archive-morality-or-chains

[archive-morality-or-chains]

Ringmaster smiles at the surrender, at the frustrated crease of his brow, and then the acceptance that tumbles after in acknowledgement on who holds the key to the lock. No one else will ever have the key. He does not allow people in that close, would never dream of risking his possessions, status, ability, or power for anyone. It is better that way, safer.

Once long, long, long ago when he was still young he had made the mistake of falling in love. And that had ended poorly, beyond poorly. That sweet, docile, bitch was his first pebble. It sits on his end table now, a soft lavender. He likes the constant reminder of the risk of affection.

He releases Valentine's wrists so he can undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt, letting it slip from his shoulders and fall trapped around his waist like a skirt where it remains tucked. "Sire, master, ringmaster, all names you can use for me. Or get creative, what do I care."

He waves a casual hand through the air and snaps his fingers, over half the little floating lights flicker away to nothing. He snaps again -- the snaps do nothing, it's all for show -- and the lights are replaced with a kaleidoscope of colors instead filling the room with a sort of ethereal underwater like glow that ripples across Ringmaster's unblemished, scarless skin.

Curious he reaches forward and grabs the tie to Val's robe, wrapping it around his hand several times as if it is a rope before he pulls the knot free and lets it tumble open to reveal the soft fabrics underneath, dragging the strand of fabric free of its loops until it hangs only from the faery's hand, "Are you particularly bendy with your lovers, Valentine? Do you like to show off?"

“ valentine mallory. “ he sighed - but knew it wasn’t enough. it was the name he’d taken for himself, adopted when his young new shoes had city the bright city streets. you can take the boy off the farm, dress him in circus garments like a court jester… but val knew the particulars of the fae. of the ringmaster. when he’d traded his soul for a lifetime of promised fame- it had been the first time in years the man had uttered his given taken. like a betrayal to the self he had crafted through daydreams && train hopping. the man of the past had even paid a whole seven dollars to get a legal documentation of the transformation.

it was power given in a name. valentine knew his place, but hated (resented) the reminder. “ my name was wesley ira thompson. “ despicably plain. heartachingly boring. a lie on his lips, a ghost he’d abandoned in the wake of something new to be reborn. “ but it’s not that anymore. now, i am only valentine mallory. your contortionist, your loyal cast. “

and he didn’t fight the hold against him. allowed the sting to stink into his bones, to write lessons in the bruises he would be smart to remember. no matter how exciting it was to be given entry to the ringmaster’s home- it didn’t mean he was important. not like that, not yet. not enough to get ahead of himself. val thought if he tried, he could twist && bend his wrist, wriggle like a fish from the fairy grasp on him, snake out like liquid jelly as his body folded in escape. but it would be a betrayal - not to his master, but himself.

even a closed fist would be a touch of affection. so he stood still, allowed himself to be rendered small. voice quiet, obedient. would he be forced to beg for the affection that was promised with sultry shimmers of spit across ghostly illusions of plates, too? valentine hoped he wouldn’t come to regret not choosing the stupid music box. at least that would have been something tangible to hold in his hand, to press his fingers into, a reminder that something in this world of folly was real.

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Bryce was pretty skeptical about Jesse after the whole drugging him to the point of a hallucination filled, semi-drowned freezing coma but this is the nail in the coffin of his opinion. There is no one in this world he loves the way he loves Chatty, younger than him by a little over a year and so like him they might as well have been born together for how closer they were as children.

He would rather cut off his fingers with a pair of garden clippers than point a gun at her head to make a point. And if for whatever insane reason he did do such a thing it would be both with her consent and without feeling any joy about it. Jesse is smiling -- all the world is a stage grinning like he's waiting for the standing ovation to pull the trigger.

All of that after a rather pointless rant about fear Bryce could disprove with a single sociology text book. How this nutjob amassed a group of able bodied people to dote on his every action is insane to him. Or they're all nuts. After all everyone here has three little Josiah given tattoos.

And besides all of that, Josiah is afraid. He's hiding it like a champ, but he's afraid. And this stupid reckless part of him that keeps chanting his favorite color is blue and he likes his eggs over easy instead of scrambled decides why not stroke the flames and aims to take the attention off Josiah in some dumb selfless act of camaraderie.

Bryce lifts up a hand pulling back the lower two fingers and extending the rest into the childish mimic of a gun and points it at one of the other members. The woman he's pointing it at startles in offense, in interest, God knows with the loonies. He giggles, lets it carry, lets it be noticed, "Don't be afraid, got it."

if there was any sort of surprise to be felt at bryce’s transformation, josiah didn’t let it show on his face. as if they were truly strangers - not even a glance found its way in his direction, the artist stone-faced && slumped, without so much of a glimmer of recognition. but he heard it all the same, he heard the response to his earlier confession. a piece him, given freely, as payment for the piece of josiah now held. one that hadn’t been ripped out of him with ink && plasma. on the inside, through a marijuana haze that dulled every sense && slowed time itself… josiah smiled. the way a soul does when deep into a comatose state, but can still hear the world as it passes by.

his favorite color was orange, and he was an incredible actor. maybe the fool was smarter than he let on, and josiah shouldn’t continue to underestimate him.

meanwhile, jesse remained none the wiser. eyes that were soft mocha, but a gaze that was hard - inquisitive, seeking, judging. finally decided to be pleased with the level of disarray the recruit had arrived to the worship, his smile widened. unusually chipper on a face that once wore shadows of horror the night before. “ okay... good to know. “ he chuckled. “ welcome, bryce. “

and just like that - jesse forgot the newest lamb to the flock. turning to address no one in particular, he inhaled deeply. movements slow, serene… like he knew he commanded every bit of energy in the room. like he fed off the restless, stoic anticipation of his sheep. the smile was cold, stone-carved, as he continued with a haphazard sermon. delusions of a man dipping deeper into madness, and dragging everyone else towards the deep with him.

