#head full. many soft circus man and magic man thoughts--

[dent-de-leon]

Tealeaf surreptitiously slid his hand across the table and tentatively laid it over Caleb’s own. In a flash, their gaze met. King felt Caleb’s hand flinch and fall still, just the faintest pulse of tension thrumming beneath the skin like an electric current. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat, but Caleb made no move to pull away. 

Kingsley squeezed Caleb’s hand and let the pressure ground him, holding on until his breathing evened out. This close, King can see every neat line of scarring deliberately scored into his deathly pale skin, crawling up his arms and still eating away at him. Weaving vines of ivy choking out the life from him. Hands the chalky white of crumbling marble, of ancient statues and abandoned temples—sacred, desecrated—cracks splintering and breaking. Caleb bows his head. A faithless man moved to prayer.

Confession and penance at the temple can be costly, depending on the god you aim to please. But Kingsley isn’t so demanding, and his readings are only five copper a piece. 

Real salvation runs steep. Caleb’s body lying still at Lucien’s feet, Jester crying when her spell strikes true, fractured memories twisting into nightmares. Fractals and fractals of a pattern spinning into dozens more. Nine eyes. Nine butterflies. Death and rebirth. The cycle endlessly repeats.

Lucien got a taste of godhood, a peek into something beyond, a little glimpse behind the curtain—and sometimes, Tealeaf's soul still feels chained and bound, everything too muted, ancient ache of a phantom limb. This world is more, it’s supposed to be more, and he was connected to it once, all of it, and now he’s permanently cut off. Always chasing that rush. Nothing could compare to the high of godhood. 

Ichor tastes sweeter than ale. Bleeds prettier than blood. 

Ale. Right. They’re drinking, some shitty ale at some shitty tavern, him and—

“Caleb,” King chokes out. Reminds himself. Runs his forked tongue over teeth, raps his claws on the table and just tries to fucking think. 

Looks down at the scars again. Caleb…

He wore bandages before, Kingsley knows. Kept them covered up in dirty old rags yellowing with age, singed and charring at the edges. Mollymauk was no stranger to wounds left to fester; he ached to take Caleb by the hand and delicately unwrap each filthy bandage, peel all the layers away and scrub his skin clean, wash and lather him with lavender scented soaps, gentle touches dancing on his skin. He wants to soothe and treat all the pain carved into him. 

“I know you’ve had a run of bad luck,” King says. 

Caleb’s roaring laughter makes him choke on the watered down tavern ale, sputtering until he’s nearly crying. 

“That would be an understatement,” he chuckles, still shaking his head in wry disbelief. “Luck is…generous, Mr. Tealeaf. It implies the fault was not my own.”

Caleb’s voice is always a little muted. Breathy. Wrung ragged by a bone deep weariness that claws at his throat in a hoarse rasp. Silken smooth when he’s laying all his cards on the table in a coldly calculated gamble. Skewing a tad gruff and husky when he’s caged and cornered and lashing out, despondently desperate. A little rugged and rough around the edges, bleeding raw. Attractive--that's dangerous.

Kingsley could fall asleep to the sweet lull of that voice. 

“You are staring, Tealeaf,” Caleb admonishes. 

King can’t hide his creeping grin. “Can you blame me? You’re pretty to look at."  

His nimble fingers fiddle with the cards again, shuffling them with a deft hand. He knows each one by heart, as surely as the lifeline of his own palm--and the matching array of gruesome scars.

When King feels the warm touch of a familiar kiss upon his brow, soft and comforting--for a moment, he's whole and radiant again. Blessed and divine.

[iphoenixrising]

The Demon You Know

Day 1 Urban Fantasy AU | Magical/Supernatural Creatures | Time Travel

So, something a little off the grid for my first day of DickTim Week 2021. Special thanks to my wonderful babe @vellaphoria for the beta and the incredible peeps on the Capes and Coffee discord (looking at you @themandylion, @strawberryjei and others). Also need to show my undying love for @chippon because babe, we are making it work.

**

When the sun creeps up over the sky in Gotham, then it’s time to GTFO. Capes in the daytime aren’t the usual for the city, and Red Robin has been playing it too late, staying out far past O’s warning to bring it in for the night. So, really, he’s only got himself to blame.

His penthouse perch has seen more use in the last few months since, welp, Gotham and the fact he likes to get away from the team mentality sometimes, like to return to his roots and run the rooftops like when he was still that Robin. His trips to the Manor had become more frequent since B was back in the cowl and things in the family seemed to be returning to some semblance of normal. 

Well, as normal as it could get, really.

But all that goodwill and positivity is literally ghost. Red’s hands are shaky and his inner calm is absolutely blown. He’s ducking into his perch to throw his suit off, grab his duffle bag full of sundries and fake idents, then he’s going to hit the airport as fast as he can get a flight the hell out of town, away from the terrifying sight.

(He should just call Bart or Kon or Cassie, tell them he needs an out faster than he can arrange it himself, he needs to get away from–)

He knows he fucked up when the slight sounds, small and metallic in nature, make it past his pulse thumping in his ears.

Like a horror flick, he slowly turns as the front door gives a groan and is pushed open by a very familiar palm.

Dick’s blue eyes fall on him like a ton of bricks, on Red Robin’s feet frozen to the floor, his suit only half on, and no way he can get far enough to throw himself out a window.

Fuck.

“So,” Dick keeps his voice soft, footsteps easy as he steps inside Tim’s penthouse and closes the door behind him, “you finally found me out.”

Keeping his mouth shut in times like this has really saved his ass before, so Red doesn’t say a word, keeps every muscle in his body ready to spring for the right second –

Watching the would-be robber struggle in Dick’s grip, watching the light show brighten overwhelmingly, seeing what had to be-had to be feeding.

“I figured it would be you if anyone, actually, so I’m not really surprised, just… disappointed.” Dick continues softly, only in jeans and a t-shirt since Nightwing was oddly missing from the patrol roster last night.

And Red is apparently the only one that knows why.

“But that doesn’t mean I can just let you go, Timmy,” Dick isn’t stopping, his whole body lax while Red is wound tight, backing away from the man he thought he knew. “I really wish you hadn’t found out like this. I...I had other plans.” 

Whirlybirds and pellets aren’t going to help him here. Hand-to-hand and martial arts, aerial acrobatics, none of it is going to make a difference. 

His throat goes dry when Dick’s eyes get more and more blue, when his former mentor doesn’t stop advancing, and Red Robin is running out of room to back away.

“I tried to save you, Timmy. I tried so hard to get you away, out of Gotham, even if you went because you thought you had to find Bruce, I’m the one that gave you the compulsion to leave.” The low laugh is edged with something desperate, “why the hell couldn’t you stay away?”

“This is my city, just as much as Batman’s. You taking my fucking cape wasn’t enough,” Red Robin bites out, back thumping against the kitchen counter, realizing Dick had backed him into the corner. “How did you keep it from him? Constantine, Zatanna, all the magic users he has on speed dial and he never figured you out? No one in the JLA or Titans did?”

That makes Dick pause.

“He never had to. He knew what my parents were before they ever died, Timmy. Haley’s Circus came to Gotham regularly. Bruce always knew.”

The information blast hits him painfully, that Bruce didn’t bother to tell him and look at where they are now.

“And he didn’t try to help you?” Red, Tim, gapes at the still silhouette that used to be someone he thought he knew like he knew himself. Someone that’s always had this secret. “He didn’t try to –”

“Cure me?” Dick’s mouth lifts in a semblance of a smile Tim knows. “There is no cure for this, Timmy. It’s what I am. What my parents both were, the curse of the Romain Bababiljos. It’s unfortunate for me both of them were cursed, that just makes the...the hunger two-fold.”

And it’s just a few more steps, a raised hand that makes Tim flinch back, but only a fingertip taps the edge of the domino, makes the whiteouts raise.

Automatically, with everything he’s learned, studied, experienced about supernatural creatures, he ducks his head so he isn’t looking directly into those eyes. That doesn’t stop Dick from bracketing Tim in, both hands on the counter, their bodies a breath apart.

Dick laughs softly, close enough for Tim to feel the breath on his face. “The Titans...I never had to tell them. By then, I could control myself, at least mostly. The JLA? I’m one of the Batman’s proteges. I’ve been fighting crime since I was eight. They believe in me. There was never a reason for any of them to look too deeply past the surface.”

“Wh-what do you mean mostly?” Tim’s heart slams in his chest, “how many people have you killed, Dick?”

“Do you have any idea how awful the hunger is?” And the lower Dick’s voice goes, the harder Tim’s heart starts to pound. “Surviving on hugs and family affection is tantamount to starvation for someone like me. It’s so easy to kill someone during sex because the hunger is so much I can’t control it sometimes. Anyone I’m with is in danger.  That’s why I couldn’t stay with Babs, she’s too human. The one time I came close–” 

Dick breathes again and all Tim looks at is the span of throat, thinking of the soft, vulnerable parts, anything he can use to get the fuck away.

“–but I didn’t. I have...willpower sometimes. I drained her so close, though. She was-was so fragile, Timmy, and I was so hungry. I’d been starving for so damn long. She was hospitalized for longer than she’d been when the Joker shot her, and I said never again. But Wally and Kory were...different. I could go further with him without killing them, I could get more full than I’d been in a long time. It was still dangerous for them, but I was so far gone by the time...”

“They’re both still alive. Babs is still alive. Does she–?”

“Remember? Of course not. None of them do. I made sure of that, Tim, so none of them would be afraid of me.”  And the air changes when Dick gets closer, his eyes get brighter, and Tim almost chokes with the almost touch to his body under his suit. “But, you are going to be different, aren’t you? I’m not going to be able to convince your mind that what you saw was a dream.”

“So what? You’re going to make me “disappear”? You’ll give Bruce some sob story about how I got tired of the vigilante life and left for college or some shit? Going to bury me where no one will ever find me?” He isn’t looking at Dick’s face, can’t see his own end coming, can’t believe he’d put all his faith and belief in this man only to have it all come to this.

Tim laughs wetly, blinking rapidly, and everything suddenly comes together. “He won’t ever come looking for me anyway. You made sure of that when you made Damian your Robin. Nice plan, Dick. No one is going to give a shit if I’m never seen again anyway.”

And it’s stupid not to at least try, not to duck and kick out, trip up whatever Dick really is, to break a window and fucking run, try to get Bruce, Clark, Kon and Bart and Cassie, to get anyone to listen to him about what Dick really is, to try to save himself.

(If you’d never figured out Dick was Robin, if you never put yourself in front of him, you’d be safe now. Miserable but safe.)

Even if it’s his own brain pan spitting this out, he knows it’s bullshit. 

If he’d never approached Dick Grayson with proof Batman was losing his mind, Tim Drake wouldn’t have reached twenty-one. The way his life was going, he would have probably hung himself long before getting to this stage in his life. If he’d never had Bruce or Alfred or Dick or Steph, if he’d never had Robin, never had Young Justice or The Titans, if he’d never had the Clench, never felt the rumble under his feet as Gotham had fallen, if he’d never had the agony of losing everyone in his life, if he’d never had the drive to prove his adopted father was alive…

The civilian Tim Drake wouldn’t have had the strength to make it through life alive.

So if this is the way he goes out, if Dick is the one that ends it for him–

There’re worse ways to go.

He’s not going to be the Joker’s next victim or Ra’s al Ghul’s heir with a mix of Lazarus Pit crazy. The HIVE, the Light, the mass of aliens he’s fought, any number of Rogue Gallery thugs, none of them will be the ones to take him out.

But this?

His career as Robin started out with Dick Grayson, so maybe...maybe it’s fitting this is the way it all ends. 

He sucks in a breath and finally tilts his head up, looks up into those electric blue eyes, and lets his breath out so so slow.

Because Dick is looking at him with watery eyes, with a grimace, with something Tim can actually recognize.

But those eyes light up in his penthouse perch, take on a supernatural glow, Dick snatching his wrists in bigger hands, pulling Tim closer, the heat getting through layers of Kevlar and Nomex. And just like that, he can’t pull away, can’t pull back.

There’s no way to defend himself when Dick pulls him in, when he expects to get his throat ripped out, his neck snapped, something important crushed, for the darkness to take over and his heart to slow down to a sad, weak pitter patter.

He can’t defend himself when Dick kisses him, opens his mouth, and stuns him into going completely slack.

“I told you,” Dick growls softly when he pulls back, bends enough to get Tim laid out over his shoulder, “I had other plans.”

But Tim can’t reply, can’t do anything other than lay across Dick’s back as the Romani love deamon strides down the hallway and kicks open the bedroom door.

**

And if Tim Drake survives until morning, shocking the hell out of the both of them, staring up at Dick’s surprised face and glowing blue eyes, if the soft touch to his jaw contrasts sharply with the bruises and red marks blossoming all over his body from an intense night with his supernatural mentor and best friend, if Dick doesn’t whisper, “finally, finally, my mate,” before kissing him. 

If the power Dick drains from him doesn’t kill him, doesn’t do more than give him the most amazing span of unending multiple orgasms to ever happen, if Dick isn’t fully satisfied for the first time in his life. If Dick doesn’t call them both off patrol for the next three nights, carts Tim back to his apartment, refuses him clothes and computers and tech, tells the Titans they’re taking a break from crime fighting while Tim is tied and gagged in his bed, sated enough to listen hazily with half-mast eyes. 

If Dick doesn’t hand feed him while he’s getting feeling back in his legs (finally) and give him the full run-down about his parents. If the strange mark on his abdomen doesn’t get warm whenever Dick’s hand is on it, fingers tracing the edges, making those blue, blue eyes dilate in possessiveness. If Tim doesn’t eventually escape with his sanity intact and a little terrified how much his body craves only to have Dick chase after him with single-minded purposes to convince him they’re meant to be.

Then only the man with cameras all over Gotham, waiting and watching with bated breath and fear for his Robins, unmitigated relief when his theory proves true, would be able to give all the details.

[hpdabbles]

Lovely Nightmares

Based off the Dig Two graves by @childotkw. Thank you again for permission to use as based idea! 

“We find the defendant guilty on all charges.” 

Harry stares upwards in shock as Tom Riddle- the boy he considered a friend, the one he told everything to, the one he believed made it all worth while to go to Hogwarts- turn his head away from him after damning him with his lies. He did well, playing the terrified bystander to someone who lost themselves in bloodlust and violent tendencies. 

His witness statement made a few eyes tear up in pity for the muggleborn who had been tricked by the halfblood into cruel silence for the mistreatment he had to endure under Harry’s thumb until a fresh corpse forced him to speak out. He took everything he once thought made their friendship real and twisted it, to make him appear a murder.

A murder that the Ministry of Magic has now sentence to life in Azkaban. 

Harry had not been fond of Myrtle Warren, mostly due her forceful flirtish behavior against him and other boys as well as her whining voice but he would never have hurt her much less kill her. In fact Harry often put himself between the girl and the bullies who followed her around. How people could forget that he never know. 

Yes the last time he spoke to her, left the Ravencalw in tears but that was because Harry had rejected her as gently as he could. After she ran away from him unable to stand the rejection, she was found hours later dead in one of the girls bathroom. 

Harry had been horrified and truly sorry to see the confuse ghost flout about lost in a way only the departed could be. She was so young, a soul that can not find rest even after her death. He along with the rest of the school were evacuated from their dorms, everyone speaking about the murder. The houses were keep separated  in order to keep better track of the young, while preparations were made to have everyone sent home

It would be Hogwarts last year if the killer could not be found as it no longer meant the future of magic were safe within their walls. Harry was sadden to see such a important place go, especially as one of the first students to originally walk it’s halls, but he had been more worried about Tom because there were rumors that Warren had been killed for being a muggleborn.

Tom Riddle, the human mortal, was also a muggleborn. It tore Harry up inside to think he could be next. A victim. That he could disappear from this world. 

He went to see him when he got the chance only for Tom to point him out to a pair of Aurors with wild desperate eyes “He did it! Harry Potter killed Myrtle Warren!” 

Harry tried to defend himself but with the evidence Tom managed to present to the authorities he was dragged away with the school watching. The worst part had been Myrtle who was flouting one inch above the ground in the grand hall,  her unseeing eyes watching him go with tears rolling down her face.  “Why Harry...I loved you”

Her confession made it all the worst for him. Harry knew the Ministry of Magic tended to believe guilty until proven otherwise but even before he stepped into his court hearing he knew it was a kangaroo court.

They all believed he did it, the court hearing was just a formality.  

“Harry James Potter shall be sentence to life in Azkaban for the crimes including the murder of Muggleborn Myrtle Warren, possession of illegal potions, Possession of dark magic, and commenting a murder on Hogwarts sacred ground.”

“What?! But I didn’t do it! Tom is lying! He’s lying!” Harry shouted in outrage struggling even as Aurors appears to drag him away. A strong grip on his shoulder and legs to the point of bruising is nothing compare to the smug eyes of Tom Riddle as the doors start to close. Harry allows his eyes to flash the bright green of his father’s magic for a second just to watch that attractive face spam in surprise.  “You’ll pay for this Riddle. I hope the guilt eats you alive. I hope it never lets you rest!”

“That’s enough out of you” sneers the woman who is moving him. Harry turns to her just in time to watch her wand light up before everything goes dark. As he is falling, he forces words past his lips so the whole courtroom can hear his final words.  

“I will make sure everyone in this room pays.” They do not know they ring with not just truth but with a curse. It would take them days to discover it but by then it would far too late. 

He wakes to the sound of crashing waves, freezing cold and the screams of the inmates. Harry had been stripped of his Gryffindor uniform leaving him black and white stripped robes, his feet were bared and he has bruises all along his body. He laid on the stone ground, with no windows, no bed or bathroom from what he could tell. Flickers of near by torches made it hard to see but he thought there was a woman across from him leaning against her cell bars like a broken doll. 

A dementor stood at his open cell door, likely left that way so that one of them could “accidently” feed on him while the guards were away, hovering uncertainty.  Harry scowled at it. “What are you looking at?”

The creature twisted it’s head, taking a breath. The cold increased, causing shivers to run along Harry’s body, his human side effected by the magic of sorrow even though his father’s blood keep him level headed. It would take a while but eventually the coldness would sustained. The creature made a odd crocking sound that attracted the attention more of it’s kind. 

The woman let out a whimper when the flouting masses of darkness glided by her cell. She threw her self away from them, pressing her bone skin back to the far wall. Harry silently sent her a apology even as his body finally adjusted to the Dementors peering at him from under their cloaks of shadows. 

“I’m not a circus act” Harry snapped at them, standing up and stretching  his arms above his head. A satisfyingly pop run up and down his back which sent the dementors into a frenzy, more of that odd croaking filling the air. It took him a moment to realize they were excited by him. 

He squinted at them. Ah, these were young. Maybe only two thousand years old. They had never come across him or his father, because they were behaving much like teenagers meeting their idol. Not that he could blame them, Harry’s dad was pretty important to the likes of them.

A giant black dog rose up from the shadows in the corners then, causing the Demontors to go wild as the dog strutted by them wagging it’s tail to a pair on the right. The creatures did three flips in the air as they swoon. They would be gloating later to any of their kind that the great Grim had given them a haughty smirk no doubt. Harry rolled his eyes as the door twisted into his uncle Sirius. 

“Harry!” The man said joyously, his dark curls framing his grinning face as the adult waved a finger at him. The spark of laughter in his silver eyes- a nice choice of his humanoid form Harry thinks. This one most definite matches humans’ idea of beauty- lets the half being know his uncle finds this all hilarious.  “Why am I picking up my nephew from mortal prison? James is besides himself, young man. He allowed you to come down the these realm for a few years and you get thrown in jail!”

“Riddle framed me.” Harry shrugs slightly embarrassed his new life on Earth ended so abruptly. “He told everyone that I murdered someone.”

Sirius frowned, his canine peaking over his lip as he studied the boy who quickly laid down face first allowing his soul to detach from his body. “I thought you two were close. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know but i intend to make his life hell.”

The Grim tilted his head as the soul of his nephew- Death’s son created between the personification of the end and a muggleborn woman named Lily many many eons ago- rose from it’s physically anchor his father created.

Since Harry is both half alive and half dead he could come and go between worlds. Usually James-as Death preferred to be called- ever few millennia would bend to his son’s boredom and send him down to Earth. It was a nice vacation from all the filing, soul collecting and transporting of souls the boy had to do. In truth James saw it more as sending Harry off to summer camp to experience more from his mother’s side instead of reincarnating him into a human anchor he design.

Lily lived in the Beyond, as she was full mortal, while James and Harry lived in a never ending castle in Between. They visited Lily in her private heaven often with James confidently heading over there after work but Harry yearn for the real world and not the one created by James’ will or Lily’s fondest memoires.

He had experience empires rise and fall, had taken many names and faces to match whatever whim of appearance James took up-last millennia he had sported blond hair and blue eyes which meant Harry did as while- but no one had ever made him feel as alive as Tom Riddle has.

“How do you plan to do that?” Sirius asked waving at the group of Dementors goodbye while opening his shadow so Harry could travel to his father’s realm. 

“I’m going to appear in all of his dreams until the day he dies.” Harry growled sinking into the darkness. “The dream scape is the place I can bend to my will and Riddle will rue the day he ever double-crossed me.”

“Alright but you are going to be the one explaining to your father that you want to appear in a teenage boy’s dreams and not me. He never forgive me if I helped his dear baby Harry flirt like that.”

The darkness swallowed them up on Harry’s squeaking of denials his body left under the protection of Dementors who were the only witness to the strange happening. 

Miles away Tom Riddle looked over at the Gryffindor table missing the strong green stare that always looked back him more then he will ever be willing to admit. He shivers abruptly when a cold sensation of a hand runs along the back of his neck to his shoulders. 

That night he dreamed of Harry Potter by the black lake, smile soft and green eyes glowing. He took Tom’s hand to guide him into the water with a sweet laugh that made everything slow down as Tom jumped through the waves of a invisible breeze. Harry looked happy as they splashed about, the sky a clear blue for once and Tom could not look away from the vision Harry made.

Midway through the dream the water turn to blood, Harry’s smile fell and his heavy betrayed eyes bore into Tom’s as he the smell of copper rose. The mortal found himself incased in blood slowing dragging him down as he struggle to escape the chains the liquid had become around him. 

