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toflyandfall · 4 years

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I just saw a photo of "What persona. Dick Grayson isn't a mask. Not like Bruce Wayne is" from Detective Comics #725 and I find it interesting that Dick and the rest of the bats, with the exception of Bruce, don't wear "masks" per se. They are who they are with or without the domino mask/helmet. The only time I can really think of Dick faking things is when he pretended to be an incompetent BPD cop. How was he able to avoid creating and living, half the time, through a "persona" like "Brucie"?

Oooh, this is a lovely, meaty question. There’s a lot more analysis of Bruce than I planned because let’s be real, it’s kinda weirder for a guy to run around with half a dozen personas than for someone else to run around as himself. I hope you still find it interesting, but if you want to skip straight to the more Dick-centric stuff, head under the readmore.

A simple but significant factor is that Dick thrives on the company of people in a way that Bruce does not. I suspect if you talk honestly to many introverts, you will find they too have an extroverted ‘mask’ they put on to the larger world, though probably not quite so extreme.

Another factor is that the civilian social circles Dick and Bruce travel in are vastly different. Though they each have a reason for being in those circles, that difference itself enables Dick to escape much of the scrutiny that Bruce’s public identity undergoes, because he doesn’t frequently associate with the much more media-hounded elite.

An interesting thing here is that the large difference in social circles between their civilian lives is actually caused by their own personal similarities: they are 100% committed work-a-holics. It’s just that they have differing civilian approaches to their goals.

I want to start with Bruce because as you point out, his use of persona is distinct among the bats and his reasons for using them in part explain why Dick and the other bats do not.

Bruce is a child of privilege, he has always lived a lifestyle of privilege, regardless of the tragedies that have occurred during it, and his default view of the world, through no fault of his own, is natively that of the extreme upper class. This drastically influences his perspective and approach to change, and changing the world is his perpetual goal, the reason he put on the suit in the first place.

Bruce works a top-down society approach toward systemic change, and he works it all the time. This is actually my favorite but woefully under-emphasized part of him: he is not just someone who punches people on the street ‘for justice’, he uses his company, his money, and his social position toward substantial systemic change. This post does a wonderful job covering the ways he does this through his corporations and personal wealth, as does this one. I cannot recommend either enough because I constantly want to push even the most casual Batman fans to understand: Bruce Wayne is not just a violent punchy puncher man. He is a traumatized person genuinely trying to use all his resources including himself to make the world safer.

Detective Comics #725

Bruce has many personas he maintains, and he uses all of them according to what suits his need--Batman for places the law can’t go, Bruce Wayne the CEO pushing for systemic changes, Matches Malone for street information, and Brucie the society high roller for society information and social influencing. He is rarely ever not in a persona and simply ‘Bruce’.

His top-down perspective of enacting change are what dictated the usage and necessity of these personas. He has the means and capacity to basically disappear from society if he so chose--he in fact does so to train during his younger years so successfully they don’t even know how long he was actually gone.

The Batman Files

So he doesn’t need the personas. Not Bruce Wayne, CEO, or Brucie, or any of them really, to protect his identity. That tells us that Brucie is a deliberate choice he made at some point. He could have been a recluse billionaire Batman indefinitely. Even though he fully has the status and means to not maintain a job or a persona or, let’s be frank, a life outside the mask at all, it’s his own work-a-holicness that led to the creation of his public personas. He’s an obsessive strategist, so if Brucie is a choice, that leads us to why?

Bruce does many philanthropic things with his money, but he isn’t the only rich person around, especially not in a city as old and corrupt as Gotham. But he’s one of the very few ones doing good with it.

The comic you mentioned has a very beautiful moment where Bruce touches on that, and in full context you can feel how consumed he is by this goal of creating the Gotham his parents would have wanted. Batman mentions he never sees himself in that place, and the morbid interpretation is that the city kills him before he reaches it, but the hopeful interpretation is that in that shining city, Bruce Wayne and Batman and Brucie and all his masks will no longer be needed.

Detective Comics #725

Back in the old days they’d call it noblesse oblige: the inferred responsibility of privileged people to act with generosity and nobility toward those less privileged. Thomas and Martha Wayne ingrained this feeling of responsibility into Bruce by example, and as all things related to them, he obsesses over it. It urges him to fulfill expectations within segments of society he finds onorous for the betterment of society as a whole in order to carry out their unfinished works.

Enter Brucie.

Brucie serves a two-fold purpose. Since Bruce has chosen to maintain personas among society, it becomes a false face to justify any oddities Batman might bring into the life of Bruce Wayne by setting himself up as a eccentric, popular social scion. But that persona itself also allows him to manipulate the upper crust of society.

I have some insider perspective on the kind of society events Brucie attends. They’re all about the who’s who of making connections, name-dropping and networking, and unspoken class-based elitism. Charity events among the upper class have these things at the forefront and the cause is the background. You don’t get your hands dirty, you don’t go out and make change yourself, you pay money to be socially seen and sometimes it happens to go towards a philanthropic cause. If you want to raise money from the rich and keep people with deep pockets coming in the door, you have to have social currency yourself. This is where, and why, Brucie comes in. I believe Brucie ws crafted to maintain Batman’s cover but still attempt to carry on his parents’ legacy to grease the wheels of the rich in the directions he chooses: one of generosity towards those less privileged.

Superman/Batman #51

The inevitable flaw of Bruce’s approach to his personas and their philanthropy is that in a city rife with corruption, money distributed from the top has many opportunities to disappear well before it reaches the bottom. As in many of ways they are complements to each other, Dick’s approach balances that out, because his approach to helping his fellow man starts out at the street level...literally.

Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)

Dick, we know, does not come from privilege. His mother was from a middle class family before she joined the circus, and despite being world famous athletes, most circus workers are lower to middle class. The people he grew up with, was comfortable with, were all working folk who expected everyone to pull their weight right alongside each other. He enacts this everyone-together approach in almost all aspects and phases of his life.

Batman #615

Even once he had settled into being Robin and adapted to living at the manor, he didn’t feel belonging to a culture of privilege, materialism, or high society. He preferred shotgun in the limo to chat with the driver to riding fancy in the back. Once he was able to start making his own decisions about where and how he lived, despite having both Bruce’s money and then later inheriting a substantial amount of his own, he chose mostly lower-class communal places.

Batman Black and White #6

Dick also doesn’t see the value of throwing money at a problem when there is an option to fix it with his own hands. We see this frequently, from building his own car instead of buying a finished one or outsourcing the work, to deciding the best way to clean out the BPD was to start at the bottom and work his way up (literally), to quitting college because his classes never got prioritized over crimesolving. Most of his day jobs ended for similar reasons.

Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)

Despite the showmanship training, he gravitates away from spotlight on the rich and wealthy, who are notoriously the kind of people who do not get their hands dirty or go out and take care of things themselves, and prefers to find or build communities around the kind of people who do.

Finally, Dick is an extrovert. He doesn’t need to act extroverted as Brucie does because he is extroverted. He likes people and likes being around people. Whether by conscious choice or not, he tends to put himself in situations where he is surrounded by people in nearly all aspects of his life. He chooses apartment buildings whose occupants frequently pass each other on the stairs; jobs that involve interacting with many co-workers, patrons, or students; and collects superhero teammates like Boy Scout badges. And all of these behaviors come very naturally to him.

He doesn’t need a mask or a role or a persona for those kind of interactions; his mask is pre-supplied as “neighbor” or “co-worker” or “teacher” by the situations he puts himself in. It helps make him an exemplary leader, because just by acting authentically to himself, he automatically builds up little communities around him any time he arrives somewhere.

Bruce, on the other hand, is an introvert. For him, interacting with people isn’t easy, automatic, or comfortable unless it has a purpose, but as a strategist, he knows the necessity of human interaction as a catalyst to achieving dynamic change. So he adapts personas to suit people’s expectations. Extroverts have more social currency; the life of the party can generate more resources than a brooding wallflower.

So, it boils down to just a few elements: Dick believes in living and interacting at the street level to accomplish the things that he wants to, and he is extroverted enough that the level of social interaction that entails is not a burden to him. He surrounds himself with the types of people he is more familiar or perhaps more comfortable with, which happens to keep him further out from the media’s eye than associating with the upper crust does. The lower profile is more incidental than intentional, but it lessens his need to have a cover story for every single bruise and lets him get away with even less of a ‘persona’.

Bruce, on the other hand, is introverted and follows a more classist view that systemic change needs to be effected from the top down. His personas are more of a self-assumed duty than a necessity, as a way of trying to carry out his parents’ legacy. Any of his children could have chosen to follow his path in business or the high society limelight, but the sense of obligation toward it is something personal to him that most of them don’t share.

#bruce wayne #batman #dick grayson #nightwing #character analysis #dc #comics #meta #o.c.#bruce wayne analysis #bruce + dick #asks #anonymous #cover stories

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fantastic-rambles · 3 years

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Your Move [1]

Fandom: Yuukoku no Moriarty

Summary: I just wanted William to play chess with Sherlock because I’m a nerd. Starts shortly before the events of “Scandal in the British Empire” and will loosely follow the manga (hopefully). A real game is played throughout the story. [NOTE: Given the time period, there’s an argument to be made that they should be using descriptive notation, which was far more common in England at the time. But I personally believe that William would opt to use the more elegant algebraic notation. I also wanted to confuse John initially, not that that’s hard. Lol.]

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, William James Moriarty, John Watson, Louis James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, Fred Porlock, Albert James Moriarty (mentioned)

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2.5k

"Holmes! Hey, Holmes! Message for you!"

John and Sherlock looked up at the cheeky call, watching Wiggins run up to them while waving an envelope. It was about the size of a calling card, and after Sherlock accepted it and turned it over, they both saw that the front was blank.

"I've got orders to wait for your reply," Wiggins informed Sherlock with a grin, a shilling flashing briefly between his fingers before it disappeared. Curious, John peered over Sherlock's shoulder as he opened the envelope, pulling out a small card with a cryptic message written in a neat script.

1. e4 Your move, Mr. Detective.

But Sherlock seemed to have understood it immediately, given the way his face had lit up. Usually, he only looked that excited when he was solving an interesting case or talking about the mysterious Lord of Crime.

"John, give me a pen," Sherlock said, holding a hand out expectantly as he flipped the card over to the other side. Even though he was still confused, John obeyed, unclipping the pen from his pocket and handing it over. Grinning, the master detective scrawled "e6" onto the back before stuffing it back in the envelope and handing it to Wiggins, who immediately dashed off.

"What was that about, Sherlock?" John asked as he tucked his pen away again. "Something related to the Lord of Crime?"

"Nah, it was Liam. He must be in London today!" Sherlock's stride lengthened as he made as if to follow the urchin, and John had to hurry to catch up to his sudden energy. He'd only really seen William James Moriarty in passing, when he had been arrested on the train and subsequently exonerated, but Lestrade had told him afterwards about the young noble who had proved himself to be as intelligent as Sherlock. John found it hard to believe that there could be anyone who could compete with his flatmate, but he did feel a sense of gratitude to Moriarty for his contributions to securing his freedom.

Still, seeing how Sherlock could behave like a child… or rather, a child looking forward to playing with a friend (since he behaved like a child most of the time), John felt that he could believe Lestrade. Just talking to anyone else seemed to bore Sherlock since it was incredibly difficult--if not impossible--to keep up with him, so for him to actively seek out someone else suggested that, at the very least, he sincerely found them to be fascinating. John couldn't help feeling bad for William, though; Sherlock was difficult enough to deal with when he had no personal interest in someone. To be an object of his obsession seemed like it would be positively exhausting.

