#((it would be enough to get the ringmaster's attention once he hears about it and it'd be more than enough incentive))

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/712211765862268928/theheadlessgroom-beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

“To the future!” Randall agreed, lifting his glass to clink with hers in a toast, before taking another sip and looking out over the tops of the buildings and to the horizon with a contented smile: In a way, as he did, he felt as if he was looking into the future itself, and found it to be filled with all good things for himself...and especially for Emily. -- The future seemed to arrive quicker than anticipated, as it wasn’t long before the opera house was prepping its advertisements for its next opera: The light, frothy comedy of errors Il Muto, a decidedly lighter affair than the drama and intensity found in Hannibal, and one that always earned many, many laughs from the audience, what with the antics of the Countess, her lover Serafimo (the titular ‘mute’), and her husband, Don Attilio, trying to catch his double-crossing wife in the act. It was great, madcap fun, and Randall was delighted to see that it’d been chosen as the opera’s next show.

“...I think you’ll be marvelous as the Countess,” Randall smiled, having eagerly shown her the announcement in the papers as soon as he saw it: It was a role that called for poise and charm, of which Emily had in spades. It would be a wonderful showcase of her skill as an actress, able to handle comedy as deftly as she did drama, and would no doubt delight the audience (himself very much included in that assessment).

[the-reverse-mermaid]

Hey guys! The following is my half of an art trade with @shoyzz-art​​ who asked for mer!Peter; so under the cut I had to write a little blurb to go with this :)

Tony had been a widower for near six months (she having been taken by the Typhoid fever like so many others in New England of 1865) when he decided to take his young child to the acclaimed circus in an ongoing effort to keep their little family’s spirits up. Sure enough, Morgan’s eyes sparkled at every curiosity, and the tent of the “mermaid of the west” was no exception.

A sheet was pulled off the large rectangular object and then there for all to see was the creature. People gasped, some standing for a better look, others pointing it out to their companions in delight.

“That’s hardly the full-chested woman promised by the posters,” a man behind them grumbled. His female companion was too enraptured to even hear or else she didn’t care enough to hold him accountable. Tony however snorted softly at the comment; if that had really been the case, the church ladies would have had a field day. Ignoring this, he turned his attention to the display.

“Aw, look at it, a sweet little boy!” a woman in braids to their right remarked.

“It really has the body of a fish!” another exclaimed.

Tony wasn’t entirely sure this was more than an actor in a well-designed costume who had talent for holding his breath... the man in charge of the circus was known for his cheap tricks after all, no matter what he claimed.

And yet the boy in the water, if a performer he really was, was not in any way acknowledging the audience he had attained; rather he had his face downturned, brown hair waving in the water as his tail (or legs in a tail, Tony wasn’t convinced) swayed side-to-side behind him without any spirit to it. 

People got up from their seats and came closer at an invitation from the red-coated ringmaster. Before Tony could stop her, Morgan got up and dashed down among them as well, ignoring Tony’s attempt to call her back. Reluctantly he followed, standing behind her as she came up close to the glass so that the blue light reflected on her face.

The boy in the water finally looked up, and Tony’s breath caught.

His eyes were so sad.

He darted his gaze around briefly, appearing both uncomfortable and resigned, then his eyes alit upon Tony - and there they stayed, looking deep into him in a way that rooted the man to the spot. They were the most supernatural things about the “mermaid.” He pressed his hands to the glass, and for a moment he looked so much like a child in a cage that Tony wondered how nobody else was concerned - they all continuing to talk in hushed, excited tones around them.

“Daddy,” Morgan said, turning to face her father. Tony looked down at her, breaking contact with the boy. “Why is the mermaid sad?”

He opened his mouth but did not know what to say. He looked at the boy once more and then all at once the dark covering was draped back over the tank, removing him from view of his onlookers. 

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen,” the showman said, that fierce edge to his tone now seeming threatening as he looked right at Tony. “That will be all.”

Long after filing out of the mermaid tent and into the dusk with the rest of the murmering circus-goers, Morgan’s small hand in his, Tony could not get the sad brown eyes of the fish-tailed boy out of his mind.

Hope you enjoyed!

[secret-engima]

Can we see some criminal reactions/meeting with the ringmaster? Possibly some big territory debate thing and some new upstart starts talking shit about this stupid ringmaster and all the rules?

Uhhh okay! Please note this may not be canon for Gremlin verse since atm I don't have any solid criminals-meet-Ringmaster scenes planned out aside from like- one and it's friendly.

-They're a new gang setting up shop near the docks. Imports from Mantle who finally got tired to dodging Atlas's security drones. They're traffickers of just about anything, from expensive but usually legal goods to drugs and people.

-They've been settled for maybe two weeks, just putting out some feelers, and are surprised when the local underworld gives one of two reactions: refusing to so much as speak with them, or nervous chuckling and a warning that if they keep being so obvious about what they do, they'll get the attention of the Ringmaster.

-"The Ringmaster? Who the heck is that?" Mantle's underworld might not be the thriving hub that Mistral's is, but they're not usually out of the loop. If the Ringmaster was a name for one of the local underworld bosses or kings, they should have heard of them before now.

-New blood, they're told by the few groups who will cautiously interact with them. New blood with power and charisma and Rules™. Rules that get enforced, usually after one warning, sometimes after three for the milder breaks. For things like drugs and person trafficking however, there is only ever one warning. If they get caught doing that, even outside the Ringmaster's territory, they will be destroyed. Smuggling in other things like expensive foods, Dust, and hard to get but legal items is tolerated, even permitted within the Ringmaster's territory and weapons are tolerated on a territory basis only, but drugs and people? Hard no. There are consequences, and even those who don't answer to the Ringmaster directly are skittish of touching the stuff. Nobody wants a gang war, it's bad for business. But the locals, even the ones who are known as powerhouses in their own right, seem wary of the war less because of the potential damage and more because they seem to think they'd lose.

-The group from Mantle scoff. They've never heard of this Ringmaster, and who cares what other gangs do so long as they stay in their territory? They've dealt with Atlas security, some uppity new blood with a pesky honor code means nothing to them.

-The other gangs all collectively exchange glances and take a long step back.

-For the first month or so, there's no sign of this Ringmaster. The gang stays close to their tiny territory pocket, sets up some trade rings in their more palatable stock. Then, once the income is trickling in, they move for the big haul.

-Slums are always a good place to lure in marks, and Faunus always sell well, even if humans are more of a premium. It's easier to make Faunus disappear though. Faunus bias runs deep on both sides, both in humans who won't look as hard, and Faunus who believe that humans won't bother looking, so why bother telling? Even though there are actually plenty of officers, human and Faunus, who would risk their skin gladly to rescue anyone, extra ears or no.

-They've snagged about ten marks and are hoping to round that number up to thirty before selling them off to various buyers in Mistral and Mantle when the warning shows up. It's delivered right to their door, and none of them know how they didn't hear the racket of someone hammering a paper notice onto their door.

-"Return the people and cease selling drugs and people or leave entirely. This city does not welcome your kind. -Ringmaster."

-They *laugh*. Really? A note? Big Whoop. Besides, they were careful not to take anyone from inside the Ringmaster's territory, so what business it is of theirs?

-Four nights pass, they snag three more marks, one of which is a particular prize, a young human boy, dark skinned and green eyed. His price will be lowered a little from the limp he seems to have, but his scar like tattoos are intriguing and his face is pretty enough they figure they'll still get quite a bit. The boy is oddly calm as they push him into the warehouse with the others, watching them with almost eerie green-gold eyes as he says calmly that they should let everyone go. It's not right, he says softly, to sell lives. And if they don't stop, they're going to regret it.

-They laugh some more as they shove him into the worried arms of a young Faunus mother who already has a few other children she's been trying to comfort.

-Three hours.

-That's how long it takes for the world to come down around their ears.

-The warehouse is taken first, all the marks gone in what feels like one blink, then it's set on fire, fueled with Dust so there's no hope of recovering the building. Their four backup safehouses are gone by the end of the hour, members of the group either trussed up and knocked out and dumped on the doorstep of the police or killed where they stand if they tried to fight back.

-In three hours, their central base of operation is all that's left, and they learn quickly that there is nowhere left to run.

-Roman Torchwick spins his cane idly as he saunters in, backed by his silent partner. They're both known entities in the underworld and have been for years. The leader spits at Torchwick, mocking the name Ringmaster as pretentious even for a thief and crime lord like him.

-Torchwick smiles, it's not a nice expression, "Oh. I'm not the Ringmaster. That's my boss."

-A flourish and a sidestep and the gang cringes back in disbelief and shock as a massive Grimm shoulders its way through the broken doorway.

-Perched on its back, a dark king on a fallen steed, is the boy. Those eerie green-gold eyes look at them in disappointment, in knowing, and the Dust orbs in his elaborate cane gleam warningly when a few of them inch hands toward hidden knives.

-No way. This is the Ringmaster? This child?

-"You were warned," says the boy in a voice too calm and too mature for his skin, "I'll give you one more chance. Surrender and turn yourselves and all relevant evidence in to the police, and you won't die."

-The leader of the group from Mantle snarls and pulls out a hidden pistol, taking aim at the boy.

-He's dead before the safety of the gun can click off.

-The other child, silver haired and grinning like a wild thing, lowers his foot, the shot from whatever weapon he has hidden in his boots echoing through the house. The Grimm looms large, jaws parting in an echoing snarl of warning, one massive paw rising to show huge claws.

-The child -the Ringmaster- doesn't so much as flinch. He just shifts those eyes to those that remain with a silent question in his eyes.

-Many of them decide that dealing with the law is better than dying at the hands of this- this demon child.

-None of them question anymore why Vale's underworld treats the Ringmaster with respect, even if the factions that do not yet answer to him.

[daringyounggrayson]

Here’s part 1 for the fic I wrote for @batfam-big-bang!! Thank you so much to my amazing betas @huilian, @tintinnabulation-of-the-bells and @yellow-warbler and my incredibly talented artists @annasartverse, @noroomforcream, and @zeribip <3

Summary: The double homicide at Haly’s Circus is not Bruce’s first case involving a child, and while there’s no overt indication that Bruce should react differently to this case, he supposes that his previous cases did not involve the witness known as Dick Grayson. On the surface, the Grayson case seems like any other gang case, but the more time Bruce spends with the boy, the more he begins to doubt his own instincts.

Part 1

It starts the way most of these things do: with screaming. Or, Bruce supposes, it doesn’t really start there so much as that’s when people start to pay attention.

The crowd watches in awe as two trapeze performers swing downward, but something must be wrong, because the third performer remains on the platform and starts screaming. When the performers’ bodies reach the ground, when it’s clear that the lines have snapped, the rest of the crowd joins his shock—some screaming, some gasping, others unable to make any noise at all. The youngest performer doesn’t react to the crowd at all, too engulfed in his own nightmare. When Bruce sees him scrambling down the ladder, Bruce runs toward the center ring, planning to cut him off before he can get too close to the bodies.

The ringmaster, Haly, gets to the boy before Bruce can. He holds him tightly in his arms, and while the boy doesn’t fight the hold, he doesn’t stop screaming either. It’s a scream that Bruce will never be able to forget, one that tells the world that there’s nothing anyone can do or say to bring this child comfort.

Bruce calls 911, asking for an ambulance and the police. He’s sure he’s not the only one who calls, but he needs to do something. He needs to intervene.

Unable to take any further action, Bruce resigns himself to glancing between the fallen Flying Graysons and their son, who has fallen in a different way. To an outsider, Bruce looks like any other shocked bystander, but in reality, he’s in full detective mode, filing away every mundane detail. He pays special attention to the survivor, the child, and while he can’t hear much of what the boy is saying between gasping sobs, two things rise above the noise: “It wasn’t an accident!” and “Are my parents okay?”

oOo

A family of three walks into the big top, but none of them walk out. Two are carried out on stretchers, in body bags, and the third, a young boy, is carried out of the big top by a stranger and placed in the back of a squad car.

(Bruce has heard a similar version before: A family of three walks into an alley, but none of them walk out. Two are carried out on stretchers, in body bags, and the third, a young boy, is carried out of the alley by a stranger and placed in the back of a squad car.)

oOo

Bruce has only been Batman for a year, but he’s gained enough experience to be able to look at the Grayson case and suspect gang activity on instinct. Not know that there’s gang activity, he reminds himself, but strongly suspect.

A few hours after the suspected homicide, the crowd has dispersed and the police are gone. It’s at this point that Bruce returns to the fairgrounds as Batman, ready to talk to Haly. He only had an hour to do preliminary research in the cave before leaving again, but in that time, he learned that Haly’s Circus has never had a (reported) run-in with a gang—something almost unheard of in Gotham, especially for a business that has been coming to Gotham for as long as Haly’s has. Bruce reasons that there are two probable explanations: Haly has been incredibly lucky or, perhaps more likely, he has an agreement with a local gang. Either way, something went wrong this year.

The circus is eerily quiet. Everyone is in their trailers with the lights out, leaving the place seemingly deserted and devoid of life. As Bruce walks through the rows of trailers, he can almost sense the grief pouring out of each one. There is no doubt that the Grayson family was widely and greatly loved.

Bruce picks the surprisingly difficult lock on Haly’s trailer and slips inside. He’s barely taken two steps before the lights come to life, revealing Haly, who, despite his pajamas, is aiming a bat at Bruce as if he had been waiting for an intruder.

Bruce instinctively falls into a defensive stance, but before he can voice his assurances that he’s only here to help, to ask a few questions, Haly is relaxing.

Haly lowers the bat and leans against the wall. “Oh, it’s just you,” he breathes, relief evident in his voice.

This is a reaction Bruce has never gotten before as Batman, and this relief at his presence is especially odd considering half of Gotham is still debating if The Batman even exists.

“Who were you expecting?” Bruce asks.

“No one,” Haly says all too quickly. “But as I’m sure you’ve heard, there was an, uh,” he rubs his hand across his chin, “an accident here earlier today. Everyone’s a bit on edge.”

Bruce nods. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“I don’t know whether to be honored or offended on behalf of Gotham that the legendary Batman wants to investigate a freak circus accident,” Haly says, but there’s a subtle shake to his voice that tells Bruce Haly knows this wasn’t an accident.

“Is that what the GCPD told you? That this was an accident?” Bruce presses. Haly’s still holding onto the bat, and even though Bruce knows he can take Haly out in a matter of seconds, he’d really rather not deal with a swinging bat in such a confined space. He’s already had an exhausting day.

Haly shrugs. “What else could it have been? Everyone saw what happened, even—” he takes a breath, and Bruce takes in the accompanying red nose and damp eyes. The man doesn’t cry, though, not in front of Bruce. And it’s not an act; no matter his potential involvement, what happened tonight wasn’t something Haly wanted to happen. “Even Dick, their boy.” There’s a pause as Haly collects himself. “Unless you think an eight-year-old broke the wires?”

“I don’t think anything,” Bruce lies easily, coolly. “But if you’re trying to say that you gave your star act faulty equipment, or that all three professional performers failed to check the lines, then that would be an interesting explanation.”

Haly points his finger at him, sharp and fast. “No one here was responsible for this, got that? I think it’s best to just lay low for a while and let the police handle this. We’ll be moved on soon enough and we can put this behind us.”

“And the child?” Bruce asks, stepping closer to Haly with each word. “There’s a strong chance that someone tried to take out all of the Graysons tonight. I know you’re not a local, but do you really think the police will be able to protect him?”

Haly pales and curls in on himself, but he doesn’t speak.

Bruce meets Haly’s eyes and stares him down, trying to emulate one of Alfred’s powerful stares. “If the police want to say this is an accident, there’s a good chance one of them is involved or willing to cover for the people responsible. If that’s the case, you need to tell me everything you know, or Richard Grayson might not be here next week.”

Haly swallows, cracking. “You wouldn’t let them—” he stops, swallowing once. “You’ll make sure he’s safe, won’t you?”

“It’s what I do. But you have to tell me what to look for,” Bruce insists.

Haly glances at the door, then back at Bruce. “When we were setting up—this was a few days ago—these three guys came in. They were going on about protection money.”

oOo

“Commissioner.”

Gordon spins around, hand on his chest, “Christ.”

Bruce resists the urge to smile and instead nods at the file Gordon’s holding. “Is that the Grayson case?”

Gordon runs a hand through his hair, nodding. “I take it you already know the basics?”

Bruce nods and takes the proffered file, flipping through it. It’s thin, only containing a few statements. One, arguably the most important one, is from the surviving Grayson, their key witness.

“My guys want to close and write it off as an accident,” Gordon explains. “The kid here, though, he has another theory.”

Bruce notes the names of the two lead detectives and grimaces—they’re not exactly known for working with gangs, but when a case reeks of gang activity, these two aren’t above accepting bribes. A quick read through Richard’s statement combined with Haly’s earlier testimony confirms his suspicions: this is a gang case, and hush money is definitely on the table.

He flips through a few other papers until he finds Haly’s statement. Unsurprisingly, he told the police that there was nothing suspicious before tonight.

“You should know that the kid’s statement was most likely edited,” Gordon says, and Bruce grunts in agreement; he’s already assumed the same. “He probably knows more—probably said more—than what’s in there.”

“Do you know if he gave names?” Bruce asks, closing the file and placing it back in Gordon’s waiting hand.

Gordon sighs and scratches his head, tucking the file back in his overcoat. “I just got in an hour ago, so I wasn’t able to speak to him. I’ll try to find the tape, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s already been tampered with.”

“Hnn.” Of course it has. With their luck, it’s long gone. “I met with Haly earlier. Four days ago, the Zucco brothers paid him a visit. They wanted protection money.”

“Zucco?” Gordon repeats. “Huh. I guess Haly didn’t take him seriously, didn’t even bother to report it. Did Haly tell you anything else?”

“Nothing useful,” Bruce tells him. “He seemed on edge, though, almost like he was expecting someone to come after him. He could’ve been expecting Zucco, but if your detectives convinced him not to say anything, he might have been worried about them too.”

“What do you think?”

Bruce isn’t overly committed to either theory. If anything, his instincts tell him that he’s missing something, that Haly wasn’t telling him the whole story. “I need more time to investigate, but in the meantime, someone should watch Haly.”

“Any chance Haly was involved?” Gordon asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“Unlikely,” Bruce says. He’d considered it, but after speaking with Haly, it seems like a dead end. “Since he’s keeping quiet, I’m not overly concerned about his safety, but there’s a chance he’ll contact Zucco.”

Gordon tightens his eyebrows. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. But he was nervous. If he thinks Zucco will target him again, I could see him agreeing to pay the protection fees.”

“Sure.” Gordon exhales a puff of smoke, thinking. “I didn’t think they’d stay open after tonight.”

“They won’t be putting on any more performances, but they’re staying in town for the funeral. And I doubt Zucco will have a problem collecting from financially insecure people.”

“No, no he will not.” Gordon sighs again, takes another drag off his cigarette.

“The boy will need protection. There’s a good chance Zucco was hoping to take out all three of the Graysons, and if they think Richard’s talking …” Bruce trails off.

Gordon nods and rubs his hand over his mouth. “I’m going to see what I can do about getting different detectives on the case, and I’ll be observing it closely either way. I don’t want to draw any attention to Grayson yet, though, so I’ll hold off on getting uniforms to watch him. Unless there’s something else you’re not telling me?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Do you know what they’re doing with him?”

“A social worker picked him up and took him to an emergency placement. They’re trying to get their hands on the parents’ wills, but I’m not sure if they even exist.”

“Is he safe?” Bruce asks, making a note to run a background check on the social worker and the foster family.

“As far as I know,” Gordon tells him, but it’s not a yes. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I’ll wait until tomorrow. He’s been through enough tonight.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Gordon says, rubbing his hand over his mouth again.

Bruce doesn’t hear what Gordon says next, if anything. They’ve shared all the information they have and Bruce has had more than enough talking for one evening.

oOo

Bruce doesn’t go to work the following morning. Well, he supposes that much isn’t new; lately, he’s been “working from home” in the mornings, only coming in for afternoon meetings. But today, he didn’t even do that much. Instead, he slept fitfully until two in the afternoon, thinking about the case—the boy—during each waking moment. Cases involving children are always difficult, that much will never change.

“Ah, I see you’ve finally decided to grace the world with your presence,” Alfred greets him when Bruce enters the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Bruce murmurs. “Busy night.”

“Yes.” Alfred still doesn’t like Batman, though he’s more accepting of it as of late. “Did you sleep well?”

Alfred knows he didn’t, Bruce can tell by his tone. “Is there any coffee left?”

Alfred moves out of the way and gestures toward the coffee maker, untouched. “How is the child?”

“I haven’t spoken with him yet,” Bruce says, pouring the coffee into a mug. “I’ll do that tonight.”

“I see,” Alfred says, hands braced against the counter. “Is he nocturnal as well then?”

Bruce takes a gulp of coffee. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Alfred gives him a sad look. “This case. From what you said yesterday, it won’t be easy to close, will it?”

Bruce shakes his head. He has a suspect, but the odds are high that the police will choose to protect him instead of the child—at least without forceful intervention. That’s the way things are; it’s a truth that doesn’t get easier to acknowledge.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Bruce nods, then takes his coffee and disappears into the cave. He intends to keep his promise and be careful, but he doesn’t know how much that means to Alfred. After all, Bruce has come to realize that the two of them have vastly different definitions of the word careful.

oOo

Bruce arrives at Richard Grayson’s foster home a little after one in the morning. The rest of the household appears to be asleep, or at least tucked away in their respective rooms with their lights off. Richard, however, is wide awake and doing handstands of all things. He makes a note to inform Alfred that the boy may be nocturnal after all.

Not wanting to scare the child, Bruce taps gently on the window. The boy lowers himself from the handstand in a fluid, graceful movement. He faces the window, and, when he sees Bruce in his Batman gear, his eyes go a little wide. The brief flash of surprise doesn’t last, and the smile that follows forces Bruce to question if the expression had been surprise at all. 

Richard walks to the window, unlocking it and sliding it open.

“I knew you were real,” Richard whispers, moving to the side to let Bruce through. “Liam said you were just an urban legend, but that’s what he said about Superman too. He’s always wrong—the look he’ll have on his face when I tell him!” The smile falls from his face abruptly and his shoulders slump.

Bruce opens his mouth, unsure what he plans to say but hoping something soothing will come out nonetheless. His jaw snaps shut when a shadow appears in the corner of his vision, forcing him to turn back to the window and find its source. It’s useless; he finds nothing but darkness. 

He’d felt eyes watching him when he’d surveyed the house earlier, but Bruce hadn’t been able to find anything—anyone—then either. 

He closes the window and turns back to Richard, who is swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Are you going to find the guy who killed my parents?”

“I’m trying to, Richard,” Bruce tells him, promises him. “I was hoping you could help me. Do you think you could do that?” Bruce has been Batman long enough to be able to pick out the kids who will be able to tell him something useful, and Richard is definitely one of them.

Richard nods, saying, “I know who did it.”

Bruce crouches down to Richard’s eye level. “Who?”

“Tony Zucco,” Richard says, scowling.

“Can you tell me how you know?”

Richard nods again, hands curling into fists. “He showed up the other day with a few other guys and they were talking to Haly, the circus owner. They said they could protect him and the circus if he gave them money, but I knew they didn’t actually care about keeping any of us safe, they were just threatening us.”

“Did you hear this yourself?” Bruce asks. This was the same story Haly told him, and while he believes the man, it never hurts to have multiple, independent sources.

“Uh-huh. I was on a break and saw them come in. Haly told me to leave when they asked to talk to him, but they looked creepy so I hid and spied on them,” Richard tells him. “And it’s a good thing I did, because when Haly said he wasn’t going to pay them, they started breaking stuff so I ran and got help.”

“That was very brave of you,” Bruce says. “And smart, too.” He hates to think about what might have happened if Richard had jumped in and tried to stop them on his own. “Do you remember who came to help?”

“Two of the roustabouts, Mr. Le and Mr. Hoffman,” Richard says.

Bruce makes a note to check up on them; if Zucco’s still unsatisfied, he might go after them for further revenge.

“I saw other stuff, too,” Richard says in a small voice. He’s biting his lip now, nervous.

“What did you see?”

“Last night, before the show,” Richard starts, talking faster than before and twisting his shirt, “I saw someone I didn’t recognize messing with the trapeze rig. I tried to tell someone, honest, but no one would listen! My parents kept saying it was just one of the other workers and that I was just nervous because it was opening night. But I wasn’t! I never get nervous,” Richard explains quickly. “We checked the ropes like we do before every show, and they seemed fine. I thought everything would be okay, but I guess whatever they did needed a certain amount of time to work, or a certain amount of weight.

“I really didn’t know,” Richard insists again, desperately, tears welling up in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have let them go if I thought they’d get hurt. I didn’t know.”  

Before he can think, Bruce is pulling the child into a tight hug. Richard cries into his shoulder for a long time while Bruce whispers “it’s alright” and “this wasn’t your fault” over and over and over again until the boy calms down.

“I’m going to do everything I can to bring Zucco to justice. You have my word.”

Richard sniffs, finally pulling away only to shake his head in disagreement. He wipes his eyes, saying, “The police wouldn’t listen to me. They called me a liar.”

This has happened before, but Bruce still doesn’t know how to explain to children that the police are corrupt and don’t always care about helping people, especially when they think there might be a financial incentive waiting for them. “Did you tell them what you just told me?”

“Pretty much. But they kept saying I was exaggerating and wanted to know why I performed if I knew the ropes were going to snap, but I didn’t know!”

“I know, I know.” Bruce runs his hand through Richard’s hair, shushing him before he can work himself up again. “They shouldn’t have said that to you; it wasn’t true. Sometimes the police can’t see things, and sometimes they don’t want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Richard looks at him with these big, desperate eyes, and they force the truth right out of Bruce’s mouth. “Zucco is a gang leader, and some of the police officers cover for them.”

“Are they gang members too?” Richard asks.