No matter how hard he fought nothing could stop him from sinking further and further down all the while Harry watched him slowly drown. Tom tried to scream for help, to reach out towards him but the boy was unmoved until all he could see besides the red was Harry’s lips moving.

 “Why Tom...why did you do it?”

Tom Riddle woke screaming drench in cold sweat. 

[chronicbatfictioner]

Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 13

"Grayson? Are you awake?" the tiny little voice was unmistakably scared. The Court has trained Dick more than enough to recognize fear in a human being, and complimented on his natural ability to read people. If asked, he would say that children would be the easiest to read.

Except for Damian.

According to Jason, Damian has been trained by his mother and grandfather, and a plethora of trainers, to eventually take the mantle of the Demon Head from Ra's Al Ghul. His trainers, including Jason, have joked that it might take a while; because Ra's was believed to be an immortal. He has the magic fountain of youth called the Lazarus Pit that could even revive the dead and has been using it in the past 300+ years. Or so the lore said.

Behind Damian's back, Jason has also told them that both Ra's and Talia were decapitated and their heads were missing. The Lazarus Pit might be able to revive the dead, except it required the important organs of the body to be intact; e.g. head, heart, lungs, etc. Dick reckoned that the heads were removed exactly to prevent the use of the Lazarus Pit.

"You need something, buddy?" Dick replied.

"Not at the moment, thank you," Damian replied, taking a seat next to Dick's station next to the door. "I can't sleep." he admitted.

"Nervous for tomorrow?"

Tomorrow they were going to the Wayne Manor, through a convoluted route that Tim has come up in order to avoid detection by anyone who might want Damian to a. not meet his father or b. kill him to take full control of the League of Assassin. Yeah, neither scenario appealed to Dick, but the little voice in his head said that scenario b might be preferable than scenario a.

Dick never understood men who denied their children of their presence. He remembered his dad, a poor circus performer, who would even give small shows for kids who couldn't afford to watch the aerials - walking on his hands, random somersaults, teaching them how to somersault. He remembered Tim's crestfallen face when he couldn't go and watch Dick perform that day - albeit it turned out to be a little more beneficial for Tim in the long run. He remembered his dad telling him that "whatever little things you show those kids now would make them feel that they are loved and cared for, even if they don't have money. And they'll remember you forever."

"I do not understand nervousness," Damian replied plaintively.

"No, but your brain is giving you signals that make you anxious, you know? Like, you're wondering what's gonna happen tomorrow, and a thousand of scenarios would run to your head. That's... the chemical imbalance is called 'nervousness', I think." Dick explained. Jason has also warned him that Damian hated being treated like a child. Jason has been the only person other than his mother or grandfather who was 'allowed' to discipline him and tell him 'no'.

Still, adult body language and attitude notwithstanding, Dick could see and recognize the child Damian still was.

"Soo... when I couldn't sleep, my mother used to read to me. I mean, obviously I could read on my own by then. But there's just something... I dunno, maybe my subconsciousness just calmed down at the thought that she was there with me. Whatever would happen tomorrow, she would be there, too, to proverbially catch me when I fall, you know?

"I know it's... hard, that... you know that your mother is gone and all. But the thing is - like Tim has told Jason, whatever will happen tomorrow with your biological father, you'll still have a home with us." Dick said, eyeing Damian sideways to check if he was offended or not.

"I have a home with the League of Assassins," Damian stated haughtily. "Jason has informed me that there is a difference between underlings and friends. I gather what you are saying is that I shall have you as friends - as contemporaries - rather than an underling, as you all seem to revere to this Oracle person."

"See, Oracle is not really our... supervisor. Oracle is a really good friend who believes that we all could be good and showed us how. I..." Dick hesitated as he was about to say 'she' to designate Oracle. "When Bane killed off the Court of Owls and almost all of the Talons, I was lost. But then I remembered this person. Through the years of my training, this person had somehow remained in my memory. And the first time we've met was literally a few hours before it turned to be the worst day of my life, the day when my parents' were murdered. Before that, I was playing outside, performing tricks for the kids who couldn't get in the aerial shows. Oracle was there and told me that I was a 'good person' after I was done. I don't know how or why, but it stuck with me.

"I am a Talon, I am trained to kill those who hurt Gotham City. I have done so many despicable things that... I dunno, common people might simply see me as... as a vile person. A criminal psychopath. But not Oracle. Oracle and Tim opened their doors, asked me to join them to help them make Gotham better for the common people. Because they believed I'm a good man. I've been here for barely three months, and I'm enjoying myself. Sure, the fights were harder and viler than when I was Talon - especially since the criminals now seemed to have superpowers and no longer fear the sight of a Talon. But I do it because I know they count on me to make it work. And because I know that whatever will happen, I'm not alone. I won't be hiding in a nest somewhere alone, tending to my own wounds. I won't have to wonder where I'll get my next meal from, or if I'll have a warm place to hide in..."

Dick was really just rambling because it has been a long time since anyone would listen without judging or being wary of what his intentions were. But then he felt a weight on his side and looked. Damian was leaning on him, eyes closed. He twitched a little when Dick quieted down.

So Dick continued, "It's been a while... a good long while since anybody listened to me and not take my opinion as being counted. As a Talon, I was to do as told. The 'how' would be the only thing in my discretion. The who, where, and when, were all decided. The 'why' should never be asked. Here, my opinion counts - except on wearables. I don't know why.

"Therefore, Damian. Oracle is not the 'leader' of us. I'd rather see Oracle as our pillar of support. I know a lot of the Oracle to consider... them--"

"Her," Jason's voice suddenly corrected him. "We know she's a female, Dick. Don't worry. We're not interested in figuring out who she is, yet." he smirked. "Subliminal marketing, much?"

Dick chuckled. "More like a bedtime story for the real-life assassin-slash-heir youngster," he replied. "How long have you known?"

"Pretty much the first fifteen minutes after her projection showed up. Her reactions of yours and Tim's antics were kind of like--" Jason paused and swallowed. "Talia's when we did the same..."

"You cared for her," Dick concluded.

"She took me off the streets and give me a home and purpose. So yeah, I cared." Jason replied. "So how did Oracle became your personal muse?"

"She has... uhh... distinctive features that caught my eyes then, I guess. Can you imagine that? I was like, ten years old." Dick grinned. "Puberty pre-kicking, I guess. But I'd picked the right person, I think. Most of the Talons forgot who they were after the training. I still remember that I'm Dick Grayson, son of John and Mary; once one of the best family of aerialists in the world." he said. "Was it anything like that in the League's training? Do they want you to forget who you were?"

Jason snorted. "No, if anything, they want you to remember and remember how bad it could get if you're not there."

"Was it that bad for you?"

Jason shrugged. "I'd probably end up as a hooker by the end of that week if Talia didn't get me outta Crime Alley." he replied. "that, or dead, or jailed. Whichever got to me first."

"Oookay..." Dick looked at Damian, who was fast asleep. "Think he'll wake up if I move him?"

"Naah, I'll move him." Jason offered and picked up Damian easily. Damian stirred a little but settled his head on Jason's shoulder. "Thanks. I got the feeling that if this daddy stuff doesn't work out, he'll be adopting you," he added.

Dick snorted a soft laugh. "Yeah right..."

But regardless, he did spend the rest of the night wondering if Bruce Wayne would rise to the occasion, or sink to his playboy reputation. Even the Court never bothered to pay him much attention, largely due to his larger-than-life obnoxiousness. He wondered if Damian would indeed be better remaining there, at the Birds of Prey's lair.

His last thought before succumbing to sleep was, at least there's Jason, who seemed to be the voice of reason for Damian...

[amayawolfe]

Prologue Pt.1 - A Circus On The Move

My Stories Masterlist  

Word Count: 1943

Summary: Morintonio’s Traveling Circus has reached their docking destination and they are more than ready to be back on land. Among them, a familiar red haired teenager as well as one of his friends.

Warnings: mild angst

   It was a beautiful day in the large port town of Dolle. Hardly a cloud in the sky as the sun shone down bright and strong atop the crowds of people that congested the streets below. The sounds of so many going about their daily business were accompanied by that of natural sounds of the surrounding area. Gulls would cry out while fish salesmen discussed prices of the day's catch and draft animals would low as the wheels of the carts they pulled crunched along the ground.

   Several ships would come and go throughout the day bringing in and shipping out an unimaginable variety of both goods and people. Ships would even bring in entertainment. Entertainment such as "Moritonio's Traveling Circus''.

   The troupe consisted of amazing acrobats, wise fortune tellers, brave beast tamers, and mystifying magicians; just to name a few. They were all led by a mysterious man, Moritonio, whose skills in the performing arts left countless avid yet baffled fans. They had traveled throughout most of the lands of the Esanian Continent, gaining the reputation and funds they needed to travel to the Yorubian Continent. There, dreams of making it big in the pleasure capital known as Glam Gas Land appeared to be just within reach.

   The crew of the Ebon Pearl scurried about their routine to make sure their ship was ready for docking. The captain's first mate barked orders and issued threats at some of the more lazy crew members. High up in the crow's nest a young man in his mid-teens was watching the activities below with alert and curious eyes of amber.

   Having only been taken in a little over two months ago, the teen is one of a few young trainees in the traveling circus. Morintonio and a few of the members found the poor boy half-dead on the side of the road. Feeling sorry for the unfortunate lad, the ring leader ordered for the boy to be brought back to their temporary site. There he was cleaned up, bandaged, and fed.

   Thanks to the aid of another trainee, the boy had recovered quickly enough to be back on his feet in nearly a week's time. It was a good thing, too, since by that point the troupe was ready to be on the road again. A few days travel and the young man found himself sailing south on a ship with the others.

   Movement from the shrouds just below the crow's nest drew the young man's attention. Looking down he saw a girl just a couple years younger than himself climbing up the shroud ropes with impressive ease and grace. Not all too surprising seeing she was an acrobat trainee.

   As if she felt his eyes gazing down at her, the girl suddenly looked up. Her violet eyes sparkled in the bright sunlight and she flashed him a warm smile.

   "Hey, Hisoka!" she greeted him kindly.

   Within moments the girl was up the last bit of ropes and jumped over the edge of the crow's nest. Placing her hands on her hips she turned head this way and that to have a look about.

   "Quiet the view, I can see why you're up here so much. Guess I should have come up here sooner as well."

   "Well, you can't say I didn't invite you up, Abaki. ♣" Hisoka replied nonchalantly. The girl smirked and tilted her head to the side.

   "Yeah, I know, but being alone up here with you might get people talking. And last thing I need is Jasper to get jealous and have more reasons to try and hit on me." Abaki shuttered at the thought of the fire-breather trainee that was always trying to get her to go out with him.

   "You know,~" Hisoka replied coolly; a sly and knowing grin forming on his face, "you could have brought that friend of yours. What was her name again? Camilla? ♢"

   Even though Abaki's warm caramel skin had darkened under the sun's rays while out at sea, Hisoka could still make out the blush forming on his friend's cheeks as she looked away from his taunting amber eyes. Causing Abaki to blush over her crush had become an amusing little game to Hisoka.

   "I.. hadn't thought of that," the girl mumbled admittedly.

   Hisoka chuckled and looked back down to the deck below. His soft raspberry hair fluttered in the sea breeze as he leaned against the edge of the crow's nest.

   "I take it the reason you came up here is to tell me that Morintonio wants us to be ready to leave the ship soon? ♢"

   "Oh!" Abaki jumps and whips her head back around towards her friend, "Yeah, I nearly forgot the reason I came up here in the first place! I was told to get you to come down and help make sure everything is ready to go. The boss wants us all of the ship within an hour of docking."

   The plan had been to have plenty of time to get stocked up and ready to head out the next morning. All the while allowing enough time for most everyone to work the streets in the evening with little side performances to make some extra travel money. Performances such as small fire shows, juggling, and tumbling acts, as well as a little magic talent. Minute street sideshows that wouldn't need a license to put on nor a full set up to get things ready and going.

   "Oh, is that all? And here I was thinking you were wanting to hang out with me for a bit, ♣" the red hair boy playfully pouted. Abaki wrinkled her nose and gave him a playful shove before she started to climb over the edge of the crow's nest again.

   "We could hang out more if you weren't always secluding yourself away from the others you know."

   "I still get the feeling the others aren't comfortable around me,~♠" Hisoka said softly, a seriousness settling in his voice and expression. "Besides, you know I'm shy.~♠"

   "I know, Hiso. But, you're just going to have to try a little harder, that's all. I like being your friend and all, but you really should try and make more." Abaki offered him a warm, lopsided grin before she started her descent back down the shrouds. "I wouldn't take to much longer up here if I was you, you don't want Borizoi to get mad at you again."

   Borizoi was an absolute beast of a man who seemingly had it out for Hisoka from the start. He did not like the circumstances in which the young man had been found and actually vouched for the poor boy to be left for dead. Ever since then, Borizoi always had a cold, unforgiving eye on Hisoka.

   "Don't worry," Hisoka gave his fellow trainee a smile in return, "I will be down shortly,~♣"

   "Alright, see you then!"

   Abaki quickly worked her way down the ropes without a single slip up. Even some of the crewmen paused in their tasks to watch her. Some with envy, others with impressed awe. There were definitely benefits in learning how to become a tight rope walking acrobat.

   Hisoka's smile faded as Abaki climbed back down to the top deck. His friend's words echoed through his head. An all too familiar feeling began to gnaw at the back of his mind. Loneliness, and the sense that he was oddly different than most of the other troupe members.

   Often the young lad would chock the latter feeling to the fact that he was what Morintonio called a "nen user." The ring leader, Abaki, and Hisoka were the only ones in the whole circus troupe that could use their auras to do extraordinary things. And yet, while Abaki made multiple friends and got along with just about everyone in the troupe, Hisoka only really ever associated with Abaki, Morintonio, and his magician trainer, Magikana.

   For reasons unbeknown to him, people often found themselves uncomfortable around Hisoka. Both Morintonio and Abaki just tried to lightly pass it off as the others just feeling uneasy due to his raw potential and ability to learn things quickly. They both insisted the others would get used to him eventually as long as he kept trying to socialize.

   Magikana, or simply Kana, to Hisoka, once told him something on an utterly different level.

                                             ~    *    ~    *    ~    *

   One night, a few weeks back, he had come over and sat next to his teacher only to have the three other members that had been conversing with her stop in mid-sentence. After a few minutes, those same three members rose to their feet and left with hardly a single word more. Despite Hisoka not showing any emotion towards the happening, he had felt dejected. Kana looked down at her pupil and placed a long, boney, yet warm hand on his shoulder. She then spoke to him in her thick, accent rich voice.

   "Sheep vill always be nervous round volves, no matter how convincing vool may be."

   "So, what does that make you then?♣" Hisoka had asked somewhat bitterly. Kana simply flashed him a sly and toothy grin and winked.

   "Is simple, I is fox!" Kana chuckled wholeheartedly. "Small enough to be little vorry for sheep. But! Still dangerous enough to cause problem if see fit."

   Hisoka had smiled at Kana, she seemed to always know what to say when Morintonio didn't.

   "Alright then, sensei, what am ?~♢"

   "Hmmm," Kana hummed in thought. She carefully looked Hisoka over before finally giving him an answer. "I vould say, you are much like volf. But, you is still pup. Could be fox, like me. So," Kana shrugged her slim shoulders, "sheep is scared of vaht you could be."

   "Oh, I see... ♠" Hisoka had sounded intrigued; and yet, sad. "And, what about Abaki and Morintonio? ♣"

   Kana let out a boisterous laugh at Hisoka's inquiries then ruffled his hair.

   "I tink you vorry too much, little one. To answer question, Abaki is like dog. Many people like dog, and dog like many people. Sheep often look to dog for guidance, protection, and friendship. Dog can also get along vith volf. Volf and dog have much in common. Now, Ving Leader..."

   The magician paused in thought for a moment. A far off look appeared in her eyes as she carefully mulled over her analysis of the curious man everyone knew as Morintonio.

   "He is own beast," Kana had finally replied in a distant voice. "Ving Leader is loved by many, yet, he can be very dangerous man. Should alvays keep some guards up vith that man." A puzzled looked flittered across Hisoka's face.

   "What makes you say that? ♣"

   "Call it 'animal instinct,'" Kana chuckled lightly. "Should always listen to gut, gut vant to live as much as you do. Sometimes more so. Vaht you need, little one, is to find more volves. Or even dog, cat, or fox. Find more like you. Vill not be easy, but, vill be vorth it."

                                                   ~    *    ~    *    ~    *

   Hisoka found himself smiling a little whenever the memory of that conversation found its way through his train of thought. Somehow, it helped ease some of the lonely feelings.

   He gave a little shake of his head to bring himself back to the present. In one smooth movement, he leaped over the edge of the crow's nest and landed onto the shroud. With agile grace and speed that would even make Abaki jealous, Hisoka made his way down to the top deck where he found some of the other troupe members who were quick to put him to work.

~   ~   ~

Next Chapter:  Bubblegum Blood Prologue Pt. 2 - A Glimpse of Darkness

~   ~   ~

Thanks for reading! If you liked what you read, please be sure to click that heart icon! 

[monotoned-p]

Dragon Quest Rewrite,

(The Dragon Quest server is having a rewrite event and one thing led to another and I started making a fic. Will I ever write more than this? Maybe! Idk. This is my second time writing fanfic though (✿◠‿◠) )

————————

“Hey, Look alive, sunshine.”

El wasn’t sure who exactly he was hearing, he had a splitting headache. He sat up in bed, around him were the soft walls of a church. Sitting in front of him was a man with bright blue hair, maybe not a man, maybe closer to his age. Was El even a man yet? He wasn’t sure.

“So, ya gonna keep staring or are we gonna get moving?” Said Erik.

El was pretty sure that was his name. He didn’t remember much, Darkspawn, Sir Hendrik, Sir Jasper, Cobblestone, a big jump, Gemma, Luminary.

‘Oh, sorry. I’ve got the most awful headache’ signed back El.

“Alright well, we’re all set to go. The lady that runs this church gave us some supplies. S’posedly there’s some dangerous ruffians running around” he winked.

‘Ruffians? That doesn’t sound good’ signed El, concerned.

“I- no. That’s us, remember? We escaped the dungeon, there was a dragon. Got chased and jumped off that cliff?”

‘Oh, yeah’

“Yeah. Anyways we have to go back to Heliodor, I got some loose ends to tie up.”

El wasn’t sure if he was bluffing, go back to Heliodor? Was he crazy?

By the time they had snuck around Heliodor and Erik had almost killed a man over an orb and then reconciled with him in the same conversation, El still hadn’t been convinced of Erik’s sanity. Though with everything going on, El wasn't even sure he was right in the head either. They stepped down the stairs of Derk’s shop, having gained nothing but a potential ally. Which wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t great either.

“Ya’ know,” started Erik, I think there’s a performance up in the fancy parts of ‘eliodor”

El blinked, was this man insane? His newfound companion nuts? They had just escaped jail and they already shouldn’t be in Heliodor in the first place.

“I know I know, we’re wanted men and we shouldn’t stick our nose in there when we’re just here for the orb. I know a couple people workin’ there though. I think it’ll help us get a head start on our adventure” Erik said calmly, he winked and then took El’s hand as they descended the stairs to the lower parts of upper Heliodor.

In the town square there was a tent set up, there were people in colorful garb inviting people inside. El had never seen something so colorful or exciting, sure the occasional bard came to cobblestone, but nothing like this. Immediately his concerns were nothing but a memory as he happily swung his arms back and forth.

‘Erik, we HAVE to go inside!!’ El signed quickly.

“See, that’s what I thought you’d say” Erik replied with a grin.

The pair walked into the tent, there were lights strewn about everywhere. Almost immediately as they walked in, Erik pulled El to the side. They ran into the backstage. Erik walked back here confidently, El tried to mimic him. Maybe if he looked confident people would think he belongs here. Erik slid up behind somebody sitting at a vanity, he had a small smirk on his face.

“Sylv! Remember me?” Erik said

“Well darling I have many fans I can’t possibly-“ he turned around, and the moment he saw Erik he grinned and pulled him into a hug.

El blinked, ‘do you two know eachother?’

“well of course darling!” Said the man who El thought was wearing entirely too much makeup. “The ruffian before you joined my show a few years ago. He’s wonderful at knife tricks, though it took him a bit to actually perform”

“You didn’t need to mention that part.” Grumbled Erik

“Nonsense!” Replied the clown, “I for one think the blue haired bandit should make a comeback.”

“No” replied Erik “we just need a way to get out of the city and down near the coast.”

“A way out of the city? Well my show is one night only, we ship out first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe if you perform for me I could drop you off” Sylvando said with a wink.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took a bit of convincing, but eventually after a while, El was staring at Erik in a full face of stage makeup. He had a fancy thieves costume on, it even had boots with bells on them. Which actually seemed counter productive to thievery.

“You can’t escape the clown,” sighed Erik. “Ya know, This costume is a little small, Sylv.”

“Well it’s not like you’ve come back here and gotten it fitted again. I haven’t seen you in almost four years” he replied with a huff.

“Well for three of those I was stuck in jail”

“Do the details really matter darling?”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation . Before El could fully admire Erik’s attire, Sylvando was pushing him out onto the stage. El snuck out into the crowd and watched. He listened attentively as the announcer’s voice rang throughout the tent. Telling the crowd that a mysterious bandit had snuck into the tent. Before long Erik appeared out of the shadows, holding multiple people's belongings in his hands. Surprisingly, the people in the crowd cheered for the stolen belongings.

“It must be a city thing,” thought El.

Before he could think anymore, Sylvando descended onto the stage from the ceiling of the tent. He landed right in front of the tent, brandishing a sword in hand. The two of them put on a mock fight, which seemed to be more like a dance than any fight El had ever seen. Erik ducked under the swings of Sylv’s sword, his movements precise and practiced, if a little rusty. Eventually though, Erik slips, his chin being held up by Sylvando’s sword. It’s all for show of course, at least El thinks it is. The two exit the stage together, Sylvando pretending to drag Erik away.

El snuck back out of the crowd and into the backstage. He ran down to the dressing room, swinging his arms happily as he did so. He opened the door to Erik’s dressing room with the largest grin on his face.