“ today, i want us to take a look at fear together. we view it as a tool, a means for survival… it’s not. fear is not what keeps us alive, as so many believe. it’s what holds us back. “ throat cleared, feet paced in a slow circle, taking up space in the center of the rings of chairs. “ a fear of heights does not stop you from jumping off a bridge. that is just logic. common sense. you don’t jump because you know your bones might break against the water, you’ll go into shock, probably drown. if you don’t pass out on the way down. “ he laughed, head shaking.

it could be amusing, a man who wielded fear like a holy weapon, to be abolishing it now. “ when we are afraid of petty inconveniences like rejection or judgement, we withhold ourselves from the desires we should be nourishing. we allow things to happen to us we don’t want, or we place ourselves in positions that keep us from happiness. we relinquish our control, and lose our divinity. fear is not a tool to guide us, but to subdue us. “

a long pause followed. jesse’s eyes meeting at random with others, feeding off the way they watched his every move. then, with a movement jarringly fast for how slow && deliberate he’d been until then, a revolver was withdrawn from the hidden waistband of his slacks. trigger cocked, the gun at the ready, and his finger hovering just above the kill.

it pointed directly at josiah’s head, only a few inches from his temple. a quiet inhale shook the room. “ see? a demonstration. notice how he isn’t afraid. he knows giving in to fear would make him do something stupid. like try to fight or flee. “

under the nose of the gun, josiah was rigid. he hadn’t flinched. hadn’t even blinked - but the signs were there, if you bothered to read them. hands pressed flat to his thighs to hide the quiver, a jaw that twitched with tense as molars grit together. the absence of his chest rising, proof baited breath was held like smoke in the lungs. whenever examples were to be made… why was it always, always at his expense? tendons in his neck flexed, every muscle screaming silently to react, but somehow… the man remained perfectly still.

“ replace your fear with faith. trust the process, trust yourself. practice acceptance. any questions? “ jesse asked brightly, a smile licking devilish across his lips, but the gun didn’t remove from its position towards his twin. it didn’t shake in his hand, and the room was eerily silent.

[archive-morality-or-chains]

A brief flash of irritation zings through him at the way she chooses to say her piece, put words into his mouth. She's been here five minutes and already she's acting as if he's locked her in a prison cell. "Look, you chose this, just like I did." Levi looks at her, tracing her appearance again. "Maybe give it more than a few minutes before you assume there's nothing to do." Levi gestures out the window, "There's plenty of work if you want to learn how to do it. Otherwise you can make friends in town, I'll get you a car. You can work, have hobbies. I didn't do this so I could have a doll that sits on the shelf and glares at me when I touch it."

The blonde followed his every word. He worked hard, close to the property. And she realised that what he said had a protective tinge to it, and her lips quirked into a faint, hesitant smile, though she felt a little reassured by it, still thinking about how to make a place for herself in this vast, unfamiliar world.

Her interest grew as she analysed his words. She tilted her head to one side, her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and her blue eyes looked at him curiously. What was her place here supposed to be? The thought of spending the day cooped up, doing nothing, gave her a shiver of unease; she wasn't the type to sit still, never had been. "So," she said, "I'm just going to sit here and do nothing? Because I'm not very good at that."

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This is madness. Leo thought he had understood what madness was. He had assumed in his blind arrogance madness was war, slaughter, the child abandoned, the woman raped. He thought sin was simple, cut and dry. God wants good, God demands repentance from the bad. Black and white. Yes or no. Heaven or Hell.

This is something else entirely. He knows even now as his face burns from the touch that there will be no logic, no way of thinking his way out of this. Whatever Hell this is, there is no avoiding it, only prolonging with trickery and blind faith. A certain level of acceptance greets him, the idea that flames only burn until nerves can no longer detect the blaze.

Agony for a few short moments and then blissful nothingness to follow. He wants this to be that, a quick death. The little death. He whimpers, a sad muleish sound at the complete inevitability of his life's work washing down the drain like Macbeth blood -- out damned spot, out. But there is no blood, there is only the sad truth of his shortened life.

Let him meet God a crusader. "You cannot repent. You are unsaveable. Damned. You are Lucifer's whore and you will never see the face of God or his son. Never feel the Holy Spirit. Never walk in the sun. Never feel forgiveness. You are a stain upon the world." And then with all the courage of watching other boys on the playground who were rougher than him, Leo McNamara attempts to sling his closed fist into the face of the devil.

black blood pooled in the demon’s ears as holy words were uttered from such pious lips, shaking as they clung to such flimsy faith in the presence of pure evil. he hissed as the runes carved crudely into his chest sizzled beneath the shirt, pressing the burn of righteousness into the condemned flesh of the demon. but he was not opposed to the way his body burned - not if it brought such temptation to show face under the inky sky outside. feet press forward, crowding to the priest until little space remained between his form && the alter behind him. “ would you rather pretend this is one of your dreams? is that easier for you? “ rayan asked, as if he could hear the thoughts that bounced in the mind of god’s disciple.

" banish me to hell if you must, father - i'll never leave you to rest again. you'll know no peace from me... " the words, whispers born of darkness, carried through the hallowed walls of the sanctuary. the cut deeper into his lips, until blood dripped to his chin, down to the fine-pressed shirt, leaving marks of black dots, like tar. " i'll return again, and again, and again. " promises uttered with a grin.

rayan let a finger slide slowly down the cheek of the priest - would he cry, spill salt out from his body like a fool? cower && beg in the absence of his almighty god? " you pledge allegiance to a deity who abandoned you... " the creature sighed, he sounded almost sad, almost regretful - like even a demon could take pity on his poor, lost soul. " and you rebuke the being who stands here, eyes upon you. you cry out for a void that will not save you. " ash smeared over pale human skin as ray thumbed the curvature of the priest's jaw. memorizing the way he felt, now that his physicality was alive under midnight black fingertips. it was different than the dreams, where rayan could not touch, only inflict the visions && simulate the sensations to the subconscious. pleasure brought in waves of mental anguish alone, but without the body to experience such wonder of hell.

the priest's face was gripped now in the demon's hand, but it was not warm as it should be fire barely contained under the ripple of bulging veins. ray's hand was cold - like frostbite, cutting into the man's cheek. that smile waning like a crescent moon, eyes burning orange with hellfire. " i firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. " the prayer continued, the sparks peeling his shirt back higher as it burned, exposing forearms to the elbows, cutting low so jagged collarbones poked out from the smoldering tatters with skin stretched thin across the bone. " teach me, father, the path to salvation. would you deny this sinner the chance to repent? "

[archive-morality-or-chains]

OOC: I have been bested by the common seasonal cold. I will get to replies when I am feeling a bit better. If I owe you a starter I will get that to you once I'm back. Drink water, folks.