"Wait, Sherlock. Wiggins went that way," John pointed out as they crossed an intersection where he'd seen the boy turn left, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Do you really think I'm going to chase after a child? As long as I can figure out where Liam is, that's what's important. Taxi!"

John sighed, but he followed Sherlock into the hansom cab, listening to his friend give instructions to the driver. Their route brought them to the outskirts of London, depositing them outside a large manor, and John had a sinking feeling that he knew just who the owner was. Sherlock didn't hesitate to step inside the gates and walk up the broad walkway framed by carefully manicured gardens, while John followed more hesitantly.

"Sherlock, there's etiquette that should be observed when you're calling on someone," he whispered. If the card had really come from the second son of the Moriarty family, then wouldn't he be in town, rather than at home? John simply couldn't fathom how Sherlock had come to the conclusion that the man was here, and he hoped that his friend wouldn't make too much of a fuss when he was told otherwise.

"Don't be such a bore, John. Knowing Liam, he's probably expecting me." He rapped smartly on the door before John could reply. Bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation, John glanced around the grounds. There seemed to be a surprising lack of servants: John had only spotted one young-looking gardener kneeling by some rose bushes. He had looked up briefly as the two men passed by before returning to his work, and John wondered if the other workers were just taking a break. It hardly seemed likely that such a well-tended estate could be managed by just one worker.

When the door opened, a rather rough-looking butler looked out at the two of them, and John tried to look apologetic, but Sherlock didn't seem put off at all, speaking up before the other man could even inquire about their visit.

"Is Liam in?" Sherlock asked.

The man seemed to contemplate them for a little longer before turning around and calling, "Oi, Will, there's two blokes here to see you! I think one of them's that famous detective!"

His lack of propriety shocked John. Were the Moriartys some sort of eccentric family? Their servants certainly gave him that impression. Or maybe they had hired them out of noblesse oblige, giving them an opportunity to earn a living and learn how to work, so that they could find employment in other houses afterwards, as some other families did. After all, they had adopted and cared for two orphan children, one of whom had died in a fire, but the other one still lived with them. If so, that was rather admirable, though still odd, as there didn't appear to be any upper servants who would normally be given the role of training new workers. But before he could contemplate the situation further, a familiar face appeared in the doorway of another room.

"Mr. Holmes? And Dr. Watson?"

The young aristocrat approached the two of them, his expression curious, but not surprised.

"We were just about to have tea," William informed them. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks for the invitation!" Sherlock replied enthusiastically, stepping inside without any reservations. John followed more slowly, letting the butler close the door behind them. All three of them followed William through the room that he had appeared from, stepping out onto a low patio that looked out over the garden. William's adopted brother--Louis, if John remembered correctly--was standing by a table already set for afternoon tea, meticulously polishing one of the knives before setting it down. Four places had been set, which surprised John. It seemed that Sherlock had been right: William had been expecting them.

"Please, sit." William gestured to the chairs, and Sherlock and Louis immediately claimed the seats closest to him, leaving John to gingerly take his own seat across from William. Louis poured out the tea with a deft hand as Sherlock leaned towards William, his eyes glittering with excitement.

"So, Liam, what brings you to London? Another plot by the Lord of Crime?" he asked, plucking a scone off the platter and shoving it whole into his mouth. John, who had just begun to sip on his tea, choked. Seizing a napkin, he began to cough vigorously into it, his eyes huge. Was Sherlock really suggesting that William was a murderer, or at least working with one? His coughing fit prevented him from hearing most of the answer, but judging from William's face, he hadn't taken any offense at the accusation.

"... just helping Albert out," William was saying airily when John finally managed to get himself back under control. Taking a deep breath, he managed another sip of tea without incident before helping himself to a madeleine.

"Albert is your elder brother, right? And he's in the military?"

"He was, but he's been discharged. Currently, he's setting up a company to invest in trading companies or factories in England. After all, it would be beneficial to our society to support progress and provide people with opportunities to break free of the traditional system in which the poor are bound to the land they are born on, with no choice but to work for the gentry, don't you think?"

"Aaaah, that sort of stuff doesn't concern me," Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively, and John winced. Of course, he knew that Sherlock was the kind of person who completely ignored anything that didn't interest him, but for him to continue behaving in such a way when they were guests was deeply insulting to the host. "You're probably right, though, Liam. Anyways, it seems that my reply hasn't arrived yet? e6."

William arched an eyebrow, then leaned back and beckoned the butler over, murmuring something to him before turning back to Sherlock. "d4."

"d5."

They spat strange codes at each other, and John glanced at Louis, who looked irritated as he stared at Sherlock. John couldn't blame him: if William was half as obnoxious as Sherlock when it came to flaunting his intellect, then the other man must have also gone through a lot. Feeling as though the two of them had been left out of whatever was happening, John leaned towards the other man.

"The tea is very nice," he said awkwardly, but at least it caught Louis' attention.

"Thank you," Louis replied with some stiffness.

"Do you know what they're doing?"

Just as Louis was about to reply, William and Sherlock's next exchange answered the question for him, though it seemed that they were using some sort of system that John was unfamiliar with.

"Knight to c3."

"Bishop to b4."

"e5."

"c5."

By then, the butler had reappeared with a chess board, placing it down between Sherlock and William. As William reached out to move a piece, Sherlock chuckled.

"You can't expect me to believe that you need that, Liam. Come on, let's keep going."

But William just smiled as he continued to rearrange the board.

"There's a certain charm in moving the pieces yourself, Mr. Holmes. It's easy to just use words to command others, but if you distance yourself from the feeling of having their lives in your hands, it's very easy to forget what's important. A game of chess is ultimately a game of war, and even the pieces that fall to the wayside or are sacrificed should have their value remembered. Don't you agree, Dr. Watson?"

"Excuse me?" John blinked, surprised to be suddenly addressed, and William picked up a bishop, toying idly with the carved birch piece.

"As an army doctor, you would have a better insight into this discussion, wouldn't you?" William asked, staring at him intently. John was reminded of the unwavering stare of a viper, coiled in the trenches and ready to strike at any man unwary enough to walk about without checking if there was anything underfoot. "To you, are the men you treated, or those who died on the operating table, just numbers? Or did they have names and families, reasons to travel so far from home to die in a distant land?"

"Well..." John shifted uncomfortably, his mind shying away from those memories, so he was relieved when Sherlock suddenly reached out and grabbed William's hand.

"Oi, Liam, it's just a game. Make your move already."

William blinked, and the intense pressure that John was feeling faded. "Ah. I apologize if my questions upset you, Dr. Watson. Excessive curiosity is not a very attractive trait, I'm afraid, but it is one of my flaws."

He contemplated the board briefly before placing down the piece in his hand. "Bishop to d2."

"Brother," Louis interrupted softly. "We're supposed to meet Albert soon."

"Is it that time already?" William pulled out a pocket watch, opening it to examine the dial. Then, he snapped it closed again, getting to his feet and straightening his clothing. "I do apologize, gentlemen, but we have a prior engagement. If you'll just wait a short while, Mr. Moran will call you a cab."

"Eh, don't be such a killjoy, Liam. You're heading into town, right? You could give us a ride," Sherlock protested, but William shook his head, smiling enigmatically.

"Unfortunately, I would not be good company. There are several documents that I was planning to go over this afternoon, so I'll need to catch up on them in the carriage instead. But it was worth it, as this was far more enjoyable. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." He inclined his head slightly in a clear farewell, leaving the patio with his brother trailing behind him.

"Liam! Knight to e7!" Sherlock called after him before slumping back in his chair. He reached out to nudge his knight forward before sighing and tilting his head back to stare at the sky. John recognized the signs for the start of one of his flatmate's dark moods, but fortunately, the butler came to fetch them before Sherlock tried to do anything extreme. Again, John was struck by how unprofessional the man seemed as he ushered them out the door and into the waiting carriage.

"Sherlock, what do you think of the butler? Mr. Moran?" John asked in an attempt to distract his friend as the horses clopped through the gate. Sherlock was digging around in his pockets, eventually pulling out his cigarette case and taking one out.

"Match," he ordered brusquely, and John handed him the requested match, waiting for him to light his cigarette and take a long drag. Only after that did Sherlock deign to answer his question.

"He isn't a butler by trade. He was a soldier before--an officer, most likely, since he seems to come from a noble family. He probably saw a lot of men that he cared about die while he was abroad, but unlike you, he seems to be mostly over it now. Perhaps you should ask him for a referral to his therapist."

John frowned. "What's a man like that doing as a butler?"

"What's an army doctor doing as an assistant to the world's only consulting detective?" Sherlock retorted. "People have their own circumstances, and their decisions don't always make sense to others. What?"

John was gaping at his friend as though he'd suddenly grown another head.

"What?" Sherlock repeated, and John shook off his surprise slowly.

"I didn't expect you to actually show consideration towards someone else," he replied, his eyebrows still raised.

"What are you talking about? What about Hope?" Sherlock pointed out, sounding mildly irritated, as he usually did whenever John pointed out something patently obvious--at least to Sherlock. But before John could respond, the carriage stopped, and their driver announced, "221 Baker Street!"

They exited the cab, and as they were crossing the threshold of 221B, John suddenly remembered another, more pressing issue.

"And what was that about? Accusing William of being the Lord of Crime? Even as a joke, that was incredibly rude of you!" he reprimanded Sherlock, only to be taken aback when the other man actually laughed out loud. The suddenness of it even prompted Miss Hudson to poke her head around the corner to see what was happening.

"He's brilliant, isn't he? But you don't need to worry about that, John. He's just playing along, like he did on the train. God, if he really was the Lord, it would be perfect!"

Still laughing, he headed upstairs. John exchanged an exasperated look with Miss Hudson's confused one, then headed up himself.

[Part 2]

#yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #yuumori #ynm #fanfic #fan fic #sherlock holmes #william james moriarty #john watson #louis james moriarty #sebastian moran #fred porlock #albert james moriarty #mine #fun trivia: if the card was treated as an actual calling/visiting card then sherlock was rude as fuck #because receiving the card in an envelope means please don't visit me #and the extra settings were actually supposed to be for moran and fred lol

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forgottenyogurtgods · 3 years

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Noblesse Oblige

Summary: Robin Hood AU. (Sort of.) After her father is arrested for harboring and aiding the wanted criminal Chat Noir, Marinette must seek him out or lose her father to a crime he did not commit.

Chapitre six

Healing

Ten days came and went with no sign of Chat Noir, and her butt had long since grown numb from consistently sitting for the lack of being able to properly walk anywhere for more than a short distance. Getting down and up the stairs had been more than enough of an adventure.

The Sheriff questioned her the second night. She acted like a shy and fluttery little rabbit, staring up at him with wide eyes that she hoped managed to convince him she hadn’t been out in the woods when the guards had heard the noise. (“I was already at the old mill,” she had said in a soft voice. “I heard some shouts, but I thought it was all part of a bad dream.”) He believed her, of course. She had never been so terrified or exhilarated than after he’d left.

She hated liars and lying, but it was necessary. Her father’s life was on the line.

Brother Fu was summoned to check on her ankle. He didn’t charge much beyond some fresh bread and water in exchange for some herbs for teas to help with the pain. Marinette didn’t look forward to his visits. He was kind and gentle, and he lifted her spirits. But he also seemed to know the truth – though he did not press the issue.

Nathaniel and Alya continued to assist her mother in the mornings, and Max or his father delivered the flour when they could. She hadn’t heard or seen any of the children to know if they were getting any food – she hoped someone within the village was kind enough to take up the task while she was unable.

With all the time she sat around, she had plenty of time to think – most of the time it was spent worrying over her father, wondering if Chat Noir would help, and new cheese recipes. The second day she’d finished making a wheel with dandelion and roasted walnuts – brought to her by Alya, though when she had the time to gather them, Marinette hadn’t the faintest.