Bruce shakes his head. “But some of them get paid by the gangs to cover things up.”

“Is that why you became Batman?” Richard asks. “Because all of these cops are corrupt?”

“Yes.” That’s part of it.

“But you can help me?” Richard asks.

“I’ve been able to help a lot of people who were in situations similar to yours,” Bruce tells him instead, because he’s been Batman long enough to know he can’t make promises. He’s spoken to Richard long enough to know that he doesn’t want to—can’t bear to—make a promise he might not be able to keep.

oOo

Bruce had ended their conversation by asking Richard about the Stuarts, his foster family, and whether or not he felt safe with them. Richard had assured him that he was okay, but he just shrugged when Bruce tried to press for details; the boy was clearly homesick, not that he was willing to admit that.

Before leaving through the window, Bruce had scribbled Gordon’s number on a slip of paper, telling Richard that Commissioner Gordon was one of the few members of the GCPD that could be trusted. He told Richard to call that number if he felt unsafe or if he wanted to talk to Batman again, and Richard promised he would. When prompted, he also promised to be careful.

Bruce hadn’t considered that he and Richard might have different definitions of careful until five nights later when he sees the boy running around Gotham in the middle of the night.

Bruce swoops down in front of the eight-year-old, trying to hide the rage and fear pulsing through him. Richard should be a few streets over, asleep in his bed, not roaming around the streets where someone could hurt him.

Richard doesn’t scream like any other child would, doesn’t even jump. Instead, he’s quiet and calm as he takes in The Batman. And then, of all things, he smiles.

Bruce doesn’t smile back. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Probably,” Richard agrees lightly, rocking back and forth on his heels. Something about him feels different from the last time they spoke, but Bruce can’t put his finger on it. “Uh, I promise not to tell if you don’t?”

Bruce refuses to give in to the smile that tugs at his lips. “I’ll make you a deal: let me take you home without arguing and we won’t tell the Stuarts.” Richard is a first-time offender after all.

Richard takes a step back, expression twitching into a scowl. His whole body tenses up and he curls his hands into fists. “The Stuarts’ house isn’t my home,” he says coldly. “And I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”

“No, you don’t,” Bruce agrees, blinking at the sharp change in tone and how this eight-year-old child looks like he’s willing to fight The Batman. “And I understand that that place doesn’t feel like home, but you’re safe there, and I’m sure the Stuarts will be worried when they find you missing.”

Richard scoffs. “They don’t care about me.”

“Did they hurt you?” Bruce asks, growls, on impulse. He’d done a background check; they seemed like good people. But maybe he’d missed something, maybe he’d—

“No. They’ve been nice, I guess,” Richard says, and it sounds honest. “It’s just, I don’t know—” Richard sighs, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go back, and I don’t need them, any of them. I can take care of myself.”

Bruce notices the drawstring bag on Richard’s back for the first time. An image of Richard at the funeral two days ago flashes through his mind. He was arguing with several people—Haly, the Stuarts, and someone else he didn’t know—and they kept telling him no. He’d been upset, near tears and desperate, but he’d clammed up when Bruce walked over to ask what was wrong. Bruce didn’t need to be a detective to piece together that Richard wanted to go back to the circus with Haly, not back to his foster home with the Stuarts.

Bruce looks at the current Richard in front of him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. Those had been there two days ago too, but they’ve only grown darker. Homesickness and grief are probably making it difficult to sleep, and each time Bruce has seen the boy, he’s looked more exhausted than the last. Someone should be taking care of him, making sure he’s sleeping and helping him—sitting with him—if he can’t. Someone should be making sure he doesn’t run off in the middle of the night.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Richard tells him, pulling on the bag’s straps.

Bruce glares at Richard, and Richard glares back. Eventually, though, he wilts and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Bruce.

“I was going home,” Richard says quietly, sounding more like the boy he met five nights ago. “The social worker and the foster people told me I couldn’t go back; they wouldn’t even let me call anyone from the circus. But they’re my family, and I need to get to them before they leave town in the morning.”

Bruce looks at the piece of paper: a printout of a map with directions to the fairgrounds. “I’m sorry that you’re being separated from them; it’s not fair. But we need to keep you safe, and sending you back wouldn’t be safe right now.” Not to mention that Haly would be charged with kidnapping.

“You said you would help me!” Richard screams, snatching his map back. “You promised! But instead of looking for Zucco, you’re keeping me from my family.”

Bruce kneels, grabbing Richard’s shoulders gently. “Richard, I promise I’m going to help you. This case is my top priority, and I am looking for Zucco, but your safety is more important.”

“No, it’s not,” Richard protests, fighting Bruce’s hold.

“Yes, it is,” Bruce insists.

“I just want to go home.”

Everything about this situation is heartbreaking, and Bruce wants nothing more than to give in, but he can’t, there’s too much—

A dog barks close by, causing Bruce and Richard to turn their heads. Bruce’s instincts tell him to look up, but he sees nothing. Still, something deep inside him screams that they’re being watched. 

He needs to get Richard out of here.

He looks back at Richard, squeezing his arms gently to provide some semblance of comfort. “You can’t stay at the circus. I’m sorry. But if I take you there to say goodbye, will you let me take you back to the Stuarts?”

Richard nods, sniffing once. He hands the map back to Bruce.

Bruce stands and puts his hand on Richard’s back, using his free hand to press a button on his belt to call the car. It arrives and the two climb into the car in silence.

The whole drive, Bruce can’t shake the feeling that they’re being followed.

oOo

Richard keeps his end of the deal, and after a tearful goodbye with several of the circus performers, the two leave. Haly seemed nervous when the two of them showed up, and he asked why they were there several times. Richard’s reaction confirmed that this was out of character for Haly; Bruce files that observation away for later investigation.

“Thank you,” Richard says softly when they stop in front of the Stuarts’ house. “I’m still mad at you for making me come back, but I’m glad I got to see everyone one last time.”

Bruce wants to tell him that it won’t be the last time, but he doesn’t know that for sure. He doesn’t want to make promises he can’t keep.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“S’okay.” Richard rubs at his eyes. “Are you … are you going to tell Mr. and Mrs. Stuart I ran off?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“Good. I don’t think they’d be happy,” Richard says. “I should probably go in now, huh?”

“I’ll see to it that you are given updates on the case as things progress,” Bruce says.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Richard slides out of the car, waving at Bruce before he climbs up a tree and back into the house through the window. Bruce would wave back, but the kid wouldn’t be able to see him through the tinted windows. Instead, he drives off, pulling up the tracker he placed on Richard’s shoe to make sure he stays in the house.

He stops a few blocks over, parking the car in an alley. He walks back to the Stuarts’ house, and when he gets close, he feels those eyes on him again.

Something rustles in the distance and Bruce turns abruptly, unsurprisingly finding no one. Then he sees it: a shadow, ducking down in the distance. Bruce gets out his grapple gun and uses it to get to the nearest roof. The whisper of motion appears again, and again he runs toward it. He follows the barely-there clues that tell him the person he’s following is real, but said person stays just far enough away to remain unidentifiable.

Five minutes later, the trail is cold. He feels alone for the first time since finding Richard that night, and when he goes back to the house, the presence is still gone. In its place on the Stuarts’ roof, he finds a single, dark feather. 

oOo

Bruce’s mind isn’t quiet by default. He meditates regularly to help with the constant noise, but there are still days when his thoughts hold him captive inside his own head and he’s unable to focus on anything else. Today, like most days as of late, those thoughts are about Richard Grayson. What he’s been through, if he’s safe, and, most importantly, who the hell is stalking him.

His initial theory was Zucco—or rather, someone working for Zucco. That would make the most sense in the context of this case, but Bruce wasn’t able to find them. Not a trace. He’s seen Zucco’s work before; it’s not this clean.

Unable to stop the stalking, his next best option is damage control. That would mean ensuring that Richard is in a safe, secure environment—the opposite of his current situation. Richard’s been able to sneak out of the house on multiple occasions without his foster family noticing, and Bruce doesn’t trust the system to keep his location secure. If Zucco wanted to find him, all he would have to do is bribe the right social worker.

The thought pattern goes like this: Richard is in foster care, and while most foster families won’t be able to offer the protection that he needs, Bruce is in a position to offer that protection. The only way to do that, however, is to be involved in foster care. 

This led to the following conclusion: Bruce needs to become a foster parent. (At least temporarily.)

It’s a good idea to have a foster license in this line of work, all things considered. Even if he doesn’t end up needing it on this case—because maybe something will be easy for once and he’ll catch Zucco quickly and Richard will be adopted by a nice family far away from Gotham—he might need it in the future. Having one is just a smart move, something he should have taken care of when he started this crusade.  

However, there is one potential flaw in his plan: he doesn’t run it by Alfred first. He’s not exactly sure why he chooses to keep his plan to himself. Is he afraid that he might be talked out of it? That Alfred will disapprove? The former is a rarity, and so is the latter in the sense that Alfred’s disapproval has not kept him from making major life decisions in the past (e.g., Batman).

(Of course, he hadn’t told Alfred about Batman in the early stages either. He’d simply informed the man after the fact, when he was already too committed to be dissuaded by one of Alfred’s arguments or disapproving looks. And despite how angry and argumentative and disapproving Alfred had been, it had been too late. Alfred was forced into a position where his permission and approval were not required, one where he could offer nothing but forgiveness. Perhaps by keeping this a secret, Bruce is hoping to obtain a similar result.)

Bruce considers hacking into the Child Protection and Permanency system to grant himself a license, but then he remembers that he has a well-known name and that if Bruce Wayne suddenly has a foster license, one too many people would ask questions. So, he does the legal thing and signs up for online classes.

(He doesn’t think about how it could take months to finish this process or how so much damage could be done—done to Richard—in that time.)

oOo

Bruce checks his phone, internally groaning when the time tells him he’ll have to stay at this party for at least another hour.

He moves through the crowd with practiced ease, smiling to familiar faces as he passes. He walks fast, his speed telling the people around him that he has somewhere to be. And while that’s not actually true, it does decrease the odds of someone pulling him into another painfully dull conversation. His respite won’t last forever, Bruce knows, but this will increase its length a bit.

“Bruce! Oh, I’m so glad you could make it.”

But never by enough.

Bruce turns, forcing a warm smile. “Mrs. Powers, it’s good to see you again.”

She smiles back. “Oh, we’ve known each long enough—Maria, please.”

“Maria,” Bruce corrects himself.

She gives a small nod, then turns to her friend, placing her hand over his chest briefly. “This is Martin, he works in Child Protection and Permanency. I know that area is important to you, so I’ve been hoping to introduce you two all night.”

Bruce reaches out his hand to shake Martin’s. He’s wearing a silver ring with an owl carved into it—Bruce wonders if it’s a family crest, although he doesn’t immediately recognize it. “Hi, Martin, it’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Martin says with a laugh. “And I should thank you for all the financial support you’ve offered this past year. It’s made a real difference.”

“Glad to hear that,” Bruce says.

“Oh, there’s Joseph,” Maria says. She finishes the last of her champagne in one sip and waves at Bruce and Martin. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She’s gone before Bruce can even say goodbye, but that’s something he’s grown used to at these parties.

“So,” Martin says, “Word around the office is that you’re interested in becoming a foster parent.”

Bruce knew it would only be a matter of time before his right to privacy was forgotten and ignored. Still, two weeks is impressive. He hasn’t told Alfred yet, although he knows he’ll need to do so soon. Preferably before his case worker shows up for a home study.

“Yes, I’m still in the early stages, though,” Bruce explains. “Much too early for a public announcement.”

“Of course, of course.” Martin laughs again. “I know it can normally be a long, frustrating process, but I’ll put in a good word for you and see what I can do to speed things up.”

Bruce pauses, trying to find the motive behind Martin’s offer. Martin is far from needing financial assistance from what Bruce has heard, and Bruce is already supporting programs that are run through the department. “That’s very kind of you, but I’d really rather do this without special treatment.” Bruce flashes another smile.

Martin waves him off. “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all, especially for a friend of Maria.” Bruce wouldn’t call Maria a friend, and he knows she feels the same way about him. Until tonight, he hadn’t even known that she’d been aware of Bruce’s donations to Child Protection and Permanency. “It’s really admirable of you to help these kids. Tell me, are you planning to eventually adopt?”

“Just fostering,” Bruce says, using all of his energy to keep his tone light and free of his internal defensiveness.

Martin forces a smile, and the smile isn’t the only thing; something’s off and forced about this entire conversation, his whole demeanor, even. As much as Bruce’s instincts scream at him to interrogate Martin and figure out why that is, he knows this isn’t the time or place.

“That’s fantastic, really. Although, you never know.” He claps Bruce on the shoulder. “You’d be surprised by how many people start out fostering a child and then decide to adopt them. Of course, it all depends on the child’s family situation.”

“I suppose,” Bruce agrees plainly. The odds of that happening in his case are slim to none, but it probably wouldn’t be in his best interest to announce that he’s not cut out to be anything close to a father. If it becomes necessary, though, he’s hoping he can make a sufficient temporary guardian.

“Oh no,” a sarcastic cry interrupts them, and Bruce turns to see Oliver Grant. They went to school together, and now he works for his mother’s company as a CEO. Bruce isn’t exactly impressed with what he’s done for the company, not that he’s done much of anything other than take credit. “We’re not talking business over here, are we boys? You’re going to bring the whole party down!” 

Martin laughs in a way that Bruce guesses is supposed to be casual, but it comes off as somewhat strained. “Just talking. How have you been Oliver?” 

Bruce isn’t proud of this, but Oliver proves to be the last straw on his already stretched out patience—he pretends to take a phone call.

oOo

Bruce leaves the party earlier than he’d planned, but he’ll deal with the repercussions of leaving too soon later. For now, he has a city to patrol.

Since the homicide, checking on Richard has been a regular part of his patrol. He moved from his emergency placement with the Stuart family to his permanent foster placement with the Miller family nearly three weeks ago now, and things seem to be going well. The only incident since moving had been about two weeks ago when a member of Zucco’s gang was spotted near Richard’s foster home. Luckily, Bruce had been in the area at the time and stopped them before anything could happen. He hasn’t seen anyone there since, and even the feeling that he’s being watched while visiting the home has ebbed recently.

But then, of course, there is the ongoing problem Richard has taken to waiting up for Batman.

He’s not the first child Bruce has spotted doing this—several times, Bruce has seen groups of children on rooftops or crowded around windows who will excitedly point and scream when they catch a glimpse of The Batman. He’s learned that it’s becoming a common sleepover activity. It’s not something he wants to necessarily encourage, but at least those children only want to see him from a distance and are more than satisfied with shadows.

Richard, however, is not.

Tonight, he’s not on his own rooftop and instead waiting for Bruce on the roof of a nearby gas station, eating a package of potato chips while seated in a full lotus position. When he spots Bruce, he stands and starts waving.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Bruce tells him, resisting the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Richard shrugs and holds his bag of chips toward Bruce. “Want a potato chip?”

“Why aren’t you at the Millers’?” Bruce asks, knowing now to avoid the word “home.”

“I was hungry,” Richard says, pulling his outstretched hand back and taking another chip for himself. “And I didn’t want to wake anyone up or miss you. Good thing, too; you’re early.”

Questions relating to why Richard is hungry and if the Millers have been feeding him bubble up on his tongue, but he forces them down. “Hnn.”

“Have you found Zucco yet?”

This has been the question Bruce has come to dread each night. He’s been working on the case for almost a month now, but things have been slow. He’s been able to find enough evidence to arrest one of Zucco’s colleagues, but the colleague in question has refused to name Zucco specifically. Additionally, Zucco is in hiding and someone has been sending him information, making it difficult to track him down. Zucco taking up a low-profile also means that other gangs are trying to take his territory, which means that Bruce has had a lot of long nights.

“Not yet.” This is the phrase Bruce dreads saying every night.

Richard’s face falls, but he quickly replaces it with a mask of indifference. “Maybe I could help.”

“You are.” Bruce crouches down to look Richard in the eyes, places his hands firmly on his shoulders. “By offering your testimony and keeping yourself safe so that you can give it during the hearing.”

“There won’t be a hearing if you don’t find him.” Richard doesn’t sound accusatory, but the certainty and not-quite-anger in his voice are painful enough that he might as well have been. Despite the statement, though, the boy isn’t hopeless, he just has a more practical approach to hope compared to most of his peers. Richard is realistic and ready to prepare for the worst-case scenario, but he’s also doing everything he can to increase the odds of reaching the best-case scenario.

“I will find him.” And what happened to not making promises unless Bruce is sure he can keep them?

“Let me come?” Despite his inflection, Bruce knows Richard isn’t asking a question.

“It’s not safe.” This will be the fourth time they’ve had this discussion, and each time, Richard has been more insistent than the last.

“I know,” Richard says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “That’s why I’m asking to go with you. ‘Cause it would be so dangerous out on my own.”

oOo

Bruce is twenty-four years old, he’s the goddamn Batman, he should be able to say no to an eight-year-old. And yet, that night, he can’t. For one hour, Richard rides in the car next to him and acts as a pseudo-partner. Bruce tells himself it will be a one-time event, that this whole situation will be temporary.

Part 2: AO3 | tumblr

[zhonglishrine]

The Sky Is Too Far

Pairing: Reader x Nikolai Gogol x Fyodor Dostoevsky Note: Basically I’m trying to implement reader in Gogol’s love quest so it become triangle mess. Thank you for @fyowyn-writes​ and my friend Negin for beta/proofread this!

One of these days you might bleed your heart for real. Why? Because loving someone and having it unrequited is something is quite painful to bear. Like a cross that is forever burning inside your chest. But you already know, once you have signed the deal, seeing the subtle hints here and there, you should’ve known better than to hope for something so futile and impossible to grasp in the first place. However, you are still too stupid to believe and too naïve to think that he might spare you a little glance, looking at you back like how he did to him. Full of affection and attention— as an intimate friend, or more than that.

You never know how he truly feels for him, but hearing him talking about him is enough to tell you that.

Getting into a relationship with Gogol is never an easy thing since he wasn’t one to put any label for you and him. But you two were just that… having a dubious and questionable relationship from the start as he let you be the one to guess what you two are. Were you nothing more or less than a companion with benefits to him? Knowing Gogol, he is not one to tie himself with any commitment but that didn’t stop him from luring you with a bit of hope and whisper to you with his sweet words for his mere amusement. He enjoyed seeing your different reactions and all that surprised expression you make.

Behind his snickers and porcelain mask, he always led you to confusion as you kept searching for the answer of his riddles. Endlessly trying to catch up to him like stretching your hand up to the sky hopelessly. You are a flightless bird that cannot fly, and he is the endless mirage that you can’t touch but only can see from your invincible cage.

Just what are you to him?

That was the question that you always want to ask but too afraid to know. It stuck in your throat each time you tried to bring it up. Some things are better once left unknown, as the truth is bitter to swallow. However, you still wish if only you could do something, anything to win his heart, even if you know who has already occupied it.

Although, the said person did not reciprocate his feelings as well. At least, you can tell that as much.

But does Fyodor know about how Gogol truly felt towards him? For you, it was too plain and obvious to see, as he treasured him and had profound respect towards the said anemic man from the way he talked and the way he looked at him. And you doubt he was stupid not to see it as Fyodor is observant and nothing is left unseen to his eyes. Just like an omniscient God, he knows and oversees everything. However, that doesn’t mean that he would care for such petty feelings harbored towards him— every single person is just a pawn for him after all, a mere puppet that danced within the palm of his hand as he tugged on its strings.

That included you, and Gogol wasn’t an exception either.

As no one is special in the eyes of God since he treats everyone equally.   

Isn’t that what he hates the most? Isn’t that why he wants to get rid of it by losing sight of himself? However, it was still something quite entertaining to watch. Even he was extra hopeless in front of Fyodor. Restraining himself so that he would not appear too desperate. At times when he was frustrated although he didn’t openly display it, you are whom he came to. Either to talk or just to vent what he repressed. He dislikes not being free, he said so many times, and yet he keeps coming back to the same trap again and again and it binds him the more he was in it. In an endless circle of this never-ending wheel, unable to touch his moy d'yavol as he can only gaze from afar just like how you keep looking at him.

If only he would stop and look back for once, then perhaps you might reach him. But no, you never get that chance and he never bestows you that opportunity. Neither one of them gives that room to sort how they truly feel about. Too prideful and too egotistical to admit the truth, lest their weaknesses be uncovered and they appear vulnerable. 

And you can never understand what they are thinking. One is a man chasing down his path of Godhood, simply holding pawns in his hand, disposing them after they are no longer of use. He breaks them with bestiality prior to mercilessly tearing them to shreds, that is his melodramatic games that he likes to play with all the pieces he collected and salvaged. So beautiful Fedyushka, he graciously lifted his fingers on the chessboard without moving any muscles but he controlled all their movement from the shadows like a true ringmaster. Drawing the cards from the deck only for him to toss it aside and burn it in flames once he has figured it out. He set his own rules and he won his own game. That’s just how he is. A devil in disguise that swore to wipe clean the sinner from the face of this earth as if he was truly the God he proclaimed to be.

Another one is a clown, his whole life being a sheer joke and a satire that he parades around proudly with his maniac laugh. Playing his role as the Fool for his King and to entertain his audiences to satiate their greed. Fooling them all by the snap of his fingers just how magicians always did their magic tricks. But Nikolasha is always the sweet arlekin jester one, he knows what his audiences want to see and hear so he pulls them with his charms best with his gleaming grin. Magnificent and splendid he was, yet he never once wins against his Fedyushka in a chess or poker game or anything else. But you on the other hand, always lost to him even before the bet was at stakes. Always three steps behind as he keeps moving forward to chase his important friend that he claimed already too far ahead. And still, neither of you or him achieve what you truly want and are still caught in a stalemate. 

Why won’t he look at you, dear Kol’ka? Doesn’t he know that Fedya only manipulated and toyed with him? Fyodor wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice him even though he had claimed how Nikolai was one of his treasured subordinates. He knew how to pull the string of his words to temper with his chaotic mind. Like ivy tendrils wrapped around his heart as he was left at his mercy with every thorn pricking him within every inch. However, he still stayed, it was a poison he intoxicated himself with a perilous risk he was willing to take, yet even so, he is blindfolded by his sentiments, negligent to how they keep on hurting him. Maybe he just enjoys that thrill, the one that you weren’t able to provide him.

Oh, sweet, sweet dear Kolya. He is such a fool, really.

And you are no better either, wanting what you can’t have. It’s both tragic and pathetic, childish even. You know it already, but you can’t help wishing upon a connection solid as concrete. A little validation that there is something between you two. And it is never easy to spit it out after it has taken the root within your soul. Being attached to him when he gives you empty promises is a grave mistake. He has warned you so not to trust any of his clown words, and yet you keep falling for it, ignoring his blatant warning. So, who can you blame but yourself? Even when it hurts you piteously, as you are left unable to utter the words,  desperately endeavor to manipulate the surge of sentiments within you, those that are killing you slowly. You do love him dearly, and yet those are things that will hinder him to you. He never wants any personal feelings to be involved.

You two are similar to one another in one more ways than one; as  you were simply a grotesque reflection of his depraved desire. Perhaps, that is why he didn’t want to look at you? As  you both suffer from this torment but never bother to make it stop. Just how he never spares you a glance neither did Fedyushka do to him. Call this sentiment as one may associated with perversion, what makes it hurt there is the little reminder that left of his sanity and your will that you both are still a mortal being played by God and his destiny. You never had a place in the beginning for him and neither did he for him.

Love truly can make one blind, with one eye or not. However, it is too vast of context. His love for Fyodor can be described as a platonic one, or maybe it was twisted, a sentiment that consumed his whole mind. Fedyushka is the only one he set his eyes on, and all he wants is to prove that he can get rid of him so that he can be as free as a bird.

And it tugged the string of your heart whenever he kept reminding you of that fact. You were never of any importance to him, just how much Fyodor was with the way he treats you and the way he acts around Fyodor. It is too much of a difference with how his molten gold eye would lighten up and how enthusiastic he was whenever his Fedyushka was involved.

There is a little piece of your heart that you resent, the feeling of a tiny bit of jealousy with the unconditional treatment he gives him. You knew that he would do anything for him in a drop of a hat. What is different there to one that devoted themselves to the God that he actually despised? The duality of a man he is. If he cannot be honest with himself, what makes you think he would open up to you anyway?

You were tired, and it is mentally draining, you have scrapped your knees as you have fallen many times to give up chasing him. But whenever you see your darling jester again, despite all the bruises you had and how battered you are, you were still drawn to him. Again, and again, it was an endless chasing game in this labyrinth of a maze with no exit once you are in. 

And you wonder… are you truly okay with unrequited love? Was it enough if you can talk with him and hear his voice even when a single word that he speaks was not meant for you?

Dos-kun this, Dos-kun that. Always Dos, Dos, and Dos. Everything is always about Dos.

Keeping your smile in silence, you would listen to his prattle until he is done talking. But that always ached your heart the more you tried to mask your feelings. Really, Kol’ka, would it hurt if he talked about you a little? Sparing a thought about how you feel? Or was it too much to ask from him? Oftentimes you find yourself unable to say anything as you lost your voice in exasperation, holding back your tears from falling. Yet, you are stronger than to succumb to such reasons in lieu of coming across as vulnerable in front of him. 

But you still wanted to scream bloody murder to his face, however at the same times you were also too much of a coward to let him know how you feel. Whether he was too stupid or he simply did it on purpose to mess around, you can never tell. You could never read his unpredictable nature, for he is like storms that can bring a hurricane if he desires, and for all you know, he can then be sunny and bright, as though nothing had ever happened at all. It’s frustrating to play this game with him continuously. It hurt you, so painful just to pretend that you were okay.

