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undreaming-fanfiction · 2 years

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Batman!Steve begins

Oh god, guys. I love Steve being Spider-Man (never enough of him, the fanarts, fanfictions, everything, please give me more), but have you forgotten about one very beautiful superhero possibility? Maybe someone already thought of this and I'm sorry if that's the case, but this fandom is a space rocket and I'm a measly slug sticking to its side.

Steve Harrington is Batman.

Big mansion? Check. A damaged rich boy? Check. A gaggle of crime-fighting children? Check. Let me tell you a story that was supposed to be a bunch of points but then my brain said no...

The Harringtons were an established family in Gotham and came from the old money. Steve was born as an only child, into a huge empty house. His parents loved him, considered him their pride an joy, but they were never around. Their love was less of the warm and cozy family time and more of an idealistic "let's make a difference in this city so our son has a better life" type. Their company invented and manufactured marvels of technology, surveillance and personal safety, in hopes that one day they could turn Gotham into a safe place. Steve knew they were good, admirable people, but it never made the loneliness easier.

He was young when they were killed, a robbery gone wrong, right in front of his eyes. He felt it was his fault, he still does - it was his birthday and he begged them to spend it with him for once, to take him to a movie theatre. He didn't really care where they'd go, he just wanted them to be present for him. To give him the most valuable gift of all - their time. And the first time he was given it, everything was over. The culprit ran away and left him standing there, in a pool of his parents' blood.

He couldn't make any sense of it, couldn't connect it in his head - how could such pure, wonderful, selfless people die, how those ideals, the limitless energy shrunk to two coffins, cold and impersonal. He thinks of the flowers his mother loved, the ones she grew in the botanical gardens in Gotham, in their garden too. She would have hated seeing them cut, laid on her grave, but nobody asked him. It wasn't a fair exchange - someone like him for his parents who spent their whole lives making a difference.

Steve just went through the motions for years. All the money in the world couldn't stave off the creeping loneliness and guilt. And just as he was about to snap, fall into the early teenage trap of drugs and alcohol, he was sent a guardian angel. Well, two of them.

Claudia Henderson used to cook for his parents and she never left her position, no matter how often Steve refused to eat, ignored her. She never pushed too hard, leaving the tray with food in his room without forcing him to eat, patiently waiting for him to come downstairs. "I'll be in the kitchen if you want to talk. Or if you want something else to eat, dear," she would always say and smile at him. His chest hurt at the maternal tone and it took weeks before he joined her. He'd stop on the top of the staircase, staring down and thinking how he didn't deserve that, didn't deserve her kindness. But every day he took another step and when he finally opened the door, half-convinced she'd be gone, that he took too long, he was met with her wide smiling face. "Hi there, Steve," she smiled and dusted off her apron. "Would you like some cocoa? It's getting chilly, the heating in this house is atrocious, I'll tell you."

The second guardian angel was Wayne Munson. The ever grumpy maintenance man seemed rough around the edges, almost crass, but he was just as kind as Claudia was. When he noticed Steve was holed up in his room all the time, he unceremoniously barged in and announced that Steve was becoming a man and rich or not, he'll have to know how to do stuff around the house. The first thing they ever did together was fix a leak in the attic and Steve watched as Wayne worked, fascinated. He handed him the tools he asked for, moved where Wayne directed him and when they were done, Wayne put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed, a comforting gesture he'd never known from his father. "Look at that, son," Wayne said and it took Steve a second to recognize he was smiling, a foreign expression on the man's face. "We did it. Not bad. Many people think when something's broken, you just toss it. Me, I like to think you just need to figure out how to fix it."

Steve's head slowly cleared with the help of his guardian angels. He mentioned to Claudia once that his mother loved flowers and that she would have hated how overgrown the garden became. The next day, she knocked on his door and when he opened it, he saw her standing there, smiling, gardening tools in her hands. She tossed him a pair of working gloves. "You should wear something old, dear," she told him, "we're going to get dirty."

Wayne sometimes took Steve to his other job, he worked part-time in a garage and fixed cars. Steve loved observing him, marveled at that skillful pair of hands. No matter how hopeless the car looked, Wayne always rolled up his sleeves, patted the hood of the car and turned to Steve. "Let's take a look how to get this girl running again, shall we?" Nothing seemed impossible when Wayne set his mind on it.

It was also Wayne who noticed Steve struggling to get his emotions out and suggested to force them if they feel like sitting inside his body - he found a few martial arts clubs in the city and wasn't even surprised to learn that Steve joined them all. And Steve wasn't just good - he excelled at all of them. There was so much rage and sorrow in him, but also discipline, fear of hurting someone after he'd cost this world his parents. The knuckles on his hands were often sore and bloodied from rigorous training, but the quiet in his head was so worth it.

But the greatest gifts his angels had given him weren't the flowers, the cocoa or the way to ease his restlessness. There were two more miracles that found their way into Steve's life, one from Claudia, one from Wayne.

Claudia often spoke about her son, Dustin. She loved him dearly and always worried when she had to be away from him for a longer time, she never told Steve any details, but apparently her husband wasn't the best father around. Steve learned so much about Dustin even though he never met him - he was apparently very smart, had a crazy number of hobbies and always tinkered with something or other. He loved radios and Claudia was certain he'd end up inventing something revolutionary. And when Steve met the kid, he immediately understood, he was full of promise and brightness that Steve never had. He was a few years younger than him, but he was smart and for some reason Steve couldn't identify, he found Steve worthy of his friendship. Steve gained a younger brother he never had.

The second miracle came into his life when he was fifteen. Wayne seemed troubled one day in the garage and, after Steve commented on how uncharacteristically clumsy Wayne was that day, the older man shared that his stupid brother got himself arrested for armed robbery (Steve's heart skips a beat when he hears that, fortunately the younger Munson didn't hurt anyone but what if...) and his nephew was coming to live with him now, but he lived in an one bedroom apartment, not enough space even for himself, not to mention for a teenage boy. He might need to take a day or two off, to figure out if and where to move. Without thinking, Steve offered the Harrington mansion. "It's not like most of the rooms are getting any use," he shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant about it, "and the trust is paying for the bills anyway. It will be no bother and you'll at least be able to save some more."

And just like that, Eddie moved in. He was sixteen, lean and dangerous looking, with unruly dark hair and even darker eyes. The beginnings of their relationship were rocky at best - Eddie saw Steve as a spoiled rich boy and Steve frowned at Eddie's petty crimes, wondering if it ran in his blood. It's not like they even tried to become friends, Eddie blared metal so loud the banister kept shaking along with the stairs and Wayne gradually ran out of apologies, but Steve didn't really care. Anything was better than the quiet or the pity.

They attended the same school, only a year apart, and Eddie ostentatiously avoided him in the halls. He started playing in a band with a few other students and made it his life's mission to piss off as many people as possible. Except it didn't pay off one time when he annoyed a group of jocks into waiting for him behind the gym. Steve saw their backs, saw a narrow passage, an unsuspecting man (no woman this time, no frightened child behind them) and his body moved on its own. Eddie's eyes were wide when Steve stepped in front of him and blocked a punch aimed at his cheek.

In the end, Steve had a split lip and a black eye, but Eddie was safe. When the jocks finally realized it wasn't worth it, that Steve was way more dangerous than he seemed, they dispersed and Steve slid down the wall, the fading adrenaline leaving his legs feeling like jelly. Through his labored breathing, he didn't hear Eddie walking towards him before he leaned into his personal space, touching his cheek to assess the damage. "Are you crazy, Harrington?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "The fuck made you do that?"

Steve shook his head, tried to get up and failed. "I didn't...you don't deserve this. Nobody does."

Eddie stared at him as if Steve grew a second head. "I don't? Even if I'm an asshole to you?" he asked, his tone teasing in spite of the serious look in his eyes.

Steve snorted and immediately regretted the decision, his chest hurt from a punch he failed to predict. Hard to keep track of them when it's five against one. He'd have to do better. "Even if you're an asshole," he smiled at Eddie and with the smile he received back, an invisible barrier shattered between them.

Eddie helped him up, slung Steve's arm over his shoulders and, as he was washing blood off Steve's face in the high school bathroom, joked that scars would make him look way more badass. "But don't worry, Stevie," he said, the name slipping through his lips with surprising ease, "a badass pretty boy is still a pretty boy in my book. It won't ruin your image."

They became inseparable from that point onwards. Eddie still blared metal all over the Harrington mansion, but this time Steve was with him in his room, yelling along the lyrics, arguing about their music taste. Eddie slowly openedup to Steve about his dad, about the life of crime, no home whatsoever, and Steve shared with Eddie how he watched his parents die, how guilty he feels every day for having all that he has. They still had their separate friend groups in school but when they came home, they would find each other, Eddie leaning against a spade and rambling about the most recent rock and metal releases while Steve tended to his mother's roses. Dustin often joined them and Steve gradually found himself smiling again, especially when Eddie and Dustin found shared love for Dungeons and Dragons. He had no idea what they talked about, but he enjoyed their heated discussions.

Some time later, Steve and Wayne convinced Claudia to move in the mansion with Dustin. She had been a single mother for some time now and the city became more and more dangerous, Wayne always had her call once she arrived back home, but the waiting never got easier. In the end, Dustin tipped the scales in favor of moving and with this final addition, the large house started feeling like home. Dustin and Eddie spent hours at the huge dining table planning campaigns full of adventure and magic and either there was something between Wayne and Claudia, or Wayne miraculously learned to iron his own shirts and scented them with lavender. A group of local kids, Dustin's friends, even started coming over for the campaigns, Eddie graduated and started working in the same garage as Wayne. Steve and Dustin went to the local college, both for engineering, as if their found family was more important than pursing anything and everything they could do. They even persuaded Eddie to take up come courses on music theory, his band was still small but Steve and Dustin attended every single show and raved about his voice and guitar skills. For a while, life was good.

And then it wasn't.

The crime wave gripping the city never relented. It might have evaded the Harrington household for a decade, but things changed when Steve turned twenty-three.

First, the man who killed his parents was finally found - and then set free for insufficient evidence. Steve remembered him, he would know his face anywhere, but the court didn't believe his testimony, he had been a child, a traumatized one, and there seemed to be something behind the curtain, pulling on the strings...

And just when Steve thought he'd explode with rage and guilt that never left, only slept underneath his skin, the garage where Wayne and Eddie worked got robbed. Not only robbed - Eddie was fortunately off for the day, but the intruder stabbed Wayne in the stomach as he was escaping with the money. The hours in the hospital were slow and painful, Claudia sobbing and holding Wayne's unmoving hand, Eddie as pale as a sheet of paper, Dustin bombarding the doctors with questions that had no answers.