‘That was amazing!’ El signed happily.

“Eh, we’ve had better performances” replied Erik, who was already peeling off his costume. “Doesn’t matter though, that crummy performance was our ticket down south. We can hit the kingsbarrow and go to cobblestone, then get the heck outta there” he grinned.

‘Will we leave with the circus again?’

“I mean, we could. It might be the most efficient way to travel for now” sighed Erik. “How about we sleep on it? We don’t leave till mornin’ anyways”

El didn't care either way how they left, he just needed to find out if Cobblestone was alright. As he settled himself onto the floor to sleep, the only thing he could think about was home.He figured that his magical destiny could wait. Before he fell asleep he made a small prayer to Yggdrasil, asking that for one night, Cobblestone would be safe.

[calenheniel]

Disappearing Act, a frozen fanfic | i.

Frozen | Hans, Elsa | Alternate Universe, Drama | G+

She wanted to disappear. He wanted a purpose. Together, they would pull off an impossible feat before the final curtain call.

Follow updates: #DisappearingActFrozen

Author’s Note: Based on a short prompt – “Circus A/U” – which I received many years ago. I thought it was absurd at the time, and yet… here we are. I took this unique opportunity to experiment with style and voice, and ended up with a Hans and Elsa who are quite a lot more self-aware and self-possessed than I ever expected them to be. Test driving on Tumblr before uploading to other websites, so constructive feedback is appreciated!

»»————-　❈　————-««

i.

“I hear you can make things disappear.”

His eyes traveled up from the cards in his hands, meeting hers, and stopped.

“Well ‘hello’ to you, too,” he replied, his brow rising. When she said nothing in response, he continued, shifting in his seat: “In a manner of speaking, yes.” With the movement, the hard straw beneath him prickled at his skin. “And I hear that you are a sorceress.”

The men seated in the poker circle around him chuckled, but her expression did not change.

“If you really can,” she said, “then meet me later by the stables—alone.”

He blinked, and in a moment she was gone, only a swirl of her blue cloak crossing his line of vision.

“Strange woman,” the man to his right grumbled.

“A witch, not a woman,” the one to his left corrected, and flicked a card in his hand. “She’s only lucky that this whole damn place is full of freaks like her.”

“Freaks like us, you mean,” retorted the man across from him. He glanced at the young man at the head of the circle. “So, Andersen? You going to take the Snow Queen up on her offer?” He revealed yellow, cracked teeth as he spit tobacco on the ground. “You should be careful, you know, getting involved with the likes of her. Nothing but bad luck.”

The young man snorted. “Don’t be jealous, old man. It’s not a good look on you.”

The man frowned. “You may be new here, boy, but we know you’ve heard the stories about her. Arrived here from nobody knows where, and found work with that ice magic, which no one has been able to figure out.” He paused, and added: “Who knows what else she’s hiding? The girl’s been as quiet as the grave since she got here.”

“Must have been pretty desperate to run to the circus,” the younger man replied, running a hand through his auburn hair with a sigh. “A strange place to be for such a pretty girl, though she’s done well for herself, it seems. Practically puts all the other acts out of business, including mine.”

“There are stranger things in this world than pretty girls in the circus,” the man next to him chimed in. “Perhaps she just likes you. Ladies are always fond of you magician types.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but I’ll meet her all the same,” the young man said, and revealed a flush hand to a chorus of groans. He smiled. “It’s useful to know the competition, after all.”

The older man across from him tossed his hand onto the makeshift wooden table with a snap of his teeth. “You’d better hope she doesn’t freeze your heart, then,” he mumbled, “though I don’t think it’d take much effort.”

The young man’s smile tightened, and he said nothing.

»» —— ««

He arrived at the stables shortly after the stroke of midnight, side-stepping horse manure, empty whiskey bottles, and juggling pins along the way. One horse released a soft grumble as he entered its domain, and he returned the noise with a tired eyeroll, patting its neck.

“Easy, Sitron. Go back to sleep.”

She stood by the far wall, hooded by her cloak. As he approached, she slid it off with gloved hands, revealing a mane of fine yellow hair that sparkled against the darkness, and a single, decorative fabric snowflake pinned against it.

“If I hadn’t been expecting to see you here,” he drawled, “I might have mistaken you for a shadow.”

Her blue eyes were cool. “I don’t think that’s true. You always see me.”

His cheeks reddened. “As do the others,” he deflected. “In fact, I’m surprised they’re not all here, spying in on us. Your reputation precedes you, after all.”

Her gaze stirred a little. “It’s the smell,” she said. “Not even the old men can bear it in here.”

He nodded, sniffing the air. “Yes, it is… distinctive, to be sure.” He ignored the look of annoyance he was sure Sitron had shot him. “But enough of that. What was it that you wanted to speak with me about? ‘Disappearing,’ if I remember correctly?”

Her face fell. “Yes. Disappearing.”

He waited, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. “I can’t stay here,” she said after a time, meeting his eyes. “But I have nowhere else to go.”

“You and everyone else in this place,” he replied. “I don’t think any of us really wanted to end up here. You just… do, for lack of talent or failing to accomplish anything else. So I’m not sure how I can help you, really.” His lips twitched. “I’m as much of a miserable screw-up as the rest of them.”

Her eyes flashed. “But you can do things that they can’t,” she said. “Like make things disappear.”

“Oh, yes, that,” he retorted. “If by ‘disappear’ you mean ‘briefly move someone or something from one location to the next using sleight of hand and distraction,’ then yes—I’m your man.” He raised his gloved hands to her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I can’t do much more for you than pedestrian parlor tricks.”

“I don’t believe that. And I don’t think you do, either.”

He frowned. “Don’t presume to know what I believe,” he snapped. “We hardly know each other.”

“But what if…”

His frown deepened. “‘What if’ what?”

Her hands twisted into knots in front of her cloak, and she bit her lip as her cheeks turned red. “What if we—what if we did try to know each other? Not just as ‘Elsa, the Snow Queen’ and ‘Hans, the Illusionist.’” she said. “Perhaps then, you would see what I see. We could… help each other, in a way.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need help from you, nor from anyone else in this godforsaken place. And besides,” he continued, “there’s nothing you can do for me. Nor I for you. I couldn’t teach someone how to make a bird disappear from their hands, much less a lonely girl from the circus.”

He drew close to her until they were mere inches apart and stared down at her small, freckled nose with a smirk. “Unless you’re looking for a certain kind of company. To be ‘known’ in a… particular way.”

She glared at him. “No, thank you.”

He stepped back, matching her expression. “Well, good. Because I wasn’t interested, anyway,” he replied, eyeing her up and down, “even if you’re prettier than the rest.”

She sighed. “I’d heard you were a difficult man to talk to, but… you’re even worse than I imagined.”

He leaned back against one of the wooden pillars of the stables, and crossed his arms. “A man has to live up to his reputation,” he rejoined. “It’s all he has, in the end.”

“Your ‘reputation’? In the circus? Please, Hans.”

The air around them grew colder, and he stood to attention, shivering. “A man protects what little he has left in this world,” he ground out.

The cold abated as she sighed for a second time. “I don’t know what compels you to act this way, but I don’t buy it.” Her eyes burned holes into him. “There’s more to you than this. There’s—” she paused. “You can help me. I know it.”

His cheeks pinked at the declaration, but his lips turned down. “Fine,” he replied. “If you’re so hellbent on this harebrained scheme of yours, then come and play cards with me sometime. Chat with me and the trapeze girls after the show. Hell, conjure some of your pretty little ice magic while you’re at it,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t care what you do—but don’t expect that I can help you with much more than opening a bottle of gin at the end of a long night. You’ll just end up disappointed, like all the rest.”

She smiled.

“We’ll see.”

»» —— ««

She found Hans the next evening backstage, basking in the attention of the trapeze performers and dancers, his arms draped around them as they sat and laughed and drank sour whiskey on a worn red sofa with gold fringe.

He spotted her immediately, and though he did not stir from his seat, his eyes were locked with hers. He ran a gloved hand across the bare shoulder of one of the trapezists with a smile, and she giggled, following his line of sight to its focus point.

She scowled when she reached it. “Ugh. What’s she doing here?”

The others caught sight of the intruder and likewise shot her cold, uninviting looks.

He grinned. “So nice of you to join us, Elsa. Please, won’t you sit?”

Another trapezist on his other arm frowned, hissing: “Hans, what are you doing? We don’t want her here.”

His grin widened. “And why not? Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Asta.”

The girl’s frown deepened. “I am not! It’s just that she’s… strange,” she ended on a whisper, though still loud enough for everyone to hear. “She has strange magic.”

“As do I, or so you all like to flatter me and tell me as much,” he reminded her, and she pouted. “Don’t be jealous, little dove.”

The first trapezist shoved his arm off her shoulder. “She leaves, or I leave.”

Elsa remained quiet during the conversation, her blue-gloved hands neatly placed together in front of her cloak. “I can leave,” she offered.

“Nonsense,” Hans snapped, and frowned at the other women. “Stop being ridiculous, all of you. Can’t you bear to share me, even for a minute?”

Asta shoved off his other arm, brushing off her skirt and standing from the sofa. “Not everything is about you, idiot.”

He sighed and put on a false look of penitence. “No, of course not. I’m wrong, you’re right, I’m an idiot, you’re brilliant. There—better now?”

A dancer sitting behind him stood with a huff, then glowered at Elsa. “He’s all yours, witch,” she spat, and gathered up her costume from the performance. “Not that that’s worth much.”

The trapezists and other women followed suit, staring daggers at Hans as they walked out of the tent, one by one, leaving him with his new guest. He blinked as the final woman’s pink, feathered tail shook behind her on the way out, and turned his gaze to Elsa.

“You really know how to clear out a room.”

A hint of a smile played on her lips as she unbuttoned her cloak and slung it over the back of a makeup chair before sitting down. She glanced at the mirror for a moment, and replied: “I like to think of it more as knowing how to make an entrance.” Her attention turned back to him. “But why did you send them away? You didn’t have to.”

Hans rolled his eyes. “I didn’t send anyone away—they left of their own free will. You saw that with your own two eyes.”

She crossed her arms. “They left because you were provoking them. On purpose.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and suppressed a smirk. “They were just being jealous, as usual. If not of each other, then of you for stealing their crowds.” He wore a knowing look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Elsa shrugged. “I’ve noticed,” she acknowledged, “but it’s none of my concern.”

He snorted. “Of course not; yours are not the concerns of mere mortals, after all.”

She frowned, and then sighed, leaning back against the chair. “You’re making me regret coming here tonight.”

Hans smiled. “But wasn’t that the whole point of coming? To ‘know’ me, Elsa?”

“Yes, but…” she trailed off, and her frown grew. “You don’t make it easy.”

“Because that wouldn’t be any fun,” he returned, adding: “And since you’ve scared off my one reliable source of entertainment around here, I’ll have to make do with what’s left.”

She stared at him. “You won’t drive me away like them.”

“Because you’re ‘different,’ I suppose?” he retorted. “Because you can ‘see through’ me? Is that it?”

“Something like that,” she replied, her gaze falling to his hands slung over the top of the sofa. “I’m surprised you’re still wearing your gloves. Didn’t your act finish over an hour ago?”

“My act is never ‘finished,’” he answered, and gestured at her gloved hands in her lap. “Just like yours.”

She stiffened. “That’s not—” she paused, and breathed. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, earning a glare from her. “We both have our reasons. And as a fellow magician,” he continued, “I wouldn’t ask you to share your secrets. Even if I desperately wanted to know them.”

Elsa’s brow rose. “Do you?”

Hans chortled. “No.”

She relaxed at this reply somewhat. “Even if you did, I… I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

He shot her a quizzical look at the remark, but then held his hands up in surrender. “Like I said—I don’t need to know,” he said. “Nor do I want to, particularly.”

“I know,” she said, her eyes still shut. “You’re not like the others, in that way.”

He shifted on the sofa to draw nearer to her, and it groaned in protest under him. His gaze was fixated on her soft features, and he rested his chin in his palm. “But you want to know me, and my secrets. Isn’t that right?”

Her eyes snapped open, catching him off-guard. “In a way, yes.”

He shook his head at her. “They were right, you know—you are a strange one.” He lay back on the sofa with a plop, his hands resting on his stomach. “So, now that you have me all to yourself, what is it exactly that you want to know?”

She glanced at his hands, and then met his stare.

“Everything.”

»» —— ««

“Everything?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“That’s a lot to know.”

“Not once you actually start telling me, as opposed to what you’re doing now.”

“Fair enough. Though I still don’t understand how any of this helps you to, you know—‘disappear,’ as you said.”

“You don’t have to understand. You just have to believe that it’s possible.”

“Like magic?”

“Yes. Like that.”

»» —— ««

He came to watch her act the next evening, and the evening after, and the evening after that.

He’d seen it before – the flurries dancing in the air, swirling into funnels, transforming into icicles and snowmen and miniature castles – but now he watched them with an avid attention for detail, committing each wave of her hand and hollow smile to his memory.

At the end of each performance, she found him in his dressing room, and they talked.

»» —— ««

“You have how many brothers?”

“Twelve. Two of every kind to fill a second ark: spiteful, apathetic, bitter, arrogant, jealous, cruel.”

“And you’re… what? ‘Not like them’?”

“Oh, I am very much like them. Which is exactly why I want nothing at all to do with them.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“… not exactly.”

“Then why did you?”

“For the same reason everyone else comes here. For the same reason you came here, probably.”

“And what do you think that is?”

“To start over.”

»» —— ««

Sometimes, the conversations lasted only an hour; other times, they stretched on and on until both had lost track of when they had started, and when they should end.

»» —— ««

“You seem too well-bred to have ended up in a place like this.”

“So do you.”

“I am—well, I was. I suppose I can’t lay claim to those old titles anymore, in my current line of work.”

“Do you regret that?”

“Do you?”

“I… I don’t have the luxury to feel that way. This is all I have left.”

“No family?”

“No.”

“Not even some distant, wealthy cousins in France? Even I’ve got a few of those.”

“Not that I know of. But even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I can’t go back to that life, and I—I don’t want to, either.”

“Fancy parties and well-dressed lords and ladies isn’t your cup of tea, I take it?”

“More like I’m not their cup of tea.”

“Funny, that… I feel much the same way.”

“You do?”

“I always have.”

»» —— ««

Late in the fourth evening, he sat in the poker circle with a faraway expression, and laid his hand down to a raucous chorus of laughter.

“You’ve taken a shine to her,” one man said next to him.

“She’s bewitched him, more like,” said another.

“Bewitched him out of his money, that’s for sure!” guffawed a third man, and scooped up his earnings from the table. “You’re off your game, Andersen. That’s three nights in a row.”

The younger man looked up, only to shrug and stand from his seat, patting his wallet inside of his waistcoat. “Have to let you all win once in a while, lest you gentlemen start to think I’m cheating.”

“We already thought that, boy,” the oldest man snapped, prompting chuckles from the rest. “It’s like I told you—that girl is bad luck. And it’s showing.”

“Of course. It’s her that’s making me lose at poker,” Hans scoffed. He turned to leave, giving the men a brief gesture of goodbye over his shoulder. “Until next time.”

“Boy! Wait.”

He turned halfway around with a sigh. “What is it, Leif?”

The older man frowned, opening his mouth—and then closed it again, glancing back at the others before speaking in a quieter way. “Come with me.”

He led Hans back to the stagehands’ quarters, where two or three men were already in their beds, drunk and snoring away. Once they reached a small corner of the room where the hands usually socialized before bed, he sat down, gesturing for the young man to follow suit.

Hans did so with an uncertain expression, trying to contain his lips from curling at the smell of spilt wine, beer, and liquor. “So, Leif,” he asked, “what are we doing here?”

The older man took his pipe from his pocket and lit it, drawing a long breath before speaking again. “There’s something you should know about her,” he began, “something which I hope discourages you from associating with her further.”

“Well, when you say it like that,” Hans returned with a grin, “how can I refuse to listen?”

“I’m serious, boy,” Leif said. “You don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into, by hanging around that… that… “

“That what?” the younger man cut him off. “Girl? Witch? Sorceress? I hope you know how ridiculous you all sound when you talk about her.” He leaned back in the hard chair, taking an open bottle from a side table nearby and sniffing it. He made a face, but took a sip of it nevertheless. “I’ve been watching her act pretty closely the last few nights – well, even before then, actually – and yes, while I admit her magic is unusual and would probably be difficult to replicate, it’s certainly not real ice or snow she’s conjuring—”

“It is.”

Hans set the bottle down hard again on the table. “Don’t be absurd, old man.”

“I’m telling you, boy—it’s as real as the snow that falls from the skies and the ice that covers the rivers in winter,” Leif replied, gripping his pipe. “They’re one and the same.”

Hans shook his head. “That’s impossible. You know that.”

“I thought the same as you, once,” Leif said, sighing. “We all did. But you can only chalk up so many strange things happening in mysterious ways to chance for so long.”

Hans leaned forward, and his gaze narrowed.

“Like what?”

[imhereforbvcky]

Team Re-Building - Part 1

Summary: (Sam Wilson x reader, FalconCap humor/fluff) After the events of EndGame, the remaining Avengers head out on a mandatory team building exercise at your cattle ranch. The week turns out as unexpected for you as the idea was for them.

Prompt/Request: “Is that a horse?! Do I look like a cowboy to you?” For mine and @justsomebucky’s Cap² Challenge. I separated the prompt a little for flow, but I think I kept the spirit of it.

Warnings: None. Probably swearing. I’ve got a mouth and I can’t control it.

Word Count: 2061

A/N: This is just a little 2 part series. Part 2 is totally done. I’m planning to queue it to post in just 2 days! yay! 2 in 2 days, that’s easy to remember.

“Are you sure this is it?” Bucky muttered. His eyes followed the wrought iron banner propped between two enormous raw logs rising to form the arched entry. Dead center, the flying K brand stood dark and resolute against the bright afternoon sun.

“No,” Rhodes grumbled, “I haven’t seen a road sign for at least fifteen miles. Just dirt and tumbleweeds.”

The group held a collective breath when the modified jeep rattled over the cattle grate beneath the arch. The all-terrain vehicle had been waiting for them at the tiny regional airport when they’d landed. Now it made sense. The road went from grated dirt to a rugged two-wheel cut path over hill and stone.

Sam tried to convince himself it was all part of the experience, but frankly, the kinds of experiences he preferred usually involved a cold beer on his patio or a jog along a beach. The mountains were, admittedly, something to see. Jagged stone fingers clawed out of the hills, reaching unknowable heights into the unending blue sky. The photos on the brochure hadn’t done it justice.

Still, he just wished he wasn’t seeing them with clenched teeth and fists tight around the roll bar of the jeep as it hauled them all further and further from civilization.

“Why are we doing this, again, Sam?” Wanda asked, her arm darting out to his shoulder to brace against the jostling.

“Team building?”

“And there’s no ‘team building’ in New York?” Bucky complained, leaning past Wanda to glare at Sam.

“Couldn’t we have done a trust fall or something?” Rhodes agreed with a smirk on his lips at his own joke.

“How long’re you gonna hold that over my head?” Sam complained.

“'Til that face you make stops being funny.”

“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here.”

“I still don’t see why we had to be here,” Bucky insisted.

“Look, if any of you have figured out how to skip out on Maria Hill’s orders, you let me know the magic words and I’ll get us out of shit like this next time.”

Before too much longer the little caravan had made its way over the foothills and pulled up to a large cabin. It looked old, like the stones had been there as long as the mountains themselves, but the logs were freshly sealed and the chairs on the sprawling porch looked deep and inviting with soft leather cushions and bright red pillows.

“Hi there!” The voice that greeted them sounded like it was made there in those hills. It rolled gently and warmed like the sun on the breeze. “Welcome to Kestrel Point.”

“Thanks for accommodating our crew,” Sam stepped forward, offering his hand. “Sam Wilson.”

A laugh tumbled out. “I think we know who you are. All of you.” Your smiling eyes darted to the group behind him, still righting themselves after climbing down out of the jeep.

Sam wasn’t quite used to that yet. Sure, he’d been an Avenger for years now, had worn the armor of a hero. But after the Decimation… after the fight in upstate New York… after he picked up that shield… Being known had a different weight to it; sat just a little heavier on his shoulders.

“Right,” he shook his head and glanced back at what was left of the team, at those who’d survived, who hadn’t been left too worn to continue the fight. It was his team to lead now, his to rebuild and hold together.

You watched the struggle dance across his features and saw it echo in the furtive glances among the others. But you didn’t remark on it, nor did you hesitate. It was your job to help them find their rhythm and rebuild their strength, not to dwell on the present cracks in the armor.

Offering the same wide smile, you introduced yourself and a few of your staff before clapping your hands together, brows leaping with excitement. “Well let’s get started! My guys will take your bags to your rooms, and if y’all will follow me, we’ll get you matched up and get you started.”

When you turned toward the barn, nodding for them to follow, there was no argument. At least not that you saw. Mainly because you didn’t wait for one. That didn’t mean there weren’t protests. There was a flurry of wide-eyed glances exchanged from everyone but Clint.

For once, Clint felt right at home. He’d made a beeline for the stables and perched up on the split-rail fence with all the ease of familiarity. They might be thick western saddles here instead of the sleek black tack of his memory but the sound of twisting leather and long swooshing tails took him right back. With a distinct brand of nostalgia, he recalled rows of agile white Lipizzans, practically glowing under the circus tent lights. Visions of children gawking at larger-than-life Percherons filled his head and a slow grin eased over his face.

While your ranch hands tied the last of the horses in a row before him along the fence, ready and waiting, you lead the rest group inside. They weren’t quite ready.

“Is that a horse?!” Sam balked as he approached. It suddenly all clicked for him what Hill had been planning and he was not a fan. He liked the smirk on Barton’s face even less as watching him stroke a hand down the nose of a particularly antsy Quarter Horse. “No. I think there’s been a fundamental misunderstanding on our end.”

You laughed as he backed away. “Miss Hill warned us this was not the most uh… experienced group,” you tucked your worn leather utility gloves in your back pocket and gently slipped your fingers around his bicep, easing him forward. “You have nothing to worry about Mr. Wilson. We’ll take it slow.”

