[fic] Is That A Rabbit In Your Pocket Or Are You Happy To See Me? - 1/1
Title: Is That A Rabbit In Your Pocket Or Are You Happy To See Me?
Author:
garnetice
Pairing: Dylan/Danny
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,960
Warnings: Vague sex
Summary: No one wants to know that the Great Wizard of Oz is merely a man.
Disclaimer: Now You See Me is not mine.
Author's Notes: jblostfan16 prompted me to write a thing. I wrote the thing. It is a short thing. eviljellybean88 did a wonderful job doing the beta for the thing. Then I titled the thing. I should not be allowed to do that. Based pretty loosely off an internet search on the rules of magic.
---First rule.
They are gods. They are faerie. They are enchanters, mystics, oracles and soothsayers. They bring fire to mere mortals and ensorcel whole nations. They feed off applause, adoration, wonder, delight. They are artists of their trade, masters of magic, and that only ever lasts as long as they never, ever pull the curtain back.
No one wants to know that the Great Wizard of Oz is merely a man.
---
His shoulders hit drywall, ears ringing with the reverb. The impact rattles the furniture, an unvarnished side table quaking on spindly legs, a mirror opposite the both of them quivering menacingly on its feeble hook. Reflected on the silvery surface is the splay of Dylan’s fingers, curled rough in downy-soft hair.
He tugs at the roots, wheat-gold and umber. Danny moans like a slut against Dylan’s mouth, ruts his hips up and in, seeking out friction. Every drag of his cock is delicious, igniting their nerve endings with slow-simmering sparks.
Dylan arches against him.
He’s pinned because he wants to be; he’s already got this mapped out, five steps, six steps ahead. Now it’s just a matter of being present, licking out at Danny’s lips, fever hot and pliantredwet.
Danny rubs against him, a cat with a new favorite scratching post, murmuring, “Was that stick up your ass for show, or were you playing make believe?”
Dylan snorts and says, quite sagely, “The best covers are authentic.”
“Right.” Danny cocks his head to the side, his hair gold sand, the glint of coin, the flashbang of a perfectly executed trick. He’s overeager, confident in his ability to impress. He wiggles his hand between their bodies, pushes his palm against Dylan’s cock and says, too crass, “Bet I can make this disappear.”
“Show me,” Dylan instructs, and he doesn’t miss the way Danny lights up, like he doesn’t even know that his delight makes him human.
---
Guideline Number Two. Practice, practice, practice.
They practice until their hands are red raw, bones stiff beneath their skin, moves choreographed to perfection. They practice until their voices are hoarse with enough grandeur and majesty to fill an arena, and more - a trick’s never right unless every word leading up to it is shot through with hope and starshine that will pulse beneath an audience’s living heart. These are their tools; they must learn them, love them. Flawlessness isn’t a pretty word, it’s a lifestyle, it’s mandatory.
This is how the greats live on - in fantasy, in dreams, legends so damned big no one ever remembers the way they’d stand on empty stages, telling themselves, “Again. Again. Again.”
---
Danny shimmies out of his pants, his silhouette pale and lithesome against the poppies dotting the hotel’s regulation comforter. He catches Dylan staring, exactly like he’s supposed to. Guys like J. Daniel Atlas know when they’re the center of attention, because that is always, that’s forever.
Too sly to be coy, too shy to be suave, he demands, “What’s the matter? Not blonde enough for you?”
He’s about as cutting as a spork, but Dylan forgives him for that. The kid’s young, still coltish in the shoulders and the bruised plush of his lips. He’s got years to figure out that snide only works when you’re not trembling with anticipation, and he is. Danny’s waiting for Dylan to put his hands everywhere.
Carefully, Dylan steps in close. He says, “I know what the J. stands for,” and Danny flinches.
This is the misdirect, focusing his attention where he wants it to be while his hands creep down the ivory keys of Danny’s spine. Danny asks,
“Yeah?” and barely even notices the way that Dylan’s fingering the curve of his ass, testing the soft skin of the crease and then lower.
“Yeah. It’s Jackass, right?” Dylan throws him a blinding grin, happyopenunexpected and absolutely punctuated with the sudden invasion of a finger, or two. He’s already slicked them with a clear layer of lube so they slide straight up the joint before he has to really push, further in and up to his knuckles in pulsing hot skin.