[archive-morality-or-chains]

Ringmaster's head cocked to the side as he looks up at him even still his grip on his wrists remain. "Half a name is only a lie pretending to be honest." He tutts, giving him another warning look, this time his grip tightens on his wrists. It will hurt, he knows, he's practiced the art of touch to not break his dolls. Of course he knows the man's name he had to learn if for their deal to be struck, but he cannot shake the need to have it again.

He is almost certain there is something wrong with him today, he feels off. Different than usual, more vulnerable. It is not affection, he likes the boy well enough, but he could get rid of him should the need arise. Something is different. Something has changed and he cannot place what it is.

But he will not back out of a deal already struck, he has offered his evening and what is a faery's word if he does not uphold a bargain. He will not ruin thousands of years of credibility because he feels odd. So instead he clings to old habits, demands names he does not need even as his mind races to pinpoint the invisible difference in himself.

"You will tell me your name and then you will stand and wait. I am not a child that needs help with his buttons." He states, firm, perhaps too firm considering the 'intimate' situation they find themselves in.

a heartbeat too late, valentine realized his mistake. too eager, too hungry - wrist bones feeling small in the grip of the ringmaster. even now, even with the gift of attention having been chosen && granted... he was a belonging. there was a power balance here, and his quick-feet would learn quickly not to toe the line too closely. the lesson of restraint && obedience was one that smarted, but wouldn't go unheard. two human lifetimes had been spent in wasteful waiting for a night like this.

valentine would just have to impress enough to ensure that he got it a second time. this, a quiet promise he kept to himself. instead, his heart raced faster - it echoed off the hollow walls, so alive like the tree that drummed with power, given surely by the fairy king inhabiting it. " i don't want to take. i only want to give. " val assured, the words barely a whisper, and his plea falling silent as he nodded understanding. maybe this was a promise better shown with hands && lips, than breath && words.

" my name is valentine... and i am yours, so i will of course follow your rules. your whims are my command. " though he stood tall, once called beanpole by the bullies in the schoolyard, val had never felt so small. nerves racing, thudding through his pulse, every nerve on alert, heat reddening his cheeks like the scolding words had struck him with physicality. " may i... help you with your excessive amount of layers? "

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He waits for this to be some kind of strange mirage, some dream he will jerk awake to in his own spend. Leo waits to wake up as the hand touches his collar, as he watches fire lick along the creature's skin entirely unharmed, unbothered apparently by it. Perhaps this is the worst dream yet, and he'll awaken having had some kind of stroke on the floor. Perhaps he is dead and he has failed in some great way. He hit a deer once on the way to the bank, had killed it. He'd dragged the body to the side of the road and got down on his knees and prayed for forgiveness for taking a life, for stealing away a life from the forest, the very world. Was this his punishment for that? For the bird that hit his window and died as a boy?

The demon demands he pray but Leo knows better, he knows that if there is a devil in the house of God then his prayers will not be heard, they will not be answered. God has opened the door and let him in. This is his punishment, for what he does not know, he cannot fathom. All he can do is stand there and look the thing in the eye.

"I will not revoke God." He states, because if he will be punished, fed to the flame, defiled, he will have his loyalty known to this thing. "I am a priest of the Almighty, even if he will not hear me. I will die and ascend to Heaven and you will go back to Hell you foul thing. There is nothing you could do to me that would change my mind. I am sworn in spirit, I have taken vows."

Leo would like to think all of this sounds brave, but in truth his voice keeps cracking and his hands are shaking, and he cannot tear his eyes away. He thinks of the dreams, the animalistic actions within them. He thinks that they will no longer be dreams but sins to lock him from the pearl gates he was promised and he thinks there is not a single thing he can do to avoid it.

the torment was so palpable in the priest's expression, rayan could taste it on his tongue. honey && hot sauce, sin of desire. like pomegranate seeds between the teeth, bitterness twinged sweet - teeth that sharpened to points, unnatural on the human face as they glared out from his gums. it made the blood boiling in fragile veins all the more pleasurable.

a laugh ripped unnatural && unholy from the demon's lungs. like the howl of a wild man, he chortled, glee coloring amber hues with black irises, the vision of embers smoldering. he was personification of fire itself. " god can't hear~ you~ " the demon mocked, tone that of a sing-song. he laid out horror like he sang a hymn. outside, a sudden, solitary streak of lightning cracked fury against the sky, splitting it in two. a warning from heaven... or the proof of the savior running from this place, turning his back to priest overcome with the shadow of evil.

" ohhh-ho, such chastity, it's unheard of in these vile, secular times. you remind me of the quakers. delicious." amusement surged as sparks unfurled behind inhuman eyes. rayan had listened to his prayers, and though he knew not the name of the man who always held his head bowed in subservient submission - he knew his life, his secrets, his burdens to bear like a cross of his own. how be wore abstinence and restraint like holy medals, like they alone were enough to save him from the cruel claws of sin itself. the demon would rather see his head bowed for another reason. " your dedicated resistance feels almost as sweet as your temptation... almost. "

black-tinged fingers reached out like shadow itself - smearing soot across the square of white on the collar, at the base of the priest's throat. a muddy symbolism of purity shattered. " maybe... " rayan head cocked, animalistic like an owl or other bird of prey. eyes widened, shoulders shook harder. sparkles flew anew from his cuffs, as they caught quiet, still fire, burning back like leaves on a burn pile in the heart of autumn. " you should get on your knees and pray. "

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Despite Josiah's belief that Bryce is reckless, he does actually consider himself to be quite clever. So he knows when to behave and when not to, unless his pride is pushed a hair too far over the edge and he goes tumbling down the rabbit hole as Chatty would put it. In this case he makes sure he looks suitably defeated, tired. His hair is not to his standard, the buttons of his button up are mismatched.

