Fantasy Circus of Demons (a 1x1 rp)

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson “If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

“Five and Six, Seven and Ei—River!” The sharp bark of the dance mistress’s voice cracked through the cramped rehearsal tent like a whip. The heat-heavy air practically trembled with it. Groans erupted from the dancers around her, each of them recoiling as the cane struck the ground with a thunderous crack. It echoed like thunder off the thin canvas walls. A woman older than time itself—spine as rigid as her rules—stood center stage, her cane lifted like a scepter of doom.

“We have gone over this,” she hissed, her voice as brittle and cruel as the stick in her hand. “You cannot lose your footing during that turn! Do that on the rope and you’ll go flying, and trust me, River—no one wants to see your guts paint the ground! Get your head out of the clouds!” River flinched at every word, at every slam of that damn cane against the dirt-packed floor. Each crack vibrated up through the soles of her worn shoes, through her aching legs, up her spine, and rattled around in her skull like marbles in a tin. Today, it all felt louder—harsher. Meaner.

Her hair, brittle and frayed from poor nutrition, had been scraped into a tight bun, but the humidity had coaxed wiry strands free to curl and stick to her sweat-slick skin. Her rehearsal outfit was a patchwork of past neglect—a leotard nearly hidden beneath a sweater so full of holes it looked like lace. Her tights were no better, torn and pilled at the thighs and calves, and her shoes… it was best not to look too closely at the shoes. They whispered of years, not months.

River exhaled through her nose, a breath shaky with exhaustion and frustration. The world tilted slightly to the right again. Her stomach growled, not a gentle reminder but a twisting stab, like a fork dragging across the inside of her belly. When was the last real meal? She tried to recall, but her memory was fuzzy—blurred by hunger and heat. Just oranges and rice for dinner, over and over again. The thought of food made her mouth water and her jaw ache. She was so hungry she could’ve bitten a chair leg. No wonder she couldn’t focus.

The final crack of the cane startled her from her spiral. The dance mistress sighed with exhausted disdain and waved her hand. “That’s enough. Go. Before someone passes out.”

River kept her eyes lowered as the other dancers slunk off, their collective resentment aimed squarely at her. She’d felt it all rehearsal. They should have ended an hour ago—but no, not with her screwing up turns and faltering on choreography. All because her thoughts wouldn’t stop drifting to the smell of Mister Fritz’s popcorn stand that always started popping at this time of day, the scent floating just faintly through the tent like a curse.

She sat down heavily and peeled off her shoes, uncaring that she'd be barefoot. The grassy terrain outside wouldn’t hurt her—not more than the blisters already had. As she stepped out of the tent, a sigh slipped from her lips. The crisp evening air kissed her skin, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat inside. Her fingers worked free the bobby pins from her bun. Each one released pressure from her skull, and she sighed again, letting her sweat-damp hair tumble down. But even that small relief was tainted—because with the fresh air came the rich, buttery scent of popcorn again… and waffles. And now her mother’s face loomed in her mind, stern and controlling, already deciding how little River would be allowed to eat tonight.

She didn’t follow the others. Instead, she drifted to the edge of the encampment, weaving behind tents and vendor stalls still empty, waiting for the evening’s bustle. Her feet found a stack of wooden crates, and she slumped down beside them, letting herself fall back until her head thunked softly against the wood. She closed her eyes, willing herself to think of anything other than food.

Silence wrapped around her. Then, almost too soft to hear “Maybe splattering on the ground would be fun,” she muttered, a bitter smile pulling at her lips. “Splatters don’t feel hunger.”

She laughed, just once—a quiet, cracked sound. Her head thunked back again, this time with more force, as if trying to shake the thoughts loose. She knew her mother would be looking for her soon, waiting with cold eyes and colder rules. She should go. But for once, she just wanted to breathe air that didn’t taste like sweat and discipline. Just a little longer.

---

 

[Atamita]

The Last Dance

Peter Gundry

location

Edges of the encampment

Mood

Curious, a little bit amused, but mostly curious

The smell of perfume, dirt, and sin permeates the air as the Demon took a deep breath in. It's been a while since he's visited such a bustling town like this as the lights fill his eyes with the sun slowly dying in the background with its last glimpse of light reaching towards the sky.

Sunset. His favorite.

It was always ambiguous enough to leave those who liked to sleep wondering if it's morning or night. Purple streaks stain the air reminiscent of purple on his clothes. The sun bleeds red onto the clouds before its final goodbye. Marinus could only look at the sky with a slight smile before he turns his head towards the human crowd— the very crowd that would go down with him tonight like the sun.

How long has it been since his last outing? Demons typically don't frequent the human world because the more humans learn about them, the more they learn about how to defeat them. An air of mystery is always a demon's best protection. After all, it's why demons even wait for humans to summon them rather than to come to land themselves.

The air is bustling with laughter and cheers. A festival or circus must be nearby, or rather, his eyes narrowed onto the costumes, it's the entertainers that are bustling rather than the commoners themselves.

The show hasn't started yet, huh?

So many people and eyes but their gaze is at each other rather than him. Perhaps, it's better that way than to recognize the former mortal who had dominated this area all those years ago. Although, he can't deny he loves the attention and gaze of people when they all looked at him with such admiration and fear. He can almost see it right now in front of him. if he would just... blow up half of this festival.

His soft eyes squint with a small nostalgic smile... However, that's another ambition for another day. He's got business to do and souls to collect.

One, two, and three— these souls all easy come into his hands. It usually is that easy since these were the pre-agreed souls based on initial agreements. There were no games to be played here. Just a "yes" or a "no", and a "give me what you owe me".

Of course, not all soul collection ever came that simple when he comes to land to collect for once as some fickle humans do like to drag it out or argue about how they're stronger than demons before being cut off mid-speech by a slice through the head.

Marinus sighed.

This is going to be just like the one last time, isn't it?

His body pulled towards an encampment towards his east as he senses the soul that is supposed to be still under his, well, control. Usually, the souls he collect are all adults as the souls of children are harder to maintain according to his mentors when he was a younger demon but... he made an exception this time.

It can't be that hard now, can't it?

He's made it this far. Why would a mature soul elude him now?

The problem with this really falls under a mature soul's newly gained dominion over it but as long as it still think it's under someone's grasp, then it never really escapes the deal in theory.

The pull of the soul lead him into sliding between the cracks of the vendor and tents before the scene of a young woman hanging her head against a wooden crate. Her eyes seems to be closed, perhaps unaware of the man in front of her but Marinus knew for sure. This was the woman he was looking for and the soul he was supposed to collect. He can almost taste his magic surrounding her, perfecting her into the perfect dancer her mother wanted all those years ago.

It seems her soul is still under his dominion as he can sense her mind still tattering to her own mother, always regarding her mother and concerned about her mother than herself.

Marinus' ears perked up.

“Splatters don’t feel hunger.”

Splatter, eh?

The sound of her stomach growling breaks his thought but he says nothing for a moment. His hand slides behind his back, manifesting a bright red apple into his hand.

"I usually thought the term was prima ballerina,"

he looks at her with a slight smile before revealing the sight of the plump red apple and taking a bite of into it in front of her. The bite was crisp and the juice dripped onto the floor. He looks at her as his jaws sickeningly chewed on the fruit, making sure each crunch was heard.

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

River startled, a sharp hiccup bursting from her lips as she whipped her head around—too fast, too suddenly—and immediately regretted it. The world tilted again, unsteady beneath her feet, and she could’ve sworn she’d just seen someone step out from behind the crates. A man. And he smelled like… apples? Was she finally losing her mind? Had apples began to form into humans? Could her hunger really do that to her? Another hiccup escaped her, this one softer but somehow more painful, like it had dragged itself up from the depths of her hollow stomach. The sensation moved up into her chest, where a dull ache bloomed near an old bruise she’d earned from sleeping on steel poles the night before. Her mother’s idea, of course. “To fix your spine,” she’d said. “You’re starting to look wide in the back, like a kitchen girl. No dancer can afford to look wide.”