You were meant to be comforting him, but the moment he felt your contact and looked down at you with the softest, deepest umber gaze you’d even laid eyes on and it was your breath that caught in your chest. The words suddenly vanished on your tongue and it was all you could do to mimic the slow pull of his smile at your playful word choice.

“Do I look like a cowboy to you?” he asked, teeth flashing that smile.

You coughed on a laugh and looked at your feet. Boots. That’s right. They needed boots, that’s what you had been doing before. Before Sam Wilson and his damn smile.

“Not yet,” you agreed, shrugging one shoulder. “But we’ll take care of that.”

It took three full days to get everyone sufficiently steady on horseback. By the morning of day four, you’d decided it was sink or swim. The herd had nearly eaten through the winter pasture and before long the creek cutting across the valley would be swollen and racing with snowmelt. If you didn’t drive the cattle up to the newly sprouting summer lands soon, it would be too late.

A little instruction on the trail, couched softly in teasing and laughter might get the team where they needed to be skill-wise. If not, your own team flanked the Avengers, just in case. They might fight aliens and save half the galaxy, but they had never chased a scared new calf down a ravine.

Well, maybe Clint had.

He was, of course, a natural. Animals were his thing. Particularly large gentle ones whose affection could be bought with food. He’d spent his down time near the stables, figuring out what Apollo’s favorite snacks were and had stuffed his pockets with broken carrots.

The others… well they were lucky if they’d encountered a horse at a petting zoo before that week.

Bucky hadn’t seen a whole hell of a lot of cattle in Brooklyn between 1917 and 1943. And after that, war and survival had pretty much been his sole priorities until very recently.

Rhodes had no interest. He was a modern military man with his own Iron Man suit. Let’s face it; he had a better ride and more pressing matters anyway.

Wanda spent most of her life in a concrete cell. You weren’t sure if she had ever even seen a horse in person before climbing out of that jeep on your ranch. But she took to it pretty well. Those with a gentle demeanor usually did. You’d paired her with a sweet old mare that didn’t spook easily. Eventually the slow sureness of the horse seemed to have a calming effect for Wanda. She found herself enjoying her time away from so many people, away from their thoughts and fears. You could imagine her leasing out a ride now and again when she went home.

Bruce was… well half Bruce and half green and far too big to sit a horse. Didn’t stop him watching and teasing, though.

And Sam. Sam was maybe the most fun for you. He was all city, all soldier. Stiff but determined.

“I know you’re not laughing at me!” he hollered as you circled back and eased to a trot beside him. He looked so stiff and uncomfortable; you just couldn’t help but snicker. “Not again.”

“I’m sorry,” you managed, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, grin so wide it hurt. “Just… You’ve gotta relax.”

“There’s a thousand pound animal between my legs!”

“And you think clenching up is gonna keep him from throwin’ you?” you teased.

It didn’t help. Logic flew out the window when fear came knocking. Sam only glared in your general direction, too anxious to look away for long. But you saw him fighting back a smile.

“Alright, well I think Ranger’s been a smooth ride and it’s high time you return the favor,” you tried again, reaching over and untying the lead you’d left on Sam’s horse.

Sam glanced down at his steel grip on the pommel. “What do you mean?” he asked, eyeing Ranger as if there was some lever that would make this all easier.

“You’re ex-military, right? I assume you had to carry a person at some point in your training?”

“Para-rescue. Carried injured friendlies out all the time. How’s that supposed to help?”

“Was it easier if the payload was stiff as a board or if they moved with you?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “I see your point.”

“It’s a ride not a beating. Treat it like a lady,” you joked, encouraging him to push again into a trot and offering advice as you continued alongside. “Move with him. ‘ll be easier on your ass and his back. Relax and let your hips roll.”

“Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I just lucky?” He was smiling now, still looking down at his horse.

You, however, laughed beside him, relishing in his flirtatious nature. His easy smiles and quick wit had captured you early on. It had been a while since you’d enjoyed someone’s company this much. “You’re definitely somethin’.”

“That didn’t sound like a good thing.” He pouted, but with that little shine in his eyes, that extra roundness to his cheeks that betrayed the grin beneath. Like it was just waiting to erupt and brighten his whole face. The longer you spent near him, the greater the pang deep in your gut at the thought of what that full smile might look like. Would it be better than these secret hidden ones? Would it warm you head to toe? Ignite this heat that seemed to spark from something as small as a little grin?

You needed to breathe, get your head back on your shoulders. With a swift squeeze of your knees your horse notched forward.

The more Sam had talked with you, joked, and flirted, the less he had time to worry about his horse. He relaxed, consciously or not, he and his horse settled into a rhythm.

Satisfied with his ability and desperately needing the distance, you led the way out onto the soft green acres that sprawled beneath the rough granite peaks. Fresh spring leaves quivered in the breeze and blankets of snow still dominated most of the mountaintop.

You pushed ahead into a canter, resuming your duties checking in on the other guests – the other Avengers. But not before turning over your shoulder with a grin just for him, just for Captain goddamn America.

“I think I’m the lucky one this time.”

Part 2 >>

[dent-de-leon]

I think the Nein need some kind of infiltration or espionage mission that involves getting all dressed up for a fancy party again because it's such a crime that Tealeaf wasn't there the first time. Kingsley adorned in a crown and fur cloak--just like when he played the Duke. Tealeaf the fearsome and mysterious Plank King, a charming rogue that just captivates the whole crowd. King carrying himself like royalty, indulging in fine wine and decadent food and basking in all the attention.

Seeing Caleb go off on his own, stealing him away for a drink and a dance. Refusing to leave his side until he can make him smile again. King warm and playful and falling back into his old Circus Man habits, banishing all his Magician's fears with a kiss. Making him forget all his troubles for a night.

[mardi-nah]

Tricks

Circus worker narrator, trickster, fae, circus setting, unrequited love, pining, enemies to lovers, a pinch of angst, vulgar language, otherwise sfw

“I am in love with you.”

My reflection glowered back at me. I grimaced at it. “I love you.”

The reflection looked pained. This wouldn’t do at all. “I have fallen in love with you.” No. “I have loved you for—no. I love you. I love you. I am in love with you. Quinn, I am in love with you. I love ya, babe.”

The glass was cool against my skin as I slumped forward, forehead to forehead with my mirror twin. I had watched so many movies, so many shows with dramatic and simpering love confessions, but it wouldn’t do. I looked like I was constipated. Or ready to murder. Mama should have bore someone cuter, curse her in her grave.

“Quinn, I—“

Someone threw the sliding door open so hard it bounced against the wall with a foreboding boom! A voice that could try a priest called out, “Oh Gwen! Gwenny, honey! Gwenster! Gwen-dah-lee!”

I didn’t fucking twitch. “What.”

“It is the strangest thing, Gwenny-poo!” A sigh, and then the unmistakable screech of bed springs as someone fell on top of my cot. “All of the stage lights have gone out! Just like—“ a snap of fingers, “—that! Can you believe it?”

Oh, hell no. “What did you do?”

Mareth gasped. “Me? I haven’t done anything! Or I’ve done a lot of things, depending on how you look at it. None of them have involved lights.”

I spun myself away from the glass to glare at him.

Mareth was grinning, green eyes glittering and black hair wildly eschew. His little black tail was curling in the air behind him, tangling with my blankets just to piss me off. “Gwendy, you’re so scary looking today!”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“Weeeeeell …”

“Mareth!”

“It isn’t my fault it started raining indoors! How could I have known?”

“You little shit!” I screamed, charging at him to fucking throttle his horrible little neck, but he only laughed gaily and disappeared the moment I fell on the bed.

“So violent! I said I didn’t do anything!” His voice chirped from behind me.

I twisted around, hands knotting in my sheets. “You are so full of shit! Come here so I can strangle you!”

Mareth tsked at me, strolling forward but staying just out of reach of my legs and fists. “Ah-ah. If you keep that up, I won’t tell you where the control panel went.”

“What?”

“Oops.” He giggled. “Didn’t mean to tell you that part. Guess it just slipped!”

“Why you—!” I staggered to my feet, ready to tackle him and wail on him until he cried, but he was already fading out.

“Well, would you look at the time! It’s time to dash! Au revoir!” His voice echoed around my room, his laughter chasing the last remaining shreds of my sanity.

I sank back onto my bed and put my head in my hands. Guess there’d be no time to talk to Quinn about my feelings or anything else tonight.

~

Mareth had been a pain in the ass my entire career working with the circus. Had been a pain in everyone’s ass, just about, but he seemed to get a special pleasure seeing me screech. Lately, I’d swear he was worse than ever, and it wasn’t just me, either. Poor Quinn came into the back one night dripping molasses, his expression icier than usual. Mareth had been found in storage, tied and bound with a growing black eye. Somehow, that hadn’t stopped him from emptying Quinn’s underwear into the river later that evening.

“Is he off in the head? What the hell,” I growled as I scrambled to reassemble the control room with Joan.

“It seems our dear boy is having a tantrum,” an amused voice came from the doorway.

I looked up to see Mr. Bailey leaning against the entryway, watching us with dark eyes that had an uncalled for amount of sparkle.

“He should be whipped,” I hissed, “He’s going to destroy the show.”

“Yes, probably. At ease, girls. I’ll talk to him.”

At that point, there was nothing to do but focus on the show. If anyone could straighten Mareth out, it was Bailey.

~

Quinn was beautiful tonight.

He dripped a milky fog as he shouldered his way through the back, glittering wings fluttering softly behind him. His act was particularly flawless tonight—it was as if he and Odessa were of one mind, one move sinking into the next, their limbs synched beatifically.

It was such a shame he would never consider someone like me.

~

Of all the people to find me on that night, Mareth should not have been the one.

The cart was dark in the night, the moonlight dying it dark. Its roof was cold against my ass, but I only pressed my bare toes firmer to it. I heard the ladder scream as someone climbed it, but I didn’t turn to look.

“Well, this isn’t the most depressing place you could have chosen,” a teeth-grittingly familiar voice chirped. “I’m almost disappointed.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ooh, she still has teeth!” The cart groaned as he moved towards me, and next thing I knew, a pair of dark pants had their legs slung over the side of the cart beside me.

“I’m not in the mood, Mareth,” I snarled, burying my face in my arms.

“Come here to cry like a little girl in private, hmm?” He hummed, kicking his feet out. “Now I’m very disappointed. I thought you had more to you than that.”

“Are you just here to mock me? I will knock you off the fucking cart. Go. Away.”

“What is it about Quinn, I wonder? It’s definitely not his personality, given that he’s q giant asshole. It’s not his money, since he’s as broke as the rest of us. What does that leave? Hmm …”

I snapped upright, eyes burning with the old tears, with anger, with frustration and hatred and this fucking guy. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Just because he doesn’t like you doesn’t mean he’s like that with the rest of us.”

“Really? What’s he like with you, then?” Mareth was smiling that damn shit-eating smile he had, though there was something a little off about it. Must have been my more than usual desire to punch it.

“He might be moody and quiet, but he’s just as intelligent and focused.” I turned away from him, scowling into the vast dark. “He’s prosaic and graceful. His manners are impeccable. And he practices like a damn mad man.”

“So? Many of our performers are like that.”

“Like hell they are. I don’t think anyone hates their job, but Quinn is—“ my voice broke, which would have been humiliating in any situation, but more so in front of Mareth of all people. I swallowed with difficulty. “He’s admirable.”

There was a brief silence, and I thought that maybe Mareth had mercifully run out of things to say, but then he quietly continued. “Doesn’t seem that great to me.”

“What do you know of greatness? You sabotage the show every chance you get.” I rubbed my wet nose against the back of my arm and grimaced at the feeling.

“Not the show! Just you. And Quinn. Mostly.”

“Can’t you just go?” I asked miserably, sinking myself into the ball of my limbs. Fresh tears were hard at work behind my eyes, and I could feel the worrying beginnings of a sob climbing my throat. “Leave me alone for once.”

At that point, Mareth looked at me, green eyes glittering—with anger, I realized. “I would never leave you alone, Gwen.”

I stared at him, but he only stared angrily back.

When I managed to speak, it was a croak. “Why?”

“Quinn isn’t worth breaking down like a child. Stop acting so weak.”

I huffed. “What right do you have to say that? You’ve never had your heart broken.”

“Oh, please. You break my heart all the time.”

My body stiffened involuntarily; blood was drumming in my ears. His words didn’t make sense. Another prank, probably. “Cut the bullshit. I’m not in the mood for pranks.”

I started when hands grabbed my head and forced me to turn to look at him again. If anything, he looked more furious than before. I almost shrank back from the rage in his gaze, but I swallowed it down. Mareth didn’t scare me.

“You never look at me unless I make you.” His voice was unsteady, steaming in the cold night air. “The only person you can see is Quinn, but he doesn’t see anyone but himself. Don’t you get that?”

“Trust me, I get it,” I peeled his hands away, avoided his stare.

“Then why? Why him?” His real meaning went unsaid.

“I told you why. Dammit, Mareth, I thought you hated the show. Hell, I had half a mind that you hated me even more than I hated you. Why are you doing this now?” I scrubbed angrily at my eyes, mad that I was crying and even more mad that he was there to see it.

Quiet again, but only for a few beats. Mareth took a deep, shaky breath. “I hate that you love him. I can’t get you to notice me at all, and he doesn’t even care that he has it. It could have been anyone else. I don’t know why you picked him.”

“Jealous?” I sniped.

“Horribly.” He agreed.

I hadn’t expected him to say that; the surprise made me wordless for a few minutes, but I recovered. “Should I fuck you out of it? I have the strangest suspicion that your feelings will magically disappear come morning.”

“I would whole-heartedly love for you to try.”

I grabbed the sides of his head and mashed my face against his before he could react. He was surprisingly soft—his hair and his mouth and even his cheeks, lips warm and pliant under mine. I didn’t want to admit how hot I went when he moaned against me, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell him how good he felt. He was eager and compliant, letting me move and dominate him, allowing me to conquer his lap and his trousers and later, his dick.

~

The next morning found Mareth still in my room, for whatever reason.

He was naked, sprawled lazily over my cot, watching me put on my makeup with those smug-ass cat eyes of his. His tail was swishing slowly in the air behind him. He looked entirely too satisfied.

“Do you have what you want now, dumbass?” I asked, penciling in my eyebrows.

“Dunno. Are you going to come over tonight?”

I scoffed. “Why would I?”

In the mirror, I saw him frown, his tail stilling. “Then no, I don’t.”

We watched each other for a minute, and then I went back to putting my face on for the day, intent to avoid any further conversation.

Mareth was having none of it. “Won’t you consider it?”

“Consider what?”

“Being with me? You seemed—it was good last night, wasn’t it?” He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, the tip of his tail twitching.

I eyed him in the mirror, and then smirked internally. “Give me your true name, and we can try to have a relation.”

His tail twitched again. “Oh?”

“I’m still not convinced you aren’t tricking me. Give me your name so I’ll know.” There. The matter was over.

Mareth sat up. “Is that all?”

“All”?

I blinked, and he was standing in the center of my tent, his clothes suddenly on again. “Consider it done! You may know me as—“ a gust of wind, and he was at my ear now, his mouth brushing my lobe. “Merit.”

“Your name is—?” He slapped a hand over my mouth before I could finish, wiggling his eyebrows at me in the mirror.

“Ah, ah. No spilling my secret now. I’ve just given you my soul, sweetie.”

I choked. “Your—?”

He actually did it. He gave me his—no, it must be fake. I could call his bluff.

I smiled sweetly up at him, murmuring, “Merit, why don’t you be a dear and get on your knees?”

Mareth gasped, and it wasn’t so much a sink to his knees as it was an inglorious fall. His knees hit the floor with a sharp crack and I couldn’t help but wince guiltily.

Holy fuck. He actually gave me his name.

I stood from my vanity, towering above him, staring. His eyes were gleaming madly, smile twisted into something familiar and devious. “Oh my, what ever will you do with me, Gwenny-poo?”

“You and I might be together for a long time, dear.” I brushed my hands through his hair; he tilted his head into my touch, and I fisted my fingers in his hair, making his breath hitch. “I guess I’ll have to train you.”

“Oh, please do,” he purred.

We had made a deal to try, at least. And if nothing else, I was a woman of my word.

~

Mareth was a very bothersome lover. I hadn’t decided if he was more or less so than before.

He whined if we didn’t have at least one meal a day together; he whined if he had to sleep alone; he whined if he couldn’t see me in the morning; he whined if I left him without a kiss goodbye; he whined if I wore something pretty and he wouldn’t be around to see it. He hated Quinn, and hated if I spent time with him, but I was a loyal partner, and he seemed to know this.

Besides, I wasn’t one to give my heart to someone who already broke it once. Mareth seemed to know this, too.

Lately Mareth had been pressing me to wear his favorite sweater—a dark green turtleneck that brought out the color of his eyes neatly. Not only was the idea of sharing clothes already ridiculous enough, but the fact that Mareth was a hell of a lot more petite than me didn’t seem to factor into his head.

“Mareth,” I said through my teeth, “This would stick to me like a second skin. I doubt it would even cover my stomach.”

“I know,” he purred.

I knocked him upside the head for that one, but he kept insisting that I “borrow” some of his clothes. I eventually caved and stuffed myself into one of his bigger jackets, and I pretended not to notice him watching me in it, or how he kept subtly trying to sniff at it after I returned it.

He also kept little useless items I gave him, which was so bizarre I couldn’t even bring it up to him. The number seemed to grow a little every time I was in his tent—a packet of toothpaste I lent him so he’d stop trying to use mine when he slept over; a pencil; a crumbled napkin I threw at him with a crude drawing of my foot on his ass; a glittery hair clip I had used to help Alice do his makeup before a show.

He was ridiculous. Absolutely bonkers.

If I obliged him in these things, it was no fault of mine. I was his girlfriend, after all, it was only natural to let your boyfriend have his needs and help meet them.

And if anyone claimed I enjoyed the little happy smile Mareth gave me when I used a pet name, or made him lunch, or wore his stupid sweater, or invited him to join me in the showers, I’d kick their ass too. And if they had the balls to claim I liked Mareth and his clingy affection and dumb tricks and loud laugh and short stature and ridiculousness, well, they might be right, but I’d still fucking end them.

[the-dragonborn-cums]

“Sorry, no rooms available.”

“What? How?” Elisa said a little too loudly. The rest of the inn glanced up at her with vague curiosity before returning to their flagons.

The innkeeper, a rather thin Nord woman, shrugged. “We got a Redguard woman who’s holed herself in here for days, a mercenary from Cyrodiil, and a man who claims he’s a traveling jester, if you can believe that.”

Elisa gave her an incredulous stare. “So what am I supposed to do, sleep on a bench? Don’t you have a cellar I can plop down in for the night?”

The innkeeper shook her head. “Afraid not. Look, if you’re that desperate, I’d speak with the Companions up in Jorrvaskr. If they take you in, your bed is free.”

“The Companions?” Elisa said. They didn’t sound like a bed and board. Plus, joining them sounded like she would be committing herself to whatever three ring circus they were running. She ran her own circus, with acts involving setting anything that tried to bite or chop her head off on fire, growing her coin purse through whatever opportunities were tossed her way, and stretching the distance between her and her family as much as possible. And it was ran independently.

“Mm-hmm,” the innkeeper replied. “They’re one of Skyrim’s longest standing mercenary bands.”

Elisa gestured to her mage’s robes. “Do I look like a mercenary to you?”

The innkeeper paused for a moment, giving her a once-over. “Admittedly no. Can you swing a sword?”

“Of course I bloody can,” Elisa replied, annoyed.  Dueling was one of the most common methods of settling disputes between houses and the first art taught to Breton children growing up in noble families. Plus, sometimes there were situations where magic was the weaker option, like the time a crazed Ashlander nearly gutted her in her sleep back in Morrowind. She’d been welcomed by an Ashlander tribe after days of traveling to Ghostgate, not knowing that a few of them were superstitious xenophobes who distrusted strangers. Fortunately, her ebony dagger was less than a hand’s reach away, which she slid neatly between the Dunmer’s ribcage before he could lay a finger on her.

“Then you shouldn’t have any issues joining. Their hall is just up the steps to the right once you leave.”

With that the woman began busying herself with washing the counter of her bar with an old rag as if the conversation never happened.  “Anything else you needed?” she said without glancing up. Clearly at this point the woman had enough of their exchange and Elisa wasn’t going to get another word about a room to stay in out of her.

Elisa rubbed her face, thoroughly annoyed and exhausted at this point.

“Some Breton wine, if you have it,” she said, tossing a few gold coins from her purse onto the counter. “I need something strong after this headache of a day.”

———————————————————————————————————–

Elisa stepped up to the doors of Jorrvaskr, a longhouse with a roof that looked like an overturned boat. Two dragons curled upward from either side, facing off with perpetual snarls. Elisa sighed, wondering what Daedric Prince was toying with her. Never had she expected to enter a Nord mead hall of her own volition. But, unless she wanted to spend a night in the Skyrim cold, she didn’t have many options.

This may, perhaps, be the worst day of my life, she thought as she swung the doors open. What awaited her inside was a full-on brawl.

“Are those two at it again?”

“Quit swinging so wide, you’ll make yourself more vulnerable!”

“My bet’s on Njada. After the way she felled that bear the other day, I wouldn’t want to mess with her.”

A small gathering was formed in a half-circle around a Dunmer man and a Nord woman who Elisa guessed was Njada beating the piss out of each other. It seemed the fight had been going for a small while, judging from the cuts and bruises on both of them.The Dunmer made to land an uppercut at Njada’s jaw, but whoever shouted about the Dunmer swinging too wide was right. Njada easily sidestepped to avoid his fist, causing him to stumble. She took the opportunity to grab and pull him close to her, slamming her knee into his groin. The Dunmer howled, collapsing to the ground and curling into his abdomen. Njada stood over him, flashing a triumphant sneer.

“Best two out of three,” she said, wiping a small amount of blood from a cut on her lip. “Looks like you’re polishing the armory this week.”

The Dunmer coughed. “Fetcher,” he wheezed.

“Quit being a baby,” she said as two of the others began helping the Dunmer to his feet. Other than some minor cuts and bruising on his face, the man looked alright. As he steadied himself, he glanced up to see Elisa standing a few feet away.