She wasn’t quite sure what to do with that particular wheel, but she thought that since she wasn’t sure how much longer she had to stay off her foot, it was best to find an activity she could do sitting down. Like, sewing.

Marinette longed to feel soft fabric between her fingers while she stitched together something new for someone to wear – possibly herself. It’d been a long time since she made herself a new dress or smock.

And she knew the village’s best tailor had the finest collection of fabrics – and a distinct fondness for cheeses.

It didn’t take much to convince Nathaniel to help her to the tailor’s and back again. He looked ready to fall over – making her feel bad for even asking – but he easily helped her along. He offered to carry the satchel with the cheese in it, but she declined.

“Have you heard anything?” she said. “About… well, you know?”

“Not a thing,” he said. “I’ve been quite busy.”

She flushed.

“Sorry about that. Look, you can go on home after we get there. I can always ask his wife or one of the apprentices to help me get back home.”

“I’d hate to just abandon you there.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m in Rochers. What bad thing could happen to me here?”

He didn’t say anything, which made her nervous. Bad things could and did happen within the bastide, but they were few and far in-between. He shouldn’t worry, really. She’d be safe. She wouldn’t be traipsing through the forests for quite a while.

The tailor’s home was a cozy little place tucked between two taller buildings belonging to the shoemaker and the leather master. Inside, every flat surface was dripping with green plants – some still flowering – and ornately carved furniture.

The tailor’s wife, a tall beauty named Tikki, greeted them in her renowned cheerful way.

“Oh, Damoiselle Marinette, Monsieur Nathaniel,” she said, practically chirping. “Lovely to see you dears. Damoiselle Marinette, please sit down, won’t you? You shouldn’t be on that foot yet. It hasn’t had the proper time to heal.”

Tikki helped her over to a chair next to the fireplace – which was slowly dying out. She retrieved a quilt made of scraps of beautiful fabric and draped it across Marinette’s lap. Nathaniel stood awkwardly by the door.

“Why don’t you head on home, dear?” Tikki said, gently tucking the blanket down. “I’ll make sure she gets home safely before it gets too dark.”

“Are you sure?” he said, looking between them.

“I’ll be fine,” Marinette said, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He nodded and ducked back out.

“There, comfy?” Tikki said.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good, good. Now what can I help you with?”

“I was hoping to speak to your husband, actually.” She withdrew the cheese wheel and held it out. “I know it’s not much, but I was hoping to trade some fabric for this?”

“What kind – Oo! Dandelion and… is that roasted walnut?” Tikki sniffed at the wheel, eyes twinkling. “It’s been a while since Plagg has had any cheese from you. He’ll be so happy. Yes. You said you wanted fabric? Anything particular in mind?”

Marinette opened her mouth. She actually didn’t have anything in mind. Really, there was nothing she needed new clothes for except…

“Is there something I could possibly use to make a dress for the tournament that’s worth that cheese?” she said, unsure.

“Let me go look,” Tikki said, tapping her jaw. “Plagg hoards fabric like some people hoard old, broken toys. Wait here for a moment, alright?”

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#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #mlb noblesse oblige

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nashibirne · 4 years

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Against all odds - 2.7

Here comes the next part of my little “from-friends-to-lovers”-story. Enjoy!

Today’s chapter’s about Henrys POV and his feelings for Anna.

And thanks again for every single like, comment or reblog

Against all odds - 2.7

Part 2.1 Part 2.2 Part 2.3 Part 2.4 Part 2.5 Part 2.6

Henry Cavill x ofc / mc

Warnings: No Beta! The f-word, slight hint of sex

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the meanwhile Henry was pacing his garden nervously, staring at his phone, impatiently waiting for Anna’s reply. The blue ticks on WhatsApp showed him that she had read his message a few minutes ago but she hadn’t answered yet.

“What’s she waiting for, Kal. I bet she’s distracted by Saint Milton. Maybe he’s making a move on her right now”. He kicked away a stone angrily. He’d never thought that jealousy could hit him so hard but not knowing what was going on between her and the flawless viscount was driving him nuts.

“I love her, mate” he whispered, kneeling down besides Kal, burying his face in his thick fur. It was true. What he felt for Anna was much more than an infatuation, much more than just a crush. When he had almost given up hope to find ‘the one’, Anna literally had come tumbling into his life. He remembered their first encounter so very well. He liked her right from the start for not being mad at him or Kal for shoving her in the mud. For her humorous reaction and her kindness. And he was taken by her beauty when she looked him in the eyes for the first time. She was not a girl, not sweet or cute. She was an attractive woman, beautiful and charismatic. That she hadn’t recognized him was a big plus too. Never knowing if people like you just because you’re a celebrity or if they like you - the real you-, if they would like you too if you were an unknown teacher or carpenter or whatever, was the downside of his fame. Coming to women it was especially complicated because he never knew if they just wanted to date him because he was famous. If they wanted to be with Henry or with Superman, August, Charles or Geralt. He had been with woman who wanted him to act like one of his characters in bed.

Fuck me like Geralt would.

Could you wear your Superman cape?

Have your ways with me, August.

It was humiliating, leaving him with the mortifying feeling that just being Henry wasn’t good enough. And then the attention whores. Standing in the limelight with him, their faces in the papers, the number of their followers on social media multiplying day by day. He had dated women who considered these effects his most attractive quality. Of course there had been fantastic women in his life too. The few really serious long-term relationships he had were with wonderful women he had truly loved and still deeply respected. But in the end every single one of them just wasn’t 'the one’, no matter how much he had wished for it.

With Anna however it was difficult the other way round. He was worried that she might not want him because he was a celebrity. She hated being the center of attention and he knew his high profile job scared her off. The first time they went to the farmers market together she insisted on taking her Toyota instead of Henry’s Bentley. “Too conspicuous”, she had explained. The lifestyle of the rich and famous definitely wasn’t her cup of tea. Which was funny because the english side of her family was quite wealthy of course, living in a huge castle on a gigantic estate. Her uncle owned exquisite, unique pieces of art, exclusive designer furniture, various antique cars, a stable full of gallant horses, a vast library overfull with precious books and so on. But he didn’t show off, supported local social projects, used his privileges to help people who weren’t this lucky. Noblesse oblige at it’s best. And that was Anna’s mindset too. This mentality was one of the many things he loved about her. She was humble, didn’t need luxury though she aprecciated it, and most of all she didn’t depend on anybody’s money. She had her own assets, inherited from her parents and grandparents and she had a well-paid job to earn her living. An independent woman with a life of her own.

A short vibration of his phone interrupted his thoughts and he was relieved to see what Anna had texted him.

“She misses us, too, Kal” he said happily wrapping his dog in a tight embrace. “Let’s answer her.”

So if a picture helps, I need one of you, too 😉

The reply came immediately.

Okay.

Seconds later he looked at a picture of Anna in front of a fireplace, sitting in a wingchair, looking relaxed and happy and simply stunning.

Thanks. This really helps. You look wonderful 😍 It’s boring without you, he added

No plans for tonight? Anna wanted to know.

Sitting all alone in my kitchen, drinking beer and listening to some music I guess. 😭😉

😄 Poor man, becoming lonely without me after only one day. Just listen to the right music and it will cheer you up,Anna answered.

Good point. Why don’t you send me a playlist with some good music.

He added a GIF of a dancing monkey.

Your wish is my command. I’ll select some songs and send you the link later.

Great. Thanks. 👍

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So that’s it, what do you think so far? A little teaser for the next chapter: it is going to be steamy…

tags: @hell1129-blog

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x mc #friends to lovers fan fic #friends to lovers

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docholligay · 4 years

Text

Ace High

@amberlilly asked for “Michiru being given a choice in some situation to change something in the past. What does she do?” 2100 words and I hope you like it, Lilly!

You cannot draw the card. That is a known rule.

The cards are drawn for you, dealt in a pile, and the hands that are played come only down to luck, as some would say. Some would say it comes to skill, to a certain inclination of what the dealer might play, a knowledge of the rest of the table, but it had been the observation of one Michiru Kaioh that those players were often the ones who had royal flush in their blood before they ever sat.

No, there is no way that the rules allow for the drawing of the cards, no way for your fortune to be arranged and rearranged and though you may always throw something away, that in no way guarantees that anything better will fly to your hand from the cruel dealings of eternity’s gam master.

But there is, of course, cheating.

Michiru Kaioh considered herself a keen observer of humanity, in the way she had studied all arts, and so she was no often at a loss, or taken by surprise, when someone offered her something. It was easy to spell out a lie, when you were Michiru. Generally.

Her eyes flashed back to Mina and she hated herself for the crime immediately. Why should she presume that if Michiru did not know whether the demon told true, Mina would know any better?

In any case, it did not matter. Mina’s face held neither confirmation or denial of the statement itself, but a simple, straightforward: No.

Of course it would be that way, and Michiru was foolish for thinking otherwise. None of the rest seemed even vaguely interested in the offer.

“This card,” the voice was deep and garbled at the edges, cruel and cold as the first snowmelted rivers of spring, “will give you one change. Anything. A different family. A won war. A saved life.”

“It’s a trick,” Mako grumbled, “You can’t do that.”

“Oh but I can,” there was laughter now, like a roaring rapid, full of static, “and the only cat’s-paw is life itself. No more harm could come to you than would in this life.”

It was telling the truth. It had no need to lie, for it was just as likely it could kill us all with its own power. It cared not for the fate of the earth, it cared not for power, it only wanted that crystal, for some reason it had certainly told them but Michiru had pointedly ignored.

They all wanted it eventually, and it was in everyone’s best interests for Michiru not to be brought to decide if it was any better or worse than the Moon Kingdom having it.

And it wasn’t even asking them to bring the crystal to it. Only to lend it their power, to let it move with the stormy sea of Neptune and let them take over for just a moment, just long enough to take the crystal for themselves.

One change. What would she even do, with that sort of power? How could she see into the past, and know what would move into the future? It was impossibility to ask of her, and maybe this was why it was easier for Mako to pretend that the power was a lie. Maybe she didn’t know what her life would look like, if not like this, if her parents hadn’t died, if the world had left her with literally anyone but Usagi.

It was never easier for Michiru to lie, at least to herself. The monster spoke true, and the power was real, and Usagi might die in the bargain, but then again, Michiru wasn’t sure that would involve the earth as much as everyone claimed. This was, and had always been, for the good of the moon, and so far as Michiru was concerned it could stay a dead rock.

Would she dream for herself? Who would Michiru Kaioh even be, if she had not be raised with a steel to her back from her toddling days, if she had not been raised with a sense of decorum and noblesse oblige? What if she had tumbled down a hillside in a park, thrown her arms around the neck of her dog, and laughed loud? What if she had never been a prodigy, but merely a child? Who might Michiru Kaioh have been?

As with the most of us, Michiru found this hypothetical person she might have been to be a nearly impossible thing to consider, and so, chose not to. It was not her general inclination to think too deeply about that anyhow. Michiru had survived her childhood, and if the person she wa now was not exactly ideal, she was functional, and she had divorced herself so entirely from the idea of being a loved object to many that the idea seemed strange.

She looked to her left, Haruka narrowing her eyes and ready to pounce. She had never considered the offer. Michiru could see it in her eyes. She might, if she thought it out, but it would be some self-sacrificing thing where she would wish that it had never come to this planet, which would backfire on her entirely in a way she would not be able to see. Or her offer would simply be rejected, this was not some sort of fairy story where one can undo Rumpelstiltskin with a clever word.