He has put detail in the weary look he is presenting as he tilts his chin up, no point in throwing the game at the very beginning. Only Josiah will know he is not so addled, that his mind is clear, but he remembers Josiah's surprise when he saw how well he looked in the morning. Probably due to not sleeping on a dock in the freezing cold, with a shower, plenty of water, and decent company.

But he meant what he said when he told the other man that they would be strangers, because Josiah's favorite color is blue. And that fact did not matter in any way, it was something given freely and it shifted things even more. He has been helped by him, comforted in his way, allowed to exist as himself. Josiah is his friend, even if he doesn't know it.

So Bryce will protect his secrets. He clears his throat. He spent the drive here shouting at the top of his lungs the whole time to strain it. "I'm Bryce Delacourt," He croaks, and cleared his throat again, "I'm twenty eight, and my favorite color is orange."

He wants to look at Josiah, to wink. To let him in on the game but he doesn't, instead he lets his eyes droop back down to the floor.

the disappointment that met josiah at the willingness to be strangers was an unsettling surprise. he doesn't allow it to take more space than it carves out at first realization, kept small && contained, like a forgotten trinket to place on a backburner. a dusty shelf, a hidden corner. so much of his life, his thoughts, every feeling felt is treated in similar fashion. bottled, locked, battened down. forgotten, untended.

until what made a man human started to fade && blur, becoming obscure. maybe he wasn't quite anything now, haunted eyes && lips pressed together firm in dutiful silence as bryce gathered himself, the lack of belongings making the exit from the truck quick. effortless. baggy sweats catching on the tear in upholstery, but only briefly. a thought flickered through - josiah would never see bryce so unkempt such as this, not again. not a chance.

" starts at 10. " he grumbled, letting the door shut without a glance. strangers. they didn't know each other. they wouldn't know each other. he hadn't felt the way his chest quivered under the weight of his tattoo gun - hadn't felt the way his adam's apple bobbed beneath the gentle grip of an unclasp fist - hadn;t been close enough to know what his shampoo smelled like.

his hand moved on the crank, letting the window painstakingly drop just an inch. almost too late, as bryce was slipping into his car, all glimmer && waxed sheen... but josiah called out just the same. " it's blue, by the way. " and let his brown eyes catch the startling vivid blues in the glare of the rearview, as the tires squeaked, speeding off in a kick of dust.

because strangers felt like a lie. josiah was an attorney once; he hated to lie. maybe the desperate grasp to keep one part of his human spirit intact as he faded into ghost was worth the seity granted the not-so-stranger.

the ' chapel ' was little more than a small structure, more akin to a barn in the center of a field just adjacent to the heart of the odd, little town. with the ego that jesse had already proven to boast, you'd think a traditional sanctuary would be more fitting than what the eye would actually come to find inside. dusty windows, dusty floorboards, rusted metal chairs that groaned under the weight of any ass that sank into it's seat. they sat in a circle, rings that spread out like saturn.

most sat empty, giving a sort of forlorn visage to the group of eclectic followers. some old, some young, some well-dressed, some smudged with dirt. none wore white, not even the socks. and, perhaps most strange of all, almost all sat with smiles as they chattered in hushed tones. family. animated hands that gestured with words, laughs that mumbled through the acoustics of the wood with peeling, faded paint.

you wouldn't know that horrors had occurred by the hands of the man who stood in the center of it all. hair soft, loose, flowing just past the shoulders - sparkling in the pure, sheer white of slacks, a regular t-shirt, an apple watch that looked out of place in the dated chapel-barn-thing, with it's antiques for furniture and cracked glass panes where sunlight streamed in. the device strapped to a wide wrist beeped, and the congregation fell quiet... something shifting in the air.

tense. like a hot summer suddenly descended, the humidity growing as breathing slowed, quieted. even the birds outside ceased their chirping. collectively, the gatherers took a breath, and then- josiah walked in. higher than earlier in the morning, a stumble to his step, a clatter as he all but fell into the first step he came by.

jesse didn't even bat an eye. maybe josiah really had become a phantom. instead, the smile that boasted of soft kindness was pointed directly at bryce. surprise colored his eyes - almost like... he hadn't expected him to arrive. " so glad to have you joining us today. would you like to introduce yourself to the family? "

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Valentine is the type to be excitable, it is one of the first things Ringmaster ever noted about him. There is a certain amount of wonder in him that makes him suited to eternity in a circus, in show business. So he expects the man to go about and examine the shelves of items on display, to stare at the bell in the case. To look, and oogle, and wonder.

So it is to his surprise when the man instead makes his way to Ringmaster instead of his luxurious possessions and more to surprise begins to undress him without asking. No requests for permission. Ringmaster stills, allowing him to help with the buttons, pleased at least he is proficient at the task, before his hands reach out and snag Valentine's wrists.

"I offer my company for the night," He clarifies, "That does not mean you get everything you want. You are in my house, if you drink it is from my cup, if you do anything it is at my whim."

One might think a man of shorter stature, with his thin shoulders and bright eyes is not capable of being intimidating. But then perhaps whoever said that must not have met a fae such as him. His grip is stronger than it appears, unmovable, locked stone, eyes flashing gold. There is a shift in the air, the plant on one of the side tables begins to wilt and then rot, dropping browned leaves down onto the wooden floorboards.