Seeing her made him snarl and spin to face Njada.

“This isn’t over,” he spat, his face inches from her’s. “Pick up a sword and we’ll see who ends up on their ass.”

He shot Elisa one final glare of daggers before storming down a flight of stairs, out of sight.

How charming, Elisa thought, as the group disbanded. And so very typical…

It took a moment before a burly Nord from the group noticed her and approached. When he came close enough for her to study his appearance, Elisa almost scowled. His face was a mask of dirt that sunk into the creases gathered around his eyes and mouth, his hair an oily, dark mop. She thought he’d been punched in the face twice, but upon closer inspection, she saw that dark warpaint framed his eyes like bruises. If he hadn’t been wearing a very regal set of armor, she might have mistaken him for a beggar.

“Vilkas,” he said, introducing himself. Despite his disheveled visage, his voice surprisingly soft. “If you want to hire, you’ll have to speak to Skjor. He handles that.”

“Actually,” Elisa said, smiling to hide her disgust at his appearance, “I was told you provided room and board?”

Vilkas shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Only Companions are allowed to stay in Jorrvaskr.”

“Ah,” Elisa replied. “So it’s like that, then. Not to worry though, I have a solution for both of us.

She fiddled with a loop on her belt and presented her coin purse, waggling it as if she were enticing a dog with a bone. Vilkas crossed his arms, scowling.

“What if I were to give you, say, a hundred,” Elisa said. “You let me stay, and I fatten your wallet.”

She was lying, of course. Given that most of her savings had been taken from her before being put on the cart hurtling towards her execution, plus the exorbitant amount she spent on that rotten trade deal that landed her there, she had maybe twenty gold after the few coins she shoved at the barkeep for a bottle of wine. But, if the Jarl was good on his word, she’d have five hundred coins to add to her deflated wallet. And if he wasn’t, well, after shoving a fireball down his throat, she would be, as the Dunmer said, “as fortunate as a netch born without limbs”.

“I wouldn’t let you stay here even if you were the Queen of Solitude with gold spilling out your backside,” Vilkas replied, eyes narrowing. “Do you see any barmaids around? We’re not an inn. Is there something you actually came her for, or are you here to waste my time?”

Elisa reattached her coin purse to her belt, sighing. Bribery seemed to get you nowhere here compared to Morrowind. Her last resort was clear, and she was certain it was going to bite her in the ass later.

“Fine,” she said. Her voice was calm, but inside she was imagining all the ways she could set this hall on fire. “How do I join?”

Vilkas gave her a surprised look. “You serious? After that stupid ploy you just pulled? You’re either mad or an idiot. Or both.

“Plus,” he added,eyeing her mage’s robes, “you don’t seem the type.”

Elisa gritted her teeth. “I was told this was a good place for work,” she said, her smile growing with her impatience. “I’m a long ways from home and could use the extra gold.” This time it was the truth, but it might as well have been a shovel that was digging her deeper into this pit she tossing herself into.

To Oblivion with this godforsaken town, this fetcher of a Nord, that innkeeper bitch…

Her internal list of profanities continued while Vilkas was silent for a moment, watching her with suspicion. “Aye, it is,” he said, nodding. “But you won’t last long here without some knowledge of handling a blade.”

“I wouldn’t have survived the duels among Breton nobility if I didn’t know how to wield one.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, giving her another look-over, retaining his dubious gaze. “I have a lot of questions, but we’ll get to that later.”

He looked back over his shoulder and shouted, “Athis!”

Athis, the Dunmer in the brawl earlier, came rushing up the steps near them, flashing Vilkas an annoyed look. “If you’re expecting me to polish every damn weapon and  piece of armor again for the third time this month, you can-”

“Shut it,” Vilkas snapped. “Grab your sword. You’ll be testing her arm.” He nodded at Elisa.

Athis looked like he’d just been insulted. He glared at Elisa, then back at Vilkas. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “I’ve seen mudcrabs that looked tougher than her.”

“You’re one to speak after getting your ass beat by a whelp who joined a month ago.”

Athis replied with a look that could kill a bear, but said nothing.

“You get one chance,” Vilkas said to Elisa, handing her a sword from one of the racks on a wall nearby. He pointed to the doors on the opposite side. “We’ll meet out that way. And don’t dawdle. I don’t have all day to wait on newcomers.”

Athis flashed her a look of disdain before stomping behind Vilkas out the doors to whatever shoddy training grounds they had. As they left, Elisa glanced down at the sword in her hands.

“Shit”, she said aloud to the empty hall of the Companions, which, if this Nord approved of her sword play, she would potentially be sharing with a band of dirty, sweaty mercenaries.

If I ever run into that Khajiit, she thought, gripping the sword’s handle tighter as anger bubbled in her gut, he’s going to Oblivion with his tail shoved in his mouth and a knife up his ass.

[kuro-gossips]

Splashes of Colour

Chapter 4: Shades of Purple

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Shortly after having a vision of his soulmate -- not the first and not the last, he is sure -- Grindelwald holds a debriefing for his subordinates. The heterochromic man commands to one them, “I want you to go to the circus now. Give my note to Credence and begin his journey.”

Nagel nods and quickly excuses himself from the room. Rosier, elegantly dressed as ever, haughtily declares in her heavy French accent, “When we’ve won, they’ll flee cities in the millions. They’ve had their time.”

“Now, now. We don’t say such things out loud. We only want freedom. Freedom to express who we truly deserve to be.” Grindelwald pacifies, a smirk curling up through his lips.

The French woman agrees, a finger positioned on her chin in contemplation, “To annihilate non-wizards.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes flash -- patience wearing thin -- when he speaks next, “Not all of them. We are not merciless, but the beast of burden will always be necessary. Rosier, if you please.”

The blue-eyed witch knows what he is referring to, even if he doesn’t explicitly say it, and retrieves the skull-shaped hookah for her Lord. Grindelwald takes a deep breath in and exhales the smoke that models itself into the Obscurus, black fog swirling with intermittent red flashes, and then resolving into an image of Credence Barebone. His acolytes vibrate with excitement, except for the wizard of Asian descent, Krall, who seems sullen at the sight.

“So, Credence Barebone. A boy nearly destroyed by the woman who raised him, yet now, he seeks the mother who bore him. He’s desperate for family, for love, and he is the key to our victory. We must make him believe that we can provide that information to him.” Grindelwald proclaims, his mismatched eyes shining with an unbridled lust for power.

Krall, a nervous tick in his dark eyebrow, says, “Well, we know where the boy is, don’t we? Why don’t we just grab him and leave?”

“No, he must come voluntarily… and he will.” The Dark wizard shakes his head in response, while explaining. His gaze returns to the suspended vapour form of Credence in the centre of the room. “The path has been laid and he is following it, according to plan. The trail that will lead him to me, along with the strange and glorious truth of who he is.”

“Why is he so important?”

“Who represents the greatest threat to our cause, Krall?”

“Albus Dumbledore, of course.”

“And if I asked you to go to Hogwarts, where he is hiding, and kill him for me, would you do it for me?” An unkind grin graces Grindelwald’s face. “Credence is the only entity alive, who can kill him.”

Krall stumbles through his rebuttal, quickly correcting himself as he catches his Lord’s stern glare, as if daring him to finish his initial train of thought, “You really think that he can kill the great-- can kill Albus Dumbledore?”

“Oh, Krall. I know he can. But will you be with us when that happens? Will you?” Grindelwald whispers, imparting a knowing look on the other man. The powerful wizard is able to discern that Krall is not completely faithful to him and to their mission because he has Seen it in the near future. Then, he addresses the rest of the room’s occupants, “Now, leave.”

In the vacant space, the blonde wizard recalls Newt’s freckled face in the subway tunnels of New York, contorted in agony from the electrical shocks he had sent at him and the distraught expression after he had learned that being too physically far from his soulmate is such a cause for concern. He can’t help but derive pleasure from the sight -- such a delicious image painted over the boy’s delicate features. He ponders many things as he takes a seat, a sinister smile on his face, looking out at the bustling streets of the French capital and enjoying a cup of tea. Grindelwald is intrigued by this so-called magical growth as a result of being in a mutual soulmate bond. Now, his next important issue to address is how to persuade the British onto his side. He knows the other has a soft spot a mile wide for magical creatures and that includes the Obscurus contained within Credence. The Dark Lord lets out a pleased hum as plans start to from in his head, soon to come to fruition.

He summons Vinda back a while later; she awaits his command, “Yes, my Lord?”

“Retrieve the Ministry’s records on Newton Scamander.” She bows at her waist and goes to complete Grindelwald’s bidding.

***

A beautiful woman, porcelain skin with hair as dark as night, is kneeling beside a trunk filled with extravagant costumes. She strokes the dark blue dress on top, the material is smooth under her touch, too similar to a snake’s skin. She knows her performance is about to begin and she knows she will hate every moment of it. However, she doesn’t have much choice at the moment. Nagini had needed a way out of Indonesia, away from human traffickers who had sought her out for prostitution or slavery. Skender may be the trash of the magical community, but the next option was far worse. So, she decided to display her ‘unique talent’ in the circus show instead.

“Nagini!” It’s the boy she has become close with over the past couple of months, Credence. His hair has thankfully grown out from that terrible haircut that he sported when she met him. He rushes towards her with an urgent whisper, steel bars separating them, “I think I know where she is.”

Credence must be referring to the identity of his birth mother and she confirms her suspicions when she reads the note he hands her, a frown forming. Regardless of her personal feelings, Nagini meets his chocolate brown eyes, sadness ever present because she knows how it is to be lost. She remains wary at the thought of this Grindelwald person who sent the note. She wonders if Credence can trust this man -- after all, she’s heard the whispers.

“We escape tonight.” He promises, hope burgeoning in his eyes for the first time since his initial meeting with Percival Graves in New York. He thinks he can find his true family and identity, and maybe then, he can stop feeling so utterly lost.

The ringmaster, Skender, appears through the tent’s flaps and angrily shouts at Credence, “Hey! I’ve told you to stay away from her, boy. Did I say you could take a break? Clean out the Kappa.”

He jerks the curtains between the two closed and scolds Nagini, telling her to get ready for her show. Credence barely contains his rage as he eyes the hanging cage, full of Firedrakes, plotting.

***

The night is clear and filled with gleaming stars as Tina Goldstein wanders through the streets of Paris.  The now reinstated Auror, far from home and on a self-appointed mission, walks with an air of confidence, so unlike nine months ago in New York. Somehow, despite her elegant gait, her shoulders are still burdened with personal troubles, thoughts commiserating inside her head. Her long, black trench coat glistens in the dim light as she approaches a statue of a robed woman, gracefully posed upon a giant slab of stone, where her fellow disguised witches and wizards are disappearing into. Dark eyes dart back and forth, ensuring that the non-magical citizens aren’t watching her, and she ducks into the sculpture.

Tina arrives at the entrance of a bustling circus with several tents, the largest one in the centre. A banner is strung across that reads: ‘Circus Arcanus: Freaks and Oddities.’ Street performers line the sides of the main walkway: half-trolls displaying incredible feats of strength, a half-elf juggling knives and other dangerous objects, and a pair of albino twins spitting flames between their open mouths. There is a magnificent creature Tina has never seen before -- its long, plumed tail coiling with feline-like finesse -- staring out from behind sturdy iron bars. The Auror hears the crackling of fireworks erupting in the sky above her.

She slips into the crowd of the main tent, dark eyes intent on searching for the lost Obscurial boy. She tries her best to blend in as Skender, the circus owner, grows increasingly frustrated at his freak’s rebellious behaviour. Credence, somewhere off in the back, makes eye contact with his female friend. Noticing Nagini’s gaze, Tina follows it and finally locates Credence. She begins to move towards the boy she had failed in New York. Skender is furious as he lashes his whip at the bars, “She is forced to become…”

Tina tunes out whatever drivel the burly man is spouting, it is unimportant to her. At last, Nagini gives in and slowly morphs into the body of a snake. Before anyone can react, the large snake strikes at Skender through the bars and yells something in Parseltongue. The ringmaster collapses, bleeding from the wound in his neck. Credence, eyes dark with emotion, snaps a stick at the cage containing the Firedrakes, who soar to freedom. The fabric of the big top catches aflame, screams erupting from the crowd, people stomping and running over each other to the exit. Tina tries her best to navigate through them.

A state of panic settles over the circus as the Firedrakes wreak havoc, tearing patterns through the night sky and trailing showers of sparks. The multitude of creatures are terrified and angered. A Hippogriff is rearing back, while its handlers attempt to rein it in. Performers are scuttling to and from, packing up their belongings, house elves are shoving everything into boxes that fold in on themselves until they become small enough to carry. Tina appears with a resounding snap and flicks her wand to put out the fire. The malnourished Zouwu bursts forth from its crate and leaps away from the screaming humans, roaring out of fright, face scarred and battered. Skender dismisses the creature, knowing any attempts to capture it are futile, so he gathers his workers and boards the carriage. Tina sees Credence in the distance and calls out his name in vain. He is already too far to hear her.

Tina confronts Skender and demands whatever he knows about Credence’s objective in Paris. The man claims that he is looking for his family, and somehow that surprises Tina, despite the fact that she knew that Credence is an orphan who had been adopted by cruel and wicked Mary Lou Barebone. After the bearded male whizzes away with his merry band of freaks, she is confronted by a West African male, judging by his accent, and the two of them discuss Credence’s fate at a nearby cafe. The female Auror optimistically assumes that they’re after the Obscurial boy for the same reason: to save him.

But she is very wrong, and she finds this out the hard way when he disarms her and throws her into an underground cell, one of the walls covered in markings and notes. The brunette sighs, defeatedly, and falls into an agitated sleep.

***

Newt and Jacob successfully track Tina down to her current imprisonment, courtesy of Kama. Following the spectacle that the Zouwu makes in non-magical Paris shortly thereafter, the group of friends are forced to seek shelter in Nicolas Flamel’s house. They clamber through the doors of the empty house, the place is eerily quiet, but they get settled in nonetheless. The British wizard heads down into his case to acclimatize its newest addition, while Tina supervises the unconscious body of the Senegalese man and Jacob desperately searches for food.

He reappears a good twenty minutes later, curly mop of hair peeking through the opening and viridian eyes observing the brunette. The Muggle breaks the awkward silence with a loud grumble emitting from his stomach, a drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face as he becomes the centre of attention. Jacob laughs, sheepish, a hand coming up to wipe at his forehead. Newt fondly smiles, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced -- something Tina finally notices now that they are in decent lighting. Newt appears haggard and worn, but as she opens her mouth to speak, he interjects, “Well, I suppose we all could use some food right about now.”

The round man wants to offer his help, but the magizoologist is already out the door and by the time he turns around to talk to the American Auror, she, too, is sweeping through the hallway, muttering about needing to report to the French Ministry. Jacob throws up his arms in defeat and sits down to watch the dark-skinned man while he waits.

***

Newt knows he shouldn't have volunteered to go searching for food, seeing as he is having difficulty keeping his eyes open, but he doesn't want to stay in such a stuffy environment. Things have been tense between him and Tina, especially with the last couple of letters that were exchanged. She has been insistent in persuading him to visit New York, spouting pleasantries about missing him, and frankly, it made him uncomfortable. He fears the woman has taken a liking to him, but he cannot possibly return those feelings when his mind has been spinning out of control since his soulmate's identity was revealed. As he blearily peers at the rows of food in the small market, his green eyes glaze over and he stumbles into the shelf. He wheezes lightly, gripping his chest as he tries to catch his breath, but Newt doesn't think he can remain conscious for much longer. There is a delicate hand that rests on his shoulder in a comforting manner as someone says something in French to him, but he can neither understand the language or has the mental faculties to perform a translation spell. His eyelids slip closed and just as he is about to slump to the ground, he is faintly aware of someone propping him up, bearing the brunt of his weight.

When the magizoologist comes to, he is alone in a drawing room, laid out upon an elegant chaise and his coat is neatly folded on the side table. Newt glances around the room, evaluating the layout with a keen eye, looking for possible escape routes and objects to defend himself with. This is certainly not the first time he’s been taken without his consent and it won’t be the last -- not in his line of work. His brain stops its calculations when a fair-skinned witch with darkly coloured hair and vibrant blue eyes glides through the doors. She has a tray with tea trailing behind her in the air, a polite and somewhat cold smile graces her lips as she notes that he is awake. She presents him with a teacup, which he takes with a soft 'thank you,’ but then stares at it with apprehension. Her mouth twitches with a bit of humour.

“I assure you, Mr. Scamander, the tea is not poisoned or drugged. Although, it seems you could use a bit of a Pepperup potion.” Her English is fluent, but laced with a French intonation. Newt flushes slightly, ashamed to seen disrespectful in any manner.

“How do you--”

“You have become quite famous, no? An author who writes about magical beasts… It is not everyday one stumbles upon such a well-known person after all.” Her amusement is still apparent in her voice as she explains. In truth, it is because she has seen the files associated with him, but the man doesn’t need to know. Newt fondles the rim of the plate the teacup is on in an attempt to gather his bearings. “My name is Vinda Rosier. Just Vinda is fine though.”

He recognizes her last name, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood families of Europe with an affinity for the Dark Arts; it instantly makes him wary, but he schools his face to not react adversely. Newt is polite if nothing else, so he says, “Then call me ‘Newt.’ No one really calls me by my full name unless I’ve done something unruly.”

“Very well… Newt.” There is a vague sense of distaste as his nickname rolls off her tongue, unused to such casual language, but it makes him grin a little. He takes a sip of the tea, Earl Grey, he pleasantly notes.

“Thank you for your help earlier. I don’t know what might have happened if I was taken by some less kind people.” The redhead confesses, grateful that Vinda seems like a reasonably decent person, and because of this, he doesn’t expect when Europe’s most wanted Dark Wizard waltzes into the room. Newt scrambles back on the sofa, dropping the teacup and desperately unsheathing his wand, but he knows he cannot possibly hold his own against Grindelwald. Vinda is fast to respond in order to prevent the cup from shattering on the ground with a Levitation charm. His body unconsciously trembles with the traumatic memories of the electricity that ran through his body in New York and his outstretched hand shakes with it, yet the opposing wizard makes no movement to attack him. Instead, the older man nonchalantly approaches and sits next to him. Green eyes anxiously meet mismatched ones for a moment, before skittering away to the small space between them. He chokes out, “W-what are you-- Are you going to kill me--”

A surprisingly warm hand encircles his raised wrist and gently lowers it down -- it’s such a drastic contrast from Newt’s last encounter with the other wizard that the touch causes him to take a sharp inhale. A thrum of soothing magic courses between their connected skin and Newt shivers pleasantly at the sensation, making a sly smile to cross the other’s lips. Grindelwald knows how much their interaction affects his soulmate; he watches as the colour returns to his cheeks, watches as the dark circles under his eyes recede slightly, watches how the fine lines smooth out across his face, watches as his breaths deepen and pupils dilate marginally. All of it is involuntary, but fascinating to witness. He, himself, can feel the hackles of energy rising within him, being in close contact with his soulmate; his magic sings beautifully in his veins.

“Now, Mr. Scamander, why would I kill my soulmate? Someone exclusively made for me?” He says slowly as if talking to a child, lips tilting upwardly ever so slightly. He brings Newt’s hand up to his mouth, laying a light peck on it, a flush rising high on the younger’s cheeks.

“Well, that’s not-- I mean, you didn’t seem to feel that way last we saw each other.” The magizoologist confesses, eyes cautiously peering into the heterochromic ones of Grindelwald. Neither of them notice when Vinda slips out of the room -- she knows her Lord needs space and peace to intricately weave his words into another’s mind.

The Dark Lord makes a sound of agreement, then proceeds to explain, “You see, I’ve looked into you after our… encounter in America. I admit I was only curious at first as to why Albus was so taken with you that he would valiantly defend you from expulsion, but then, I realized your potential, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt holds his breath and waits for the Dark wizard to continue. He doesn't dare interrupt.

“Who in this world would sacrifice so much for creatures that many deem to be beneath them and for what reason? It has been a long time since I have come across someone as dedicated as yourself to any cause. You want a better world, a world that will readily accept the wondrous nature of these beasts, but you must realize that world will not come to actualization without some sort of action, do you not?”

The magizoologist swallows audibly, managing to stay the trembling in his hands slightly, before he replies, “Perhaps, but that does not mean I would agree with the subjugation of any human being, regardless of their magical prowess.”

“Is that what they have been saying about me? Oh, how foolish.” The Dark Lord chuckles. “I do not seek tyranny over the non-magical, my boy. They are not lesser, simply of other value. I want to assimilate the magical and non-magical communities, so we can be free to be who were are, without fear of revealing ourselves and suffering the consequences of inane laws. There is no need for unnecessary bloodshed--”

Grindelwald pauses for a moment when he sees a disbelieving and affronted look flash over his soulmate’s face, “--but yes, some must perish in order for there to be change. Wouldn’t you want a world where your beasts can roam without worry of being hunted for sport or salvaged for parts? I-- no, we can make that happen.”

Newt has to break eye contact with the man because that is the only thing he truly desires. He is silent.

“Tell me, Newt, does my magic lie to you?” Grindelwald grasps his scarred hands again and it is such a contrast between unmarred hands and his own. The younger wizard lets out a small breath as he feels another pulse of magic run through their connection -- the sensation is an intense mixture of comfort, sincerity, and passion that he almost snaps his hands away immediately. The Dark Lord’s grip is firm, however. “Am I lying to you?”

The younger man has great difficulty coming up with a reply and Grindelwald knows why. It’s a feeling that reverberates deep within Newt’s chest -- something he tries desperately to ignore -- because the redhead realizes that Grindelwald is not lying; he has not lied the entire conversation. It didn’t mean that Newt could trust a word he was saying, the Dark Lord is known to twist his words, known to have a silver-tongue, capable of persuading almost anyone; he knows that he must still be vigilant.

At the same time, it is so difficult and somehow, everything feels so utterly right when he’s in Grindelwald’s presence. The blonde continues speaking -- voice hypnotic as ever -- eyes fixated on Newt’s softer face, whose gaze is still averted.