Steve couldn't wait any longer, couldn't take the lawless cruelty of the city anymore. He hugged all of them before excusing himself, finding the most inconspicuous black clothes and a silly bat cowl bought for a planned Halloween party and slipping quietly into the night. He watched the security tape, memorizing the culprit's movements and if he ran the recording through a testing software of his parents', no, his company, who could blame him. Who could blame him for the other things he did that night.

The culprit was found beaten up and tied before the door to Gotham PD. Police commissioner Jim Hopper spoke harshly against vigilante justice in his speech for the media, but with his adoptive daughter often visiting the Harrington mansion and being dropped off home by Wayne, he might have privately admitted that he'd buy the vigilante a flask of finest whiskey if he ever met him.

In the end, Wayne survived, although his rehabilitation was slow and with a lot of hiccups. Dustin, Claudia and Eddie were too preoccupied with watching Wayne's every step to notice that Steve spent more time alone now, often disappearing in the night and coming back in the morning, dark circles under his eyes, suddenly only wearing long sleeves which sometimes failed to cover the bruises. His costume was well hidden from everyone, it was becoming more and more famous in Gotham's news. The media dubbed him Batman and he didn't really care. Eddie told him once that bats were really metal, whatever that meant, and showed him his newest tattoo. So yes, he didn't mind the name. Batman made him think of Eddie, of everything and everyone he cared for. He needed to keep them safe from the shadows.

Until the lack of maintenance betrayed Steve's secret. His window squeaked when he climbed into his room, still in the costume, and he must have underestimated how on edge both Dustin and Eddie were. They basically kicked the door in, armed with a candle holder and a small statue, both from the mansion's corridor. They all froze, staring at each other, and when Steve tried to explain himself, stumbled over words in terror that his family would judge him, Eddie shushed him and hugged Steve, firm and warm.

Steve never expected to hear the next words: "Let us help."

If they were inseparable before, now they were a single unit. Dustin was set up with a surveillance system rivaling the ones used by government agencies, guiding Steve on his night prowls. Eddie covered for Steve's absences and always stayed up until he returned, treating his wounds and taking notes of the weaknesses in his armor, his weaponry maintained Steve's ride of choice and was always ready to drop everything and pick Steve up if something went wrong. Which it often did.

There was an unspoken understanding between them - don't tell Claudia and Wayne. And when Steve explained to them, shaky and worried, that he wanted to bring people to justice but couldn't bring himself to kill anyone, he wanted to kill the man who took his parents from him, wanted to kill the man who hurt Wayne but could never follow through and now he was terrified of crossing that line, Eddie just nodded and whispered "I hate to admit this, but I'm so fucking glad you're saying that, Steve."

More would join later.

Robin, a dorky prodigy at the Harrington company who graciously covered for all the missing items and welcomed the challenge of adding experimental features to the set that definitely wasn't vigilante gear.

Nancy, an aspiring journalist who had a nose for crime. She and her partner in crime (or crime fighting) Jonathan collected anything and everything to expose the biggest players in Gotham's criminal underground and if they sometimes exchanged information with Batman and his mysterious comms person, it was for the benefit of all.

Their friend Argyle ran the most popular pizza place in Gotham, had ears everywhere and wasn't afraid to share any rumors that Batman might find interesting.

Commissioner Hopper who begrudgingly taped a plastic bat onto a reflector and when Steve showed up to investigate, he chuckled and muttered "well, that was easy." The trust didn't come immediately, but it was worth it.

The kids from the Dungeons and Dragons party grew up too and started pitching in.

The quiet artist Will drew designs for Steve's weapons and armor and spend hours arguing with Robin over how to find the perfect balance between making a non-lethal weapon and make it look like one.

Athletic Lucas planted trackers on the highest and most unreachable places in Gotham, utilizing his love for parkour.

His little sister Erica turned her interest in poisons from detective stories into experimentation with various antidotes.

Max studied optometry, the interest spurred by an eye condition she was treated for as a child, and threw herself into designing the most functional interface for Steve's visor, showing enough information to be useful but not impeding his range of vision.

Jane had almost a supernatural knack for identifying places of suspicious activity in the city. Most of it could be explained by her listening in to her dad's conversations, but sometimes she just pointed to a map and whispered "something is happening here. Something bad." They never doubted her.

Mike could find any and all clues in newspapers and court documents. Where he once used his creativity to craft stories for his friends, he was now meticulously focused on the tiniest hints, connecting nearly invisible dots until he uncovered the most obscure branches of criminal underground. His attention to detail was unparalelled.

Eddie asked Steve once why he chose the bat costume in the first place. Steve just smiled at him and said: "A guy I really respect told me once that bats are metal."

#stranger things fanfiction #steddie fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #claudia henderson #steddie au #strangerthingsfanfiction #strangerthings #batman au #the party #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #argyle #believe me the steddie is there and will be more prominent if I decide to write more

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donnerpartyofone · 8 months

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I bailed on a party over the weekend because the parties in that particular series tend to be kind of overwhelming and the last time my husband and I were at one some creepy guy grabbed me in a really intimate full-body way and got kind of hurt about it when I reacted with stunned confusion, and even though I don't think he meant personal harm and basically "nothing bad happened", it gave me this feeling of trepidation about the next party and I decided I needed a slightly longer break from that whole crowd. In the meantime I made it clear to my husband that in the future I might just leave on my own when I start to get overwhelmed so people don't have to watch my aura change and wonder what the fuck my problem is while I wait until things wind down naturally.

Anyway the incident above is exceptional because that guy was really not acting right, but in general: When you have a thing where you strongly do not wish to be touched, and especially if you are at the same time a woman, people will give you all kinds of idealistic, impractical advice about how you Must stand up for your self in a spirit of radical honesty at all times, to exercise your all-important modern bodily sovereignty, and it's like...yeah but life is not an after school special where everybody learns a big lesson and changes for the better in the space of two or three lines of dialog. And like people who say this kind of thing--well, I often suspect that they don't really live the way they're telling me I should live, it's just some aspirational fantasy they have about how life SHOULD be, but to that point I think they're not really considering the tax of constantly, righteously asserting your needs with all kinds of people, especially in more casual and/or public situations. Like yes in a perfect world I would bring the law down on anyone who threatens to ignorantly violate my comfort, but the reality is that most people just do not understand specifically the touching thing at all, and trying to explain myself to people who are not going to get it in situations that don't really matter is just a lot more trouble than it's worth. I have had supposedly-close loved ones make fun of me for it, or passive-aggressively declare that they're respecting my boundaries while making it really clear that they're hurt by my perceived rejection of them, or even just act like I secretly DO really want a bunch of big ol' mushy hugs and my whole "don't touch me" thing is just my secret way of begging for the physical contact that I'm too shy to ask for directly. And when it's a question of dealing with someone I do NOT know, and who I may not even want to get to know, there can be political factors in play, or safety issues, or just the plain old desire for expedience. A lot of the time it's genuinely better to just eat shit and accept the hug knowing that this, too, shall pass.

I recently witnessed a helpful example of this problem that had nothing to do with sex. If you've spent any amount of time with macho tough guys then you probably know that they're incredibly thin-skinned--not just that they're easily angered, but they're extremely sensitive to rejection and criticism. Sometimes I meet one of these tough guys and while I think I'm being totally friendly and normal, they manage to react to everything I say as if I'm secretly judging them and they have to somehow communicate that they know I don't really like them or something. It's funny how that tough guy stuff means the opposite of what it expresses, like how saying "I don't give a fuck" is the clearest possible way to let people know that you most certainly give a fuck and in fact you are giving one right now.

So I was at the classy neighborhood whiskey bar for the birthday of a friend who has had his party there every year for like a decade or something, and the owner is one of these guys. I like him actually, he's smart and funny and has interesting things to say, but he's always indicating that he thinks I'm avoiding him or rolling my eyes at him or something, like he's going to catch me in the act of secretly not liking him. So at this party, which was really an intimate gathering of close-knit pals who have been coming to the bar for years, there was another big macho tough guy, and he refused to shake hands with the owner. There was a good reason that he explained very clearly up front; I can't remember exactly but it was something very rational like his kids were sick, or he was trying not to catch a cold before traveling to see older relatives, that kind of thing--but the bar owner just got so uncomfortable about it, it was really awkward and the two tough guys were like not OK with each other for the rest of the night. And you can imagine that if there were a harder-to-understand reason like a person just does not enjoy physical contact with other people and says "No thanks I do not prefer this", it might have been really not-worth the political problem of creating a bad atmosphere at an intimate birthday party just to avoid five seconds of discomfort. I mean if you're always happy to confront and instruct people under all circumstances, god bless you, but things are not always as black and white as all that for everybody else.

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neyafromfrance95 · 2 years

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Sylvie Laufeydottir in the Fanfics.

i love all the different takes on Sylvie in the fanfiction and i think that the fic writers should be bold when it comes to experimenting with her characterization, so i don't mean to be dogmatic or anything about it, but i think there is fun in trying to grasp the essential traits of a character and trying to write them as in-character as possible as well.

and if i'm being completely honest, there are not a whole lot of fics that have Sylvie characterized in a very "canon accurate" way.

i'm not saying that i am the one who has this correct idea of what kind of a character Sylvie is, but here are my two cents on what makes Sylvie - Sylvie.

first of all, here is what i think some people get wrong about Sylvie:

when she is reduced to exhaustion and stress.

it's true that Sylvie is an anxious character with many issues caused by her struggles, but Sylvie we saw in the series is passionate and driven.

when her one true dream and a final destination beyond revenge is settling down into a domestic lifestyle.

there is no hint of Sylvie dreaming about an uneventful, quiet, ordinary life. the flashbacks into her past suggest that her dream (and possibly her glorious purpose) was to be a hero. we see Sylvie living a low-key life in S2 teaser, and she doesn't look happy at all, she looks depressed af, which indicates that such lifestyle is not right for her.

Sylvie being sadistic.

i think the series makes a point that Sylvie is not sadistic at all. she never does more than necessary to her enemies, she is not cruel for the sake of being cruel. yes, she is feral and competitive, but those aren't the same as sadism. she puts Hunter C in a safe mental space while investigating her, she empathizes with Hunter B, she kills HWR with a quick stab. compare her approach to her enemies to pre-series!Loki's and Ravonna's - they tend to verbally hurt, scare and humiliate their enemies.

the only argument Sylvie has for fighting against Kang being "he wronged me."

yes, she is motivated by a personal vendetta. yes, she can be quite single-minded. but! her experiences with the the tva, awareness of who they are and what they represent, have shaped her worldview. Sylvie is an idealistic character, her revenge boils down to "he hurt me", but she has to believe that her mission is serving a good cause against the oppressive fascists. i believe this is why she is so discouraged and passive in the teaser of S2 - Kang tarnished her idealistic perception of her life's work. she doesn't feel like a hero any more, and it mattered a lot to her that she was a hero - Loki validating her heroism was one of the reasons why she fell for him.