Michiru might have been a broken thing, but she was rather one of those repaired art pieces, covered by so much restoration and knowledge that only the most closely trained eye could see the patches, could see the spots where the brushstrokes changed. But Haruka was rather a junkyard dog, who had been set to fight, and her wounds set across her in easily-seen patterns, every chunk taken out of her marked with the shining pink of a tight scar.

Who might she have been, if she had been more loved? If her grandmother hadn’t died, or better, if she were born to a family who all deeply longed for her, where there was always food on the table and warm, clean clothes? What if her boisterousness and eagerness to please had been harnessed instead of being hurt? What if she had been driven into sports young, and told she was talented and good, and hugged, and wanted?

Michiru saw what she thought that girl might have been like, sometimes, in the dark. When Haruka reached for her hand, and held it softly, when she whispered words of love, when she snuggled gently against Michiru, and relaxed under her gentle caress. Haruka might have been so many lovely and soft things, so easily, if she could have been safe. She might be so happy, if her parents had taught her to love herself, to see the good in herself, to accept tenderness instead of mocking her for it.

She nearly extended her hand, then, knowing what she would ask it to do, what she would ask it to give.

But what of Michiru? It was a selfish thought, though that in itself did not surprise Michiru, for she was often selfish. What would become of Michiru, if Haruka had always known she had worth and value? If she felt no compulsion to throw herself in front of things, die for something? What if she felt she was already good, and did not need to hurt herself in the service of something greater? What if Michiru’s touch hadn’t been the first gentle one she had in years?

Michiru knew what would happen. Michiru was a strange thing, and no normal person would be saddled with her if they could find another. That Haruka, whose life was kind, would have a sweet girlfriend already, and nuzzle with her in some cafe, drinking with two straws in the same glass, and Haruka would laugh, and they would kiss. It would not be with a creature like her, that Haruka would know an easy life, full of warmth.

There was a simple truth, the ugliest Michiru’s heart could hold:

If Haruka’s life hadn’t been cruel, if she hadn’t been a senshi, they never would have met. They never would have fallen in love.

She could stand, and pretend to be brave and resolute. Perhaps they would win the day anyhow, it had happened enough times. She could pretend that she could think of nothing worth giving over her power for, no thing she loved more than to serve the moon and her princess. She could be a good soldier, and no one would ever have to see the poisoned rose in her heart.

Or she could be kind, instead of selfish. She could turn traitor, for Haruka’s sake, and give her up into the world that would treat her with kindness, that would love her and make it easy for her to love. She could lose everything but know that Haruka was safe. That for one day in her life, she had made a choice for Haruka instead of herself.

She had loved Haruka for her own sake. She had died in the cathedral so she did not have to bear Haruka’s loss. She was a selfish thing, and she knew it, but here was one chance to be something better. To serve the princess she loved the most.

“I will take that bargain.” She did not look at Haruka when she said it. However much Haruka hated her now, however much Haruka was trying to make it in a clever plan, Michiru did not want to see. Haruka would forget her in a moment’s time anyhow.

The other senshi yelled behind her, and their voices became one clamor, and Michiru did not care to pick out each instrument in the symphony, content in knowing that she understood the general theme. She was a traitor, for she was in love, and her beloved deserved this.

Michiru loved her. She would be kind, for her.

A mirror slipped out of her hand, and into it slipped a card, the queen of hearts, and she stared and stared and stared.

And stood on a street in the middle of Tokyo. Her district, filled with fashionable shops and sweet cafes, people hurrying around her, some staring into the windows and chattering over the finest goods. Michiru looked in the window of the Cartier. She was dressed in the same sort of neat navy dress she often wore, handmade Italian leather on her feet. A transformation ring on her finger. Everything was very much as she left it, and Michiru wondered for a moment if it hadn’t been all some sort of hallucination brought on by poor eating habits.

Then she saw her. She was taller even than she had been in the timeline where they loved, doubtless due to better nutrition as a child. Her hair was the same soft mob of blonde, cut neatly with her hair falling just to the edge of her eyebrows. She smiled brightly, and waved to a little girl in pink, bending down to properly greet her. Haruka seemed to radiate comfort and joy, tall and butch and happy enough with alll of it. Michiru wanted to go to her, to kiss her and tell her they had done it and Haruka would not ever have to hold that hurt and sadness in her eyes.

Then she was her. A cute little thing with her hair piled in a neat bun at the top of her head, sunglasses perched next to it. She laughed, and her face crinkled up, teeth showing garishly, as she hooked her arm around Haruka’s. Her clothing was bright and her hair was dark and she was utterly artless and terribly charming. They must have come down here for lunch, and Michru’s heart broke just a little bit, something she could not have dreamed, as Haruka put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

The girl noticed Michiru staring and cocked her head to the side. She glared deeply, her arm protectively around Haruk, and pulled her the other way, kissing her, making sure Michiru could see her do it.

Of course, Michiru laughed to herself, she thinks me some sort of gawking homophobe. She looked back in the mirror, surprised to see a tear rolling down her face.

Cheating was the only way to win the game. And cheaters never prosper.

Michiru had not known both could be true.

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starswornoaths · 5 years

Text

A Delicate Dance

“Pray work with me, that we might move forward as one.”

Serella and Aymeric begin to trust one another. There is dancing of two sorts involved.

Or:

I don’t care that my birthday was yesterday, this is my gift to myself: mutual pining while denying there is mutual pining, intermingled with political double speak and dancing.

Word count: 5130

Rightly why the high houses insisted on a celebration for the Scions innocence in the eyes of the Fury and the honor they brought to House Fortemps was utterly beyond Serella. For how readily droves of them attended the Tribunal in glee with the expectation of the Heaven’s Ward to make a heretical smear of them on the arbitration floor, the nobility were now falling over themselves to try and express how glad they are that “the Fury shielded you from such a grievous error.” If they thought themselves cunning and subtle in their duplicity, she would have to disagree.

More baffling still were the odd looks and snide remarks the trio of them got from the very same elitists that sought to try and bend them to the political schemes of the nobility; in the baffling days following that sham of a trial, they had all been so occupied with their tasks and trying to track down the missing members of their little family, they had been, more or less, unavailable for measurements for clothes to be made, though had made do with cleanly pressed suits for them all. Bollocks to them, Serella had insisted when Tataru grew despondent at their backhanded comments. As far as she was concerned, they all looked great.

Were it not for the need to ensure protection for Alphinaud and Tataru, she would have thrown a punch at someone by now.

Uthengentle had declined to attend, citing need to assist Clan Centurio with a hunt mark. Much as she was…less than thrilled with him at the moment, as she listened to the twentieth noble condescendingly comment that it was little wonder the Scions were dressed so “humbly” given their predicament, she found she couldn’t fault him for wanting to avoid coming. She wanted to be here less and less with every passing second.

Still, she found company that made it bearable, and was glad they were more stationary than some others circles that flitted about the ballroom of House Fortemps; it made it easier to stick to them that way. Haurchefant attended, blessedly, and made for refreshingly straightforward conversation. She was relieved at least someone was genuinely glad for their presence. Though the little gathering she stood in was comprised of some…unexpected guests, she mused to herself.

It was…odd, that the Azure Dragoon and Lord Commander both were required to take time to attend such a gathering. She supposed she could see the reasoning; while this was largely just a display of showmanship and an opportunity for House Fortemps to flaunt their latest acquisitions of prestige and power, it was still a gathering of the elite that governed over Ishgard. It made sense for them to have to at least make an appearance. She supposed she was just surprised that they had the time for it in the first place.

Truthfully she was more surprised still that Estinien had actually made an attempt at grooming himself before arriving; with a crisp suit and his hair pulled back, he looked almost elegant, though his natural features certainly made him handsome besides, she could concede, even as he had not bothered hiding his scowl when unwelcome guests approached him. She was half tempted to take inspiration.

“Remind me why I came here,” Estinien grumbled into his champagne, his disdain for the gathering evident.

Serella could relate, really.

“We were invited,” Ser Aymeric answered smoothly. He took a delicate, practiced sip from his own champagne flute. “Count Edmont was generous enough to organize such an event that the Scions might be made to feel welcomed and rewarded for their efforts.”

“Oh certainly,” Estinien said blithely with a thorough roll of his eyes, “and the nobility has been so welcoming.”

“They’ve been incredibly warm,” Serella answered, and her own bitterness tinged her words, “they’ve all taken the time to compliment me on my ‘successes in spite of my disposition,’ at least once.” She drained her champagne. “So kind of them.”

Haurchefant offered her an apologetic smile but said nothing. Serella took no offense; they’d howl with laughter and rant over cocoa back at Camp Dragonhead about the evening later, as they always did.

“Given their…reception of you,” Ser Aymeric spoke up, his expression pinched in sympathy, “I can hardly fault you your reluctance to mingle.”

His tone suggested extensive experience with their backhanded nature—and she could only wonder at who would dare to even attempt such condescension with someone of his status.

“I thank you for indulging in keeping me company,” she replied. When she smiled, it felt genuine for the first time all night. “A friendly face or three is welcome in a crowd of strangers.”

“Hear that, Ser Estinien?” Haurchefant grinned from over the lip of his glass. “You’re a friendly face!”

When the Azure Dragoon arched a brow Serella could only laugh.

“You’re at least honest in your contempt for being here,” she explained. “And that’s refreshing.”

“Good enough for camaraderie, I suppose.” Estinien grumbled, though he seemed just a little pleased to be wanted. “The boy seems to be in his element.” He commented, eyes drifting to watch Alphinaud easily hold up conversation with a small gathering of the nobility. “Is he aware of the vultures whose company he is in, I wonder.”

“Likely.” Serella said, carefully eyeing how the nobles gathered around him and Tataru. “Knowing how close to keep them has been…a skill recently learned.”

One of the wait staff who happened to be passing by paused and offered their tray for her to place her empty flute upon.

“Oh,” she was startled, but set the glass on the tray and smiled widely at them. “Thank you so much.”

“A-ah,” The waiter seemed to fluster at the eye contact. “Of course, mistress. Another for you?”

“If you please—but only when you have a free moment,” she answered, deliberately softening her smile. “No need to rush—you’re busy.”

“Of course, mistress.” He stammered again as he ducked his head and moved quickly through the crowd.

One of the nobles, a man from one of the houses serving House Durendaire, if she remembered correctly—which was rather unlikely for how little she cared—had drifted over toward their group, and had apparently taken her actions as a good excuse to sidle up beside her within the small cluster of people. She already wanted to slam her head against the nearest wall to avoid the impending conversation but forced herself to keep a pleasant enough face.

“Oh come now, the honored guest surely should not be made to wait for her champagne!” The noble exclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly, offering her a flute with a smug grin stretching his heavily flushed cheeks.

“I’m in no hurry,” she said. She made no move to take the glass from him. “And the waiter will be back shortly. I would not have his effort be wasted.”

“Oh, what’s a little more work for the help, eh?” he said, though he swayed as he leaned back to drain the glass himself. He let out a satisfied sigh at the last dreg and set the flute on a tray of a passing waitress. “Another,” he said more at her than to her, snapping his fingers.

Despite her hackles instantly raising, Serella fought to keep her expression neutral. There was some relief that she was in good company when an almost incredulous silence hung over the group she stood in; at least she wasn’t completely surrounded by pricks.

Haurchefant sprang into action as the girl tried to scurry off, instantly at the waitress’ side chatting with her with that same kind enthusiasm he always had.

“Is it not the obligation of the nobility,” Serella asked in a clipped tone, “to serve the public with generosity with kindness?”

“Ahh, the Noblesse Oblige!” The noble said, a hand smoothed over his suit vest as he chuckled. The more hot air he exuded, the more Serella could smell how much he had drank. “I was not prepared for an adventurer such as yourself to be so well read. How refreshing! Though really,” he gave a dismissive wave of the hand and asked, “is it not enough that they are paid for their time?”