"One does not take from someone like me," He looks up at Valentine in warning. "Displease me and you will never see the outside of this tent. I will take everything you are, shrink it down into stone and put it with the rest. I will have your word that you understand and your name once more."

with a woosh and a quiet oomph, valentine felt the air rush out from his lungs && leave his chest empty. it all seemed to play in slow motion, and then breakneck speed ahead. first, the crush of the blow as the ringmaster pushed him back, turned away. to the door, and it felt like a knife between the ribs, twisting deep as the boxcar door creaked open. had valentine failed some hidden test, made the wrong choice- was pebbles upset he'd been called out about the stupid music box?

but it was a heartbreak fueled dejection that lasted only seconds longer than the onset. in an instant, the surrounding morphed, and val couldn't believe his eyes. dizzy, knees weak, unsure of what could possibly be real... was this the tent? it couldn't be. could it be? lips dropped open, eyes flickering from the ringmaster commanding the space (and the drip of clothes from his body) to various other details that sparkled && begged for attention.

valentine wants to touch everything. to feel the rough bark of the walls beneath his fingers, compare it to the silken smooth skin of the faery before him. wrap his legs up in the sheets, see if he could make the floating lights move if he strummed pleasure across the ringmaster with his tongue. feet begged release from where he stood rooted, not unlike the tree he found himself inside, but valentine felt suspiciously alive again. he was reminded of the first day his aunt bess dragged him to church, sat his ass down hard in the pew, and dragged his head down by the hair in prayer. something of wonder, but something of growing, gnawing terror, too.

not many got granted privilege to the ringmaster's quarters. of, if they did, it remained a tight-lipped secret. like that little bow hunkered down with a pout in the church pew, val found himself unsure of what, precisely, he was expected to do.

" no, i'll pass on that, thanks. " he murmured, eyes slowly dragging away from the temptation of the fairy wine. val knew of it's powers, and while deeply intrigued by the allure... " i want to remember this gift, and be present, with wits && vision intact. " then, finally, as if remembering he was valentine, the 3rd oldest of the ringmaster's beloved crew - the smile returned. flashing across with a dazzle of renewed, reinvigorated confidence && zeal. " but definitely next time. " it was said with a sly, cocky, slick flick of his tongue, snaked out across his lips.

he didn't want to look around, he much preferred to peel back the enticing layers of the fae standing like a god in the heart of a hollowed tree. tent. whatever. val ignored the temptations that screamed for him to dive his hands into all the stuff that made up the ringmaster's space - for a fairy's home is surely a peek into the fairy's soul - and instead, took steps towards the ringmaster himself. like there was nothing else to explore, chin tilted down, the feel of digits clamped hard to the bone of it a promise of what may yet be to come. " may i help you with that? " the contortionist hummed, one hand on the buttons of the waistcoat, fingers quick as they twisted && turned, undoing two in the matter of seconds without even the use of a second hand.

[archive-morality-or-chains]

He's afraid. Bryce knows enough about fear to know that. He's felt fear, seen it on the faces of others. It is the same on Josiah as anyone else even if it is clear also that he does not want to address it or perhaps does not even recognize it for what it is. There's a certain sort of plea to the way he makes his demands, an asking.

Josiah would not understand but somehow it reminds him of Chatty, of her pleading that doesn't make any sense. Hiding from monsters that don't exist, lashing out at staff that don't do anything wrong. At least here Bryce understands the threat well enough.

His car is still there, small mercies considering it's unlocked with the keys in it. "I don't know you," Bryce says casually, " I don't even know your favorite color."

There's a certain desire to comfort there that he does not understand and does not want to act on. He has never been good at impulse control. "You know your blood on my hands might actually make me feel like shit." Bryce pops the door of the truck open, stepping out. "How long do I have until I have to be there?"

" ugh. you're so needy. " josiah's eyes rolled, but he took a final deep puff && stood with a groan. found a sweatshirt, sniffed it, shrugged, and tugged it on. he thought he'd correct bryce - they didn't praise jesus here, that was a laughable concept, the praised the self, the being, the authenticity of the soul. everyone was their own higher power, if they could unlock it. but it wouldn't matter. eventually, it would be beaten into his thick, pretty skull, like every one of jesse's other lessons && beliefs.

before long, they were back in his truck, seats still slightly damp from the night before. it rumbled down the gravel road, and josiah reclined lazily into the cracked, old seat. a loose, limp wrist confident but casual as it slung over the wheel, eyes on the road, but he knew it by heart. driven drunk down the abandoned country lane enough times, he could probably do it asleep.

but in the minute of silence, jos didn't have a quiet mind. it stirred, like a ship uneasy careening towards the bay. he'd broken a rule - one he'd never dare break before. usually, disobedience felt good. ignited rebellious fire in the pit of his stomach. now, he just felt... unsettled. anxious. it wasn't pleasant. and he blamed bryce.

tilting the rearview mirror, tapping at the clutch shift, josiah was unusually restless. it was even him to speak first, as they grew closer to the car left in the brush by the lake. " when you get to the chapel, just- don't fuckin' look at me. we don't know each other. i don't know you outside of inking you up. got it? " there was a hint of nerves to his words, the foot growing heavy on the accelerator. a frown etched deeper into the familiar lines, like he didn't like the words he let utter out. " it's just... it's gonna be better that way. "

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He's not sure how well she'll like a ranch if she doesn't even ride in her spare time. Levi could have sworn she came from a farm? Maybe not the kind with horses, maybe her family grew corn. It doesn't matter, he supposes there are other things for her to do, a house to exist in, a town to go to. She'll have to drive a bit to get to the city. He'll need to get her a car. "I work a lot." He warns her, "But usually on the property. My phone gets signal if you ever need anything while I'm out. There's others that come during the day, ranch hands if you - if you know what those are? You don't need to pay attention to them, if any of them give you trouble, disrespect you, let me know and I'll take care of it."

Even if he barely knows her she is his wife now and he's not going to have some hand make comments or try to make a move on something that belongs to Levi. His eyes spark with anger at the thought, "Even if you think it's minor, tell me or Lance."

Lo listened as he spoke, his voice filling the space with details she tried to hold onto. The house was newish, he explained, built with care, not just slapped together, and she nodded, glancing at the wood and marble that gleamed around them. He rattled off stuff about outbuildings and a barn, but he hesitated for a sec, and she wondered why. She didn’t ask.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter now, then tossed in, “I don’t ride, though.”

He kept going, and it was a lot to take in, but she got the gist: he wanted her to like being there. Her smile wobbled a bit, real but soft, and she took a deep breath before letting it out: “I want to be a good wife.” It sounded cheesy, like a movie line, but she meant it—she wanted this to click, for her folks. “I’ll give it a shot. I want that, too.”