Or maybe that is just how he is… truly free just like his true nature is. You look up feeling rather defeated with the game you never even once won. Nothing you could do to change him after all, as bitter as it was to admit it. He is just too stubborn for his own good as he keeps pursuing his goal. But in case you ever managed to do so, then he wouldn’t be the Nikolai Gogol that you have known. Despite all of his ignorance, he is still someone that has stolen your heart and you are the one willingly let him to have it. Stretching your hand up, you shield your eyes from the glaring sun. Narrowing your eyes to filter the sunlight, you wait until your vision gets used to it to see better.

The sky is too far indeed, and it is only beautiful just to solely watch and no more. Just like him. Perhaps, this is why you can only gaze at him from where you are, still unable to reach. 

Still, hopeless to wish.

[prairiesongserial]

The path of the circus caravan hadn’t made much sense to John; there didn’t appear to be much rhyme or reason to it. They’d been heading vaguely northwest since the incident in Kill Devil Hills, but this morning the lead truck had suddenly turned from the main road in order to cut due west. This new road was in bad shape, bad enough that John was surprised the circus had taken this route. The trucks were fine going over the wide cracks and potholes, but the caravan cars hitched to them clattered like fragile toys in a rough hand. 

John could hear each pothole coming by the series of discordant noises from the trucks ahead - of crates knocking against each other, but mainly of windchimes. Each caravan car was strung up with multiple chimes of all different sizes, and what was already an annoying sound on a normal day was now painfully loud, and nearly constant.

“Wish it was dark,” came a muttered voice right next to John’s ear.

John winced and jerked his head away. Johannes was sitting next to John, in his armchair tied down among the boxes. Johannes had slumped down in his chair in a way that John considered dramatic, which was why his voice had been so close.

Johannes was clearly baiting John into asking why; John decided not to give him the satisfaction. He wedged himself deeper into the corner. He could see Ezra, who was driving, in the side mirror. Cody was up front with him, but on the other side. John couldn’t see him.

John was trying not to worry about it. He wasn’t used to worrying anymore, which made the gnawing feeling in his stomach sharper. Weeks with the circus had made John feel easier about his and Cody’s place here. He liked learning about how the trucks worked and what those machines needed to sustain themselves, and so he nearly always spent part of the day as Enis’s assistant, while Cody did other things. Like cows set out to graze, the two of them wandered where they would, knowing they were in familiar pastures.

This morning, in the bustle of getting ready to depart camp, Ezra had picked Cody to sit up front, at least until the circus breaked for lunch. The reason was probably something innocent; maybe Ezra worried the circus would devolve into mayhem if left to choose among themselves who would sit in the relatively comfortable cab of the truck. Still, the exchange didn’t sit well with John. He didn’t like when he couldn’t reunite himself with Cody by the power of his own feet. Even if the distance was as small as that between the bed and cab of the same truck.

Next to him, Johannes sighed. There were plenty of other people in the truck bed who could ask him what was wrong - Val included. John was surprised he didn’t. Val often found a reason to be nearby the ringmaster. They were friends, John supposed. One afternoon in Kill Devil Hills had sealed it. 

Instead, Val was sitting on a bag of sugar, staring into the distance, not paying attention to anything. John watched as Val winced, suddenly, rubbing his eyes. A second later, he did it again.

“Ow,” he hissed. “What is that?”

John saw Johannes shift from despondent melodramatics to full attention. He looked first at Val, then sprang up from his armchair, nearly toppling out of the truck entirely as the wheel took a pothole at full speed. Johannes stared down the road, hands gripping the ledge. He was practically on top of John.

“This works better when it’s dark,” he hollered.

He got a response this time - from Ezra in the driver’s seat.

“Good, you saw,” Ezra yelled over the wind. “I thought you might have been asleep back there.”

Johannes tsked. He left off leaning over the side of the truck, nudging crates and circus members alike out of his way as he made room for himself where John had been sitting seconds ago. Once there, he pulled a red paper carton out of his pants pocket. This first carton was one of several - of varying sizes and colors, but all tightly creased into an interesting pyramid shape - that Johannes laid out on the truck bed in front of him. 

John followed Johannes’s line of sight, interested now. Johannes craned his neck to watch the road in front of them. No, not the road, John realized. He saw now what Val must have seen a few seconds ago: a series of flashes of reflected sunlight in the driver’s side mirror of one of the trucks ahead.

Johannes chuckled to himself as soon as the flashing stopped.

“That is not good,” he said, still laughing.

“What’s not good?” said Val. He no longer sat on his bag of sugar, but hunched low - following the lead of the circus members in the truck with them.

“Don’t worry yourself, ketsele,” Johannes said. He smiled crookedly, and John noted the change in Johannes’s tone and body language. The shift from Johannes the person to Johannes the performer was subtle, and John was never sure which was which: only that Johannes could fluidly move between the two, and the truth of the man was obscured more often than not.

Suddenly their truck passed out of the open air and into shade, as the hills turned all at once into forest.

The trees weren’t dense, but left gaps, allowing John to see some distance through them. Despite that, John wasn’t sure what he was seeing. There was a strange movement, not like an animal disturbing the underbrush, but like the ground itself was shifting, the earth rising and falling like hurried breathing. The trucks ahead had slowed to a crawl, and by necessity, so did the one John rode in. The windchimes fell quiet. In the absence of that sound, John could hear the landscape. It sounded like torrential rain, despite the sunny sky.

John heard the strike of a match amid the sound of the nonexistent downpour, then his attention was pulled away to the windchimes. A circus member he didn’t know leaned way out of the truck bed, even as the truck kept moving, with a balance that John found uncanny. She swung wildly with a baton, bashing it against the wind chime that hung on the caravan hitched behind them. Judging by the way the sound seemed to echo twenty times over, the other trucks were doing the same.

John’s ears rang as a shriek cut through the air. The scream didn’t stop. It wasn’t an animal sound, nor mutie. It continued for minutes, without needing breath. John covered his ears.

He gained some idea of what was happening, as Johannes lit the paper wick on the end of one of the paper pyramids and lobbed it into the trees. The scream had a sister, now, even as the first firecracker petered out.

“You can’t even see them,” Johannes complained loudly.

All the same, the firecrackers seemed to be working. The shifting ground in the near distance was not, after all, the hills moving like waves in a lake. It was bodies, thousands of them moving in the trees. The oppressive, torrential sound was their running and talking, in whatever mutie tongue they used.

John had not imagined that there could be this many muties in the world. In the truck bed next to him, Val looked pale, his eyes unfocused.

Johannes lit another one of the screaming firecrackers. This one was bigger than the others, and looked heavier in his palm. When it exploded, it was so loud it shook the nearest trees.

John gripped a fistful of the sleeve of Val’s shirt. He wasn’t sure when he’d done that. In the moments following that booming sound, John couldn’t hear anything, although he could see the baton continuing to strike the wind chime. 

“Alright, they’re heading off,” Johannes said. “They’ve got some nerve, lately.”

John kept his eyes fixed on the swarm of muties. It was hard to track their movement, in the shadows of the trees, and even harder when they packed so closely together that he couldn’t tell mutie from the ground they walked on.

The truck started to speed up. John lost track of what was said, although everyone in the truck bed was talking at once. Once his ears stopped ringing, he began to grasp part of the conversation.

“They push farther west every year,” the woman who had dangled herself out of the truck to beat the wind chime complained. “Have they ever been this close to the mountains?”

Johannes answered with an exaggerated shrug. “Whatever they do, it’s fine by me so long as they keep falling for the same shtick.”

“What are you talking about?” said Val.

Johannes was returning the remaining firecrackers to various pockets on his person.

“We’re skirting the southern border of Virginia, have been for the past day,” Johannes said, as if that was explanation enough.

“They’re not from the east coast. Guess they wouldn’t have reason to know,” said the woman. She had deep violet hair, so purple it was almost black, and an extra finger on her left hand. John would probably hear her name eventually. “Virginia is almost all mutie waste. You can’t travel straight through. You have to hug the borders, ‘til you get far enough north.”

“Indeed, you do,” Johannes said with another dramatic sigh. “And it is terribly inconvenient, trying not to be eaten alive.”

“You don’t know that they’d...” Val started, pouting.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out,” Johannes said. “As far as I’m concerned, this is their land, and I’m going to stay out of their way.”

Val cocked an eyebrow at him. It was an unusual thing to say.

“The firecrackers are all for show,” Johannes said, waving his hand dismissively. “They show us their numbers, I show them loud noises, we mutually decide not to make tsuris, and we go on our way.”

“You trick them,” John said. He hadn’t intended to join the conversation, but now Johannes’s eyes slid from Val to him.

“I guess I do,” Johannes said easily.

Johannes reclaimed his seat on the armchair. There were no more muties in the woods, not that John could see.

“A couple dozen of us, a few hundred of them...not good odds, all things being equal,” Johannes continued. “The way to get by is to bluff and cross your fingers.”

He held John’s gaze, daring him to disagree. John wasn’t interested in the contest, and looked away. The trees whipped by on either side of the truck.

“Nobody gets hurt,” Val muttered, though maybe only loudly enough for John to hear. If Johannes heard him, he didn’t respond.

The caravan continued for a little more than an hour before the lead truck called a halt. John wondered who was making these decisions, when Johannes and Ezra were both back here, in the middle of the caravan train. He soon found out, when Abernathy, the red-haired burlesque dancer with the eye-patch, trotted back to talk to Ezra through the driver’s window. Enis was a few paces behind her, hands plunged in his pockets. He gave John a friendly wink.

“Fair enough,” Ezra replied to a question John hadn’t heard. “We’ll break for lunch and Johannes will drive the lead.”

Johannes stood up from his chair, suddenly full of energy. He stretched, bracing his leg against the cab of the truck and bending forward so his forehead touched his knee. Slowly, he released the position and stretched his other leg the same way.

Lunch was black bread that tasted like it had molasses in it, soft cheese that smelled like chives, and a tin of anchovies to be shared between two people. Cody left the cab to eat with John in the back of the truck.

“I don’t think I like this,” Cody said, wrinkling his nose as he forced one of the little fish down.

John grimaced at him, making Cody laugh.

Friday hadn’t come to find them yet, John noticed. She had decided to ride with some of the burlesque performers. Her not being here forced Val to share his lunch with someone else, and Johannes had eagerly volunteered himself, despite Val insisting that he really didn’t need any canned fish.

“We should get a move on,” Ezra said, sitting above them on the ledge of the truck bed.

“That’s our cue,” Johannes said. He stuffed the rest of his bread in his mouth. “You coming, Val?”

“I’m taking the passenger’s side,” Ezra said, before Val could answer. He took a big bite of bread. “To discuss business.”

“Dershtikt zolstu veren,” Johannes said, glaring, before Ezra cut him off.

“Gey strashe di gens,” Ezra said with a cold smile. “Come on, let’s go.”

Johannes hopped down over the side of the truck bed, landing hard.

“Kelev,” he said, though with less anger in his voice.

“Ketsele,” Ezra returned.

John wondered at the change on Johannes’s face. Ezra’s expression remained cool as he hopped down to join Johannes.

“You okay?” said Cody.

Gradually, John’s attention returned to him. Cody was licking cheese off his fingers, his eyes big and intent on John. He seemed to know that John’s attention was split, each sound dragging him away from one conversation and onto the next, never getting the full experience of any of them. His ears still didn’t feel right after the firecrackers.

“I’m okay.” He said. He paused. Ahead, truck engines were roaring to life. “I want you to sit with me.”

Cody scooted closer, his shoulder roughly colliding with John’s as he joined him in leaning against the ledge. He settled close, hip to hip, his head naturally falling into the crook of John’s neck.

“And?” Cody said.

“Talk to me,” John replied, more quietly, his face feeling hot.

“About what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

John stopped worrying, for the time being, as Cody began to recount every detail of the conversation he’d had with Ezra, conversation that had ranged from technical talk about music to stories about places the circus had gone, strange towns almost beyond believing.

epilogue 12 || 13.2

[luminescentlyricist]

VD: y⊙ur turn, buddy :o)8 (if y⊙u want t⊙, that is)

VD: n⊙ full ⊙n pr⊙mpt, but h⊙w ab⊙ut just s⊙me b⊙nding? maybe putting my makeup ⊙n ⊙r fixing up my hair, y⊙u kn⊙w, getting int⊙ the r⊙utine. can g⊙ any directi⊙n y⊙u want, ⊙r y⊙u can use an entire different pr⊙mpt. i just want t⊙ hear y⊙ur take ⊙n me :o)8

;; Gotcha!! Hope you like this :o)

🃏A Road To Recovery ⊙

Being the newest troll in the circus troupe, as unintentional as it was, Jezakk often stood out like a sore thumb when it came to showcasing his skillsets. He was unbearably graceless, even though he had never adorned the classical shoes that the clowns seemed so fond of. He left trails in his wake, whether or not it was a physical presence. Scent trails, more often than not, that were unbearably easy for a certain other troll to pick up on. While the tinkerer had never established himself as a sociable troll, he kept himself silent despite his yearnings for interaction of any kind. It was a strange fear that helped him maintain his otherwise unassuming nature, though it did nothing to deter one Othamo Oculus. If anything, the smaller of the two had the feeling he was being watched around a corner more often than not, regardless of Othamo’s lack of sight.

Then, there was always the heaviness. Although noticeably thinner and smaller in stature when compared to the other purplebloods around him, there was an uneasy leadening feeling that occasionally swept him, and it was nothing that he could yet explain. Of course, there were quite a lot of things that he had failed to glean from his short time in the facility, when he was conscious. The only conclusion he could draw was that it was a power-based backlash from his time as Othamo’s chucklevoodoo puppet. Jezakk felt there were also things that he had been told then, critically, that his amnesia - as a result of the unfortunate puppetry - had made him forget.

This was one of those times that he didn’t want to forget. Jezakk sat out in the hallways leading to one room of the Mordant King, the ringmaster of the whole group and undisputed Lord of the Circus. Panton Magnic was his name, but that title had been long since forgotten in favour of raw greed and want to establish his power with a title. Sometimes, his tinkerer mused that Othamo was no longer the main puppeteer of the troupe. He fidgeted restlessly with the small golden pendant he had been given on his first day, twisting it around in his claws and glancing downwards to catch the Capries as it flashed in the light of the windows. These windows, Jezakk thought, were unnecessarily large, and depicted circus acts in manners more suited to scenes of the Sufferer’s preaching than entertainments.

He looked around himself, heart beginning to pound in his chest. Panton’s name was the only memory he had retained from the many-sweep-long amnesia, and he wasn’t sure why. It barely mattered. If he shared it with anyone, he feared being exiled from the troupe and never seeing Sealdad again. And the healing of his father’s injury was exactly what landed him in the troupe in the first place. It was strange how desperate he had once been to get into the area, because all he wanted now was to escape. But there was a moral dilemma to deal with, and that was the fact that he would have to choose between his friend and his father if he wanted to get out. As much as Othamo gave Jezakk the creeps, he remained one of the lucky few that held his attention for long enough.

There were vaguely familiar voices behind the door, those of Ferrum and Mierle, two of the other purplebloods that he often crossed paths with. They were friendly enough, but he was wary nonetheless. Tilting his head and standing, he realised that there was no way he was going to hear the conversation. After a few moments, they exited together, looking quite shaken. Laughing dryly to himself, Jezakk shivered in anticipation and dread. He’d not been looking forward to any sort of meeting with the ringmaster, and the unnaturally hesitant appearances of the other trolls did nothing to reassure him. Smiling at them as they passed, he forced his hands to his sides and entered the room without waiting for Panton to call him through.

First mistake.

There was something unnerving about the way that Panton swivelled on his heel to greet the other, and the calm smile that he wore did nothing to soften the sharpness in his gaze. Something told Jezakk silently to turn tail - literally, as it squeezed around his waist tight enough to hurt - and get out of there before he was sliced into. Instead, the tinkerer bowed his head to show his respect, stepping forward. Despite his acquaintances’ nervousness, the naive tinkerer saw next-to-nothing that he should have been concerned about until the ringmaster raised an eyebrow, clasping his hands in front of his body neatly and beginning to speak. His tone was soft and disarming, made to rekindle a false sense of security. Although the smaller knew this, he couldn’t help but begin to let his guard down.

“Y/o\)u( KN/o\W, JEZAKK, I’VE BEEN THINKING AB/o\)u(t Y/o\)u( RECENTLY.”

This caused Jezakk’s eyebrows to raise in alarm, but he was otherwise still. He’d had to work on suppressing his fidgeting in fear of irritating the other troupe members, which had also caused him to unintentionally become skilled in preventing general movements and emotional displays. Raising his head to look at Panton, he remained silent.

“THERE’S A SMALL J/o\B I WANT Y/o\)u( T/o\ D/o\ F/o\R ME, AND THERE IS N/o\ /o\NE ELSE Q)u(ITE S)u(ITED F)o(R IT. Y/o\)u( ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE BEES, I TR)u(ST? I HAVE SPENT AN ADMITTEDLY L/o\NG TIME SEARCHING F/o\R S/o\ME/o\NE WILLING T/o\ C)u(LTIVATE THEIR H/o\NEY, AND I HAVE N/o\W C/o\ME T/o\ A RECENT F/o\REG/o\NE C/o\NCLUSI/o\N THAT Y/o\)u( MAY J)u(ST BE THE PERFECT CANDIDATE.”

Jezakk often spoke without foreseeing consequence, and lacked much of a social filter. It proved itself a dire slip to make more often than not.

“I’Ll do IT, sir.”

Panton’s smile widened, showing off rows of teeth more suited to a shark than any troll. It was less comforting than it was menacing, and the ringmaster’s next words sent a chill through his subordinate’s whole body for no clear reason.

“AH, GOOD! I AM S/o\ GLAD I F/o\UND Y/o\)u(, JEZAKK. Y/o\)u( START IMMEDIATELY, N/o\ Q)u(ESTI/o\NS ASKED. ASK /o\C)u(L)u(S F/o\R ASSISTANCE IF Y/o\)u( M)u(ST AND BEAR IN MIND THE AM/o\)u(NT /o\f FAITH I AM PLACING HERE. D/o\ N/o\T BREAK IT, F/o\R THE C/o\NSEQ)u(ENCES WILL BE DIRE.”

And with that, Panton Magnic returned to his work. Jezakk shifted in his stance. There was a creak as the door was leaned against by another from the outside, and the man only looked up once more from his work before smiling - almost threateningly, despite the lack of teeth - and waving to dismiss the troll in front of him.

Leaving the room, the little tinkerer never expected to see Othamo already there and waiting for him to follow. Placing a hand on the blind troll’s shoulder to indicate where he stood, he looked towards his companion.“WElL shIt. DIDn’T expEcT TO hEar thaT. UH… wEll. I KNoW yoU caN gENERaLlY SMEll yoUr waY AROuNd pRettY weLL, oThAMO, Sir, BUt I thINK I’ll LEAve THe hEAvY LIfTin tO VIZeRA aNd LUmIra WHen I CAn GeT THeM to LIsTen ENOugH.”

Othamo raised an eyebrow, waving to Jezakk as if trying to snap him out of some kind of daze. There, on the palm of his hand, was a carefully drawn eye. Jezakk looked dumbly at it, placing his hand over the one seemingly offered to him. This caused the other to flinch back, curling his nose in disgust. The scent of lemons was heavy in the air, which made him smile despite the distaste he’d show moments prior. He treated those inferior to him as they should have been treated, and never once considered that the tinkerer - a newbie, fresh meat, the perfect little puppet for his games - would be any different, regardless of the time he had in an uncomfortably close proximity and seeing through his eyes. Although it was normally an unpleasant, sharp scent, the undertones of fruitiness unique to the other made fear smell inviting.

“i can see a little bit, y⊙u kn⊙w. en⊙ugh t⊙ want t⊙ c⊙mment ⊙n h⊙w idi⊙tic that was t⊙ assume.”

He murmured, pointing towards the eye on his palm and inadvertently causing Jezakk to look down towards it, even though he had nervously averted his gaze prior. The lemon still hung in the air between them, and the smaller’s appreension was unrelenting. Tension ran through his every movement, and the stiffness was what caused him to fumble and almost trip over. He likely would have, had Othamo not reached out to steady him, unintentionally knocking their bodies a little closer than was comfortable. The taller chuckled, letting his arms fall from around Jezakk and noting how powerful his lemon scent was after that, enough to make his head spin.

“i can generally see thr⊙ugh eye shapes as well, n⊙t just y⊙ur eyes. thatd be selfish, d⊙nt y⊙u think? als⊙, the legends are true. y⊙u smell ⊙f blackberries and fear.”

Jezakk nodded silently, seeing that Othamo would notice the gesture without shifting his arm. He couldn’t help but laugh in fear, even though his words were stuck in his throat, making it near impossible to muster any vocal reply. There was something disarming about the puppeteer, but he was entirely aware of what he was doing. It was making Jezakk on edge, constantly, and he hated it. As such, he sped up his walking, attempting to get as far away from his companion as possible. Due to his dismal height difference, it only took a few rapid strides for Othamo to catch up.

He still intended for the others to help, however, so he continued on his merry way while periodically checking whether or not his ‘friend’ remained at a safe distance from him. There was really no use bothering him further. The first section of the journey to his practice room - as it was in an entirely separate tent to the Ringmaster’s quarters - was filled with a tense silence, which at least one of the pair seemed to heavily regret. The tinkerer was spinning his Capries necklace about in his fingers as an anxious fidget once again, something he performed under stress frequently enough that he took no notice of the action more often than not. Attempting to break the silence, Othamo spoke. It was more of a private mumble than anything directed towards Jezakk, despite that he was wrongly addressed.

“i have n⊙ idea why that jerk th⊙ught it was a g◎︶◉d idea t⊙ put me in charge ⊙f the bees, jazakk.“

“JazAkK? I’M jEzAkk.”

To this, the puppeteer simply shrugged, giving his companion a toothy smile. There was no true joy in the action, and it was unnervingly similar to the Ringmaster’s in that it was more threatening than anything else. Othamo never appeared to drop his grin, which was one of the other reasons Jezakk found it hard to detect whether or not he was being genuine about his expressions. Reaching to place a hand on Jezakk’s shoulder in a mimicry, his claws dug deeper than necessary. He spoke in a hiss, though there was some lightness to it that was reassuring. As if he never meant to threaten, but it was habitual.

“well, y⊙ure n⊙t t⊙ me. y⊙ur ⊙fficial nickname is jazzy n⊙w.”

“I- fiNE. BuT You cAn’T LEt anyONe eLsE knoW… Ah, hERE we aRe. WaNnA CoMe in fOr a BIT? I dOn’t miNd thE cOMpAnY. NObOdy elSe mUch PUTs UP wIth me THeSe daYs. SoRRy… Uh, sOrRY AbOUt thE mEss. I’VE bEen tiNKerINg QUItE a BIT. sEcreT PRoJect.”

The tinkerer, still fidgeting restlessly, rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I SHoUld proBabLY gO anD sOrt ouT the BEE buSINess foR a Bit. NOw thAt I knoW yoU don’T wannA dEal WITh thEm. FeEL frEe to LOOk arOunD, i guEss.”

With that, he left his friend to his own devices for a moment, which likely wasn’t a good idea. There were things scattered all over the place in a frantic manner, as if there had been a fight or something had occurred very quickly. Otherwise, the room seemed relatively empty on the ground, instead hosting shelves that lined the walls filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes. These were Jezakk’s pride and joy; the jack-in-the-boxes were what he was known for among his friends, and rightfully so. He’d definitely honed his craft, making them with an unprecedented love and precision.

Luckily enough, certain trolls - such as Othamo himself, and Jezakk - had been born with tails, according to whether or not their lusus had one, although it was rare. This enabled Othamo to better navigate the room, sweeping objects aside and out of his path to sit and wait for his friend’s return. Closing his eyes, the troll noticed soon enough that there was a strangely printed pair of leggings discarded across a chair, and his grin widened. Perfect. Their ocular design - unnerving to some, and even more so to Othamo himself because of his phobia - would enable him to see properly, though significantly blurred. He had chosen to sit on Jezakk’s recuperacoon, which had been fitted with a cover. It seemed nearly unused.

Activating the chucklevoodoos he was so adept at using, feeling about for the eyes and latching onto them, he made sure to keep his own closed. He wouldn’t need them. Observing the room through his ’new’ sight made his head spin, more than it ever had before. But the fruity scents were like a comforting punch in the nose, so to speak, and it helped him relax slightly and disregard the strangeness of it. There was nothing he could see that would possibly reveal the secret Jezakk had mentioned beforehand, or so he thought. The truth was that he wished to sell his jack-in-the-boxes to help him gather enough Caegars and ensure a safer escape from the troupe.

Meanwhile, Jezakk had located one of the two trolls he wished for help, and he was glad to find that ze was pleasant enough for him to avoid losing his composure. Vizera was slightly too loud for his tastes, and he kept his distance from the acrobat beside him, recalling the enthusiasm with which she had accepted his comparatively gentle plea for assistance. It was not exactly his ideal bottle of Faygo.

“LuMira? YEs, hElLo. It’S… JEzAkk, AND i Don’t THiNk we’VE reaLLy spOken, bUT i wAS WOndeRIN if I couLd HavE soMe heLp mOVIn thEse BeEhOUsEs inTo mY roOm.”

“YEAH, LLLLLUMIIIIIRA! HELLLP THE KIIIID OUT, WON’TCHA? HE’S A NEWBIIIE, AND YOU KNOW HOW THE RIIINGMASTER GETS IIIIF NEWBIIIES GET THIINGS WRONG!”

The troll at the door wore a pleasant smile, directing zir gaze towards Vizera and nodding before looking back towards the little tinkerer, who was significantly shorter than both of them.

“oh!! of course i’ll helP you, jezakk!! i suPPose i have enough time, and i wouldn’t wish for you to get in trouble with the ringmaster!!”