“Not to mention, what would your dear Ministry think of your soulmate being none other than Gellert Grindelwald?” Newt sneaks a glance at him. The sneer on Grindelwald’s face is filled with disgust and reality hits the magizoologist with the force of a charging Hippogriff. “Do you think they will idly stand by and let you go on your merry way? Or do you think they’ll imprison you, leave you to suffer in a cage, and then torture you? And what of your case, Mr. Scamander? They’ll use everything at their disposal against me, including you and anything you treasure.”

Green eyes widen and freeze at the cuff of his shirt, where their hands are still intertwined. He retracts his arm abruptly, stumbling to his feet -- almost growing dizzy from the vertigo -- and stutters, “No-- uh-- I can’t-- I can’t do this right now. If-- if you’ll excuse me...”

Newt grabs his coat, flings it around his shoulders, and flees the building without another word. His heart flutters because the cold, hard truth is staring at him in the face:

Grindelwald let him leave.

[carmenlire]

Dance through the Storm

read on ao3

Oh, God.

The bottom falls out of Magnus’s life as he hears a gut-wrenching shout.

It’s like everything is happening in slow motion and Magnus is helpless to do anything but turn around and see the worst sight he could imagine. A whimper escapes his lips as he sees the demon pull its bloodied claw from Alec’s chest.

Alexander.

Alec’s eyes roll back and he falls to the ground in a sort of slow topple that’s as graceful as it is utterly terrifying.

Magnus doesn’t notice anything going on around him. His complete focus is on his love, motionless, lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. He doesn’t notice Jace collapse on the ground a hundred feet away, doesn’t see Izzy’s skin bleach of all color.

It’s like a switch has flipped and Magnus isn’t even aware of the red sparks fizzling around his entire body. His glamour disintegrates and before he knows what’s happening, Magnus is calling on half a millennium of power.

He strikes viciously at the remaining few dozen demons in a frenzy of rage and swirling grief, the likes of which he’s never known. He can feel his soul fragmenting, can only recall the last few seconds, playing over and over, and it serves as fuel to maintain his destruction of any further threat to Alec.

His control, always so absolute and ice-calm, has evaporated. Magnus has always known that he was a brooding hurricane. Cold and calculating but with an edge of emotion that he’s by turns loathed and reveled in. He’s burning up from the inside and he doesn’t want to reign it in. These demons have hurt the one person Magnus cares for above all else, and by all that’s demonic they will pay.

Jace is lying on the filthy, damp ground of the alley and Izzy watches the trio with true fear licking up her throat, paralyzing her. Jace is mindless to anything except the unimaginable pain wracking through his body in waves, the piece of his soul that’s intertwined with Alec’s burning to ash. Izzy sees her big brother, her rock, unmoving with blood beginning to trickle from his lips and her whip falls to the ground with a clang she doesn’t hear.

She watches Magnus decimate a nest of demons and, for the first time, she gets a true sense of his power. It’s easy to think of Magnus as just an amicable man that likes good liquor and good times. She’s seen him raze buildings and call upon greater demons, but she’s never seen him like this.

This isn’t just a capable warlock doing what must be done for the greater good. This is one of the most powerful warlocks on the planet giving in to his baser instincts and she doesn’t know how to stop it. She thinks the only person who could reach Magnus right now is dying, just a few feet away and her gut turns to water.

Magnus realizes that he’s out of control but he doesn’t have the inclination or wherewithal to do anything about it. All of the demons are dead, back to whatever dimension of hell they’d crawled out from, and Magnus very well may have allowed himself to destroy everything if it wasn’t for the choked gasp he hears behind him. It’s the only noise that pierces the fog, a sound that breaks through everything, no matter how quiet.

His magic immediately clamps down, the pulsing red disappearing. He whips around and is kneeling beside Alec in the next second. The full moon doesn’t let Magnus harbor any delusions-- he can see Alec’s pale skin, already turning grey, and the rivulet of blood falling from the corner of his mouth down his chin.

He sees the wound in Alec’s chest, an ugly puncture where more blood is seeping at a steady rate. Alec’s breath is labored, faint, desperate inhales followed by choked gurgling and Magnus feels like it’s his own heart that’s been stabbed.

His magic comes to attention again, wrenching out of him without conscious thought, the wispy strands of blue gathering in his palm, pulsing, as he places a hand above the wound.

His other hand moves to Alec’s cheek, an achingly gentle caress. Alec’s eyes are closed but a pitiful moan escapes him as Magnus starts repairing the damage.

Mindless in pain, hanging onto this plane by the thinnest thread, Alec turns his head and nuzzles into Magnus’s palm, a grounding point in a sea of agony and confusion.

Magnus’s heart breaks for the dozenth time in as many minutes and he redoubles his efforts, pouring everything he has into saving Alec.

Words are spilling from his lips, he’s not paying attention, only knows that the talking seems to be keeping both of them alive.

Izzy hears, though, and the desperate litany hits her full force.

Magnus and Alec are a story for the ages. Izzy is very much aware that the tale of their love, their success against all odds, will remain long after she’s nothing but a plaque in the City of Bones. Yet, the two of them are intensely private. Their devotion is obvious, seen in lingering glances and soft touches. But the full fire of their bond has never been so apparent as she hears Magnus plead for Alec to stay.

“My darling, my love, please, you must stay awake. I know you don’t want to, I know it hurts, but I need you to stay with me.”

Alec’s body turns boneless and his head lolls to the side. The tension leaves his body and Isabelle feels like screaming.

Magnus’s face is a picture of concentration and the blue becomes dense, impenetrable, as sweats begins to drip down from his temple.

“It’s okay, love, you’re resting now and can’t feel the pain. As long as you continue to fight, you can rest as long as you need. Hold on, Alexander. By everything that I am, you will make it through this.”

The hand that’s holding Alec’s face is trembling, thumb brushing softly across Alec’s cheek in a motion that Magnus doesn’t notice.

Izzy jolts her attention from the sweeping motion to Magnus when she hears him mutter a guttural curse.

“God damn me.”

Isabelle meets Magnus’s eyes and they hold a stunned horror that looks wrong on his face.

“I can’t heal him,” Magnus whispers. “The wound is too deep. It’s not responding to my magic. The only thing I can do is put his body in a kind of stasis so we can transport him to the infirmary. This has to be healed at the Institute.”

Galvanized with a plan, Izzy nods once and says, “Open the portal.”

She runs over to Jace and puts a hand on his shoulder. He writhes away, uncomfortable with touch as his skin is too sensitive.

“Jace, we need to take Alec to the Institute. Magnus is opening a portal but we need to go over there. Come on, I’ll help.”

Jace grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet. He sways dangerously, but Izzy is right there and wedges her shoulder under his arm. They stumble over to where Magnus still kneels over Alec, the portal already swirling a few feet away. There’s a golden light over every inch of Alec. Magnus stands up and Alec’s body floats up to hover a few feet from the ground. He’s motionless, but it looks like he’s stopped bleeding out for the moment. Clutching Alec’s hand, Magnus moves the two of them through the portal. He doesn’t look back to see whether Isabelle or Jace make it through, his total focus on Alec.

Thankful for her activated strength rune, Izzy readjusts her grip on Jace. With a deep breath, she pulls Jace with her into the portal a second before it closes.

Magnus walks through the portal into the Institute with Alec floating by his side. Considering the last fifteen minutes, he’s admirably calm. His glamour is still down and he’s trembling but the rage has left him, leaving behind muted panic.

It’s been centuries since he last panicked. He could have gone the rest of his immortal life without ever having felt the damned emotion again.

As soon as he steps into the command center, he’s barking orders. There’s a dozen shadowhunters loitering in the room, some just leaving for assignments and others returning. A few are on computers, obviously researching.

Everything comes to a grinding halt whenever they catch site of the four of them. Jace throws up as soon as he and Isabelle leave the portal, Izzy rubbing his shoulders.

Nobody moves for a beat as they take in the tableau and Magnus can feel the crackling in the air-- a warning that he’s about to unleash hell-- when the shadowhunters start moving. Everyone gets out of the way as Magnus starts running through the halls, going to the infirmary. Alec is a weightless presence beside him.

Two shadowhunters sprint ahead and open the doors for Magnus before he can fling them wide with his magic. Their eyes are glued to Alec and Magnus would see fear and worry if he bothered to look.

Alec has been Head of the Institute for three years and in that time, there’s been a world of change and reform. Things still aren’t perfect by any means-- Alexander isn’t perfect-- but the New York Institute has gained a reputation as a groundbreaking, liberal institute with especially amicable relationships with all of the downworld factions. There’s been an influx of new recruits putting in transfer orders since things calmed down with Lilith and it’s kept Alec up to his eyeballs in paperwork.

The shadowhunters here respect Alec and what he stands for. Seeing their leader like this has to be a shock of the worst kind to them.

Join the club, Magnus thinks.

Once in the infirmary, it’s a circus. Magnus careful lays Alec down on a hospital bed, stripping him of his ripped shirt and filthy pants. In just his underwear, the situation seems even more dire.

There’s no hiding the blood crusting on Alec’s ribs, the mauled opening in his chest. While not bleeding, Magnus knows the extent of the injury is serious.

Fatally, so.

The demon’s claw has nicked Alec’s heart. More than nicked-- it had cut into Alec’s heart, severing an artery. Magnus had tried desperately in the alley, but he couldn’t knit Alec’s heart together.

There’s a painful irony in there somewhere about broken hearts but if Magnus allows himself to travel down that path he may never make it back.

Alec needs runes and the silent brothers.

Magnus’s hands flutter around Alec’s body, still in stasis. He adjusts the pillow behind his head and runs a hand through Alec’s tangled black locks.

In a coma, Alec is sweating, adding a sickly pallor to his grey skin. He’s starting to twitch, Magnus’s stasis spell wearing off.

Magnus is just getting ready to yell for a shadowhunter-- where the good goddamn is everyone-- when he feels a presence. Looking up, he sees two Silent Brothers come into the room and make their way directly to Alec.

Magnus isn’t privy to their conversation, but the Silent brothers start working immediately, one on each side of the bed. They each draw two large runes on Alec’s chest, on either side of the wound, and a dozen other runes on various parts of Alec’s body.

The golden light surrounding Alec starts to fade and Magnus watches everything like a hawk. He doesn’t miss the way Alec’s fingers twitch. Magnus catches his seeking hand, threading his fingers through Alec’s and shuddering as he feels Alec’s hand go limp, in supposed relief.

His gaze roves over Alexander, taking in his boyfriend.

Ignoring the silent brothers still briskly working, Magnus leans down until his lips hover over Alec’s. He’s so close that he can see the tear tracks that have dried on Alec’s face, can see each and every eyelash in crystal clarity.

“Love, we’re in the infirmary and two Silent Brothers are working on healing you. I’m right here, darling. You’re not alone. I will be right here, next to you, until you open those beautiful hazel eyes that you know I love so much.

“I need you to open your eyes, Alexander. I know it might not happen now, but I need to see those lovely eyes again, love. Tell me I haven’t seen them for the last time. Please.”

Magnus isn’t a fool. Alec is a shadowhunter and he’s gotten into more than his fair share of shit in the few years the two of them have been together. He’s always survived those scrapes.

But this.

Magnus has never seen someone survive having their heart, literally, cleaved almost in half. It’s a brutal injury and Magnus is already half-mourning.

His eyes don’t leave Alec’s face. Not as the Silent Brothers hook Alec up to an IV or pulse oximeter. The weak but steady beep of the heart monitor is a balm to Magnus’s mind. As long as Alec’s heart is beating, there’s hope. He doesn’t notice Izzy or Jace walk in. The two of them take seats at the foot of Alec’s bed, watching.

They see the Silent Brothers keep moving, mindlessly watch as Alec is given a blood transfusion, as runes are reapplied with calm competency.

They watch Magnus as he watches Alec, completely absorbed and tuning out everything around him.

It’s almost dawn when the Silent Brothers straighten up from being hunched over Alec’s prone form.

Magnus snaps to attention from where he was sitting in a chair at Alec’s side. He looks down for the first time in hours and see a neatly-stitched incision. The blood and dirt has been cleaned away. Alec looks oddly vulnerable like this. It causes an ache in Magnus’s chest to see the dozen dark stitches in stark contrast the ghostly pallor of Alec’s skin.

His gaze moves to the Silent Brothers. He’s just getting ready to ask about Alec’s prognosis when they start talking.

“Alec Lightwood suffered an almost fatal injury during combat. A few more minutes and the runes would not have had enough of his soul left to bind to. Fortunately, we arrived in time and stitched his heart back together from where the demon had pierced it. He’s been given four blood transfusions and the IV is keeping him from dehydrating and is administering pain medication. He is in a coma right now and it is up to him as to when he comes out of it. We have done what we can. The next seventy-two hours will be extremely critical as his body heals from the inside out. Please call us back immediately if he contracts a fever or you notice signs of infection.”

The Silent Brothers leave without another word and Magnus collapses back in his chair. Exhaustion is pulling at him but he’d promised Alexander that he’d be waiting, right here, for him to wake up.

So he waits. He leans forward, resting his upper body on the bed, holding Alec’s hand in both of his. He brings his head down to lay on top of their entwined hands and works on his breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

The fact that Alec is still fighting is heartening and a testament to his strength. He’s never had luck with it in the past, but Magnus allows a thread of hope to weave through him. Maybe it’s not blind love and fury that will keep Alec at his side.

Magnus startles when a hand lands on his shoulder, sitting up and looking over at Izzy. There are dark circles under her eyes and her makeup is smudged all to hell and back. She looks like a fierce madonna.

They look into each other’s eyes for a moment before Izzy breaks contact. She brings her chair over until it’s next to Magnus’s. She sits down heavily, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on her. Carefully, she brings her hands up and they hover over Alec for a moment, unsure. Gently, she brings them down until one is resting on Alec’s side, the other on the outside of his leg. Izzy bites her lip hard enough to draw blood but swallows the sob that’s built in her throat.

Jace is asleep at the foot of the bed, the trauma of almost losing his parabatai bringing him to fitful rest.

The sun is just peeking through the stained glass windows, bathing Alec in a kaleidoscope of colors. He looks peaceful.

Magnus and Isabelle sit, quiet, and wait for Alec to wake up.

Alec wakes to golden sunshine. The sheets are warm and there’s a solid weight wrapped around him. He grins and moves back until he’s flush against the heat radiating from behind him. The arm tightens, bringing him that much closer, and Alec can feel his boyfriend’s arousal.

Magnus hums, moving his hips a little, and it turns into a low moan as he presses against Alec’s ass.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmurs in Alec’s ear, his breath leaving shivering trails.

Alec huffs out a laugh. “Morning, honey.”

There’s a beat of silence before they’re breaking into giggles. Magnus turns him around and now they’re laying on their sides, facing each other, with barely an inch between them.

Magnus’s lips ghost over Alec’s as he asks, incredulously, “Honey. Really, Alexander?”

Alec bites his lip, grinning as Magnus’s eyes dart down to his mouth. “I can’t help it, love, you’re just so sweet.”

Magnus shakes his head, amused, before leaning forward.

Their lips meet and it’s soft, a good morning kiss they’ve shared a million times before and will have for a million more. It says hello and I love youand I want you.

It’s Alec’s favorite way to wake up.

Warmth turns to scorching heat in the next beat and Alec’s back is against the mattress, Magnus between his thighs. He’s leaning over Alec, mouthing at his chest, and Alec is mindless with desire. He loves this. He can never get enough of being surrounded by Magnus. His weight pressing Alec down and making him tremble with want. Alec dazedly pulls Magnus back up until they’re kissing again.

It simmers down and they lazily makeout for a while, content. It’s not every morning they get to sleep in and enjoy each other. Most of the time, Alec is up before the sun and rushing off to the Institute before Magnus can blink awake.

Alec can’t remember why he’s allowed to have today off but he decides that it doesn’t matter. Not as long as he gets this. Nothing matters except Magnus and his love, burning through him like an inferno.

Alec never minds getting caught in the flames.

The sun is hanging high in the sky by the time they get out of bed. Alec would have sworn that it was supposed to be a miserable day, full of icy rain and thunderstorms, but there’s not a cloud in the sky and he can hear the birds chirping.

It’s like a dream.

They share a shower that goes on far longer than necessary-- “it’s not my fault, darling, you’re the one with the cute ass who just had to bend over for the shampoo”-- and the two of them get dressed with lingering touches and lazy smiles.

They leave the loft in the early afternoon and walk around the corner to their favorite brunch spot. Spending a couple of hours eating a leisurely meal, everything feels like it’s being filtered through syrup. It’s hazy and golden and so damn sweet. They leave the restaurant arm in arm and stroll through the streets of New York.

They pop into shops that catch their eye. Magnus tries on a sinfully tight outfit that makes Alec’s mouth go dry and Alec finds a necklace for him that he buys when Magnus is changing.

Without his noticing, it’s already dusk and they’re walking the footpaths of Central Park.

Their progress is impeded as they stop every three feet and exchange happy kisses. Alec has long since grown comfortable and confident with himself, but his sense of propriety still thinks that they shouldn’t grope each other in full view of half of New York.

With that thought in mind, Alec breaks the kiss and looks around, expecting to see outraged mothers and scandalized children.

There’s no one, though.

Central Park is empty. There’s not a soul besides the two of them as far as the eye can see.

How strange.

Now that he thinks about it, Alec can’t remember running into anyone the whole day. New York was notoriously rude and busy but the streets had been curiously bare. Besides the waitress, Alec doesn’t think he can recall a single person he’s seen today.

He’s just opening his mouth to ask Magnus about it when Magnus wraps his arms around his neck. He’s so close and Alec loses his train of thought immediately.

Who cares that the populace of New York decided to stay in when he has Magnus holding him like he’ll never let go.

Alec noses into Magnus’s hair and hums a little under his breath. He widens his stance and wraps his own arms around Magnus’s waist.

They stand there for long minutes, just holding each other. Eventually, Magnus lifts his head from where it was lying on his shoulder and smiles at Alec, softly, as his eyes crinkle at the corners, radiating joy and contentedness.

He starts swaying side to side and Alec follows the motion without thinking. Magnus smiles a little to himself as he guides Alec, discretely magicking music into the air. A harp plays quietly somewhere in the distance and Magnus settles a little deeper against Alec’s front, slow dancing in the waning light.

Alec doesn’t notice the music or that they’re dancing. Alec isn’t much of a dancer-- only does so when he can no longer hold out against Magnus’s adorable pout-- but he’s too caught up in the feeling in his chest to do anything but mindlessly follow his boyfriend.

Magnus is the most attractive man that Alec has ever seen. It’s more than that, though. Magnus is beautiful. It’s such a fucking cliche, but not only is Magnus physically stunning, inside he’s the best man Alec has ever met. He’s kind and gentle and has a capacity for love that often leaves Alec standing in awe.

Magnus isn’t perfect. He’s stubborn as hell and holds a grudge with the best of them. He can be petty and childish and set in his ways. But all of that makes him human and Alec wouldn’t change a thing about him.

Magnus is imperfectly perfect for him.

Alec’s planning on proposing soon, but he’s waiting. They’ve been together for a little over three years and he’s ready. He’s known that Magnus is the Love of His Life since his abandoned wedding. He knows that there will never be anyone else for him as long as his heart beats.

Something is holding him back, though. He’s had a ring tucked into his armory chest for a few months. He’d collaborated with Izzy and Caterina to design the perfect piece. Alec needs something to happen before he can take that next step, the final step.

The only big, disastrous, fight that Magnus and him have ever had was a result of Magnus’s immortality-- or Alec’s own lack thereof. That was ages ago but Alec doesn’t want to marry Magnus with his mortality hanging above them, a finite termination to their life together.

Alec wants immortality and he thinks he’s finally found the way to get it.

It’s taken months of research and dozens of visits to warlocks around the world. It’s been a pain to keep everything from his perennially nosy boyfriend, but Alec hadn’t wanted to hurt Magnus. He doesn’t want Magnus to think that Alec isn’t okay with his infinite lifespan. He’s not the issue. It’s Alec that needs to change.

Alec has thought of this decision since that first argument back when Lilith was still an emerging threat. He’d decided then to pursue immortality. It had started as a resolution to stay with Magnus, a desperate decision to be the one person that would never leave him. But as his tenure as Head of the Institute had continued, Alec couldn’t deny that he was a born leader and a skillful politician. He wanted to live, not just for Magnus, but because he wanted to see real reform in Idris and the Shadow World and that would take decades, if not centuries, to come to fruition.

He hadn’t made the decision lightly. There’d been nights he’d lain awake while Magnus slept, wondering if he had it in him to see everything he knew change and fade. About a year ago, Magnus and him had suffered through a bit of a rough patch. Alec had been quiet and withdrawn, spending almost all of his time at the Institute. He’d known he was worring Magnus but he couldn’t help himself. He’d spent those evenings and weekends and long hours watching the bustling of his Institute. He’d wandered the halls and reminisced, imprinting scenes and interactions into his mind as best he could. He’d leaned against doorways, unobtrusive, and watched Izzy and Jace train, watched as Max became a talented shadowhunter in his own right. He’s watched his people become the kind of shadowhunters they should have been all along, tolerant and intuitive.

He’d made his peace with things. It had been Izzy who’d finally cornered him in his office and demanded to know what the hell was going on with Magnus. He’d deliberated, but ultimately everything had poured out-- his guilt for wanting immortality, his worry that Magnus wouldn’t share his desire, his already-present grief for letting his family leave him behind.

Izzy had taken his face into her hands and looked straight into his eyes as she’d called him the stupidest man she’d ever met.

Hermano, she’d said. I told you once that you’d find somebody to love you heart and soul and you have. Magnus is it for you, Alec, and I’ve known that since the moment you two met. I’m happy for you for making the decision to stay with him. You don’t need to feel guilt. This is who you were meant to be, brother, and I’m so proud of you.

They’d hugged and cried and Alec had left the Institute that afternoon with the terrible weight finally off his shoulders. He’d gone straight to the loft and cut Magnus off before he could finish asking why he was home so early.

He’d grabbed Magnus by the lapels of his dark turquoise blazer and kissed him like he hadn’t seen him in ages.

It wasn’t far off.

Magnus had immediately opened for him and they’d spent the rest of the day and most of the next making love. They’d fucked on almost every surface of their apartment and Alec was sore for days afterward. It was a hurt he relished.