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Leo likes nights in the church, it helps to clear his mind. There's a sort of peaceful quiet to a church in the dead of night with only a few of the candles lit, a somber sort of pensiveness that helps him find God. He has needed to do a lot of that lately, find God. He has been looking for his grace wherever he can find it. In the leaves of trees, along the moon reflected in the mopped tiles of the church floor.

It is in his dreams in which he cannot find grace. In his dreams there is naught but sin upon sin. He has been having the most horrible dreams. Dreams of the most sensual of nature. He is a celibate man, he has never known so much as a kiss from another. Leo decided when he was twelve years old God was the only choice for him. His parents had been so proud.

But now he has dreams. Homosexual dreams. Dreams of demons. Dreams of being bred like an animal. Dreams of his heart in his hands, a strange eyed man licking the blood from the still beating organ. He wakes often soaked in sweat and sticky between the legs against his will.

So now he spends much of his time tending to the main hall of his parish, even when it is deep into the night. He busies his hands and his body to exhaustion in the hopes that these dreams will leave him be, and he prays. Leo is almost always praying, whispering scripture to himself, prayers to his Father. He feels as if he is being forsaken.

And then there is a voice, in the waking world, like hot wax. A blatant disrespect upon a holy prayer and as he turns he knows that he is truly forsaken. For he is awake and the demon is here on hollowed ground. He pauses, standing at the pulpit, still in his cassock.

The demon stares at him, advances, burns and changes its surroundings as it goes. He had a dream like this last night. That the anointing oils were the slick that the demon used to - this is not real. This cannot be real. He has been good all his life, he has been pious and kind. He has never stolen, never forsaken his vows. He has been a good priest.

He looks up toward the ceiling, toward God. "Please. What have I done to deserve this? I do not - I must not. I am a good man. I am a good man."

-> surprise! a closed starter for @morality-or-chains {leo mcnamara}

" oh... forgive me, father, for i have sinned. "

the voice that purred out it's soft, seductive, light tone was one that had crawled back from the depths of hall, at least a hundred times over. carved into his skin under the button-up, scarring tanned flesh, were runes that gave the demon this permission to dare set foot on holy ground. it burned through rayan's bones, each step an agony of it's own, a symphony of destructive sensation that shot hellfire through his nerves - but ray carried on, steady, one foot after the other.

a cross fell from it's anchor on the top stretch - sliding with a sickening screech, as the demon entity passed by in corporeal form, hanging now from a single nail. upside down. even angels would turn && hide their face when evil took such brazen audacity.

the alter by the head of the sanctuary held the demon's attention. sharpened teeth showed over thin lips as the wolf-grin stretched wide. he welcomed the pain, the way rubber soles melted the further deeper he dare enter. shoulders shook like his bones would cave in, but yet, rayan remained.

he'd met this pious priest before - but only in their dreams. only in the evil whispers of sin that took hold, latched on, brought in on the coattails of those far away from sainthood. rayan had sensed him, even from below. sensed the nobility, the sensitivity, the longing. he'd accept burning alive in a church, to watch this beautiful man squirm. to enter into his mind for real this time, not in the twist of devilish nightmares that brought erections, sweat, and tears to reality upon the waking. rayan took a shuddering breath in, as the drooping cross behind him splintered, catching fire in the presence of a hellion like him.

" i firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. amen. " blood dripped from his lip, cracking under the insult of a prayer to his tongue - but rayan smiled wider yet. pushed the boundary further, closing in on the priest. smoke rose next from the cuffs of his shirt. " absolve me, father. "

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It is an oversight that surprises the Ringmaster, for the briefest moment he worries he is losing his edge. To forget a gift already given to one of his staff. But he is ancient and one soul bleeds into ten more after it. He has given so many music boxes over the course of all his deals, to have forgotten one should not be a flaw. But then, when has he ever forgotten before? The first thing he does is take stock of his body, the way it feels, if he is in control. Can he turn away from Valentine with his hand on his chest? Is he unable? He can, he could leave right now. He reaches out to wrap a hand around the contortionist's wrist and moves him back, firm but not violent and stands for the door. He opens it, feels the breeze on his face and relaxes. Nothing is insisting he stay.

He has not partaken in the wrong drink, suckled the wrong honey. He is in control, Ringmaster twists, strides back to where he left Valentine and grabs him by the chin, squeezing tight and then the boxcar is gone. It is replaced by the spanning whites, golds, and greens of his private bedroom.

It is a luxurious room, high from the ground with a bed carved from the tree itself, half inside a hollowed trunk, little floating lights around the room light the space, furniture in bright natural woods and gold, a dressing table and wide mirror, and a small table with a glass case inside a small handled golden bell.

Valentine has not been up here before so Ringmaster takes a step back reaching for his jacket, holding it out until he lets go and it simply vanishes from sight. He reaches for his tie next, tossing that to vanish into the air. "You can look around." He states, the things that are important to hide are already well hidden, all except the bell. "I would not partake the drink cart," He warns, "Unless you want wine."

He does not bother to explain further, faery wine comes with its own warnings. Val will either know or he will learn. It makes no difference to Ringmaster if he imbibes or not.

teeth had to grip the tip of valentine's tongue carefully to keep him from squealing, much like a child laying eyes on santa's workshop, as such magic was performed before his eyes. he never knew what the ringmaster would do. for years, all this time, a lifetime spent in spun glittery silks, he'd watched. for so long, it was almost intimate. the way valentine anticipated what move may come next. the way it thrilled him every time he was wrong. now, the heartbeat in his chest was a flutter, like a hoard of butterflies that would take flight && explode out from his ribs. leave him a heap of bone && blood && tattered flesh to be swept up, his role quickly replaced.