River swallowed down the bitterness threatening to rise and held her breath, squinting through the haze until the blur of the intruder settled into something solid. Male, definitely. Not Jared, the ringleader's little minion, catching her for slacking off again, thank the stars. Or...a humanoid apple, that was less thankful. Perhaps she could have made a friend. Instead it was just some stranger eating—yes, now she was sure of it—biting into a fresh apple. Her stomach twisted at the scent. Sharp. Sweet. Mocking.

“We do not crave food.” Her mother’s voice cut into her skull, cold and unwavering. A commandment dressed up like a lesson. She then looked at how he was eating it and scrunched her nose. "Eating like a horse is for whores and commoners River. Not future primas" another lesson from her mother cascaded in as she could now understand what her mother meant. The way he chewed was clearly on purpose, and it was doing wonders in making her hunger dissipate for a moment. 'Small mercies I suppose' she thought.

River coughed behind her hand, the motion jerky as she awkwardly stood, tucking her battered pointe shoes behind her with her hands. She took a careful step back. “You…” she rasped. Her voice, barely more than a breath, cracked with disuse. Years of swallowing words had left her sounding more ghost than girl. “I’m sorry,” she added after a beat, forcing the words out past the lump in her throat. “This area isn’t open to the public yet.” She glanced around, searching for movement—someone, anyone who could explain how this man had wandered into the rear of the tents unnoticed. It wasn’t exactly hard to sneak in, but it wasn’t easy either. And if the ringleader caught wind of this, the blame would fall on her without question. Her dinner—what little there was to it—would vanish entirely.

She took another cautious step back, trying to get a clearer look at him. He didn’t have the look of a beggar or a thief, nor did he seem like the usual sort who attended their shows. Then again, every town they visited brought in a different kind of audience. She’d long stopped trying to tell them apart.

“If you…” she began, clearing her throat and rolling her shoulders back, attempting to gather what scraps of dignity and confidence she had left. “If you take the path under the rehearsal tents and turn right twice, then duck beneath the lion cages—you’ll find your way back to the front. That’ll keep you from getting yelled at… or worse.” Her fingers fussed nervously with the fraying ribbon on her shoes as she debated whether she should escort him herself. Any farther, and the sword swallower might think she’d brought him in as a prop. The last time that happened, things got bloody. Literally.

“I’m not even supposed to be back here myself,” she admitted, her voice cracking again as she tried for casual. “But I work… sort of… with this space. Which means you definitely shouldn’t be here.” She grimaced at her own awkwardness. So much for poise. Where was security? Her mind reeled with the question, narrowing in on the most likely culprit. Her eyes drifted back to the man’s outfit, taking in the details again. No smell of rotting roses, no cloying perfume to suggest he’d sweet-talked Annabelle. That was something, at least. If he had charmed his way past her, River would have had to help escort another dazed, half-dressed man back through the maze of tents. Annabelle was notorious for pulling in any handsome stray that crossed her path. River sighed inwardly. Her luck was rarely this neutral. The man was still standing there, and her stomach was still empty. River sighed inwardly. Her luck was rarely this neutral. The man was still standing there, and her stomach was still empty. But at least, for now, it wasn't Jared. And it wans't Anabelle's doing. 'And I suppose I am not going insane for thinking apples could become humans' she added in her head.

'Small mercies River...Small..mercies' she thought more worrying her bottom lip into her mouth.

---

 

[Atamita]

The Last Dance

Peter Gundry

location

Edges of the encampment

Mood

Curious, amused, daring

Marinus looks at the woman squirm almost as if under dark magic except... this was none other than her own mind acting up. She's not dancing nor seeing her mother. This is just her. Her thoughts get louder with every squirm.

He takes another bite into the apple without an ounce of concern and chews louder in response. Perhaps in annoyance of how loud her thoughts are. Can’t help it when her soul is his. It means her thoughts are his.

We do not crave food.

Debatable.

Eating like a horse is for whores and commoners, River. Not future primas.

That's rich coming from mommy dearest.

Small mercies, I suppose.

Food is a mercy to you, but it’s not like your mother would give you any.

Her fingers fidget with the ribbons of her ballet shoes as cough takes her. Her voices hoarses itself out as she attempts to speak.

He says nothing as he waits for her to finish. These are words he's heard anywhere and a thousand times from Derek but still, he graces her the one thing he'll always have more than she does:

time.

The time someone takes to listen to her.

The time someone takes to sit down with her.

Perhaps for the first 22 years of her life, she's never had it but he's here now. After all, it's why humans even come to him for the first place. He has what they will never have. He gives what they will never have. Yet... he couldn't give what he has to the one person he wanted to give to the most in the first place, and he'll always see that person in her eyes when they have the same cerulean hues. Though she must be in a better place if he can’t find her anywhere.

"If you take the path under the rehearsal tents and turn right twice, then duck beneath the lion cages—you’ll find your way back to the front. That’ll keep you from getting yelled at… or worse,"

her tired voice squeaks out.

I’d like to see the look on Derek’s little face when his circus do try that.

A chuckle erupts from Marinus as her thoughts continue. He considers what might happen if the sword swallower did try to use him as a prop. Should he play dead when the knife accidentally or let’s be honest, purposefully flies for his head? Or wave his little hand as the entire audience cheer while the crew watches him in horror?

The entire circus is filled with freaks of nature and he is

the king of them all.

“I’m not even supposed to be back here myself,”

her voice cracks again as it strains to sound clear,

“But I work… sort of… with this space. Which means you definitely shouldn’t be here.”

Where was security?

That was even a thing Derek had?

His eyebrows raised in surprise. Color Marinus impressed. That was not here last time. Her thoughts jump to Annabelle which almost surprises him.

Annabelle…. Is that how Derek fund his lifestyle when I decide sparing his life is his reward?

Nonetheless, he ignores her last comments and takes a few step towards her. He towers over her with his shadow casted over her before leaning down to her level with the apple right in front of her face.

"I won't tell if you promise to not tell either,"

he winks at her innocently, a half-hearted pleading with her to not tell the "great and magnificent" Derek. He tilts the apple towards her as if making a peace offering.

The most unhinged thoughts always come from hungry minds.

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

River's nose crinkled in distaste as she glanced between the apple and the stranger. His teeth tore into the fruit with a slow, deliberate crunch, the sound grating against her nerves. A fragment of apple clung to his molars, glistening mockingly. She took a cautious step back, only to feel the taut fabric of a tent stall press against her spine, halting her retreat.

'This man is unsettling', she mused, forcing a strained smile as she sidestepped, attempting to slip out from the narrow space she'd cornered herself into. 'He chews like a cow ruminating, and that bit of apple stuck in his teeth? It's like a warning sign plastered on his face.' A quiet snort escaped her as she imagined Annabelle pouncing on him, or worse, her mother setting her sights on him. The thought of leading him past a group of flirtatious performers briefly entertained her—perhaps they'd distract him long enough for her to vanish.

'No... that's unkind,' she chided herself, steadying her breath. She met his gaze, her eyes narrowing. "Seriously, you shouldn't be here if you don't belong. You'll get into trouble," she reiterated, her voice firmer this time.

A sudden commotion caught her attention—Mister Fitz's unmistakable shuffle and muttered curses. 'His whiskey must be running low if he's showing up on time', she thought, stifling a giggle. Without hesitation, she grabbed the stranger's wrist, pulling him behind a stack of crates.