Sylvie being a manipulative femme fatale.

another aspect of her persona that is portrayed very clearly in the series is her honesty. she is a straightforward character, always true to who she is. her kiss was not a deception, it was an expression of her feelings and emotions that exploded when Loki told her that he only cared about her.

Sylvie being overly-apologetic to the tva and Loki.

while Sylvie might feel like she fucked up and have an existential crisis, i highly doubt that she would feel apologetic to the very people who kidnapped her when she was a child and stalked her with an ill intent. "these new Kangs are bad so you were right when you destroyed my world and oppressed me" doesn't feel like an authentic Sylvie response. she most probably feels bad for pushing Loki away, but not to the point of self-depreciation and begging for forgiveness since she still felt backstabbed by him bc he did betray her, technically - he went back on his word and got in the way of her glorious purpose.

let's now move on to the aspects of her characterization that are pretty essential. i won't be elaborating too much on these for now.

she is assertive and strong-willed.

she does everything on her own terms, never compromising.

the themes of freedom and choice play a very important role in her story.

she has the pathological trust issues, and some anger issues as well.

she has probably been to every corner of the multiverse without ever settling in one place, so she never got to properly socialize within any cultural framework and she was exposed to the countless cultures. so, she has to be very nonconforming.

a glorious purpose means everything to Sylvie. it gives her life a meaning and is her driving force. out of all Lokis, it's probably Sylvie who values and prioritizes the glorious purpose the most.

she is truly like a feral cat in many ways.

she is the Multiverse Liberator.

(i always thought that out of all fictional characters, Sylvie is the most similar to Arya from ASOIAF btw)

but in the end of the day, we are still a new fandom, so it's understandable that there aren't many fics that have an astonishingly canon accurate characterization. it's ok and please don't hold yourself back from writing Sylvie if you are unsure about her characterization. the more you write and try, the better your vision of a character becomes! that's how the writing improves. also, i would encourage you to explore Sylvie's relationships with other characters as well. i mean, there is just so much to Sylvie's dynamic with Kang and Ravonna, it'd be interesting to write about Sylvie's journey around the multiverse, you all could let your imagination go absolutely wild, the Postman could be the ultimate OC in Sylvie fics (fancasting Will Sharpe, Sophia Di Martino's husband, as the legendary Postman)...

anyways, i think Sylki and Sylvie writers are some of the best fan writers out there (bc let's be real, there are not a lot of fandoms that characterize their faves very accurately to begin with), i'm only trying to say that if you are interested in writing very in-character, it won't be difficult since Sylvie is pretty strongly characterized in the series.

#sylvie laufeydottir #sylvie #lovie #sylki #loki #loki series #sylvie laufeydottir ao3 #loki tv #sylki fic #sylvie laufeydottir analysis

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caffeinatic · 2 years

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van Zieks tumblr fic

Found this short fic in my Google docs. It's not really long enough for an AO3 post, but thought it was at least decent enough to share.

PG. No content warnings outside of DGS/TGAA spoilers. Takes place during DGS 1-5, and all the dialogue comes from the game.

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If he looks closely enough, Barok thinks, he can almost see the spider’s silk of the strings that are currently controlling Gregson.

He’s sure now—more sure than he has been—that something more is happening behind the scenes of this case. Something Barok is not meant to know about; monsters lurking in the darkness at the edge of his vision.

“Let’s not forget, Inspector, that you—a Scotland Yard officer—leaked confidential case details to a witness! That you continue to lie in court! And all because, by fair means or foul, you’re determined to do your duty.”

Ryuunosuke Naruhodou stands firmly across the courtroom from Barok, ablaze with a kind of fervor that Barok can no longer access in his own heart and only just remembers from his prior life. There was before Klint’s death, and there was after, and Barok knows that he is only a part of the man he’d once been, only a shadow now of his true potential.

Naruhodou is young and passionate and everything Barok is not. He is nothing of what Barok had expected of him when he first set foot in the Old Bailey in defense of one of London’s worst—and richest—criminals in recent history.

Naruhodou can see what is happening as well, but he doesn’t have the history that Barok has, the backstory that leads him to believe that Gregson is only the puppet here, bowing before a master unseen.

Unsettling suspicion churns in his gut, whispering that Barok knows who pulls on those strings. He doesn’t examine this, not yet. This is neither the time nor place.

“Well… by fair means or foul, I’m prepared to do mine!”

The question that begs his attention at present is not the identity of those behind the scenes, but the identity that Barok will choose for himself. He’d been young and idealistic once, ready to sacrifice himself at the broken altar that is the British judiciary system as Naruhodou is now. Barok doesn’t know if he can be that person again, but he does see the choice that lies in front of him here. He can either continue to cower behind the mantle of the Reaper, or he can cast it off.

And in doing so, stand aside the compatriot of the man that Barok most hates.

“Don’t you dare…”

Gregson is practically feral. Barok has no idea the risk to him should he fail at this task. He does know, all too well, the dark fate that has befallen those gone before. Deaths blamed on the Professor, then on the Reaper. Barok had taken on the Reaper moniker willingly in the name of justice once before, but he wonders now if those names don’t rightfully belong to someone else.

“Come on, van Zieks! For Pete’s sake! Stop ‘im!”

He wonders how long before he comes to find that he has been bound to the same master through strings he has been unable—or unwilling—to see.

“I will stop at nothing to protect my client! I don’t care who I make an enemy of! My Lord! Please! The court must hear the sounds made by that music box!”

The choice is laid out before him: the colleague who has become a mouthpiece for the monsters in the dark, or the foreigner who spouts, silver-tongued, the ideals of the very siren song that had led Klint van Zieks to his destruction.

Justice, honor, integrity. The values he once lived by have been so battered over the years that they are nigh unrecognizable to him now. Barok’s moral compass is tarnished and grayed, and he has no way of knowing which of these two men who now appeal to him across the courtroom is the devil, and which is the angel.

“Objection!”

Or perhaps both paths lead to darkness, and Barok is fated to spend his eternity in Hell either way.

“Inspector, you should know my methods by now. I’m a prosecutor… I’m no Scotland Yard puppet. In this courtroom my duty is to the law. So let me propose a toast.”

I don’t care who I make an enemy of.

Today, at least, Barok will not be the young defense attorney’s enemy.

“To uncovering the truth… by fair means or foul.”

#barok van zieks #ryuunosuke naruhodou #tobias gregson #tgaa #dgs #dgs spoilers #tgaa spoilers #the great ace attorney #tumblr fic #my tgaa fic

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mushroomwriter · 3 months

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(pt1) The hermanos really live in my head rent free askfhfkd and once again, I must thank you for being so sweet and inviting! I hope you enjoy the rambles ahead 》 Hi, hermanos anon back again! I'm finally done with my exams, thank you once again for all your kind wishes <3 I've even had a little holiday and travelling (which stresses me out) and I was rotating your answer in my head all the while... Yesss, that scene with Sergio & Martin is so painful. The emotions on both their faces are so raw and real and uff, I really love how you can see the way both of them have been hurting and grieving despite the *years* it's been since Andrés died. They truly loved him so much and I am never gonna be over it 🤧 And yes that scene on the ship where he's giving them instructions gets me too, especially this one moment where when they reach international waters everyone is cheering and going wild and Sergio smiles for like half a second before the smile just drops from his face and he looks in the distance... and you can just tell he's thinking of his brother who's not there to celebrate with him :'(

(pt2) This gets long so if you can feel free to put even my asks from here on under a cut (or maybe answer them separately? idk I hope i'm not annoying you or your followers with the wall of text and again I am SO sorry for how long this got 😭)

Now about the hermanos' childhood, I must say you've really done some magic with your words because for the past 2 years, I have clung stubbornly to my half brothers headcanon. I cannot emphasize enough how much I never vibed with the full brothers scenario. BUT. After reading your thoughts, something in me slowly softened to the idea (which I repeat I thought was impossible) and then I was reading this novel at the same time, with 2 brothers in it, and one of them is more "evil" than the other, meaner, likes to play tricks and the other is more good and kind and idealistic. Anyway, there was this one passage in the book where the mean brother lies down in his bed at night praying, begging God to "don't let me be mean" and wanting to be nicer and loved by his brother. and my brain replaced that with the hermanos growing up, and my heart squeezed in my chest and thats the moment I finally converted to the full brothers headcanon. Thank you for opening my eyes to the possibilities. Of course, the half brothers headcanon will always be first and special to me, but OMG the FEELS with the hermanos growing up together as little kids!!! I'm just taking their backstory as Shrodinger's Headcanons, since Pina clearly isn't interested in giving us anwers lmao. After this tangent, let me reply to your actual thoughts asdfjsk

Ah, I can see why s3 gave you that impression. Maybe I watched that interview before s3 becz my mind was always clear that they shared a father, so Andrés mentioning him makes sense but he also always had this kind of distance/coldness when talking abt him, even saying "He was *your father*" to Sergio in s2 by the fireplace (which makes sense if the said father abandoned him), while Sergio was the one who always sounded more fond and grieving. And when he mentioned "Mama's illness" I thought it's only Andrés' mother cause neither of them ever seemed very concerned that Sergio could have inherited the illness too? But it's interesting how preconceived notions affect the way we interpret a scene, you and me both had such different conclusions LOL. I understand, it was just the opposite direction for me, I didn't want to 'embrace' the full brothers headcanon 😅

(pt3) Yeah they even never clarified what he was sick with for HALF HIS CHILDHOOD/YOUTH!, let alone how he got better. But I'm so with you, the idea of Andrés taking Sergio to Russia and saving his life has my whole heart. Yes, you can work in the Andrés raising Sergio bit, especially because i think with their father dying and their mother's illness, they were probably orphaned at a young age either way and obviously the responsibility for Sergio would've fallen to Andrés very young, and like you mentioned even when their mom was alive he still might've been expected to look after his hermanito while they were busy trying to manage expenses. Oh, idk if you've heard of another hermanos headcanon that was popular at the time, basically that Andrés started stealing/got into a life of crime to pay Sergio's medical bills, but again, I love the idea that he used every means- legal or not to save Sergio. (Andrés' past intrigues me very much, I wish the spinoff had actually given us some answers 🥲)

OH, I loved your analysis of both scenarios and Andrés' reasons to resent their mom/Sergio. It makes all the sense, and it's heartbreaking. I also agree that it's very interesting he doesn't resent or bear any grudge against Sergio, when he easily could have. Once again, the fact that despite his unforgiving harsh personality in general, Sergio is the exception and he can see that Sergio really was just a helpless child and doesn't hold anything against him, melts my heart. AND YASSS, that's exactly one of the reasons I love the half bro hc so much. It's a Choice, and what a selfless one. Raising the son of the father(or mother) who abandoned you. I don't think many ppl would or could do that. And the fact Sergio was a sickly child too, but Andrés still took him in and didn't treat him like a burden but a beloved brother <3 I also just fell in love with the idea that Sergio thinks he's all alone in the world and then Andrés appears on the scene. Learning to trust each other. Andrés also thinking no one could love him (abandonment issues) and then he's suddenly the parental figure for a kiddo who looks to him and depends on him and loves him unconditionally, the way a child does.