With a small sigh of relief, Jezakk smiled towards Lumira - still, unfortunately, finding it rather difficult to speak because of the new people around him - and led the two through the task, eventually saying his shaky goodbyes to the two and returning behind the safely closed doors of his room. His heart was pounding in his chest, and there was nothing that could have possibly prepared him for the sight that greeted him in that moment. It was an absolute mess. Everything that was scattered on the floor beforehand had been shoved to the side messily. The fact that a few of the jack-in-the-boxes had fallen from their shelves had just established itself as the second most distressing sight there.

The first, of course, was Othamo.

Immediately, the smaller’s hands retrieved his card deck, and he began to rapidly shuffle them as a reaction to his nerves. There was nothing else he could think of except the boy on the floor, but his body completely refused to move in a way he wanted it to. It was hard to decipher what had happened, exactly, but Othamo was laid out on the floor, staring blankly towards the tapering ceiling with eyes weakly flickering purple. He looked as if he’d been almost paralysed. Tears dripped their way down his cheeks, an even paler lavender than his eyes themselves. The only sound in the room - that Jezakk could hear - was the beating of his own heart, so loud and panicked that it drowned everything else.

Jezakk wasn’t used to this at all. His claws were trembling as he shuffled his cards around, silken gloves at risk of unravelling from where they were pulled high to his shoulders. He wasn’t truly expecting anyone to be with him within his practice room, let alone when he returned to it after Othamo had scheduled a busy day at the shows. Because he was new to the troupe, everyone else tended to have more performances than he did, which left him lonely. But here Othamo was, finally giving him the company he so craved, and he had no idea what to do. Everything was just a little bit too wrong, and no amount of physical messing around could fix it. So he distracted himself first, because his thinkpan wasn’t letting him make any lateral solution to the problem yet.

Tiptoeing around so that he didn’t disturb anyone else, Jezakk let his mind drift away from his friend for a moment. He placed his cards away, attempting and failing to regulate his breathing. How could he, when his pan was being wild? Instead, he walked around and picked up all of his boxes that had fallen, softly humming a show tune under his breath that he was fairly sure Panton himself had composed. He wasn’t sure why his pan had strayed to it, but he didn’t like it much. There was a funny taste in his mouth about it, because it meant that something about that suave, manipulative asshole was genuinely likeable. Shaking his head physically in an attempt to clear it, Jezakk placed the last box upon the shelves and redirected his attention to his friend.

Clearing a space to sit next to Othamo, he crossed his legs and began to sing a little louder. Even though his voice was croaky and awful because of the tears that had begun to greet his eyes and blur his vision, he continued, hoping that his voice would at least rouse the one on the floor. There wasn’t much else he was able to do, because he couldn’t properly attend to someone who was unconscious. Othamo was practically a dead weight as it stood, so manipulation would prove difficult for Jezakk. Nonetheless, he continued to sing to his friend, the frown lifting from his lips into a smile.

However negative, he enjoyed the time he spent with the puppeteer, and hoped Othamo felt the same. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the clown gently wiped the tears away from his friend’s cheeks and eyes, which caused them to flutter and Othamo to stir. He flinched back, seeing the purple sparks that licked at his fingers, and shuffled his position so that he could give him some space to properly orientate himself.

“Ah, SHit, sORRy otH. DidN’T, UH, didN’t meAN tO hUrT YOu or ANytHIn…”

Othamo’s unseeing gaze followed Jezakk’s voice when he struggled into a sitting position, and he shrugged, not having gathered enough composure to vocalise his thoughts. Everything was spinning, and he felt dizzy even though there was no visual indication of it.

Although there was no longer a smile upon the tinkerer’s face, he was relieved beyond expression that Othamo had actually stirred. His fears often caught up with him, and he’d panicked about leaving the other troll to get into a bigger accident. Observing the smudging face paint smeared across his puppeteer’s cheeks in blackened tear trails, he pursed his lips. Softly telling Othamo to wait - as if he could do anything else - Jezakk left the room, locating Othamo’s own and entering it. It was cluttered, sure enough, but he was soon able to locate some liquorice-scented face paint among the jars of scenting strings and return to his friend.

“HOLd on. I thInk YOu smUdGed, mAn. LEmMe heLp yoU.”

He murmured, lifting the puppeteer into his arms with a groan and placing him on top of his recuperacoon once more, back against the wall. He hopped onto the cover himself, settling beside Othamo with his supplies. Taking a makeup brush and some remover, he began to gently brush away the crust of old makeup and remove the rest. After he was mostly clean, Jezakk preceded to wash his friend’s face of the smears with warm water on a cloth, all the while mumbling rapid-fire apologies whether or not he’d actually hurt the troll. He didn’t know how long it’d been since the blind troll had been able to reapply it himself or bothered to, but it couldn’t have been good.

He wrinkled his nose upon twisting the paint’s cap off, the scent making him almost vomit. Why Othamo liked liquorice was something he’d never understand, but he dipped the brush into the pot and began to carefully outline the boy’s ‘mask’ nonetheless. Subconsciously, he found his singing beginning again as he worked but reducing itself to a vague hum. It was a habit he’d suppressed, like many others, but Othamo made him feel safer about expressing himself. Filling it in gently, with slow and rhythmic strokes, he was pleased to find that the paint was drying rather quickly.

“YOu shOuLd gET soMe reST, BRoTHer. I CAn’T be sURE hoW loNg yOu weRe ouT FOr, buT yoU SEEm tiRed AS alL hEll. I hoPe I DId yoUr FACe PaInt WELl enOugH. I guEss I’M prEttY LucKy THaT YOu cAm’T SEE it… I’LL chEck On yoU LAtER, but I SHouLd go DEaL witH acTaLLy geTTin ThE bees FOr thE hOuseS. YOu caN usE mY reCUPerAcoON toDaY, lOokin IN no RIgHT sTaTe tO BE MOvIN.”

Once again using his unprecedented, caste-granted strength, the boy moved Othamo enough to slip the cover away from under him and help him ease into the slime underneath. Jezakk remembered how warm and relieving the sopor was, especially for physical pain. He’d installed a special heating apparatus underneath it so he - or another recipient - wouldn’t get cold in the harsher Alternian months. Turning this on and walking towards the door, Jezakk flashed Othamo an equally warm smile that would go unseen, but was nice regardless. Feeling a deeper sense of satisfaction than he had in sweeps, the tinkerer flicked the lights off and partially drew the door closed.

“HAve A gOOd rEsT, BRoTHer. yoU dEsERvE it. I’m pROuD oF yoU.”

[allzelemonz]

NSFW Alphabet: Freakshow

Pronouns: None mentioned Physical Sex: Either, wording is neutral Rating: M/Smut Warnings: Sex, cum, dirty talk, oral, unconventional toys

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He always lies awake and plays with your hair, giving you the occasional kiss on the forehead. He’ll mumble random things about you or his work until he can bring himself to close his eyes.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and their partner’s)

He cherishes your waist. He loves that it is the perfect size to wrap his arms around. He loves to grip onto it tightly as he fucks you.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves your cum on him. He goes out of his way so that you cum on his face or stomach.

D = Dirty secret (A dirty secret of theirs)

He has a fantasy of using his staff on you. The cold glass ball to rub against your entrance, the pole to penetrate you and prepare you for him.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He was a bit of an outcast growing up, but he has some experience. He knows enough to make you want more.

F = Favorite position (This goes without saying)

Classic and traditional with him on top. He loves having you under his control, under him. The power to make you moan his name is one he holds close to his chest.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

He tells the odd joke here and there with a laugh every once and awhile, but he loves a quiet moment of looking into your eyes as he shows you just how much he loves you.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Not much a hairy guy, you’ve never seen him with any hair down there.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s not the most romantic in the moment. He’ll surprise you with dinner and rose petals leading up to the bed before hand, but once he’s on top of you he has only one goal.

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

Being on the road makes it difficult, but he does when he gets the chance.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He enjoys orgasm denial on you. He loves to control, so being able to bring you to the edge and keep you there is a big turn on for him.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

He loves sex just backstage of the circus. After having just introduced an act and left the crowd with cheers he uses that adrenaline for you.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Dirty talk always gets him going. Begging does as well. Anything to hear your voice yearning for him.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would never let anyone watch you. He loves attention, being a ringmaster, but he can’t stand the idea of any other eyes on you.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He doesn’t like giving oral, but he loves receiving it. Being able to tug at you hair and move your head is what he relishes in.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough or slow and sensual? etc.)

Fast for the moment the thought enters his mind. He only slows down if you persuade him with a bit of begging.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He loves them as long as there’s a private place. It’s during quickies that he leaves hickeys on your neck to show what had happened as you both walk out of the room.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

He’ll do anything if you ask him. As long as it doesn’t involve other people he usually says yes.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

There are nights when he could fuck you until the sun comes up. But, some nights it’s just the one and done. It depends on how much his work takes out of him and how long it’s been since he’s been with you.

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t have traditional toys, but he likes to use other things on you. With all the ghostly artifacts and riches he has there is a never ending chain ‘toys’.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

If he has the time he loves to leave you hanging and begging for more.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t hold back. He loves to hear you scream his name as he moans into your ear.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon for the character)

He will often leave you lingerie or some sort of sexy clothing for you to have on when he comes back from a show. The eyes he makes at you when he gets back turn you on more than him seeing you in the clothes.

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s packing. If you don’t believe me, look at his feet in pictures. They say foot size is comparable to the penis. So he is magnum for sure.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

If it weren’t for his anemia he would have a higher drive, but he manages to match you most of the time.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He has trouble sleeping every night. So, he lies awake long after you’ve fallen asleep.

[carmenlire]

Hands Tied

Part 5 of my Mafia AU!

read on ao3

Pain seizes through Alec and it’s only instinct, well-honed, that keeps him from crying out.

“Lightwood, Lightwood, Lightwood,” someone chastises him, tone equal parts mocking and gleeful. A grunt escapes him as his hair is suddenly caught in a vise grip and yanked back to expose his throat. He feels the sharp edge of a knife dig into the side of his neck, suppresses a shiver at the rivulet of blood he feels trickle into his collar. “You should have known your place.”

It takes a few moments for Alec to blink his eyes open. In those few moments, he catalogs his injuries, notes the bruised-- if not cracked-- ribs that make his breathing wretchedly difficult. He can only imagine what his face looks like as it shimmers between numbness and a burning chill. When he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, he tastes copper and his thigh is throbbing like it caught a particularly nasty kick.

When he finally does open his eyes, he finds the vision in the left is a little blurry but he’s still able to focus on his surroundings. The scene is a familiar one, though the asshole currently thinking he holds all the cards serves as a little variation.

“Aldertree,” Alec grits out and doesn’t try to stop the sneer of disdain at the sight of the man grinning like the cat who’s caught the canary.

Aldertree steps back and that allows Alec space enough to see the empty warehouse, the thousands of square feet of empty space. It looks dingy and just a little too contrived-- like something out of a movie scene, if he’s being honest with himself-- but the man before him has always liked to think of himself as a bit of a ringmaster.

From his periphery he sees a couple of men standing watch at the only entrance to the room. They both look bored, hands resting idly on their guns, and Alec wonders how long until the next step unfolds.

Aldertree sighs. Alec focuses his attention back on the fucking snake in front of him and raises a single brow. Just that little action hurts like a bitch but Alec’s long since learned that appearances will always matter most in tableaus like this. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Aldertree?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Aldertree takes a step back. All the better to peer down on me like I’m his goddamn peasant, Alec thinks to himself but he keeps his expression still.

Aldertree shakes his head slowly as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a handkerchief that he uses to wipe the blade of his knife. Once that’s done, he carefully folds the stained linen until the blood is hidden away and slips it back into his pocket with a moue of distaste. The knife disappears, as well.

“A little birdie told me that you had your eye on the eastern front of my territory,” Aldertree drawls as he looks at Alec with dark eyes.

They look almost warm in the dim light.

“That little birdie told me that you were had designs on the gambling dens in that neighborhood and, well, that accounts for almost thirty percent of my revenue.” Aldertree tuts. “We can’t have you cutting into my profits. Now can we, Lightwood?”

Alec’s face is blank as he simply asks, “And who is this informant of yours? Surely you’re not believing rumors from any pathetic little street runner who comes your way?”

“Oh no, Lightwood. My sources are always above reproach.” Like the pompous asshole he is, Aldertree gestures grandly behind him and it’s then that Alec sees a figure appear from the shadows like some sort of fucking phantom.

“Bane,” Alec greets coolly. “What are you doing here?”

Alec watches as Bane steps forward, looking like he’s stepping off a goddamn runway and not fastidiously avoiding the filth of the warehouse as he comes into the light. He grins at Alec, lethal around the corners.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Magnus starts and his gaze is unwavering on Alec’s. “You see, I know you’re a newcomer here, darling, but you should know well enough to leave things alone.”

“Things?”

“Yes, things like well-established territory lines.” Magnus moves closer until he’s standing just in front of Alec and then he leans down. His voice softens until it’s just a whisper, until Alec flicks his gaze over Magnus’s shoulder to see Aldertree straining to hear his next words. “Things like trying to usurp the best player in the game.”

Without warning, Magnus’s hand is on Alec’s neck, fingers tightening in a sinister threat. Alec swallows hard and watches the way Magnus’s eyes darken as he feels the ripple under his hand.

“I don’t see anything but a little boy trying to fill daddy’s shoes,” Alec forces out. “Asmodeus ran the empire but he's dead, Bane. He’s dead and all that’s left is you and a half dozen petty criminals playing at kings. I see an opportunity and the way things stand now, the whole fucking city’s ripe for the taking.”

Alec meets Magnus’s considering gaze. For all he cares, it’s just the two of them. Aldertree, standing behind Magnus, huffs in indignation but like this, with Magnus so close that Alec can feel his breath, it’s clear who the real players are.

“Is that so, darling?” Magnus’s mouth curves into the faintest smirk and it’s all the warning Alec gets before he’s suddenly forced up by the hand still lingering on his throat and shoved backwards. His chair topples loudly in the otherwise still room but Bane doesn't pay it any mind.

He trips over his feet but Magnus doesn’t let that deter him as he pushes Alec until his back makes painful contact with the nearest wall. He grunts in surprise and feels the ache in his already sore ribs before Magnus’s hold on him changes. He grabs a handful of Alec’s once pristine shirt and pulls him toward him before unceremoniously turning him and shoving his face into brick that’s at least a decade overdue for a good scrubbing.

“You fucker,” Alec spits out and gets nothing but a mocking laugh and a mouthful of gritty dust for his trouble.

Bane presses him against the wall and behind him Alec can hear the sounds of a gun’s safety being flipped off, the cool slide of a blade from its sheath.

“You should have run away when you had the chance,” Magnus whispers in Alec’s ear. He stills himself against a reaction, knows in the tone of Magnus’s voice that he felt his tremor anyway. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you about little Goldilocks who bit off more than she could chew?”

Relaxing against the damned uncomfortable brick, Alec sucks in a breath as he feels hands cover his own bound ones, as he feels rope give way. He closes his eyes, keeping his hands together and puts his trust in Magnus for the hundredth time.

In a voice too low to be overheard, Alec replies, “You know what they say, Bane. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Magnus noses along the back of Alec’s neck for a split second-- Alec feeling the ghost of Magnus’s breath more than anything else-- before abruptly pulling back to look over his shoulder at the three men still in the room.

“You really worked Lightwood over, didn’t you, Aldertree?” Facing forward again, only Alec hears the sly aside muttered in silk tones, “But you do like it messy, don’t you, Alexander?”

He bites back a grin as Magnus’s attention is once more shifted back to Aldertree and his lackeys. His eyes are still closed as he feels the blunt edge of a knife slide along his palm before it disappears along his sleeve. With a last, covert sweep of a hand along his ass, Magnus steps back and everything in the room chills as Alec feels a gun rest on the back of his head and hears it cock back.

“Now, Bane,” comes Aldertree’s soothing voice. Or, what Alec imagines would be soothing if the smug undertone wasn’t clearly audible. “Are you sure that’s necessary? Don’t want the poor boy to piss himself.”

Magnus hums a little. “I’m surprised at you, Victor. I would’ve thought you’d want Lightwood’s head on a pike for the way he’d planned to cheat you. Never say you’re going soft in your old age.”

Aldertree’s laugh holds a bite as he moves closer, heels tapping along the cracked cement. “Don’t you worry about me, Bane. I’m just trying to be the voice of reason here. Are you sure he doesn’t hold any further information that could be of use?”

“Good point.” Magnus nudges Alec with the gun and Alec can hear the smirk in his voice as he asks, “Well, Lightwood? Maybe if you’re a good boy, we’ll let you leave this place alive.”

Alec barks out a laugh. “Go fuck yourself.”

His laughter is cut off quickly as Aldertree lunges forward. From the corner of his eye, Alec sees Magnus step back and watch the proceedings calmly as Aldertree turns Alec until he has a clear angle and then Alec’s served with a neat right cross. His vision wavers and it takes everything he has to keep his cool and not break character.

It wouldn’t do to ruin the scene before its time.

Alec doesn’t react to the punch, just lets himself be hauled back up until Aldertree’s snarling face appears. “I think you need to learn some respect, Lightwood. It’s been less than a year since Robert died and I think I speak for everyone when I say, we’ve allowed you to play long enough.”

It takes more effort than it should to straighten and Alec’s breath is forced as he sneers. “And who the fuck are you to teach me some respect? You’re nothing but a pathetic snake of a man who makes his men do his bidding. That’s you’re problem, Aldertree. You don’t know how to dirty your hands anymore. You’re a goddamn coward.”

“You little bitch,” Aldertree grits out but his voice dies before he can spew anymore vitriolic bullshit.

He stares at Alec, stunned, and Alec just grins. His eyes glitter in the low light as he twists the hilt of his knife.

Aldertree groans, low and pained, but it’s drowned out by two neat gunshots. Alec looks over Aldertree’s slumped form to see Magnus studying the two lackeys on the ground as he tucks his revolver back into his waistband.

“Thanks, babe.”

Magnus raises a brow. “No problem, babe,” he replies dryly.

Alec turns back to look at Aldertree and his shock is both palpable and so goddamn satisfying.

“What,” he mutters. “How?”

Alec pulls the knife out of Aldertree’s gut, carelessly wiping the blood on Aldertree’s shoulder. With his free hand, he grabs Aldertree’s chin and forces eye contact. “Bane came to you with news of my planned takeover. Like a little lamb, you believed him and the two of you, in turn, made a plan to capture me. You wanted to show me a lesson.”

Alec leans down until there’s nothing in Aldertree’s sight but him and the evidence that he’s been beat. “But here’s the thing,” Alec continues softly. “Like the dumb little bitch you are, Magnus played you. Magnus and I are a team, Aldertree. We devised our own plan and with you out of the way, that frees up the entire east side of the city. Magnus and I thank you for your sacrifice.”

Without another word, Alec straightens and wraps a hand in Aldertree’s hair, coming round until he’s standing behind him. He yanks Aldertree’s head back and brings his lips to Aldertree’s ears as he makes eye contact with Magnus. “How does it feel to know you’re a dead man, Aldertree?”

It takes some effort but Aldertree finally gets out, “How does nobody know about this alliance of yours? Everyone thinks you and Bane are rivals.”

Magnus watches the scene in front of him with a bemused look. “Oh, Victor,” he sighs. “This job doesn’t allow for any weaknesses. Alexander and I protect each other and the best way to do that is to minimize the other’s role in our lives. You should know better than anyone else what happens when vulnerabilities are exposed.”

“Don’t you dare, Bane,” Aldertree snarls. “You keep her name out of your filthy fucking mouth--”

Magnus’s gaze hardens, though his posture doesn’t tense as he looks at Aldertree like a particularly pitiful bug under his microscope. “You should be happy, Aldertree. You’ll join your lost love soon enough.” He smiles but it’s bitter. “While it’s unfortunate that you won’t be leaving in the same condition you left my poor Alexander, rest well in knowing that dead men know no recompense.”

“The Lightwoods send their regards,” Alec murmurs and then he’s bringing the knife up to Aldertree’s throat and slitting it in a gruesome parody of a smile.

Tossing Aldertree to the grounds, where he lays unmoving, if not silent, Alec looks up at Magnus. “You really let him do whatever the fuck he wanted?”

Magnus frowns a little as he nears Alec and takes out his own handkerchief to dab at his split lip, making a soothing sound when he dabs a little to hard and Alec hisses. “We both knew what this plan involved, Alexander. We had to sell it and I couldn’t very well do that if I was fluttering around you like a worried aunt. Besides,” Magnus utters with a smirk that has Alec preemptively rolling his eyes. “You do like it rough, darling.”

Alec scoffs and finally lets his strings cut. Magnus catches him as he almost doubles over from the aches ringing out all over his body. “At least everything went according to plan.”

“Our respective territories are considerably larger and our profits will both increase dramatically. All in a day’s work. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

Magnus’s voice is much too chipper for the way Alec feels like he’s been put through a meat grinder. Making some noise of agreement, Alec lets his eyes close as Magnus starts them toward the exit.

“You’re sure he was only accompanied by two men. There’s no one else standing guard outside or in the vicinity.”

“No, Aldertree didn’t trust most of his men with such a delicate operation. He wanted everything kept hush hush so that when your men tried to find the truth, there wouldn’t be anyone to tell. We’ve killed the only three people who knew of this little scheme-- and who might have had an inkling about us.”

“Good,” Alec mutters and he groans a little in pain as he’s jostled at the front door. Magnus stops him and just looks at him for a long moment.

Alec’s just set to ask him what’s wrong when Magnus brings him closer with gentle hands on his jaw and brings him down for a soft kiss. It lasts barely a second and when they break apart, Magnus’s expression is more open than Alec’s ever seen it.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt, Alexander.”

Alec laughs, just a little, more of a huff of air than anything else. “Well, I don’t like being hurt so it looks like we’re in agreement there.”

“I’m serious,” Magnus says and it stills Alec. “I had to watch Aldertree and his men beat you into submission without flinching and I think it might just have been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It took everything I had not to rip Aldertree limb from limb for even daring to lay a hand on you.”

“I’m sorry,” Alec offers helplessly but he’s cut off before he can add anything else.

“I don’t need you to be sorry, Alec. This is our life and we both know what that means. I just wish--” Magnus breaks off, frustrated and Alec takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Magnus and pull him closer for a heartbeat or several.

“Sometimes I wish this wasn’t our life,” Alec murmurs and he feels Magnus still against him. “Sometimes I wish I was just Alec and you were just Magnus and we were free to do whatever we goddamn liked. There’s something alluring about simplicity, isn’t there?”

Magnus is silent for a long moment before he sighs, melting in Alec for a minute before he pulls back to smile up at him. “Perhaps,” he allows. “But we both know we’d be bored to tears if we were just Magnus and Alec. The fact of the matter is, Alexander, that I want you anyway I can have you. If that means, in between dodging bullets and making underhanded deals, then so be it.”

Alec brushes his lips over Magnus’s forehead and breathes him in. “You have me, Magnus. For however long you like.”

All that escapes Magnus is a quiet but fervent, “Good.”

Alec smiles a little as Magnus reaches for the door. “I assume your car is waiting outside?”

With a quiet scoff, Magnus replies, “Of course it is, darling. I’m taking you back to mine so I can make sure you take the proper time to recover. I’m sure you can spare a night or two. Just tell Jack that you needed some alone time. He knows how broody you can get.”

Alec’s laughing a little as Magnus pulls back the door but it quickly turns into a squint against the harsh sunlight. He’s just about to walk outside when he hears someone call his name and he freezes, Magnus still behind the open door with a hand on Alec’s arm.

“Alec?”

Looking up, the first thing he sees is Magnus’s unmarked car up the block. His focus is immediately captured by his brother just a few meters from him, however, and Alec rapidly blinks. “Jace? What the hell are you doing here?”

“What do you think? Your driver reported that you never came out of the club and when we checked video surveillance, we saw you get abducted by that bastard Aldertree.”

Alec feels Magnus fall away like a ghost through shadows and it takes considerably more effort than it should for Alec to keep from looking over his shoulder as his boyfriend vanishes between one heartbeat and the next.

Shaking his head a little to clear it and then grimacing as it wakes up the headache that’s been tap dancing on his temples for some time now, Alec just nods grimly. “Aldertree did kidnap me-- something about wanting my territory-- but don’t worry, Jace. I took care of him.”

Jace comes to stand just in front of Alec, running critical eyes over his injuries before summarily dismissing them. They’ve both had worse.

He ducks past Alec and takes in the scene on the warehouse floor, whistling lowly. “Jesus Christ, you sure did a number on them.” He rakes assessing eyes over Alec. “Mighty impressive for your condition, bro.”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Alec dodges Jace’s piercing gaze. “You know how it is.” He gestures vaguely. “Adrenaline and all that shit. With Aldertree gone, though, our holdings have just increased.”

Jace hums, pleased. “Nice.”

Alec shuffles from one foot to the other. Jace ignores him for a few long moments, taking in the scene with the eye of a detective before turning back to his brother.

“Well, what’s done is done. Let’s get you home where you can take it easy for a few days and I’ll send a few men over here to clean everything up.”

Alec doesn’t respond, simply nods and turns toward the door. He doesn’t look back, just makes a beeline for his car idling in front of the building.

Jace follows him closely but just as he reaches the steel door, he pauses. He watches the driver hold open the door as his brother climbs into the back seat. With Alec safely in the car, Jace looks over his shoulder, peering into the shadows that linger along the edge of the warehouse.

He represses a shiver as he carefully runs his gaze from corner to corner.

He could swear he feels eyes on him as he leaves the warehouse, wonders to himself if what he sees is really all there is or if something’s hiding in plain sight.

Something tells him that that not everything is as it seems and Jace learned long ago to never ignore his gut.

As he turns back to his brother, Jace doesn’t falter as he hears footsteps echoing across cement, cheerful whistling following in their wake as they fade away.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG165! X_X

- I really wasn’t expecting to hear the calliope music again one day! That took me back to the end of season 3 – it felt like another (successful) Unknowing, a glimpse of what would have happened if the Circus had pulled through in MAG118/MAG119?