"Quiet," she whispered urgently. "Mister Fitz is kinder than most, but if he thinks you stole that apple..." Her voice trailed off, memories of past punishments surfacing. She recalled the last time someone was accused of theft—the sharp crack of the whip, the stifled cries. At least his hits were methodical, almost detached. Not like Mother's.

She shook off the thought, focusing on the present. "What are you even doing back here?" she asked, peering around the crates. A group of dancers passed by, their voices laced with irritation. "Her arms look like twigs," one sneered. River's shoulders tensed. 'They're not that bad,' she thought defensively, though doubt gnawed at her.

"No... I don't want to know," she said abruptly, turning back to the stranger. "That would make me an accomplice." Her attempt at a glare faltered under the weight of exhaustion.

Without waiting for a response, she tugged him along, weaving through the maze of tents toward the lion's enclosure. 'He's probably just lost... or an idiot', she concluded, guiding him away from potential danger.

---

 

[Atamita]

The Last Dance

Peter Gundry

location

Edges of the encampment while being lead away to the lion's enclosure

Mood

Annoyed, a little bit surprised

This man is unsettling.

Her thoughts betrays the smile in front of Marinus. She sidesteps, attempting to squirm out from the narrow space she had been in earlier. He could only stare at her as she tries to make herself comfortable in his presence.

He chews like a cow ruminating, and that bit of apple stuck in his teeth? It's like a warning sign plastered on his face.

I'm a little offended. A cow?

He scoffs at her low snort and gives her a glare before he sighs. Although, River might plan to shove him off to a group of desperate women, but perhaps turning invisible or donning an ugly look might just do the trick to make River question her own sanity even more might make it up to him. Ah, but... that's just taking the easy way out with that woman she calls mother.

That's no fun.

His hand holds the apple and his lips are still as he watches the woman giggle at her thoughts. He looks at her in amazement that her methods of revenge was just to lead him to a group of women that would throw themselves at him like a local whorehouse.

Incredulous.

She had completely failed to factor that Marinus could easily inspire their jealousy against her.

He rolls his eyes, seeing that she could still laugh after all she's been through. Well, if she's going to have some fun with doing that, he might as well do the same back.

She reaches for his wrist as he lets her pull him behind a crate. He looks at her with slight surprise as her impoverished arm could still even yank him like that. A small smile grows on his face with memories surfacing in his mind.

I remember doing this with Miss Ofelia as she was teaching me how to hunt. She was always so strong with her yanks despite eventually being shorter than me some day. Too bad, she never saw the day I outgrew her.

His smile quickly dissipates as his soft eyes look down at the ballerina before his gaze finally set on what's in front of them.

"Quiet,"

she whispered sharply,

"Mister Fitz is kinder than most, but if he thinks you stole that apple..."

Marinus gives a look to the apple before looking back at the so-called Mister Fitz. He shrugs his shoulders as the sight of the man produces no pleasure nor interest. Then memories of whips and cracks seep from her mind to Marinus. Now, it was his turn to snort.

Really? Kinder than most but he'll whip as hard as your mother?

"What are you even doing here?"

Before he could reply, he holds himself back for a moment. Not wanting to alert the woman nor the group of dancers passing by in front of them.

"Her arms look like twigs,"

one of the dancers sneers.

They're not that bad,

her thoughts shot back, almost immediately.

Marinus scoffs as he looks at the dancers then at River tensing her shoulder,

"Relax. It's not like they even mentioned your name."

Some people really can't handle being at the top.

"No... I don't want to know,"

she replies, answering her own earlier question. She turns back to an exasperated Marinus,

"That would make me an accomplice."

As she drags him, he sighs before he shoves the apple into her mouth before his warm hands firmly press her jaws close on it,

"and you're already one for whatever Mister Fitz could care."

"You talk too much."

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

River opened her mouth, a retort at the ready—sharp, defensive, rehearsed. An accomplice? She wasn’t about to let that slide. But the words never had a chance to land. Because the apple—the very one he'd been chewing with that exaggerated, maddening nonchalance—was suddenly in her mouth. Her lips parted in shock, her whole body frozen. A flush crept across her cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from something knotted deeper—humiliation, maybe. Or confusion. Was this a joke? Was he mocking her? Her wide eyes snapped up to him. Her fingers loosened from his wrist. The apple remained between her lips, half in her mouth like some gag. She didn’t bite. She couldn’t.

I talk too much?

The thought rang hollow and familiar in her skull. She winced.

I just said a few sentences...

But that excuse had never worked before. She'd heard it too many times, in too many tones. You talk too much. It usually was just a scolding or a warning. Sometimes followed by silence. Other times... not. It really depended on who she had heard it from. The more people learned how her mother treated her, the more willing they were to add to her punishments after all. River had no idea that some surely were being bribed to be cruel by her mother, nor did she know that some paid her mother for a chance to release some tension after a long time of torment from their own struggles.

Her hand moved automatically, twisting the apple free from her mouth. One forced bite marked the flesh—hers. She stared at it with a kind of numb horror. Her breath was shallow, almost panicked. Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to the earliest times she’d asked a question. Why is it like that? That hurts. Can we rest now? All answered with that same sentence and whatever punishment her mother deemed educational. Was this his form of punishment? A mocking silence stuffed with fruit? 'Its not that creative' she thought with a bitter laugh stuck in her throat.

"I'm sorry," River whispered, barely able to hear herself. Her hand hovered near her mouth before pulling the bitten piece out with pinched fingers, letting it fall to the ground like it burned her. She offered the apple back with trembling hands. “I’m not allowed apples right now.” Her stomach betrayed her. A low, plaintive growl broke the quiet between them. River winced and recoiled slightly, holding the apple closer to her chest as if to hide the evidence. Her thumb rubbed nervously over the waxy skin, pausing where his bite had sunk in—so large and unthinking—and then to hers, barely a nibble. A guilt unlike hunger pooled in her chest.

Mother’s going to be so upset, her mind whispered, not quite rational but too loud to ignore. The last time she'd snuck food, she'd been chained to a chair. She could still feel the cool iron around her wrists, the numbness that set in, the shame. Her mother had eaten enough for three—roasted chicken, braised duck, lamb, and steaks so thick they bled onto the plates. Vegetables caramelized in honey, soft rolls soaked in butter. The scent alone had been a kind of torture, one paired with a smile and a smug recitation from that damned etiquette book.

“A proper lady must never indulge,” her mother had said between bites, “lest she become grotesque.” River knew that book word for word now. Her mother had made sure of that. She exhaled shakily, trying to shake the memory free, but it clung to her ribs like ivy. I’m not there anymore, she reminded herself. This is different. Her eyes had been on the apple so long it felt like the fruit had swallowed her whole.

And then, hesitantly, she took another bite. Smaller this time. Controlled. It wasn’t about taste—it was about reclaiming control. About telling herself she could eat now, if she wanted. At least while nobody was watching. She'd have to cover the scent later, perhaps wash her mouth out with water. Mother allowed water at least. Her body welcomed the food like it was sacred, and for a moment the hollowness in her stomach didn't ache so sharply. But even eating wasn’t simple.

She chewed carefully, nervously, peeling away the skin with her front teeth before taking the tiniest of bites. The crunch was barely audible—she didn’t want to make noise, not now. "You talk too much", his words echoed again, and her mind added: Maybe I chew too loud, too.

Her jaw tensed mid-bite. She winced, a sharp pain blooming near the hinge where old bruises still lingered, her muscles worn from clenching too often. She raised a hand and massaged just below her ear, easing the ache like she had so many times before.

When she finally looked up again, her gaze met his. The intensity was gone, softened by something quieter. Something she didn’t have the words for yet.