(pt4) YEP, regardless of scenarios I also love the idea that it was Andrés who saved Sergio's life (and ofc, Sergio would think he can do anything. don't get me started on how Sergio would've felt when Andrés told him of the myopathy. Definitely some of his denial comes from the fact he thinks Andrés can defeat the illness, no matter if there's a cure or not) Gosh yes, Andrés would've been so proud and extra protective, we see that in the Bella ciao scene. I really think he didn't mind if he died as long as Sergio got away and gets to live a long and happy life ;___;

I would never stop screaming either if we got a new hermanos scene!!! Keep the hope alive 🤞 Hehe, I'm glad you appreciated the #hermanos angst! Oh that's great!!! As always, I am very excited for any hermanos content and I would love any gifset you make. What a coincidence lol, Richard Siken really was writing about them XD Awww, I love how you put it, that scene really does overflow with familiarity. Thinking of Toledo makes me emotional too, I'm glad I got to ramble about it with you, you made me smile too :') And if I ever get around to writing it, I'll let you know!

Omg, you're too kind, I'm relieved you don't regret the invitation yet haha. And you're happy to see my silly little rambles?? 🥺❤ So so glad our talks give you a serotonin boost too, and I hope you've been doing well. Take care, and please take your time replying to this essay 😭

PS I've read 100 years of Solitude too just last year! Feel free to tell me what you think of the book so far, I'm thinking of doing a reread <3

First of all, I'm sorry it took me SO LONG. Real life has been so busy lately, and I wanted to give you a proper reply, not a hasty one... especially considering I SO ENJOYED your rambles!!

I'm glad you managed to have a little holiday (which I hope wasn't just stressful) after your exams! If you're studying for some other exams now, well, I wish you good luck!

That scene with Martín and Sergio is definitely in the top painful scenes... Andrés is still such an open wound for both of them! Oh man, yeah, I do remember that moment of Sergio just... grieving despite the cheers and relief and it breaks my heart :(

So under a cut is it! Don't worry! I can't talk for my followers but I'm not annoyed for sure :D

What can I say... I'm happily impressed to know I softened you a little to the full-brothers scenario 💕💕 Also because I was maybe a little worried I rambled a bit too much about that scenario, so I'm glad you did like it! And please, associating that quote to the hermanos fcking killed me :( YES I think Shrodinger's Headcanons is the best way to go for their childhood! Like, as I said I went "naturally" for the full-brothers headcanon but there are aspects of the half-brothers headcanon that really melt my heart, so I want to keep them both! lol, Pina decided to give us NOTHING and so now we decided to take double the answers!

Yeah, it makes so much sense... it's truly interesting to see how the same scenes can be interpreted in different ways and how one preconceived notion can, as you said, make us end up with totally different conclusion...

I KNOW! I absolutely expected they'd let us know something more about Sergio's childhood illness, but nothing lol! I don't know if I had heard of the "Andrés got into stealing for Sergio" headcanon, like I definitely had that thought but I can't remember if it was because of fandom influence or not... either way, I'm so ON BOARD with it! (I guess the spinoff at least leaves us very free to headcanon at our hearts' content...)

I'm happy you loved my thoughts about Andrés and the reasons he'd have to resent Sergio, it's something I love to chew on! And YEAH EXACTLY, I mean, especially considering Andrés' whole character, 'selfless' is not exactly the first word that comes to mind to describe him, so thinking of him deciding to take care of this sick child he didn't even know, son of the parent who abandoned him, when Andrés himself was probably still pretty young... ahhhh! And little Sergio thinking he doesn't matter to anyone anymore, he's nothing but a burden now, but then Andrés appears and takes him in... I'm melting. And now you're making me crazy with the thought of Andrés, whose experience in terms of relationships is really not great, who considers himself really hard to love, getting this kid who loves him unconditionally and trusts him and looks up to him... woah. He was probably flabbergasted. "what's this??? UNCONDITIONAL LOVE??"

The idea of Andrés saving Sergio's life also ties nicely with Sergio's reaction when he learned about Andrés' illness, he was there like "let's forget about the robbery and let's go abroad in search of a cure" he wanted to do exactly what his brother had done for him!! And yeah, I think even after Andrés crushed that idea a part of him never stopped holding a bit of hope! As for Andrés, he would absolutely consider "I die but Sergio lives happily" a great scenario and I want to scream!

I'll keep hoping for new hermanos scenes 🤞 Thank you! That gifset is still a work in progress, I got a bit stumped because the scenes I picked are all so dark and my attempts to colour them have been pretty disastrous lmao but I'll try again! Also just so you know, I keep thinking about "you wouldn't be there to catch me" in relation to the hermanos' relationship and I CRY. (Thanks about the fic!)

I'm SO HAPPY to see your silly little rambles you have no idea 🥺❤ Also when I got these messages specifically I wasn't feeling great, like, physically (I had a bit of a migraine), therefore I was pretty unhappy, but your words really lifted my mood! And again, I'm so so sorry it took me so long to reply this time, I really hope you'll see this answer anyway...

PS. Oh, nice! 100 years of solitude is one of the things I had to put on hold lately, but I really want to get back to it because YES I was really enjoying it! I'm also lowkey obsessed with the opening lines, it's really the kind of beginning that makes you want to read the whole book immediately to find out how's that Aureliano ended up there! (We also had to translate that first part for class and later analyse the official Italian translations and I enjoyed it so much...) What about you? Did you end up doing that reread?

#my askbox #p #hermanos anon

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

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Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.

A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌

I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.

➠ see also: [homeowners association]

Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*

Dabi would know you anywhere.

You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.

It’s you. You. You.

You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.

Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.

This is going to be fun.

Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.

Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.

Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.

You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.

He doesn’t forgive you.

Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.

You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.

When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.

Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.

He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.

A monster. A freak. A victim.

“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.

…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.

You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.

Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.

Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.

He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.

Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.

Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?

You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.

God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?

It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.

He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.

Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.

You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.

You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.

When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.

It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.

Until you didn’t.

‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.

And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.

Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.

He lights the cigarette anyway.

///

Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?

He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.

When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?

If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.

In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.

In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.

In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.

(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.

And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)

Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.

///

Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.

Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.

Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.

On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.

It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.

Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.

You used to say that to Dabi.

The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.

It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.

Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.

It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.

How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?

So say it. Say you love him.

Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.

You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.

And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—

“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”

And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—

—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

—please stay, forever.

///

When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.

You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?

Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.

Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.

By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—

—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.

It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.

He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.

Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?

///

Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.

The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.

Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.

Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.

///

Whore. Your husband called you a whore.

You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.

He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.

So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.

The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.

Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.

Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.

The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.

Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?

But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.

Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.

“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.

Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.

“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”

Just like back then.

“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”

///

In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.

You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.

But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.

Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.

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mineonmain · 2 years

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KINNPORSCHE EP 11 (Spoilers, duh)

gawd I know I'm so late but life happens. It's literally like 12 hours before the next ep drops, but better late than never right? anyways here's my usual recap of highlights from the ep, random shit that stood out to me:

Kinnporsche: ok fine. tooth-rotting sweetness. almost too much for me to watch at times. both of them admitting to each other's families (EEEEEEEE) that they love each other. floating hearts everywhere. So lost in themselves that they seem to have forgotten mafia duties, big brother duties, friend duties, or literally any other duties other than getting their dicks wet. To think we haven't gotten the pool scene OR the 'i'm on your side' scene yet...fear.jpg

Kimchay: Kim you are so close to being on my shit list. I've said it before, but the only reason you're on thin ice but not in the sub-arctic waters is because I love Jeff. The thing is, I'm sure that Kim said that to protect (??) Chay from whatever shenanigans he's up to, but he better start resolving it soon. It's been there as a B plot/C plot since the early episodes, but it hasn't really progressed, and also it hasn't been made clear to the audience why we should care about whatever he's investigating. What impact does it have on our protagonists, other than the fact that it involves the Kittisawat parents? Also, we haven't seen much from Kim's POV so far, we need to see that there's a private side to him that isn't his cold facade, that he cares for Chay and struggled with his decision to let him go. (People who have read the books, this is not an invitation to slide into my DMs and explain, this is me critiquing the show's writing and storytelling technique, i'm not asking anyone to explain the actual plot to me lmao)

VegasPete: Oh boy oh boy oh boy. Vegas' sadistic side was probably born out of him needing a release from the violence his father inflicted upon him, him needing an outlet for all that pain. Understandably, he wanted someone else to feel the pain that he felt. In a way, every time Vegas has tortured someone, it was him calling out to the universe begging to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. He obviously didn't know this himself, how would he. He's suppressed any part of him that involves self-reflection, except the awareness that he's Fucked Up. His entire personality is a combination of Please Dad, Protect Macau, Piss Off Kinn, and Fuck the World Up. What I find so interesting, is the parallel between Porsche and Pete. They are both beacons of light in a world that's perpetually shrouded in darkness, and they are both bright sparks despite the shit they've both been through, making them ideal partners for Kinn/Vegas. They can help them out of the darkness without being idealistic, because they can understand what they other's been through. Vegas wanted to be seen, and Pete saw him, and saw right through him. Vegas tried to break him down the way his father has constantly broken him, but Pete broke through Vegas' walls instead. Vegas realises this, and knowing that in turn sees Pete properly for the first time. Not as Porsche's shadow, not as just another (head) bodyguard for the major family. And after their first real conversation, Vegas is going to go through a paradigm shift - it's already started, in fact. In his mind, Pete is elevating himself from the position of prisoner to someone on an equal level with Vegas mentally, and consequently Vegas is going to want to do things to Pete not because he likes seeing Pete in pain, but because he likes pleasing Pete and Pete himself is going to want it and enjoy it. It's about time Pete starting living for himself. I'm sure I could write a lot more about just their characters, and the symbolism around levels in the different scenes between their characters and how it changed throughout the episode, but I can't quite put it into words. This is enough already.