Magnus had never asked about the change in mood, but their relationship had bounced back to it’s usual nauseating sweetness.

Cat had called him a few days ago and told him that she thought she’s found the answer in an ancient text that had recently come into her possession. He’d immediately headed over to her townhouse and the two of them had poured over the book. They’d found it.

Alec planned to surprise Magnus this weekend with the news.

Alec’s brought back to the present as Magnus’s arms tighten around his neck, as he nuzzles into it, gently kissing Alec’s pulse point.

Alec shivers and brushes his mouth over Magnus’s temple before looking down at him.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi, pretty boy,” Magnus murmurs back. They’re still moving but just as Alec goes to lean down and kiss that beautiful smile, something goes wrong.

He feels wrong.

There’s thunder in the distance and a fierce wind is whistling through the trees. Everything is darkening, turning pitch black, and Alec holds onto Magnus with all his strength.

He tries to speak. He tries to yell, to ask Magnus what’s going on, but the words are trapped in his throat.

He’s dizzy and disoriented and in the next minute he’s alone.

He can’t see Magnus. He doesn’t feel him next to him. It starts raining, nasty, icy drops that chill him down to the bone.

He doesn’t know what’s happened to Magnus. He can’t catch his breath enough to scream, to call out.

It’s just Alec and the crashing storm.

Magnus groggily raises his head as the drone of a machine wakes him up.

He snaps to attention as he realizes that he’s still in the infirmary, still sitting in the uncomfortably hard chair at Alec’s bedside.

“He’s crashing,” a shadowhunter barks out. “Apply an iratze to the wound,” she tells another medic.

Magnus stands up as his world comes crashing down.

His eyes are glued to Alec, his Alexander, who’s heart isn’t beating. It’s late in the evening and it’s been just over twenty four hours since he was first injured. Magnus must have drifted to sleep a couple of hours ago.

He wishes he’d been able to stay awake as he watches the head medic start chest compressions.

Oh, God.

There’s nothing Magnus can do as he watches the scene in front of him. His eyes flit all over Alec and he’s just about to reach for his hand again, needing that comfort and point of contact, when a crash cart is wheeled to the bed and “clear,” is called out.

The medic lifts the paddles and charges them, taking just a second before bringing them against Alec’s chest.

Nothing happens.

Magnus isn’t breathing and tears are starting to fall down his face. He’s paralyzed. He’s watching the life drain from Alec and he wants to scream at the injustice of it all.

Clear is yelled out again and Alec’s body lurches up as he’s hit with the current of electricity.

Still nothing and Magnus’s knees are weak, buckling against the crippling grief tearing at his insides.

The medic curses and brushes her hair out of her face, every line tense as she ups the charge another level and brings the paddles down one last time.

Everything in Magnus freezes as he watches them descend.

He prays to every god, angel, and demon he’s never believed in and waits.

He doesn’t hear the tea tray shatter on the ground as Isabelle rounds the corner and sees her brother clinically dead. He doesn’t see Jace’s sheet-white face or hear Maryse whisper, “No, my baby. No.”

His entire world is Alec in that moment. Alec’s still chest, his bleached skin, the circles under his eyes and still-healing wound.

As if in slow motion, the paddles come down for the third time.

Once again, Alec’s body contorts and Magnus almost doesn’t realize what it means when a giant gasp follows.

The next second, he’s collapsing back into his chair. Only his chair must be further back than he thought because he crashes against the hard tile floor. He doesn’t feel the impact.

He feels overwhelming, gut-clenching relief.

The heart monitor picks up a steady pulse and Magnus gazes up at Alec from where he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. He doesn’t feel the tears streaming down his face and ruining whatever remains of his makeup.

He’s off the floor and at Alec’s side a minute later, taking his hand in a strong grip and placing a hand on his jaw, gently sweeping across his cheek. He kisses Alec in the gentlest way, lips barely touching as a sob of relief escapes.

Alec’s lips are chapped, his hair is dull and flat, and his eyes are sunken in.

He’s the most beautiful man Magnus has ever goddamn seen.

The two shadowhunter medics are replacing the IV and checking over the wound, noticing small signs of infection.

Alec is warm to the touch and his cheeks are a blazing red, terrifying in contrast to his graveyard pallor.

All Magnus can do is be there for Alec as he fights. He drained his magic last night and it hasn’t had a chance to recharge-- between staying up for over twenty four hours and only sleeping in a shitty hospital chair, he’s exhausted.

His thumb strokes Alec knuckles and he tunes everyone else out as he starts talking to Alec. He’d talked to him for hours earlier until his voice threatened to give out. He’s hoarse now but Magnus keeps a running monologue. Even if Alec is where Magnus can’t follow, Magnus hopes that his voice will lead his love home.

“Alexander, my love, you do so like to worry me, don’t you?” Magnus brushes Alec’s hair back, continues running a hand through it.

“I know you’re resting, darling, and it’s so important that you keep your strength up. Because I need you to keep fighting. I need you to find your way back to me. We always find our way back to each other, pretty boy, isn’t that right?”

The medics have left, having stabilized Alec as best they can for now, and the room is totally silent except for the beeping of the heart monitor and Magnus’s voice.

“We’ve made it through so much. Your story doesn’t end here, Alec. You will open those beautiful eyes again. I will stay here, holding your hand, until you wake up. I promise you that. I’m right here, Alexander. We won’t give up, love.”

Magnus raises Alec’s hand and brushes his nose against it, looking at Alec through his lashes. “You can’t leave me, Alexander. Who knows how much of a disaster I would be without you. Who would make me the best french toast in the world or watch terrible foreign films with me when it’s rainy.”

He furiously wipes his eyes. His voice is hard, hiding the desperate, pleading edge underneath as he continues. “You’re not allowed to leave me, Alec. I forbid it. We’re supposed to have more time. I’m supposed to have more time with you. You’re not allowed to die until you’re old and grey and walking around with a cane. You’d make the most wonderful old man, darling. You’re already so grumpy and curmudgeonly.” He laughs wetly. “Goddamn if you wouldn’t have been able to hold your own with Ragnor. My God, you two would have been thick as thieves.

“We’re supposed to get married, darling. You’re supposed to ask me in your usual blunt fashion when I least expect it and we’ll get married in blue and gold with all of our family and friends in attendance. You’re supposed to look so gorgeous I forget my name and I know I planned to stun you into your adorable stuttering.

“We’re supposed to have decades, Alexander, and I refuse, I damn well refuse, to give up one more second with you than I have to. I won’t survive you, Alec. And I know you know that so goddamn it but I need you to wake up so I can hold you in my arms and never let you go, angel.”

Magnus’s head falls to the bed with him still clutching Alec’s hand in a vise grip. He’s so fucking tired. They weren’t even supposed to be on patrol last night. They’d been at the Hunter’s Moon enjoying a pre-dinner drink when Alec had gotten a call from Izzy asking for back-up a couple of blocks away. It was supposed to be a routine kill mission, fifteen minutes top and minimal ichor spilled before they’d be on their way to the steakhouse Alec had been wanting to try for weeks. But, they’d gotten there only to see a nest had cropped up and the fighting had been brutal and bloody and devastating.

Goddamn it, it wasn’t fair. Magnus could raze the whole of the city with his helpless rage.

He takes a shuddering breath before lifting his head back up. With the small amount of magic returned, he summons a washcloth and dips it into the cool water in the washbasin. He places it gently on Alec’s forehead, hoping to keep him as cool and comfortable as possible.

Magnus settles back in his chair, never letting go of Alec’s hand. That point of contact is doubtlessly the only thing keeping him sane.

He sits, waiting for Alec to come back to him.

Alec stands at the balcony railing, breathing deep. He loves a good thunderstorm, the way the air is charged and on the cusp of violence. He likes the aftermath, when everything is clean and the air smells of renewal. It’s elemental and dramatic and Alec’s always been one to appreciate such things. He watches the dark clouds move away as the sun starts to peak out.

He likes thunderstorms for an entirely new reason now and he pads back inside, closing the door against the rush of cool air. Magnus is where he’d left him, on the couch, with the movie paused. They’re watching some hideous movie in a language Alec doesn’t think he’s ever heard in his life, and the subtitles leave too much to be desired.

They’re in their lazy day clothes with Magnus wearing leggings and a crop top and Alec in boxers and a stretched out hoodie that’s as old as Max. Magnus is on his phone, waiting for Alec to get back from his trek outside, and he puts it down as he sees Alec approaching.

“Enjoy your post-thunderstorm reflection, darling,” he asks with a hint of a smile. Alec knows he doesn’t understand his fascination with storms, but Magnus humors him anyway.

“Yeah. It looks like it was a pretty bad one. I saw a couple of power lines down and a tree had smashed through the hood of a car down the block. We’re lucky you’re magical, babe.”

Magnus laughs and shakes his head a little. “Glad to know you only want me so I can keep power outages and structural damage away, Alexander.”

Alec chuckles and sits down next to Magnus, laying his arms across Magnus’s legs as he throws them over Alec’s. Alec rubs a hand along Magnus’s leg in a subconscious movement as he replies.

“You know I keep you around for more than that.” He grins with a devilish glint in his eye. “Who else would give me the best massages on the planet after a rough day on patrol?”

Magnus rolls his eyes as he removes his legs from on top of Alec’s. He huffs in mock affront. “Well, darling, I have news for you. You can take you massage-needy ass and your electricity and--”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off as Alec kisses him, a hungry thing that spirals and leaves them both gasping for breath.

“What were you saying,” Alec asks.

Magnus hums, eyes closed, before opening them lazily. “Oh, I can’t remember. I think I was about to ask you to take your delectable ass straight to our bed, pretty boy.”

Alec grins and leans down, gently kissing Magnus on the nose. Magnus pouts playfully and Alec kisses him on the cheek, eyelid, jaw, before finally landing a lingering kiss on his mouth.

A few minutes later, they’re laying stretched out on the couch. Alec is on his back, with Magnus wedged between the back of the couch and Alec. A leg is thrown over Alec’s and Magnus rests his head over Alec’s heart. The steady beat lulls him to sleep.

They nap for a few hours in the afternoon warmth. Alec feels something brush against his cheek. He blinks his eyes open sleepily and sees Magnus leaning over him, running a hand over his face in feather light touches.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Magnus whispers.

Alec grumbles, turning his face away. “No,” he mutters.

Magnus takes his hand and hold it steady. “Come on, darling, open those beautiful eyes for me.”

“I’m tired. Stop talking and cuddle me.”

“So, demanding,” Magnus teases but complies, laying back down. He runs a finger back and forth over Alec’s chest and they both bask in the day, simply being together.

It only feels like a minute later when Alec is pulled back from his sleep, a frown marring his features as he refuses to wake up. He’s still tired, damn it.

Magnus doesn’t stop his ministrations, though, and Alec opens his eyes against his will.

“What.”

Magnus’s eyes are full of love and fondness as he answers Alec’s surly question.

“I need you to wake up. For good, Alec.”

“Why,” Alec grouses.

“You’ve slept the day away, darling, and it’s time for dinner. Aren’t you hungry?”

Now that Alec thinks about it, he’s starving. Suddenly, it feels like he hasn’t eaten in days. He looks up at Magnus, searching.

“We really have to get up, don’t we?”

Magnus softly kisses his cheek. “I’m afraid so, love.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t want to, darling, but you have to. It’s time, don’t you think?”

“I like being here with you.”

Magnus huffs out a laugh. “And where do you think I’m going? I promise you, I will always be by your side, Alexander. But you’ve slept long enough and it’s time to wake up. Don’t you want some soup?”

Magnus stands up, a harrowing endeavor from where he’d been stuck between Alec and the couch. He stands, triumphant, and smiles down at Alec. He offers his hand, waiting to help Alec up.

Alec hesitates before nodding.

It was time to get up.

Alec reaches for Magnus’s hand.

Magnus is counting the tiles on the ceiling for the thousandth time as he sits at Alec’s bedside. It’s been three days since the accident and Magnus feels every single minute wrapping around him, suffocating him.

Alec’s been unconscious the entire time, never waking, not even flinching.

True to his word, Magnus hasn’t left Alec except to use the bathroom and shower.

It’s been three days and Magnus feels like he’s going insane. A part of him doesn’t mind, not if Alec isn’t there with him.

He’s alone for the moment, everyone sleeping or getting food. Magnus doesn’t remember the last time he ate. He’s not hungry and anything he did force down would no doubt taste like ash.

His voice is hoarse from over-use, almost gone, so Magnus hums. He hums Alec’s favorite songs-- and the ones he hates to see if he can get a reaction-- and throws in whatever he feels like. There’s a few classical pieces and some from his childhood that Magnus doesn’t know the names to but can hear with crystal clarity.

He’s getting ready to tell Alec about his day-- a shameless exaggeration-- when the breath stops in his lungs.

He swears to everything holy that he can feel Alec’s fingers move against his.

He leans forward until his face is inches from where their hands are entwined and watches with a laser focus, his early exhaustion melting away and leaving only frenzied hope.

It’s long seconds later that Magnus sees Alec’s fingers move, a pitiful twitch that he wouldn’t normally notice.

It’s everything.

Magnus is standing up and leaning over Alec before he knows that he’s moved.

His gaze is flitting between Alec’s face and hand and everything in him is on the precipice, waiting.

“Darling, can you hear me? I’m so happy that you moved your hand. Is there something you need to tell me? Something you want? You have to open your eyes, love, and tell me. Please open your eyes, Alexander.”

Magnus’s mouth goes dry as he sees Alec’s eyes moving behind his eyelids.

“You’re so close, love. What is it?”

It seems like an eternity later when Alec’s mouth opens, rasping, “Magnus?”

Magnus’s whole body shakes and he sobs out a breath. “Yes, darling?”

“Magnus.”

“Yes, it’s me, Alexander. I’m right here.”

Alec’s mouth opens and closes a few times. He’s obviously thinking, searching for words.

“It’s okay, take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alec whispers, “I love you,” and Magnus breaks down, sobbing, choking on the emotions raging through him.

Voice breaking, he whispers back, “Oh, my darling, my Alexander, I love you so much. I love you to distraction.”

He leans forward and touches his forehead against Alec’s. He takes a minute and breathes, it seems like for the first time since the demon first hurt Alec.

He can feel Alec’s lips moving, no words coming out, and he’s summoned a glass of water the next second. He puts a hand under Alec’s head and gently lifts him, bringing the cup up to his mouth.

“Here, love. Drink this.”

He magicks a straw into the cup and Alec takes a cautious sip and rests for a long beat before returning and taking a few more. He relaxes against Magnus’s hand and Magnus gently eases him back down.

Alec says something, too softly to hear, and Magnus leans forward, eagerly.

“I’m sorry, darling, I didn't quite catch that. What did you say?”

Alec swallows hard before trying again. “Can. . .I have some soup?”

Magnus laughs, incredulously, and stares at Alec. His laugh might have a hysterical edge to it but all of his feelings come crashing down and he forgives himself. He takes Alec’s hand again, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss the knuckles.

“Darling, I will make you all the soup you can stand to eat. If it’s soup you want by God it’s soup you’ll get.”

Alec smiles a little and relaxes against the sheets.

Magnus feels like he’s been splashed with cold water. He could watch Alec for hours, knowing that he’s awake and aware.

Alec shuffles around, groaning a little, and Magnus rushes to help him.

“Hey, no, love, don’t try to move. You’ve been injured and you’re still healing.”

Alec is still for a few minutes before there’s something else. Magnus is leaning over him and watches as Alec opens his eyes for the first time in over three days. Tears pool as he takes in those wonderful, beautiful hazel eyes that he’s worried he’d never see again.

He leans down until he’s inches from Alec’s face, taking in every expression, every centimeter of the face he adores. The hand not holding Alec’s comes up to cup his cheek and something breaks in Magnus as Alec nuzzles into it.

They’re staring into each other eyes and Magnus is smiling as he murmurs, “Hi, pretty boy. I’m glad you’re back with me.”

Alec grins, a dopey thing no doubt caused by the pain medication coursing through his veins. “Hi, handsome. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Magnus shakes his head, wonderingly. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

Magnus and Alec have been through struggles that would destroy most men. They’ve made it through all of those, and now they’ve made it through this. Magnus hopes against everything that they’ll always be triumphant.

After all, they always find their way back to each other.

[gilbirda]

I’m working on fixing mistakes and posting this fic here!

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Chapter 2: Knowing you    

Marianne blew a strand of hair that refused to stay in place out of her face. Her once “too-short-for-a-girl-like-you” pixie cut had grown into a quite messy mane of hair, too long to stay out of her face but too short to gather up in a ponytail. It was exhausting having to take it from her eyes every five minutes.

“Tired already?” she heard a deep voice behind her, but she didn’t have to turn around to see who it was. That stupid librarian. They had been working together for two days and he had only spoken to her to make a snarky remark about her lack of style or how she was not doing her part of the job correctly.

“Shut up, Bog King,” the girl had decided to call him like that since he carried himself with certain altiveness, like he was above everyone surrounding him. She thought that maybe he was rich - he always came to school in fine clothes. Always a shirt and a nice pure wool gray vest, both of brands she was aware weren’t exactly cheap, and jeans. The combination was quite odd, but strange enough it suited his lean form really well.

“I love it when you call me that, kid,” he said back. She snorted.

The pace between them had settled in casual banter, something both seemed to be comfortable with. He didn’t ask her any questions about her wounds apart from a soft “how are you feeling today?” when she arrived at the Library, which was way more than anyone on the school seemed to care. In exchange, she didn’t ask about the big scar on his chin or why did a big man like him end up as an library assistant.

“Sure you do,” she smirked, “old man.”

He snorted.

Marianne turned back to the books in front of her, a big pile of old, dusty books to sort and catalogue, as Bog had instructed her the day before. The task was way too much for only one person, and even with her helping hands it may still take a week or more. It was no surprise that she had been selected to help as a punishment for getting into fights constantly.

Unconsciously, as she piled the books by author and genre, she started to hum a tune she liked, simple notes in rapid succession, a song she lately had been obsessed with and had driven her sister mad. “Why don’t you just change that song sometimes?” she said that morning after hearing it for the third time in a row through the wall between their rooms.

“Is that…?”

“Huh?” she stopped humming and lifted her head with a little smile on her lips.

“Were you singing Toxicity?” Bog had turned from his place a few tables away, a heavy looking book on his hands.

“Yeah. You know that song?” she blinked, surprised that such a rich looking guy knew System of a Down.

“Are you kidding me? I love that song! And the entire album too!” he smiled at her.

Marianne blinked again really taken aback by his enthusiasm. He didn’t seem the type to like that kind of music, but well, she didn’t either until a few years ago after the whole Roland incident. It was then when she decided that she was going to be herself and like what she wanted to like, after realizing that a big chunk of her personality had been lost in the tides.

“Do you like System of a Down?"

“Well, is not really my favorite but I enjoy a lot of their songs. I have ears, you know,” he snorted as if not liking it was a foolish matter.

Tell that to everyone on this wretched place, the girl thought. All the empty headed idiots listened to was the latest hits and “modern” music. Not that she didn’t like a commercial song or two, but she was aware that it was just designed music to impress the masses and the real talent had to be looked for. But hey, she was the “weird kid” for listening to music from before 2010.

It was so rare to find someone else that listened to real music anymore. The fact that it has to be a man a lot older than her should irk her, but welp. It kind of did. Not that it surprised her.

“What else do you usually listen to?” Marianne tasted the waters.

“Let me see…,” Bog abandoned the giant book on another table and put one hand on his chin in a pensive gesture. She briefly wondered if the barely grown beard scratched his skin and if it bothered him. “Queen?”

“Classic.”

“Kiss?”

“Cliché.”

“C’mon, don’t be so picky.”

“I’m not-!” she blushed when she realized that she was speaking really loud. What a good first impression he was having of her. “I’m not being picky,” Marianne repeated in a lower tone.

But instead of scolding her like every adult she knew, the librarian laughed and turned back to his work, resuming their comfortable pace, this time with random comments here and there about music tastes.

She liked this. Here she wasn’t being looked at with a magnifying glass, waiting for her to do something she shouldn’t do or that wasn’t socially accepted. She could get used to this.

It was shame that this could only last until they finished with their work.

***

Later that day, while Bog closed the Library and went to his car to return home, he pulled out his phone and looked for the few songs he hadn’t heard before that Marianne had mentioned on their conversation.

Unsurprisingly, as the first guitar riffs started to play he liked them already. Marianne had a good taste in music, he had to concede, even if she didn’t strike him as someone who enjoyed this kind of music. She had that gothic style going on, yeah, but he could see the pretty face and delicate hands under all of that expensive make-up she usually wore.

Still, the whole “getting beaten” issue should have given it away once she crossed the Library door. His first thought was “Ugh” as well as methods to avoid her and the incoming headache. He didn’t like kids. In fact, he avoided them as much as he could. That’s why he had been happy with his temporary job in the Library while they looked for another librarian to succeed the old woman that was there before.

In the Library he only had the company of silent books and his music. He could work like that. He enjoyed solitude. So when he was told that he was going to have help from the detention kid he wanted to complain. His peace and quiet, his order, was being compromised by a misbehaving child. They only brought chaos.

But Marianne wasn’t like that. On the first day he gave her a task and expected her to shout and throw the books around, but she did it without much fight apart from weird faces from time to time; but that may be because of her hurting arm. When they had to interact she had been polite and calm, and looked at him in the eye without hesitating. She was so calm and silent that he almost forgot she was there until she came to him to ask where she could put some books.

On the second day he found himself looking forward to working with her. Marianne was quick and efficient, and didn’t ask any unnecessary questions or tried to make conversation to ease the mood. Also, she didn’t comment on his appearance either, and that was something he enjoyed the most.

He knew he wasn’t much to look at and that the scars on his face made all kinds of rumours start to form without much input on his end. On a school full of kids those kind of things always ignited a flame of pain and destruction, capable of breaking even the strongest people into dust. He tried not to remember his time in school for this same reason. The scars produced by those horrible years ran deeper than the ones on his skin. The worst one being in his last year…

He still remembers the cold feeling inside when the girl he thought was the love of his life left him alone to suffer the rumours and shameful comments. She denied dating him at all and made him feel not only used but hideous.