“Well,” she whispered, her voice like folded paper. “I'm not speaking, so are you going to?” she spoke with a bit of bitterness she didn't know she had the ability to summon. Perhaps it was the fact he hadn't physically harmed her yet. And truthfully he was being rude, sneaking up on people, forcing food into their mouths like some prized pig. If she wasn't starving she could have avoided this damned apple, but honestly not tasting and orange and rice for once was like heaven. Her fingers that still hung to the apple, were clinging onto the apple like it was some heaven sent prize, an elixir of life. She took another tiny bite, her free hand still pressed gently against her sore jaw.

---

 

[Atamita]

The Last Dance

Peter Gundry

location

Lion's Enclosure

Mood

Happy, amused, a stroke of fear and anxiety from his flashback for a moment

A myriad of emotions flush through her face and Marinus could only relish in each one of those expressions, each one lasting a second, knowing that her most vulnerable moment right now is with him. When her hands loosen from his wrist, he could only hold it up with a smirk as if declaring innocence to officers while taking a step back, leaving her all alone to her thoughts and the mess she's in.

Her thoughts go towards Esme, the woman she calls mother, and all the antics from the past particularly revolving paid hires to torment her little golden goose. Marinus almost whips his head in amazement after hearing from River's thought about Esme damaging the only thing that's giving her wealth rather than maintaining it.

Jealousy is a scary, scary thing from women,

he remarks in his mind as if commiserating with River,

but that's exactly what I want from them.

"I'm sorry,"

River whispers. Her hand covers own lips in disbelief before pulling the bitten piece out with pinched fingers like she had just pulled out a worm. She offered the apple back with trembling hands,

“I’m not allowed apples right now.”

But the sudden growl from her stomach and her hands retracting the apple immediately could only leave Marinus widening his eyes as he blinks to look at her with glee. His head tilts as he leans forward to get a better look at her. He now knows that the control her mother has on her is beginning to chip. He takes a step closer but averts his gaze for a moment as if giving her some semblance of privacy even though they are only a few feet from each other.

Guilt is only the first hurdle to got through to become something more. Marinus knows that better than anyone. Afterall, isn't that how he conquered these lands all those years ago? No room for guilt or pity.

When she winced into her bite, a look of concern flashes across his face as a memory sparks. It was his mother. Beaten. Battered from shielding him earlier. She'd always said her jaw hurt afterwards but really, it was perhaps the mourning from losing the ability to bear children that made her despondent.

It was a different type of pain.

Still, he breathes a breath in. His eyes close, not wanting to see the memory in front of him any longer before opening up again with his worries sent off in that same breath. He refocuses his gaze onto her and she looks almost surprise when meeting him in the eyes, but still, his gaze towards her does not change. Marinus ignores the bewilderment from her as it's something all demons should cause for their own sake if they want to avoid being caught in this world.

“Well,”

her voice whispers, reaching his ears,

“I'm not speaking, so are you going to?”

Her voice dripped with bitterness that could only make Marinus smile as her fingers clutched into the apple, seeping into the core. She takes another bite, unable to deny his gift anymore.

Like mother, like daughter.

"No, it's just hard to hear this,"

he points to her stomach,

"and this-"

his hand points to her face,

"at the same time."

He leans back onto a stack of crates, arms crossed, and his face nonchalant,

"Take it as a peace offering from the new dancer of the trope."

He winks as he smiles at her,

"The name is Marinus; nice to meet you."

The last part of his tone dripped with a certain type of delight that clashed with River's own bitterness and anger.

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

“He’s insane,” River thought immediately, taking another soft crunch of apple, her fingers gently soothing the tender spot near her jaw. “Or at the very least, ruder than a peacock.” Her mind conjured the image before she could stop it—his smug face grafted onto the proud, strutting body of a peacock. A sly smirk tugged at her lips as she imagined his ranting replaced with obnoxious squawks and shrill screeches, his hair fluffing in rhythm with a ridiculous fan of feathers. River slowed her chewing, pressing her fingers to her lips to quell the rising smile before he could see it.

“A birdie flouncing about in a mating dance,” she mused, amused despite herself. It suited him. Loud. Flashy. Demanding attention without realizing how foolish he looked.

His offhand comment about not being able to hear her stomach rumbled through her mind again. It wasn’t the first time someone noticed. But no one had ever offered food to fix it. They just raised their hand, their voice, their threats. “I suppose he hasn’t been tainted yet,” she thought, a flicker of something unfamiliar warming in her chest—not trust, not quite, but maybe the whisper of it. A delicate thread forming. “I suppose it is kind... in its own way. After all, selfish birdies take care of themselves first prior to others.” It was that thought, that half-born idea of kindness, that gave her permission to eat more. It made it feel safe. Deserved, even.

“New dancer?” she echoed aloud, tilting her head slightly, offering a curious look while thanking whatever gods that be that the world didn’t tilt on its axis with her movement. "I didn't..hear of a new dancer" she added trying to rapt her mind for memories. It wouldn't be a new thing if she had just, vanished while someone was informing her of someone new joining the troupe. She was certainly starving enough this morning that she hardly recalled practice. She only recalled the reprimands and mistakes.

River tilted her head back straight and then her blue eyes swept his form deliberately, unapologetically—from foot to crown and back down. And as she met his eyes again, she took another bite, mimicking his tactic of chewing to fill the space between words. Her brow lifted, a subtle challenge in its arch.

“You’ll break a leg.” It wasn’t theatrical. It was literal. Her tone was serious, knitting with concern as it was clear she had just taken one look at him and determined he would fail. “Look at your calves and ankles,” she said, motioning lazily toward his legs with the hand that wasn’t holding the apple. “You wouldn’t last a single rehearsal, much less lift one of our dancers without toppling over. You'll hurt both yourself and the dancer.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but underneath it was a ribbon of concern she didn’t care to admit.

“Your posture is all wrong, too. You curve where you should be straight. Keep that up and you’ll destroy your hips and neck before you even get your shoes.” She shook her head again, her tone gruff but strangely maternal in its bluntness.

“Go home, Mister Marinus,” she muttered, her lips curling faintly into a teasing smile. “The circus isn’t a playground for dreamers. You’d make more money as some lady of the night.” The joke was light, her breath escaping in a half-hearted snort meant to punctuate it, but her mind was already drifting elsewhere—past the humor, to truth.

She pictured the cane. The sharp snap against skin. Her own calves still stung from its strike earlier that day. She imagined it turning on him, just as quickly. The dance mistress didn’t tolerate weakness. And the others? They’d haze him until there was nothing left of his brightness. She'd seen it before. Dancers like him—full of hope and naivety—wanting to be more than nameless, wanting to matter. They all had choices. They could walk away. But they stayed. And suffered.

And River? She had never been given the choice. Her heart twisted, shame and bitterness curling around her ribs like smoke. She kept her expression calm, carefully composed, and focused on the apple in her hand like it was the only thing anchoring her. The war inside her was louder than any crunch, louder than any words spoken aloud.

“His family probably misses him,” she thought bitterly, eyes flicking up to glance at him again. “He looks well-fed. Cared for. Loved.” To throw himself into this life—this cursed life—was a cruelty to everyone who ever held him dear. “He should just go home,” she thought again. It was clear now her earlier judgements were her form of protecting him, offering a small apple of kindness in her own way. 'I can't choose, but he can, he needs to know that' she determined furrowing her eyes back down to the ground and sighing as she took a break from eating. Not even a dent was made in the apple from her bites.

---

 

[Atamita]

The Last Dance

Peter Gundry

location

Lion's Enclosure but walking away

Mood

Annoyed, a little bit impatient, and joyful

He chuckles along with her as the image in her head projects in his mind.

Big and flashy isn't wrong sometimes... but it is wrong for a demon to be like that for most times.

“New dancer?”

she looks at him with the look Marinus is used to receiving. Doubt and curiosity. It's a look many mortals give to him but so do many demons. Not many mortals can become a demon that easily.