Things I need in the next ep:

KinnChay interactions A S A P

KinnKim interactions, why are they literally never in the same frame??

Kimhan. Mr. Kimothy. Sir Kimlock Holmes. If you don't explain yourself, both your actions towards baby Chay and also what all investigative spy work you've been up to, or so help me god i'll let Tankhun loose on you

VegasPete is going to follow their natural progression of events, so the next new conflict has to arise - Kim's info on the Kittisawats in connection with Korn??

P.S. I refuse to entertain the idea of ChayMacau. Absolutely not. I haven't read the book so I don't know but the little Macau that we've in the show is like, even more childish than Chay. I don't even want to see them talk to each other. If this makes me salty and petty so be it. I've said before that I'm not the biggest fan of JeffBarcode (as a pairing) but I will not think of any other pairing other than KimChay, and that's on that.

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astrowitch · 3 years

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An Enjoltaire WIP

This is a scene from a big project I’m currently working on. As you may be able to tell, this scene is unfinished, but I’m pretty proud of it so far. I’ve tried to make the dialogue as authentic as I can to the 19th century, but it can be hard to do while still trying to be true to your own writing. It’s definitely ambitious, but I’ve tried my best, so please be patient with me.

June 4th, 1832

“Grantaire, please just listen to me-“

“No! I’m not going to listen to you justify getting yourself killed!”

“You don’t know that I’ll be killed! What if we succeed? Then we still have time…then we have a bright future for France!”

Grantaire sighed deeply, a sense of despair washing over him as he exhaled.

“Enjolras, mon ange,” He began, gripping the blonde man’s soft, slender hand within his own big and rough one, “You are so idealistic. How I envy you and pity you at the same time. Your mind is beautiful, optimistic, everything I’ve ever wanted to be. But it is unrealistic. The National Guard will not listen to the people, much less students. I’m begging, if you just call this off, no one has to die. We can…we can be guaranteed time,” Grantaire’s voice caught in his throat as he finished what he was saying. Of course, right when he had earned a stroke of luck, the thing that he was living for was to be stripped away from in a matter of hours. Grantaire so desperately wanted to wake up tomorrow morning in his rooms with his lovely Enjolras in his arms and the sunlight beating down upon them. He knew that this wish was in vain, for Enjolras was the most selfless person he had ever met. He couldn’t be satisfied until everyone around him was. Grantaire would follow Enjolras to the ends of the Earth, so deep down, he knew that not only were these his last day or two with Enjolras and his friends, but also his last days alive.

Enjolras had a look of frustration on his face, but still had a firm grip on Grantaire’s hand. His blue eyes bore straight into his lover’s soul, and Grantaire wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his tears back. Hell, Grantaire didn’t even know if this Heaven he had been taught about was real. If God was real, how dare he burden this suffering upon Grantaire’s, Enjolras’s, and all of France’s backs.

“Grantaire, nothing you say can stop me. I know what I must do. My duty lies with France, and I cannot let her down. I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with you, not a care in the world, but none of that is possible until France is reformed! When I feel the crunch of the monarchy beneath my feet, I will be at rest,” Enjolras rambled, his grip on Grantaire’s hand getting tighter. His eyes told a different story than his words, and it was easy to tell just how terrified Enjolras was behind his cover of fearless leader. It was in moments like these that Grantaire recognized Enjolras’ humanity, contrary to when he first met the man.

Alexandre Enjolras was not a god. He was just a boy with a dream.

Cynical Adrien Grantaire was irrevocably and utterly in love with him. Grantaire’s heart was breaking more every second he thought about losing his love.

“Enjolras, please. I can’t lose you. I-,” Grantaire choked on a sob before he could mutter those three words to the boy in front of him.

Arms immediately came to envelope Grantaire in a tight embrace. He felt the familiar soft curls brush up against his neck, and he tried to keep his sobs under control.

“I know, Adrien. I know. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry-,” Enjolras was speaking through tears too, as Grantaire felt them soaking the collar of his shirt. It was even more unusual to hear Enjolras speaking his first name though, then it was to see him shedding a tear.

Shakily, Grantaire brought one of his hands up from Enjolras’ waist to card it through his Apollonian curls. “I…I would call you Alexandre, but I think you might actually kick me,“ He tried joking, but it came out watery and desperate. Enjolras still let out a broken laugh, and Grantaire’s heart soared at the thought of himself bringing Enjolras joy.

“Grantaire, I- there’s just so much I want to say to you and so little time. There are so many injustices in the world, and I feel that this is one of them,” mused Enjolras, his composure clearly cracking.

“I think we’ve finally come to an agreement on something. How bittersweet those words taste on my tongue in a time like this,” Grantaire leaned his forehead against Enjolras’ own. The pair of them were an incredibly melancholy sight.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras broke Grantaire out of his cage of darkness.

“Yes?” He replied, the smallest twinge of hope manifesting in his voice.

“I…I need you to stay as far away as you can from the barricade tomorrow. I may be risking my life, but…but you don’t have to. Do you understand me?” These words looked like they were physically painful for Enjolras to say, like thousands of little knives pierced his throat as they fell from his mouth.

Grantaire let out a humorless laugh at that. “Enjolras, you really believe that I will stay away from you tomorrow?” He started.

“Grantaire, please-“

“Enjolras. My world is nothing without you. I have no one if you and the others are to expire at the barricade. Living alone for eternity is a far worse fate than dying together. I told you that I would never abandon you, and I intend to keep that promise. There…there is no longer an Adrien Grantaire without an Alexandre Enjolras I’m afraid. My soul intertwined with yours the moment I laid eyes on you. Tomorrow, I’ll be there with you. I’ll die with you…and I’d do it over and over again for a million years if it meant I’d get to experience whatever we have,” Grantaire exhaled after he spoke these honest words.

Enjolras surged forward to capture Grantaire’s lips in a passionate kiss. Grantaire felt tears staining both his and Enjolras’ cheeks as they embraced. It was horribly poetic, their tears mixing. All their anguish was shared, much like their fates seemed to be. When Enjolras finally pulled away from their kiss, he buried his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, hiding himself from the world. He was holding on to Grantaire impossibly tight, like he’d somehow slip away from his grasp if he didn’t.

It was then Grantaire heard the most heart-wrenching sound; Enjolras gasping for breath, sobbing helplessly into his neck. This was so unlike the Enjolras that he had first met that it was almost disconcerting. This Enjolras was vulnerable and loving instead of cold and militaristic. This was the Enjolras that a lot of people didn’t have the pleasure of seeing. Of course, it was clear that Enjolras cared deeply for others, but he had never broken down like this before.

“Shhh…I’m here. We’re going to get through this…together,” Grantaire soothed, holding the golden boy in his arms close.

“I…I’ve never-“ Enjolras began, “I’ve never felt like this before. Oh, how Marius underestimated me in his speech about the girl he met. I do know how it feels to…to…,” he stumbled.

“To?” Grantaire questioned, hoping that this was going the way he believed it was.

“To be in love. Grantaire, you’ve changed me for the better. How could I have gone on to die without knowing how it felt to be cared for by you? You’ve made my task so much more difficult than it was before, not only because you have a fondness for playing Devil’s Advocate. You have the kindest heart I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. I’m honored that you let me in,” Enjolras didn’t have time to finish what surely would’ve been a long, rambling proclamation of love because Grantaire so quickly captured his lips in another kiss.

“So many call me cynical, but more honest words have never been spoken than when I told you that I loved you from the moment I saw you. I have been your beloved Patroclus from the very beginning, and you my Achilles. How queer it is that we’re also condemned to a tragic end! Maybe it makes our ephemeral romance all the more fascinating,” Enjolras couldn’t help but grin as Grantaire began his waxing of the classics. It was one of many little quirks he adored about the artist.

When Grantaire finished his spiel, the hopeless expression returned to his sullen face. Enjolras mirrored it, pressing his forehead against Grantaire’s own.

“We will treasure this night, live in our own world. Tomorrow, we return to the situation at hand. We honor General Lamarque, and we will rise up and show the king that we are tired and desolate. If we are to perish, at least we have made a point. At least we have perished for the sake of the people,” Enjolras, ever the patriot, insisted passionately. If this wasn’t such a tender moment between the two of them, Grantaire normally would’ve started an argument, but he had the wise judgement to not say anything.

#enjoltaire #enjoltaire fanfiction #enjolras #grantaire #les amis de l'abc #les mis #les miserables #victor hugo #aaron tveit #george blagden #enjoltaire fanfic #romanticism #exr

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reinerispretty · 4 years

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rotations. (zuko x f!reader) pt15

hehehe hiiii thank you so much for reading!! i hope you guys enjoyed the last part and this one! :) this one is more of a filler chapter!! we’ll get back to the good stuff in the next one :D

pt1

pt14

pt16

“I wanted to say sorry, again. When I left the Fire Nation, I didn’t want to see you because I didn’t want to see your disappointment. I was worried that maybe your father had said something that had made you change your mind about me.”

(Y/N) had taken time bathing herself that night. The houses of the royal families were incredibly elaborate, so each room had its own bathroom. The water that ran from the taps was cold, since usually there was at least one firebending servant that would run around to heat the water. That night, (Y/N) was the firebending servant for her friends. Once she had heated everyone’s water, she trudged up the stairs to her own bathroom and began preparing her bath.

It had been a long time since she had had a bubblebath. Luckily, she remembered where the servants used to put the soap and added an outrageous amount of hot water in the tub. Once the bubbles were to her liking, she slid inside and released a content sigh.

The events of the day had eased the turmoil in her heart. While she was still recovering from the hurt that Zuko had caused her, the anger had subsided tremendously. (Y/N) could feel the tension that had been in her muscles ever since Zuko joined their group ease away as the hot water seeped into her skin.

She didn’t know how long she had been in there, but the moon was high by the time she stepped out to dry herself off. She took one of the fluffy robes from the closet and wrapped herself in it. It felt a bit stiff, like it hadn’t been worn in a while, but it gave her some comfort. It reminded her of home.

A knock resounded against the wood door to her bedroom. Quickly, she opened it, revealing Zuko standing awkwardly in the hallway.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.” She still felt guilty from their fight earlier. She had gotten so angry and lost control, something she had never done before. She felt no better than the Fire Lord himself.

“Hi,” Zuko said. He looked past her and into her room. “I noticed you picked your old room.”