Danny’s eyes widen half a fraction, because yeah, he never even saw it happen. Curiosity makes him want to ask how, but pride talks him right off that ledge, and he bucks back against the slow burn of Dylan’s fingers without so much as a squeak.
That arrogance of his won’t ever fade. Dylan tastes it on his tongue, the peculiar salty tang of bullheadedness starkly contrasting the sweet fold of Danny’s body, the enthusiastic noises he swallows down. He tugs his free hand through Danny’s thick hair a second time, yanking harder, making it hurt. A third finger is poised at the stretch of muscle when Danny topples him back, ever convinced that this is a game and he’s going to win.
His mouth on Dylan’s dick is sloppy and a little desperate, but mostly that makes it hotter. Danny likes control, and Dylan’s into breaking it, breaking him, because he can and he will. He’s spent a year training this kid to trust him when he was a shadow. Now Dylan’s got a shape and a form, and that form’s hard and ready in Danny’s zealous mouth.
He can feel himself leaking, thick beads of precum that drip down the back of Danny’s throat, opalescent against the insides of his esophagus, his lungs. With every ragged heave of his delicate ribcage, Dylan is all that Danny can breathe.
His fingertips are twined up against Danny’s skull, where the kid’s heartbeat is quick, hummingbird fast, wanting in a way that Dylan knows in his marrow. He tugs him up by his hair, ignoring Danny’s mild yelp of, “Ow,” and tells him low, “This is it. It’s your show.”
Danny swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Dylan wants to take hold of it between his teeth. Spit’s drying on his cock, air conditioning turning everything cold when he wants it hot. He shivers under the heat of Danny’s thighs. And Danny, sure, he wanted to play, but now he’s vulnerable, everything so clear.
For once, J. Daniel Atlas doesn’t know all the rules. It might be fun to teach him.
Careful and calm, Dylan says, “I’m waiting for you to wow me.”
Assuming the gloriously bitchy expression of someone who isn’t at all used to underwhelming anyone, Danny’s shoulders straighten. Dylan almost feels bad about hitting his pride so low and so hard, but that guilt’s difficult to hold onto when Danny inches his way down Dylan’s dick.
He’s done this before, but never like this - the fervent concentration on Danny’s face gives that much away. He’s got to figure out the muscle mechanics, the slow extend from thigh to knee to ankle, but when Dylan makes a show at trying to turn them both over, Danny shoves him back down, holds his wrists against the bed and works himself up the shaft of Dylan’s cock.
The slow collide of their bodies, it’s lightning, it’s thunder. It’s an earthquake shaking the bed against its metal posts, banging the mattress back into the hotel wall. Dylan’s body goes molten, taking what Danny gives him, and Danny gives him a lot, surety boosted now that he’s got this much figured out.
He keeps Dylan’s hands pinned and stares him dead in the eye, moving over him with a showman’s flair.
Dylan can dig it. He likes the performance, likes the little twitches and harsher sighs that spill from Danny’s mouth, is into watching the ridges
and veins of his cock take this superlative man-boy apart, piece by piece, until he’s shuddering and gasping and saying Dylan’s name.
Danny’s squeezing Dylan’s wrists so hard they’ll turn black-blue, but that’s a nonissue, the steady ache background noise against the needy ohs and blissed out ahs that spark from Danny’s lips.
He moans like a slut once he really gets going, and that’s Dylan’s cue, the hot magma coursing through his veins helping him slip Danny’s grasp and take hold of his hips. He goes from audience to active participant in a heartbeat; at this he’s old hat.
He fucks up into Danny’s ass without losing the stutter-pump melody of his hips, meeting Danny halfway, kissing the dip of Danny’s clavicle, licking it hot and wet. Danny’s arms are at his back and Danny’s legs are at his sides, and he’s got this pink blush climbing the skin of his chest, rising to meet the assault of Dylan’s tongue.
Dylan licks upwards, pulls downwards, lets his balls slap up against Danny’s skin audibly, every movement a crash, a towering crescendo that builds and builds. Danny claws at his back, says, “Dylan,” says, “Fuck,” and he’s coming up with creative curse words even as he’s coming down, painting white against Dylan’s belly and lap.
He quivers and shakes and Dylan pistons into him through it all, Danny convulsing inside and outside and so, so fucking tight.
Dylan’s hot under his skin, pleased with the way this all panned out - exactly as planned, he’s the best planner - and he nuzzles up against Danny’s throat with something so close to affection before he grits out, “Turn over.”