" this is an easy one. " valentine's eyebrows rose, head tilting with a look of careful trepidation... but eager hope still lingering in the gentle tug at the corner of his lips. a smile of awe, still not quite erased, fueled only more by the enchanting so-called 'offer' laid before him. there was heat unfurling in the pit of his belly, a warmth that climbed both low && high as it teased him with visions of what else the ringmaster may tease him with providing.

the promiscuity wouldn't have even been necessary to nudge val in the direction of choosing a place at the fae's side. " you've already given me a music box before. " the reasoning came out soft, playful, a daring challenge in it's sultry tone. and valentine leaned forward, the low-cut edge with silver-embroidery edging dipping lower, leaving little until the waistband beneath his naval to the imagination. a confession, too. a hint that the contortionist kept count, kept track, of every silly, pointless gift. each trinket that lined shelves, collected dust, cleaned once a month with diligence born of a need that now screamed in the back of the sprite's mind. " why would i need two? "

of course valentine would choose the fairy master. he was only disappointed it had taken so long for the chance. so far forward, the man teetered, reaching out until his hand pressed solid to the ringmaster's chest. he was there, a body that didn't waver or flicker under the press of his quivering palm. he felt warmth radiating under the neatly-pressed suit. " just checking. " valentine breathed out, swept up in the moment, in the choice, in the presence of power.

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Bryce continues to eat, slower than Josiah. The other man seemed to inhale anything he could get his hands on before retreating to the couch. He watches him with a lazy stare picking at a too sweet crepe as he smokes.

Worships. Bryce is starting to think that everything Jesse does is to instill the idea that he is the holy divine and the rest of them are worms in the soil. He's never done very well at being told what he is and isn't, but he also knows to an extent that obstinacy will not get him where he needs to go.

He wants the keys to the kingdom, not to feed the swamp. So Bryce eats, Josiah smokes, and he considers his options, not bothering to let the man in on any of his silent plans. He's in agreement though, nothing good comes out of dragging Josiah into this. If he wants any kind of ally it starts with him not fucking over the one person around here that likes him. Does he like him? Wants to fuck him? Well is neutral about him at least. Food finished he goes about collecting the trash, tossing it all in the kitchen can, before he puts it all away in the fridge. Rich boy that he is, he does tend to spend a good time alone and knows how to clean up after himself when he needs to. He looks down at his clothes, at the lack of shoes, "Drive me back to my car? I'll kill myself before I wear this to praise Jesus or whatever."

a snort devoid of all human left josiah at the question. " the next party trick? watch && learn. " he smirked with a smug expression, unable to indulge in the fill of bacon grease any longer. a blech exploded from his throat as he crossed back the small space to the living room, pulling a tray with wrappers && bud down from where it sat on a shelf. with a careful huff, the artist plopped to the left-most side of the sunken, stained couch and began quickly-expertly- rolling up a joint.

he didn't prefer to go into jesse's gathering meetings, the worships, without something to subdue the senses. especially after a cleansing, especially after a confession. his shoulders ached from where he'd hunched over bryce's shirtless figure in the chair for hours on end- his knees felt stiff && older than they should, from being bent promiscuously across his thighs. the cold water that had chilled them both to the bone hours prior had only worsened things.

" we're going to worship. don't get any ideas on what that could be. " he finally explained, once the burn of inhale met his lungs, and the words carried out the smoke upon exhale. " it's a little different each time, when jesse comes 'round. he'll be there today, for sure. because you'll be there, today. it's your first time. yaaa-aay. " he said this mockingly, flashing a look to bryce, toying with him again. half of the mind to try && scare him - half of the mind to just watch && see what new threats he might make. what chaos he will reign down. " usually, they aren't so bad. searching the soul, meditating out the guilt, focusing on the things that make you feel most at peace, at power. i don't know. cult stuff, probably. "

josiah always wondered what the recruits thought, upon their first arrival. some tried to run away. some shut down. others got angry, and vengeful, like byrce, but without the maintained composure. those types faded fast, burning too hot && too bright too fast. " you should mind your mouth, shut up, sit down with your head low, and just get through the hour 'n a half in silence. not that you'll fuckin' listen to me. just whatever you do, leave me out of it. "

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Perhaps Valentine hadn't been serving him well enough, certainly he performs well, the crowds like him, but Ringmaster himself has left him mostly unbothered. Perhaps he shouldn't have, perhaps he should have played more. Well there's still time. He is all wrapped up like a bow.

He sips his tea, finishing off the cup, before he rests it back down on the table. "Let's get through the hundred and fifty year first," He hums, picking one of the sticks of honey from the table, twisting it between his finger before he sticks it into his mouth. Ringmaster considers his options, weighs if what he's decided is something to be bartered or given. Well he is feeling a bit bored tonight, why not take the doll out of its box. He leans back in his chair, and then waves a lazy hand, more out of showmanship than any actual need and everything starts moving. The table clears itself in moments, some of it moving to the sink, or settling in on the counter out of the way. He bites on the hardened honey, before the stick just disintegrates in his hand when he pulls in from his mouth, flicking the dust away onto the floor. Two plates appear on the table, they're not actually there but that's trivial. It's all showmanship. The music box, or well an image of it appears on one of the plates, the other remaining empty. "You're right," He flatters, silver tongued and grinning, "You've done me well. I think tonight, you may have a choice."

Choices are not something his staff are often given. He is particular with giving them the impression of choice. Free will in the Circus Maria is a well crafted illusion. They think they are choosing to do things, that is not necessarily the case. They are simply doing things mostly in the way the Ringmaster wants them done, because that is how they've been conditioned to do it.

This is no different, Ringmaster knows what he wants and he expects he will get it. "Your choice, Valentine, this music box," His hand traces along an invisible edge pretending it is there, before moving to the other plate. He presses his pointer and middle fingers together separating them from the rest, and parts his lips pressing them flat on his tongue, dragging them across the wet pink before he slides them across the plate, smearing it with a thin trail of saliva. "Or my company for an evening."

though valentine had most certainly been awaiting his gifting day - there was a flicker of genuine surprise as the true amount of time was put so plainly laid out by the ringmaster’s smug tongue. once he’d been human, or perhaps he still was somehow (who cared how the magic worked, he didn’t bother to ask questions of logic, even now) and the idea of 150 years of anything was staggering. “ well. when you put it like that… “ valentine laughed, head shaking slightly. the ringmaster would probably find his silly mortal tendencies to be so petty, the way such trains of thought lingered past the decades. “ i suppose i do feel rather special, albeit a bit ancient, as well. “ though he’d wager; there wasn’t another man a hundred && fifty years of age that could move quite like him.

time passed differently in the faery glades. valentine had realized this, with loops && lapses && dreams that twisted from day to night like they existed by their own authority. he didn’t feel as though it had been so long… but at the same time, it felt longer yet, somehow. the loneliness was surely to blame.

