are with gay rabbits.)
As your local internet friend who reads more manga than normal books nowadays, I enjoyed reading the manhua and finished it in a couple days.
Compared to the first 2 versions here, these last 2 are both things that you have to read to get through, albeit one has pictures and one doesn’t.
While normally, one would read silently, I like listening to music while I do. And seeing as the OST of ‘The Untamed’ sounds really nice, I listened to it while reading both the manhua and novel when I could.
This one brought out the BL elements that were missing from the first 2. They gave Wei Ying and Lan Zhan a lot of kissing or just straight up affectionate scenes which I think ties in with the general theming of the original novel more.
As this one is probably the closest of the adaptations to the original, it’s the least confusing to read, although that might’ve been influenced by my experiencing the story for the third time at this point. I say that, however, there were many story elements that weren’t present in either one prior to this.
Examples this can be seen with their collecting of body parts that belonged to the former Nie Sect Leader. In ‘The Untamed’ they find the sword spirit which guides them through the rest of the story. In the Donghua adaptation, they get the arm, but also get the head of the the Jin with the hundred holes curse which was an original addition. Here, they get the arm from Mo Manor, find the other one then find the torso and so on before finding the head in Jin GuangYao’s possession.
The flashbacks in this version were also executed really well, in my opinion, as it doesn’t feel super confusing while reading it and it gives just enough information to help the events unfold. It also gives us a chance to see how much of an ass(sorry) Wei Ying was when he was the Yiling Patriach from his own perspective as well as give us a moment of WangXian in the middle of all that chaos.
Novel
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Here’s a picture of gay rabbits for everyone.
At this point, I was switching between the novel and the Manhua to read whichever one I wanted at any given time which might have blurred my sense of what belonged in each one so I’ll try my best to make sure.
Since this one is the original source material, it was clear from the get go that this will be the one with the least confusing version of events and the most amount of detail.
I was surprised on how close the manhua and ‘The Untamed’ was to the novel. Although, the former condensed the mystery to fit within the timeframe while the latter hasn’t finished just yet.
Personally, I like this author, and will probably read more of her works further down the line. Even though the version I read was in english, I still could feel the meaning behind certain aspects which I think shows her skill as an author.
The novel clearly shows the mischief that goes through Wei Ying’s head and their gradual (I say gradual but I think Lan Zhan just snapped) change of attitudes towards each other.
Arc One- Mo Manor
Past here I’ll break down the first arc of each one because I think all of them did it in relatively different ways. Be warned for spoilers if you haven’t watched or read all of them.
The Untamed (2019)
Out of all of these versions, this one definitely had me scratching my head in confusion the most even after watching it a second time once I finished the entire show.
As the only version that had the curse issued at the start as a moving factor of the story as well as the Yin Iron which was specifically made for this version, it didn’t explain enough at the start.
There were many things I could say were wrong about this beginning, from starting at a flashback to not properly introducing us to our characters but the biggest problem in my mind was the lack of explanation at the present.
Like I mentioned, starting at a flashback is a terrible idea as it gives the viewer high expectations only for it to be crushed the second it ends. Here, it shows a small portion of the battle at the Nightless City without much context then it quickly changes to 16 years later with a seemingly random group of people.
Another issue is the amount of useless characters who were introduced. In the other versions, there were only 2 Lan disciples who were given names and were introduced properly while here there were more than I want to count. Add to that the one telling stories about the YiLing Patriarch and the weird guy walking around with a flag, and you got yourself total confusion.
Donghua
This one was slightly less confusing to watch. As it starts with a clip of Wei Ying commanding corpses which matches the overall feel of the donghua. The rumors that he died stretched over the time skip and we meet this version of Mo Xuanyu who is caked with make up, whether or not he was a cut-sleeve (gay) in this version, I forgot.
It fully explains the curse and instead of having a couple of Lan disciples just standing there watching, we get to focus on the 2 important ones, Lan Sizhui and Lan JiYing. It gives us a slightly deeper insight into Wei Ying’s mind, as he states ‘you got the wrong one,’ just after being reincarnated, indicating that he isn’t as vicious as painted by the first few minutes of the show. Like the other versions, they also show how he considers the cons of using his demonic abilities and that Sizhui would probably tell on him to Lan Zhan, meaning that Sizhui was a keen, observant young man.
Manhua and the Novel
As for the introductions, these two were very similar. Both have the rumors of the Yiling Patriarch across the screen as we get further down the story and meet our main character.
It gets the details from the Donghua adaptation and mixes it with more information to create a more detailed account of what was happening, also making this Wei Ying seem smarter compared to his counterparts in other versions. He also hesitates more on showing his abilities, knowing that he’s going to be caught if he does.
Final Thoughts
As of writing this, I’m only halfway through the novel but it covers the portion until where the manhua is currently at. I would finish reading it before posting this but it would take too long and probably make this post even longer than it currently is, which isn’t such a good idea. If I had much more patience and effort I would really like to break down each arc and their differences from one another but I can’t be bothered right now. (Sorry)
I can safely say that in terms of adaptations, ‘The Untamed’ is relatively close to the novel, albeit a very condensed version. As flashback filled as it is, it wasn’t very confusing to watch past the first two episodes.
The Donghua adaptation takes several liberties, going more of an action oriented route instead of the calmer more, I wouldn’t say love but character oriented novel.
The manhua is definitely the closest to the novel, so if you really don’t want to read a lot of words, and I mean a lot of words, then go ahead and read it.
What else do I have to say...if you’re new to the story, welcome, if you’re a veteran who’s been here longer than me, sorry for taking up space on your feed. And congrats for making it to the end.
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