Never one to miss a beat, Danny extricates his shuddering octopus limbs from Dylan for one excruciating moment before he’s on his knees, telling him to, “Fuck me already, come on, come on, I want you to-“
So Dylan does. He gets his dick deeper this time, cleaves Danny apart until his entire world’s shrunk down to this, the slow throb of silky skin sucking him in every time he tries to leave it, and Danny’s cock filling out against the heartline and lifeline and other crisscrossed mysteries of Dylan’s hand.
The air’s so thick it’s like they’ve made their own humidity, an atmosphere that exists around the bubble of their bed. Danny chokes on it when he comes in weaker, clearer spurts, staining an ugly arrangement of printed poppies.
The squeeze of his ass borders on agony, the best kind, the ecstasy-ache that washes through Dylan’s organs and curls through his toes until he’s emptying himself dry of it. It’s a tide of lust and Danny’s skin, all of it fading to black.
---
Three. This is the most important part, the crux of their success. Once a crowd knows a trick, they’ll start thinking about how it works.
Never perform in front of the same audience twice; that’s how a show goes stale.
As far as rules go, it’s pretty much common sense.
Nobody likes a repeat.
---
Dylan spends approximately five minutes searching out his underwear before he figures out Danny’s wearing it, dark blue fabric covering the pale swell of his ass. The kid’s fast asleep.
Fucker.
Dylan snaps the waistband of his boxers against Danny’s scrawny hips. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to conk out like that, not even when he’s this bone-weary and satisfied. There’s always too much to do, too many plans in action to waste any time dreaming.
Or maybe there’s not - he’s got closure, now. He can kick back, relax. Go somewhere tropical.
He’s always been fond of those umbrella drinks.
Danny murmurs something indistinct, turning onto his back so that the soft flesh of his belly is exposed. It’d be easy to crawl back into that bed. Danny would make a self-deprecating joke about cuddling when he wakes up, and then snuggle closer. And Dylan might let him.
He’s curious to see if he would.
Just not quite curious enough to go through with it.
The only things Dylan leaves behind are these:
The rise and fall of Danny’s breath sounds,
The bruises he left on the kid’s hips,
And the echoing click of the hotel door as it slotted back into place.
---
Author:
garnetice
Pairing: Dylan/Danny
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,960
Warnings: Vague sex
Summary: No one wants to know that the Great Wizard of Oz is merely a man.
Disclaimer: Now You See Me is not mine.
Author's Notes: jblostfan16 prompted me to write a thing. I wrote the thing. It is a short thing. eviljellybean88 did a wonderful job doing the beta for the thing. Then I titled the thing. I should not be allowed to do that. Based pretty loosely off an internet search on the rules of magic.
---First rule.
They are gods. They are faerie. They are enchanters, mystics, oracles and soothsayers. They bring fire to mere mortals and ensorcel whole nations. They feed off applause, adoration, wonder, delight. They are artists of their trade, masters of magic, and that only ever lasts as long as they never, ever pull the curtain back.
No one wants to know that the Great Wizard of Oz is merely a man.
---
His shoulders hit drywall, ears ringing with the reverb. The impact rattles the furniture, an unvarnished side table quaking on spindly legs, a mirror opposite the both of them quivering menacingly on its feeble hook. Reflected on the silvery surface is the splay of Dylan’s fingers, curled rough in downy-soft hair.
He tugs at the roots, wheat-gold and umber. Danny moans like a slut against Dylan’s mouth, ruts his hips up and in, seeking out friction. Every drag of his cock is delicious, igniting their nerve endings with slow-simmering sparks.
Dylan arches against him.
He’s pinned because he wants to be; he’s already got this mapped out, five steps, six steps ahead. Now it’s just a matter of being present, licking out at Danny’s lips, fever hot and pliantredwet.
Danny rubs against him, a cat with a new favorite scratching post, murmuring, “Was that stick up your ass for show, or were you playing make believe?”
Dylan snorts and says, quite sagely, “The best covers are authentic.”
“Right.” Danny cocks his head to the side, his hair gold sand, the glint of coin, the flashbang of a perfectly executed trick. He’s overeager, confident in his ability to impress. He wiggles his hand between their bodies, pushes his palm against Dylan’s cock and says, too crass, “Bet I can make this disappear.”