Also, confirmation that Tim definitely got his revenge and blew up the Circus to pieces, including Grimaldi/Nikola:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [LOW] I’m hoping if we’re quick, we can avoid her notice. MARTIN: “Her”? [SILENCE] J–Jon, please, don’t tell me there’s an evil clown doll down there– ARCHIVIST: No– MARTIN: –because… ARCHIVIST: N–no, Nikola died with The Unknowing; it’s, uh… [INHALE] An old friend.

At least, Tim got that T__T

- The pattern of beginning the statement with “There is…” already got broken with this one:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: … Wha…? [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] … “There is a place, deep in the heart of Fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. [STATIC DECREASES] It was once a cabin, and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite… it is a trap.”

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: … Alright, then. [INHALE] [SIGH] [STATIC RISES] “There is a wound in the earth. [STATIC DECREASES] A bayonet gouge, scored through the soft and sodden mud for uncounted miles. A trench that marks the front line of a war that has no name. It has always been raging, deep in the hearts of the powerful and those that thirst to see bodies piled high in their name.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss; but as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and the voices that come from behind the inhabitants’ masks… are hoarse, and wet. They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] … Right. [STATIC RISES] “Your face is not your face is not your face [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] around the curling carousel, it twists in place to take from you and all the tattered stolen souls whose sense of ‘me’ is swollen and distended into nothing.

Could be because The Stranger (/the Circus/identity thieves/I-Do-Not-Know-You) is Like That and can’t conform to little boxes, or could be because there isn’t really a “pattern” to begin with, we’ll see with the next nightmare pockets.

Consistency-wise: the use of “you” (as a way to include/pull the listeners in?) went through the roof, but was understandable – “you” is “something/someone who isn’t me, in front of me”, and doesn’t need to be as personified as third person. Jon once again used “End recording” at the end of the ~statement~, which is… a reminder that 1°) these aren’t really statements as we knew them (Jon has never labelled them as such; actually, the only times characters have mentioned “statement(s)” this season were dead people mentioning them in the tapes Jon was listening to in the first two episodes); 2°) there is still that recording/pouring-into-the-tapes thing going on, that Jon is aware of, even if the tapes weren’t relevant in this episode for themselves. Unclear whether Jon had any influence on the tape recorder clicking on both times in the episode, or whether it autonomously reacted to stuff (Jon&Martin approaching the Merry-Go-Round, Jon&Martin walking along the edge of it while the Not!Them was coming close… or just because Jon&Martin were chatting about personal things?).

Still *squint* at what the heck is happening thanks to/through the tape recorders at the moment – it still reminds me of Albrecht von Closen pouring out his stories to Jonathan Fanshawe, there is still the possibility that Jon is feeding the tapes themselves to create something even worse, and mmmmm… (New kinds of Leitner books?)

- I’ve already forgotten almost everything I used to know about English poetry, but lots of iambic constructions (up and down) combined with lots of ternary syntactic structures (round, circularity)? My references are mostly French, but the work on sounds really reminded me of Antonin Artaud’s – though way faster, fittingly, since it was also a relentless chase in which selves kept getting stolen and lost (and so was my attention). Beautiful piece, but ooft did it keep losing me before I was picked back up and forced to run with the words again.

Lots of themes that we had seen with the Circus in previous manifestations:

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you. […] Tim… TIM: … Grimaldi. NIKOLA: Once, a long time ago, before Orsinov made me. And sometimes, even now, on special occasions. Like your brother!

(MAG128, Breekon) “When we left our destination, the mule whining at the new weight behind it, he would reach behind us and find a face, sagging, sloughing off its skull, and would pull it to him. He’d place it over the one he wore already, and he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Sometimes it fell off. Sometimes it stayed for weeks. I kept the face we chose, but I loved him for our levity, and the corpses piled ever higher. […] But with the Circus we were amongst our own kind at last. They all had names, true enough, but none would dare pretend that names were real. Faces changed more often than clothes, and nobody truly knew who anybody was, save for their function within the show. […] We didn’t like the puppet, when Orsinov began to carve it. It seemed wrong to us to try and bring one like us about; to create or remake it in such a solid, static shape. We were wrong, of course. When Orsinov carved into the thing that had once called itself Grimaldi, and fed the pieces they didn’t need to the shuddering organist, even we found ourselves impressed. And when the faceless puppet peeled its creator and moved itself with their tendon strings, he looked at me… and laughed… and laughed…”

Identity loss, the loss of self, permutability. But it’s interesting that it fit so well to the other Circus members we had encountered and… still was incredibly Hunt-y, with the premise of an ongoing chase where the victims become the new mob of predators (who may become victims once again if they are successful, etc.), taking place in a circular space, where things can never truly end. Really reminiscent of the concept of The Everchase, I feel? Fears bleeding into each other, etc.

(There could be something about a “(word) chain” of Fears, since MAG163 was mostly Slaughter/War and had bits of Corruption with the medical malpractices, then MAG164 was Corruption with what was identified as “strangers” being targeted more heavily, then MAG165 being Stranger with very a Hunt logic, which would lead to MAG166 going for Hunt… But I’m not really feeling it.)

- It wasn’t clear in MAG164, but this one also made explicit that people in the nightmares can’t really die-die – either they seem to respawn (or get stuck in a nightmare inside of a nightmare inside of a nightmare etc.?), either they just… can’t:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “There is a rumbling in the earth around him, as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror, before being reduced to a smear in the mud. […] Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. You lie there in the fugue of vivid pain and feel that gentle rain from violence overhead, as some fall dead or close as this place lets you lie, for truly thus to die would be too eager an escape; and listen to the ebb and swell of slow, melodic wail that well you know conducts the flowing rhythm laced into this endless, faceless dance.”

Does The End feel cheated, or is the fear of dying (or the fear of not being allowed to die) enough to feed it? Will we meet a pocket mostly dominated by a facet of The End…?

- I wonder if we’ll meet people not yet taken by a “place” since we got a couple mentions of an outside/inside and people still coming in…

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “But no, for all the dreams of bounding, leaping off into the great Unknown, you see the ring of broken mewling wretches who have shown the sting that comes with such rejection of the truth, so seldom spoken yet inside you all, that there is no – way – off the merry-go-round. […] It’s not the same as what you had when first you climbed the brightly painted stairs, but not the worst “who” you have been.”

Are the places making people feel like they could leave/that there are newcomers, when they’ve actually been stuck here forever? Or are there people who are still “free” until they’re taken by one of the places? (I mean, outside of main characters: we already know that Daisy is tearing through these places, and that Basira is following her (though that… sounds like a Hunt nightmare in itself), and Jon was unable to tell where Melanie&Georgie were – so unless they’ve been taken by a Dark nightmare, they’re probably outside of the boxes somehow.)

- I’m still trying to narrow down what is making me feel uneasy this season so far, and it’s sadly not something that will be warned for in the content warnings: it’s… about the whole ideology regarding free-will, agency, guilt and responsibility.

So far, all the “nightmares” we have encountered made it clear that it was, yes, people prisoners of a nightmare tailored to make them suffer, but also in which… most of the violence was committed by people against people:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Something moves outside, struggling to crawl upon a hundred reaching grasping hands. It shudders, and grips the earth, pulling itself along as nails rip free and skin scrapes loose. It is afraid of what it has become, and where it might be going. […] Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Ishaan had been afraid, terrified that they were going to strap him to it, pin him to the Goliath’s hull like all the other flayed flags of war, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. But instead they fed him to it, tossed him into its burning innards and sealed the hatch behind him. Now, his body has contorted itself to fit, his fingers clutched around the firing lever; pulling it frantically is the only thing that will reduce the impossible heat even for a moment. From the tiny slit in the metal, he can see other soldiers: baby-faced friends and the monstrous, pig-faced enemy, both falling beneath his iron coffin’s advance. He tries to cry, but his tears turn to steam. […] Hasanna’s eyes fall on the entrance to the tent, and she sees the line of civilians, stretching away into the distance. They are no less maimed, their agonies no more bearable; but there is simply no room. She tries to apologise – but instead, she closes the tent. […] Far in the distance, she sees Alexei look out over the battlefield, and her stomach turns at the detestable wrongness of his face. Alexei in turn looks out from deep in the trench. He catches sight of the enemy, their shrivelled rat-like heads causing the bile to rise in his throat.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “It is, alas, those who are unblemished that suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean, that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory: an invisible infection. A hundred Typhoid Marys spreading mildew and decay. […] For no one would speak up if Gillian Smith were to mark you infected, or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green. […] What Mrs Kim is… is scared. Scared of her neighbours, scared of her friends, scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back and decide she is infected, or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather’s day, and judge her to be an outsider. Should she accuse someone else? Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the council, though that would invite their attention as much as anything might. Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub; but what can she do? When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatched roof, she knows it is too late.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wish to have a name, it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close. You want a face? Take it. There are so many here; and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness. […] You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people. […] then comes the briefest flash that surely now it’s done, so much, perhaps… the pain will be somewhat lessened. There’s no way it could hurt as much as you remember. But it does. And so of course, you scream, and scream; and curses, foul, obscene will tumble garbled over where there once sat other people’s lips or yours now gone, and teeth that once shone yellowed ivory a crimson in the flowing sanguine flood. And as you lie in agonies and fading dreams of personhood, of knowing who you were and what that might have meant, you hear the bitter whisper of recriminating seekers, who have found the treasure of their eager dreams, but see, it seems there’s not enough… for all. And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. […] You are, of course, a faceless thing as well, and so should quickly match the pace of those who chase the self-same prey. But now, it is too late, they’ve gone. Their chase will not abate until their former friend is ripped apart in turn. And you have learned to wait. For there are many faces out upon the carousel, and many names that you might be. So bide your time a while and wait the coming of another one whose fate and face might sit upon your grinning carmine skull.

And I feel like there has been a shift compared to statements in previous seasons: it used to be monsters or eldritch things going after people, but we also got people trapped in these oppressive systems, who could have chosen their survival over others’… and still said “no”. Is that even possible in the nightmares? Are we assuming that people are constantly remade in order to keep the circles of violence going (in order to serve them) and that it’s going past a mere influence, that it’s erasing any responsibility in their actions? Or is it still an individual choice and are we heading towards the idea that anyone (or 99.99% of people) would choose to inflict direct violence against others if it means lessening their own pain? (I’m honestly super uncomfy about the latter idea, because it feels bleak and edgy to me, because it’s hard to forget that in this reasoning, marginalised people would always have it worse, and because it narratively feels like “cheating” to have Jon&Martin on the frontline, who are super fluffy and obviously wouldn’t push the other under a bus for their survival… while other people would just be eh, people. ;;) In summary: can people currently be held accountable for their actions, in the same way Daisy took responsibility for her Hunt-influenced actions, or are they deprived of any choice?

Interesting, though, is that in these nightmares, we… have never seen families or groups of friends, so far (Charlie had one, who seemed to exist just to get killed? The fungus village had neighbours who didn’t seem to know much about each other?). It feels like in rewriting reality, the Fears have also isolated people, fractured their previous social links to impose new “societies” with their own rules and mechanisms? Jon, at least, still labels them as “victims” even when aware of what is happening:

(MAG165) MARTIN: Because, uh… [LOWER] I really don’t like the look of those riders. ARCHIVIST: Would you believe me if I said they were the victims? MARTIN: … At this point, I’m not even surprised.

But I’m kind of wary and expecting an argument to be made about how Human Nature Is Fundamentally Selfish or something like this, precisely when The Web is lurking around and had such a knack for the theme of free will… ;;

- What does Jon know that he’s not sharing with Martin? He confirmed that they needed to “experience” these places to reach the Panopticon:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: Martin… It’s going to be a hard journey. MARTIN: [RELIEVED EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: One– MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, yeah– ARCHIVIST: –in which we… MARTIN: –so, I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while, now! [HEAVY ITEM DROPPED] ARCHIVIST: Oh! MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in-between. […] Nightmares. [BANG IN THE DISTANCE] Come on – that trench is our first. […] MARTIN: Jon… I’m scared. ARCHIVIST: … Yes… That’s the idea…!

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: We’re fine. MARTIN: A–are we? I mean, that place is– … I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your… y–you–your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is… I–it’s–it’s infectious, and, I don’t– ARCHIVIST: We’re not infected, Martin, that place, it– … It isn’t for us.

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them. MARTIN: Hm! [SILENCE] D’you think we could get that experience just… walking along the edge?

And his explanation of what they need to do is getting a bit more precise every time.

* It’s not only about Jon experiencing the places, it’s about them experiencing the places. Makes sense since they’re on a journey to the Panopticon, but still interesting: Jon gets overwhelmed by the places to the point of needing to do his “guidebook”; Martin doesn’t, past his discomfort/casual fears, but it’s working anyway. What is happening with Jon…?

* Fear.jpg because “experiencing” them had been mentioned by Elias/Jonah as a way to prepare Jon towards his goals:

(MAG092) ELIAS: [SIGH] What are you? ARCHIVIST: I… The Archivist. ELIAS: Precisely. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well… ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t please your master? ELIAS: Our master, Jon.

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Because the thing about the Archivist is that… well: it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named “the Archive”. Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon – you are a record of fear. Both in mind, as you walk the shuddering dread of each statement; and in body, as the Powers each leave their mark upon you. You are a living chronicle of terror.”

So what is happening exactly…? Is it because Jon simply needs to “experience” the various layers of the new world before reaching the centre of the storm? Are these steps actually “undoing” — or furthering — something…?

- Also confirmation that Martin&Jon seem immune to what is happening, as long as they don’t push their luck:

(MAG161) MARTIN: … Are we still safe? ARCHIVIST: Y–yes, it… it doesn’t want to harm me. MARTIN: And me? ARCHIVIST: I won’t let it.

(MAG163) MARTIN: Good. Good. [SILENCE PUNCTUATED BY PANTING] … J–J–Jon, Jon, w–we’re not alone. ARCHIVIST: I–ignore them, they’re not… Just ignore them. MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. […] MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. […] MARTIN: Jon, do we– do we need to run? NOT!SASHA: Oh, yes, Martin, you very much do. I’ll even give you a head start! ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: You’re bold! [FOOTSTEPS] I’ll give you that. NOT!SASHA: [HISSING] Last chance…! ARCHIVIST: Desperate for one last morsel of terror from us? NOT!SASHA: [HISSES] ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] A final sip, and then we’re gone! Somehow we manage to keep just ahead of you and get away. NOT!SASHA: [SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: God forbid you actually catch us. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: Doesn’t bear thinking about…! MARTIN: Jon, what are you talking about? NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She can’t touch us. We’re so far beyond her now. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…!

Is it only because Jon is the Archivist, is it thanks to their connection to the Institute/the Eye (… after all, Basira apparently wasn’t taken)? What would happen to Martin if he were to be separated from Jon?

Also curious that both the Not!Them and The Distortion are what I would label “monsters” (as Martin&Simon did in MAG151), and yet the Not!Them was shown trapped… and Helen is roaming free. Did The Distortion lie about its own contentment in the new world? Did it get a better seat thanks to its connection to the Institute, since its Door had often appeared in the tunnels? (Helen had told Jon that this is how she knew a bit more about the tunnels, back in season 4.)

- Martin’s poetry is back as a theme! (Not included: Tim recording over one of Martin’s poems in MAG079.)

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: I’m glad [Martin]’s moved out of the Archives, as it gives me a chance to work here without his constant presence. Also because he managed to leave some of his possessions behind. For the most part it’s just a few books of… relatively awful poetry… There are a few pieces I feel could almost have been affecting if his style wasn’t so obviously enamoured with Keats […].

(MAG124) MARTIN: Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, I’m… I’m alright, uh… Everything’s… fine. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Hum. … H–how’s… How–how’s the poetry? MARTIN: Oh, uh– Well, I haven’t… exactly had a lot of time recently, so… ARCHIVIST: Yes, uh… Of course… MARTIN: Hm. ARCHIVIST: You’ve been busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: …

(MAG165) MARTIN: So was it any good? ARCHIVIST: U–uh… What do you mean? MARTIN: Was it a good poem? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know! “No”? You’re the poetry expert, Martin, not me…! MARTIN: Well, did it stir any feeling in you? ARCHIVIST: Yes! “Nausea”. Because of the horrible things in it! MARTIN: That’s not quite what I meant. ARCHIVIST: Then I don’t know what you mean, Martin, I’m not a poetry person, I don’t… “get it”. I never have. MARTIN: That’s… That’s fine, I understand…! ARCHIVIST: Look. I’m better than I was; I used to think all poetry was bad. MARTIN: Sorry, what?! ARCHIVIST: I mean, I just thought of… [SIGH] I sort of thought it was pointless! Just… write some prose and stop… wasting everyone’s time! MARTIN: Hm! What changed? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know, I just… mellowed on it, I suppose. MARTIN: That’s… kind of weird. ARCHIVIST: In my defence, there is a lot of bad poetry out there.

* With this new information: it’s actually BIG from Jon that he had qualified Martin’s poetry as “almost affecting” given his personal feelings about poetry in general.

* Obviously, I want to tease Jon mercilessly about the idea that he began to mellow down on poetry since someone he was developing a crush on liked it so much… But also, just simply, people’s tastes change.

* … Okay, so if Jon managed to survive uni without getting poetry at all, either he did really well besides that, either it rules out that his degree might have been in literature. (History could fit him well?)

* … I find it interesting how Martin somehow managed to… not say anything about himself in this episode? We learned a few things about Jon – that he had fond memories of the London Zoo carousel, that he was in a bad mental space at a point before the Institute (break-up with Georgie? Being thrown in a new city for his academic studies, leaving Bournemouth? “Regular” student stress?), that he doesn’t get poetry but that his opinion has changed on it a bit.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway. ARCHIVIST: No? You… gone on any recently? MARTIN: What? Uh– No, I don’t think so, not since I was a kid. ARCHIVIST: Hm! I actually, uh… There’s one at London Zoo – uh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually, su–… [CHUCKLE] Surprisingly thrilling. MARTIN: [BURSTS OUT LAUGHING] ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Seriously? ARCHIVIST: It was years back, before the Institute, I… I was in a weird place. Had a good time, though! MARTIN: [CHUCKLES] Well! ARCHIVIST: I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want to ride this one, we’ve got… quite enough thrills already. MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. [SILENCE]

But Martin? Asked questions for Jon to answer, but managed to avoid having to tell anything about his own past. It’s not really surprising, it’s kinda fitting – Martin has probably got into the habit of not telling much about himself because of his fake credentials and his fake age? But still, I wonder if he will talk about himself at some point… (I still feel like we’re missing his own perspective on his mother or Tim, for example, since these subjects were mostly mentioned by other people and Martin only even mentioned his mother’s death when he poured his heart out at Peter&Elias in MAG158).

- I randomly really really love Martin’s nasal “Fine by me”:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: What about Daisy? MARTIN: Don’t see her much. Which is fine by me. [UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE]

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.

Martin…

- … So, hearing Not!Sasha like this confirms that she didn’t “take” Julia or Trevor! (I guess that one of them could have died from her attack or Daisy’s, but… at the very least, the Not!Them didn’t take on a new identity through them.)

- There are various ways of interpreting what the Not!Them said about Martin:

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… and my favourites are either that Martin indeed big, either she was making a tease about them (aND THEY’VE BEEN ROOMMATES).

- Jon Has Upgraded – the Not!Them used to call him “Jon” as a taunt, and now…

(MAG078) NOT!SASHA (HEAVILY DISTORTED, DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Er… I… [SOUND OF A CREAKY DOOR OPENING] MICHAEL: You – need – a door.

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Oh Christ. […] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooon… Jooooon… Come out, come out, wherever you are. ARCHIVIST: [SCARED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): It’s okay Jon; it’s Sasha. Reliable old Sasha. Nothing to be afraid of. … You seem stressed, Jon. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. You should talk about it. Have a real good chat. You like talking, don’t you, Jon? … I’m going to wear you, Jon. […] I’m glad we got a chance to run, Jon. It makes it so much more satisfying.

(MAG158) NOT!SASHA: [MUFFLED, HEAVILY DISTORTED] Jooo–ooon~! [SOUND OF STONE AND BRICK SHIFTING, LOUDER, THEN GRADUALLY STOPPING] NOT!SASHA: [HEAVILY DISTORTED] [PANTS] So you finally decided to let me out, Jon! Joooo–oooon~! … Who’s there? MARTIN: [PANICKED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA: Who let me out? [SILENCE] Don’t be shy. I just want to say thank you. [SILENCE] All right, have it your way. Now, if you’ll excuse me: I have some unfinished business. [MENACING SATISFIED LAUGHTER] […] [CRASHING SOUND] NOT!SASHA: Hello, Jon. DAISY: Oh, shit! ARCHIVIST: You gotta be fucking kidding m–

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Eh! My dearest colleagues…! MARTIN: Just get back! [THUMP] NOT!SASHA: I can’t believe you’d decide to pass through my neighbourhood and not say hello, to – dear – old – Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Just ignore it, Martin. NOT!SASHA: Oh, you wound me, Archivist. And we used to be so close! […] And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… it’s “Archivist”. He’s really had a special status/power-up, uh?

- So, The Distortion is having a blast in the new world (MAG164), or so it says… but it’s not fundamentally the case for all monsters/avatars out there. It makes sense for The Stranger since it had been presented as opposed to The Eye:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people. Then one day it was sent to the house of its enemy, which had the biggest eyes you ever did see. The monster was sent there to steal all its secrets, but it was sad because it couldn't scare anyone any more.

(MAG092) ELIAS: The Stranger is antithetical to us. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH HEAVILY] ELIAS: We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing. And my explaining things is simply not enough.

(MAG119) SARAH: You… idiot! Do you really think the world will fare any better under the Watcher? You think you’re saving anyone?

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…! NOT!SASHA: Well, of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master! Do you know how it feels? To be… anonymous, and yet known? To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye! I’ve suffered enough!

So people from the (survivors of the) cult of the Divine Host probably won’t be extremely happy about it either – we know that some were still roaming around, Jon had mentioned seeing people with the pendant at the beginning of season 4. Martin mentioned their lack of allies in MAG164, are we heading towards them getting some “help” from unsatisfied avatars…?

- ;; I said I would put the Not!Them amongst the “monsters”, but technically… the victims in the carousel felt like proto-Not!Them themselves? And Not!Sasha had enough reasoning to try to go into denial – pretending that it could still catch and hurt Jon&Martin, while it knew that it couldn’t anyway, but ready to create the illusion that it could. That’s some very human mental structure…

- Sob, but also:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Pathetic. [SHRILL SCREAMS] Martin, let’s go. NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…!

… I really like the description of what she did as “eating Sasha’s life”: it was not only that it killed her; it’s that it erased and reshaped her whole life as a memory and a possible influence on others…

- ;; I’m even happier that we got Sasha’s tapes at the beginning of season 5, because it brought her back as a presence, as an existence, and not only as the concept of “the friend we lost but can’t really remember”. The Not!Them getting killed closes a very long chapter: Sasha’s murder at the end of season 1, which was a wound that kept being reopened (Jon realising that she had died long ago, then Martin&Tim having to learn about it; Nikola teasing Jon about her during The Unknowing; the Not!Them getting freed during the season 4 climax), the fact that the Not!Them had been spotted and described as soon as in MAG003, and also… the first time we heard of Adelard Dekker was when he imprisoned it within the Web table?

I’m especially ;; that The Stranger regularly used Sasha’s murder against Jon, and that it has always been a sore spot… until he snapped:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): … I’m going to wear you, Jon. I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Noone will even know. And it will hurt. Oh, yes, it will hurt. It hurt Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NOT!SASHA (CLOSE AND DISTORTED): There you are. […] ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERING] I’m sorry. Martin, Tim… Sasha. I’m so sorry. I should have… I didn’t… I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

(MAG096) ARCHIVIST: He was a–a tax inspector. He came here, and Daniel Rawlings, or his replacement, showed him something he claimed to be the oldest piece of taxidermy in the world. Gorilla skin from Carthage. SARAH: Heh, was this when you sent your “Sasha” to interrogate us? ARCHIVIST: Don’t you dare talk about– DAISY: Sims. Sims. Shut up and focus.

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Who are you?! NIKOLA: Who am I? Tim, of course! Who else would I be! ARCHIVIST: You’re not– you’re not… Tim. NIKOLA: Oh, you caught me~ I’m… Sasha! ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NIKOLA: No~! Really, it’s me! Sasha– whatever her name was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted~! ARCHIVIST: Get away from me, or, or I swear I’ll… I’ll…

I mean. Yes, if Jon had to lose his temper and go terrifying due to feelings, it would be about Sasha’s murder ;;

- It’s also jarring how Jon used to be terrorised and victimised by monsters, and took the upper hand this time: the dynamic between him and the Not!Them in this episode was an extreme reversal of what had happened at the end of season 2. I’m also curious about how “Jon using his powers against other monsters” has felt more and more threatening over time:

(MAG091) ARCHIVIST: What, I? I–I didn’t– [RUSTLING NOISES] Plea– Please don’t shoot me… [SOUNDS OF PANIC] [STATIC] W–why are you doing this? Tell me! [GURGLES MORE AS DAISY GRABS HIM ROUND THE THROAT] DAISY: Stop – asking – questions.

(MAG101) MICHAEL: I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now…! ARCHIVIST: I… [STATIC] Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me? MICHAEL: [LAUGHS] If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me, but… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them. [MORE LAUGHTER]

(MAG119) NIKOLA&GERTRUDE: A terrible new world and it’s all your fault. GERTRUDE&LEITNER: Though I suppose you never really had a chance ARCHIVIST: … I see you. NIKOLA: Do you, now? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you.