"I didn't... hear of a new dancer."

"Aww, I guess they just didn't tell you,"

he coos, offering a sympathetic look that was never really too warm and yet distant enough for a stranger to accept.

Her beady eyes inspects him up and down as if she's scrutinizing goods from a store, but he does not shy away from her gaze as he stands tall, letting her feast upon his figure in every angle.

“You’ll break a leg,”

she says without a hint of joke or casual.

Oh? Did she finally figure out what I'm capable of doing?

“Look at your calves and ankles,”

she motions lazily toward his legs with her free hand,

“You wouldn’t last a single rehearsal, much less lift one of our dancers without toppling over. You'll hurt both yourself and the dancer.”

He scoffs at her words before rolling his eyes.

“Your posture is all wrong, too. You curve where you should be straight. Keep that up and you’ll destroy your hips and neck before you even get your shoes,”

she reprimands him like a mother.

I could never escape you, Miss Ofelia. Here is a woman doing all the "good works" in your name.

He could already picture a bright orange flutter of hair swaying side from side at ease, swiping his legs off balance, and hitting him in all the right places that were excruciating or immobilize him for a good moment. Miss Ofelia would only have a slight smile but most of the time, the look of a predator going in on their prey. The more Marinus lasted longer and learned all her tricks, the more excited she was. She was always someone who chased for the thrill and the closest person that came to beating her was him but... A certain bear took that place before Marinus could.

“Go home, Mister Marinus,”

she muttered, her lips curling faintly into a teasing smile,

“The circus isn’t a playground for dreamers. You’d make more money as some lady of the night.”

So this is what I get if I feed her.

As her criticisms and small insults build up into a crescendo into his ears— he takes a deep breath in and quick move towards her. His arms brushes past her and instead lift a nearby crate into his embrace, and with that, his arm smashes down into 3 different crates, destroying the silence between them and the items inside of it.

"My apologies,"

his gentle voice apologizes as if it was an accident,

"I couldn't think of a more better way to show you that I actually belong."

His hands slip into his pockets before walking over to her and leaning down to her with the same kind expression as before. His soul murmurs at her juvenile soul that was plucked all those years ago. Ripe with its innocence and purity. In a low and quiet voice, perhaps a little too close and intimate that he could taste her soul,

"I really value your opinion, Ms. Thompson as the prima ballerina. Your opinion just holds a lot of weight on me..."

He walks away, the scent of her soul resting on his mind as he leaves her behind at the lion's enclosure with a small wave of goodbye.

More than you'll ever know, ballerina.

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

The images that flashed through River’s mind as Marinus stepped closer were straight from the kind of horror novel no one ever finished. Eyes plucked out and shoved down her throat. Her arm twisted back until it snapped. Her neck torn open, eaten through with his mouth. Her hair yanked back and buried under crates while he played out torment after torment, each one worse than the last. And yet—All that happened was the crash of wood, the thud of food bags brushing her foot. That was it.

Her wide, frozen blue eyes didn’t dare move. She just stared at the place where he had stood, trying to understand how someone could shatter a crate like that—and smile so gently afterward. Her mind had gone utterly blank. Her legs wouldn’t move. She could only watch as he walked away. A soft mewl nearby cracked the silence—one of the lions, speaking now that the danger had passed. It startled River enough to shatter her trance, and when it did, her legs finally gave. She dropped to the ground the next second her entire body shuddering in pure terror and relief.

Her heart pounded so hard it vibrated in her ears, crawling up her throat, overtaking every thought. The hiccups that followed were grotesque things, rattling her frame as she clawed at the dirt beneath her palms, desperate to ground herself. 'He’s a monster.' her mind rattled the thought like a chant. Screaming when she couldn't use the muscles in her throat. Gasps tore out of her lungs like she'd been pulled from a lake. The lions stirred in their cages, rattling as the scent of her fear filled the tent. One, in particular—one fond of River—mewled louder, trying to reach her.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. She shook her head hard. No. She was fine. She was fine. Nothing had touched her. Nothing had happened. Just an insane, smiling monster. She hiccupped again, this time slower, steadier, and finally dared to lift her head and look around.

“How did he know my name?” she croaked finally registering the world around her. The panic cooling down in her heart. Her gaze locked onto the empty space he'd left behind. Her mind tumbled through memory—had she told him? No. She hadn’t. Maybe her name was on a poster somewhere, but no one ever used it. She was just the pretty dancer, or the prima who floats, or whatever dramatic name the ringleader had slapped onto her that week.

“A pervert?” she muttered. A lion snarled at her sudden voice, and River flinched, pressing her hand gently against the bars for support. The texture of a familiar tongue licked at her skin, rough and reassuring. “Mother always said perverts would find their way in,” she whispered to the lion, who purred as though in agreement. “I should let her know.”

She turned back to the wreckage, blinking. Three crates, splintered like dry bark. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of it. How did he look like that and still have the strength to do that? Maybe the wood was old. Maybe it was weak. Maybe—maybe there was an explanation, something that made this all less wrong. Because otherwise, she had just mocked a thing that could’ve ripped her apart without blinking. And yet... he hadn’t.

“Then again,” she whispered to herself, voice dry as old parchment, “splatters don’t feel hunger.” A laugh escaped her lips—hollow, stunned. Right. Be careful what you wish for, River. Or else a perverted peacock will drop out of the sky and start smashing boxes around you. She rolled her eyes, giving the lion one last calming scratch behind the ear before standing and brushing herself off. As she gathered the shattered remains of the crates, she let out another breath and muttered—

“At least now I’ve got a proper excuse for being late.” Mother would be less angry, if only slightly. Until she heard about this perverted peacock that had just made its way into the circus. River made a mental note to avoid him, even prior to her mother's lecture that had to be coming. If he was just another dancer, then thank the gods for the hierarchy. The dance mistress wouldn’t dare mix their levels. For once, the archaic structure of the dance company was exactly what River needed.

---

 

[Atamita]

Dinero

Trinidad Cardona

location

Caravan Dance Tent

Mood

Happy, worried, but playful

"So,"

Sheila arches an eyebrow as she and Marinus lock into a poised stance, piano, violins, and trumpets swelling behind them,

"you spooked River into tattling mommy what's going on."

Marinus smirks, his eyes aglow with violet and orange, letting his human facade down while spinning her with a flourish. The room lights up with an unnatural glow of lights that dance around them. His head leans closer to her,

"Call it a message— Esme's kid won't be her pawn much longer."

Sheila's grip tightens, her smile sharp like blades,

"Your little flashiness would cost us her soul!"

Marinus chuckles, his steps crisp while the music fills the air with dark-energy,

"I've could've burned the entire caravan down to make my point. Letting River tattle is subtle."

Sheila's eyes narrow, their rhythm slowing,

"Why is she running to Esme after all that she's suffered?"

Her memories run back to the thought of her own mother... the very one who sacrificed her twin sister while screaming Sheila's name. Was it by mistake or purpose? She'll never know. She's now in a place where Sheila can't go. It's where Marinus and his demons frequent, and yet barred from living humans like her.

He jerks her into a sharp spin, bending her back, voice low,

"Who do you think she's more scared of? Me, or the mom who's been breaking her spirit?"

Sheila rises, locking eyes,

"If she's tattling to Esme, you're scaring worse."

"Wrong,"

Marinus stares past her, face hardening as the violins surge,

"River's too battered to defy her."

The tempo shifts as their heads toward the same direction. Their pace quickens.

"We don't have much time left,"

her eyes does not move.

His eyes narrow, his hands tightening his grip on Sheila,

"which is why I have to break Esme's little hold now."

"It's been 200 years and you're still like this. Asking me to do small things like this,"

Sheila muses before flipping back to the opposite direction as the two hold their pose while striding back to their starting spot.