“Show me,” Dylan instructs, and he doesn’t miss the way Danny lights up, like he doesn’t even know that his delight makes him human.
---
Guideline Number Two. Practice, practice, practice.
They practice until their hands are red raw, bones stiff beneath their skin, moves choreographed to perfection. They practice until their voices are hoarse with enough grandeur and majesty to fill an arena, and more - a trick’s never right unless every word leading up to it is shot through with hope and starshine that will pulse beneath an audience’s living heart. These are their tools; they must learn them, love them. Flawlessness isn’t a pretty word, it’s a lifestyle, it’s mandatory.
This is how the greats live on - in fantasy, in dreams, legends so damned big no one ever remembers the way they’d stand on empty stages, telling themselves, “Again. Again. Again.”
---
Danny shimmies out of his pants, his silhouette pale and lithesome against the poppies dotting the hotel’s regulation comforter. He catches Dylan staring, exactly like he’s supposed to. Guys like J. Daniel Atlas know when they’re the center of attention, because that is always, that’s forever.
Too sly to be coy, too shy to be suave, he demands, “What’s the matter? Not blonde enough for you?”
He’s about as cutting as a spork, but Dylan forgives him for that. The kid’s young, still coltish in the shoulders and the bruised plush of his lips. He’s got years to figure out that snide only works when you’re not trembling with anticipation, and he is. Danny’s waiting for Dylan to put his hands everywhere.
Carefully, Dylan steps in close. He says, “I know what the J. stands for,” and Danny flinches.
This is the misdirect, focusing his attention where he wants it to be while his hands creep down the ivory keys of Danny’s spine. Danny asks,
“Yeah?” and barely even notices the way that Dylan’s fingering the curve of his ass, testing the soft skin of the crease and then lower.
“Yeah. It’s Jackass, right?” Dylan throws him a blinding grin, happyopenunexpected and absolutely punctuated with the sudden invasion of a finger, or two. He’s already slicked them with a clear layer of lube so they slide straight up the joint before he has to really push, further in and up to his knuckles in pulsing hot skin.
Danny’s eyes widen half a fraction, because yeah, he never even saw it happen. Curiosity makes him want to ask how, but pride talks him right off that ledge, and he bucks back against the slow burn of Dylan’s fingers without so much as a squeak.
That arrogance of his won’t ever fade. Dylan tastes it on his tongue, the peculiar salty tang of bullheadedness starkly contrasting the sweet fold of Danny’s body, the enthusiastic noises he swallows down. He tugs his free hand through Danny’s thick hair a second time, yanking harder, making it hurt. A third finger is poised at the stretch of muscle when Danny topples him back, ever convinced that this is a game and he’s going to win.
His mouth on Dylan’s dick is sloppy and a little desperate, but mostly that makes it hotter. Danny likes control, and Dylan’s into breaking it, breaking him, because he can and he will. He’s spent a year training this kid to trust him when he was a shadow. Now Dylan’s got a shape and a form, and that form’s hard and ready in Danny’s zealous mouth.
He can feel himself leaking, thick beads of precum that drip down the back of Danny’s throat, opalescent against the insides of his esophagus, his lungs. With every ragged heave of his delicate ribcage, Dylan is all that Danny can breathe.
His fingertips are twined up against Danny’s skull, where the kid’s heartbeat is quick, hummingbird fast, wanting in a way that Dylan knows in his marrow. He tugs him up by his hair, ignoring Danny’s mild yelp of, “Ow,” and tells him low, “This is it. It’s your show.”
Danny swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Dylan wants to take hold of it between his teeth. Spit’s drying on his cock, air conditioning turning everything cold when he wants it hot. He shivers under the heat of Danny’s thighs. And Danny, sure, he wanted to play, but now he’s vulnerable, everything so clear.
For once, J. Daniel Atlas doesn’t know all the rules. It might be fun to teach him.
Careful and calm, Dylan says, “I’m waiting for you to wow me.”
Assuming the gloriously bitchy expression of someone who isn’t at all used to underwhelming anyone, Danny’s shoulders straighten. Dylan almost feels bad about hitting his pride so low and so hard, but that guilt’s difficult to hold onto when Danny inches his way down Dylan’s dick.
He’s done this before, but never like this - the fervent concentration on Danny’s face gives that much away. He’s got to figure out the muscle mechanics, the slow extend from thigh to knee to ankle, but when Dylan makes a show at trying to turn them both over, Danny shoves him back down, holds his wrists against the bed and works himself up the shaft of Dylan’s cock.