(MAG128) BASIRA: Get. Out. [STATIC RISES] BREEKON: Make. Me. [RATTLING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: Stop. [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND OVER STATIC] BREEKON: What’re you doing? BASIRA: … Jon…? What are you doing? BREEKON: What’re you– Stop it… Stop it! ARCHIVIST: [ECHOING] No. BREEKON: [STRUGGLING, BUZZING INCREASES] Enough! Stop… looking at me! [SCREAMS] [DOOR SLAMMED OPEN, FLEEING FOOTSTEPS WHILE BREEKON IS STILL SCREAMING, DOOR SLAMMING SHUT] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS] [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND FADES] BASIRA: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: It’s fine…!

(MAG159) ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t understand. PETER: And you won’t. Not from me. I’m done. ARCHIVIST: Tell me. [STATIC RISES] PETER: I’m. Not saying. Another. Word. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Tell me, or I will rip it out of you! [STATIC INCREASES] PETER: [STRUGGLING] No…! ARCHIVIST: Answer. My question! PETER: NO! Leave – me – ALONE! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: TELL ME! PETER: [GROANING SCREAM] [RIPPING, EXPLODING SOUND] [STATIC FADES] ARCHIVIST: … Stubborn fool…

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] […] I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay… ARCHIVIST: But, when I thought it… the–there was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] There was something else. Th–this place, it… it didn’t want me, it… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] didn’t want us to go.

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…! [RUMBLING SOUND] [THE CALLIOPE MUSIC DERAILS, TAKES A HIGHER PITCH] ARCHIVIST: … What did you say? [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] NOT!SASHA: [SHAKY BREATHES] I’m–I’m sorry… MARTIN: Jon? ARCHIVIST: You were wrong, you know. NOT!SASHA: [GASPS] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] ARCHIVIST: Their constant, senseless agony… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn. [STATIC INCREASES] [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing! [STATIC INCREASES, WITH MORE PRESSURE] NOT!SASHA: No! No, please, no…! [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] NOT!SASHA: [FADING] No…! [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS]

Jon used to rely on compulsion to try to struggle his way out (when it was his only weapon), in a panic. But since MAG119, it has begun to feel as if something was coming out from it, as if he were possessed? It really feels like something is trying to come out (and we precisely began the season with The Eye wanting the cabin to be his “chrysalis” and Jon announcing that “he” would emerge…). There also had been a clear escalation in his use of his powers: from giving Tim the tools to prevent Nikola from achieving The Unknowing, to stopping Breekon when he was ready to fight Basira, to compelling Peter to death while Peter was resisting, to… an execution, triggered by his anger. Jon had made a point to tell Martin that the Not!Them couldn’t harm them; it was a murder purely motivated by anger. The Not!Them had it coming, and it’s really interesting that Jon weaponised the suffering of the Not!Them’s victims to force it to feel pain (so, a case of… forcing empathy on it?), but… still a murder, still scary, still concerning that Jon did that when Martin and him weren’t threatened, and that it happened when Jon’s feelings got out of hand.

(Jon, you’re just a shounen anime protagonist gdi.)

- And Jon did nooooooot feel fine with it:

(MAG165) MARTIN: … Whoa–oh–oh! ARCHIVIST: I, uh… MARTIN: What was that?! ARCHIVIST: … I–I destroyed it. [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] Ki–killed her. MARTIN: Are you kidding me, you–you obliterated her! You… you smote her! [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] ARCHIVIST: We, we should go. MARTIN: What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it, is it still th– ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Yes you do! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t… want to know, plea– We need to go. [SHUFFLING] Please. MARTIN: Oh, oh, okay. A–alright. Alright. Lead on. [CREAKING SOUNDS]

* Martin sounded… kinda very very into it (mARTIN), not surprised – Martin was already ready to use whatever he can even if it means compromising himself. Jon sounded more upset, so I’m half-expecting them to discuss this at some point?

* It had already felt a bit like it with Peter (when Jon mentioned the powers of The Eye in relation to The Lonely), but it was way worse here: … Jon really felt like an actual priest of Beholding when he obliterated the Not!Them. As if he was accepting it as a god, and himself as its agent, able to channel its powers.

* It was also SO CLOSE to what Elias did to Melanie and Martin, with the whole implanting memories/truths in someone’s head to make them suffer… oofffft ;;

* ;; I’m. Also very concerned about the fact that the end of the episode seems to imply that Jon made it worse for the victims in the carousel, since we can hear it creaking. Has he just condemned these people to an actual death, or to worse doom? If it turns out that Jon has powers allowing him to have an effect on these nightmares, the fact he chooses to remain an observer and only “uses” the place to experience them will feel iffier and iffier… ;;

- Welp, it does clear up right away why The Web hasn’t tried to contact Jon directly. On a scale from calling his partner while Jon himself is further away to directly taunting him, how much self-preservation instinct do you have?

  MAG166’s title is… interesting, because?? Corruption?? But it also feels too easy?? (And would be the biggest Middle Finger at something Smirke mentioned in MAG138.) I see a way in which it could potentially be Hunt, or Flesh, or Vast, or Buried, or End, or Web (well… it’s more like there’s an existing connection for that one + RQ’s teasing about Web stuff this week), but, wow. Bold move.

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Devil’s Trust pt1

Thank you for joining me once more for the concluding part of Moblords. 

Warnings: Strong language, Moblord styling warlords.

Masterlist

*Artwork by me please don’t claim as your own reblog is fine. 

---

Chapter 1

The strained sound of the car engine as it revved high into sixth gear, drowned out the classical music playing on his radio. To call this a breakdown in communication would be putting it mildly. He counted three, one had been on his tail since before he even arrived at the agreed upon location which served to let him know the agenda for today was going to get interesting and he smiled to himself as he casually raced through the cross-town traffic.

It had taken a couple of miles but the original pursuer had finally moved into action drawing nearer to him so he couldn’t double back. The other two had moved alongside to flank him in an effort to guide him to wherever it was they felt they could hold an advantage over him. Ducking and weaving through the other cars felt as if someone had the world around him on pause. He drifted past the moving vehicles as easily as if they had been parked. Skilfully navigating himself away from any direct line of attack designed to contain him. It’s such a lovely day for a drive.

---

“Can you turn that down? I can’t hear myself think.” Ieyasu snapped as he finally gave up trying to take in the contents of the latest test findings on some new pharmaceuticals he had been working on.

“Guys?” Masa turned away from the screen, remote in hand. He had turned on the TV in the meeting room and was sitting with his legs propped up on the glass table while they waited for Nobu to return. “Where did he go again?”

“Who?” The young fluffy-haired blonde huffed and dropped the documents onto the table giving up on his plan of getting any work done as clearly, the volume was not changing.

“He who must not be named for fear of triggering Sir-worries-a-lot.” Masa tilted his chin in the vague direction of the other man in the room that had been fussing over emails on his laptop since his arrival.

“Don’t know. We never know where he is.” Hideyoshi grumbled half-heartedly taking part in the conversation even as his eyes scanned over the details of departmental expenditures for the last quarter.

“We do now.” Masa laughed out loud causing Hideyoshi to look up from his computer and see the high-speed chase taking part in the city. Four cars were in involved and a local drone for the news network channel was capturing it all in a live broadcast. An unassuming black salon was snaking its way easily through the streets keeping far enough in front of its pursuers to avoid an accident. A very familiar unassuming black salon.

“I’ll kill him!” Hideyoshi was trembling as he snatched his mobile from next to him leaving the room as he began speed dialling the centre of this PR nightmare.  

The chase continued under the breaking news headline of “High-Speed pursuit in progress.” Masa had planted his feet back on the floor and was almost hanging off the edge of his chair engrossed in the action playing out. After a few moments, he turned his singular blue eye in the direction of Ieyasu who had also become captivated by the reckless driving enough to forget to close his mouth as he gaped at the screen.

“Whatever you are thinking, no!” Sensing Masa’s gaze on him Ieyasu was quick to shut down any growing ideas the other man might have.

“Oh, come on!”

“No!”

---

“Hi, Mum.” Mitsuhide calmly answered an incoming call with his hands-free device. The cars behind him were pressing closer paying little attention to the innocent general public. Some people have no concept of basic courtesy.

“Don’t hi Mum me! Do you have any idea what is on TV right now?” Hideyoshi’s bellowing voice threatened to burst his eardrum. Had his hands not currently been busy with the steering wheel and gear shift he might have been tempted to pull the earpiece free of his head. Even if I tossed the thing into the backseat, I should still be able to hear him clearly enough. Still… the fact he is bringing up the television at this time cannot be mere coincidence. His citrine eyes flicked from mirror to mirror checking for clearance from his pursuers as he nonchalantly continued the call.

“I’m sorry did I forget to record one of your programmes again? I’m a little busy right now.” He kept a familiar teasing tone as he tried to keep his focus on the traffic he was moving around in and attempting to angle a mirror towards the sky. CCTV shouldn’t be a massive problem around here and speed cameras will just flash and take still shots that don’t make for interesting viewing.

“Did you seriously just answer your phone when driving? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Hideyoshi began to rapid-fire questions. The anger from moments before was converted into worry at a laughable speed.

“Honestly Hideyoshi make up your mind. You complain when I don’t answer your calls, you complain when I do…” Successfully moving the mirror he was quick enough to catch the very edge of a news drone hovering above. Of course, at this time of day when traffic reports are due, there would be one of those pests buzzing around.

– Bang –

It had only been for a fraction of a second but it was long enough for him to miscalculate the aim one of the flanking cars had as it began to ram into his rear offside. The impact of metal on metal at this speed felt less like a warning and more like a demand.

“What was that?” The voice on the end of the line sounded almost frantic now.

“Well, I did say I was a little busy. Don’t worry so much, you’ll live longer.” Mitsuhide adjusted his grip on the wheel and pulled himself back from the slight drift he had been forced into as his car fishtailed after the impact. His rear tyres bounced as they clipped the curb.

“But the TV…” The emotion in Hideyoshi’s voice made it clear that he didn’t know if he should be angry or worried right now. Mitsuhide knew there was a good chance if the worst should happen the group's mother hen wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from clucking and blaming themselves for making the last things, they ever said to him into something that was an angry complaint.

“I’ll fix it.”

“Mitsuhi--!” Was all he heard from the other man as he disconnected the call, cutting him off before he could elongate the conversation further. The cars behind were drawing closer and this was escalating from reckless driving to desperate on their behalf. He had no desire to explain casualties in this to anyone. He had to get out of here.

His car barrelled straight through a small vendor's cart. He was powerless to avoid it. Mercifully the vender and his patrons had escaped injury but this was really getting too much for the main thoroughfare of the city.

– Sigh –

It would be a lot easier to get out of here if I didn’t have eyes in the sky on me. That being said who do I know who could crash a city network grid and provide some coverage? The smile returned to his face as he asked his phone to call a contact. It didn’t even finish ringing once before it was answered.

“Sasuke? It’s me.”

---

The comforting melody in the club washed over him like waves on a shore. He allowed himself to drift, attempting to belay the unrest he felt inside threatening to break his composure. Twice now this had happened, someone was pulling strings in the shadows dragging snares with jagged thorns in on him, tightening just enough for him to feel them. They hampered his movements and drew attention to him in all the worst possible ways. He was used to being the centre of attention but this was not a party he had helped set up, this was not his circus and he was not the ringmaster. He felt like he was being put on display, played with and that was not something the Devil King revelled in.

His thumb played with the edge of the smartphone placed on the table in front of him. The light from the screen glowing at the same brightness as the candle in the centrepiece. Those damnable digital letters floating in their luminescent glory taunting him. “If you want to play a game. You have to first know what game you’re playing.” A message decoded and left like a calling card for them all to see.

That company wouldn’t yield, Esshu Industries should be gone under after the CEO was gunned down, it should have crumbled with him. The whole business was obviously a front from that other cartel that dared move into his city. Why when the beasts head is cut off did the body not die with it? What kind of hydra was he facing? Someone was still pulling strings and making puppets jump. But who?

Tempo shifted in the room as the act on stage changed performer. Soft clicking of stiletto heels moved closer to him over the partly uncarpeted floor. A swish of opulent emerald silk brushed over his arm as the woman wearing it reached for his hand resting on the table.

“You are not yourself tonight.” A calming soft voice trickled out over ruby red lips, her warm hand gently embracing his.

“Carana?” He hadn’t noticed her arrival at his side as he usually did, he hadn’t even registered the fact her performance had ended. She was right he wasn’t himself. His mind was more occupied than usual and even her beautiful voice had failed to penetrate it and dominate him completely as it usually did.

“Did my performance displease you?” She remained standing looking at him from upturned eyes, searching him for something. He had caused her to worry about him, he knew that but he also knew in the same way she did that he could not show or admit to weakness openly.

As safe as the birdcage was it was also first and foremost a black-market trading hub. News that he was unsettled might not amount to much among most people but he knew it only took one person to take an interest in such things and it could be just enough to make a move.

“My little bird never fails to entertain. Work is…” He gave her a reassuring smile but his words were cut off as she placed a long elegant, impeccably manicured finger to his lips.

“Work. You need not say more I am aware.” She slid next to him, her thigh brushing his as she took a seat in the booth. His eyes tracked a slow path from that brief connecting point on their bodies, following her outline. All her curves visible through the figure-hugging dress, his mind making connections to what he knew to be hidden beneath the layers of fabric. By the time his eyes had found hers the red of them had darkened enough for them to match her lipstick.

“You heard?” Nobu knew there was no way what had been happening could be contained as a lot of it had already hit the public domain.

“Who do you think I am exactly?” Carana gave a wry laugh and shot a glance over to the young bartender who nodded in reply and began mixing ingredients together with youthful exuberance.

“I am chasing shadows in the wind. Nothing points in a clear direction.” Nobu turned his eyes away from her muttering to himself looking at the phone again. He was really not himself tonight. Carana placed a hand on his leg and patted it like she was reassuring a small child, drawing his focus expertly back to her.

“I shall see what I can find out.” Extending her reach a little further she tapped the phone screen and Nobu watched as it went blank. How long had he been sitting there looking at that thing and not been able to do that? Not for the first time, Nobu wondered exactly how often this woman had helped to save him. Did she know what she did?

“Are you drinking tonight?” Nobu asked when a waitress placed two fresh drinks on the table. The twist of lemon peel sat on top of the ice in the two tumblers. His usual dry martini reduced to nothing more than a drunk olive in an empty container was removed.

“I could. If you are looking for company that is?” She leaned over and took both glasses in her hands offering one to him.

He could sense what she was doing. She was offering an oasis in a desert to a struggling man. But it was not out of pity. He knew better than to think that, he knew her. This was her way of getting him to relax without pressure, leaving work at the door for both of them and enjoying a rare chance of imbibing a drink without fear of attack.

The phone vibrated on the tabletop caller ID revealing who it was and he felt that ominous feeling as it attempted to ensnare him again. He tapped the screen sending the caller to voicemail, and turned off his phone sliding it back into his jacket pocket.

“I would be a fool to turn you down.”

“So, don’t.” Carana chinked their glasses together and they both took a sip. The citrus of the lemon balanced with the sweet honey allowing the mellow warmth of bourbon to melt his anxiety. This was their drink and it was a shot of sunshine in the oppressive darkness he felt around him.

---

[rushingheadlong]

Make My Life Worthwhile - A Brian x Reader fic

Summary: You always know to expect a few surprises at any Queen party. You just weren’t expecting a surprise like this.

Wordcount: ~3,100

Tags: Brian x f!Reader, a bit Halloween themed but mostly just a lot of fluff

Notes: Written for @generic-fandom-trash​ for the Halloqueen event! I had such a blast writing this, and I really hope you enjoy it! And thanks to @dtfrogertaylor​ for putting together another great event!

You are cordially invited to join Queen for a Halloween Masquerade, the gilded invitation had read. Masks required. Fancy dress optional.

The description had been vague, but Brian assured you that the event was mostly an excuse for Queen to spend as much of the label’s money as they could get away with before setting off on another tour. Judging by the lavishly decorated room that you’ve stepped into, they’ve met that goal quite well.

There’s no mistaking that it is a Halloween party, of sorts. The gothic manor house chosen to host the evening is the perfect backdrop for the festive decorations adorning every surface. Candles flicker in the wall sconces and jack-o’-lanterns grin on every table. And still, somehow the band has made it look decadent rather than trite.

Freddie sidles up next to you, unmistakable even with the opulent mask covering the upper half of his face. He’s dressed as a circus ringmaster, dripping gold and wearing silks, a whip hanging from one hip. He passes you a glass of wine and says, “So, what do you think of our little gathering, Y/N?”

“Well, it’s hardly little,” you point out, though that goes without saying. Nothing Queen does is ever little. “But it is fabulous, Freddie. You’ve outdone yourselves this time.”

“You’ve outdone yourself, darling, in that fabulous dress of yours,” Freddie says. “Has our dear guitarist seen you in it yet?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t seen him since this morning. I only just got here.” The band have been here for most of the day, coerced into doing a round of interviews on the new album as a requirement for the record company paying for the evening.

“Mm, well, when you do find him the rooms upstairs have locks on them,” Freddie says, slyly. “In case you two need a little privacy…”

“Freddie!” you protest, but you’re laughing despite yourself.

Freddie just winks at you and disappears into the crowd with a small wave, leaving you to strike out on your own in search of your boyfriend.

The room is fairly packed, with about three-quarters of the guests wearing costumes and everyone in the required masks. You’re grateful that you chose a simple costume, a medieval-style dress paired with a crown and some dainty jewelry, rather than some of the over-the-top ensembles that others are wearing. You squeeze past a pair of ridiculously oversized fairy wings and wonder how long it’ll take before those get broken on the dancefloor.

It shouldn’t be hard to find Brian and yet it takes you several minutes before you finally spot him across the room. His costume is as simple as yours- clothes he already owned paired with a dark cape, his mask plain black and doing little to hide his identity- but the sight of him still takes your breath away. Even though you’ve been with him for years, in moments like this you’re still overwhelmed by how much you love this man.

And the feeling, it seems is mutual, because although there’s someone standing next to Brian clearly trying to talk to him, Brian only has eyes for you. You watch his face light up in joy when he realizes that you’ve spotted him, and he quickly excuses himself from his conversational partner to make a beeline for you…

...only to be waylaid by someone else after taking barely a few steps forward. And you can see a third person watching from the sidelines, waiting to swoop in for their chance to talk to Brian as well, despite the fact that he keeps glancing at you and clearly doesn’t want to be chatting with anyone.

Luckily there’s no one stopping you as you cross the room and cut into the conversation with a breezy, “So sorry, I have to borrow Mr. May for a moment, important band business, you know how it is…” You usher Brian away with a gentle hand on his back, acting more of a bodyguard than a girlfriend, and you can feel Brian shake with barely-contained amusement.

“C’mon, let’s head outside,” Brian says, ducking his head close to your ear to be heard over the music and the crowd. “Less of a chance of being bothered out there.”

“Good idea.” You veer left, towards the door, tugging Brian along behind you.

Once you’re outside he laughs, bright and happy, and picks you up, spinning you around in a swirl of skirts and laughter. “You are my hero,” he tells you as he sets you back down, and kisses you on one cheek. “If had to answer any more questions I think I would have snapped.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” you say with a laugh. Your mask is slightly askew from Brian’s excited reaction and you reach up to fix it, only to have Brian push your hands away and gently pull it away from you face altogether.

“I’m pretty sure the party rules don’t apply once you’re outside,” he says, tucking the mask into his pocket.

You reach up and tug Brian’s mask off his face. “Then you don’t need to be wearing this either.”

Brian laughs again and says, “Alright, fair enough,” before the door opens suddenly behind you and a small group of partygoers comes stumbling out.

You and Brian both step to the side to let them pass, and Brian jerks his head towards the sprawling grounds behind you. Without anything else needing to be said, you follow him further away from the house and out into the quiet garden.

Even back here there’s evidence of Queen’s presence in the strings of fairy lights along the paths and jack-o’-lantern eyes flickering in the shadows. The windows at the rear of the house have been opened, letting the faint sounds of music and partying drift faintly through the garden, and the candles in the old wrought-iron lanterns bathe everything in a golden glow.

“lt’s lovely back here,” you say as you look around. Even with few plants left blossoming this late in the season, there’s still a certain beauty to the gardens.

“Definitely worth every cent of the label’s money,” Brian jokes. “But they got us back well and good with those interviewers…”

You make a small noise of sympathy and press close to Brian’s side, wrapping one arm around his waist. He smiles down at you, and some of the tension bleeds out of his frame as he drapes an arm across your shoulders. “It wasn’t too bad,” he assures you. “Just long, as it always is.”

“Still, I wish they’d give you a moment’s rest sometimes,” you tell him. “You aren’t recording or on tour, you should have a moment to just breathe.”

“That’s what tonight’s for,” Brian reminds you. “And we have an advantage for once.” You frown in slight confusion and Brian grins, broad and a little wicked, and explains, “The only people who aren’t in costume are journalists or with the label. Makes it easier to spot and avoid ‘em.”

That startles a laugh out of you, loud enough that if anyone else were around they’d be turning to look at you now. But there’s no one else in the gardens, just you and Brian, who’s looking down at you with a pleased sort of expression on his face, delighted by your unrestrained reaction.

“Speaking of costumes, you look beautiful tonight,” Brian continues. He turns so you’re standing face-to-face, and he looks you up and down. There’s nothing salacious in his gaze, but you still find yourself blushing at the attention. “Radiant, even. I saw you when you first walked in and I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Compliments from Brian still make your heart flutter, even though you’ve been dating for several years. They’re always sincere and you always know that he means every word he says, no matter how cheesy they would sound coming from anyone else.

“Well you look quite handsome yourself, as you always do,” you tell Brian, though you can’t resist teasing him a little and adding, “Though, I don’t think throwing a cape over clothes you already own exactly counts as a costume…”

“In my defense, I was supposed to be a vampire, but I hated the fake teeth,” Brian explains.

Privately, you think Brian already has the perfect little fangs to complete a vampire costume, but you don’t tell him that. Instead you just smile at him and say, “That’s alright. We match better this way.”

Brian laughs. “That’s true. I can be your loyal servant.” He sweeps down into a dramatic bow, cape fluttering around him. “My lady.”

You giggle and reach for Brian’s hand, pulling him back upright. “I’d much rather have you as my prince,” you say. “Standing by my side, through thick and thin.”

“Why not both?” Brian asks. “I can stand next to you, but I’ll still always take care of you. No matter what.”

Your response is lost in a hitching breath as Brian brings your hand up and kisses it gently. There’s so much tenderness in the action, in his eyes, in the love that radiates out from every fiber of his being that it’s almost too overwhelming to bear, but you can’t seem to look away.

“Brian, I…” you breathe, but you don’t know how the sentence is supposed to end when I love you doesn’t begin to cover the magnitude of what you feel for him.

“Marry me,” Brian says suddenly, unexpectedly, the words coming out in a rush, like Brian wasn’t sure he could say them if he tried to draw it out.

You inhale sharply, caught completely off-guard by the abrupt turn in the conversation. “What? Did you just…?”

“I had this all planned out,” Brian continues quickly. “I was going to do everything right. I have a ring back home, and I was going to take you out to a nice dinner and propose in that park where we had our first date, and everything was going to be perfect, and-”

Brian shakes his head and laughs, just a little, and you can hear his nerves at the edges of it. “But then I saw you tonight, and I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You could have been wearing a potato sack and I still would have stared. There’s a hundred people in that room and I didn’t care about a single one of them, except for you. So I don’t want to wait for perfect. I don’t want to wait a second longer.”

And you watch, spell-bound, as Brian drops to one knee in front of you, still holding your hand. “Y/N… Will you marry me?”

Everything about this moment should be ridiculous. You’re dressed as some fantasy princess and Brian is wearing a cape, with both of your masks sticking out the top of his trouser pocket. The sound of dance music is still noticeable around you, as are the pumpkins and decorations that mark this evening unmistakably as a Halloween party.

Brian doesn’t even have a ring. All he has is the adoring love in his eyes, and a look of hope on his face... and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

“Yes,” you say, as if there was ever a chance of you answering otherwise. “Yes, Brian, of course!”

Your voice is a little watery and there are tears of joy pricking at the corners of your eyes but that’s okay, because when you pull Brian back to his feet you can see that his eyes aren’t dry either. You throw your arms around his neck with a small laugh, and even though you’ve kissed Brian a thousand times before you think it’s never been as wonderful as it feels right now.

But then again, you’ve never kissed your fiancé before.

“Oh my god, you’re my fiancé,” you say, the words coming out slightly mumbled against Brian’s lips.

Brian laughs a little, and says, “And you’re my fiancée too.” There’s a note of wonder in his voice and he kisses you again. “God, I love you.”

He takes a small step back and pulls one of his rings off, and slips it onto the ring finger of your left hand. It doesn’t quite fit you, and it’s bulky and heavy on your smaller hand, but you can’t hold back a bright smile at the sight of it.

“It’s perfect,” you say, beaming up at Brian.

“It’ll do, for now at least,” Brian says. He’s still holding your hand, brushing his fingers along the ring, and it sends shivers down your spine. “I should’ve at least waited until I had your proper ring on hand to do this…”

“No,” you interrupt gently, before Brian can start overthinking his actions and ruin his own happiness in this moment. “I’m glad you didn’t wait a second longer, and no amount of planning could have made this a better proposal.”

Brian smiles at you, a little crookedly, and asks, “Even though we’re both wearing ridiculous costumes?” It’s meant as a joke but there’s a hint of insecurity behind it that you can spot a mile away.

“Even with the costumes,” you reassure him. “I don’t care about the location, or what we’re wearing, or whether you had a ring with you or not. I don’t need things to be perfect, Brian. I just need you.” You grin at him and add, mostly teasing, “Besides, it’ll make a great story to tell our kids later.”

Brian makes a small, choked noise and says, in a slightly strained voice, “Let’s get through the wedding before talking about kids.”

You can’t help but laugh at Brian’s wide-eyed and panicked reaction, and you remind him, “We’ve already discussed kids before, remember?” You both agreed that you wanted children, eventually, and that had settled the matter for the time being.