What a first impression, Serella thought blithely.

“Forgive me—a moment, my lord,” she said in the airiest, easiest tone she could manage. When he opened his mouth again she held a hand up. “Just a moment.”

She felt Ser Aymeric and Estinien’s eyes on her as she moved to where Haurchefant still spoke with the maid, who was now pouring champagne into clean flutes at the serving table some fulms away.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she spoke softly.

“Oh!” The waitress startled, and a small splash of champagne missed the flutes and pooled on her tray. “Ah, excuse my clumsiness—!”

Though she hardly made much of a mess, the flutes shuttered enough to clink fairly loudly, loud enough that those in the immediate vicinity turned a shrewd eye toward the woman. Serella felt a second wave of sympathy wash over her for the poor girl; she remembered her early days serving at the Druthers, and that was for those who were less pretentious and demanding than this crowd. She couldn’t imagine the stress the poor girl was under.

“Please,” Serella held up a reassuring hand while the other produced a kerchief from her pocket. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” with a reassuring smile, she began to blot the champagne herself.

Haurchefant, gallant knight that he was, readily swooped in to help shuffled the glasses around to ease the cleaning process, his cheery grin infectious.

“M-my lady, my lord you need not—!”

“We do,” Serella insisted.

“My friend is correct!” Haurchefant readily agreed. “Knights such as we live to serve!”

“And it isn’t that much besides,” she added. The mess duly cleaned, she held the dampened kerchief a moment. “Though if you know where I might put this…?”

“I’ll have it taken care of at once, my lady!” The waitress insisted with a curtsey.

“Only when you get a chance—someone has to oblige your busy schedule.” She avoided shooting a pointed glare at the offending noble that caused this as she pulled some gil from her pocket. “Here, for your trouble.”

“O-oh, I could not—!”

“Pray accept this on behalf of House Fortemps,” Serella insisted, gently pressing the coins into her hand.

A few nearby nobles who were struggling to pretend they weren’t watching gasped and muttered incredulously but she paid them no mind; if they forgot their own oath to society, someone had to pick it up. Might as well be a Paladin, she figured; oaths were their specialty.

Through stuttered thanks, the waitress tucked the gil and kerchief away, and scuttled to the back, doubtless to get another bottle of champagne for the remaining empty glasses.

“You know, I daresay you’ll fit in with my family quite well, Serella.” Haurchefant said, plucking one of the filled flutes in hand and falling into step as she moved back to the group.

“I had hoped to regardless, but thank you.” She said, already hating the fact that the offending nobleman hadn’t just taken the hint and left.

Still, his baleful, inebriated glare was far less an interesting reaction compared to the outright shocked look upon the Lord Commander’s face. How odd, she thought, and promptly fought to ignore it as best she could; what she couldn’t decipher, she wouldn’t fuss over. They were working on their words to one another, anyroad. She could ask him when there was a more private moment to do so, if she was still so bothered by it.

“Such humanitarianism,” the nobleman cheered, holding his half empty glass up in a toast, “I had not realized adventurers were capable of it.”

He’s trying to incite me? She thought, half amused and half galled. Well, if he really wants to go there…

“I was taught,” she said slowly, measuring her words and their impact, “that manners make the man.” Sparing him a sidelong glance, she asked, “and lacking in manners at all, what would a man be, I wonder?” Before he could comment, she answered herself with a shrug, “nothing, I would presume.” When the waiter from before brought her a flute of champagne, she smiled as she accepted. “Thank you,” she told him, perhaps in too much earnest, silently side eyeing the pestering nobleman until he scoffed and left for more welcoming circles.

Estinien choked on a laugh into his champagne flute.

“Never could hold his liquor, that one— nor his tongue.” The Azure Dragoon mused, his keen eyes tracking the nobleman’s stumbling.

“I oft hope he might learn from his mistakes.” Ser Aymeric sighed. “I am disappointed every time.”

“Halone be praised, I feared we might be cursed with his persistent presence for the remainder of the night.” Haurchefant sighed in visible relief.

“I might have hit him.” Serella admitted without a hint of guilt.

“I would have covered for you.” Estinien deadpanned.

“Fortunate that he left, then,” Ser Aymeric said, the twitch at the corner of his lips betraying his amusement. His eyes twinkled as he said, “I would have been made to lie to the Holy See about the act to corroborate.”

“But would you have truly felt so bad about it?” Haurchefant asked with an arch of his brow and a toothy grin.

“I do not recall disclosing my feelings on the matter,” Ser Aymeric replied, his subtle grin curling around the rim of his flute as he sipped, “merely that I would have been made to do so.”

Seeing the three of them interact, it was clear that there was an intimate friendship there that was forged in their formative years, bonds tethered in adolescence and strengthened as they grew. She only hoped they were able to actually see one another for how busy their individual successes made them.

The conversation eased into more comfortable territory after that, and Zephina eventually emerged to slip between Haurchefant and Estinien and join in. It was pleasant, having such idle, unimportant chatter after the near constant motion they had been going through of late. Now that Raubahn had been plucked from his execution and the search for the sultana was on, it seemed a good enough time to allow themselves to breathe. When Serella caught Zephina’s opalescent gaze, there was a silent, mutual agreement of this was nice and needed.

Though it was hard not to notice how Ser Aymeric was frequently pulled—sometimes physically—by a man or woman insistent that he ask after them for a dance once the music called for it, or to try and gain his attention in some other way.

It was a subtle thing, but she saw the way he winced, ever so slightly, whenever someone touched him unprovoked. She wondered to herself at what point he had given up trying to tell the nobility that he was not their object of amusement. The interactions were disillusioning, and Serella at last understood why he looked at her in such sympathy when she too was pestered.

It was little wonder he was so slow to see that she had no intention befriending him for her use, she realized. The more she saw how others interacted with him, the more she wondered if his was an isolating station in such times, where he was wanted but never for himself. He was sought after, she had known, but she had not realized precisely how disingenuous the nobility’s pursuit of him was.

Her heart almost sank on his behalf when the music changed tempo, and a waltz began to float through the air. Man of his word as he was, if he did not decline any of those who requested a dance from him, she only prayed he still had toes by the end of the night.

So it surprised her—stunned her, really, when he instead walked across their little circle to her with an almost apprehensive smile on his face.

“Might I trouble you for a dance, Mistress Arcbane?” He asked her, his palm out in open invitation.

She blinked stupidly at him a moment before her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. A dance? She hadn’t learned how— not save for festival dances and the like. Already out of her element, she knew she would only rob the Lord Commander of his toes for the trouble.

“Ah…err...?” She sputtered intelligently.

“Though pray do not feel obligated,” he said quickly, already beginning to withdraw his hand.

Without thought, she reached for it before he could pull it away and leaned closer to him. Even he seemed surprised by the move, his cheeks faintly dusted pink at her sudden closeness but she would not have him mistake her surprise as rejection.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted in a conspiratorial whisper.

That seemed to surprise him further. “You have never danced?” He asked quizzically but quietly.

Reflecting on the fact that the only practiced dances she knew were a Gridanian festival dance and the Manderville, Serella replied carefully, “I was never...classically trained, my lord.”

“If you would like, I might assist in changing that?” He offered.

His smile was welcoming, and she found the subtle tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction when she realized he was not judging her for her lack of experience, but inviting her to share in it with him. Perhaps it was that he had already begun to grow on her as a friend, or perhaps the bar for the evening had just been set so low that she felt more amenable, but she found she was not opposed to the idea. She gave his hand an affirming squeeze.

“Pray lead on, Lord Commander,” she said despite her better judgement, “and I shall mind my footwork.”

With a chuckle, he adjusted his gentle grip on her hand and led her to the rapidly filling dance floor. She followed gamely; given how quickly he offered her a dance, she suspected he either wanted privacy to talk, or had something urgent to pass to her discreetly; she could guess at the game at this point.

Well, that or he was just avoiding the seemingly endless line of people who decided they were owed a part of his time whether he wanted them to or not— that was also a distinct possibility.

“‘Tis not a complex dance, rest assured,” Ser Aymeric said amicably. He moved to stand in front of her and offered his other hand. When she took it, he guided it to rest upon his shoulder. Her hands positioned thus, his newly freed hand respectfully rested upon her waist. “Merely follow my steps— they will move in sets of three.”

“Let’s hope I’m a quick study, then,” Serella said as she began to move with him. “Lest you be torn apart by the line of lords and ladies awaiting their turn.”

“Let us instead hope that I am a poor teacher, that I might have to repeat myself until boredom has set in and the crowd disperses,” he answered.

She barely coughed back a laugh at that. “I keep forgetting you’re capable of humor.”

“You would accuse me of speaking in jest?” He feigned mild insult, though the corner of his lip curling into a grin gave away his game. “Rather bold of you.”

“Perhaps— but if that be the case, then allow me to be bolder still and ask a question,” she said.

“A question?” He asked, and she faintly saw a brow arch from beneath his raven bangs but his face was otherwise a neutral mask.

“You— an otherwise absolute gentleman, by all accounts— took the time to shirk a queue of people looking for a dance just to offer one to me. Why?”

“Bolder still indeed,” he said around a secretive half smile. “Though the question is a fair one; in part, ‘tis a preference of company,” he explained, “and because I wished to speak with you.”

“All this, just to speak with me?” She asked. “You might have simply asked after me at your office.”

“Expedience seemed of the essence; the vaunted Warrior of Light has caught many an eye of late, and I would have your attention before you are called elsewhere once more.”

While Serella could have certainly interpreted his tone as almost flirtatious, the sharpness in his gaze even as his discreetly glanced about them told her this was a dance twofold, carried out in steps and in speech. He was warning her of something, then. Or tipping her off to something he could otherwise not risk waiting to tell her later. If he had to be so secretive but hurried about it, then it could well mean that this regarded something out of his direct purview. Her curiosity piqued, she decided to play along.

“Much is demanded of my attentions, Ser Aymeric,” she replied playfully, even as she did not smile and struggled to keep track of her own feet amidst their dancing. “Might you be more specific?”

“Your recent accomplishments both here and beyond our gates have many minds within the Holy See filling with possibilities,” he began, “more influential souls than I— and many of whom you have inspired to study you closely.”

The Heaven’s Ward? The Archbishop? The Inquisition? Doubtless a bit of all of them— but his words were fairly clear: you are being watched for signs of weakness by people with greater influence than I.

“I fear they will be disappointed with what they see.” Serella sighed. “Save for finding a mutual interest in goldsmithing and botany, I fear those who wish to learn aught of use will find themselves wanting.”

“I cannot pretend that you lack innate allure otherwise— there are a great many things one might wish to know of you.”

He turned them to avoid the corner of the dance floor, and she bit back a curse when she stumbled into him for her graceless feet.

“Sorry—” she apologized automatically, even as she felt him carefully guide them away from another couple dancing closer to them.

“You have naught to apologize for,” Aymeric said softly in earnest. “You try to move on your own over much, and risk falling for all your trouble.” He startled her with his pleading gaze. “Pray work with me, that we might move forward as one.”

Their banter teetered on threatening— and had they not begun to build rapport with one another, she might have wondered if he was warning her of the threat he posed to her, but she had begun to learn— slowly— that everything about his body language and his eyes was beseeching her to listen and trust him. He was trying to put her on the trail for something that he could not directly help her with. This was him asking to work as a team, but doing so as her friend. For the first time since their arrival to the city, she didn’t feel entirely so alone; he was at least trying to help her in what ways he could within his constraints.

