#fluff;

Once more I am so so sorry this took so long. 

Growing up in the circus Clint learned a variety of sometimes very usefully things archery being at the top of that list. Learning to walk the tight rope was somewhere in the middle of the list. So, in Clint's mind he figured it wouldn’t be that bad of an idea to trapeze to a better vantage point for the scrummage several storied down on the ground. Sure he could have asked for someone to give him a lift, but being picked up and plopped down on various roof tops was not Clint’s favorite thing, and everyone looked busy. He could do this no sweat. Even if it had been years. Things went off with out a hitch for the first four and a half, and then like most things in Clint's life it went to shit. The building he was attempting to leave received a crumbling hit from what Clint suspected was a laser. Not that he had time to actually check because he was falling faster than he was able to say ‘Aw no..’ Clint didn’t remember much after that other than something that sounded vaguely like a tare. 

@fearbehindasmile [x]

A devious grin of amusement etched across the chimera’s lips, his eyes alight with excitement and interest. Hands remained firmly planted on Tadamusa’s shoulders, legs spread to straddle his waist, keeping the taller male beneath him rather easily. He hummed softly, leaning down until their faces were mere inches apart.

@twilightwolfgeneral

Acts of Affection

Send in a symbol from YOUR muse to see how MY muse will react to yours! For the ones where YOUR muse gives or says something to mine: WILD CARD! Yourmuse can pick the item, sings a specific song, or says a specific thing!

✩  Grooming, brushing, or tending to their hair.

He was more than just simply relaxed - he was downright in heaven. Angeal - despite the size of his hands or the roughness of his palms - was extremely gentle when it came to grooming the chimera’s body, no matter where it was. 

New York Harbor is a far cry from a Louisiana bayou, the city lit up bright and towering along its edges instead of the brief glimpses of flickering campfires. The faint, distant hum of voices replaced with the distant hum of traffic and the rushing of water around them, and on the Summer Solstice there's a display of magic beyond the scope of floating a few soft flowers into Emil's hair. Waters that twist up around them, reshaping into glittering and surreal forms, an orchestra of music and color from the illusionists who create their own performance out across its surface. And there’s a moment, when the powers of the Gifted elite are at their peak, where the boat lifts briefly from the water, sailing through the air and held aloft with outstretched hands. 

Monty lends his power to the moment, but not his attention. Gaze falling on Emil and remembering the last Summer Solstice they spent in each other’s company. Struggling whether to name them friend or enemy, biting back bitterness and frustration that he forgot too easily when he was writing love letters in the sky for him. Even if he didn’t acknowledge it for what it was at the time, even if it took months before he could say I love you in any language but the quiet, secret whisper of fingers brushing together to steal a cigarette.

Now he can love him shamelessly, and sometimes he thinks it shouldn’t count as a victory, just to stop hiding who he is and what he wants. Some days he thinks it’s the only victory that really matters. Adoration shining with the same bright light as the magics glowing around them, taking Emil’s hand and drawing him to the middle of the deck so he can steal a dance. Fingers lacing together, palm settling flat against his lower back just to draw him that much closer. It’s careless and bright at first, the specifics of his steps less important than putting a smile on the man’s lips so he can steal it back off with his own. 

But as the sun shifts its orbit, the boat settling back into place and music fading into something quieter, he does the same. Finding a slower rhythm, timed more by heartbeats than violins, the kind of intimate dance that they’d had to claim hidden away by moonlight before, because he was too terrified to risk it surrounded by friends and colleagues. And this is a far cry from those memories too, miles away from the swamp, hours away from sunset, and no masks left to hide behind. Still, he makes the same promise beneath the sun as he had been exchanging myths about Icarus, the mortal who burned for his Apollo, as though laughing at their own hubris could protect them from it.