"Don't know if you'll be here for another 200 years,"

he smirks before turning his head back to her,

"I need to take all the chance I can."

Though the corner of his lips wavers for a moment as the corner of his eyes spot the light of glow in the air flicker, a sign of his wavering magic from fueling Sheila's lifespan.

I won't lose you like I did to momma.

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

Chop. Chop. Chop. Scrape. Chop. Chop. Chop. Scrape.

River’s arms hugged her sides tighter with each chop. She had been right. Her mother had been furious when she hadn’t returned to their dingy little tent on time. Though dingy and far from glamorous like the ringleader’s caravan, their tent was still among the nicer ones. It even had an attached caravan where her mother stayed primarily and where River was never allowed. Not even on the coldest of nights.

The inside of the tent was opulent—trinkets lined every corner, makeshift chandeliers of glass and stone hid the unsightly candles, and silken fabrics worthy of kings and queens masked the tacky striped canvas walls. The furniture was plush and gold-lined; cherubs and roaring lions watched from every corner, draped in boas of real feathers and crowned with hats once worn by high society’s elite.

Even while cooking, Esme, River’s mother, used only the best—pure silver tools, China said to be owned by emperors, cutting boards rumored to be carved from trees blessed by Greek gods. River didn’t believe most of it. All she saw were her paychecks hanging from hooks, her skipped meals folded into tablecloths, and her irritation reflected in the smug faces of the peddlers who sold them overpriced goods. It was all a sham. A fitting home for a sham. After all, that’s all River felt like—a hollow thing. A husk of a prima ballerina, curled in on herself while her mother prepared a meal fit for a hundred men. It wasn’t for her of course, her meal was already served and practical glacial with its temperature. Stone cold rice with bits of orange slices mixed in. River couldn’t eat yet though, parents always ate first.

River had changed out of her rehearsal clothes on arrival—per her mother’s command—but instead of her daywear, she was made to put on her nightgown. It had only just turned dusk. Too early for sleep. But River understood. She was expected to endure her mother’s scolding. Depending on River’s answer would determine if she was allowed to eat or not tonight.

“I suppose I should thank him for the apple,” she thought, wincing at the sound of more potatoes scraping into boiling water. “No… stick to the plan. Avoid him. I wouldn’t be in trouble if he hadn’t distracted me.” She flinched as her mother finally turned around.

Esme was what River imagined she might look like, someday—if she ever was allowed to take care of herself. Despite her age, Esme was still beautiful. White strands threaded through thick brown curls that fell in perfect ringlets down to her hips. Her once flawless skin was now worn—wrinkled from frowning, speckled with sunspots—but it still held the echo of porcelain elegance. Her figure remained tight and upright thanks to corsets, ribbons, and whatever strange devices she was willing to weld to her body. What skin she did show was draped in jewels and lace—gifts once meant for River. Trinkets from nobles and socialites charmed by her performance… or her company afterward.

“You made at least twenty mistakes during rehearsal.” Esme’s voice sliced through River’s thoughts, snapping her upright—eyes down, arms hugging her waist, back straight. “And instead of coming home to fix them, you were out flouncing about with those damned flea-bitten sacks of meat, covered in wood chips!”

A loud smack made River go still. Her mother had stabbed her favorite knife into the cutting board. The sound rattled inside River’s skull, birthing intrusive visions of all the ways that knife might end her. It wasn’t like her mother would have to search for where her heart was, she could count her ribs if she stripped her down just by looking after all.

“You can’t even rehearse without embarrassing us,” Esme snapped. “And look at you—hells below, you look like a walking stick bug.” River pressed her lips into a tight line, waiting.

“You have one job, River. One. Dance.” A dramatic sigh. The knife resumed its rhythm, chopping between sighs of disappointment. “Most little girls would kill for your life. No cooking. No old lecher for a husband. No books to read, no sums to learn. Just dance. Smile. Be a little flower drifting through the music.”

River scowled—just slightly—now that her mother’s back was turned. Bitterness climbed her throat like bile. She hated when her mother dressed up abuse like it was a privilege. Worse, she hated the parts that were true. Her life was easier—wasn’t it? She’d seen soot-covered women her age, some missing fingers, others missing hope. She’d seen a girl dragged sobbing into a church. She had no right to envy them… right?

“Well, River?” Esme asked at last. “Explain yourself.”

River looked up slightly, steadied her breathing, and tightened her arms around her waist.

“There’s a new dancer. His name is Marinus,” she said. “He distracted me after rehearsal. He… fell into the crates. Must’ve been weakened from the trip from our previous placement. Since he was new, I told him to leave while I cleaned it up. I didn’t want him to get in trouble on his first day. Politeness is expected of ladies after all.” The lie rolled off her tongue smoother than expected. A little rebellion. A strange lightness bloomed in her chest. Using her mother’s damned teachings added to her rebellion and lie, and when her mother didn’t chop amongst the wood once more River felt a bit more courageous, lifting her head up just slightly before speaking again.

“He knew my name. Before I told him. I think he might be—”

Her mother turned sharply, face twisted into a new kind of rage. River froze, breath catching. Esme’s eyes burned—bright and sharp, like they could pierce bone.

“Marinus?” The name was spoken like venom, and River whimpered at the sound of it. She nodded quickly.

“That bastard,” Esme hissed, almost to herself. Then she blinked, and a terrifying smile took her face. Cold. Detached. She stepped forward, and River braced for a blow—but instead, she was pulled close. Hugged tight to her mother’s chest. A hand stroked her hair gently, soothing her shivering spine.

“Poor River… you met a pervert,” her mother crooned, voice syrupy sweet with venom. “No wonder you were so frightened when you got home.” Her arms tightened around River squeezing her too tightly. River gasped. Pain bloomed in her ribs, pressure crushing down on old bruises—pressing against fragile bones.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Esme whispered close to her ear. “Perverts will come, and they’ll do awful things. How frightened you must’ve been.” The hug was a warning. A silent punishment. A reminder. “You must stop entertaining these men, River. Or you’ll end up a husk. A pathetic little whisper of yourself. Or worse, stuck with a child who makes mistakes while you do everything to make their life perfect.” She chuckled. The sound made River’s skin crawl.

“It’s alright now. But you know I still must punish you… for entertaining a pervert.” She pulled away at last, and River gasped quietly, eyes cast low. “You know what that means, yes?”

River nodded.

“Good. Grab the book. Practice your rises. Twice through before bed. Don’t forget your poles.” A gentle pat on the cheek, like praise. And then Esme turned back to her chopping, satisfied.

River excused herself quietly, retreating to her alcove. She didn’t notice that as soon as she vanished behind the curtain, her mother did too—but in the opposite direction. Esme slipped out of the tent, eyes wild with panic and rage, already summoning her little spies.

---

 

[Atamita]

Mischievious Minds

Peter Gundry

location

Lion's Enclosure, Tent Enter/Exit, Secluded Corner

Mood

Joyful, Playful, Confident

Nothing in this circus really escapes Marinus, not when River's thoughts get louder with every whip her mother gives her. If it wasn't the groaning about food, she supposed it was just whispering his name over and over again... or at least all her failed attempts to not do so.

Each steps he took only lead her to be louder and louder. A demon's ears are sensitive but more so when it comes to prey. However, there is another thought louder than hers today.

The Lion.

When he walks into the beast's gaze, the lion snarls but it was cut short by whimpers as soon as the demon took his slow, melodic steps towards the beast.

His fingers snake around the bar as his arms climb around it. A hand from him reaches out and gently touches the lion’s face. The lion flinches slightly as Marinus touches it still and says,

“I know what you used to be and used to eat. I know what you miss.”

The lion’s eye lit up as it soft gaze sets upon him.