“Worry not,” Serella reassured him, “though I may yet stumble, you have proven an expert tutor thus far.” She gave his hand that guided them a squeeze. “With time, I’ll learn how to move with you.”

I’m choosing to trust you— show me that isn’t a mistake, she pleaded silently.

“But you make a good point; I oft forget the real reason for my list of achievements,” she lilted, ever so slightly angling her head and fanning her lashes to feign acting flirtatiously demure, “though you flatter me all the same.”

“I speak only the truth.” Aymeric answered simply, though she saw the flash of relief in his eyes; he realized she was playing along with him. Good. “You possess an ethereal sort of strength— the sort that many might be drawn to.” A shadow flickered across his face as he leaned in to murmur in her ear, “some of whom may seek to claim you for themselves— or seek your ruin, failing that.”

She shivered at the implication of his words and the velvet of his voice so close, but his meaning was clear all the same. You are being watched for your Echo, and there are those who would take the power for themselves or kill you in the process. Message received; she need only figure out precisely who among the upper echelon of the Holy See were following her, and how many of them were involved. While having a target on her back was nothing new and already she greatly distrusted the Holy See and their arrogant dealings with the Ascians, she could appreciate the risk Aymeric was taking in divulging this information to her. Doubtless the risk was great even to obtain said knowledge, though she suspected they had his First Commander to thank for that.

“It is not mine by choice,” Serella answered softly, “though that will doubtless not deter those who are lured by it.”

“Does it ever?” He asked.

“Not thus far, no.” She sighed. “I thank you for your consideration— and your company,” she said, “though you needn’t worry— I am, as ever, Ishgard’s shield. I have sworn as much, have I not?”

“That you have.” he said, and his expression eased considerably— she took it as a sign that he too was beginning to trust her more. “I confess, I had naught more to say on the matter— though if you are amenable, I would still keep your company, Mistress Arcbane.”

“Still hoping the lords and ladies will get bored waiting?”

“A man can dream, can he not?” He asked, his lips pursed in a wry smile. “And my preference for your company holds besides.”

It was easier than she had thought it would be, trusting him to show her how to maneuver around the nobles that seemed to circle them in their dance. And maybe it was just her imagination, but they seemed able to move better together now; her feet felt more sure of where to step now.

“Oh?” She asked before she could stop herself.

“Aye,” he affirmed, his expression a soft kind of unreadable when he explained, “there are few in attendance tonight so honest with themselves— and fewer still who are themselves so gentle.”

She was reminded of the way he looked at her when she helped the waitress, that unfiltered shock, and really, genuinely hoped that such commonplace courtesy was not that shocking, even as she knew the answer. “Then I should be happy to let you keep my company for yourself,” she replied despite the heat that flooded her cheeks, and he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to sigh in relief, “on the condition that you just call me, ‘Serella,’ my lord.” She clucked her tongue. “How many times must I remind you?”

“Perhaps a time or two more— Mistress Arcbane,” he replied, his bright eyes twinkling in mischief. “Though perhaps I would be more likely to remember if you might also eschew my title in kind?”

“But you have an actual title!” She argued. “It seems disrespectful not to acknowledge it.”

“I view you as my peer all the same.” He countered.

“In the interest of cooperation, I’ll drop the titles if you do the same.”

His smile returned, though warmer now that he was not trying to slip a message to her. When it was allowed to be genuine, she could concede that he was a vision, a handsome contradiction of soft angles and piercing earnestness. She had not noticed it before— or rather, had not looked beyond the superficial until then.

It could have been because they were dancing. It could have been because they were finally, comfortably friends that were working on building trust with one another. It could have been both of those things and more that she could not explain, but when he subtly tugged her closer to him to better slip between other couples dancing, she found herself fine with the lack of distance— and he made no move to part from her even after they had cleared the small cluster of couples. What was an ilm or two, she told herself in an effort to keep her heart from fluttering.

“Ah, there you are, my lord!” A woman’s birdsong voice called, and suddenly a daintily gloved hand was tapping at Aymeric’s shoulder.

As quickly as it happened the moment was lost, and Serella made the decision not to dwell on it; it was a dance between friends, and a warning duly delivered. That’s all it was. That’s all it was.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said to the noblewoman— and Serella vaguely wondered if he had forgotten her name or if the title was deliberate. Though he kept a hand at the small of her back he turned to bow to the noblewoman, his mask of pleasant neutrality in place once more. “I had let the time slip past me. I owe you a dance, do I not?”

“Ohh, you remembered!” She swooned, a hand on her cheek. “I knew you would, my lord!”

“Of course,” he said amicably, and it was only then as he turned to face Serella that he withdrew his hand from her. “Pray forgive me for cutting our dance short.”

“Not at all— I should be checking in with the others besides,” Serella said, scrambling for a reason to just leave and have done with it. She bowed her head politely. “I thank you for the dance, my lord, and bid you goodnight.”

She might have just said his name if not for the concern for the implications such familiarity; they were friends, certainly, but the last thing she wanted was to make things complicated for him with pointless gossip. Well, that and it was just a little too amusing to poke fun in lighthearted jest. She hoped he understood, though she also suspected that he did.

“The pleasure was all mine; we should make the time for another dance on another night, perhaps,” he offered, and his hands came to wrap around one of hers and gently turn it to be cradled in the space between them. Her breath hitched at his forwardness, and she snapped to look back up from their joined hands to see him regarding her gently. “Thank you for your time regardless, and good night...Serella.”

Before she could properly process that he’d decided that the pointless gossip didn’t matter compared to their friendship, he bowed his head, and with a soft but wincing smile he took position with the noblewoman and let them both be swept back into the current of the ballroom. She stepped out, eager to find another glass of champagne and her original group to distract her from the way her heart skipped a beat or three when he said her name so softly.

He’s finally accepted you as his friend, that’s all, she reminded herself— and really, she very much reciprocated her appreciation for his friendship and trust. And despite Zephina and Haurchefant’s immediate ribbing and Estinien’s bafflement upon her return, Serella knew it was naught more than that, than their friendship settling into mutual comfort. When she unconsciously thought of the softness in his eyes and how they looked very much like polished kyanite when she gazed at them, it was naught more than that. It was naught more than that.

#I am as ever your shield #Serella Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel #Haurchefant Greystone #Estinien Wyrmblood #hi don't mind me I'm marketing toward myself with this one #but also just trying to establish that while there was mutual interest #they were both more concerned #with just learning how to coexist and work as friends #woo for writing and completing things!!! it's been a struggle lately ; ;#ffxiv #mild spoilers for 3.0

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shanhei322 · 6 years

Text

Home alone

Noblesse fan fic I do not own noblesse.

This story is not to bad if I had to give it a rating it would be PG-13

I never wrote M/M before so I hope you like it. Let me know My goal is to become a better wighting so I would love your help thank you.

Home Alone

It was never wracking the quietness of the house. The house was always lively and full of energy. It wasn’t always like that thou it started when Frankenstein and his master took him in. Then the house gradually started to get full. At first M-21 couldn’t stand it. Always watching over his shoulder. Wondering when he was going to be kicked out. He thought to himself, “Why would the keep a failure like him around. He would just get in the way.” He was surprised as time went on that the demand never came. That even though the house was getting full. Neither Frankenstein or his master asked him to leave.

They took in two Noble children, and at M-21 request two more modified humans that were also once part of the Union even though they were considered successful experiment’s and he was considered a failure. He felt a connection with them two. Rai, Frankenstein’s master, even went out of his way to save him a few times even at the risk of his own life. Why would some one do that for a nothing like him, a useless person who doesn’t even know his own name. One day when M-21 was hiding on the balcony away from all the noise of the human children that came on a very regular basis to see their friend Rai who they think is a regular high school student. “If they only knew,” he thought to himself with a chuckle. He could feel a presence be hind him when he turned around Rai was their staring at him with a worried look on his face. The Noblesse the one true supreme being was staring at him with a look of concern.

“Is something wrong? Are you ok?” M-21 asked. He didn’t know when it happened but M-21 realized that he would give his life to protect this being before him and hated to see him worried.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing. I can feel something troubling you. Pleases tell me, I would so like to eases the storm in your mind. I would do anything in my power to help you.”

M-21 with a shocked look stared at the man and could not believe what he just heard. Without thinking he said. “pleases don’t save me anymore. I can’t stand the fact that every time you do it cost you more of your life. This failure is not as important as you. You mean more to the world, it needs you.”

M-21 looked at the ground. The thoughts running until he felt the touch on his arm. He looked up and seen Rai smirking at him. Then with a sigh he answered. “I can’t believe you asked me for the one thing in this world I can not grant you. You see to me you are one of the most important people, to me. M-21 don’t you understand you are my family.” With that Rai released his arm and left.

At that thought he snapped back to the reality. He was home alone he left work early to help Frankenstein, his master and the nobles to get ready to go to a clan meeting. Tao is going to a competitive gaming convention and would be with Ik-Han and Shinwu two of the human children that became important to the group. Tao said he would return Sunday night and the nobles will return Monday.

He will be alone all week end with Takeo. M-21 didn’t know how he felt about that. Takeo was like family to him, a comrade, but sometimes he doesn’t think Takeo likes him to much or thinks he week. It’s the way he looks at him sometimes. He doesn’t know if it s pity or what he’s thinking he just knows it’s a little unsettling.

M-21 phone vibrated when he pulled it out he seen it was a text from Takeo it read: Tao just left with the guys. On way home. Going to stop pick up dinner. Don’t feel like cooking and you can’t lol.

He texted back: It was one time. That’s all and it didn’t taste that bad.

His phone vibrated again, and it read: Yes, yes it did lol but we don’t keep you around for your cooking 😊.

M-21 typed back: You are such an ass!

And before he could even put his phone down it vibrated: 😊 😉 I try lol.

M-21 chuckled then he put his phone on the charger and went to take a shower.

Takeo stopped and got chesses burgers and fries. Also got a twelve pack of beer. He un locked the door and when he stepped inside he could hear the shower running. After removing his shoes and leaving the food in the kitchen he went to change as he walked by the bathroom he seen the door ajar. Takeo eyes went wide as he got the perfect view of M-21 in the shower. His face turned red and Takeo tried to leave but he couldn’t. He was memorized by the site of M-21, who’s silvery gray hair sleeked back from the water. His broad shoulders and strong arms. Takeo with his enhanced eye site could see the water running down every ich of M-21 body. He couldn’t help the feeling starting to take over his body like electric shock running threw his veins. He looked like a statue of a Greek good. Chiseled out of hard stone there was not an once of fat on his body. Takeo new M-21 could sense his presences. He started to back into his room that was across the hall from the bathroom. As soon as he shut the door to his room he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Beautiful.” He whispered to himself. As Takeo was changing out of his men in black suit he wore every day for work. He couldn’t stop the thoughts of M-21 that were running threw his head.

When he was done Takeo went to the kitchen and was meet by M-21. He was standing there drinking a beer, dressed in a flannel shirt and tight jeans. The top few buttons on his shirt was undone and the image of his bare chest popped into Takeo mind. “God I’m in trouble!” he thought to himself as he sat at the bar.

“Beer,” M-21 asked Takeo just nodded yes as he took the beer he was handed. They ate their dinner in silence. After it was done and they started cleaning up M-21 said, “god it’s so quite it’s kind of weird you know what I mean.”

“Yea, also its strange just the two of us. Even when everyone gone Tao is usually with us.” Takeo chuckled.

At that statement M-21 knew it was the right time to talk to him. Done cleaning, they were sitting at the bar drinking beer when M-21 said, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Takeo heart was about to beat out of his chest. Was he going to ask if he was peeking at him in the shower or why his face was goes red sometimes when he looks at him. Never in a million years did he think that he would ask him what he had.