The slow collide of their bodies, it’s lightning, it’s thunder. It’s an earthquake shaking the bed against its metal posts, banging the mattress back into the hotel wall. Dylan’s body goes molten, taking what Danny gives him, and Danny gives him a lot, surety boosted now that he’s got this much figured out.
He keeps Dylan’s hands pinned and stares him dead in the eye, moving over him with a showman’s flair.
Dylan can dig it. He likes the performance, likes the little twitches and harsher sighs that spill from Danny’s mouth, is into watching the ridges
and veins of his cock take this superlative man-boy apart, piece by piece, until he’s shuddering and gasping and saying Dylan’s name.
Danny’s squeezing Dylan’s wrists so hard they’ll turn black-blue, but that’s a nonissue, the steady ache background noise against the needy ohs and blissed out ahs that spark from Danny’s lips.
He moans like a slut once he really gets going, and that’s Dylan’s cue, the hot magma coursing through his veins helping him slip Danny’s grasp and take hold of his hips. He goes from audience to active participant in a heartbeat; at this he’s old hat.
He fucks up into Danny’s ass without losing the stutter-pump melody of his hips, meeting Danny halfway, kissing the dip of Danny’s clavicle, licking it hot and wet. Danny’s arms are at his back and Danny’s legs are at his sides, and he’s got this pink blush climbing the skin of his chest, rising to meet the assault of Dylan’s tongue.
Dylan licks upwards, pulls downwards, lets his balls slap up against Danny’s skin audibly, every movement a crash, a towering crescendo that builds and builds. Danny claws at his back, says, “Dylan,” says, “Fuck,” and he’s coming up with creative curse words even as he’s coming down, painting white against Dylan’s belly and lap.
He quivers and shakes and Dylan pistons into him through it all, Danny convulsing inside and outside and so, so fucking tight.
Dylan’s hot under his skin, pleased with the way this all panned out - exactly as planned, he’s the best planner - and he nuzzles up against Danny’s throat with something so close to affection before he grits out, “Turn over.”
Never one to miss a beat, Danny extricates his shuddering octopus limbs from Dylan for one excruciating moment before he’s on his knees, telling him to, “Fuck me already, come on, come on, I want you to-“
So Dylan does. He gets his dick deeper this time, cleaves Danny apart until his entire world’s shrunk down to this, the slow throb of silky skin sucking him in every time he tries to leave it, and Danny’s cock filling out against the heartline and lifeline and other crisscrossed mysteries of Dylan’s hand.
The air’s so thick it’s like they’ve made their own humidity, an atmosphere that exists around the bubble of their bed. Danny chokes on it when he comes in weaker, clearer spurts, staining an ugly arrangement of printed poppies.
The squeeze of his ass borders on agony, the best kind, the ecstasy-ache that washes through Dylan’s organs and curls through his toes until he’s emptying himself dry of it. It’s a tide of lust and Danny’s skin, all of it fading to black.
---
Three. This is the most important part, the crux of their success. Once a crowd knows a trick, they’ll start thinking about how it works.
Never perform in front of the same audience twice; that’s how a show goes stale.
As far as rules go, it’s pretty much common sense.
Nobody likes a repeat.
---
Dylan spends approximately five minutes searching out his underwear before he figures out Danny’s wearing it, dark blue fabric covering the pale swell of his ass. The kid’s fast asleep.
Fucker.
Dylan snaps the waistband of his boxers against Danny’s scrawny hips. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to conk out like that, not even when he’s this bone-weary and satisfied. There’s always too much to do, too many plans in action to waste any time dreaming.
Or maybe there’s not - he’s got closure, now. He can kick back, relax. Go somewhere tropical.
He’s always been fond of those umbrella drinks.
Danny murmurs something indistinct, turning onto his back so that the soft flesh of his belly is exposed. It’d be easy to crawl back into that bed. Danny would make a self-deprecating joke about cuddling when he wakes up, and then snuggle closer. And Dylan might let him.
He’s curious to see if he would.
Just not quite curious enough to go through with it.
The only things Dylan leaves behind are these:
The rise and fall of Danny’s breath sounds,
The bruises he left on the kid’s hips,
And the echoing click of the hotel door as it slotted back into place.
---