“Yes, but that was before we were engaged and it became a real possibility,” Brian tells you. “I still want children but, well, one thing at a time.”

And Brian has a point there. You have to admit that even though you’re sure that you want a family with Brian, there’s something that’s a little scary about that prospect now that it’s no longer purely theoretical. “Alright, you have a point,” you concede easily enough. “Wedding first, children later.”

“Wedding first, then the honeymoon, and then children,” Brian tells you. You raise an eyebrow at that, and Brian explains, “I don’t care what schedule the record company tries to force on us, I am taking you on a proper honeymoon.”

You can hear the promise in Brian’s voice and you don’t doubt that he fully intends to do everything in his power to keep it, but you also know that life as the lead guitarist in Queen is nothing if not busy and unpredictable.

And nothing proves this fact better than a sudden new voice interrupting the conversation. “Ah, Brian, there you are!”

It’s John who’s quickly making his way over to the two of you. Much like Brian he took a simplistic approach to his costume, opting to come dressed as a skeleton which has the one advantage of allowing him to wear a full-coverage mask, which is currently pushed up and sitting on top of his head. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed back inside. A few more journalists have turned up for interviews.”

“Ten minutes, is it too much to ask for ten minutes of peace?” Brian mutters, his shoulders tightening slightly with tension and irritation.

“Sorry,” John says again, with a small shrug. “But you know how they are.”

Brian looks up at the darkening sky, and takes a deep breath. “Is there any way you can cover for me? Please?” he asks. His voice is even, but it’s clear that it’s taking some control to keep his irritation at bay.

It doesn’t take John to figure out what, exactly, he interrupted. You watch as his eyes flick down to your hand that Brian is still holding, with the ring clearly visible on your left hand, and you can’t hold back a smile as he pieces it all together.

John grins at you and says, “Well, I guess congratulations are in order then. Took you two long enough.”

“Some of us like to take our time with these things,” Brian says, but the jab is good-hearted and some of his annoyance starts to fade away.

“Oh, I didn’t know that tonight’s spontaneity was your idea of taking your time,” you tease. Brian rolls his eyes at you, but he’s smiling again and that counts as a victory in your books.

“You two really are perfect for each other,” John says with a laugh. “Brian, I’ll cover for you with the journalists. In fact, if you just want to head home, I’ll let Roger and Fred know what’s up. I’m sure the two of them would be more than willing to make some distractions to hide your absence.”

“Are you sure?” Brian asks.

You elbow Brian in the side. “Do not question Deacy’s offer. I for one would love to go home and celebrate our new engagement.”

Brian’s face flushes slightly at the implication behind your words, and the flush only deepens when John says, “The rooms upstairs have locking doors, if you’d rather celebrate here.”

“No, no, I think we’ll head home,” Brian says quickly, pointedly ignoring the laughter from both you and John. “Thanks again, John. I owe you one.”

“Consider it your engagement gift,” John says, and he waves goodbye as you and Brian make your escape from the party.

“You know, Freddie’s not going to be happy that we didn’t tell him ourselves,” Brian says idly, as the two of you head towards the car park. “Roger will probably forgive us, considering the circumstances, but we’ll hear about this from Fred.”

You give Brian a wholly unimpressed look. “Would you rather go back and tell him yourself, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Brian says firmly. The two of you have reached his car and as he unlocks the doors he gives you a wide, and somewhat wicked grin, and adds, “The only thing I want to do is get home, and show you exactly how much I love you.”

You and Brian are sneaking away from Queen’s Halloween party, newly-engaged and still in your own costumes. There is no reason that the tiniest bit of innuendo should turn you on, but because it’s Brian it somehow does.

So you grab Brian by the front of his shirt and pull him into a quick, but fierce, kiss. “Well then, Mr. May,” you breathe, hot against his lips. “What exactly are you waiting for?”

[a-memory-of]

The Final Stone, pt. II

The long tunnel extended for some time, overgrown by vines and large roots crushing through broken gaps in the walls. Ruran’s soulstone offered some light in the dark, and traces of a tar-like substance can seen clinging to the sides. It grew thicker the further they walked.

"This is like before... with the ninth stone." Nathaniel Salem invoked a small, fey light; about as bright as a dim torch. "The joys of facing an enemy we are, at the very least, familiar with. Let us use this to our advantage, yes?"

"Do not touch it," Ruran Vas reminded Ellere, keeping his pace--perhaps a little quicker as they grew nearer to their final destination. Nathaniel's light would illuminate more of the tunnel, exposing more of the ooze in the crevices.

Ellere Valahan frowned. She certainly did not recall him being there to help.

The tunnel eventually opened into a wide room. Inside, the blackish tar-like substance has smothered the wall, climbing high toward the ceiling and covering much of what can be seen. High above, a pinpoint of sunlight pours through an open hole in the ceiling and onto an ooze-covered statue. At its chest, a faint glimmer of dying golden light can be seen.

"There," Ruran sayid, pointing toward the statue. He went rigid, and his gaze fixated on it. "The final piece is--there...Taken from its holy place, abandoned, forgotten..."

Nathaniel circled the two, taking the surroundings into account first and foremost. "...Resentful."

The black ooze seems to stir at their presence, or it could be a trick of the light.

"Aetherial artifacts of such a potency are bound to attract unwanted attention." Nathaniel looked up, irises golden under the helmet.

Ellere looked around, almost as if looking for something. She regretfully released Ruran's hand if only to ready to be ready to cast as needed, aether licking at her finger tips and another above the collapsed star globe at her back. "It formed beasts before, deep under Qarn."

"It will do so again, given the chance. How do you both want to go about it?" Albeit nonchalant in tone, the priest’s body language suggested utmost attention.

Ruran took a step forward, as if compelled. The strange substance abruptly skittered away from beneath his feet, repelled or repulsed, or both. "At long last," he murmured under his breath, another soft voice laced in it.

True to its aforementioned nature, the ooze begins to writhe and build into a loose shape. Ruran seems oblivious, looking only forward at the statue.

"It dissipated once Ruran took hold of the stone, it was all I could do to form a barrier long enough," she looked to Ruran as he moved, expecting the same trance-like state as before. "Unless you mean to fight it, I can attempt to do the same as then.".

Taking notice of the change in tension, Nathaniel moves forward, strides greater than before, "Walk him to his quarry, make sure nothing touches him, and you. He is likely to be enthralled by the reunion. I'll do what a voidhunter does best in the meantime."

Ellere looked to Nathaniel a long moment, then gave a nod. At least this, the two could agree enough on. She moved back to Ruran's side, fully withdrawing her starglobe and calling forth a dome-shaped aetherical shield. She doubted Ruran could hear her, but she offered a quiet, "Do what you need to, dear. We are right here."

Nathaniel turned away from them, speckles of aetherial levin coursing through his left arm, as he flexed fingers in preparation. "Do not disappoint me, Ru’ranvas."

_____________________________

With @weepingknight​ & @will-of-the-traders​

As the two deliberated, Ruran took another step, then another, each one causing the shadows to flee from him. A slight golden aura began to form around him, and he murmured under his breath in words unknown.

When the knight drew near the statue in the center, the dark substance trembled and molded itself into two large beasts. They appeared to be an amalgamation of several jungle creatures, forming the head of a couerl, the body of a bear, tail of a snake, and wings of a bird. A garbling screech emanates from both of them.

The priest started casting immediately, at that. As he did, something about him changed; for the aetherially inclined, it felt as Ruran's stone might have, in nature. Nathaniel was a crystal bearer. But his heart was one of hunger, or destruction. It gnawed at the void, eager to devour, or destroy. He started with a warning. Levin bolts, from the sky, after a wide arc was drawn with his staff. To keep the beasts at bay, draw their attention. Not unlike the whiplash of a ringmaster.

Ellere kept her focus first and foremost on keeping the arching shield over Ruran. She herself moved closer to him, staying under the barrier. Every so often her gaze flicked to the mage, but she would wait until the creature's made their own move.

Ruran remained transfixed on the statue, and he extended his hand forward. The shadows scattered, exposing the golden stone heart embedded in the statue's chest. Before he commits, however, Ruran hesitated. He looked over his shoulder toward Nathaniel and Ellere. The knight's eyes soon flash, and the aether from the statue begins to rejoin with Ari'doram.

The glooping creatures rear back, away from the lightning, snapping their jaws and flapping wings in anger and hunger. One moves to the opposite side of the room, to gain another vantage point in a sort of pincer, and it lashes toward Ellere. The other, despite the lightning, did its best to snap at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel commanded; the words spoken might have been heard in old Belah'dia, in old Sil'dih, in old Ul'dah. Surprisingly, he would deny passage to the beast, closest to Ruran and Ellere first and foremost. Umbral winds drifted towards it, icy stalagmites of an impressive size looking to halt and maim. This left him exposed to the second beast closest to him, however, and he braced himself for impact to the best of his ability. Impossible to dodge and cast at the same time.

Meeting Ruran's eyes in that small, final moment, she understood. Ellere allowed herself only a moment to let her eyes close and take a deep breath.  A single word was said under her breath. She opened her eyes and saw the one closest to her had been buffeted by a wall of ice. Realizing what it meant, she turned on her heel and forced a 'wall' of her own at the other beast, pushing a force against the ooze in a single burst back toward the other side of the chamber.

The icicles slammed into the creature, crushing it beneath the weight and causing its form to splatter and lose its shape. The cold had caused it to grow sluggish as it attempts to rebuild itself, stalled for the moment.

Meanwhile, the other monster lunged forward, only to be met with a sudden wall and pushed safely away from Nathaniel. The ooze slips this way and that, trying to get around and reform.

In the back, a third shape has silently taken form. A panther, smaller and sneakier, pouncing toward Ellere with claws extended. Before it can reach her, a burst of light pulsed from Ruran's soulstone--an overflow of aether that it could not contain. The shadows shriek as some of the ooze is burnt away from its body, and the smaller creature recoils and sinks down into the earth again.

The statue's small stone has dimmed. The union seems to be nearly complete. Nathaniel does not let the surprise halt him; Ellere's assistance is beyond welcome and he is eager to take full advantage of it. His alignment shifted, and as one has breathed in, one most breathe out. Aetherial currents turn astral, in nearly a blink, and fire is conjured, with strength. A magicked circle beneath the beast flashed, and within seconds, a pillar of flames erupts from it, to consume, to burn, until there's nothing left. Red at first, it turns blue, as Nathaniel maintains it.

It is enough to light the room. He will have none of this. Not here.

Ellere tucked her head to the side, the unexpected blast of light taking out a threat even before she was aware of it. She did not dare risk looking back to Ruran, not yet. Instead she let Nathaniel once more take over the distant ooze. With one hand extended, she held the sluggish one down with a heavy gravitational force, not letting it take a new shape. The other hand still held her globe high, maintaining the shield around Ruran.

The flames eat away at the ooze, causing the creature to writhe and let out a wet rumbling shriek, until it is gone. Any of the tar on the immediate walls and ceiling are gone as well. The light of his flames cause the rest of the room to tremble.

Ellere's force pinned the other enemy down, and although it struggled, it cannot build high enough or spread fast enough to take another shape. It squirmed in protest.

Then, the last of the aether left the statue and swirled into Ari'doram. Ruran stood quietly for a long moment. He swayed a bit, his soulstone shining brightly, then looked down at his hand. He flexes his fingers, as if studying the movement. The holy light that had encompassed him glows brighter, filling every corner of the room, adding to Nathaniel's. All around, the shadows writhe in pain and begin to evaporate.

The walls and ceiling are revealed beneath, and the details of the statue in the center can be seen, Belah'dian runes carved along its surface. Soon, the shadows are gone, and the room is quiet. Ruran remains facing away from them.

Having broken the tether, Nathaniel stands up straight once more, chest heaving with every breath for a time. Sensing threats contained, his mask vaguely turn towards the statue, and the herald.

Knowing what the light meant, and the surge of aether, Ellere let her barriers drop. She was breathing heavy, though it was the only sign of strain she let slip. She looked back toward Ruran, watching him sway. Her globe was folded away and her hands hovered in case he collapsed. "Ruran?"

The sound of Nathaniel's staff being tapped twice on the ground echoed, and at that, glamours suppress any aetherial evidence of his own soul stone. He observes the both of them, perfectly still. The man reaches him to remove mask and hood, reverent. Beneath, a face as impassible as the rest.

At Ellere's voice, the knight looks slightly over his shoulder. His eyes burn like twin suns behind his mask. With explanation or declaration, he begins to rise upwards, the ends of his hair glowing and lifting aloft. A wave of power washes through the room, one that commands awe and could instill fear.

"An oath kept...by a faithful heart…" The words spoken with the many voices of Ari'doram. More words follow, although they are quiet and in a tongue few could understand.

Without taking his eyes off Ruran, as gentle as he can possibly be, authority in the tone, he said, "Miss Ellere. Step aside."

Despite perhaps knowing better, Ellere's hesitant hand made to reach for his, for perhaps the last time. "Ari'doram...." she breathed, a ghost of the name.  She seemed torn, tired. She knew what Nathaniel wanted her to do. Still. "And what of ours...?"

Nathaniel readied his staff, golden irises emitting a faint, eerie light, as he prepares himself to cast, should she refuse him once more. "Miss Ellere." He asked again. The tone made it clear it is the last time he will.

Energy pulsed off his hand in reaction to Ellere's touch, causing a fuzzy feeling to rush up Ellere's arm. It isn't painful, just...strange. Powerful. His hand doesn't move in response. His masked face looks upward toward the sunlight coming through the hole in the ceiling. Several voices speak, but they all say something different. A cacophony of words, old and new.

"As sworn of mine oath to thee, thy trial cometh."

Nathaniel's attention snapped back to Ruran at that, and his eyes look through his form in realization. He frowned gradually, deeply.

Ellere only glanced to Nathaniel, making no move to step away yet. She remembered this feeling. Different and yet almost the same. Ari'doram had touched her mind before. "Trial?" a question, confused and soft. "I..." She dropped her hand away, sign enough she would not interfere.

Ruran’s body began to rise higher, more of him being enveloped in golden light. There was an energy in the air akin to a spell being cast, the aether stirring around him. In a sudden burst, a flood of light filled the room. When it faded, Ruran is gone. 

Nathaniel and Ellere both began to feel light-headed...

[thatfairyfangirl]

Fly With Me Chapter 2

You woke up in your trailer with the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. With a smile and a stretch you rose, your wings thwipping open, smacking one of the other aerial artists awake. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry Mila!” You exclaimed as you watched the girl eyeball you in anger.

“Why don't you take those things outside?!” She snapped at you as you folded them tightly against your back. Already you were missing your own circus.

With a sigh you stepped off the mobile home and spread your wings wide again, fluttering as high as you could muster. Kurt woke in his cart like wagon as the colors of your wings reflected onto the ground, dancing in the grass. With a half smile and a bamf he poofed onto the top of the wagon, crouching in the shade of a tree as he watched you dance in the air. Never before had he seen such beauty and grace. With each flap and flutter of your wings he could feel a hope growing that perhaps you might be different. Who better to show him kindness than another physically mutated? He couldn't help wondering what changes to the show a talent like this would bring.

~ ~ ~ ~

“What does he do?” You ask Olivia with growing curiosity. Now that you could see him in the light he didn't seem all that terrifying...more sullen than anything...but something about the way his tail swayed as he walked and the unusual amount of fingers and toes sparked a curiosity deep down in you.

“Snarl and glare, mostly.” Olivia answered walking past you to retrieve her poi balls.

“No, I mean, I thought he was just a sideshow...does he actually have an act?” Kurt's heart sank just a bit hearing the question, assuming you asked to insult rather than learn. A pain for him welled in you, while you watched his eyes sink and shoulders slump with misery as the hope he had shattered.

“He used to,” Olivia answered, narrowing her eyes to the creature, “it's been quite a few years since we've really let him do anything but scare the audience.”

You watched him flip onto a small elevated stand, balancing on one hand giving you the true answer to your question. Of course he'd be an acrobat. “There is just something so wrong about that.” You sighed, unable to take your eyes from him as he bent into unnatural poses and flipped himself over and over, showing no difficulty on the small surface. The corners of your lips tugged up just a bit as your watched him, entranced by the way he moved.

Olivia followed your eyes, finding they were fixated on the oddity, before letting out a groan. “Maxx, he's doing it again.”

The ringmaster looked up to see a blue blur spinning in the air before picking up one of the juggler's balls and hurling it in his direction. “Hey! Get down from there!” He shouted as the ball flew before catching a three toed foot in mid landing. Kurt let out a deep yelp as the ball ruined his landing, sending him crashing to the dirt floor.

You let out a gasp as everyone around you burst into laughter. You turned to Maxx, glaring daggers in to him, contemplating hitting him to the ground in return before deciding on checking on the wellbeing of his victim was the better idea. BAMF. But once you turned back to the blue acrobat, he was gone.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Hi.” You offered the Nightcrawler as you sat across from him, this time not waiting for permission. His amber eyes widened as he looked up to you and the delicate wings that danced in the sun not too long before breakfast. “I saw what happened this morning. Are you alright?” He just nodded getting up and walking away leaving his lunch behind. “Hey, wait...aren't you hungry?” You asked watching the blue demon stalk away, tail swishing behind him with each stride. His amber eyes glowed brightly in the afternoon sun as he peered over his shoulder behind him, the shine of them digging in to you entirely.

The way he stood snarling sent shivers down your spine. “Lost my appetite.” He answered flatly before turning his eyes from you.

“(Y/n)!” The sound of Olivia's voice drew your attention away from him. “Forget him! Come sit with us!” You shook your head, not wanting anything to do with their idea of fun. Bamf - he was gone before you turned back. With a defeated sigh you pushed your hair back and stretched your wings. “Still trying to make nice with The Nightcrawler?” Olivia asked draping an arm around your shoulder.

“Better him than you guys.” You scolded as you ducked away from her touch.

“Hey, you should be thanking us. Mila was ready to snap your neck this morning for waking her up with those wings.” She scolded with a folded brow.

“I think I'll take my chances.” You answered backing away before fluttering off to find the one so much like you. However after an hour of searching you conceded to defeat and landed on top of your trailer. The sun was high in the early spring sky warming the budding flowers as you laid down to think on the performance you would give.

“Just put her in a cage, dad.” You heard Maxx's voice in the distance. “She's a thing just like Nightcrawler.”

“You didn't see her in San Diego.” The old German replied. “I did. She's not going in the sideshow.” Kurt watched the conversation from a tree branch thoughtfully before catching sight of you sitting up to listen as well. The reflection of the sun in his eyes caught your attention, pulling your eyes from the two on the ground to see your mystery hiding in the tree. He gestured his hand downward, reminding you that your wings were up. Slowly you folded them downward, keeping the translucent orange from painting the landscape below to tell the two you were listening. “They were captivated. Even with those wings.” Your eyes widened...he knew?! “She has a contract that stipulates we must have her give aerial performances. I expect it to be honored and I expect you to treat her and any partners she works with better than you treat him.” You smiled at your employer's words, an idea quickly forming in your mind to help your fellow mutant...if he would only stick around long enough to listen to it.

Tag List:

@scorpiarose93

[aslanjadecarlyle]

o captain, my captain (Barlyle)

o captain, my captain (Barlyle)

Rating: Explicit

——

Phineas stumbles across Phillip’s secret journal.

——

A big thank you to @askcarlyle for letting me steal— er, borrow a little journal entry! The journal entry is entirely their doing, but the rest is written by yours truly.

Phillip may want to do a better job of locking his stories up next time. Pretty sure I saw some clone pining in there. Smh.

...Have fun.

——

Phineas didn’t mean to snoop. He had meant to clean — a rarity that usually only occurred after Phillip nagged his ear off. Phillip would sigh and, with a roll of his eyes, claim that Phineas’s two little daughters, neither of them yet of double digit age, tidied up better than he did. And complained less about it, too.

But Phillip was away, dragged off to some gala by his parents in an attempt to “return him to the upper class.” He probably wouldn’t be back until the next day — he usually came back early from such events after bickering with his parents, but this particular gathering was hosted by a family across the state, and if Phillip wanted to leave early he would have to find a hotel to stay overnight. He wouldn’t be back until evening tomorrow, or late afternoon if he set off early enough.

So, because Phillip was away and no doubt having a miserable time, Phineas decided he would surprise him by cleaning the whole house — or, most of it. He could probably stand to skip a few rooms that Phillip didn’t go into. He knew that his “cleanliness standards” weren’t quite as on par with Phillip’s, but he hoped that Phillip would be so surprised and overjoyed by the simple fact that Phineas had cleaned that he would be willing to overlook a few forgotten specks of dust. 

But when Phineas decided to clean the whole 

(most of the)

(half of the)

house, he did not expect to find himself wrist-deep in some secret compartment in Phillip’s room.

All right, so the bedroom wasn’t exactly Phillip’s. Technically, it was a guest bedroom and the two slept together in Phineas’s master suite. But Phillip would duck into this second bedroom whenever Phineas’s girls spent the night and Phillip thought it best to sleep in separate beds. And, despite only being used on occasional weekends and holidays, the room had little traces of Phillip all over it — one of his combs on the dresser, a jacket and tie slung over the bed frame, and a pair of his socks in the corner, left forgotten as he packed for his overnight visit. 

These little traces of untidiness made Phineas’s lip twitch into a smirk. He chuckled as he picked up the bundled pair of socks and tossed them in the hallway to join his own pile of dirty clothing. He would take them downstairs to be washed upon making his way to the ground floor. 

He was on his hands and knees, attempting to sweep dust out from underneath the bed (how did Phillip do this?) when his thumb caught on something and he cursed, yanking his hand back. A small drop of blood was already rising against his skin, and he cursed again under his breath as he stuck his thumb in his mouth. Once satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he carefully poked his head under the bed once more to see what had nicked him. 

A nail stuck up from an uneven floorboard and, curiosity getting the best of him, Phineas quickly realized the floorboard was loose. Lifting the wooden plank took no effort at all, and Phineas found himself wrist deep in a secret compartment he was unaware of in his own home.

The hole was small, but surprisingly deep, and Phineas’s fingers brushed against... something.

The man’s heart leapt in his throat until he realized that the questionable object was not furry. Not a rat, then. He let out a silent sigh of relief as he curled his fingers around the object and lifted it out from underneath the bed.

A journal.

The book was bound in brown leather, not yet dulled by the elements of time. The pages looked crisp and white, though many appeared creased and dog-eared, as if somebody had gone back and visited certain pages a number of times before.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Phineas flipped to a random page — one, he noted, that was dog-eared. It was dated three weeks ago and he immediately recognized the familiar cursive lettering, written by only Phillip’s neat hand.

Phineas began to read.

 "I had the dream again last night. It's been months since the last time, but I hesitate to mention it to Phineas since he always looks vaguely unsettled whenever he hears the word "pirate.” The start is always the same -- I am in a ship's cabin, curled up on the bunk. Some interminable time later, hinges creak as an imposing figure fills the doorway, face hidden in dark shadows, the crimson late afternoon sunlight against his back. With the sort of expository omniscience that only works in dreams, I know that he is my captain and that what is to follow has played out many times before. That does not in way diminish the anticipation, however.

He sheds his claret velvet coat first, then the ornately embroidered black waistcoat is shrugged off broad shoulders to reveal the ivory silk shirt underneath. The fabric is thin and clings to his strongly muscled arms and chest, drawstrings already pulled loose so that the deep v reveals just a glimpse of rippling abdomen. His skin glints golden in the light of the setting sun, his head is crowned wih chestnut waves limned in halcyon glory. 

Time speeds up again and he has reached the bed, his movements lithe and the glint in his amber eyes almost predatory. It's a gaze that leaves me unable to resist, rendered immobile by its warm, beckoning depths. He is on me in another moment and his lips taste of sea spray and rum. He reaches down...."

When he stopped reading, Phineas realized his face was red and hot. He swallowed, throat dry, Phillip’s face flashing in his mind.

Though the incident with the pirates had been a long while ago, the memory was still fresh in Phineas’s mind. He never would have guessed that the ship, the men that had beaten and shot at them, would have had this effect on Phillip. He tried to think back, try to recall any night that Phillip had acted out of sorts after waking or going to bed.

Phineas still sat on the ground and he shifted, realizing that his trousers had gotten uncomfortably tight. The journal still laid open in his lap and his gaze trailed down, scanning the lettering once more.

He is on me in another moment.

Slowly, his shock faded and a smirk curled at Phineas’s lip. He grunted, shifting his weight, hand falling into his lap. Circling a thumb over his rising erection, Phineas thought of Phillip once more and snickered.

Well, he thought, standing to go and properly relieve himself, if it was a show Phillip wanted, it was a show Phillip would get.

***

The sun was just beginning to set, painting the sky a sea of oranges and reds, when the sound of hoofbeats along the dirt road announced Phillip’s return the next evening. He was positively exhausted, physically and emotionally, after another unsuccessful attempt to get along with his parents, and he’d barely slept the night before, in an unfamiliar hotel room with no Phineas to curl into.

Vaguely, he registered that Phineas hadn’t come out to greet him, but his mind was too tired and foggy to care. He briefly debated leaving his luggage outside and dealing with it in the morning, but he shook his head, feeling ridiculous — it was only one bag. 

Inside the mansion, the rooms were dark and empty. It looked like Phineas wasn’t home at all and at this Phillip became more attentive. Of course, he had no way of letting Phineas know the exact minute he’d be home, but... where was he? 

Slightly dejected at having nobody to greet him coming home, Phillip sighed and took his singular suitcase upstairs. He threw it in the spare bedroom, deciding to unpack later, and went down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Phineas. Even without the ringmaster here, at least he’d be able to fall asleep in the comfort of their own sheets. 