“Do you have something against me. Sometimes it feels like you look at me with distain or pity. I know I’m not as reliable as you, or as smart as Tao and I hate the fact that I cause problems for everyone here. I just want to know so I will at least know where I stand with you.”

Takeo was in shock. He never meant to make him feel that way. Before he new what he was doing the words were flowing from his mouth as if a damn had broke and the water was pouring out.

“You are reliable. The fact is no one is as smart as Tao, and the only problem we would have is if you weren’t here. You mean so much to so many. To me you are strong, not week. You are my hero if it weren’t for you I would still be in the union. You gave me the glimpse of a normal life when you asked if we could stay here. The looks your worried about are not of pity or distain.”

M-21 was now standing in front of the counter looking down into the sink. Before Takeo knew what, he was doing he moved to M-21 and wrapped his arms around his waste and held him tight and was resting is head on his back. M-21 could feel the heat of him threw his shirt and feel his breath on his back. His bodies automatically tightened up. “Then why the looks?” M-21 said in a low voice. They stood there for what seemed to be forever. Takeo never letting go of M-21, holding him as if he let him go he would run away. Then Takeo in a voice so soft that if his hearing wasn’t enhanced he never would have heard it. “well you… Your just…so beautiful. I can’t help it.” M-21 could feel the sigh of his words on his back.

Takeo waited for him to yell at him or push him away but he didn’t. Takeo couldn’t take the silence anymore so he turned him around pressing M-21 between him and the counter. Takeo knew M-21 could feel his arousal pressing against him. He could tell that M-21 was a little aroused too. Takeo ran his hand threw M-21 hair taking in the softness of it then rested his hand on the back of his head, pulling him forward till their foreheads touch. Then Takeo spoke in that low soft voice again, “I didn’t know if I should tell you. You don’t know how many times I dreamed of us this. Of us I didn’t want to lose you if I couldn’t be with you then just being by your side is enough.” Then he placed a chased kiss on his lips.

When he pulled away he could see the confusion on M-21 face. This time he used his hand and pulled him into the kiss. This kiss was more forceful, hungrier. Takeo nipped at his lips and when M-21 l.et out a little moan he proceeded to put his tongue in his mouth. Kissing more greedily not wanting to stop until he felt M-21 go week in the knees.

M-21 opened his eyes as Takeo pulled away. He stared into Takeo bright blue eyes and seeing a look. A look that he never thought anyone would ever show him, and don’t remember if anyone ever did. The look of love and acceptance want and desire. The next thing M-21 knew he had moved his hand to Takeo face and pulled him in kissing him again. This time putting his feelings of hope, longing, love and maybe fear. Because the next thing Takeo said was, “Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you and I will never leave you no mater what happens. I don’t care who you were I love the one standing before me now.”

With that Takeo took M-21 hand and lead him to his bedroom. When they got to the door Takeo said, “I don’t want to force you and I don’t want you to come out of some sense of obligation. If you want to come I promises I will go as slow as you need. I won’t pressure you. The choices is yours.” And with that he went in to his room and shut the door. M-21 leaned against the wall and closed his eyes debating what he should do.

Takeo sat on his bed and removed the hair tie. His thoughts going a mile a minute. He wondered if he screwed up. Maybe he should not have said anything. How could he face him after this? And while all these thoughts were going through his mind suddenly stopped when he hears click of the door as it open.

He looked up to see M-21 closing the door. M-21 was standing there looking at the floor. Takeo asked M-21 why he came and M-21 answered, “I don’t know why some one like you would want some one like me, but I trust you and I….love The you that you are now too. So, if this is what you want then I can give you a night.”

M-21 still didn’t understand him. He realized for the first time just how inexperienced he was. The thought M-21 thinks he wanted a one-night stand hurt. By the shocked look in M-21 eyes he knew that M-21 thought of himself as unworthy of love. Takeo pulled him into a hug and whispered in his ear. “21 you miss understand I don’t want a just one night. I want every night, I want you as my partner. You’re the only one worthy of that.”

With that he kissed him slowly moving over to the bed. Takeo pulled his shirt off then he started to unbutton M-21’s every time his fingers brushed against M-21 chest he would let out a small growl.

He laid Him on the bed and kissed down his neck. Then his chest working his way lower and lower. When he gets to right above his waste of his jeans he looks up and said, “21 if you want to run now is the time cause I’m a very possessive person and I will never, let you go.”

M-21 put his hand on Takeo head stroking his beautiful purple hair and whispered, “I guess I will just have to deal with it.”

And that is how the new chapter of M-21 and Takeo life started. Home alone with a weekend of passion. Only time will tell if the can make it but they both are going to work like hell so that neither will ever be alone again or feel worthless . People can come together at the strangest times because love will always find away.

#noblesse #m 21 #wrighting #fanfic

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kirkwall-on-fire-blog · 5 years

Note

Obscure ask for your Dragon Age OC! (Or feel free to answer for multiple OCs!) What does your OC think about responsibility? Do they see it as a burden or is responsibility something they’re used to?

Did I mention I have way too many Dragon Age Ocs? Because I do. Also this question was harder than I expected. I hope I did your ask justice!

Origins

Leonora Amell: Growing up in the Circle, she’s grown used to the idea of someone else always being there to take the reigns. Oh, sure, she’s had her dreams of being in charge, but that was all they ever were. Dreams. She’s never taken care of anything by herself, never been responsible for anything more than her studies. The seriousness of her situation doesn’t set in until after Ostagar, when Alistair looks at her and says the responsibility for the world’s future now rests on their shoulders. She doesn’t do well with all this pressure, not at first, but eventually she does learn. By the time the mage takes up the mantle of Warden-Commander - not because she wants to, but because she must - she has accepted that responsibility is something she cannot escape. So she carries the weight, because then someone else doesn’t have to struggle like she once did.

Aedan Cousland: A noble son of the Cousland lineage is expected to know how to lead, no? Of course he is. Except that’s mostly a lie he tells himself because it makes sense. There is a reason his father refused to allow him into battle, and it’s because he is simply not ready. Not ready to lead, not ready to hold people’s lives in his hands. But now he is in charge, because Leo has no idea what she is doing and it shows. Her inadequate skills as a leader cannot get in the way of his mission - vengeance - Aedan thinks, and so he takes the responsibility for their mission instead. He likes to pretend he knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t, and it stresses him out, because he thinks he should.

Elyon Tabris: Ew, responsibility? No, thanks. This little rogue avoids the concept like a plague. Oh, she does have talent for it - but don’t tell her I said so. The woman is responsible as they come, growing up at the Alienage where there was no choice but to own up and take responsibility for others. It was the only way to survive. But now, out of the walls of the hellhole she grew up in? Elyon doesn’t want to be responsible for any more suffering. Attachment in and of itself is a form of responsibility, and she avoids it whenever possible... and yet she still gets attached. It’s a wonder, really.

Theron Mahariel: He’s tried before to take on more responsibilities in his Clan, but every time he was met with a soft pat on the shoulder and a kindly-worded refusal. Merrill, the most honest one, laughed and said that he was too soft to handle it, too kind and too scared to hurt someone. It’s not until much later that the young elf realizes the truth of those words, but by then he is already part of something greater. The Grey Wardens carry a heavy burden and Theron isn’t sure he can handle it. So he sticks to his betters, follows the Warden-Commander like a stray puppy at times. It’s easier, this way.

Daylen Surana: He’s always seen responsibility as something to aspire to, a reward for good behavior and for following all the rules. People in power are respected and so he’s done everything in his power to get to a point where he is seen as a responsible individual, worthy of being tasked with the most difficult things. ...Then he learned the true meaning of the thing he’s so idolized, and now he would rather go back to being a nobody. But he can’t.

Tasha Brosca: She has had responsibility thrown at her for as long as she remembers. Take care of your mother. Take care of your sister. Take care of yourself. Growing up in Dust Town isn’t easy. Tasha learned to grin a bear it, because she must, because she has no choice. It would be nice, sure, to have someone else to throw all that weight on, like those snobby nobles do, but she knows that the moment she lets herself breathe, her sister will have to take all that responcibility onto her own shoulders. And Tasha would sooner die than let that happen.

Duran Aeducan: He was a Prince of Orzammar, raised and trained to be in command of its armies. Now he is a Grey Warden, and the responsibility is no less daunting. He handles it well, however, or at least better than others in this rag-tag team of misfits and outcasts. But the thought of command leaves him with a sour aftertaste, and so he takes on an advising position mostly. Let the youngsters take charge and make their bloody mistakes.

Dragon Age II

Garrett Hawke: It’s the oldest sibling’s job to carry his family, and Garrett believes that responsibility is something he has no choice but to accept. He thinks he does it by taking the blame for every stupid thing his siblings and friends do, by bailing them out and cleaning up their messes. He is the responsible Hawke, after all, the diplomatic one.

Marian Hawke: It’s not something she thinks about, but rather something that comes naturally to her. She is the metal-cast rock that supports her family in the times of need, ready to make the difficult decisions and move on. It’s just the kind of person she is, and pondering it would only make her head hurt. This way of being earned her a high-ranking position in the King’s army at Ostagar.

Inquisition

Herah Adaar: She is a warrior and a soldier, she knows when to follow orders and when to give her own. Responsibility on the battlefield, or on a mission? She has that part down. It’s easy, it’s natural, she was all but raised to do the job. Responsibility for a small elven child with a weird magic glowy hand (holy dragons what kind of demonic craft is this even!?), however? She doesn’t know how to deal with this. An order of people united under one banner in the name of said elven child? Oh hell nah. But she has no choice, and it sucks, but at least she has her old mercenary leadership skills to fall back on.

Felandris Lavellan: When he thinks of responsibility, he thinks of what the Keeper told him when she began teaching him the old elven magic. The responsibility of a Keeper is to remember, to never forget. So that’s what he does. But he is a child, barely old enough to understand the complex politics of the world, and so he doesn’t understand just how much rests on his tiny shoulders, either. But people count on him, and he will do his best.

Elisse Cousland: Her brothers were all about responsibility and noblesse oblige, but Elisse just wants to have fun and help some people. For someone raised in a noble household, she certainly is bad at the whole... noble thing. And that includes being responsible. Her short-term memory is abysmal, she gets distracted by everything and anything, and her ability to stay still for more than five seconds is... well. I think you get the idea. She does take her responsibility to the Inquisition and her friends seriously, however, and she tries her best to carry herself in a way that shows it. Most of the time.

Shale Cadash: She remembers vaguely the weight of command, the responsibility for the lives of hundreds of men on her shoulders. Then there was the responsibility for the lives of her friends, the strange squishies that freed her - stronger, taller, made of stone - from the torment of immobility. This, she remembers better, but she is neither of those people anymore. She accepts her share of responsibility gladly this time, because she owes her friends this much. And now that she is so squishable as well, she has a higher stake in it all.

Maxwell Trevelyan: He ran away from home exactly because he didn’t want to bear the responsibilities that his noble birth forced upon him. He’s a lover and a fighter, but while he does his part well, he does terribly under pressure. In fact, he passes out under it. Dramatically. It’s actually quite funny.

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terrie01 · 6 years

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From @aquaexplicit:

Ok so it's longer than 500 words but can we get your DVD commentary on the last chapter of of rarest quality? Id love to know a little more of what's going on in Harry's head! If there's anything past Cisco is in short shorts.

Yeah, just a touch longer than 500 words there. ;) This is going under a Read More, because I don’t want to clutter up people’s dash. My comments in italics

When Harry opens the door, Cisco doesn’t so much walk as ooze through the door. He flops down on the couch, letting his limbs land wherever they wanted. Harry stares. His blue eyes are wide, pushing his eyebrows up towards his hairline. His mouth opens slightly and then closes. It’s not Harry’s usual behavior. Cisco asks, “What?”