“Those cut meats aren’t enough…”

The lion’s heart flutters as it hears those words before looking at Marinus, then in a daze, Marinus opens the door.

“I know what is.”

Make sure to get that guy.

The Lion's eyes lit up as the hand wrapping around the frame jolts, loosening the frames of it.

---------

Marinus could only hold a hand up as his stifled laughter struggles to escape his lips while walking away from the scene of his deeds, unmindful of his shoulder brushes past an oncoming Annabelle. In that instance of their touch, she felt it. A chill in the air that raises the goosebumps underneath her skin even past all the warmth her clothes kept her in. She raises her head to look at the man but his figure is already far past her, only an image of his back remain of golden hair and a tall figure revealing his unnaturally quick steps despite his seemingly casual stroll.

"Oh dear," she looks at his back in shock, realizing that he's walking into River's direction. Her legs quickly pick up to him, and her fingers latches onto the man by the shoulder.

"Hey!" her arms yanks to turn the man around but to no avail. She scoffs and her free hand slaps on the man's back, "Turn around!"

I'll play your little game and your little pawn, Esme.

He turns around as his hand moves to Annabelle's hand, covering it with the warmth of his palm just as his shadow covers her. His head slowly turns to reveal his visage in all his cerulean hues and golden hair. His face was of proportions where everything fit where it should just to make her heart pound. It almost hurts her eyes to look at and to know someone that beautiful could be out there. His blue eyes, golden hair, firm muscles that Annabelle can clearly feel by just that grab and how large it is over hers. She can already imagine herself under those things. Her scowl quickly turns into a smile as her hand, "Well, where is a delicious man like you going?~ I had a dream where something like you was hiding around the walls~"

Sounds dreamy until the full of extent of her dreams is understood to be that she was whipped by Esme in that very same dream after trying to go somewhere she wasn't suppose to. She was no River Thompson but she couldn't help to feel like River in that dream... spooking her...

Her chest raises and touts its size while she lowers her head looking at him, almost as if pointing his gaze downward. Sensing her rising desire by her breath rising in her chest, Marinus could only put on a polite smile and speak in a low voice,

"Somewhere..."

His eyes shift just as he does when he spots a bare feet in the distance,

"Private."

Words like those only cause her to pull him closer to where she was practically breathing onto him and into him, "I like the sound of that place-"

"Shhhhhhh,"

he quickly rests a finger on her lip,

"Miss Esme Thompson is watching."

Those words seem to make Annabelle straighten up and fear flashes before her as she looks where he's looking, seeing a figure leaving, before fear, anger, and rage blinks in, "Bitch— stupid old bitch, always competing with me!"

"It'll be such a trouble for you,"

his voice coos, before his hand gently moves hers off as she stands still.

She glares at him, "Who the hell are you to know her?"

"I'm simply a new dancer,"

he shrugs as he looks at her innocuously.

New Dancer, those words spark a moment in Annabelle's mind. A moment where Esme had gathered bother her and Jasper to give them new commands to keep a man away from River. Another creep, Annabelle sneers, poor little River... taking the only man I don't want...

"I'm Marinus, by the way,"

a kind smile appears on his face, masking up any fore-knowledge Marinus has of this plan of Esme in front of Annabel and cunning plans he stores behind. Just like that in the moment of her shock, he slips away from her grasp and keeps walking.

Annabelle can only narrow her eyes and bite her lips before huffing out her anger.

Fuck! I knew I had that fucking dream for a reason. Her palm clutches tight as anger reverberates throughout her body, that stupid old bitch is purposefully blocking me from having him and she fears her daughter could take him! She takes a breath in, a polite yet tense smile on her face, I'll take your money and that man, you dumb, crusty whore.

---------

The once elusive bare-footed figure turns a corner just as Marinus follows right after the figure does. He does not misses a beat in making the turn right behind after the long talk with Annabelle. The loud footsteps behind the figure causes the figure to pause and he looks behind at a Marinus who made no attempt to hide himself.

The figure pauses for a moment before his fingers fidgets with the new shiny coin from Esme given a few moments earlier. It flips and travels through each space between his fingers smoothly, demonstrating years of experience with it. His thumb flips it up into the air before his hand snatches it shut into his palm.

"Yes?" the figure says, feigning confusion. He turns around, now facing the man.

"Esme has asked me to have you feed the lion."

"Well, I'm simply busy, perhaps I'll have-"

Marinus leans forward,

"Mr. Kivi, there is a big rehearsal tonight and it's your responsibility to feed the lion. Don't tell me the star of the show is now shirking such a simple responsibility now?"

Jasper sucks in a breath, "And what are you suppose to do?"

To that, Marinus leans back with a courteous smile,

"Inform you and report to my role call as the dancer."

Jasper clicks his tongue, "Me of all people..."

Marinus shrugs at him,

"You know how Miss Esme is. She gets displeased when there's too many questions asked and not enough things done."

"Don't tell me that twice..."

Marinus

♡design by sirnateunknown, coded by uxie♡

 

[EclecticSpica]

River Thompson“If I stop, I’ll fall apart. So I keep dancing.”​

---

River chomped hungrily into the breakfast placed in front of her — a bowl of rice, a slice of meat, a few freshly cut strawberries, and even juice! She had no idea what her mother was thinking when she set the meal down after another grueling session of reading from that cursed book of manners, but maybe, just maybe, her diet was over. Granted, the food was partially molded and barely required chewing — most of it little more than mush — but it was food. Glorious, delicious, not-so-refreshing, but food all the same! For the first time in weeks — maybe months — River felt a spark of energy ignite in her chest. She stretched her legs out before rehearsal, her points sharper than ever, earning an impressed grunt from her mother. That grunt, River knew, was the closest thing to an "I love you" she was likely to get.

Her mother seemed still distant after last night, her small actions were louder than any of her screams to River however. Each touch, each glance, and each subtle passive aggressive taunt were all a warning. ‘Behave. Dance. Stay.’ River sighed and quickly cleaned up, muttering how she would be late to practice before her mother could change her mind on her kinder morning actions.

Quickly changing into her rehearsal gear and braiding her hair as she walked, River made her way toward the main tent. A show was coming up, and with a morning like this, maybe her luck would hold — maybe Jasper would be kinder with his holds today. Her lips curled into a smile as she couldn’t stop the way her hums started to grow, her feet already stepping lazily into the dance that had to be done this time around. A newer routine meant constant rehearsals, but it also meant new challenges. New chances for Jasper to be…well perhaps not always so….’Jasper’ like.

Jasper had been her partner for years now. He never dropped her, not once, and her mother adored him. He was well-liked by others too, if the letters and company he collected after shows were anything to go by. Yet that didn’t erase the deep, constant bruises on her hips where his fingerprints seemed permanently etched into her skin — a fact Jasper appeared to enjoy a little too much. River often wondered if that made him a pervert. But if Mother adored him, could he really be all that bad?

She paused mid-turn, her leg bent and twisted in an almost too perfect form. What makes someone a pervert? she mused. What makes a woman one? Her fingers finished pinning her braid into place as her mind spiraled. Annabelle acts like a perverted man sometimes, but Mother’s book said women couldn’t be perverts... Does that mean Annabelle isn’t a woman?

River blinked, imagining the stern woman with a thick, bushy beard swallowing her red lipstick-smeared teeth, her dress splitting at the seams as bulging muscles tore through.

River snorted aloud at the absurd image, covering her mouth to muffle the soft giggles that kept slipping free. Her step faltered as she thudded her foot back to the ground. That earned her a little too many stares than normal. She caught the wary glances from other dancers as she passed. It was easy to tell who liked her, who didn’t, and who thought she was outright insane. It was also easy to see the wide berth they gave her, an unspoken rule keeping her isolated even before she reached her mark — right beside Jasper.