“ correct me if i may be wrong, but i think i’ve served you quite well in this time. i’ve even gotten my own boxcar. “ with his reflection of the servitude, and an arm bangled with bracelets stretching out in a sweeping gesture to the small space, there was a palatable gleam of pride, it glinted from the flash of teeth in the moonbeams streaming through beaded tendrils hung with seaglass from the windows. everything sparkled there. valentine made sure of it. “ and to earn an extended visit from yourself, well. i must have as many blessings as a king. pray tell - what happens for my two hundredth anniversary? now i can barely wait. “

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There is something downright suburban about this as the two of them hover on either side of the counter, eating out of the plastic container, barely bothering with any kind of utensils. Bacheloresc if you will. Something that he is certain would have sent his mother into a comatose state of horror and shock, if she ever bothered to notice her children from her estate in Annecy. So he supposes that at least he's safe from.

Bryce shoves a piece of bacon into his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully, "I don't think my mother's ever taught me anything outside of how to spend copious amounts of money." He replies and devours another slice of bacon, before he's barely done with the first one.

"I slept," He remarks, thinking on the strange dreams and shifting thoughts that curled through his head in the night. Dreams of Chateau and their childhood home, his father's vessel sinking, his sister's singing voice, and the grand stages she used to dance on. The pride of the Delacourt line, and now the shut in embarrassment. It is better to have a promiscuous son than a mad daughter. Key why his mother will not return from France.

Bryce bites into a piece of toast, white bread, all cheap. The food is terrible, but he has just enough ass in his class not to care all that much for the time being. Food is food when one gets absolutely drugged out of his mind the night before. "So what party trick is next?" He asks casually, "If I have to have nails put through my palms I'm really going to start complaining."

whatever he'd expected - had he expected anything to begin with, a feast wasn't part of the vision. he didn't even know that anne's could have so much variety, as gaze landed on flapjacks && bacon, eggs cooked two ways, toast with at least one of each jam. slowly, an eyebrow raised. it was debaucherous in a way that almost felt pathetic. lukewarm food, half drenched in grease && old oil, reeking of a small town that only half-assed everything it did. " did your mama never teach you the value of moderation? " he grunted, but it was accompanied with what one may call an appreciative grunt, a nod of his head. fingers were quick to dig in.

and finally, the forehead creases that signaled a perpetual bad mood began to smooth. each bite brought with it the presence of a lighter atmosphere. weight all but lifted as the hangover subsided in the face of sausage patties smashed between waffles, and underripe strawberries to bring a tang to the tongue.

josiah ate until his stomach screamed, begging him to stop. a lesson of survival, learnt young. when there was food... you did not waste. even if the amount was almost laughable, and would stay in his fridge past it's kept date. not that jos wouldn't still eat it. he always tempted fate when it came to the threat of expiration dates. hadn't killed him yet. " did you even sleep at all last night? "

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Oh yes, he should not have been forgotten on the shelf. Such delight and eagerness in his actions, a poise and control mixed with interest. An interest in something only Ringmaster can provide. It could make a creature feel quite liked. But he is not one entirely to be rushed at the whims of another, so he does not jump to put an end to Val's curiosity simply because that is what is asked of him.

Instead Ringmaster sips his tea, enjoying the sweet flavor and milk on his tongue. Valentine is clever, he remembers the important things. He remembers how Ringmaster likes his tea, where he likes to sit, how he moves. An attention to each detail that has him more aware of the contortionist than ever.

As of late -- the last two hundred years or so -- he does not often bother to sit in on the performances of his staff, they're well trained, they do as they're supposed to. He trusts that they are able and replaces them when they are not. But now he finds himself a tad curious, and just like that the music box he was about to give the man is tossed to the side like trash, ready to be gifted to someone less entertaining.

"Patience is a virtue," Ringmaster remarks dryly, "I do believe that we are at a milestone, Valentine, it's your one hundred and fifty year with me. You're now my third oldest performer. Don't you feel special?"

there was always such a funny way about the fae. valentine had loved it very much, always had, and eyes twinkled like stars in the face of such potential of a trade. most of the trinkets && items that adorned the train car had been from a variety of dealings with the folk, though one had to be most cautious to not end up with trickery underfoot. fingernails clicked together as if val had to consider the offer. twelve wasn't many, and a silk robe was always something to desire. " fiiine, you have yourself a deal. " he threw back to the ringmaster, nonchalantly. " but i'd like one in pink. if i must go through the trouble of chasing every variety of bee, i believe it's only fair i can fuss over the color. "

lips crested the rim of the teacup, but eyes clouded with amused, hesitant adoration remained trained right upon him. " dextrality is sort of my whole schtick, you know. " the tease did not come unkindly, instead brightening up the face of the spirit like a sunrise. leaping at the chance to throw way some reminder of his talents - the ones that kept audience full of their oohs && ahhs as he swung from a scarf high up above their heads, only to fold his body into shapes unimaginable. " of course i'm good with my fingers... among most other parts of myself. "

brazen, bold, unabashed. valentine had been but a scrawny, timid little creature when he'd first joined the cirque, but maybe a hundred years of boredom within the confines of a stripped tent && dazzling on display had prompted some sort of courage to unblossom. unfurling like a wildflower, and spitting out confidence like honey across lips that smiled sweetly as the chipped china returned to it's saucer. unfortunately, patience was not one of the gifts that had been bestowed to the pursuit of growing personality that the contortionist had began to garner, time forgetting to instill this value into the man. antsy, anxious, eager - fingers wouldn't still, a leg jiggled up && down, and there was almost a buzz in the air from the way val shifted && shook.

" are you going to leave me in suspense for much longer? "