“Yeah, it’s the only one that felt comfortable.” She gave Zuko a weak smile. “Don’t tell Aang that he’s in Azula’s.”

Zuko laughed his raspy, beautiful laugh. (Y/N’s) heart felt uncomfortable in her chest. Like it had grown too big.

“It’s weird,” she continued. “Being back here. Everything was so different the last time I was here.”

“Yeah,” Zuko agreed. “I know the feeling.” She knew that the last time he had been here was when he was still with Mai. He had visited the island with her, Azula, and Ty Lee. A reunion had happened, of sorts. Minus (Y/N). “Can I...come in?”

She nodded, stepping to the side. He walked directly to the chair in front of the vanity, which was all the way across the room from where she would go to sit on her bed. The distance between them felt like miles.

“My father could never do that, Zuko.”

“I know. And I think back then, I knew that too. But then I saw you with the Avatar, and we didn’t have the reunion that I wanted. It just made me so mad that you were fighting with the person that was preventing me from going home. I was so angry after we would fight. I felt like you were picking him over me. Then in Ba Sing Se, when you came to visit, I know I didn’t look like it, but I was so happy that day. But then underneath the palace, you were fighting against Azula and I. I had worked it into my head that you and Uncle were traitors. The entire time that I was back home and you were in prison, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had done something wrong. I walked around the halls of the palace and it all felt fake, like something was missing. Now I realize that I had been wrong about everything. While I know it doesn’t excuse it, I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am.”

(Y/N) blinked at him. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Never in a million years would the Zuko she knew have expressed his thoughts so clearly. A lot had happened to them, to the both of them, since they had last been together like this. He had grown and changed into someone who learned from his mistakes and sought to rectify his wrongs. She hadn’t let herself see that when he first joined them.

“I forgive you.” Her voice was soft, but her gaze was piercing. Zuko felt like she was staring straight into his soul. “I’m sorry for being so mean to you when you first got here.”

“You had every right to be.”

“I didn’t, though. Even when I was at my angriest with you, I couldn’t truly believe that you were evil. Believe me, I tried. Everything that you did to hurt my friends and I should’ve made me hate you, but it didn’t. I think that it made me mad that I couldn’t fully be mad at you.” She bent her head down and looked at her hands. “I should have never, ever challenged you to an Agni Kai, Zuko. I was just so upset and once I started saying it, I just couldn’t stop. I would never actually want to hurt you.”

“I know, (Y/N).” They stood at the same time. “It’s nice to be here. With you. When I was here before it felt...” He trailed off, leaving his sentence incomplete.

She smiled. “As surprising as this sounds, it’s good to be back.” Zuko smiled.

“I’ll uh, be in my room if you need me.” She nodded, shutting the door behind him as he walked out. She dressed in her pajamas and crawled into bed, turning on the side to face the empty wall. If she pretended hard enough, she was a kid again. Life was easy and all she had to worry about was mastering her newest firebending move.

When she came downstairs the next day, Sokka was practically begging the entire group to go see a play about their lives. “C’mon!” He said. “It’ll be fun. We deserve to live a little!”

And while the last thing (Y/N) wanted was to watch a play about herself, she came along anyway. It would be a lot better than sitting in the beach house by herself. The old memories that came flooding back whenever she turned a corner were too much sometimes.

Despite coming to the island nearly every summer when she was younger, (Y/N) had never been to the theater. Her father and Zuko’s were always far too busy to deal with such frivolous things (meaning their children).

They had chosen balcony seating, but who to sit next to was a serious question that was bothering (Y/N). The only open seats were by either Zuko and Sokka and while her relationships were improving with both, she wasn’t sure if she could spend two hours sat next to them. So she grabbed Aang by the shoulders and shoved him down into the seat next to Zuko. She took her own seat on the other side of Aang.

“Thank you,” She whispered to him as the lights dimmed. Aang furrowed his brows in confusion and then shrugged.

At the start of the play, (Y/N) was enjoying herself. Aang’s actor portrayed him as an idealistic child, which made her laugh. Katara’s character was always wailing about hope and Sokka’s was a bit cringy, but so was Sokka. But then, her character appeared on-stage.

The actress portraying her tripped over her baggy Earth Kingdom clothes as she stumbled into Sokka’s character. “Wow,” Fake (Y/N) swooned, her eyes wide. “You’re so handsome!”

(Y/N) shrank into her seat, hiding her face from her friends as they turned to look at her.

“I live an amazing life up in my father’s mansion in this city. I have everything I could have ever asked for, but I am very selfish!” Her character smiled and put her hands on her hips. “That’s why I’ve decided to betray the Fire Nation and help the Avatar!”

The audience booed at her. Throughout the rest of the play, all her character did was cry over how unfairly she had been treated by her nation. “And then!” Her character exclaimed. “They gave me bananas instead of the apples I had ordered from the servants!” Fake (Y/N) burst into tears. She did that a lot.

When her character and Zuko’s encountered each other, her character burst into tears again. “Zuko! My one true love, who was taken away from me by the wretched Fire Nation! I am so happy to see you!” Her character leaned in for a kiss, but he pushed her face away.

“I don’t talk to traitors!” Zuko’s character declared. This made Fake (Y/N) cry even harder.

“Why--doesn’t--h-he---want--m-me?” Her character said between sobs.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes and was so thankful when intermission arrived. She was the first out of her seat and waited outside the theater for her friends.

“Wow!” Sokka said as he exited the theater. “That play’s amazing. So accurate! Except, my guy could use a few pointers.”

“Accurate?” Katara scoffed, crossing her arms. “I beg to differ. My character is nothing like me.”

“Sure,” Toph snorted.

“I agree with Katara,” (Y/N) said, her face contorted into a frown. “I’m not anything like that character.”

“Are you sure about that?” Toph asked with a smirk. (Y/N) punched her in the arm, her face turning red as she glanced at Zuko. He gave her a small smile.

The play was all lies and she knew that. It took the most exciting parts of their adventures and amplified them for the stage. She knew she didn’t cry that much and she certainly had never called Zuko her one true love. Not out loud, at least.

---

Tag List!

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#avatar #atla #zuko x reader #aang x reader #sokka x reader #toph #katara #aang #zuko #sokka #azula #iroh #momo #appa #the last airbender #writing #fanfiction

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skullsandwineglasses · 4 years

Text

Awu - A coping character

Like a lot of people, my immediate reaction after watching episodes 59-63 was dissatisfaction and frustration. It seemed like Awu was a passive character. I still think she is passive, but that’s not necessarily a flaw or something that we should fault her about. This is going to be a helluva long post, but let me try to explain.

Awu is what you would call a “coping” character. She copes with obstacles thrown at her. She reacts to the machinations that blow up around her. She doesn’t really strive for things, except for probably general happiness. In the trailers, you hear her say in the voiceover, “I just want to be with the one I love”. Awu is a romantic. We saw this when she was young and crushing on Zi Tan and how she begged the emperor to grant her the wish of marrying for love. When she is a married woman, we see her wanting to start a family with Xiao Qi. We see her actively seek out ways to boost her health so that she can bear a child. Her ultimate goal is to find true love and have a family.

In a way, she reminds me of the Mandalorian. There’s a meme that says that even though the Mandalorian is the main character that the audience follows, in the grand scheme of things, the Mandalorian is actually just a side character among a group of main characters. The Mandalorian doesn’t strive for much. He just wants to be a Space Dad (TM) to Baby Yoda and to find a jedi to train his adopted child, and he has absolutely no interest in the politics in the galaxy. But, he’s always unwillingly thrust into politically-charged situations by these “main” characters around him who have their own political missions.

As a princess, Awu is the center of attention. Everyone dotes on her. But she isn’t a key player in the palace politics at all. She has no desire to be apart of it, even though everyone tries to pull her into it: Daddy Wang trying to force her into an military-advantageous marriage, her Empress aunt trying to get her to marry her son the crown prince, and then her Emperor uncle using her to help protect his will. Everyone has their own political agenda that each would have long-lasting consequences to the empire, but all Awu wants is to live happily ever after with the person she loves. This goal of hers never changes throughout the drama, which I admire. Even up to episode 63, she’s asking Xiao Qi to let go of vengeance and leave the capital with her to go live up north like they’ve always dreamed and planned together. While I don’t really agree with her asking XQ to give up vengeance, I completely understand why she asks him.

Among a cast of characters who are constantly planning and scheming, even Xiao Qi now with his drive for justice and vengeance, it almost feels like Awu doesn’t belong, and I think this difference between her and the people around her is why it can seem frustrating to some viewers. We project our emotions onto her and expect her to react as we would. We expect her to act like how we think we would act in that situation. But Awu has always been different from the people around her. I don’t think she’s ever really been in-sync with any character expect maybe for her mom, her maids (Jin’er doesn’t count), and Xiao Qi. So now that her and XQ are slightly out of sync in terms of their attitudes, we’re feeling a little on edge.

I think many would agree that Awu is a smart character, but she doesn’t scheme. And again, that’s because she’s a simple young woman, so we can’t expect her to scheme since she’s never had to. She’s never had to scheme to survive. Even when her whole family schemes, they always think about sparring her because of how much they loved her in the past. People complain about her being the last one to find out about things, but that’s because she doesn’t really involve herself in matters outside the house. She always thinks the best of people and so she never suspects them. She’s saintly to a fault. In a way, Awu is a very idealistic character, but also a resilient one since she’s able to remain true to her original nature even after witnessing the worst of her family. I admit, this was a little hard to buy at first, which was why I was frustrated with her, and her character isn’t everyone’s cup of tea because it’s a really Mary Sue kind of character, but after having cooled down these past few days, I’ve learned to respect her. With all the cunning and ruthless female leads recently, it’s nice to see a female lead who stays true to herself even after facing adversity, instead of becoming hardened and jaded and cynical. I feel like we hate on these kinds of FLs too much, kind of like how everyone hated Bella from Twilight back in 2010. I secretly really liked Bella and related to her when I was a teen, but I boarded on the hate-bandwagon because everyone else hated her.

BUT, I think what’s causing all the backlash is what people expected Awu to become based on how she was set up from the beginning. It almost feels like the writers couldn’t decide if they want her to be brash and rebellious, or loyal and true to the times. So we end up with a confusing combination of both, and different viewers end up having different expectations of what they want her character to be, hence all the disagreements about how to interpret her actions and decisions.

At the beginning, we’re introduced to a sheltered, loved, and carefree young woman of noble blood. Awu is then forced to marry a man she hardly knows, her lover won’t elope with her, and her husband leaves her on her wedding night. This is her first major turning point, and we see an immediate change in her. She matures overnight. She seems to have lost her carefree innocence. She isn’t as bubbly as before.