Time passed in a blur as Phillip stripped, removing his jacket and his belt and his shoes, the rest of his clothing following suit, and slipped into one of Phineas’s nightshirts. He relaxed at once with the familiarity of Phineas’s scent wrapping around him like an embrace, and sank into the large bed, pulling the sheets up to his chin.

He thought he was dreaming when the door creaked open, a figure stood at the doorway. Inwardly, Phillip’s heart leapt in his throat.

The dream. It was happening again.

But this time Phillip was... aware. 

The light from a setting sun set his hair aglow with orangey-red. Phillip’s breath caught in his throat as the man — the captain — stepped closer. The outfit he wore was familiar, Phillip having seen it in his dreams a number of times before. Neither of them spoke as Phineas shed his velvet coat first, and then the waistcoat, revealing the fine ivory shirt that was as familiar as any of Phillip’s own clothing. Phillip had this dream more than enough times before and could recite each scene as it unfolded, like a bedtime prayer.

But, a voice whispered at the back of Phillip’s mind. Despite the near-perfect recreation of the dream from nights past, something was... off.

Beyond the sound of Phillip’s own heart thudding in his ears, he vaguely registered that he could feel no sway of the ship from the waves underneath his bed. He could not smell the saltiness of ocean water in air, and the timing was off. It was early or mid-evening, not late afternoon as before. 

And then—

“Phillip,” the man before him whispered.

Alarm bells exploded in Phillip’s head.

The captain never spoke upon first entering his room. During or afterward, sure — but never before.

Phillip’s eyes rose to meet Phineas’s. He saw the playful gleam behind the seduction, saw the way the man’s lip curled into a smirk as Phillip looked at him just a little too long.

“Phineas!” he gasped, incredulous.

This was no dream.

Phillip crawled out from underneath the covers. Phineas’s nightshirt bunching up around his thighs as he sat on his knees and stared up at the... captain. Phineas didn’t bother to hide his pleasure as his eyes roamed over Phillip’s body, and he hummed in delight.

“Is that my nightshirt?” he chuckled.

“Phineas, how did you—“

The words died in Phillip’s throat as his eyes widened and his face drained of color. Horrified, his gaze flicked up to Phineas’s face.

“You didn’t!” he exclaimed.

“Hmmm?” Phineas tried to play innocent, but that damned smirk gave him away.

“Oh, no,” Phillip moaned.

Phineas chuckled again. “In my defense, I truly did not mean to stumble across your little... stories. I was cleaning, and—“

“You were cleaning?” Phillip gasped.

Phineas scowled. “Couldn’t you tell?”

Phillip was silent. His face still flamed red hot and he covered his eyes.

God. He couldn’t believe Phineas found his journal. That Phineas read it. He wondered just how much the man had seen...

A hand on his chest pushed him back on the bed and Phineas was on him, kissing his lips, kissing his neck. It took a moment for Phillip, stunned, to respond, but then he whimpered, overtaken by Phineas’s scent and hands and lips. Distantly, he smelt rum and sea foam — he wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him or if Phineas had gone those extra steps to be “in character.”

Another gasp escaped Phillip’s lips as Phineas reached down, and suddenly the younger man became aware of just how vulnerable he was. He laid in their bed — though, at the moment it felt very much like a ship’s bunk — in nothing but one of Phineas’s own nightshirts that left much of his hot, gleaming skin exposed. Phineas was still mostly clothed, save for the velvet coat and waistcoat that laid discarded somewhere on the floor. Muscles rippled underneath the thin, ivory shirt Phineas still wore, and Phillip ached to trace every inch of the captain’s skin like a map of stars.

Phineas’s hand crept up the inside of Phillip’s bare thigh, toying along the soft skin. He snickered. “Look at you. Legs spread open like a whore.”

As Phineas’s hand closed around his hardening cock, Phillip moaned. “O-Only for you, Captain.” 

The name slipped out on impulse as Phillip lost himself in the familiar fantasy. He froze and his gaze flickered to Phineas, who knelt over him, one hand still slipped underneath the nightshirt. His eyes widened for a moment, almost as surprised as Phillip, and then darkened. The hand on Phillip’s cock withdrew, slipping out from underneath the nightshirt. Phillip whimpered as Phineas stood and pulled him up. Now, Phineas stood looking down at Phillip, who sat on the edge of the bed, breathing deep, cock hard, head bowed.

Through his lowered eyelashes, Phillip watched as Phineas’s hands toyed with his belt. Excitement thrummed through Phillip’s body as the captain watched him with a smirk, no doubt knowing exactly the kind of thoughts running through Phillip’s head. Phillip watched, licking his lower lip as Phineas pulled the belt loose. Their eyes met as the belt came off and Phineas unbuttoned his trousers.

Lifting an eyebrow, the captain commanded, “On your knees, cabin boy.”

Phillip’s mouth fell open in a moan and a low, “Fuck.”

“Damned mouth of a sailor,” the captain muttered. 

Phillip came close to protesting, but the captain’s sharp look, amber eyes dark with intent, had him scrambling to the floor 

(like a harlot)

instead. He looked up at Phineas from his knees, expecting to see a trace of familiar warmth in whiskey-colored eyes, and found the very sea captain from his dreams staring down at him in his place.

Phineas radiated possession and power as his trousers lowered, his cock demanding attention. Phillip whimpered again, softly, nearly dizzy with desire and disbelief that his fantasy was real and actually being played out. He almost forgot that it was a result of Phineas’s snooping.

“Get to work,” the captain snapped.

Phillip had been in this position a countless amount of times before, but now, with sea captain instead of ringmaster waiting for him, he felt closed in and very, very warm. He was hyper aware of the heat radiating from himself and from the captain, and his mouth felt suddenly dry.

But one more look up at Phineas took Phillip’s breath away and, slowly, his body relaxed. He leaned forward, kissing his lips to the smooth head of the captain’s cock.

Above him, Phineas sighed and shifted. Captain persona momentarily forgotten.

Using one hand to grip the man’s hip, Phillip slowly took more in. The familiar thickness and musky scents were comforting and Phillip relaxed further, falling into the familiar routine. He sucked eagerly, but slowly, savoring Phineas’s taste.

“Faster,” came the captain’s sharp order.

Phillip hummed, the best he could do with Phineas’s cock in his mouth, and closed his eyes as he applied more suction, sucking faster and harder and deeper. He gripped the captain’s hips, fingernails leaving little crescent-shaped marks in their wake, and took Phineas for all he was worth, until the tickling of his gag reflex forced him to slowly back off.

“Fuck,” the man above him hissed.

Then he felt the hand in his hair, then both hands, and he made a strangled noise as they tugged at his hair, abusing the strands. Phillip’s eyes snapped open as the captain gave a particularly hard yank, and the resulting moan ripped from his throat with such force that he had to pull away from the captain’s cock, leaving it wet and red and gleaming.

“Phin—“ he coughed.

A rough yank of his hair and a light, sharp slap across his face had Phillip correcting himself as he gasped.

“C-Captain!”

The captain smirked. His eyes flicked over to the bed, and then to Phillip. The younger man’s nightshirt was rumpled, much too big for him, and drenched in sweat.

“Undress, sailor.”

Phillip’s limbs trembled as he got to his feet and pulled Phineas’s nightshirt up over his head. The captain’s eyes darkened as they roamed over him, and he squirmed under the intense gaze.

“Mmm. Wait here.”

Phillip watched with wide eyes as the captain pulled up his trousers, acting as if his cock didn’t literally ache to be released, and swiftly left the room. Phillip was left alone, undressed and aching and with a thudding heart. He sat on the edge of the bed and attempted to breathe evenly.

At first, when the captain came back with red ribbons in hand, Phillip didn’t gauge the meaning. He looked up into Phineas’s eyes.

The familiar smirk returned. “You mentioned ropes in your writing, but I thought ribbons might be smoother on that delicate skin of yours.”

Phillip gaped at him. His mind raced, realizing what the words meant.

The captain approached with slow, sturdy steps. He pushed Phillip back down — Phillip made no attempt to fight back — and made quick work of tying him up, bringing his wrists up over his head. Phillip moaned and whined and whimpered. He didn’t even have exposed skin to press up against. Phineas knew this, the entire reason why he’d stayed dressed, and it drove Phillip wild.

The captain knotted the ribbons as tightly as they could be tied without causing Phillip pain. Phillip, mortified and nude and horribly aroused, watched as the captain stood back and observed him, fully clothed once more.

“Cap— Cap’n, please—“

The captain snickered, and, once satisfied that Phillip could not reach him, finally began to undress. The belt came undone for a second time, and he shrugged out of the thin white shirt, finally baring a beautifully sculpted chest. He  stepped out of his trousers and undergarments, tossing them carelessly to the floor. 

Phillip’s lips formed verbal pleas before he could stop himself. The captain was pure power and muscle and solid art and Phillip craved every inch of him. He whimpered and pulled at his restraints.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

Along with the ribbons, the captain brought in a small jar of oil which he now twisted open and dipped his fingers into. Phillip whimpered again and pulled at his restraints again, spreading his legs as far as they would go. His cock stood to attention and his body yearned to be touched, knowing the pleasure that just fingers alone would bring him. 

“Such a little whore.” The captain shook his head. He bit his lip in an attempt to hide his smirk. “How many travels have you been on, boy? How many seamen have you spread open for?”

Phillip’s cock twitched and, having nothing to grab or hold onto, he balled his hands into fists. “Only you, my c-captain. Only you.”

He could not tear his eyes from the captain’s hand, glistening wet with oil. His body sang for it. 

Seeming satisfied with Phillip’s answer, the captain’s lip finally curled into that familiar smirk. He came to the bed and knelt in front of Phillip’s spread legs, the younger’s hips rising in eager anticipation.

“Please,” he begged again, over and over, “Please.”

The first brush of the captain’s fingers, wet with oil, had Phillip whimpering and straining to press closer. The captain’s amber eyes bore into his as he took his time pressing his finger to Phillip’s hole, then pressing in. One, then two. Phillip gasped, begged for more.

“So needy,” the captain patronized, even he pushed in a third finger. But, Phillip didn’t miss the catch in his voice, the excitement. Phineas wanted this as much as Phillip did and the thought made Phillip feel smug, even as he greedily moaned.

Phineas’s long fingers were rough and calloused from years of hard labor on the railroad, and it didn’t take much to imagine the scarred hands of a rugged sea captain were the ones that fucked into him. Phillip clenched tight around those fingers as he closed his eyes, pleased to hear the resulting low moan from the captain. 

Suddenly daring, Phillip opened his eyes and opened his mouth to gloat. But rough, soft lips pressed against his instead, and he sighed deep into the kiss. Lips warm and slightly chapped, the captain worked his tongue into Phillip’s eager mouth as his fingers worked Phillip’s equally eager body.

As they pulled back for air, Phillip sighed, “Phineas.”

“Captain,” Phineas growled. He thrust his fingers in particularly hard and Phillip gasped again, jerking upward. 

“Captain,” Phillip obediently repeated, pressing his head into the pillow as he arched his neck. The captain groaned low in approval as he dipped his head, teeth grazing along Phillip’s neck. His teeth nicked as he bit down and Phillip moaned, loudly. He could feel the captain’s smirk against his skin. 

Lips pressed to Phillip’s pulse point as the captain curled his fingers. Phillip cried out as fingertips lightly brushed against something inside him, heart rate jumping, and Phineas grinned against his pulse. In an action much too gentle for a pirate, Phineas kissed Phillip’s neck as he slowly pulled out his fingers. 

Phillip whimpered and instinctively clenched around nothing. He looked up at Phineas with wide eyes, bright and nearly brimming with tears.

“Don’t give me that face,” the captain chided. He stood and, using the same hand that had been inside Phillip moments earlier, coated his own cock with oil. He jerked himself lazily, slowly, smirking as Phillip watched. 

Phillip’s body reacted from both ends, saliva filling his mouth and hole twitching in anticipation. He licked his lips and pulled at his restraints, frustrated, a tear rolling down his cheek. His face flamed with color, though he wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment, arousal, or both.

He couldn’t remember ever crying in his dreams. Somehow, Phineas — his Phineas, his captain — drove him more wild than the man in his dreams ever could. 

If he could reach out to the man, he would. He no longer cared how he looked, he no longer cared how much he begged. Squirming on the bed, he pleaded, “Please, Captain. Have me. Take me.”

He watched as the captain’s eyes widened, then darkened. Hand falling from his cock, the captain climbed onto the bed and crawled over him. Wrapping Phillip’s legs around his waist, he claimed Phillip’s lips in another kiss, rougher than the last, tugging at Phillip’s lower lip. He relished in the sounds Phillip made as he moaned into his mouth. 

“Please, sir,” Phillip whispered in between a breath for air. He couldn’t wait anymore.

Phillip whimpered when the captain’s cock brushed against his ass, the tip teasing his hole. The captain pulled away from the kiss, breaking it for good, to grip his cock and slowly guide it into Phillip.

Phillip moaned, loud, louder, his heels digging into the captain’s backside, as the man entered him. Finally, finally. His fingers twitched, arms aching to wrap around Phineas, and his legs clung as tight as they could, guiding the captain as he drove into him. 

In his captain persona, Phineas wasn’t as liberal with the oil as he would have been otherwise, and, though he hadn’t noticed before, Phillip could feel it. He moaned at the new burn, the new pull, the new stretch, just enough to recognize the difference in a lot of lube versus a little without physically hurting him. The feel of Phineas’s cock, smooth and curved and so deliciously his, had Phillip attempting to bear down on it and ride Phineas for all he was worth.

The captain’s pace was fast and wicked, each new caress of his cock hitting Phillip almost before he had a chance to react to the one previous. Phillip moaned, whined, called out to the man above him — every time his tongue slipped and called out Phineas instead of Captain, the captain delivered a light, but stinging slap to his cheek. It brought tears to Phillip’s eyes more than once — not from pain, but sheer arousal — and he moaned out his correction.

The bed rocked underneath the captain’s force, and the captain groaned, pressing his forehead to Phillip’s. Their kiss was sloppy and bruising, the captain biting Phillip’s lip again and swallowing his moan. All Phillip could do was moan, legs wound tight around the captain, eyes brimming with fresh tears that threatened to spill over.

The captain’s voice was rough in Phillip’s ear, telling Phillip how tight he was, how hot, how good. Every last nerve in Phillip’s body felt like it was on fire, and when the captain stopped the bruising pace, Phillip had to swallow a broken scream.

Phillip’s mouth was ready with protests as the captain, panting, moved up to untie Phillip’s ribbons. Phillip gasped, and then moaned as his wrists were finally freed, his hands immediately moving to dig into the captain’s back.

Grunting, the captain resumed his ministrations, maneuvering Phillip’s hips to fuck deeper into him, faster. Phillip had to concentrate on remembering to breathe, fingers more like claws as they scratched down the man’s back. His hands were everywhere at once, as if making up for lost time, painting Phineas’s back like a canvas. 

When the captain’s hand lowered, taking hold of Phillip’s cock, Phillip screamed out. “Ph-Ph-Phineas!”

The captain did not correct him as he spilled all over their chests.

Gasping, almost struggling to force air into his lungs, Phillip’s head fell back against the bed frame. The captain paused for the briefest moment, allowing Phillip to properly come and suck in a mouthful of air, but quickly picked up his pace just as before. He was grunting now, head bowed low, eyes squeezed shut. Phillip knew he was close.

Moaning still as the captain fucked inside him, Phillip grabbed the captain’s hands and loosely twined their fingers together. He panted and moaned as the captain squeezed his hands in an almost perfect rhythm.

The captain’s hips beginning to stutter, a high moan broke from Phillip’s lips. He clenched tight around Phineas’s cock, held him tight with his legs, and watched in utter rapture as the man’s face contorted. 

The captain’s moan was broken by a string of curses as he slammed into his orgasm. Panting, he squeezed Phillip’s hands and buried his face in Phillip’s neck, inhaling sweat and sex.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

As his hips stilled and he laid limp inside Phillip, Phillip kissed his sweaty brow. He looked up, hardened face of the captain immediately melting away into Phineas’s familiar loving gaze.

“Are you all right?” Phineas asked, voice husky. Shifting, he slowly pulled out of Phillip and rolled away, their chests a mess of Phillip’s come. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“No,” Phillip breathed. It took a moment to collect himself, but then he swore, “That was incredible, Phineas... you are incredible.”

Phineas smiled — though it looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Welcome home.”

 “God.” Somehow, Phillip found enough energy to press his hands over his eyes. “I can’t believe you—“

Phineas’s deep chuckle interrupted him, and he sighed as Phineas kissed his flushed cheek.

“You know,” Phineas mused, running a hand through Phillip’s terribly messy hair, “I still have quite a lot of material to go through...”

Phillip’s eyes widened and he shot up, meeting Phineas’s stupidly amused gaze. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you complaining?” Phineas smirked.

Phillip groaned and flopped back against the pillows. He lifted his eyes as Phineas loomed over him.

“I didn’t hear a ‘yes,’” Phineas mumbled, before catching Phillip’s lips in a soft, languid kiss.

Phillip sighed as they broke apart. Eyelids suddenly heavy, he smiled up at Phineas.

“Whatever you want,” he promised, sleep coating his voice. “I just have one question...”

“Hmmm?”

Their eyes met.

“What, exactly, did you clean?”

——

Completely unbetaed, so if you made it this far you get a gold star 

[prairiesongserial]

12.9

Johannes had thought he’d known, broadly, what to expect from a cult. He’d dealt with cults before. You saw a lot of them, when you traveled up and down the East Coast as frequently as the circus did. You learned to steer clear of them, or at least to not get on their bad side, and you knew that when you looked close enough, most cults were just a con job at their core. Not even a good con job, either. Truth be told, Johannes was a little miffed that the Kill Devil Hills cult had managed to pull one over on him. He prided himself on being a hard man to fool - except when it came to Protestants, apparently.

At any rate, Johannes had mostly expected the pyre, and the island full of people in white robes, and the weird prayers about the ocean. What he hadn’t foreseen was the pack of wild horses milling around on the beach. They were mostly just standing there, the cultists giving them a wide, respectful berth, but the sheer unexpectedness of seeing horses took Johannes aback for a moment.

Then again, he thought, looking out from the eyeholes of the mask he’d stolen from Weep-Not, maybe he should have known.

The cultists had mostly run their boats aground in the sand, rather than anchor them or dock them properly. There didn’t appear to be a pier of any kind, like there was on the mainland, so they were probably making do. A part of Johannes, the part that was tired of rowing, considered pulling his stolen boat up alongside the cultists’, and accepting the risk that he might be seen and clocked immediately as an interloper. But the sensible part of him - and the part that wanted to rescue Val and get this over with, already - wouldn’t allow that. There were more discreet ways of slipping in amongst the cult, especially as they whipped themselves into a religious frenzy.

Johannes’s arms ached in protest as he carefully turned the boat out of its straight-ahead trajectory towards the beach, and made to circle around the island instead. He hadn’t been rowing for long, but his muscles were already searing hot with the strain of it. His breath inside the horse mask was hot and sour, and the damned thing kept slipping out of place, so that he could only really see out of one eye hole at a time unless he bothered to reach up and adjust it. Underneath, his hair was plastered to his scalp by sweat. He tried not to think about the fact that he was going to have to row all the way back to the mainland by himself, with Val’s weight added to the boat. Maybe he’d get a second wind by then.

He rowed in a crescent-moon shape around the island until he found a small section of beach where he could still hear the cultists and horses, but not see them. Arduously, Johannes brought the boat ashore, picking up the oars and laying them flat beneath his seat only once he felt every stroke hitting wet sand. He got out of the boat, dragged it the rest of the way onto the beach, and debated covering it up with leaves and branches, so it couldn’t be easily found. Was anyone really going to wander away from the cult and discover it?

Probably not - and better to not waste the effort. Johannes readjusted the horse mask, feeling beads of sweat roll down his nose, and stomped off into the overgrown, swampy forest that took up most of the island.

The forest had not been much kinder than the ocean or the beach. There was no trail, so Johannes had navigated more or less blindly towards the sound of the cult on the beach, smacking tree limbs and overgrown bushes aside as quietly as he could manage. He couldn’t risk drawing everyone’s attention to the stranger crashing through the woods, not when his goal was to stay unnoticed. 

Unfortunately, that meant grinning and bearing it when an unseen branch smacked the horse mask sideways on his head, when he ran straight into a spider’s web, and when his pants caught and tore on a bush, leaving a long stripe of his bare thigh visible. Not exactly ideal, when he was probably about to go and stand in a fire to rescue the preacher, but maybe tearing his pants would be the worst thing to happen to him today. A man could hope.

Johannes had now reached the tree line, and he squatted there, his boots digging into the soft sand. He was practically spitting distance from the cult, so close that he’d positioned himself behind a tree to keep from being seen - at least until he’d realized that the cult had plenty to keep them distracted. Not only was Fear-Not shouting something, her arms outstretched, and not only were the cultists lighting torches made of driftwood, but the horses had surrounded the pyre.

The horses were running in a circle around the cultists and the pyre. Johannes counted six of them, all different shades of black and brown, their hoofbeats thundering so loudly that they drowned out everything from Fear-Not’s words to the sound of the ocean. Their bodies rippled with muscle, forming a barrier between Johannes and the pyre that was more effective than anything the cult could ever have managed on their own.

Johannes knew horses, though. Maybe even better than he knew cults. The circus had gotten their hands on some horses, once upon a time, back when Mame had run the joint. The ringmaster - Johannes’s father, that was - had paid a farm in Vermont to loan him a couple mares, for a handful of shows he’d set his mind to putting on in the off-season. They’d done well, made a decent chunk of change, but horses were too impractical to add to the regular East Coast tour. They didn’t travel well, not without a lot of special equipment. And besides, the first thing anyone learned about horses was that they startled easy.

Johannes dug a gloved hand into his jacket pocket, praying it hadn’t turned inside-out or otherwise shaken its contents loose while his clothes had been packed away in a costume crate. His fist closed around a handful of round capsules, and he grinned.

His lighter was in the other pocket, and he took it in his free hand. The cultists were touching their torches to the pyre now, and the wood there was smoking, nearly caught. Val was upright on the stake they’d tied him to, not struggling, probably still drugged. Johannes could only see his back. If the whole pyre went up at once, Val might die before he had a chance to wake up and realize what was happening to him. The thought made the sweat on the back of Johannes’s neck turn to ice.

Johannes took the handful of cherry bombs out of his pocket, and held the fuse together. He was only going to get one chance to light his own flame, one that would hopefully draw the horses away and make a gap for him to slip through. If that didn’t work - he refused to let himself think about that. He readjusted his mask so the eye holes fit where he needed them to, took a breath, and lit the fuses.

The cherry bombs sparked in his hand. Johannes could have held onto them longer with the fireproof gloves he was wearing, could have made sure they would explode right as they hit the ground instead of risking them being extinguished by the sand. Instead, he threw them. The bombs scattered in the air, still sparking, and he couldn’t see where they landed. That was alright, as long as they did their work.

Johannes didn’t have to wait long to see that they did. He had braced himself for it, but the gunshot sound of the first bomb going off startled him. It startled the horses, too - the one closest to where the bomb had exploded reared up onto its hind legs, effectively breaking the stampeding ring that had surrounded the pyre. Johannes watched, unsure if the horses would just go back to running, his jaw clenched in anticipation.

Then the second bomb went off. And the third, and the fourth, a chain of cherry bombs that sounded like the circus’s popcorn machine amplified over a hundred speakers. The horses spooked and scattered. One galloped within feet of where Johannes was hiding, trampling bush and branch underfoot as it escaped into the forest. Some disappeared down the beach. The cultists were shouting, some gesticulating at each other, some running after the horses as though they could ever hope to coax them back.

Johannes stepped out of his hiding place. He had thought the thundering on the beach was entirely the horses, but it was now evident that some of that had been his own pulse, hammering in his ears. The pyre had caught in earnest in the time it had taken to spook the horses, and the flames climbed it, licking eagerly at Val’s clothes. It was hard to see Val through the smoke. Johannes moved towards the pyre, feeling as though he was moving underwater, the way he might have in a dream.

He was in the fire now. He didn’t feel it, not really. Just a vague warmth that crept steadily up his legs. He was fumbling with the rope that kept Val lashed to the pyre, but he couldn’t feel the knots through the thick fabric of his gloves, and it made his fingers clumsy. Johannes bent, his shoulder pressed to Val’s sternum, and picked apart the knots one by one, single-mindedly focused on the task until all the rope had fallen apart in his hands. He was aware of Val moving against him, but just barely.

“Let’s go,” Johannes said over the noise of the flame, when he finally straightened up.

Val coughed. He didn’t seem capable of speaking. He was wearing a mask on his face entirely unlike the cultists’ - a mask made of red leather, with devil’s horns jutting out from it. His clothes were smoldering, and part of his hair had caught, sizzling and frayed. It smelled horrible. 

Johannes ripped the mask from Val’s face and threw it aside, afraid of what he might see. Val’s eyes looked entirely vacant behind it, glassy and unfocused. There was no way he was going to walk out of here without a push. Rather than give him another order, Johannes took Val by the arm and shoved him as hard as he possibly could away from the pyre. At the very least, the sand he landed in would help put him out.

Johannes leapt from the fire to find Val lying on the beach, chaos all around him. The cultists were still in turmoil, it appeared, mostly shouting at one another, though a significant amount of them had paused at the sign of Val being tossed free from the flames. Their attention now turned to Johannes - who became suddenly aware that he had walked into flames wearing a wooden mask, and that the mask was now smoldering. He yanked it off his head, and chucked it onto the pyre, where it immediately went up in smoke.

“Do not,” Johannes said, making his voice as low and dangerous as it could possibly get, “fucking follow me.”

The cult said nothing. Even Fear-Not was watching him silently, her eyes huge in her thin, pale face. Johannes bent down and grabbed Val underneath the armpits to begin dragging him down the beach. Fuck the boat he’d parked - he was taking one of the other cultists’. They owed him that much, at least.

12.8 || 12.10