“I’m sorry,” she had said, crying and putting as much distance as she could between them, “I just can’t love you...”

I can’t love you because you are too ugly, he completed on his head, not really needing to hear it out loud. He simply turned and got out of there before getting the final stab in his heart.

He was no fool back then. He knew what everyone said behind his back about him, about his face, about his strange body with too long limbs and big hands. They said he was a freak and that he belonged in a circus. Bog managed to survive all of that without crumbling, pouring himself into books and fantasy and videogames; but when he fell for this girl only to get his heart stomped on… it was the final nail on his coffin.

Coming back to the present, the librarian shook his head and looked around, noticing that he had been standing in front of his car for a while now. It was cold and his exposed skin was starting to hurt, so he rushed to the inside of his car and started the engine.

Bog scoffed. It was no use dwelling in the past. Not when he had made something useful of his life in this time. He studied what he wanted and managed to get a friend here and there, and he never ever had suffered what he did in high school. People simply matured out of that hive-like mindset of ridiculing the different and the unusual. In time, he accepted what happened and moved on with his life.

But he swore off love and relationships. He was better off alone and without having to open his heart to anyone, to give them the power to break what little self-esteem he had managed to work on in these years. He wasn’t going to be vulnerable again.

***

Marianne sighed and twirled the pen on her right hand again, not really feeling like doing homework right now. She had come home late after doing her work hours in the Library and then she had to eat something and finish her homework. Hey, being the outcast from school didn’t mean she had to stop caring about her grades.

But today her mind wasn’t focused at all, too many song lyrics going around her head, memories triggered by those songs playing in black and white behind her eyes. The conversation she had today with the librarian had returned dear memories from beloved songs to the front of her mind; some memories about her deceased mother, who passed on her love for the classics to her.

She missed her. With her mother around everything would be going to be okay, Marianne would have someone to turn to despite having everything against her. If her mother was here she was sure she would be a different person altogether, without so much make-up and a thick skin and a tough persona to resist all the crap she suffered at school.

But her mother had died ten years ago and she couldn’t dare tell her sister about what really happened with Roland. She only knows that he cheated on her sister and that’s it, so Dawn couldn’t understand why Marianne decided to swear off love so rashly. Sure, what he did was despicable and all of that, “but you can’t really judge every man by that bias!” she usually said when they argued.

How wrong she was. She wanted to tell her a lot of times that it wasn’t just Roland, that she shouldn’t trust any man, and that girls that defended them were as horrible as any of them. All the girls at school that denied any fault in Roland’s behavior, that said that it was “just natural” for him to look for a woman that would satisfy him; those were the dangerous ones.

Dawn’s friends were like that, too. Marianne had heard them whisper behind her sister’s back sometimes, usually trash talking and rumours about the fallen Queen, things they didn’t dare say in front of the blonde. It was sad. She couldn’t trust anyone.

She couldn’t give anyone the power to crush her heart into dust.

***

Next day caught Marianne looking forward to working with the weird librarian that liked good music and wasn’t judging her (or pitying her, like most adults did on school). Probably he hadn’t heard yet the rumours about her and all about the Roland incident but a tiny part of her wished that he didn’t. It was stupid, because his opinion of her shouldn’t be distorted by what other people thought they knew about her; but… well, she wanted to be the one that told him, if she ever did it, that is.

And it was even more stupid that she cared about what he thought of her. He was nice to be with, yeah, but she still was her own person and if Bog decided that the troubled kid was what people thought she was, then it was his loss. Another shallow man to despise and fight with.

She vaguely wondered if she would win in case it got to that situation.

“Earth to Marianne!” she heard her sister’s voice, making her snap out of it. “Are you okay, sis? You have been spacing out since we got out of home!”

Marianne blinked and realized that they were, in fact, already parked on the school grounds. Kids were walking to the big cristal doors like they had nothing to worry about. Like they didn’t destroy her life two years ago.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice breaking. She hadn’t spoken at all that morning. “I’m fine, Dawn.”

She tried to smile, but she had forgotten how to do it properly a long time ago. Her sister sighed and let it go, for now.

“Let’s go or we are going to be late.”

Marianne nodded and got out of the car putting on her headphones. Dawn once asked why she did that, but she was answered when they encountered their classmates that first day of school when Marianne came back to school as her new persona.

All kinds of comments could be heard. Most of them weren’t coated in malice, at least not anymore, but it was like everyone had the right to have an opinion about what happened almost two years ago with Roland, even if those opinions weren’t exactly well informed and based on what had been accepted as the truth. She was used to it by now, but that didn’t mean she actively wanted to hear it.

Hence the music.

She scrolled aimlessly on her saved songs, not really knowing what she wanted to listen to right now. It was then when she stumbled into a song she didn’t remember saving on her phone. She tapped on it and started to hear the familiar guitar over the hurtful whispers around her.

“Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you, no man ask for...”

The teenager smiled sadly, feeling strangely comforted by David Bowie’s soft voice and Freddie Mercury’s signature one.

It was not, absolutely not, because Bog had mentioned he really liked this song the day before.

[nebullura]

a tgs au

i wrote this as a volunteer for an event, and i didn’t have much time to write it, so everything i thought for this, i wrote it down. overall, i am very proud of what i made, so i decided to share it with you guys !

here it goes !!

It was hard, to walk around town without having people staring at him: his skin color, his eyes, his clothes, his complexion and his way of walking. Everything that Lance was was different from common and normal. It always meant a challenge for him to even step out of his small home, which he shared with his siblings, whom from time to time seemed insufferable, but that he loved with all his might.

During night time, he’d usually go to a nearby bar, mainly to meet up with his lifelong friend, Hunk, who had been helping him to find a job, with no results.

“I can’t do much, besides offering you-” Hunk would start, with kind eyes and the flames of the bar dimly lighting his worried features, but Lance would always interrupt him.

“No, Hunk, I’m not accepting your money. I just can’t.” He’d simply say, hugging himself.

Some people wondered how they were even friends, when there was an incredibly big comparison between each other: you see, Hunk, despite his skin color, had been born in a wealthy family, giving him enough rights. Not Lance, though. There were just too much in his family: his younger siblings, plus Katie. Him being the eldest one had to get enough money for them to eat, and while Katie tried to also help him, he wouldn’t allow her, until her insistence was too much and he gave in.

Lance’s family, in few words, was not liked in town. Though, he loved them, and it didn’t matter if all of them were orphans. That was just the way it was.

┈

He took his old brown jacket and blew out most of the candles on their small house, ready to go out and meet Hunk, when he noticed Katie hadn’t been asleep. Lance frowned, turning towards the kids, counting them again- nothing. Katie was not there. Where could she be?

He noticed, then, movement near the kitchen, and when he reached the spot, there she way, tying her hair with a piece of cloth, and hiding the low tied ponytail under her own jacket.

“And may I know where are you going?” He asked her, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes. He knew, nevertheless, that Pidge was going to be hard to intimidate. Small did certainly not mean naive, specially in her case.

“With you, of course. You’ve been going out more and more at night, and I know you haven’t found a job yet.” She shot back, making Lance look away and dig his nails slightly in his arms. “But I can help you. Maybe I can go around asking people, and we might be lucky enough to get you a job!” She added, with a bright smile and walking to him.

Few would believe they liked each others, since they’d usually be teasing each other. But honestly? Lance was like a brother for Katie. After losing her brother, it had been expected, and so it happened.

Finally, he sighed, and unfolded his arms. “Don’t make a fool of yourself. And try not to show your hair.” He told her, tucking some strands under her jacket, while the girl silently celebrated.

And so, both of them went to meet Hunk.

┈

“A bar? You come to a bar?” She asked him, to which he shrugged.

“I have a friend, and he’s been trying to help out. Don’t judge me.” Lance replied, opening the door and walking through, leaving a dumbfounded Katie behind.

She was about to bite back when Lance smiled, having spotted Hunk, and sat besides him. The girl rolled her eyes and followed her friend.

“...Ah, so this must be K-” Hunk started, upon seeing her, but Katie cut him mid-sentence.

“Pidge. And you must be Lance’s friend, the one helping him find a job?” She asked him, and Hunk smiled.

“Hunk Garrett, at your service.” He answered, with a small nod, and returned to Lance, searching for something inside his jacket, while the other one asked for some drinks.

“Please tell me you found som-” Lance started, when Hunk placed the paper in the bar. Lance took it in his hands, reading it carefully. They were looking for people like him, misfits. Misfits to be, what, jokes? His brow furrowed when Katie took the paper from his hands and, upon reading what it said, her face brightened.

“This is the shot you need!” Hunk exclaimed, with a bright smile, and Katie nodded, fully agreeing with his offering, though Lance did not look as happy.

“But why? Are they planning on making us, ‘misfits’, the center of attention? And -oh, please- a circus?!” He shot back, not glad with the idea, not at all. Hearing this, Hunk’s smile dropped as did Katie’s, though from realization, she went to confusion. She slapped Lance’s head, who hissed and turned to her.

“This is the opportunity you were looking for. You asked for this, you prayed for this your whole life! Lance, you can help your siblings, with this. You can always back off from it, but please, give it a shot. For them.” She tried to convince him, with a serious tone and gleam in her eyes. Well, she was not wrong, Lance thought.

He made them wait in damned suspense, when he finally sighed, emptying his glass in one swing. “I’d better not regret joining this- this thing.” His sighed, while Hunk and Katie celebrated.

┈

There had to be an interview before he joined, and there were people of all kind there: a woman who could hold her breath for too long under the water; some hairy men; a lady with a green tint to her skin… many people were there, Lance realized, people who also tried to fit in somewhere, people who also wanted to find a purpose in their lives. Just like he did.

He was not alone, though. Katie had decided she was going to be with him, and she kept her word, quitting her current job to join this new offering alongside Lance.

And finally, they had reached the desk where the ringmaster was chatting to each one of them. This ringmaster, though, he seemed too giddy and happy for this project, not like a man he thought would want to take advantage of misfits. Yeah, he was white skinned, but he seemed kind. His hair was cut short, with only the top left as a disaster, with a small puff of white hair. His dark eyes seemed welcoming and his posture, though he was buff, was also soft.

“So, who are you?” The man asked them. And while Katie found it hard to reply -she seemed struck by something this man had, of showed-, Lance took the time to reply.

“Lance McClain, and this is my- she lives with me. Katie Holt.” He introduced themselves, and added, “We do trapeze.” He simply said. There was no great magic in what they did, but this only made the man lean closer and smile a bit more.

“And why should I welcome you? It’s just trapeze.” He said in return. Lance leaned closer as well, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“You’re looking for misfits, right? You’ve got here two orphans, one of them dark skinned. And I have much more things to add- but we can walk away, of course.” He replied, rather sassy, and stood up, motioning Katie to follow him, and already thinking this was a bad idea.

But the man only smiled brighter every time. “That’s what I’m looking for here. Welcome to the family!” He said, Lance turning, not believing what he had said. He just stood there, dumbfounded, and the man laughed. “Be here tomorrow, early in the morning. I’ll be waiting.” And he kept interviewing the rest, as Katie pulled him out of the old museum.

┈

And they were there the next morning. The man had introduced himself as Takashi Shirogane, a Japanese man who had come to the United States as a young boy, and have lived all his life there. He was married, and had, as a dream, to create this place to give others real smiles. That’s where his family of misfits came in.

And so, Lance grew to love the shows he and the others put up in the circus. Hunk had become a benefactor of the circus, and Katie, who now went by Pidge full time -she never told Lance why- had been enjoying hers and Lance’s trapeze routine.

He had heard that their routine had been mesmerizing most of the time: the way he and Ka- Pidge flew in the air, from trapeze to trapeze, connecting their hands and staying in sync at every moment.

What he had also heard, mostly from kids, was ‘how pretty were the flying people’s costumes’. Pidge had chosen green as her color, using shiny cloth to make her own costume, allowing her good movements and the ability to stretch how much she wanted. As for Lance, he had chosen blue as his color, different shades, soft and glimmering, to make an elegant leotard, with certain areas to show and to emphasize. Both of them, before each performance used makeup to call attention to their eyes, for example, or to their hair.

And Lance had loved every moment of it. To fly up there, to hear cheers, to listen to children admiring them… It was something he had never thought of having. Once, he had said that no one would ever accept him in society for his skin color. But now, even his siblings wanted to be a part of all of this. They had gotten more than what he could have given them once upon a time. And Lance was proud.

┈

It was time to pull up their act, now, as the rest danced. Pidge was on the other side of the building, up high just as he was. Her hair had green streaks, intense in the tips, and fading in. Her costume gleamed under the flames and lights, as did her freckles, which she had painted green and added sequins. His own leotard also shone metallic blue, and Lance could still feel fresh the blue pain he had used to decorate his face, as well as the weight of some small diamonds he had also added.

Every time, before he jumped off the safety of the building and into the trapeze, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his hands sweat, and his hair blow. But as soon as he heard their cue, and he and Pidge jumped off, his eyes would snap open and he would feel like the king of the world.

And it happened as well on that show.

The cue sounded, and he stepped off the ledge, immediately feeling light and swift, having the air hit his face, as well as his hair, also with blue streaks, which fluttered in his face. But he didn’t mind- no… He didn’t care, because he was doing what he loved.

Lance and Pidge did their routine, which they changed each week, making graceful figures in the air, with the help of the trapeze. It was like a drug to him, making him addicted to this feeling- He loved it.

At some point, he noticed that Shiro -the ringmaster had told them to call him that way- had never showed up, though Lance had shrugged it off. He had closed his eyes and smiled, concentrated on his routine, doing what he and Pidge had long memorized and did with such ease and beauty.

But, on one of those swings, he was able to see Shiro in the balcony below the one Pidge had jumped from, accompanied by a man, who seemed very similar to their ringmaster, though with long, black hair, and dark, purple eyes. Lance felt time freeze in that moment: he hung from his legs in the trapeze, so he could stare directly into those violet eyes, full of wonder and curiosity. They were gorgeous, and so was the man, he had to admit. His lips parted a bit, when he felt himself move again, and his mind returned to their routine, though Lance could hear, softly, yet intensely, the man speak.

“Who is he?”

┈

When the show ended, and Lance and Pidge had returned to holy ground, he could start feeling that ecstasy he always felt after a routine: his hands moved uncontrollable, and it took him few moments to calm down, before showing his face to the public again.

“It was amazing, Katie! D-did you see the public’s expressions?! They were bewildered! We- We must do something similar another day…” He decided, taking a navy pashmina he always wore with his leotard, and hung it in his neck, while the girl just shook her head, giggling.

“Pidge, please. And, I know.” She said, after taking her own pashmina, which was colored a soft green, and draped it in her arms.

As they were walking, Lance calmed, and with every step, he regained his composure. And at the base of the steps were the ringmaster and the man he had seen, both of them with their hats off and their suits slightly rumpled. Shiro, with his ever-present man, made a motion, as for Lance and Pidge to come to them.

“Guys, this is Keith Kogane, and old friend of mine. He will be working with us from now on.” He said, allowing them three to start talking. Though Pidge seemed to be glaring at the man- Keith, while he kept staring at Lance. He didn’t know if he should take this as a rude demonstration, or if Keith was just curious or -he liked this one- surprised and out of breath.

“So what’s your act, Keith?” Lance asked, folding his arms and smirking slightly. If he was going to walk into his home, he’d better be surprising.

The young man stammered, finally replying. “I… don’t have an act.” He simply said, his eyes glued on Lance, who chuckled softly and looked defiantly at him, as if daring him to say something else, though when Keith stayed quiet, he placed a hand over his hip, not afraid to show his sassy attitude. “Everyone’s got an act, hot-shot.” He responded, and walked off, his head held high, proud, and already feeling Pidge’s glare still on Keith.

He slowed down a bit, allowing the girl to catch up with him, and as soon as they were together again, Pidge visibly scoffed. “Who is he? He seems to be one of those rich guys around town, wasting money in nothing…” She said, with a dark shadow over her eyes, though Lance could only laugh.

“Y’know, come to think of it, I believe I have heard of him before. Son of some very famous business people, with an absent mother and a gone father, their fortune passed down to him.” He said, turning his head back to look at the Asian men, only to find out that Keith still was looking at him. Goddamn him- Lance returned to Pidge, trying to hide his blush. “But who knows- he might be good for the family.” He decided, and both of them retreated to their rooms.

[ryvxn]

⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⌜ 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐀𝑆𝑈𝑀𝐴𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐀 ⌟

⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — #𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐦 ; personal inscription.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐪𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲 — 𝟏𝟗𝟎𝟖

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. murder, sexual implication

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

& so what—if my feathers

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ are burning. I

never asked for flight.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ only to feel

this fully, this

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ entire, the only way snow

touches bare skin—& is,

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ suddenly, snow

no longer.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

the circus arrived without warning. no announcements preceded it. it was simply there when yesterday it was not. within the black-and-white striped canvas, tents were an utterly unique experience full of breathtaking amazements. it was called le cirque des reves, and it was only open at night. — and jang yeongrae, the obscure magician worked there. centre of rumours and curious eyes, the boy with nothing but sweet lies on his tongue. liars did make the best magicians, and he happened to be exceptional.

yeongrae never wished to be easily defined. he would rather float over other people's minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable. more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person. that was why he was a well-established magician, feeding the people with their desired wanderlust and always getting his payment in return. — a heart, an eye and sometimes the soul of life.

“ did you do it again, yeongrae? ”

by the time yeongrae lied the lifeless vessel of his sacrifice on a sunflower meadow and walked back to the circus tent, da xia was already there, well aware of his intentions. her jaw clenched and her eyes reflected the dark ocean of enviousness, as she scoped him out — searching for the fragments of sin on his flesh. and he knew very well that she did not do it out of worry or curiosity, she just happened to follow her heart. in which the seed of admiration grew ever since elders thought they would make a great pair. one line made her claim him as first love, and made him claim her as his nemesis.

“ you shouldn't waste your time with the questions that you know the answers to. ”

he took a step aside to leave, only to be stopped by her. hand holding his arm in a tight grasp, she looked at him with teary eyes — and yeongrae hated her more for that. oh, how he hated those that thought they could love him. she held him the way thirst held water. so sincerely, so obsessed. and his hatred towards her continued to grow as he bent slightly to whisper to her ear: “ should i just tear your heart out now? ”

her eyes widened upon hearing him and he looked at her with emptiness in his eyes. that was something she told him when both of them were children. that the human eye was god's loneliest creation. how so much of the world passed through the pupil and still it held nothing. the eye, alone in its socket, did not even know there was another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.

“ 心肝 , are you scared to show me there is no heart in you for me to tear? ”

da xia swallowed hard and looked away, hating the weakness of her spirit. she was more than her current self, a wilting flower. she was stronger than what she showed. yet, he always found a way to hurt her. his words hurt because he was the man responsible for making her burn. for making her feel like a woman. it hurt because it had been a trick. an illusion of magic he created with the corner of his fingertips — for his audience and for his chosen sacrifice he adorned under sheets. and it hurt most of all because he did not see her, the woman she was.

“ you are a monster. ”

he smirked at her insult. what was wrong with being a monster? it just meant he was both a shelter and warning at once. — and not only in that life but many times before.

“ that, i am. ”

and the pair avoided each other for the rest of the day. until the lanterns of the circus were on and tale listeners filled the tent.

yeongrae was a talented magician. he told a tale that took up residence in someone's soul, became their blood and self and purpose. the tale of his magic moved his audience and drove them and people did anything because of his words. that was his role, his gift. and he used his gift to seduce, to drown himself in flesh and empty vessels that could replace the nightmares of his past.

“ how dare a lowly circus girl like you tear my dress. do you even know who i am? ”

at the end of his performance, yeongrae heard a maiden raise her voice over a small tear on her attire. her face flushed, she waved her arms in a discordant rhythm to scold one of the circus workers, da xia. he heard someone whisper how the woman did a mistake but unfairly blamed the other but instead of stepping up and protecting the one that promised him future, yeongrae just watched. he waited for her to stand up for herself, to say anything to not carry coals. yet, she just stood there, eyes blurred by the tears that refused to fall.

— and he once again, hated her for that.

“ aren't you going to help her? she is your lover — ” the old lady of the circus said as she appeared out of nowhere. she did not really have any responsibility on the stage, her crystal ball and divination skills brought income out of the circus tent.

“ she isn't my lover. elders fooled her to believe that because of you — ” yeongrae responded, well aware that the woman beside him was more than what met to eyes. she was a witch and was well aware of his damned soul.

“ you need an innocent soul to balance your damned one, ” the other calmly responded, only for yeongrae to laugh at her in disbelief. tone harsh and challenging, he shook his head before returning his gaze to the scene that happened in front of him.

“ do you want me to thank you for choosing a sacrifice for me, old lady? ” his dark orbs reflected the cold waves of the ocean. “ i won't do whatever you want to. i won't love a soul that grow flowers in her eyes, ” he argued before his gaze focused on the maiden that caused to scene. “ i will choose my own sacrifice. ”

“ be careful, child, ” the witched warned. “ you need redemption to save your soul but you keep colouring your hands with the sinful shade of scarlet. ”

— there she was again and her riddles.

“ i'm death's favourite for that reason, aren't i? don't worry yourself for me. you said i'll die in the hands of the child emperor, not in the bed of a young maiden. ”

that was true. he would not die under the fragile hands of the maiden that caused a scene in front of the circus. he would...

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ —

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

acrimonious fingertips brushed the nocturnal silk that lacked the glints of starlight. the silence of the room ushered the symphony of life's mien, like a tempered chaperon. the rush of helplessness, the sinking yielding, the surging tide of warmth. soft lips against the bite of liquor on their tongue. she knew the more they stayed in silence, the more she would miss herself in the unknown gaze of the forbidden magician. once she wed her unutterable vision to his perishable breath, her mind would never romp again like the mind of a goddess. — and that was what he was after. his kisses were talking, warning her for the last time about the approaching malignancy. yet, blinded by lust, she neither noticed the phlegmatic veil over his orbs nor the tenuous spicule he slowly injected into her cerebellum. a quiet falter, wide-open eyes that stared at him. and his plump lips that whispered against hers:

“ 心肝 , do you believe in magic? ”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

disclaimer. consists of references from the night circus and ocean vuong books. it is the messiest self-para i had ever written but please bear with it.