Because we see this major change in her character so early on in the drama, this is what we expect to continue moving forward for her character, and that she’s going to keep being molded in this way by life-changing events.

She’s then captured by Helan Zhen and has to try to survive, and she does this very well when you consider her sheltered and noble upbringing. In fact, a lot of the things that Awu does in the drama are out of line with her upbringing. She supports the Emperor’s decision to grant XQ, a peasant-born general, the ranking of a prince. She is able to adapt to the rough lifestyle in Ning Shuo. She’s able to whistle like a bandit, much to Xiao Qi’s surprise. And when you think about it, you begin to wonder, where did Awu learn to whistle and ride a horse like that? Who snuck her out of the prime minister’s manor in order to teach her these things? I doubt it was her brother or the princes, considering how useless and misogynistic they are. Her grandmother taught her politics and the arts, which helped her become worldly and cultured, but she didn’t teach Awu what a peasant’s lifestyle is like. So it’s actually a huge surprise that the spoiled daughter of a princess is able to fall in love with a low-born general and feel safe and at ease with him so quickly and easily. We’re briefly told that Awu likes selfless heroes, and so that’s our explanation for why she was able to fall for Xiao Qi. But to me, I think her falling in love with Xiao Qi is another example of how Awu is able to cope with the circumstances.

When Xiao Qi rescues her and takes her back to Ning Shuo, she’s resistant towards him. She seems defeated. Lifeless. We think her time in captivity with Helan has induced another permanent change in her. When Xiao Qi opens the window to let some fresh air in, she calls hims “cu lu” ( 粗鲁), which means rough. It’s something you say when you insult someone for being inelegant, thoughtless, and rude. She scorns the women’s taste of clothing in Ning Shuo, and is surprised when she learns that XQ, along with the rest of the army, only showers once a month because of the lack of hot water.

BUT, what begins to change Awu’s mind so quickly is seeing how righteous and devoted Xiao Qi is. She sees him as a good marriage partner. Her situation could have been a lot worse. After all, after seeing how unhappy her mother, the Empress, and Wanru were in their marriages, Awu expected a similar situation with her own arranged marriage. But instead, she quickly realizes what a lucky hand she’s been dealt, so she accepts XQ and lets herself fall for him. She doesn’t really have a choice anyway, so she embraces it. I especially love the scene during the siege when she tells Zi Tan that she fell in love with Xiao Qi because of his heroism and his selflessness towards the empire, while she now looks down on Zi Tan. If only Xiao Qi were there to hear her confess her love to him so vehemently.

In Ning Shuo, we see Awu begin to soften towards Xiao Qi. She becomes her old carefree self again around him. THIS is something that deviates from most coming-of-age stories that feature a female lead who is irreversibly changed by a traumatic life event. Awu returning to her normal, positive self instead of being jaded foreshadows how her character will behave for the rest of the drama. Yes, Awu doesn’t “grow” like other female characters, but she stays consistent and optimistic, which is a virtue in itself because it reflects her resilience.

When Awu is separated from Xiao Qi and has to protect a city against a siege by her uncle, we see her rise up to the challenge on her own. We see her command an army. We see her stand up to Zi Tan. She shows potential of becoming a “rebel princess”, which again raises our expectations that she’ll become more involved in politics. But at the same time, she’s still a young woman who likes to cuddle with her husband and be doted on by him when he returns. This is the Awu that we’ve known from the beginning. She’s used to be doted on by people who love her. What we have to remember from this siege arc is that while Awu showed great leadership skills, this is not who she wants to be. She CAN be this person, but she doesn’t want to be. The drama subtly reminds us of this when Xiao Qi comes back and she melts into his arms.

This aspect of her character is echoed again in episode 36 when she and Xiao Qi are cuddling in their signature corner of the manor. She says that she doesn’t seem to have to worry about anything when he’s around. XQ teases her about what she would do while he’s gone at war. She tells him that she can face anything on her own when he’s not there, but when he is here, all she wants to do is rely on him.

We tend to forget that Awu likes to be doted on (e.g., remember all those moments throughout the beginning of the drama where she likes to lie in people’s laps. See this post.) This was how she grew up. Loved and spoiled. But Awu CAN be strong. She’s perfectly capable of being strong. That’s why the Emperor trusted her with his will. That’s why Wanru and Zilong trusted her with their child aka the future of the empire. But, she doesn’t want to be this person who has suddenly become the pillar of the empire. She wants to live a simple life. That’s why she sounds so somber when she talks to Nanny Xu about the meaning behind “Mu Yi Tian Xia”, and her duty as the wife of a general and the descendant of royals to unite the commoners with the blue bloods. It’s a tall order, but she’s willing to take on that responsibility for the good of the empire. Again, this shows that Awu is a reactionary character who copes with turmoil that comes at her, but that’s because she’s taking on goals that she didn’t want or ask for in the first place. She has an entirely different set of goals. She dreams of living out another story. But instead, she’s born into this one.

After the siege, Awu’s next major turning points involve her family, and I think this is where it becomes divisive. She finds out about her Emperor Uncle having tried to have her and XQ killed, her cousin trying to steal the throne, her Empress Aunt trying to burn the Emperor’s will, her father trying to stage a coup, her mother killing herself as a result, and her having a miscarriage. In the end, she forgives everyone even after having seen the worst of them. Even after realizing that they’d sacrifice her for power. This is all understandable, even if saintly of her. These are the people who raised her, so I get why she would forgive them. Awu values family (to a fault). It’s not in her nature to abandon family, especially given how close she is to them. They helped shaped who she grew up to be. She lived a happy childhood with them. She’s never known abuse. Heck, even when they betray her, like the Emperor, they apologize to her soon after. Everyone seems to want to appease her. Even the Empress after all she’s done. Can you blame Awu for not having it in her to hate people? As rotten as her family is, they always try to spare her, and they only target her as a reluctant, last resort (even though they all want her husband killed though. It’s weird how they justify loving her, but still think it’s okay to kill her husband).

Awu does make some questionable decisions and judgments though, and I feel like she thinks of Xiao Qi too idealistically and takes him for granted, which can sometimes be unfair to him.

Case 1 is when she goes out of her way to help Qian’er and meets with Helan Zhen in secret and then dances with him. Like what many people have said, they feel angry that she danced with HZ before her own husband. And when Xiao Qi expresses anger and concern over her meeting with HZ, she insults him by saying he lacks a sense of familial duty since she doesn’t have a proper family or clan. This was a low-blow, but I excused it since it was in the heat of the moment.

Case 2 is the aphrodisiac incident. I think this is when Awu realizes that she hasn’t been considerate enough of Xiao Qi. When she learns that Xiao Qi was the victim in the situation, she immediately defended him and cast out Qian’er. However, up until this point, Awu has always taken Qian’er’s side against him. There’s no doubt that Awu loves and appreciates Xiao Qi, but it sometimes feels like she forgets how much he does for her and how tolerant he is of her family. Xiao Qi, an undefeated general and god of war, is nearly assaulted at the hands of his wife’s cousin because his wife has a big heart and let the predator into the house. Awu has always seen Xiao Qi has invincible, but this was the moment when she realizes that he can be broken, and she can be the cause of it.

Case 3 is what everyone’s been talking about recently, which is how she is reacting to Xiao Qi’s rage towards his betrayed fallen soldiers. While I understand that Awu is stuck in the middle, it also feels like she’s prioritizing her family over his feelings. She knows that Xiao Qi is angry, and yet she asks him to leave with her. She has the expectation that he will listen to her. She’s (quietly) making him choose between her and his army, which is unfair, even if she’s doing it for his own good. Do I agree with what she’s doing? Not really. But do I sympathize with her motivations? Yes. It’s taken me a couple of days, but I think I now understand.

Xiao Qi definitely has flaws too (e.g., the contraceptive fiasco). They both keep secrets from each other and try to make decisions for each other. Two sides of the same coin. Ugh, these two frustrate me so much, but I still love them so much.

Overall, people are expecting Awu to be one type of character, but they ignore how the drama’s been characterizing her. We can agree or disagree with her character’s development, but when you break it down, Awu’s character makes sense and is actually quite consistent, which is surprising for a 68-episode drama. Usually characters take a 180-degree turn after being drawn out for so long, but Awu has stayed true, for better or for worse. Do I still get frustrated at her sometimes? Of course. But, I can sympathize with her.

Rant over.

#monarch industry #the rebel princess #上阳赋 #awu #cdrama #this has taken me 2 hours to write #i don't have a life but I have a bunch of assignments waiting for me #rip #cdrama rant #my life hasn't been my own since jan #character analysis #deep dive

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blarrghe · 4 years

Note

Hi! I'm going to go for a dramatic one for the cliché prompts: "You’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up" for Fenders (or whoever you prefer) if that works for you <3

I’m on a bit of a Dorianders kick and can’t seem to stop, so thank you very much for the prompt but I went a bit off book with it... hope that’s alright w you.

I altered this a little to “Dorian’s father is asleep on his deathbed and he confesses all his pent up feelings only for Anders to walk in”

So that’s um, how modern au Resident!Anders and Politician!Dorian met. It got a bit long and is very very angsty.

Summary: Anders is a resident working rough hours at a hospital (in Tevinter?? look this is just going to be a series of ficlets I have not worked out the details yet), struggling with his medical debts and work-related sleep deprivation. Dorian is an idealistic politician working his way out of his recently deceased father's shadow. They meet when Anders is attending to his father on his death bed, and things go from there, I guess.

Anders took a deep breath. With it, the something hissing over his heart settled down to a whisper. The hospital always beset him with inner whispers; not a good feeling, but one that compelled him on, nevertheless. Pediatrics hit the hardest, the injustice of it all, but being there also kept his mind steady. Doing something. Critical Care was different. There wasn't usually a lot he could do, in the Critical Care wing. And his rounds today had him facing that patient, the one for whom there was nothing to be done, and who set his obsessively helpful spirit into split ends, because he was also an absolute asshole. When Anders was in a room with him, under steely eyes and the cracking whip of his tongue, the disease in him felt deserved, and some part of Anders burned like blue fire, so hot it took biting his cheek bloody to restrain his bedside manner from bad attitudes. The disease is never deserved, he reminded himself and the licks of flame that still remembered the patient's rude barkings from last time. Even in rich men who in life had been given much more than they ever did deserve, a death like this one was still a hard death, and people who are dying are allowed to die angry. So he took another deep breath, because dealing with some patients just needed that much more breathing, but he could still do his job. And that was the job; to be there, at the end, for anyone.