River forced her giggles down as she spotted him. Jasper — handsome, sculpted from years of dancing, with thick thighs, swooping brown hair, and those dazzling green eyes that made women of all ages swoon. His smile — crooked but distractingly charming thanks to a single golden canine — sealed the deal for most.

But not for River. Not when he turned, flashing her a grin that made her blood run cold. Jasper twisted his hands, revealing new embroidery stitched into his hand wraps — his initials, now etched into the fabric. River’s stomach dropped. So much for good luck.

Creep. Ape. Barnacle-licker. Sour cow. Unsatisfying waste of breath. Rotten sack of brains.

Her mind screamed insults while her poise remained perfect. Folding her arms around her waist, River tilted her head sweetly and lied, “I’m afraid I don’t know what those letters stand for.”

The small flicker of annoyance that passed across Jasper’s face almost made it worth it — almost — until he leaned down, whispering in her ear that soon she’d be marked not only by his bruises but by his name too. That she was just one more performance from being his. All he had to do was convince her mother with a large pile of money he had apparently been saving. Soon he would be allowed to bruise her in not just the spots he could grab during practice, but in more intimate spaces, places she didn’t dare let anyone near. Certainly not Jasper.

Bile burned her throat. She wished she were starving again. Thankfully, the sharp click of the dance mistress’s cane called them to order. Everyone scrambled to their positions for warm-ups.

I want to leave, River thought, numbness creeping into her chest as the desperate desire to run, to escape, to disappear bloomed. I could release the lions. They like me. It would distract everyone long enough. If they eat me, that's freedom as well. At least they’d be fed. At least they wouldn't be hungry.

Her mind spun faster, spinning scenes of escape, whispers of Jasper’s threats tangling with memories of other partners who dropped her or complained about her weight — what little weight she had left.

Then, painfully, her thoughts circled back to her mother. If she left, her mother would be alone. River sighed, twisting her body into an impossible stretch, her skills undeniable even in warm-up. If I find her a lover, then I can leave. Someone to die with her. She doesn’t deserve to be lonely. Nobody deserves that. Nodding to herself, River made a mental note to keep her eyes open for a suitor as she performed.

Jasper’s voice smashed through her thoughts. “Already getting distracted, little bird?”

His breath brushed past her nose, and River had to bite the inside of her cheek, sucking it into her teeth to keep from sneering. Her mind burned with insults, most involving his choice of breakfast. It was clear he’d brushed his teeth—or at least sucked on a mint before speaking to her—but the effort was wasted. The mint tangled with the heavy scent of onions from whatever he’d eaten, all of it mingling with stale tobacco smoke from the night before—or worse, from just an hour ago.

“No. Just thinking,” River replied softly, flicking her head toward the dance mistress.

Lady Fiona had already clicked her cane to the ground, signaling a new position. That meant River would have to be touched. Jasper looked delighted, practically glowing at the chance to press those embroidered hand wraps into her sides, under the guise of helping her stretch deeper.

River coiled inward, mentally fleeing the moment. As the first sting of a fresh bruise bloomed along her waist, she quickly began reciting her mother’s horrid etiquette lessons—her oldest trick to numb herself to his touch.

A lady does not stand when meeting new people.
A lady changes conversational partners with each course.
A lady does not slouch at the table.
A lady extends her hand for a kiss, never for a handshake.
A lady never eats first when invited to dinner.
The knife blade must curve inward, or you’ll be threatening your neighbor.
Slurping is allowed only in front of certain company, with hot soup or specific noodle dishes.

Her mind spiraled through each rule, the repetition dulling her nerves just as Jasper's fingers inched lower. She was bent fully in half now—her torso stretched toward one foot, the other leg reaching high overhead.

Jasper, grinning like a stage star, continued dragging his hand slowly from her ankle to her thigh. To anyone watching, it might have looked like flawless form. But to River, it was just another mask. And behind it, he was always watching, always pressing further.

---

 

[Atamita]

​

Spoiler: Sheila & Dimitry

"Are you sad that she's going through what you did?" the young black-hair man stand besides the girl. His grey eyes look at River bickering with Jasper as the two watch from afar.

"No," she said unpoignantly, "because I'm actually alive and have my own soul."

Her golden eyes narrow on River, "she won't."

Jasper leans in with a sneer before backing off before the rehearsal begins and the circus glows alight for its unseen audience.

"Then why do you look at her so intently?"

Getting upset at River dying was like getting upset that a cow has to die for tonight’s dinner or god forbid, a leaf has to be snapped for the salad or a clam is smashed open for meat. These are the things you learn to stop being sad for at an early age. Can’t let your empathy stop you from doing what’s right. Can’t let it stop you from doing what’s better.

She sighs.

"It's not her..." her eyes narrow past River, locating the woman behind her, "I wish you'd understand that..."

But it doesn't matter how much she wishes he'd understand when he can't. Not when his maker doesn't do something about it.

"Damn, what’s his name for this time?" She looks up thoughtfully trying to recall Dimitry’s maker’s name. It was bad etiquette to refer to a demon by their true name. One so bad that it might get her killed by uttering the very word that’ll instantly get a demon’s attention. Marinus is always there to save the day! But it doesn’t mean she should try that.

"Damian!" she exclaims before her voice finally quiets down to a normal tone, "He must really be toying with me when he said he’d increase your sentience again!"

He scratches his head as he shifts his face away from her. A familiar blonde man enters the scene. The man leans his head back and his blue eyes meet Dimitry's grey ones. The gaze sends chills down Dimitry's spine but a chill not meant for him.

Damian. His heart pounds. As a demon created by Damian, every inch of Dimitry was for his to use and view. A lower lifeform with less sentience like Dimitry will never know if it's happening but Marinus... he'd know and Dimitry would only know because of that gaze of Marinus.

Sheila huffs, unaware of the presence that had entered. She doesn't know if Dimitry will ever feel sad from looking at her but... a small part of her hopes he does even though she's wishing pain on Dimitry. It'd mean he's alive and is capable of loving her. But if he was capable, would he? That was always a doubt that lingered on the back of her mind for a little too long. She gives Dimitry a sad, almost disappointed look before she looks away. She sees Marinus before vigorously waving with excitement practically bouncing off of her. A warmer and soft smile dons Marinus' face as he waves back but not before his sharp eyes shift to Dimitry last and then his head turns back to the practice.

After what feels like an eternity of survellaince, a chuckle escapes from Dimitry, as if the stress had left him in that form. If only she knew. A long time ago, this wouldn’t hurt but it does now, and he doesn't know what to do about it. He waves away those thoughts as his eyes follow hers until it lands on an old woman. She’s still dressed in her gaudiness in an attempt to cover her already-gone youth and her current surrounding environment. She was no performer but still wanted to dress as spectacular as them.

He points to Esme and Sheila smiles. She nods, “That’s right. That old woman!”

She takes the liberty to talk, knowing Dimitry’s underdeveloped sentience, “River’s mother. I’ve wanting to talk to someone like her for a long time!”

Esme leaves the scene as she retreats quietly but their gaze still linger on her shadow.

“I thought you hated her.”

“I do!” the answer immediately slips her lips, surprising Dimitry, “Not a lot of people like her would sell their kids off like this. Humans are manipulative but demons know better.”

“Is that what you thought of me when you first met me?” He looks at her.

“Isn’t it natural to?” her eyes are still on Esme.

To that, he says nothing. He wasn’t sure to either take this as a compliment or an insult. Only because Sheila can dislike someone doing better than her but she always liked it when he was capable.

Suddenly, a smug smile appear on her face before she elbows Dimitry, "Let's keep the old hag busy for Marinus."

Dimitry shrugs, a sign of his usual un-resistance before they both start walking towards Esme's general direction as the stage is now centered on Marinus, all for him to play with.