So this is partially inspired by my deep hatred of summer and humidity. I prefer winter, because you can always put on another layer, but summer? There are days when you’re lying around naked and it’s still hot and gross, and you can’t exactly take off your skin and hang it in the closet for later.

It was also inspired by Carlos at ComicCon. Because I kept thinking “Man, we’re never going to see his legs on show, are we?”

“Were you thinking of trying something besides the elbow?” Harry’s question makes no sense, until he gestures to his neck and then down to his legs.

Also at ComicCon, Carlos had his hair pulled back. I really like his ears. My biggest regret is that with his hair longer, we don’t see him tucking his hair behind his ears as much. As a gesture, it’s just adorable. Not that I don’t enjoy the character still, but as the season’s have gone on, it seems like the show has done “Nope, he’s getting too old to be adorable.” No more hair tucking, and when was the last time we saw Cisco with candy? He is still capable of adorable, people!

Cisco raises a hand to his hair, pulled back in a ponytail, instead of loose like Harry has seen it before. He glances down at his shorts. His collapse onto the couch made them ride up, nearly to his hips, leaving most of his legs bare and exposed. He fights the urge to tug them back down. “It’s, like, 300 degrees out. I'm just trying not to die.”

I actually have a pair of shorts that I love, but they do this. “Hi, let me sit down wrong and show the whole room the color of my underwear!” And they’re not short-short, just loose and baggy, so they ride up easily.

“Of course, right.” There’s a wistful edge to Harry’s words. “It’s just… It's a very provocative look.”

“Provocative, huh? I'll keep it in mind that sticky and sweaty does it for you.”

Yes, this is totally intended as innuendo. By me, not by Cisco. Cisco is thinking “I am so gross right now. You’re going to have to peel me off this couch, because I think I’m stuck to it.”

“Not really. I don't suppose I could get you to wash up?”

“What, like a shower?” Cisco isn't eager to get naked in the home of a guy who just told him he looks provocative. It's not that he doesn’t trust Harry. He just has limits.

“No, more like… Here, wait a moment.” Harry leaves the room, heading towards the bathroom. Cisco leans forward off the couch. Harry putters away out of sight for a few moments, then returns. He has a damp washcloth in his hands that he offers to Cisco with an expectant look. “Unless you want me to do it for you?”

I’m sure Harry would be fine with Cisco showering. But he gets that it’s a bit much. This is a professional relationship. Even if Cisco did show up looking like he was trying to seduce Harry. Though, really, if you want to go full on seduction of a vampire, it’s true that sweaty is maybe not the best look. If you really want to make it blatant, put your hair up and then wear a short chain necklace or a pair of dangling earrings. Something to draw the eye to the neck. But showing up with arms, neck and leg all bare? It’s very akin to a Playboy photoshoot.

“I got it.” The cloth is cool where he runs it over his arms. After the swampy weather of outside, he can’t resist running it over his forehead and along the back of his neck. He turns to give the cloth back to Harry and finds the man looking at the wall. There’s a faint red staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Cisco didn’t know that he could blush. Now that it’s too late, it occurs to him that wiping down his neck just after being told the sight of it was provocative was not a good idea. Cisco clears his throat and holds out the wash cloth. “Sorry for making the awkward more awkward there.”

“I’m not… It’s… You made it clear last time that I need to be respectful of your boundaries.” He takes back the cloth without looking directly at Cisco.

Despite writing a thigh biting piece, I think Harry is, in his heart, a neck guy. Being able to whisper in their ear, wrap your arms around them to hold them to you? Harry is ALL for that.

“What? You take one look at me and won’t be able to stop from jumping me? I know I look good, but that seems like a bit much.”

“I'm not an animal, Ramon. I'm not going to ravish you. I’m simply trying to abide by your wishes.” He twists the cloth in his hands.

Harry’s just a touch wound up at this point. He undeniably wants, but isn’t sure how much he’s allowed to want. Cisco shows up looking like the vampiric equivalent of jerk-off material, but isn’t acting like it. There are mixed signals all over the place.

“Look as much as you want.” Cisco spreads his arms wide. “Look until your eyes fall out of your head, for all I care. It’s when the rest of you comes into play that there are potential issues.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Harry turns to him and his gaze drags hot and heavy over Cisco. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he runs his tongue along the tips of his teeth. It makes something tighten and flutter in Cisco’s stomach and he can’t stop himself from running his tongue along his own lower lip in return. Harry smirks, a small quirk of his lips, and holds up the wash cloth. “Let me just get rid of this.”

He might not be allowed to touch it all, but if he can look? Harry’s going to to look. Vampires are into self-control, mainly because if they’re not, they get killed, but self-denial is not really a thing.

The moment Harry steps out of the room, Cisco pulls the legs of his shorts down to properly cover his thighs. It makes him feel less on display. He puts a hand to his hair tie, considers pulling it out, but the thought of it clinging to the back of his neck in the current heat is just too gross. He runs a hand down one arm. The heat also means short sleeves. He’s going to have to be careful for the next few days. He doesn’t want the wrong person seeing the marks Harry leaves.

Ever had long hair sticking to the bad of your neck in the heat? It’s the worst. The absolute worst.

Which reminds him. He calls down the hall after Harry, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Can I stop you?” comes back.

Harry’s got Cisco’s number by now. :)

“You could refuse to answer.” Not that Cisco is that easily deterred. “Anyway, I was wondering. Can you tell if someone has been bitten?”

Harry walks back into the room, his eyebrows drawn together. “Why would you ask that?”

Harry’s thinking “That is an oddly specific question. Because he obviously isn’t asking about marks, because that would be a stupid question and nothing I’ve seen suggests this guy is stupid. So why the heck is he asking?” Harry doesn’t like not knowing things.

“It just a question, Harry.” Something in his tone makes Cisco feel like he’s asked something personal.

“But why that question?” When Cisco doesn’t say anything, Harry sits down next to him. “That’s not the kind of question that comes out of nowhere. Did something happen?”

So many bad scenarios going through Harry’s mind right now. The worrywart.

“I’ll answer that if you answer mine first.”

That gets him a frown and narrowed eyes, before Harry nods with a sharp jerk of his head. “The bite does produce a temporary shift in pheromones. It's how I knew your predecessor had violated the rules on exclusivity. But it’s not something that comes up very often, so I'm curious as to why you would even ask about it.”

And we finally find out what happened to the last guy. He went and cheated on Harry. Bad unnamed guy. Don’t get greedy and show up smelling like you’ve been with someone else. And now we also know why Harry sniffs Cisco when he comes in.

“There was this girl, at this club --”

“What club?”

Harry’s interruption forces him to take a moment to regather his thoughts. “I didn’t pick it. It’s over on 29th and Bowen…”

“The Flash?”

Couldn’t help myself.

“Yeeeeaaaah.” Cisco tries to picture Harry at a dance club. Even the mental image is awkward and uncomfortable. “How did you know?”

“It’s popular with a particular crowd. It’s basically a blood market. If I’d know you’d go there, I would have warned you.”

Because I love making up slang for my AU. Blood market is both a play on meat market for the dating scene and the actually selling of feeding that Cisco does.

Annoyance spikes through Cisco. “But otherwise you weren’t going to mention I’ve been going around with a giant ‘Bite me’ sign.”

“You’re not--” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

“So, what? It says ‘Property of Harry,’ instead?” Cisco throws up his hands. “Because that’s so much better.”

Harry tilts his hand back and forth in a “so-so” gesture. “More feudal than in any sort of property sense.”

So I see a serious noblesse oblige attitude between a vampire and someone they feed from routinely. At least on the vampire’s side. You have to take care of them, ensure they are treated properly, protected. A human might see it as a little like being a pet. But the marking would be, from the vampire side, a little like wearing an engagement ring. “Hey, I’m taken. Not appropriate to hit on me.”

“That doesn’t actually help your argument. And you didn’t think that fell under things I need to know?” For a guy who, ten minutes earlier, had been looking at the wall in an attempt to honor Cisco’s boundaries, Harry is quick to fail the rest of Cisco’s requests.

“It’s been over fifty years since I had it come up. It never occurred to me that it would be an issue.” Harry shrugs. “I can give you a list of places where it might be an issue, but even then, no one will push if you let them know you’re under an exclusive agreement.”

Cisco considers. “Fifty years? Seriously?”

“I told you. There’s a bit of a feudal mentality to it. Approaching you would be an insult to me. It implies I'm unable to uphold my end of our agreement.” Harry takes in Cisco’s expression and adds, “It may not seem like much to you, but it’s a serious insult.”

Like, duels of honor have been fought over this stuff in the past. “You’re not taking care of what’s yours, so I’m taking it from you.” Like someone putting the moves on your spouse. Combine that with the slightly patronizing view vampires have of humans (when you live for hundreds of years, it’s hard not to treat the humans as children), there’s a possessive streak there no matter how much Harry tries to pretend otherwise.

Cisco picks at a stray thread on his shorts. “Why is it that every time I find out there’s something else I don't know?”

Harry folds his hands together and rested his chin atop them. Blue eyes study Cisco. “If I woke up human tomorrow, what would I need to know?”

Cisco blinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t you know most of it already?”

“Would I? Are you sure? I haven't been human for a very long time.” He tapped a thumb against his lower lip. “Like, for instance, milk. Why are there so many kinds? It’s nothing like what actually comes out of a cow, I know that much. How do you know which kind to buy?”

“Milk? You want to know about buying milk?” Cisco buys 2%. It was his mom bought when he was a kid.

“It’s not about the milk. My point is there’s a lot I don’t even realize you don’t know. And you don’t always know the questions you need to ask.” Harry sighs. “I am trying to abide by our agreement. But it’s rather more difficult than I had anticipated.”

In Harry’s day, milk came in one version. Straight out of the cow. He really is trying, but humans and their world change so fast. He tries to keep up, tries not to fall into the stagnation his kind are prone to, but it’s hard. Things that were once common knowledge, including common knowledge about vampires, are almost unheard of these days.

Plus, you have Hollywood, with their stupid stories. I imagine there’s something like Twilight in this universe. A story of a high school girl who falls in love with a vampire. Which drives actual vampires up the wall, because 1) vampires don’t change people to make happy little families. You have connections with the one who changed you, and those of the same bloodline, but generally, over the decades, you drift apart, like an extended family. Vampires tend to be fairly solitary. You might be close to one or two others (like Len and Lisa), but a whole household is nuts. Personal space! 2) No vampire is going to go to high school simply because that was the age they were when they were changed. That’s just dumb. Plus, you just don’t change people that young.

Vampires have OPINIONS on how they are shown in popular media.

Harry hasn’t given Cisco any reason to think he’s not trying. He’s answered Cisco’s questions. He’d agreed to Cisco’s demands, and while it’s not the easy answers Cisco had hoped for, it doesn’t seem malicious. He remembered the feeling of being in the hallway in the club, no one else around. He’s alone with Harry, more alone than he ever was in the club, but it doesn’t feel the same. He shakes out his arm and holds it out to Harry. “I’m going to want that list of places to watch out for.”

“Of course.” He reaches out to hold Cisco’s arm in position. His fingers brush against Cisco’s neck, before dropping lower to wrap around his upper arm. Cisco doesn’t think it was deliberate, but he shivers. He wonders what it would be like. He doubts he’ll ever be brave enough to find out.

So, yeah, there’s some of my thoughts. I am open to any follow up questions, because I kinda love this AU and like babbling about it. :)

#my writing #asked and answered #harrisco #of rarest quality

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