He was getting worse, sleeping more. It wouldn't be long now, and Anders tried not to be relieved. He checked his charts, his monitors, the IVs still barely holding him up. Increased the morphine, for his pain, and finished without saying a word. For a moment, he almost missed it; at least when the man was swearing at him and ranting in indecipherably bigoted tirades, he was lively. He sighed, staying the extra moment to offer the man's sallow cheeks a sympathetic glance. Death was a natural part of life, and he was old, and an asshole, and maybe he didn't deserve it but... soon the bed would be free again, and that would be alright.

When he turned to leave, there was a dark figure sitting on the bench in the hall outside. He was reading a magazine but not flipping the pages, one leg crossed over the other in the stiff posture of someone who is uncomfortably waiting for uncomfortable news. One of the family. Anders took another deep breath. He hadn't had dealings with the wife, but he'd overheard them well enough. An unpleasant woman for an unpleasant man, trying to buy off death and then trying to kick the whole hospital down with her complaining when she couldn't. If the man waiting outside now took after either of them, his shift was about to get a whole lot worse.

He stepped out into the hall, and the man looked up from his magazine. His features were striking, sculpted. Skin the deep, radiant bronze that Anders was sure his father's would have been, back in his youth before misery and disease stole its colour. And he was, unmistakably now, his asshole patient's son; same steely grey eyes, right down to the faint creases beside them, and just as unfeeling.

"Are you his doctor?"

Usually, that question, asked at this point in the process of losing someone, was croaked out. But the son didn't croak, he asked his question with a continued lack of feeling, and a bit of impatience.

"Not his attending, only a resident. I can page the doctor, if you'd like,"

"No, that's fine. Can you just tell me how long?" The man stood up, tall. Much taller than the way people usually stood in hospital corridors; poised and proud in his posture — not actually taller than Anders, but he felt it. Still a little stiff maybe, but anything uncomfortable was covered up by how well he fit into his suit; smooth and black and clinging to his body like it was made to hold him. Anders blinked, "how long he has," the son clarified unnecessarily, still coolly impatient, "I have places to be, you see."

His eyes wandered past Anders, hesitating over the window to the room where his father lay dying, then snapping back again. Not entirely unfeeling after all, but the sadness in them was troubled by something else, still indecipherable. Anders wondered what kind of relationship a son could have with a father — a father like that — for so many secrets to be buried in that glance.

Anders swallowed. No he didn't, he decided, but the thing that whispered care into his heart was wondering, catching onto the well-hidden glimpse of feeling in the man, craving already to comfort the rest.

"A few days, maybe." He answered, gentle with the news. The son nodded once. "You should say your goodbyes."

The son was looking past him again, back through the window at the sleeping form of his father, more unhappy secrets set into his jaw. Anders watched the jaw tense, and stay there.

"In a few days, maybe." Replied the man, though he barely moved his tense jaw to say it. "He's awake."

Anders turned to follow the man's eyes, landing his own gaze on a twitching hand and barely moving bedsheets. He didnt look back again before darting into the room to offer his patient care.

"Dorian?" Croaked the patient, steely grey eyes opening to scan his face, and then closing in apparent disappointment.

"Your son? He's right outside, I'll —" but he wasn't. The tall, statuesque man was gone, the magazine left lying open on the bench outside in an empty white hallway. "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Anders amended, attempting to offer a bright spot of hope. His patient grunted.

Anders took a step away from the bedside, but as he did a thin, wrinkled hand shot out, and grabbed him by the wrist. The cold, unfeeling eyes opened, except now they were sad. "A word of advice, if you don’t want to be disappointed in life, don't have children." Even breathy and hoarse, he managed to give his voice bite. Then his asshole patient's gaze fell on the little gold earring hanging from Anders’ ear, and he coughed. Anders took a deep breath in preparation for another insult, and to help him recover from the bit of unfriendly advice. "You're lucky they don't let you people have them."

Anders tried not to sigh. The dying are allowed to die angry. "I'm sure he'll be back." He said again.

----

Dorian. The name stuck to him almost as well as his tight black trousers, and Anders couldn't help but turn it over a few times in his mouth after he left the room. He made the rest of his rounds, and checked back in on father-of-the-year Pavus a few more times, lying to himself about what he was hoping to find. Dorian. He never did come back though, not during visiting hours of that day, nor the day after. On the third day things weren't looking well, and Bride of Asshole Pavus had alerted everyone on staff to the fact that it was their fault, even the poor janitors. The bed would probably be free again by the end of his shift.

He made his rounds, thinking as little about that particular patient and his particularly unpleasant wife as he could, trying to tell his inner whisperings that it wasn't worth being sad over, even if the son never said goodbye. Maybe he didn't deserve one, how could Anders judge? (Everyone deserves one). Under his breath, Anders told himself to shush. (If not for the father's sake, then for his own). Again, shush. Then, through the too-thin walls and slightly ajar door as he made his way down the glaringly white hallway, Anders heard muttering. Sad, broken, angry muttering. He stopped.

" —I don't want it." the phrase was repeated a few times, some utterings angry, others sad, all of them broken. "I don't want your life. I don't want to be you. I don't —" Dorian. Dorian choking on a sob. Anders took a step back, careful about the squeak of his shoes. "I don't even know why I —" he tried not to listen in (no you didn't), but the door was ajar. "Everything. I could become everything you ever asked of me and it would still never be enough, so I don't know why I— I —" there was another heartwrenching choke to a stop, then a gutteral sound of frustration that Anders could feel in his own gut. "Just once. You couldn't say it just once?" It sounded like the kind of question he wouldn't be getting an answer to even if the man were conscious. "I'm sorry." Anders felt that in his gut too, and the thing he was trying to keep quiet inside him wondered if the words were from Dorian to his father, or the ones Dorian was begging his unconscious body for, or both.

In hospital rooms, the sound of beeping monitors disappeared into the fray. Wheels on stretchers trundling down the halls, squeaking shoes on linoleum, ventilators whirring and monitors beeping. They only sounded like anything when they stopped, and let out that one long note to signify the end. Dorian choked out his apology several more times, once sad, once angry, always desperate, and then the monitor stopped beeping, drowning out his gasps for air with its ending, and Anders had to do his job. He walked in.

Dorian shot up. Hands swiping at his red eyes and posture somehow rising without even a hint of hunch, and Anders pretended poorly not to see any of it. The attending came, procedures were followed, and Dorian disappeared into the waiting room like he was supposed to, without a look back.

The wife was gone by the time Anders poked his head into the waiting room. It wasn't his job to tell the family, and the news had long been shared, but something told him to peek in anyway. He took another deep breath when he saw him — this family really seemed bent on messing with his breathing — sitting, one long leg crossed over the other, staring down a terrible cup of coffee, not drinking it. He sat straight, his skin shone, his suit fit him like a glove and not a hair on his head was out of place, but he looked tired. Dorian. Anders approached cautiously. It would be a while before the family could take the body, and he should go home, rest. He told him as much, to a response of slow nods. Then Dorian looked up from his coffee, eyes emotionless except for the fact that they were lined in watery red.

"I'm just waiting for my mother to finish hounding her lawyers," he said, and despite himself Anders looked about nervously, "she's not here, don't worry. She left for home an hour ago. If I wait another, she'll have tired herself out and passed out under a bottle of wine." He sighed heavily, "could use one myself, but to be honest with you I don't quite feel like going home." His eyes flicked up into Anders' with a dim light of mischief, and Anders wondered what his looks could do for him on a good day. Things Anders could never hope to achieve, no doubt.

Anders offered him the carefully crafted soft smile he reserved for these kinds of things, and said “sorry for your loss” with just a touch more feeling than most patients’ families received, since the man looked like he needed it.

“Can’t say the same to you I suppose,” Dorian replied, shaking his head, “though I am sorry.”

Anders opened his mouth, struggled to find anything to do with it, and then closed it again.

“For my mother,” Dorian explained as he put the coffee cup he was still holding down on the low table in front of the chair he was decorating, apparently giving up any semblance of drinking it, “I’m sure his care was better than he deserved, but she doesn’t do well in situations she can’t control. It won’t come to anything.”

Anders nodded slowly. Better than he deserved? A phrase Anders might have thought himself, over the past few weeks of dealing with the irate patient as he approached death’s door, but now that he’d gone through it, something about the sentiment irked him.

“Everyone deserves compassionate care,” he corrected with another careful smile, “the best chance we can give, and comfort when that’s spent. No less.”

The response did something odd to Dorian’s face; first a sigh, then it transmuted itself into a strangled sort of laugh, while he shook his head and regarded Anders with still-dull eyes. “Well, it can’t have been easy,” he muttered, eyes landing on Anders’ soft smile, which he hoped was still there. “Thank you.”

Anders left him then, offering one more nod and smile before turning away to finish the rest of his shift. Two hours later, changed out of his scrubs and into his tattered old jacket over his tattered old t-shirt and jeans, he walked by the waiting room again, on his way out. Dorian was still there, still staring down that same cup of undrunk coffee.

“Mr. Pavus, ser?”

Dorian started at the sound, and looked up from the coffee with an almost angry light in his icy eyes. “Please, Maker, call me anything but that.”

Anders swallowed. “It’s — it’s Dorian, isn’t it?” Dorian nodded, “Dorian,” saying his name to his face felt wrong, somehow, “it’s getting rather late, is there someone I should call for you?”

Dorian shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “Are there any bars nearby? A really terrible one, preferably.”

Anders frowned, but there was a pretty terrible bar just across the street, stuck into a hole in the wall of an alley, with grimy old barstools and floors littered in peanut shells, so he told him so. Dorian stood, always so tall.

“Thank you, Doctor…”

“Anders,” he attempted a smile, but there was a good deal too much worry in it, he was sure, “just Anders; I’m off duty.”

Dorian turned from him, then suddenly turned back. “Would you care for a drink, Anders?”

Anders blinked. “I uh —”

“You’ve seen the last of what was undoubtedly your worst patient today, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to celebrate.”

His brows creased unhappily, all on their own, and something inside him whispered back the memory of that broken bedside apology. “I wouldn’t —”

“You should. I aim to. On me?” There was that light of mischief again, a little brighter, coupled with what could almost be a smirk. Maker, was he flirting?

“I don’t drink.”

Dorian frowned, and Anders almost wished he did. “A bowl of peanuts on me, then.” Dorian amended his offer with a shrug. And for some unknown reason, Anders nodded.

“Alright.”

#my fic #my writing #dorianders #dorian x anders #modern au #angst angst angst

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